Classics Translated

The Room in the Tower

E.F. Benson, first published in 1912; translated into Modern English, otherwise exactly the same. 

This story has been added to our Classics in the Rain collection! Hear Danie Dreadful’s magnificent narration here for the full experience!

It is probable that every lucid dreamer has had at least one dream come true. In my opinion, it would be more strange if it did not happen occasionally; our dreams involve people we know, places we are familiar with, and events that naturally occur anyway. It is true they might include impossible or absurd details, but – based purely on statistics – it is not unlikely for some to come true. For example, not long ago, one of my unremarkable dreams came true. I will tell you what happened.

A friend of mine who lives abroad is kind enough to write to me every couple of weeks. When that much time has passed, I know to expect a letter soon. One night last week, I dreamed that I was going upstairs to dress for dinner when the mailman knocked on the door; I went downstairs and among my other letters was one from my friend. After that is when the absurd part happened; when I opened it, there was an ace of diamonds inside and written on it was, “I am sending you this for safe keeping. You know it is risky to keep aces in Italy.”

The next evening – just as I was preparing to go upstairs and dress for dinner – I heard the mailman’s knock and did precisely as I had in my dream. Among the letters was one from my friend, but it did not contain the ace of diamonds. If it had, I would have been more impressed, but this was a perfectly ordinary coincidence. Obviously, I consciously or subconsciously expected a letter from him which is what influenced my dream in the first place. Also, the fact my friend had not written for two weeks influenced him to do so in the same way. Although, sometimes it is much harder to explain, and for the following story, I can find no explanation at all. It came out of the dark, and into the dark it has gone again.

All my life I have been a lucid dreamer; I spend my nights in a series of long, dazzling adventures. They are almost always pleasant, though most are trivial. The story I am about to share is a rare exception.


I was about sixteen the first time I had the dream. It started with me at the door of a big, red-brick house. The servant who greeted me said tea was being served in the garden, and he led me through a low, dark hall with a large fireplace to a cheerful green lawn with flower beds. A small gathering was grouped around the tea-table, but I only knew one person; he was an old classmate named Jack Stone, and his father owned the house. He introduced me to his parents and two sisters, and I was somewhat surprised. I hardly knew the boy and rather disliked what little I did know; plus, he quit school the previous year. The afternoon was stifling hot, and the yard was bordered by a red-brick wall with an iron gate in the center, and a walnut tree beyond it. We sat in the house’s shadow across from a row of windows, and inside, I could see a table glimmering with glass and silver. The front of the house was very long, and at one end was a three-story tower that looked much older than the rest of the building.

Soon, Mrs. Stone – who had sat in absolute silence like everyone else – said, “Jack will show you to your room at the top of the tower.”

For some inexplicable reason, my heart sank at her words. It was like I had already known I would get that room, and there was something important yet dreadful about it. Jack got up instantly, and I knew I had to follow him. We passed through the hall in silence and went up a great oak staircase with many corners before arriving at a small two-door landing. He pushed one open and closed it behind me; then, I knew my suspicion was correct. Something awful was in the room, and my fear grew quickly until I woke in a fit of terror.

I experienced variations of that dream at random intervals for fifteen years, but it usually happened exactly as I said. After arriving, tea is served in the silent garden before that one, terrible sentence is spoken. Jack Stone always guides me through the horrifying tower, and the nightmare ends with some unseen terror in my room. Other times, it is a variation of the same thing. Occasionally, we would be eating in the dining-room, but it remained silent with the same suffocating dread no matter where we were. The silence would always be broken by Mrs. Stone saying, “Jack will show you to your room at the top of the tower.”

Then, I would follow him up the square staircase and enter the place I feared more and more each time I dreamed of it. Otherwise, I would find myself playing cards in the silent den lit with enormous, blinding chandeliers. I have no idea what the game was; I only remember feeling miserably anxious that Mrs. Stone would send me to the tower soon. The den was next to the brightly lit dining-room, but the rest of the house was dim and full of shadows. Despite the bright lights, I often had a hard time seeing the cards that were dealt to me. Their colors were strange; there were no red suits – only black – and some cards were completely black all over. I hated and dreaded those.

As this dream continued to recur, I became familiar with most of the house. Beyond the den, there was a smoking-room with a green door at the end of the hall. It was always very dark, and I would pass somebody I could not see as they were coming out. Over the years, characters in the dream aged as people might in real life. When I first saw Mrs. Stone, she had black-hair and moved briskly, but now, she was gray and feeble. Jack grew into a rather sickly young man with a brown mustache, and one of the sisters stopped appearing when she married.

Then, I did not have the dream for six months or more; I began to hope they were over with, but one night after this break, I found myself being escorted onto the lawn for tea once again. Mrs. Stone was not there, and the others were all dressed in black. I guessed the reason immediately, and my heart leapt at the thought that I would not have to sleep in the tower room. Though we normally sat in silence, the sense of relief made me talk and laugh as I never had before, but even then it was uncomfortable; no one else spoke – they only shared secret glances with each other. Soon, my foolish talk ran dry, and as the light slowly faded, I grew more anxious than on any previous visit.

Suddenly, a familiar voice broke the silence; it was Mrs. Stone saying, “Jack will show you to your room at the top of the tower.” It seemed to come from somewhere near the gate, and when I looked up, the yard was covered in gravestones. They glowed with a strange, grayish light, and the grave closest to me read, “In evil memory of Julia Stone.” As usual, I followed Jack through the hall and up the squared staircase. This time, it was darker than usual, and when I entered the room, I could only see the furniture. There was also a dreadful smell of decay, and I woke up screaming.

The dream continued to occur at random intervals for fifteen years. Sometimes, I would have it two or three nights in a row; aside from the six month break – it happened roughly once a month on average. It always ended with the same awful terror, and each experience frightened me as badly as the first. There was also a strange and dreadful consistency to it. The characters aged regularly, there were deaths and marriages in the silent family, and after Mrs. Stone died, I never saw her again – but it was still her voice that spoke to me. I could always see her gravestone just outside the iron gate. It was the same with the married daughter; usually, she was not present, but once or twice she returned with a man I thought to be her husband. He, too, was always silent, but due to the constant repetition of the dream, I stopped thinking that was significant. I never met Jack Stone again, nor did I ever see a dark house that resembled the one in my dream. Then, something happened.


This year, I was in London until the end of July. During the first week of August, I left to stay with a friend; he had rented a summer house in the Ashdown Forest district of Sussex. John Clinton planned to meet me at Forest Row Station, and we spent the day golfing before he drove us to his house at roughly 5:00 that evening. Since it was still so early, we waited to have tea at home instead of having it at the club house. The weather had been hot and wonderfully fresh that day, but it became stagnant and oppressive during our drive. I felt that indescribable sense of ominous anxiety that I get before a storm. John, however, did not share my concerns; he blamed my attitude on the fact that I lost both the matches. Regardless, I turned out to be right, but I do not think that night’s thunderstorm was the only cause of my depression.

Our road ran through a deep valley, and I fell asleep quickly; I only woke when the motor stopped. Partly frightened but mostly curious, I found myself standing in front of my dream house. I wondered if I was dreaming at that moment when we walked through a low, oak-paneled hall and out to the lawn. Tea was being served in the house’s shadow. It was surrounded by flower beds and a gated red-brick wall; beyond that was an area with rough grass and a walnut tree. The front of the house was very long, and one end had a three-story tower that was noticeably older than the rest.

It was no longer like the dream; there was no silent and terrible family. Instead, there was a large group of very cheerful people, and I knew them all. I did not feel frightened in real life like I normally did in the dream, but I was very curious about what would happen.

We drank tea, and before long Mrs. Clinton stood up. At that moment, I knew what she was going to say. She told me, “John will show you to your room in the tower.”

For half a second, the horror from my dreams consumed me again but quickly passed, and the intense curiosity returned; it did not take long to satisfy.

John turned to me. “It’s at the top of the house, but I think you’ll be comfortable; the other rooms are already taken. Would you like to see it now?” He looked up as he said this. “My goodness, I believe you’re right; there’s going to be a thunderstorm. It has gotten quite dark.” He added.

I rose and followed him as we passed through the hall and up the perfectly familiar staircase. I entered when he opened the door and was immediately struck with another wave of sheer terror. Suddenly, I remembered my fear of Mrs. Stone and her grave’s sinister inscription, “In evil memory.” I saw it often in my sleep – just past the lawn beneath my window. Then, once again, the fear passed, and I was left sane and sober inside the tower room – the very same one from my dream.

I looked around with a sense of familiarity and found that nothing had been changed from the dream version. The bed was angled along the wall to the left of the door; next to it was the fireplace and a small bookcase. Across from the door were two lattice-paned windows with a vanity between them. On the fourth wall was the washing-stand and a big cupboard. My luggage was already unpacked; my night clothes were laid neatly on the wash-stand, and my dinner clothes were spread out atop the bed. With a sudden jolt of dismay, I saw two things I had never seen in my dreams. One was a life-sized oil painting of Mrs. Stone hanging next to the bed, and the other was a black-and-white sketch of Jack Stone as he had appeared in my dreams a week before – a secretive, evil-looking man of about thirty. His picture hung between the windows, staring straight across the room at the other portrait. I also looked at it, and once again, I was filled with the horror from my nightmares.

It showed Mrs. Stone as I had last seen her in my dreams – old, withered, and white-haired. Despite her obviously feeble body, a dreadful vitality was beneath her fleshy shell – a malignant excitement radiated unimaginable evil from her narrow, leering eyes; it laughed with a demon-like mouth. Her face expressed an appalling humor, and her hands – clasped together on her knee – shook with joy. I also saw it was signed in the bottom left corner and wondered who the artist could be; looking closer, I read the inscription, “Julia Stone by Julia Stone.”

There was a knock at the door, and John Clinton entered. “Got everything you want?” he asked.

“Rather more than I want.” I said, pointing to the picture.

He laughed. “Hard-featured old lady. She was alone, too, I remember. Anyhow, she sure didn’t flatter herself much.”

“But don’t you see?” I said. “It’s hardly a human face at all. It’s the face of some witch or devil.”

He took a closer look. “Yes; it isn’t very pleasant. Especially not next to the bed, eh? Yes; I’d probably have a nightmare if I slept with that nearby. I’ll have it removed if you like.”

“I really wish you would.” I said.

He rang the bell, and a servant helped us remove the picture; it was taken out onto the landing and left facing the wall.

“My goodness, the old lady is heavy; I wonder if she had something on her mind.” John said, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

I had also noticed the picture’s extraordinary weight; I was about to reply when I saw a considerable amount of blood covering my palm. “I’ve cut myself somehow.” I said.

John was slightly startled. “Huh, I have too.” He said, cleaning the blood from his own hand with a handkerchief.

John and I returned to the tower room and washed the blood off, but neither of us had any trace of a scratch or cut. Once we realized this, we made an unspoken agreement not to mention it again. Then, something occurred to me that I did not want to think about. It was only a theory, but somehow, I knew John thought the same thing.


The air grew hotter and thicker after dinner; a storm was brewing, and most of us were sitting outside on the lawn where we had tea. The night was completely dark; no light from the stars or moon could penetrate the ominous clouds covering the sky. Our group slowly dispersed; the women went to bed, men retired to the smoking-room, and by 11:00, John and I were the only two left. All evening, I had thought there was something on his mind, and now that we were alone, he confirmed it.

“Did you notice the man who helped us with the picture also had blood on his hand? Just now, I asked him if he cut himself, and he supposed he had, but he could not find an actual wound. So, where did that blood come from?” He said.

Up to that point, I had succeeded in not thinking about it, and I especially did not want to be reminded of it at bedtime. “I don’t know, and I don’t really care as long as the picture of Mrs. Stone is gone.” I said.

He stood. “But it’s odd. Ha! Now you’ll see another odd thing.”

His Irish terrier came outside as we talked. The hall door was open behind us; its bright light shined across the yard and beyond the iron gate to the walnut tree. The dog’s hackles were raised, bristling with fear and rage; his lips were curled back as he growled, ready to pounce. He did not notice John or myself as he stiffly walked across the lawn to the gate. He stood there, growling and looking through the bars until he seemed to lose his nerve. With one long howl, he cowered and hurried back to the house.

“He does that half-a-dozen times a day. He sees something he both hates and fears.” John said.

I walked to the gate and looked over it. Something in the grass was moving, and there was a sound I could not immediately identify, but I soon realized it was only a purring cat. I lit a match and saw the big, blue Persian prancing around excitedly just outside the gate. Its tail was raised proudly, and its eyes shined brightly as it occasionally sniffed at the grass.

I laughed. “I’m afraid that’s the end of the mystery. Here’s a large cat having a party all alone.”

“Yes, that’s Darius; he spends half the day and all night there, but that’s not the end of the dog mystery. He and Toby are best friends – this is only the beginning of the cat mystery. What’s the cat doing there? Why is it that Darius is happy, but Toby is terrified?” John said.

At that moment, I remembered the horrible part of my dream where I see through the gate. The cat was standing exactly where the white tombstone with the sinister inscription is normally located. Before I could speak, it suddenly began raining like someone turned on a faucet. The big cat squeezed through the bars and ran into the house for shelter where it sat in the doorway, eagerly looking out into the darkness. When John pushed it back in order to close the door, it hissed and scratched at him.

With Julia Stone’s picture in the hallway, the tower room did not frighten me. Feeling very sleepy, I went to bed with only a mild interest in the strange occurrences of our bleeding hands and the pets’ behavior. The last thing I saw was the square, empty space where the portrait had been; there, the wallpaper was its original dark, red color, but it was faded everywhere else. After blowing out my candle, I fell asleep instantly.


My waking was equally instantaneous; I sat straight up thinking a bright light had been flashed in my face, but all was pitch black. I knew I was in the room from my terrifying dreams, but the fear I felt in those did not come close to the horror that now consumed me. Thunder cracked above the house immediately after the flash, but knowing it was probably lightning that woke me did not calm my racing heart. I knew something was in the room with me; instinctively, I reached for the wall with my right hand and touched the edge of a picture-frame.

I leapt out of bed, bumping the small table beside it, and I heard my watch, candle, and matches clatter to the floor. A blinding flash erupted from the clouds to show me the picture of Mrs. Stone was once again hanging on the wall, and the room instantly returned to blackness. In that flash, I also saw a figure leaning over the end of my bed – watching me. Its tight, white garment was spotted with mold, and its face matched the one from the portrait.

Overhead, the thunder roared, and when it stopped, all was deathly still. I heard a rustling as something moved closer, and even worse, there was a rotten stench of decay. That is when a hand was laid on the side of my neck, and I heard quick, eager breaths next to my ear. Even though this thing could be touched, smelled, seen, and heard, I knew it was not of this earth; it was something that left the body and had the power to manifest itself. Then, a familiar voice spoke.

“I knew you would come to the room in the tower; I have been waiting for a long time. At last, you have come. Tonight, I will feast, and soon, we will feast together.” It said as the quick breathing came close enough to feel on my neck.

The terror had temporarily paralyzed me, but now a wild instinct of self-preservation took control. I flailed both arms wildly while kicking my legs, and I heard a small animal-squeal as something soft dropped beside me with a thud. I took a few steps forward, nearly tripping over whatever lay there, and – by sheer luck – I found the exit. In another second, I ran out onto the landing and slammed the door behind me. At almost the same moment, another door opened somewhere below me, and John Clinton came running upstairs with a candle in hand.

“What is it?” He asked. “I sleep below you and heard a noise as if— Good heavens! There’s blood on your shoulder.”

Afterwards, he said I stood swaying from side to side – white as a sheet, with a bloody handprint stained on my shoulder. “She’s in there,” I said, pointing. “The portrait is hanging where we took it from, too.”

He laughed at that. “My dear fellow, it was only a nightmare.” He pushed by me and opened the door as I stood frozen in terror – unable to stop him or move.

“Phew! What an awful smell!” He said before falling silent as he entered the room. He returned almost immediately – as white as myself – and shut the door behind him.

“Yes, the portrait is there, and on the floor is a thing— a thing covered in dirt and wearing the garments people are buried in. Let’s get away, quick, let’s go!” He said.

I hardly know how I got downstairs. I was nauseous and shaking; multiple times, John had to place my feet on the steps, and he often looked back in terror, but eventually we came to his room on the floor below. There, I told him what I have described in these pages.

The end can be told quickly; some of my readers may have already guessed what it was if they remember the incident at the West Fawley churchyard from eight years ago. Three attempts were made to bury a woman who had committed suicide. Each time, the coffin was found sticking up from the ground a few days later. After the third attempt, the body was buried just outside the iron gate of this woman’s home. She had killed herself in the room at the top of the tower, and her name was Julia Stone.

The body was secretly dug up again, and the coffin was found full of blood.

Horror Fiction

The Current Settlers (Pt. 8)

Part 8 of the Settlement Series!

The CreepyPasta

[upset] I knew it! I knew you’d come today of all days. Damnit, we gotta get you out of this forest!

… … One day a year – one! And it’s the day you show up! I knew it, I tell ya! Ugh, it’s too late… we’d never make it to the bridge; hurry up – come inside. [door slams/locks]

… … … What do you mean you have no clue how you got here?! You have your pack and everything!

… … … I’m not sure I understand how you could be compelled to pick it up, but we don’t have time to chat. There’s a horde of evil outside, and more are on the way. We don’t even know what half of those things are anymore. Based on what we do know – ignorance is probably a blessing, but we can speculate later.

[Trish] We need to open the floor, it’s our only chance.

… You’re right; there’ll be nowhere left to hide once it begins. We could make a hole under the bed… Once our friend is behind the barrier, it’ll be like every other year.

… … [walking to bedroom] We’ll have to explain later, but I’m sure you remember my telling you about converting the basement, yes?

… Good. Long story short – there’s also a few magical protections around it. We couldn’t have survived without them.

… … [defensive] I’ve been brutally honest about how dangerous this place is, I’m not sure why you look surprised.

… … It’s amazing yet frightening how many questions you have in the face of certain death. Stand back, please. Come on, Ethan, help me move this thing.

… … [bed slides across floor] You’re gonna be just fine, friend, we’ll get through this together. I’m surprised they haven’t smelled you, but maybe they’re too preoccupied… or lulling us into a false sense of security…

… … [wood creaking] I’m only planning for every possibility, but those guys aren’t exactly known for their patience. If they knew you were here – we wouldn’t be considered much of a threat. It’s more likely they’re too busy to notice. These rituals have been happening for centuries; they probably can’t remember the last time one was interrupted—

[wood cracking] Whoa, hold on, boy! Just because the bed will be covering it doesn’t mean we can rip the boards in half! It would be nice to lay them back in place afterwards. Once our pal is safely hidden, we’ll make it look like this room hasn’t been touched since those kids with the tie-dye van.

[Ethan] The ones who thought we were all acid hallucinations?

… Yep, but this time – we stay quiet and lay low; there shouldn’t be any problems. I bet we can even manage a few stories to help pass the time; how’s that sound?

… … Hah, I thought that part would be well received. [board set aside] Alright, it’s time.

… … Don’t worry, friend, Ethan will lower you nice and slow; he’s stronger than he looks. You’ll be on the ground and taking the grand tour before you know it.

… … … … [shout/echo] See? No problem at all. You two go ahead; we’ll get this mess cleaned up and be with you in a few.

… … [distant/fading voice] See, Trish? I told you it was best to keep the height a surprise.


Great news, family! We’re officially bunkered down, and the ritual has begun. Only something fairly extreme could stop them now, and we aren’t giving them anything but distance; tonight, we don’t exist!

… … Thank you, friend, I’m glad you like it! This is my real library; the original journals, every book, and all our downloaded entertainment are right here. I often worry they aren’t safe enough, but I fear no amount of precautions would make me feel differently.

… … … Oh my! I was so worried about the ritual I’ve been a terrible host! I’m ashamed of myself, truly I am. You haven’t had a chance to say more than two words since you got here; hell, I didn’t even ask how you’ve been since your last visit!

… … …Well, “gracious host” is probably a stretch, but it’s kind of you to say so – I do try – but no more about me; what’s the big news? You’re grinning ear-to-ear, and the curiosity is killing me.

… … You… I mean… I know you said you were going to email Mr. Somnium, but… Are you trying to tell me he actually responded? As in he read it?

… … … He wants to narrate it? For his actual channel? When?!

… … It’s already done?! Are you screwing with me, friend? Because this is a cruel joke to play on an old man no matter how long ago his heart stopped—

… … … [whisper] Sweet cricket… okay… don’t sugarcoat it; what did people think?

… … … Shut up! I’m not crying! You’re crying! Holy, sweet mother of all crickets… You even took pictures of the comments? You, my friend, hold the special power of restoring one’s faith in humanity.

… … … Shush, everyone; of course I want to hear it, but we need to be quiet – no unnecessary risks, remember?… But don’t worry, friend – you’ll be across that bridge before you know it!

… … Hell yea, I’m positive! And – once you’re home – would you have time to pass along a message to our Dark Family? It should be heart-felt, yet stoic – humble but not desperate; maybe I should draft a few key points. First impressions are every—

[Trish] You’re doing it again, dear.

… Oops… umm, enough of all that; we’re in for a long night. What would you like to hear about next? The Mountain Settlement, maybe? How about the Civil War or the Revolution?

… … … [disappointed] Really? Firsthand accounts of America’s entire history are at your disposal, but you want to know how Trish and I got here? You’re one strange cookie, my friend, but that’s the main reason we like you so much. Alrighty then, I aim to please! Hang tight while I find the right journal; we’ll need to go back to a couple weeks before we died.

… … … [shuffling books] Oh, yea, those are the Weapons; Those have been down here since the ordeal with the outlaws. It’s kinda nice not having anyone else to meddle in what we do with our own family heirlooms.

Ah, here we are, [wipes off dust] I only hope you aren’t too disappointed. When you get bored we’ll switch to a different journal; until then – sit back, relax, and try to ignore any strange noises. Now that the Ritual has begun, they can’t leave the circle… Well, they could, but they’d be forced to start over which would be extremely inconvenient.


April 5, 1696

It has been a hard day – the kind that makes me long for the years I could work without pain in my back. If not for the grandchildren, my fields would be empty this season. It seems like only yesterday I was teaching their fathers how to plant and plow, yet now, I ramble incessantly like the old men we mocked in our youth. Even when there is actual news to speak of, I somehow default to writing the same, dull drivel as always.

Bill Sanderson returned from a business trip two days ago, and today, his entire family is ill. The doctors were only notified when his children failed to attend class for a second morning; Ms. Harvard sent one of the students to the Sanderson home, and the lad went for help upon finding the family confined to their beds.

No one dares speak the words we all know to be true, but— [woman’s scream]


… … [exasperated] Damn, that one was loud.

… … [hesitant] Well, um… it sounds like they’ve brought out a sacrifice…

… … … I can understand why you might be upset, but we didn’t see a reason to worry you when there’s nothing we can do to help that poor soul.

… … I know it’s hard to hear; in the beginning, we wanted to help, too, but you gotta trust us. Our first time hearing it, we rushed into the middle of them like fools; they had some poor girl – must have been between 17-20 – and she—

[Trish] Maybe skip that part, dear.

… Right. The point is – they almost ate us, and if you go running out there, I’m not sure we could save you at all, but we’d try. The one thing I am certain of is that we would be consumed either way. [whining] Please don’t get us eaten before I can hear Mr. Somnium read Pappy Grant’s journal! Please!

… … Yes, exactly! The demon himself is smack in the middle of it all and growing more powerful as we speak! He’s surrounded by every evil thing this place has to offer; We can’t help them in the same way you can’t walk on the ceiling.

… … … [whining] Aw, why aren’t you understanding this, friend? Yes – killing the demon would mean an end to the sacrifices, and this place would finally stop attracting new monsters, but—

… … … [sigh] Yes; it would make it possible to deal with other creepies and crawlies as well, but—

… … … Because we can’t! Even if the demon wasn’t surrounded by his minions – we wouldn’t stand a chance!

… … … Tell me you did not just point to the Weapons. [louder] No, better yet – tell me what we did to make you hate us? Why are you trying to re-kill us?

[Trish] Volume, dear.

… … [softer] It’s a moot point, anyway. The girl is dead by now, let’s not dwell on what we can’t change. I’m sorry, but if y’all don’t mind, I’d like to continue read— [man screams]

… … [annoyed] Oh, Jiminy-friggin-Cricket! Yes, I heard it! [throws down journal]

… … [exasperated] Yes, I know it was a man that time.

… … I don’t know how many more.

… … I swear, I don’t know; they don’t hunt for a specific type or number of sacrifices, but if an opportunity presents itself in the months leading up to the ritual…

… … Yea, I’m afraid so; they’ll use as many as they find. There’s no maximum limit, and the more lives they take – the more powerful the ritual becomes.

… No, please! Don’t touch the Weapons!

[Ethan] Actually, I have an idea.

… An idea on how to calm our friend down?

[Ethan] Sort of!

… Nope; sit down and zip it.

[Ethan] but—

… Sit! [clap] Zip! [clap] We are survivors! Do you understand what that means? It means we survive! We keep going; we record the story! Just now – finally – that story is making it to the outside world. We can’t let it end here. If we can get the rest of it out there, real help will come! People who know what they’re doing – hell, maybe someone with a YouTube channel—

[Trish] Dear…

… Right. The point is – someone who isn’t us! We have two choices. We can go out there – become dinner – and let the world forget about that one random story, or we can be strategic; we can forfeit the battle to win the war and enjoy victory together – as a family. Then, when it’s time to deal with the other unfriendly inhabitants, maybe some of those Paranormal Investigators will visit! I don’t think I’d be comfortable with Ghost Hunters; I know you said it’s not the same kind of hunter but—

[Trish] Dear…

… Right, sorry. Can we please just go back to reading? If they had another— [man screams]

Well, that was obviously the same one as before— Wait a second, friend! You do realize those Weapons are useless in our hands, right? They wouldn’t work even if we could land a hit; that means you would have one shot with only a dagger to fall back on!

[Ethan] Seriously, I have a plan.

… Please, boy, I’m serious, too.

[Trish] It’s a good plan, dear.

… [heartbroken] Aw… you too? But… how do you already know what it is? Why are none of you concerned with—

[Trish] Dear…

Fine, fine, fine; go ahead, Ethan. Take your time and explain in as much detail as possible.

[Ethan] Since the entire horde of bad guys are confined to the ritual circle – no one is guarding the Demon’s Path. Those egg sacs have been incubating for ages; tonight will probably be enough to put a few more monsters into the world. Unless something happens to them…

… Ok, since we’re completely ignoring my strategic plan for victory – let’s hear it. How do you propose we bypass the fact they’ll smell our flesh-and-blood pal the moment we stick our heads out of the hole? You know – the one we hid under the bed that happens to be the only exit for someone incapable of passing through solid objects?

[Ethan] Um, actually only two of us need to go. Technically, they could burst the sacs with a regular crossbow. The only reason I never have before is because the demon would know it was one of us, and we never had a way to fight back until now. Don’t you see? This is why our friend was brought here! It’s fate! We could make a real difference! The demon will feel what happened and rush over in a blind rage; he’ll pass straight by the lake! Someone on the roof could probably get a clear shot…

… … Oh, and our friend is suddenly an archer now, eh? Hell, let’s pretend that part is true – you realize the demon won’t simply be strolling by, don’t you? Even our eyes can barely keep track! That’s a vital detail since a miss would mean we all suffer fates worse than second deaths! Dying the first time was bad enough, thank you very much!

[Ethan] I could do the aiming, and I remember the demon’s name well. You know I can make that shot; let me have revenge… Imagine if Jamestown could really expand; how long do you think it would be before they brought in some electric poles? Surely WiFi wouldn’t be far behind…

… Damn you, boy. Taunt me with sweet dreams all you want, but none of those things would matter if we weren’t around to enjoy them.

[Trish] We can destroy the eggs much faster than the demon can break their circle; we could be back before they need to shoot. If the worst happens – one of us will get our friend to bridge while the others stay behind… We can pack the journals now as well – then, our story will live on, and your plan will still work. What do you think?

… I think it’s horrible! It doesn’t change a thing about how it will end. Besides, have you noticed how long it’s been since— [woman screams] Oh, come on!

[Ethan] Please, we don’t have much time; you know full well they’ve barely gotten started. This has gone too far! Once the demon is dead, we’ll be the last thing on anyone’s mind. Most of them will run scared back to their dens, and some will move on to darker pastures entirely. While that’s happening, Trish can get our friend back to safety, and we’ll go after the hostages!

… I don’t like it.

[Trish] That’s a shame dear… Based on what mother saw, I could have used your help. Oh well, sit tight – we’ll return as quickly as possible; try not to worry.

… [grumble] You can be a cruel woman sometimes… Ethan, listen to me very carefully; don’t extend a single hair beyond the protection barrier until we’re finished, you got that? Then it’s straight into position; do not overestimate the amount of time it will take him to break the ritual’s circle! We’ll clear the path for you on the way out.

[Ethan] You got it, uncle!

… Alright, let’s get it over with. If it’s the last thing I do – I’ll fit in some “told you so’s” before going loudly into that dark, eternal night.


[Trish] We’ll stay underground as long as we can and come up by the path’s entrance.

… Are you going to explain what happened with Gale? I didn’t want to worry our friend anymore than you two already have, but she clearly saw something that shook you up.

[Trish] Last week, she was having a good day and said this year wasn’t like the others. The demon was angrier after the French settlement than we realized. In our grief over lost friends and enchanted arrows, we failed to realize that several of the sacs were destroyed as well. Rather than replacing them – he poured everything into what was left—

… We should be close, let’s go up… And they’re supposed to hatch tonight? Is that what you were saying?

[Trish] You’re right; we’re here… But no – those eggs hatched ages ago. However, the results were so promising – he tried something new. This time he divided everything equally between two sacs. They’re already massive, and when the 24 sacrifices are dead – there will be two more extremely dangerous monsters loose in our forest.

Twenty-four? How? It’s never been more than a dozen!.. And wow, this place really has gotten dismal. I remember when it was impossible to see more than a few yards into the tree-line, but now there’s hardly any green left in the forest!

[Trish] The bulk of the sacrifices are boy scouts; they weren’t camping here – their bus broke down. The repairs were going to take a few hours, so their troop leader suggested bringing the restless kids for a hike. The worst part is – they never told anyone what happened; no one knows they came here. When the repairs were complete, those who stayed with the bus drove down to retrieve the others; they had no clue what they were driving into… Of course, there are probably a few other sacrifices mixed in; surely they aren’t all with the scouts.

… [pouty] I just wanna go home and listen to my story… Geez, the ground is so hard and black it feels like concrete…

[Trish] If we can end the reign of terror, you’ll have eternity to enjoy all the stories you want, dear. Now, move your ass; my baby is practically alone back there. Is your crossbow ready? I think I see the first one ahead – look up and to the right. Mother said these were bright yellow instead of orange – that has to be one of them.

… Yea, that’s it; the other is on the ground to the left, do you see it? We should stand back; that gunk inside could still hurt us… Or we could turn around and go home now – no harm done.

[Trish] Wow, they really are massive!.. Wait – did you mean ‘no harm doneaside from tonight’s 24 sacrifices?

… [sigh] Are you ready? We shoot on three… One… I love you… Two… Three! [both shoot, sacs burst with liquid explosion]

… [ground shakes and rumbles with guttural roar] Go!


… [panicked] Can you feel that? The air is heavier; it’s like walking through deep water.

[Trish] Yes, and we need to go faster.

… No, darling; just me.

[Trish] What’s in that vial? Did you try brewing potions again?

… It’s just something I’ve been saving for an emergency. Don’t worry, if the worst happens, the enchantment will weaken overnight; you’ll be able to free yourself by morning. [cork pops]

[Trish] Alex, no; we don’t have time to argue; you don’t— [Trish sucked in/Alex corks bottle]

… It’s ok to be mad; I can handle that, but not losing you. I’m sure you’re frustrated that I can’t hear what you’re saying, but if it’s any consolation – I can feel your displeasure loud and clear. Hopefully, I’ll be back for you— [frightened] Oh no; the air is getting even heavier… [sweeps leaves aside] Ok, ok… Ok, hun, you’ll be safe here, and I’ll be right back… [covers bottle with the leaves]

[speeds away, muttering to self] Alright, ole boy, – she’s safe – totally, completely safe, yessir. Now, you’re gonna bottle up that loud-mouthed nephew and hope to hell the demon is satisfied with only one savory morsel… And that our friend skews towards flight rather than fight…

[gasp] There they are – thank Jiminy! They’re on the roof; all I need to do is drag— [earth shakes and rumbles with a roar like thunder] No, please no, not when I’m this close!


[Ethan] This is it! Remember – just like we practiced; don’t panic… keep your eyes closed… body relaxed… mind clear… and—

[confused] Hey, why is uncle— Shit! [shoots arrow] No!

[everyone screams, demon screeches, arrow thuds into tree]


… … [panicked] I’m not gonna make it… Oh, no! No, no, no! It only scratched the bastard!… Holy mother, he’s looking right at them! The arrow! It’s so close; I have get to it… [pulls arrow from trunk]

… [screaming] Oi! Hey, look at me, asshole! Yoo-hoo! [whistles]

Crap, he’s really coming! Even uglier than I remember… Looks like a tall Quasimodo caught leprosy and went into the final stages of liver failure… Oof! My throat… Jiminy, he’s a big mother… lucky I don’t need to… breathe… just need… arm… free… legs are already gone…

[strained] Boy! Catch! [arrow whizzes through air, thuds into roof]

[mutters to self] Thank goodness, it got through… Wow, everything is going all wonky… sorry, fam


[Ethan] Bastard! He’s absorbing Alex! We have to shoot before there’s nothing left! [pulls arrow free, Alex groans in the distance] Hold on, we’re coming! [bow-string tightens]

[Ethan whispers] Are you ready?… Now! [fires arrow] Say it!

[demon screeches in agony, drowning out all other voices]

[Ethan, yelling over the demon’s wails] Alex! Uncle!… Why isn’t he reforming?! Stay here, I need to get down there!


… … [voice confused, disembodied] Is it over?… Is this where the dead go when they die?… Or is this a black void unique to the demon’s victims? Maybe I’m being stored away until needed… At least Trish is safe, and I thinkyes! Before everything went dark, that bastard took an arrow in the neck! I remember hearing the start of his name before the sound was cut off by screaming. It’s too late for me, but surely my boy got our friend away from this place. The demon is still dangerous even in this condition. [Ethan calling in the distance]

… … … [voice slightly more focused] Was that Ethan calling for me? No, it was too close; maybe I’m hallucinating after all… [woosh]


[Ethan yelling over demon’s continued screams] Uncle, if you can hear me – I found your dirty bottle trick lying next to what was left of you. Hopefully, I got all of you, but… umm… it looks like I’m stuck… Alex, I can’t move my legs… [whimper] He’s… g-ot me… I g-guess this guy r-really doesn’t want to die… I’m gonna throw you while I can still move my arms— [shocked gasp, dagger stabs into demon’s foot]

[demon roars in guttural agony as the ground rumbles with the force of an earthquake]

[Ethan] Holy shit! You stabbed him! No; don’t pull it out! We need to go; get on my back! [leaves rustle in the wind as the group flees] Alex, where’s Trish— Oh, right, he can’t answer…

… … … [angry and frustrated] I can answer; you just can’t hear me! What the hell is happening out there?! I can’t see or sense anything! We better be headed away from the demon with our friend in tow, or I swear before the sweet cricket I will find a way to tan your hide! [bangs loudly on the bottle walls] Ugh, you best find a way to hear me, boy! Hello?!

[Ethan continues speaking] —Yes, I’m positive Alex is in this bottle; here, you can hang onto it. Oh, wait! [hears light tapping on glass] Do you hear that? This is fantastic; I must have gotten all of him! Hey, Uncle – tap once for yes and twice for no; do you understand? [single tap] Is Trish safe? [single tap] Whew, thank goodness. Uncle! You won’t believe it! Our friend came out of nowhere and stabbed that bastard in the foot, haha! I think this is really it! He was falling apart as we fled! I’m trying to get us to the bridge – then we can find a way to get you out of that bottle.

… … … What do you mean ‘find a way’? Open it!— Wait, what are you two saying out there? No, no, no! [frantically bangs on glass] No way, friend! You are not staying one second longer! We can check on the sacrifice hostages after you’re safe! Ethan, don’t you dare listen to that nonsense! Get your ass to the bridge! And open the damn bottle! [continues banging on glass]

[Ethan] Sorry, friend, but I can’t take you to the ritual circle; Alex would kill me. Just listen to him in there – he’s going nuts!… Whoa, what are you doing?! Sit still or we’re gonna— [everyone falls to the ground, glass bottle breaks]

… … … Holy Cricket, that’s better! Now – we were all human once – let’s talk about this like reasonable folk.

[ground shakes with loudest roar yet]

… …. [disbelief] It really happened… He’s gone… Even after everything… I just didn’t believe it… But, damn, can you feel it, too? The air is normal again! The looming sense of dread is— actually… it’s stronger than ever… Let’s get Trish before we do anything else…


… … [hysteric] How?! How is it empty?! It shouldn’t have weakened that fast! How is she gone?! [sobs/smashes bottle]

[Ethan] Wait… Calm down and focus for a second… Do you feel that? There’s another fight happening, and she’s definitely part of it… [demanding] I’m going now! Are you coming, friend? Or do you want to stay here and argue with Alex?… Great, let’s go!

… No, umm… [defeated] ugh, wait up. Damnit, Trish! Why’d she have to go over there alone!

… … I know, friend, you don’t need to remind me. I’m clearly surrounded with ‘kind souls’ but, you see, we are a family of survivors, and avoiding danger is the key to being a survivor. This expedition is in direct conflict with our mission statement; she’s breaking the prime directive – that’s not ok!

[Ethan, patronizing] There, there, uncle; we can have a court martial after we help her. For now, we need to hurry! We should find a vantage point before showing ourselves. If it looks too dangerous, one of us will rush our friend to the bridge while the other helps Trish. Fair enough?

… … It’s not like I have any choice in the matter! You three have been forcing my hand all night anyway, so come on! Let’s go before it’s too late!


… … [shock] Are… are you two seeing this? It’s absolute chaos down there… [children shouting war cries] and it looks like… is Trish leading a platoon of boy scouts?

[Ethan] Hell yea, she is! Look! Everyone must have fled; only the Walker is left! Geez, where did they get all those weapons? It’s been ages since I’ve seen a mob like that – some of them are actually carrying pitchforks!

… … Don’t stand there gawking, boy! That Walker isn’t going to wait by idly while they fill it with holes! Why would she do this?!

… … Friend, if we survive this ordeal – remind me to explain the definition of a rhetorical question.

[Ethan] It won’t fight outnumbered either; I think it’s waiting for— [hostages screaming in the distance]

… … … Yep, you saw it right, friend. It waited for one to come within reach and fled with him. It’s safe for you to come down with us now; [leaves crunch beneath feet] we need to get everyone back to the cabin and calmed down so we can discuss what story you’ll tell the police.

… … Well, of course I mean you; who else is gonna take them? Their last chaperone was just carried off by the Walker and none of us can cross the bridge. We can’t send a group of traumatized kids off on their own.

… … I have no clue what you’re supposed to tell them – we haven’t discussed it yet!

[Ethan, yells over chaos of frightened boy scouts] Trish! Over here!

[Trish] You’re all here! I’m so relieved! When I was able to free myself, you three were fleeing towards the bridge – so I came straight here.

… … [muttering] How considerate of you…

[Trish] What was that, husband? Did you say something?

… … [perky] I love you, and I’m delighted you’re safe…

[Trish] You’re such a dear. [whispers] Don’t let the children know we’re ghosts; I don’t think their fragile minds could handle it.

… … Fair enough; I suppose we’ll take the long way home, then.

[Trish] Actually, I’ve had a rather long night, and so has our friend. I think it’s best if we go ahead while you and Ethan bring the boys along behind us. We’ll make sure your path is clear, of course.

… … [monotone] Of course… Come on, Ethan, you heard the lady. Round ‘em up…


[Trish] —I can’t believe the demon was finally defeated! So, you went right up to the monster and stabbed him in the foot?!… You really are amazing, my friend, and I know you’ll understand why we had to make this little detour… We need to get any demon goop left behind into this jar. [unscrews lid] We’ll burn it in the fireplace, and then you can take the ashes with you… [closes lid] There, that’s all of it; we better get moving.

[Trish, nonchalant] Oh, you don’t remember what my brother-in-law learned from the Mountain Settlement? The ashes must be spread over salt water – never fresh. Do you see any salt water in our territory? Alex doesn’t want to think about it yet, but you and I know better than to wait, don’t we?… I knew I could count on you! I can never repay you for saving my boys, [cabin door creaks open] but you’ll always have a home with us. Although, I’m sure you’ll be hearing those words in abundance over the coming months. Those children are probably assumed dead; the news crews will be rolling in before lunch – I guarantee it! [distant chatter] Oh, shh, they’re almost here! I’ll put this in the fire and get the ashes into your bag discreetly. Once you’re safely across the bridge – I’ll let the boys know we have everything under control.

… … … [several pairs of footsteps file across the wood floor] That’s right, this way fella’s; y’all are safe now. You’ll be home with your families in no time. We’re just gonna have a little chat to make sure everyone is on the same page while we wait for the sun to rise; then, our friend is going to take you all to see some nice policemen! How does that sound?

… … [exasperated] Come on, guys. We’ve been at this for over an hour; I don’t think you understand what’s waiting for you on the other side of that bridge. Do you know what it means to be national news?

… … I didn’t think so; it means you can say goodbye to your privacy for a long time, my little friends. You boys have had multiple agencies searching for you across multiple states; you’re already national news, but with our story – people will leave you alone when the next tragedy strikes. With the truth – your names will be synonymous with this event for the rest of your lives. The story for this place is older and darker than you can fathom, and I promise – you boys don’t want this shadow looming over you forever… So, what’s it gonna be, kids? Were you lost and found? Or kidnapped and rescued?

… … That’s a great choice, guys! I knew you looked like a reasonable bunch; I got a sixth sense about these things. Now – how many people found you?

… … That’s right! Only our friend! You boys are gonna be just fine – chins up, now! Remember – you’re all traumatized children; don’t be afraid to cry if they ask uncomfortable questions. As for your chaperones – you got separated; how should you know what happened? They’ll come down here to poke around and look for the bodies, but it won’t trouble us any. There’s nothing left to find, and we’ll be settled in with our new stories!

… … [sarcastic] Haha; yuck it up. Yes, I only want to listen to my story; is that so much to ask?! I’m sure they’re desperate to go home, too!

[Ethan] He’s right guys, and look – there’s a hint of sunlight out there! How about it? Are you ready to finally get out of here?

… … See! I told you they were reasonable chaps. My friend, I eagerly await your next visit when we’ll have time to thank you properly. Until then, we wish you the safest travels, and don’t forget – you deserve every reward they give you!

[Ethan opens creaking door] Hey, everyone, come take a look at this… What the hell is that?!

… … [door softly clicks shut] Umm… ok, on second thought – let’s go ahead and wait for the sun to fully rise… Anyone up for a quick game of charades?

Classics Translated

The Night the Ghost Got in

James Thurber, originally published 1933; translated to Modern English, otherwise exactly the same. 

This story has been added to our Classics in the Rain collection! Hear Danie Dreadful’s magnificent narration here for the full experience!

The ghost that got into our house on the night of November 17, 1915 caused a horrible mess; I should have just kept walking and went to bed. Its presence caused my mother to throw a shoe through the neighbor’s window and ended with my grandfather shooting a policeman. I regret ever stopping to pay attention to the footsteps.

They began around 1:15am – walking around the dining-room table at a quick but steady pace. My mother and my brother, Herman were asleep upstairs; grandfather was in the attic – in the old walnut bed that once fell on my father. I was drying off after a bath when I heard the steps. It sounded like a man was running around the dining-room table downstairs. The light from the bathroom was shining down the back steps – directly into the dining-room; I could see the faint shine of plates on the shelf and table. The steps continued to circle, and a board creaked at regular intervals when stepped on. At first, I thought it was my father or my brother, Roy; they had gone to Indianapolis but were expected home any time. Next, I suspected it was a burglar. It was not until later that I realized it was a ghost.

After the walking had continued for roughly three minutes, I tiptoed to Herman’s room. “Psst!” I hissed in the dark, shaking him.

“Awp,” he said in the low, hopeless tone of a beagle; he was always paranoid that something would “get him” in the night.

I told him who I was and said, “there’s something downstairs!” He got up and followed me to the back staircase. We listened together, but there was no sound; the steps had stopped. Herman looked at me with surprise – I was only wearing a bath towel around my waist. He wanted to return to bed, but I grabbed his arm.

“There’s something down there!” I said. Instantly, the steps began again; it sounded like a man was running around the dining-room table, but then they rushed towards us – taking the stairs two at a time.

The pale light was still shining down the stairs, but we saw nothing – we only heard the steps. Herman rushed to his room and slammed the door. I slammed the door at the top of the stairs and held my knee against it. After a long moment, I slowly opened it again. Nothing was there; all was quiet. None of us ever heard the ghost again.

The slamming doors woke mother, and she peeked out of her room. “What on earth are you boys doing?” she demanded.

Herman came out of his room. “Nothing,” he said gruffly.

“What was all that running around downstairs?” Mother asked. She had heard the steps, too! We only looked at her. “Burglars!” she shouted.

I tried to calm her by starting downstairs. “Come on, Herman,” I said.

“I’ll stay with mother; she’s all excited.” He said.

I stepped back onto the landing. “Both of you are staying right here,” mother said. “We’ll call the police.”

Since the phone was downstairs, I didn’t see how we were going to make a call – nor did I want the police – but mother made one of her quick, uncompromising decisions. She flung open her bedroom window and threw a shoe through the neighbor’s window. Glass fell into the bedroom of a retired engraver named Bodwell and his wife. Bodwell had been rather ill for some years, and was prone to mild “attacks.” Most everybody we knew or lived near had some kind of attack.

It was now about 2:00 on a moonless night, and black clouds hung low in the sky. Bodwell was at the window in an instant – shouting and shaking his fist. “We’ll sell the house and go back to Peoria,” we could hear Mrs. Bodwell say.

It was some time before mother got through to Bodwell. “Burglars!” she shouted. “Burglars in the house!”

Herman and I hadn’t dared tell her differently – she was even more afraid of ghosts than burglars. At first, Bodwell thought she meant there were burglars in his house, but finally, he calmed down and called the police for us. After he disappeared from the window, mother suddenly tried to throw another shoe, but I stopped her. It was not because of a necessity, but because she greatly enjoyed the thrill of breaking glass.

The police arrived in an impressively short time; there was a Ford sedan full of them, two on motorcycles, and a patrol wagon with eight more plus a few reporters. They banged on our front door, and flashlights searched over the walls, across our yard, and between the houses.

“Open up!” cried a hoarse voice. “We’re from Headquarters!”

I wanted to go down and let them in, but mother wouldn’t hear of it. “You’re naked,” she pointed out. “You’d catch your death.”

I wound the towel around me again. Finally the cops put their shoulders to our big, heavy door with its thick windows and broke in. I could hear wood breaking and a splash of glass on the floor. Their lights danced all over the living-room and dining-room, stabbed into hallways, and shot up both flights of stairs. They caught me standing in my towel at the top.

A heavy policeman ran up the steps. “Who are you?” he demanded.

“I live here,” I said.

“Well, what’s the matter, are ya hot?” He asked.

As a matter of fact, it was cold; I went to my room and put on some pants. On my way out, a cop stuck a gun into my ribs. “What are you doin’ here?” he demanded.

“I live here,” I said again.

The officer in charge reported to mother. “No sign of nobody, lady. He must have got away. What’d he look like?”

“There were two or three of them, whooping and hollering and slamming doors.” Mother said.

“Funny; all your windows and doors were locked tight.” The cop said.

Downstairs, we could hear the other officers stomping around. They were all over the place; doors and drawers were yanked open, windows were thrown up, and furniture fell with dull thuds. A half-dozen policemen emerged from the darkness of the front, upstairs hallway. They began to ransack everything; beds were pulled away from walls, clothes were torn off hooks, and boxes were pulled from shelves. One of them found an old harp that Roy won in a pool tournament.

“Looky here, Joe,” he said, strumming it with a big paw.

The cop named Joe took it and turned it over. “What is it?” he asked me.

“It’s an old harp that our guinea pig used to sleep on,” I said. It was true – that guinea pig never slept anywhere else, but I should never have said so. Joe and the other cop looked at me a long time before putting the harp back.

“No sign of nothing,” the cop who first spoke with mother explained to the others. “This guy,” he pointed at me, “was naked, and the lady seems hysterical.”

They all nodded but said nothing; they just stared at me. In the silence, we all heard a creaking from the attic. Grandfather was rolling over in bed.

“What’s that?” Joe snapped. Five or six cops sprang for the attic door before I could intervene or explain.

I realized it would be bad if they burst in on grandfather. He was going through a phase where he believed General Meade’s men were under fire by Stonewall Jackson, and they were beginning to desert. When I got to the attic, things were pretty chaotic. Evidently, grandfather assumed the police were deserters from Meade’s army – trying to hide away in his attic. He leapt out of bed wearing a long, flannel nightgown over woolen underwear, a nightcap, and a leather jacket around his chest. The cops must have immediately realized the angry, white-haired, old man belonged in the house, but they had no chance to say so.

“Back, you cowardly dogs!” Grandfather roared. “Back to the lines, you goddamn, lily-livered cattle!” With that, he gave the officer who found the harp a flat-handed slap upside his head that sent him sprawling. The others retreated, but not fast enough; grandfather grabbed the first cop’s gun and fired. The bang seemed to crack the rafters, and smoke filled the attic. A cop cursed and slapped his hand to his shoulder. Somehow, we all finally got downstairs again and locked the door against the old man. He fired once or twice more and then returned to bed.

“That was grandfather,” I explained to Joe, out of breath. “He thinks you’re deserters.”

“I’ll say he does,” Joe said.

The cops were reluctant to leave without getting their hands on somebody besides grandfather; their night had been a distinct defeat. Furthermore, they obviously didn’t like how the situation ended; I can see their point when they said something seemed fishy. They resumed their search, and a thin-faced reporter approached me.

When I could not find a shirt to wear, I put on one of mother’s blouses. The reporter looked at me with a mixture of suspicion and interest. “Just what the hell is really going on here, Bud?”

I decided to be frank with him. “We had a ghost.”

He gazed at me for a long time – as if I were a slot machine he lost a nickel to – then he walked away. The cops followed him; the one grandfather shot was holding his bandaged arm, cursing. “I’m gonna get my gun back from that old bird.”

“Yea,” Joe said. “You and who else?”

I told them I would bring it to the station house the next day. “What was the matter with that one policeman?” Mother asked after they were gone.

“Grandfather shot him,” I said.

“What for?” She demanded. I told her he was a deserter. “Of all things! He was such a nice-looking young man.” Mother said.

The next morning, grandfather was fresh as a daisy and full of jokes at breakfast. At first, we thought he had forgotten, but he hadn’t. Over his third cup of coffee, he glared at Herman and I. “What was with all them cops stomping around the house last night?” He demanded. He had us there.

Horror Fiction

Easter Memoria

This story is dedicated to Coach Freeman; she was one of those special teachers who touched the life of every student she taught, and the best damn coach anyone could ask for. Rest In Peace, we love you always. 


The CreepyPasta


My amazingly talented friend, Danie Dreadful, did another phenomenal job narrating this one. If you haven’t subscribed to her yet, make sure you do; there’s going to be a lot more where this came from! Here’s the YouTube link.
Mr. Easter

Easter is always the first Sunday following the full moon after the spring equinox. Sounds a little weird, doesn’t it? This holiday’s origin varies depending on your chosen religion, but that’s not important for what I’m here to talk about. Instead, I’m going to tell you something that used to be common knowledge, but was scrubbed from history due to global mass murders and suicide.

Long ago, Easter was celebrated on the full moon; it’s the only day Easter Memoria can be performed. Yes, memoria – as in Latin for memory; it allows you to remember everything – including past lives – until sunrise. When the night ends, so does the spell; you might remember flashes or a name, but most is forgotten. The concept sounds great at first, but it’s extremely dangerous. It’s not like watching a movie; these memories are as real as what you did yesterday.

When we die, our souls either hang around as a ghost or pass on. Explaining every aspect of both possibilities would fill a book, so we’re going to ignore the complexities of ghost life completely. Passing on also has quite a list of subcategories, but our focus is on when a soul enters a new vessel.

There’s a lot of fear and misconception about being reincarnated as something terrible, but don’t worry; people are people, just like dogs are dogs, and no, that doesn’t mean Hitler is back. The truly evil souls never make it past the Bad Place, but drunk drivers and rage killers… Eventually, they’ll return; it’s an important distinction.

Deep inside – at the core of our souls – lies the essence of who we are, but when our slates are wiped clean through the process of death and rebirth, we’re forced to start fresh with a new family, body, and brain – sometimes gender or race. Every aspect influences who you ultimately become; it’s entirely possible for a serial killer to have been a surgeon in the past or vice-versa.

Another common belief is that our souls stay around the people or places we share a connection with; that one is absolutely true and played a big part in why the ritual was banned. When it comes to our loved ones, we can see beyond their physical appearances and recognize them for who they were in our past. It made for many heartwarming reunions, but it ruined even more lives. Eighty percent of married participants were having affairs; parents who lost a child would kidnap them when they were reborn, and good people were murdered for past mistakes. That’s only a few of the problems, but they were enough to start our Easter Sunday tradition. Of course, that was only the beginning; it took centuries and countless of executions to get where we are today.

Now, let’s switch gears and think about what it’s actually like to remember all those past lives. Aside from inducing a terrible headache, most people agreed the good memories weren’t worth the trauma endured afterwards. The mind still suffered extreme emotional damage, and nothing can change that. For example, if someone were shot in a previous life, they might suffer crippling panic attacks around guns even if they aren’t consciously aware of the reason.

With the points made so far, you might wonder why people would still do it or how they made use of the knowledge. That part is simple; if you have a private place and way to take notes – you’re all set. Thousands of years ago, there was a decent chance one might remember burying a fortune or any number of useful secrets. With today’s ability to record and travel – the possibilities are limitless. You can probably see where this is going… I did it last year. Thanks to the cameras, I learned more than I bargained for, but I’d like to take you through a summary of what I learned; it will help me organize my thoughts while deciding my next steps.


The Ritual Room

Some people might be curious about how it was done so I’ll start with that, but it’s nothing complicated. First on the list was finding a quiet, indoor location without mirrors. I used our family’s cabin in the woods and drove out three days in advance.

The room can only be illuminated with yellow candles; no other light source is allowed. The number doesn’t matter, but I didn’t relish the thought of sitting in the dark. There was enough to worry about without adding a possible house-fire, so while I did fill the basement with tiny flames – it was done in the safest possible way. Anything with a screen – such as phones or laptops – will effectively taint the ritual, so I used security cameras and put tape over the red lights.

Next, I placed several bowls of rosemary around the room and scattered the rest of my supply onto the floor; traditionally it’s used for multiple reasons, but here it’s to open the mind to lost memories.

Then it was time to fill the room with sentimental possessions. Our basic tastes don’t change much regardless of lifestyle; this can include anything from the foods we eat to the entertainment we prefer. Have you ever seen an old movie or book and felt a connection; almost like you were meant to know it? That’s the sheer bliss of rediscovering a previous love. This step relies mostly on instinct, but it’s easier after the first year since you’ll know what to bring for future rituals. A few examples of my items include a copy of Homer’s Odyssey, pictures of loved ones, and a poster of Van Gough’s Starry Night.

The final step is a doozy; Peyote (pay-oh-tee) is a cactus with a fascinating history, but due to possible mind-altering side-effects, I’m not comfortable detailing step-by-step instructions for this part. If you want to know more, it’s very easy to Google.

Once a comfortable nest was built in the center of my most treasured possessions, there was nothing more to do except have a good night’s rest. The following morning, I ate well, took it easy, and began lighting candles around 4:30; an hour later the full moon was already showing itself. After consuming the recommended Peyote dosage for my size, the meditations began, and it was off to the races.


Prime Memoria

It’s extremely important for the mind to be relaxed; any stress or anxiety will delay the process from starting, but once it does start there’s no stopping it. It’s difficult to describe what it was like, so bear with me. It’s not like opening a floodgate; it happens gradually – starting with the most recent life, then the one before and so on until sun-up. No one has ever been known to reach the end – er… beginning – but that’s probably for the best. The headaches are barely tolerable after a single night; any longer could be deadly. Plus, where exactly would it end? Were we all dinosaurs at one point? I honestly don’t want to know.

Anyway, in the beginning there was only a slight pressure in my skull and it was easy to call out what I saw as memories of being a little girl in the 50’s surfaced. A sense of dread formed while realizing there was hardly thirty years between that date and my birthday, but then I was distracted by moving into a new home at age six. The concern for dying young was nothing compared to the absolute horror that washed over me at remembering that house. The following is everything I know about my tragically short life as a girl named Bethany.

From the moment I saw my pink and white nightmare of a bedroom, something about it made me queasy. It and my parents’ rooms were on the opposite sides of the home, and they never heard me cry. For the first few weeks, I had terrible dreams but couldn’t remember them after waking. My bed was placed in a corner, and the only way I could fall asleep was by pressing my back against the wall. That way, I could make sure the closet stayed shut, no spindly fingers crept from beneath my bed, and no shadows stood outside the window. It wasn’t ideal, but it worked until the nightmares suddenly evolved.

One night – as I was finally drifting off – fingers began lightly caressing my back in the same way Mom sometimes would. In my half-dreamy state, it took a moment to register how wrong the situation was. There was no room for anyone to be between the bed and wall; plus, the fingernails were too pointy. They would break skin at the slightest encouragement, and I knew that’s exactly what they would do if I moved or spoke.

I could only lay there frozen in horror as the nails slowly dragged across my skin, and I shivered beneath them. Hours passed, and my tiny bladder emptied, but I still couldn’t move; it was like being a helpless spectator in my own body. Finally, when the first rays of sunlight beamed through the curtains – a single finger ran through my hair and whispered, “we meet again” before departing.

My initial instinct was to run away, but I imagined a hand reaching from beneath the bed just as my feet touched the floor; it would grab my ankle and pull me under – that was a fact. Dad found me in urine soaked sheets a few hours later and got me cleaned up, but he didn’t believe my story. Later that night, I begged to sleep somewhere else, but the best I got was Mom’s offer to sit with me as I fell asleep. Nothing happened while she was there, and I quickly passed out from pure exhaustion.

It was several hours later when I woke to sharp fingernails trailing down my back, and once again I was completely paralyzed. Hot tears spilled over my cheeks and onto the pillow, but I couldn’t wipe them away. We stayed like that all night until those slim rays of sunshine finally banished the monster. I felt its cold breath in my ear when it teased, “see you tonight,” and – as if a switch were flipped – the tears began in earnest. My body convulsed under the forceful sobs, and I struggled for every breath.

I was still crying when Mom came in hours later; once again, I told my story, and although they didn’t believe it – they were convinced I did. That night, I slept on the couch, and nothing happened; it became my routine for several weeks until Dad decided enough was enough. The back scratching resumed that very night, and this time it was accompanied by the stench of spoiled meat. When the glorious dawn finally came, the fingernails dug into my skin like hooks, and a gruff, menacing voice spat, “you can’t avoid me” before disappearing.

I cried harder than ever before, and later found five red punctures in my skin. The experience bred a healthy resentment towards my parents; I understood only that someone was hurting me, and they didn’t make it stop.

Here, I quit talking to the cameras and simply lived in the moment – forgetting my present life and purpose. I had prepared for assaults and murders – not ghost and demons; I wanted to get off the ride but it was stuck upside down, and there was no surviving the fall. In real life, I was hugging my knees, rocking and whimpering; there was no talking until I – Bethany – was eighteen and getting the fuck out of that house.

For a time, I managed to escape my nightly tormentor by moving. It took three months for the bitch to find me, and I got five deep cuts trailing between my shoulder blades as a greeting; they were next to the five triangular scars from my first transgression. There was a strip of unmarked skin on the right that would look even worse next time…

It was obvious she wasn’t attached to the house – only to me – and life was hard in general. After years of slowly losing my mind, college wasn’t really an option. A woman’s best-case-scenario was to marry a good husband and hope for sons. As if things weren’t bad enough, I had zero interest in men; being a lesbian in the (now) 70’s wasn’t a viable option – especially not in the south. For the first few years, I lived in an apartment, but each time a roommate moved out, the witch grew bolder during our alone-time.

A few months before turning 25, I hopped on one of those hippy buses traveling across the country; it didn’t matter where I was as long as people were nearby, and I wasn’t sober. Most of the time, we didn’t even know what state we were in, and we only paid for three things – drugs, gas, and sometimes food. When we were sick of being on the road we camped in the woods until supplies ran low. People were always coming and going, but there were a few like myself who stuck around. It wasn’t a bad way to live except for the fear of being found… and the overwhelming need to know “why me?”

After two years on the road, I hardly thought of the witch anymore – drugs worked miracles in that regard. Staying in one location longer than two weeks made me nervous, but those times were exceedingly rare. The day she found me, my guard was completely down. I never gave a second thought to the states we would cross on the way to Florida, but somewhere in the middle of Georgia – probably near my hometown – I fell asleep.

It started as a dream; I was very young, and lying next to Mom as she gently rubbed my back. Soon, my eyes began to droop, and she hummed a soft melody while her fingernails grazed my skin under her firm caress. I was drifting away completely when the hand stopped, and my world exploded. Time slowed as claws tore through my back and into my ribcage. Somehow, the witch’s voice found a path through the fog of agony and into my ear; “found you!” She cooed as her claws ripped downward, and blood filled my throat; her cold, putrid breath was the same as before.

Suddenly, my eyes opened wide with shock, and my senses were flooded with chaos; my head throbbed from the screams of those around me and approaching sirens. The brief instant my vision cleared, I saw the twisted remains of our bus and had just enough time to wonder… Did the witch cause the crash or merely take advantage of it? Knowing what I do now, I’m sure it was the former, but we’ll get to that.

In the real world, every camera stopped recording simultaneously when I tried to describe the witch; I think I saw her true form in that final moment, but I can’t be sure now. That’s when I carved “never again” into my arm; when the cameras come back on, there’s a bandage tied around the wound, and I’m still shaking from the memory of dying as Bethany. I would have sold my soul to quit before the next one started, but I barely had time to catch my breath.

Fun fact: When people actually do sell their souls, it’s not to Satan like in the movies – hell it’s not even to the same entity. It’s usually a demon, but as far as the owner is concerned… Well, let’s just say reincarnation is off the table. Trust me folks, never sell your soul.


The Carter House

Now, it was the early 20’s, and all I could do was brace for impact. The only consolation was how little my brain can hold at once; the slight pressure evolved into a full blown headache as new information poured in, and the old was pushed out. Unfortunately, the bad memories stick hardest, and even when they’re gone, they leave behind a nasty residue. What little I said over the following hour was mostly gibberish; when I finally calmed enough to speak coherently, I was being drafted into World War II, and soon, the screams began anew.

Something haunted me in that life, too; something worse than the war. I survived two years in battle before going home with a Purple Heart, yet the worst of my reactions happened long after being discharged. Based on the few understandable things said, my death wasn’t natural or any longer than Bethany’s. Thankfully, whatever happened was enough to scare me straight; I suddenly became very serious and managed to compose myself before the next round.

The time between death and rebirth varies from years to decades pending each person’s situation; it’s impossible to know when someone will be reincarnated. That being said, a definite pattern was beginning to emerge as I was plunged into the late 1880’s – the same timeframe as the two before. It’s even more concerning when you take my current age of 28 into consideration.

My childhood as Charles began well enough; my parents were farmers, we lived in a grand antebellum home, and I was the youngest of five. My siblings weren’t cruel, but they were several years older and held no interest in me. Much of my time was spent at the creek behind our house; it was only a ten minute walk through the forest, and I enjoyed skipping rocks across its surface.

At age 8, I was trying to build a dam when another boy leapt from the woods on the opposite bank. I was so excited to meet someone my own age, I answered all of his questions and asked a slew of my own. His name was Daniel, and he lived on the other side of the forest. We played together until dusk and agreed to meet again the next day. For the next two weeks, I woke early, hurried through my chores, and rushed to the creek.

Then came the Fourth of July; every year, the town threw a huge celebration. Such events were taken very seriously in the days when there was literally nothing else to do. The idea someone might wish to stay home was practically unthinkable, yet that’s what Danny claimed – stating his family didn’t like the loud noises or crowds. I was disappointed, but my parents were suspicious; being antisocial wasn’t just frowned upon, it was downright sinister. They already thought it was odd someone moved into the old Carter house – the only home on that side of the creek, apparently – without their knowing, but shrugged it off as a consequence of a secluded farm life.

When the celebration began, I joined the other kids, and we played while the adults gossiped. It was surprising to learn not one other child knew Danny, but I still wasn’t concerned until the next day, back at the creek. We were only there for a few minutes when my two brothers appeared; judging by their facial expressions, they were there for something I would find extremely unpleasant. Sure enough, Eric (the oldest) said they were tasked with inviting Daniel and his parents to supper.

My brothers were almost triple our size, and not easy to handle when provoked. I countered each smartass remark Danny threw with groveling apologies and promises to invite his parents myself; when they ignored Daniel’s remarks – a temporary relief washed through me. If nothing else, I wouldn’t be forced to watch them kill my only friend, but they still continued across the creek. Danny ran ahead, disappearing into the dense forest, leaving me to awkwardly follow my siblings.

We walked for almost 45 minutes before finally coming to the old Carter House. It needed a fresh paint job, but structurally, it wasn’t that bad. There was no sign of my friend, and I stood far back as Eric knocked on the front door. When no one answered, he walked around back; a few minutes later the door opened, and John – who was still on the stoop – walked inside. My heart raced as I imagined the various ways they were sabotaging my only friendship. It’s hard to say how much time actually passed before Eric called for me from a second story window, but it felt like hours.

The moment I crossed the threshold, two things happened. First, I realized the house was empty; no one had lived there for years. Second, John grabbed my wrist and pulled me to the ground. Once pinned, Eric began the interrogation. “Why wouldn’t you admit he was imaginary before we came all the way up here?” They demanded.

I was naive enough to think we had the wrong house, but there were no others in the area. The only logical conclusion was that Daniel lied to me, but why? That’s when I realized my brothers didn’t ignore him at the creek; they genuinely hadn’t seen him. It was too much for me to comprehend, but I had plenty of time to think about it after Eric and John locked me in the basement. They said if I tried hard enough I would find a way out… I couldn’t believe they really abandoned me. When their laughter faded into the distance, the silence was absolute.

Every spooky tale my siblings ever told filled my mind, and then I heard it; the front door opened… Someone came inside, (thud) but it didn’t sound like my brothers. There were no taunts or jeering, and as the footsteps continued into the house, (thud) I could tell it was only one person; (thud) one person who was moving extremely slow, (thud) and had loud, heavy footsteps (thud). When they were directly above me, dust showered onto my face, (thud) and I struggled not to cough. Wiping the grit from my eyes, I moved beneath the staircase and positioned myself behind the few boxes there (thud). I sat, desperate to control my breathing as each thudding step reverberated through my body, (thud) and finally, they came to a stop at the basement door (thud).

As the doorknob turned, I clasped my hands over my mouth to stifle a scream, but my whimper was surely heard. The door creaked open on rusty hinges, and it lasted for so long I wanted to leap from my hiding place and finish it myself. Had I the presence of mind to remember what an orgasm was – I would have recognized the euphoric sensation I felt when the beautiful sound of brass meeting wall announced the end of that damned creaking!

Then the steps resumed, (thud) and slowly made their way down the stairs (thud). Shielding my eyes from the fresh shower of dirt, (thud) I waited anxiously for my tormentor to come into view (thud), but they stopped before reaching the bottom (thud). In the small gap between treads, a tall shadow could be seen looming on the wall, and for a moment, I thought it had eyes, but on the next glimpse, they were gone. Finally, when I thought the tension would suffocate me – a young, familiar voice spoke. “You never learn do you?” It was Danny.

Relief was my immediate reaction, though it was quickly pushed aside for embarrassment – which was actually just a precursor for fury. I decided whatever was said should be done face to face, but upon trying to stand, I noticed my pants were soaked in urine; the blood-boiling rage threatening to consume me suddenly vanished and – in the end – shame was the prevailing emotion.

When I didn’t respond, Daniel took a few more steps and stopped at the bottom of the staircase. Between the treads, all I could see now was the black outline of his body; it was too dark to make out any features, but from my position on the floor, he appeared much taller than he should. After a long, tense moment of silence, he spoke again, “Over and over, we play this game, but you’re just as clueless as ever.” It was almost a sigh.

Had I understood what he was trying to say, I might have answered, but nothing made sense – not his words, not the house, not why my brothers couldn’t see him – nothing! Whew, it’s getting harder to talk about this… what he said next… I thought I was going to die right there in that basement.

“How many times will you fall for the same trick? How often have I told you? I can look however I want!” As he spoke, his voice was changing – becoming the high, shrill voice of an old woman… or more specifically, an old witch. I didn’t recognize it at that moment, but yea, it was the same one who tormented Bethany. Of course, for now, it was enough that I watched my only friend’s shape grow taller and thinner before my eyes.

Despite my best efforts a loud groan escaped my throat, and the thing I once called Danny cackled the most sinister, maniacal laugh I’ve ever heard. Even now, a year later, echoes of that laugh haunt me; it only stopped when the loud bang of the front door surprised us both. At the sound of my brother’s taunts, I wept openly with relief, but the witch had one more thing to say before vanishing. “I’ll see you soon, Charlie boy!” It used Daniel’s voice, and left behind a horrid stench of rotten meat.

Seconds later, Eric burst through the door; apparently, it had never been locked. I could have left right behind them had I bothered to check. Mom sent him to fetch me when they returned alone; in exchange for not telling her they left me behind, he agreed to help me hide the shame of my wet trousers.

My entire world changed that day; there was no more Danny at the creek, only the witch in my dreams… except sometimes they weren’t dreams. For seven years, I periodically woke to light scratches on my back, but those were the least damaging encounters. Sometimes, I woke to pebbles being thrown at my window; if I looked outside, Daniel would be there, pale and black-eyed. Sometimes, he morphed into a monster that I can only describe as an evil Chewbacca.

At eighteen, I joined the military; it was a hard, miserable life, but it was preferable to being tortured in my own home. As an adult, it was easy to convince myself the witch’s cryptic remarks were meaningless – just another psychological warfare tactic – but sometimes, late at night, a voice in the back of my mind made me wonder if there wasn’t more to it; I should have listened.

I did well in my chosen career, and life improved slightly when I was no longer at the bottom of the pecking order. The first time I returned home was over a decade later, after my thirtieth birthday; my success in the military made me mistake foolishness for bravery. One of the first things I did upon returning was mock the witch; sitting on my old bed, I said all the things I was too afraid to say as a child. Nothing happened; it was almost disappointing until I realized how silly it sounded to have expected anything else.

I thought no more of her as I enjoyed reuniting with family; Eric and John kept me awake with talk and liquor late into the night. When I finally stumbled upstairs, my head was swimming with their finest homemade reserves, and I was unconscious before my boots were off. The next thing I knew, there was a burning, itching sensation spreading down my spine; it felt like ants were in the bed.

Still half delirious, I reached back to scratch, but something grabbed my wrist in a cold grip of steel. It didn’t feel like flesh and bone at all; my mind struggled to shake the sleep away, and upon remembering my location, I understood what was happening. Thinking that monster would show itself when challenged was simply moronic; of course it would wait until I was most vulnerable.

“Did you miss me?” It used Daniel’s voice – pulling my arm down painfully as it leaned forward to whisper in my ear. If its cold, putrid breath weren’t bad enough, an oddly dry, pasty tongue licked around my earlobe before plunging all the way inside. Just when I thought my arm would break from the pressure, I was flipped over onto my back and face to face with the ugliest creature I’ve ever seen. It was humanoid but with dark green skin that was covered in sores and boils; though it appeared frail in size, it had me pinned as effectively as if I were strapped to the mattress.

“Do you remember me yet?” It smiled wide, and its black tongue slowly ran across two rows of sharp, yellow teeth as drool dripped onto my chest. Every drop burned into my skin like acid; I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out.

“You better hurry; we’re almost out of time and then you’ll have to start all over again in the next life!” It threw its head back and laughed that insane, maniacal laugh. I didn’t have to wonder about the last remark for too long; I saw thick clouds of smoke floating by the window in the same instant I smelled it. Our house was on fire, and my whole family was asleep on the upper floors. I poured my entire being into trying to scream; I didn’t care about myself – I only needed to wake the others, but it was no use.

Thankfully I can’t physically remember the details of burning alive in that moment, but I’ll never enjoy a bonfire again. Last time I went near one, I collapsed the moment I smelled the smoke. There’s actually a lot of things I can’t enjoy anymore, but for now let’s get this last part over with. Recounting these experiences has been less therapeutic than hoped, but they’re helping me organize my thoughts so I’m trying to see this through.


Easter Egg

The splitting-pain in my head was now a full-blown migraine; trying to sit-up was impossible, my skull was filled with cement, and I genuinely wondered if I would die. I know at least two more lives played out while I was half comatose, but the details are lost. They were no doubt strikingly similar to the others; the important thing is that I was able to save what is likely the most vital piece of information from my entire existence.

When I finally had enough control to talk to the camera again, I wasn’t sure of the date, but it was still the 19th century. This time I was a woman named Penelope, and yet again my romantic preference skewed towards women; it was dangerous in the 70’s, but downright deadly in that era. Though I was never brave enough to pursue my true interest, I couldn’t force myself to be with a man, either. Unfortunately, being single wasn’t much safer – it was practically scandalous by age twenty.

I made it to 25 before my father arranged a marriage, and I ran away three weeks before the ceremony. There was no chance of escape in my hometown; it was small, and everyone knew me. My chance came when we journeyed to the city. On the first day, I feigned weariness from travel and stayed at the inn while my family enjoyed the shops. When they had enough time to be well away, I walked out with nothing but a bag of meager supplies; no one even noticed. My only regret was never learning my family’s reaction. Did they think I was taken? Did they suspect the truth? I have no idea.

Getting through the streets was easier than my best expectation once I pinned my hair and put on a hooded cloak. When the city sounds were nothing but fading noise, I felt happiness for the first time in decades. Kicking off my shoes, I ran and jumped like an elated child; it was pure ecstasy. I intended to go as far as my legs would take me; there was enough food in my bag to last a week if I was careful. Beyond that I didn’t have a clue.

When the sun began to set, I searched for a place to spend the night. Wandering along a high cliff-face, I stumbled onto a small recess, barely big enough to crawl through. I thought it was a crevice, but was shocked to find it opened into a large cavern! The sparse light remaining was dedicated to starting a cozy fire in my new home; it was easy once I’d gathered the wood and lit a few torches. With the cave illuminated, I could see another opening in the back wall; it was a tunnel – almost four feet wide, and high enough to stand.

I walked for roughly a mile and was almost ready to turn back when the passage suddenly veered left. I was only planning to look around the curve, but it was impossible to stop once I saw what lay ahead; the tunnel continued for another 30-40 yards before opening into a second cavern. It was too dark to see well, but something in there was emitting a soft, purple glow; I had to know what.

This, my friends, is a tragically perfect example of ‘curiosity killed the cat’; deeper and deeper I traipsed into the lion’s den – because why not? I was very familiar with monsters; they’re people – humans, like you and me. They live in my home and in yours; they live next door and in the streets, but there were no people in my heavenly cave!… Now, let me tell you what was

With the torchlight I could see the walls were covered in some kind of fleshy, pink membrane, and the strange light was coming from dozens of colored eggs. They stood on intricately designed pedestals and cast their strange glow on the boulders surrounding their nest. I thought it was the most marvelous sight in the world; how they came to be never crossed my mind. I leaned in closely with the torch – only wanting to see them better – but the very second the light fell on them… They erupted into flames.

Once the first ones were burning, the rest soon followed, and the entire cavern became bright as day. In the same instant, the things I mistook for boulders formed grotesque faces with bulbous black eyes and curved needle-teeth. Now that I could see clearly, I noticed thousands of thin tendrils all over the cave-floor, connecting the creatures and eggs. Their deep, guttural moans made my bones shake; the only thing I wanted to do was crawl out of that cave and get married in three weeks. Covering my ears, I hastily backed away from the hungry flames, but I collided with something.

Cold, hard arms lifted me high into the air, and no amount of kicking or pleading was going to save me. During the walk, my captor showed me things; it wanted me to understand what was done, and what price I would pay. I was helpless as visions of our planet’s darkest secrets raced through my mind.

Long before the first white man came to America, the entity was worshiped as a god. When other nations tried to settle their land, his followers rapidly dwindled until none remained. Though the creature killed many of these invaders – they refused to submit; instead they chose to flee or return with an angry mob. Over the centuries, circumstances only worsened until those caves – and eggs – were are all that remained.

The eggs weren’t conceived in the traditional sense, but born of tormented souls. When enough malice and hatred are collected into one being – it’s morphed into a horrible abomination. Those eggs were like little incubators; they grew until the transformation was complete, then a new nightmare was unleashed into our unsuspecting world. Monsters that, today, people call Cryptids – but it takes centuries for those eggs to hatch, and I had just destroyed 42 in seconds.

I’m being primed for one of those eggs; my soul is marked. Each time it finds me, it thinks of new, creative games, and – each time it kills me – it takes a piece of my soul for the incubator. I don’t know why it hasn’t come for me yet, but I’ve never known about Easter Memoria before meeting him like I have this time… or… wait… maybe that’s what it wants me to think; maybe it’s already in my life! What if my being raised around people with this knowledge was part of its master plan?

I need to get the fuck out Georgia, now. If I can find a safe place to do the ritual just one more time… I think there’s a reason those cameras cut out when Bethany died; it has to mean something. This revelation might just give me a fighting chance; if I’m able to update this one day – I will.

Thank you all so much for listening… Wish me luck.

Horror Fiction

The Dying Settlement (Pt. 6)

Pt. 6 of the Settlement series. Now a CreepyPasta

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

It’s about time! Where have you been? Get inside, you can explain by the fire. Trish! Ethan! Look who’s still breathing!

… … Of course we knew you didn’t die here – we’d have heard about that immediately – but it’s a dangerous world out there…

… … … Hey, that’s not true! Those YouTube downloads were the last things on my mind… if you didn’t have time or something – it’s no big deal…

… … … … Sure, you can dump them right here on the table – let me clear a spot!

… … … … Sweet Cricket, you filled them all? What?!… That Dark Somnium fella has over 800 videos?!

… … I’m beyond words.

… … Oh, please, no; don’t apologize, I was only having a little fun! We know you have a life out there, and we wouldn’t want you missing a minute on our account. We’re happy for any time we have together, and I mean – look at this – another one of them big battery things too? You spoil us!

… … … At least winter is almost over; storms are one thing, but I think I’ve had enough snow for this season.

… … Maybe you’re right, Trish. I probably am just bitter about that thing with the snowman.

… … … … Nothing, friend, it was just a stupid ordeal with a horse and some pumpkins, nevermind all that.

… … … Anywho, we best get to business before the night starts slipping away. Last time, we read Nicky’s entries from 1752 – and eventually, I would like to show you his writings from the War – but for now, we’ll jump to 1801.

… … … Because those don’t take place here; I thought you wanted to learn about ghosts and the Demon.

… … Alright then – tonight, we read about the seventh bunch that tried to hang their hats in our humble abode. Even though the war ended in ‘83 – the aftermath weighed heavily on the country. You’d be hard pressed to find a family who didn’t lose someone in the Revolution.

Travelers passed through often; most could be steered around the Cursed Woods with warnings of bandits, but the occasional fool would disappear. In 1801, a French colony passed through Jamestown, but there was a language barrier in communications. They managed a few trades but failed to understand the warnings about Dirge Lake. To make a long story short – they settled right in once they found the houses.

The best account of their brief stay is in Joshua’s journal. He’s Nicky’s son; the man was smart – like his father – but he didn’t take to school quite the same way.

… That’s really all you need to know for now; let’s get started.


March 30, 1801

These people will bring disaster upon us, that is certain. While I find it difficult to imagine the horrors of which Father spoke – he was the most intelligent, level-headed man I ever knew. If further proof is necessary – there are the lovely homes which stood untouched for decades! For such things to go unused – there is no doubt something must be horribly amiss. Yet, these people have moved in as if all were built for their use!

Our predecessors should have burned every last one to the ground. Now that I am the Sheriff – it is my responsibility, but I cannot act alone. Leah wishes for me to deputize her brother… though, he is more likely to shoot friend than foe; Larry has less sense than a headless goat…

I intend to deputize men, but I shall decide who after speaking with Mark. A perk of being the Mayor’s cousin is knowing which issues to press. If he helps to disperse the settlers – he will have the people’s good graces by default!

Today, I traveled alone to avoid an inconvenient misconception, though it seems to be unavoidable. They feigned complete ignorance at my words, yet understood we wished them gone. Clearly, our reasons were misjudged… but I cannot express “Demons will eat thee” in French… I can barely manage it in English! Even so, they would think me a madman; such matters require personal experience to appreciate.

Their mayor – or whatever their term for the position – made earnest attempts at bribery, but I dared not reinforce the skewed context of our unwelcome. There is a preacher among them… it may be beneficial to include Father Caleb in our next venture. He might yet convince them we harbor no malicious intent; that alone would be considerable progress.

One cannot help but pity the small, desperate bunch. They have clearly faced much adversity and wish to live in peace… but that is not the place to do so. The war has left too many ghost towns across the country. Instead of approaching such a place with due caution, they assume it was abandoned during battle. If only they understood our language… perhaps then…

Alas, such thoughts will drive me mad in earnest. It was a long day, and tomorrow will likely be longer. Nothing more can be done this night; it is time I retire.


March 31, 1801

Wallace has taken ill again; the doctor is on the way. My pacing drives poor Leah to the brink of insanity; this journal may be the only thing capable of keeping me still. Tomorrow, my son’s eighth birthday will be his third spent sick in bed. My heart breaks anew with each inquiry as to why he must suffer these spells; he is unaware that I, too, have screamed that very question to the skies.

I must not dwell on sorrows or I may falter in my duties. For my family and town – I must trust Doctor Eli to his profession and focus upon my own. If a settler succumbs to the Demon – more than one child’s life will be at stake.

Our family buried the Shaman’s special weapons when the war began. The location is known to few, and it requires much effort to access, but Mark and I have done so. Each item was individually wrapped with great care and mesmerizing to behold. Even the arrows are decorated with intricate carvings and seem to exude a faint glow. It is no wonder such precautions were taken in their concealment.

Afterwards, we asked John Baker, Melvin Barclay, and Douglas Smith to serve as deputies while Dirge Lake remains inhabited. Together, the five of us – along with Father Caleb – paid our new neighbors a visit. If not for the sparse livestock roaming about, we might have believed the place already abandoned; instead, it appeared as if they hid at first sight of our approach. Under closer inspection – stirring movements could be seen behind curtains as they watched from the shadows.

We offered gifts – I fed a curious dog – but no one would speak with us. The hike would be a simple matter if not for the river, but without a bridge, it is terribly inconvenient. When we could wait not one minute closer to nightfall, we resigned to leave a message among the gifts. If they are able to translate our words – they will know themselves welcome among us. For now, that is all we can do.

Damn, where is that Doctor? What else is there to write?… Ah!

I was rather surprised by the land itself; I expected the ‘beautifully gloomy’ forest as described by Father, but it was not so. The trees – though impossibly large – were long dead, and the lake was simply putrid… it would be shocking to find life in those waters. Then there was that smell – so terrible our clothes required burning! How desperately I wish to convey that stench through ink and paper! Like rotten eggs and molded cheese cooked in a chamber pot!

Finally! The Doctor has arrived!


… One minute, friend; let Trish fix you a drink while I find the next relevant entry.

… … … We’ve come across new supplies since your last visit; don’t be shy – go have a look. You’re welcome to anything that strikes your fancy.

… … … … …

… Excellent timing; I’m glad you found refreshments; we’re ready to continue when you are.

… … … Yea, Wallace was a sad story. They’d probably know what to do for him nowadays, but nobody had a clue back then. Sometimes the kid was fine; sometimes he was sick for weeks. Josh and Leah took him to the best doctors in the country – which was hard as hell – but the kid didn’t make it to sixteen…

… … … Unfortunately, his story was common for those times… but for the years he did live – he lived well.

… … … Funny you should ask; that’s what we’re about to find out! When Josh and those boys were standing around holding their wankers, I was screaming some sense into them. More than a handful of those assholes understood English just fine, but they thought they were being set-up to pay protection money.

… … Sure did – they used another word for it, but that’s what it boiled down to. If only they would have listened for a minute…

… … … Well, we couldn’t understand most of what they said. Being a ghost doesn’t make you multilingual… but they were frightened. There were only a few dozen of them and most of those were women and children.

… … Settle down – you have more questions than a virgin on prom night – and less patience too!


April 8, 1801

It has finally happened. Tensions grew thicker each day until we were suffocating under the weight of wonder and speculation. A pathetic excuse of a man wandered into town this afternoon. If not for his wife and children – he may have been turned away; that’s how great our fury was at the sound of his English words. The previously feigned ignorance served to avoid unpleasant conversation; though, I fear they are paying an unexpectedly high price.

Lucien and his family fled without telling a soul; surely they are assumed dead. If his words can be believed – life has been unkind to our neighbors. Food is scarce; no vegetation grows, the lake is too toxic to support life, and the wells have run dry. Hunting provides their only resources, but soon, that too will be exhausted. Even more troubling – as their desperation increases, they will travel deeper into the Cursed Woods.

I cannot fathom how one experiences the horrors of last night and abandons his fellows, but when discussing plans to cross the river at dawn – Lucien made clear his refusal to accompany us! Instead of filling these pages with my disgust for cowards, I will detail the events which caused our new friend to flee. I am unsure as to the accuracy of his claims, but I will record the account as he relayed it.

The family moved into a secluded farmhouse while the others clustered around the lake. Lucien planned to fill the outlying homes with his children and thereby retain ownership of all future crops; unfortunately, it also ensured no one would hear them scream.

They were on edge for some days before fleeing; heavy footsteps traversed the porch at all hours, yet no one was there when checked. On multiple occasions, the children saw grotesque figures looking into the windows only to disappear when approached. Last night – after a bit too much to drink – the eldest sons were sent to investigate a sighting with rifles; moments later, the first cry was heard.

The following wails of terror blended together with gunshots in a concert of chaos. Lucien and another son – Lucas – rushed to lend aid. Pausing on the porch, they saw one of the boys being dragged into the brush. He screamed until his head disappeared – at which point he was abruptly silenced…

Lucas hurried forward, but seeing no sign of the other son, Lucien dragged him back. Barring the door over his family’s protests, the man knew both boys were lost. For the remainder of the night, the family stayed awake, weeping and waiting for dawn.

Only after they were safely away did Lucien turn back to inspect the place he last saw his eldest child. Following a trail of blood, he saw shredded clothing and skin littered across the forest floor. He felt compelled to continue despite the trees rapidly closing in around him; with each step, the foliage grew denser, and his feet tangled deeper into the weeds. Finally, the sight of something hanging from a low branch stole his attention.

When only a few, short feet remained between Lucien and the object – his stomach violently purged itself. If there was any suspicion of the culprit being a wild animal – such delusions were shattered at the sight of the young lad’s head swinging in the breeze. Why anyone – monster or otherwise – would do such a heinous thing is beyond my understanding.

It is unknown how long the father stood there, but when he attempted to leave, his feet were held in place. Weeds wound tightly around his ankles, and thorns bit into his skin as they continued to grow! Lucien had no desire to see more. A blade made quick work of the issue, but without the knife, things may have ended poorly.

Once released from the woodland’s clutches, Lucien followed the bloody trail back to freedom but not without difficulty. He felt as if a thousand eyes were watching – relishing his anguish. Overcome with a dark certainty it would mean death – he never turned back. He ignored temptation by concentrating on the cold, wet sweat drenching his clothes.

I was raised with knowledge of the Cursed Woods and how – one day – brave warriors would defeat the Demon with tools acquired by our ancestors. I never wished to count myself among their numbers, but I fear the matter is beyond my control. This train of events was set in motion long ago, and there is little I can do to alter its track.

This evening, we gathered for a town meeting; we cannot ignore what is happening across the river. Too many lives are at risk to ‘sit back and wait’ as so many before us chose to do. The cycle must stop! Tomorrow we will finalize our strategies and make necessary preparations; Friday, we shall return to Dirge Lake.


April 9, 1801

Everything is prepared for our departure at first light; In the event I fail to return, I wish to leave a detailed record of our intentions. Those of us who will cross the river were given the Demon’s true name. Though I cannot commit it to paper, I can confirm my predecessors did not exaggerate its complexity. Our alphabet simply does not contain letters capable of producing the necessary sounds.

Lucien has agreed to join us… I will not dwell on the man’s aversion to common decency, but instead, on the possibility of his brethren’s assistance. The meeting began at noon and ended almost five hours later; I could fill these pages with the protests alone if time permitted. When we adjourned – it was with a total of seven volunteers. I was personally disheartened, but Father Caleb insists it is a holy number and sign from God.

Most men have taken comfort in those words, so I do not speak out… but they are meaningless. We are mere mortals embarking on a fool’s quest to slay a Demon; although it sounds like a fanciful theater play, it is a deadly serious matter! I would not be put at ease by 100 men, but seven are too few to even make the attempt!

Mark, Lucien, Father Caleb, and my three deputies enjoyed dinner with their families while I attempted to do the same. Afterwards, we met here to refine tomorrow’s plan – which was surprisingly straightforward compared to the circus of our previous gathering.

We read of our ancestor’s mistakes, hoping for guidance toward success, or rather, away from total failure. Part of me fears my body will refuse to rise from bed; the dread I feel is almost unbearable. We are hopeful more men will join us upon reaching the lake, but we cannot depend on uncertainties – especially where Lucien is involved.

We held a mock archery contest to determine who would carry the bow, and sadly, the “honor” is thine own. Mark cannot wield the dagger for his hands shook violently at the mere suggestion. Douglas shall carry it in his stead, and the others will form a perimeter while I loose the arrows.

In theory, it does not sound terribly difficult – but once face-to-face with the Demon – within a dark forest – our true mettle will be weighed. Personally, I expect each man to promptly wet his underclothes – myself included. The most difficult part will be living long enough to make the shot; time for a second round would cost dearly. When Timothy Cooke hit the creature, two men were killed before his arrow could fly… and the demon is sure to be stronger all these years later!

My deepest regret is the pain this causes Leah; I detest seeing my family sick with worry. If someone were capable of taking my place, I would gladly allow it, but there is no alternative. In case the worst should happen – I have prepared a series of letters; with luck, I anticipate burning them upon my return.

It is odd to think these few, short paragraphs are capable of sharing my sentiments long after I am gone from this world… it sounds absurd, does it not? I long to know how far into the future these words might speak, to know who’s ears they might reach, or on whose tongue they might dance.

Perhaps I should retire now, before my mind cracks from philosophical strain; I will need every moment’s rest for tomorrow’s endeavors.


… … How ya doing over there, friend? Need anything before the next part? You won’t want to stop after this, trust me!

… … … There really isn’t time to tell you about the snowman thing.

… … … Shush, Ethan! You watch yourself or I’ll have you back to kicking potatoes!

… Haha, nothing, just an old ghost joke. Way back – potatoes grew all over this place; when we were learning our spooky ways, we used ‘em for practice. You know… by kicking them. We made a game out of it – fun times.

… … … You never fail to impress, friend! Those are good instincts warning you about Lucien; his story did sound fishy, didn’t it? Almost as if some important bits were left out…

… … … Well, if you’re ready to proceed, maybe you’ll find out, eh?

… … … Okey dokey, then, here we go!


April 11, 1801

As I sit with quill poised, I cannot decide how to begin. So much has happened… it seems strange to sit calmly, writing at my desk after watching good men perish. It has left me feeling that I, too, was meant to die; what right have I to survive?!

Yes, believing we stood any chance against a Demon was idiocy, but believing we would receive help from the settlers was utter lunacy. They remained hidden until Lucien made himself known; then we were promptly greeted by an angry mob.

They did not assume the family dead – in fact, they were unaware of any absence. A day without Lucien’s presence was considered a blessing, but many mourned the loss of his boys; I can only assume they did not inherit their father’s character. Our hearts broke for the elder son’s fiancé; I regret she could not learn of the news in a more delicate setting.

We were taken into the church where our plans were discussed at length, but none volunteered to assist. The gathering was not a total failure; we did learn our friend’s true reasons for returning and of the settlers’ recent struggles.

Lucien wished to return to his people and live in a house near the lake; he never intended to venture into the forest – only to acquire safe passage home. Had he received the expected welcome – his immediate desertion would have followed; he is clearly despised by all. Having nowhere to go, he was forced to stay in our company.

Pierre DuPont attended University in New York and speaks English fluently; it was he who spoke for his people when they shared their own tribulations. Most suffer from horrible nightmares, but were too embarrassed to come forth until prompted. It is possible the disappearing livestock and work accidents were natural occurrences, but when considered with other matters – one tends to wonder.

People of all ages were displaying unusual behavior; some were withdrawn and sullen while others were loud and violent. Knowing the possible dangers they faced – we shared all we know. At mention of Mister Long, a portly woman rushed forward with a small child.

Maria Dubois is six and began speaking to her imaginary friend on her third night in the home. At first, he was kind, and they played innocent children’s games. As things progressed, the girl’s parents noticed increasingly peculiar activities; on several occasions, their daughter was discovered muttering gibberish while standing in the corner of her room. When asked, she said it was a game; she repeated every word Mister Long said , exactly as he said it. The poor child believed she was learning Latin.

Two nights ago, Maria murdered her father in his sleep, and she has not spoken a word since. Mrs. Dubois woke to see her husband gasp his last breath and her daughter holding a blood-stained knife. There was no time for thought; she was forced to process the scene in an instant as the child moved closer – blade raised to strike.

Mrs. Dubois acted quickly and decisively – I genuinely admire the woman. She subdued Maria by throwing a quilt over the child’s head and using a pillow for a shield! The girl was tied in a soft bundle until morning; once released, she remained in the stupefied state we were currently witnessing. I may suffer a naturally cynical perspective, but Mrs. Dubois was hopelessly blinded by her motherly perspective.

Behind Maria’s gleaming, brown eyes, there was an old soul. When all attention returned to our group, the facade slipped from her face. The lost, frightened girl was gone, and what remained could hardly be described as human. For a short instant, her eyes were yellow and askew – paired with the sudden paleness of her complexion, it was enough to render me speechless.

How does a man stand before his peers to proclaim a six-year-old possessed? I would appear mad – pointing, screaming, “Monster” at a small girl! Perhaps that was its hope – to provoke a hasty response. Moreover, the mask of innocence was restored as quickly as it vanished, and there was little chance it would slip again.

Nine people were lost in the forest before further search attempts were forbidden, and a child was recently dragged into the water. Earlier sightings of the lake monster describe it as gray in color, yet now several witnesses claim its tentacles were distinctly purple. Was it always so? Or is there more than one? Perhaps the same beast changed colors over the years; we cannot be certain.

It is hard to believe so much has happened in so few days. I felt compelled to ask why they stayed after surviving such horrific circumstances; they simply have nowhere else to go. After two years of roaming the countryside and falling victim to the perils of such a life – they simply wished to stop. They attempted to settle other lands, but were forced to leave in each instance.

The hour grows late, and my eyes struggle to remain open, but I dare not leave this account untold; death stalks in every shadow – of that you can be certain. Even my own home no longer feels safe; I see danger in every face, hear deceit in every voice – where does it end? Will life ever feel normal again?

I was speaking aloud again… Leah woke and came to calm me; Now, it is time to finish this account and hurry to bed; I must rise with the sun once again.

Conversing with the Frenchmen lasted longer than expected; it was almost 2:00 when we entered the forest. We seven men were a pitiful sight amongst the vast expanse of wilderness. The twisted, giant trees towered over us with bark as hard as stone; it seems death did nothing to still their growth. The further we hiked, the denser they grew – many wrapped tightly beneath sharp, thorn-infested vines – but we pushed forward.

We wandered with little direction until locating signs of a recent struggle. Blood stained the bark of two trees, and the surrounding brush was trampled. I personally lack tracking skills, but Mr. Baker is a marvel to behold. He believes three men fought a beast of immense size. The tracks it left behind are breathtaking; it walks on two legs and the footprints resemble that of a wolf… only they are far too large. A cold breeze chilled us to the core as we stood in awe of the sight.

John also found a discarded rifle; the barrel was bent upwards almost ninety degrees… I cannot imagine the force such an act required. It was apparent two men fled in separate directions, but – unwilling to divide our own force – we chose the path with better visibility.

The trail told the story of a man consumed with panic; he ran through the forest with little regard for direction and fell often as a result. Smears of blood stained the ground where his worst spills occurred, and scraps of clothing were tangled among the brambles. Eventually, we found a shoe with the owner’s foot still inside.

I imagined several reasons to suggest turning back, but – in each instance – I held my tongue. Did everyone know our true destination? Did they each fear it in the back of their minds, too frightened to voice the thought aloud? Or was it only myself? With each furtive glance to the sun’s position, I knew with growing certainty we awaited the Demon’s path; where we ventured before made little difference.

We knew it the moment we saw it. The temperature suddenly dropped, and all sounds of the forest ceased in an instant. A strong, cold wind blew, yet no leaves rustled; all remained still and silent despite the prominent gusts. It created a wholly unnatural effect I shall not soon forget.

I notched my first arrow, but each shot must be taken with consideration to ammunition retrieval; it is unlikely we will receive more. The right opportunity is worth a loss, but unless reasonably certain of a favorable outcome, I must refrain from action.

It is impossible to say how long we stood without speaking, merely staring at that cursed path, but eventually we forced ourselves to act. We traversed the trail in a single-file line with Father Caleb in the lead. He recited prayers for the majority of our hike and continued to do so even as the Demon carried him into the night.

After roughly twenty paces, a tall, dark mass leapt across the path and into the trees. We halted in place, rifles raised, and the Father continued praying, bible raised to the sky in defiance. When the black shadow suddenly descended upon us, several shots were fired; over it all, Caleb’s words grew louder, bolder, but they did not save him. Before he was carried out of sight, a final bullet ended his suffering. As the beast disappeared over the horizon, we were driven to our knees from an ear-splitting roar of fury. I suppose it prefers fresh meat…

Then there were six.

It shames me to admit my first thought was to discredit the Father’s “holy number” theory, but I held my tongue. There was no doubt the Demon would return; meanwhile, it was vital to cover maximum distance. Night came faster than expected; one moment the light began to fade, and the next it was pitch black. We lit torches without pausing, afraid to lose even those seconds. Walking in two lines of three, we could hardly illuminate the ground before us, but we could not turn back or all we lost would be in vain.

I do not know how long we continued that way – hunched forward, squinting into the darkness – but soon we were frozen in place by the sound of heavy footfalls. I did not realize my breath was held until my lungs begged for air; by then, the creature was coming to a stop just above us. My gaze was fixed onto the ground, but Melvin dared to look into the face of evil. The guttural sound to escape his throat was the sad, pitiful cry of a dying babe; the tension alone was enough to drive a man insane. Even before he ran, I knew he would be the next to die. Mr. Barclay was not granted the sweet escape of a quick death; instead, he died screaming in agony.

Then there were five.

Only after the death wails subsided was I consumed with guilt for my inaction. What short distance was between us when it crouched motionless above our heads? How long did it remain so before taking yet another life?

Blame is a dangerous path to tread; it led me down a rabbit hole of madness wherein I cursed every ancestor that walked blithely away – leaving that nightmare to grow stronger for others to fight in their stead! The distraction cost yet another man his life as I failed to see Mark straying from the path. He drifted closer to the tree-line until something dropped onto his head with inhuman speed.

It took a moment for my eyes to accept the sight, but eventually I understood it was a hand. An impossibly long arm was reaching out of the darkness, and its disproportionately sized hand was grabbing the top of Mark’s head. The world froze in that moment; were I an artist, I could paint the scene to the last detail. I lived a lifetime in that split-second – envisioning ways to save my cousin. While most ideas were immediately dismissed, there was one, small hope available.

I raised the bow, but before my shot could align with the oddly yellow-tinted arm, it happened. With a quick twist of the wrist, Mark’s head was plucked from his shoulders like a petal from its flower. There was a horrifying moment where his body remained upright, and just as it began to fall, a second hand caught it. In lieu of screams, we were serenaded with the crunching of bones as the Demon ate on the run.

Then there were four.

We had no choice but to hurry onward. I expected to find strange trees and a stone altar – as previously described – though, reality was different than imagined. Moments after losing Mark, a bright, orange glow became visible in the distance; one could argue that dying beforehand was a kindness.

Every man was warned on multiple occasions – “do not touch the trees” – but human nature will forever be ingrained with the desire to do the opposite of what they are told. As we drew closer, the lights grew brighter; at their source, it was like day again. Perhaps those monstrous, sac-like things were once the size of melons – long ago – but now they are the size of pigs, possibly larger!

They pulsated, and a thick, white ooze seeped from each one, creating an acidic moat around the clearing. The only way in or out was the path upon which we tread. Douglas’ face went slack as he approached the nearest tree; I reached for him, but it was too late. The thing burst at the first hint of contact, and Mr. Smith was consumed by the foul slime. A pungent odor permeated our senses as we strained to guard our ears from his final cries.

Then there were three.

We thought the dagger disintegrated, but we found it nearby, undamaged; John took it up as we continued toward the circle’s center. The altar was no longer made of stone but iron, and it was decorated with pear-inlay carvings; we believe something is written in a foreign alphabet. Fearing Lucien would cause irreparable damage with his moronic actions, we bade him to stand back and keep a watchful eye upon the path.

John and I studied the altar – discussing how best to proceed – and thought if brute force failed to destroy the sturdy structure, we might deface the special characters. No sooner than the words passed my lips did a soft thud draw our attention; Lucien was on the ground, and a foul, black substance – I could not tell if it was liquid or gas – was forcing itself into his mouth. His face turned purple and his throat bulged into grotesque lumps as his jaw was stretched far past its breaking point.

As the last of it vanished down our cowardly friend’s throat, he rose to his feet in disturbing, spasmodic movements. When he faced us, his head turned sideways ninety degrees with a reverberating pop. Instead of falling dead, he continued forward!

What does one call a corpse capable of walking? I would hope need for such a term never arose… but I will say the Not-Dead, or better yet, the Undead – yes, that has a ring. Alas, we lost our last chance to defeat the Demon; now that it possessed a body, we could only hope to kill the man.

Black sludge dribbled from his gaping maw as he drew closer. John shouted a primal battle cry as he charged with the dagger, and it broke the spell of paralysis holding me in place. Whether that spell was real or imagined, we may never know, but my aim was true; I knew the moment my fingers released the string.

John froze three yards away as the arrow whizzed past and pierced its target’s chest, but I did not stop; the second sunk deep into Lucien’s gut as he fell to his knees, and I held the third ready to fire. Foul, black blood seeped into the ground as deep, maniacal laughter echoed around us. In a forest, it should not be possible for sound to carry in such a way, but many impossible things occur in those woods.

I did not intend to leave until Lucien’s empty husk lay upon the ground, but the acidic substance in the moat began churning like angry ocean tides – bubbling and splashing over the sides. We watched with growing horror as it began to flood the clearing. We would be trapped if we did not make haste.

Then there were two.

By some miracle we made it out of that damn forest, but two arrows were lost. Now I, too, will leave it for the next generation; let them spite me as I did those before! I do not care; no force will entice me back to those woods!

We found the settlers ready to depart. Moving so many across the river was no small feat, but with that task – we were able to find much assistance from our brethren…

Unfortunately, the nightmare was not yet finished. The Elders spoke with each person before allowing them to enter our township… and aye, an imposter was found. I fail to grasp these otherworldly concepts with the same ease as others, but – to put it simply – a seven-year-old boy, Nathan Bishop, bore no reflection!

It was just as Father wrote of Aunt Florence so long ago. The Bishop’s refused to believe their son was gone, and a rather violent altercation ensued as parents were separated from child. After his vehement denials failed, the boy’s true nature came to light. Helpless as the babe he pretended to be, his face contorted into a grimace of pure hatred, and he spat vile curses until his last breath.

The Elders wished to stress it was not merely a case of possession; an evil spirit assumed the identity of young Nathan. It is unclear what fate the real child met, but the parents recalled an odd incident from days prior.

Moments after seeing the boy in bed, Nathan walked through the front door. Mrs. Bishop hurried to discover who occupied her son’s room, but found it empty; unable to explain the event – it was dismissed. It is fortunate he was revealed before more lives were lost; I have seen enough death to last a lifetime.

Though… it is only now that I remember the other child, Maria… I wonder what has become of her. Surely the Elders have taken appropriate action; I will make inquiries tomorrow.

This is the most I have ever written; my hand aches with cramps and I am glad to be finished. Now, I will sleep for a week!


Close your jaw there, friend; I bet you didn’t expect the man to write through the night, did ya? Well, he surely did, and he didn’t write again for damn near three weeks because of it. I know the writing cramps he referred to, but I don’t know why he’s complaining; it’s a wonderfully satisfying sensation!

… … I can’t swear by it because I wasn’t there, but the Demon doesn’t typically jump in skin suits willy-nilly; I think he did something to prime Lucien up while he was stuck out there in the woods.

… … … You bet your britches those folks moved! They were ready to tuck tail before the posse arrived, but then Lucien showed up – getting everyone all hot and bothered talking that Demon Slayer nonsense! They assumed they could stay put if someone cleared out the unwanted neighbors; ain’t that a hoot?

… … … Maria actually did make it to Jamestown, but I’ll have to tell you about her another day. If you want all the bells and whistles there’s no time for it tonight.

… … … Folks mostly did fine once they got to know each other; they weren’t a bad bunch. You got to remember, hard times breed hard people. Most fall in line once they settle in enough to develop a routine.

… … … Sure, routines are great! They provide structure and order to an otherwise chaotic world.

… … … Unfortunately, Josh developed a taste for alcohol after this encounter, and later – when they lost Wallace – he succumbed to it entirely. Leah grew to hate his company and moved to Pennsylvania to be with their daughter.

… … … Well, that’s what you get with real life; every ending can’t be a fairytale. Unless… would you like it to be? I could—

… … Ok, I was only kidding; I’ll read it as I see it, scout’s honor.

… … … I suppose it’s that time again; you be safe out there. We’ll be here, watching all these wonderful downloads! Thanks again by the way – you just… wow, you have no idea.

… … … … Absolutely, I hope you come back soon; next time we’re gonna be reading about the last settlement!

… … … Haha, well, calling it a settlement is a stretch… it’s actually a desperate band of outlaws, but they made one hell of a final stand.

… … … There you go again with twenty questions; we can get to all that next time, I promise.

… … … Bye, have a good one!


Part 7

Horror Fiction

Blewit

Big thanks to Lady Nopeingham for use of her awesome character! Do you guys enjoy your horror narrated? You should check her out on YouTube … if you’re brave enough…

Now a CreepyPasta

This is going to sound weird, I know, but please, bear with me. I wanted to ask the paranormal community for help with my haunted house, but I was afraid of Reddit trolls. I tend to trust too easily and felt I wouldn’t have time to sort out which responses were genuine. I figured there must be a dozen other places to tell my story, preferably one kids didn’t use; and indeed, there are.

Out of several search results, I chose Blewit. The description read, “Want Reddit without the misfit trolls? That’s us!” It seemed like the typical knockoff that always follows a popular brand. Aside from the blue logo and “kool” points instead of “karma”, there was no difference. Just to be safe, I read a few recent posts to gauge the community’s sincerity. I was very pleased with what I saw; everyone was kind, courteous, and several users claimed to receive helpful guidance. I made an account, joined the b/haunted forums, and told my story.

Below is a copy of my original post, but things have escalated drastically since.

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Hi, I am thirty-three, live alone and have always been a die-hard skeptic. I am a very logical person, I believe in science and facts; that is to say, I don’t come to you lightly. I moved to the country to save money, but I’ve always preferred the quiet life. When I found this big house in the forest for such a low price, I knew there had to be a catch.

I didn’t have extra time or money to spend on major repairs if all the electrical needed to be replaced or it didn’t have central air; that’s the kind of deal-breaker I expected. Instead, I learned the previous occupants died horribly last year. Martin Hayes murdered his wife and son before committing suicide. I can’t tell you the relief I felt; I struggled not to show my excitement as I negotiated the price even lower.

Three weeks later, I was settled into my new home and loving everything about it. The first two days were quiet, but Friday night, I was on the couch when soft, persistent knocking sounded at the door. It startled me, because I don’t have neighbors, and I would have seen headlights had someone came down the driveway.

I stole a glance through the peephole, careful not to make my presence known. It was dark, but not pitch black; I could see well enough to know nothing was there. My heart raced, and I thought it would burst. Trying to find the light-switch, I abandoned stealth as my hand fumbled along the wall. Finally, with a soft click, the front steps and driveway were brightly lit.

The knocks stopped instantly, and all was silent. Leaving the light on, I checked the locks, but when nothing else occurred, I returned to Netflix. While preparing for bed, the incident was almost forgotten. It is important you know my bedroom is on the second floor, and that no trees are near the windows, because that is where it next occurred.

After drifting off, the sound of nearby tapping startled me. Unable to remember if the upstairs windows were secured, I leapt to my feet and screamed at the sight of a distorted face, but it was only my reflection. I pressed my phone’s flashlight to the glass, illuminating the ground below. There is nothing that would allow someone to reach the second floor, nor so much as a bush to conceal their location, but the yard was empty.

This afternoon, there was more knocking as I worked at my desk. The office has a perfect view of the front door, but the moment I approached the window, it stopped; once again, no one was there. Feeling braver in the daytime, I looked around, searching for any sign of a visitor. When I still found nothing, I drove a few miles in each direction to confirm there were no neighbors in walking distance.

Upon returning to the driveway, I saw the brief image of a face watching me from an upstairs window. My blood froze; I’ve never experienced such fear. It quickly disappeared behind the curtains, but there is no mistaking what I saw. It simply isn’t possible for someone to be there. After a thorough search of each room, I began writing this. I don’t know anything about the supernatural; please, will someone help me?

—CountryHaunts13, Saturday 3:11pm

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Do you see how simple the matter was in the beginning? I hope you can hear the sincerity in my words. You must understand… I was already terrified my ignorance would be used against me. I could not stand the thought of sifting through dozens of responses knowing ninety percent would be fake. Now that my fears are reality, it is that much more difficult… though I no longer need advice. I simply wish to warn you of the dangers on that shady website.

I finished my work and ate dinner before the next round of knocks began. Immediately checking Blewit, I was delighted to see three comments, one of which was actual advice. The username, Lady Nopeingham, was from the original posts I reviewed. Whoever she is, she seemed to be the most helpful person in the community; I secretly hoped she would respond to me as well.

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Lady Nopeingham 4:07pm:

It sounds like the previous residents decided to stick around. Ghosts are like dogs defending their territory. You must show them you’re the alpha. Next time, open the door, and firmly state your grievances. This will intimidate it, thereby ending inconvenient behavior. Whatever you do, never treat it with respect.

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I breathed a sigh of relief at such a simple solution; I worried it would call for something extreme, like an exorcism, but this was something I actually excel at. Though, obviously, it wasn’t. If it were, I would not be here now, on a completely different site with worse complaints.

Please, if you are kind enough to still be here, do not waste your time correcting this advice. I’m afraid it is a lesson I have already learned, as you will soon see over the course of my following posts.

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Update:

I want to thank you all for your kind words of support, especially Lady Nopeingham, whose advice gave me great comfort. That being said, I worry I may have inadvertently made the situation worse. Within an hour of seeing your message, the knocks returned. I tiptoed to the door, ripped it open, and screamed, “This is my house now, asshole! Get the fu—!”

My words were cut off as a blast of freezing air rushed past, leaving me breathless. I slammed the door and stumbled to the bedroom, feeling safer upstairs. When nothing more happened, I began to relax – somehow convincing myself the experience to be normal… but I now see how foolish that was.

I retired early, feeling confident of a peaceful rest, but soon the frantic cries of a child penetrated my sleep-deprived brain. I shot up, too confused to think, but moved instinctively. The wails intensified as I stepped into the hall, covering my ears in attempt to dull the noise. The sounds were coming from the boy’s old room. Trevor Hayes was only six when his father strangled him, but he watched his mother die first.

Learning details of the tragic event was clearly a mistake, but I can’t erase the knowledge now. Still following your advice, I tried to be firm, but found it difficult to scold the poor child’s restless spirit. Even so, the noise did not stop until I entered his room; after which, I was finally able to return to bed.

Two hours later, loud, violent bangs shook the door on its hinges. Furiously stomping across the hardwood floor, I hesitated at the memory of my previous encounter. Instead of opening it, I unleashed my rage on the closed door, kicking it and screaming obscenities. Was that a good thing to do? Or should I have opened it?

At some point during my tantrum, the knocking stopped. When I finally calmed, all was blessedly silent. Nothing else woke me, but random cold spots are now a common occurrence. It is not a heating issue; it only lasts a few minutes… but it worries me. I’m alone and frightened, please, is there anything else you can tell me?

—CountryHaunts13, Sunday 8:23am

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I didn’t have to wait long for a response. It seems once the Lady finds a new victim, she doesn’t stray far. Unfortunately, I was still imagining a kind, elderly woman; one who was lonely and lived for these conversations. Oh, she lives for them alright! Hardly ten minutes passed before my phone chimed with a new message.

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Lady Nopeingham 8:32am:

The blast of cold air was, in fact, a sign of success. You certainly did not, for example, permit the spirit entry; that would be ridiculous. You are likely experiencing increased activity due to multiple spirits. If that is the case – continue asserting dominance. Don’t worry, you’re doing great! Remember, be harsh; show no mercy! This will help them understand they are not welcome.

Do you have sage in your home? Ghosts are highly attracted to it; in fact, there are some who prey on the unaware by recommending it as a repellent. If anyone suggests burning sage, cease all contact immediately! They mean you harm!

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Are you still with me? Lady’s words filled me with confidence; my own naïveté churns the stomach. Being so grateful for someone to share my experience with, I didn’t think to ask obvious questions… like, why did she feel the need to point out I didn’t “permit the spirit entry” when such a thought was never expressed? Can anyone tell me that?

I bet you can, but don’t bother; the answer is already known. The worst part is someone else did recommend burning sage and I blocked them because of Nopeingham… it’s all so depressingly typical of my luck. Needless to say, a very long, very unpleasant update was close at hand.

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Update:

I must thank you for the warning. I did have sage – which I threw out immediately – but it hasn’t seemed to help. I followed your advice, but conditions continue to worsen. Is there anything to explain the strange reactions I am experiencing?

After removing the unwanted herbs, I tried to continue my work in the office. Soon, the knocking returned, and I screamed in surprise. It sounded like someone was trying to break down the door; I fully expected the wood to splinter, but by some miracle, it held strong. My mind was blank with terror, I struggled to form words, but finally managed, “Eat shit… ghost bitch!” Pathetic, I know.

Instead of being intimidated, it seemed to grow angrier; the door flew open with a loud bang, bouncing off the wall so hard it slammed shut again! After a few minutes of silence, I thought it was over, but no. Loud footsteps clacked down the hall, like a woman in high heels. I almost fainted when the sound matched perfectly with the appearance of a shadow beneath the door!

It stayed there for several minutes – not knocking, just standing – before continuing on its way. At the end of the hall, where I clearly heard it go – there is nothing but a linen closet. When able to force my legs into action, I ran; I wanted out of the house, but most importantly, I needed to purchase a few things.

I definitely couldn’t afford any of it, but if this doesn’t qualify for the emergency savings fund, what does? After installing the cameras and motion sensor flood lights on each side of the house, I felt a little more confident; honestly, they were needed anyway, especially in the country. What surprised me was the lights triggering every five minutes. I reviewed the recorded footage from my tablet but never saw what set them off.

I’m glad the cameras are outside. Last night was the worst night of my life… I couldn’t watch the video even if it were recorded. At least this way I might eventually come to think of it as a nightmare. My exhaustion finally caught up to me; I fell asleep immediately upon trying, but I’m not sure what woke me. Only that I wish it hadn’t.

I was lying flat on my back, covers down to the waist and paralyzed. I panicked at the realization, but I was helpless. Studying the shadows on the ceiling, I tried to discern each shape. In movies, when someone said, “It felt like I wasn’t alone”, I used to call bullshit. I didn’t understand how a mere presence could possibly affect another, but now I do.

I can’t find the words to express how, but I knew I wasn’t alone. No matter what logic I implore, I can’t deny I felt it. I struggled to see in each direction. With great effort, my head moved just enough to bring the room into view. At first, nothing seemed out of place. The doors were still closed, the laundry baskets were nearby, and the tv hung silently in the corner, over the chair full of clothes.

That’s when I remembered I didn’t have time to empty the dryer, and my heart stopped working. Until that moment, it throbbed, painfully, but at the realization I couldn’t identify the strange form, it came to an abrupt halt. My eyes bore into the shadowy corner, willing it to take the shape of something innocent, but what small hopes I possessed were brutally ripped away when the figure moved.

He stopped at the foot of my bed, looking down on me with the most hate-filled eyes I’ve ever seen. I recognized his black hair and pudgy, bearded face from articles I found on the Hayes family. Martin’s ghost bore the same thick glasses and jagged chin scar, but even without those features, I will never forget his dark, brown eyes of pure evil.

The chest pain increased with every second my heart refused to beat; I almost hoped it would kill me before anything else could. The seconds stretched into an endless eternity where time held no meaning as the twisted, dead man’s apparition glared into my very soul. Finally, his thin smile parted, exposing rotted teeth as his tongue licked around his peeling, chapped lips; I watched in horror as one hand slowly came to rest on my foot.

Even through several blankets, it felt like a solid block of ice moving up my leg with his each deliberate step. In the terrible moment his hand reached my waist, transferring from sheet to skin, I blacked out from pure terror. Unfortunately, I regained consciousness almost immediately as the dead fingers crawled up my shoulder, coming to rest on my neck. Hot tears streamed down my cheeks as I silently begged for death. When the hand suddenly clamped around my throat, I thought my wish would be granted. My chest burned with a fire I never imagined possible as the world faded around me.

This morning, my throat feels raw, and it hurts to speak. Somehow, there are no physical marks, but I would almost prefer it. This is making me feel crazy; I don’t know what to do! I don’t have anywhere else to go, and I can’t waste money on a hotel room. Please, Lady Nopeingham! Anyone! I beg you, help me!

—CountryHaunts13, Monday 7:02am

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Do you see what she did to me?! That dark, evil temptress of night— do you?!

Of course you do, forgive me. It’s just… her next response… there’s simply no words. That was my last update on Blewit, though I didn’t yet know it.

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Lady Nopeingham 7:08am:

Oh, you poor, poor dear! How dreadfully terrible! Your tears cause me anguish, and in no way sustain me. Worry no more, my friend, I will be with you every step of the way until we have seen this nightmare through!

Yes, it is obvious now. You first encountered the young boy and his mother, but now you face the murderous fiend himself. We must proceed with caution, but I have complete faith in you. Are you familiar with pentagrams? They are symbols of protection. I will email you a picture; do not waste time with an internet search.

With ink, draw the image in each room as you experience activity, especially the wall above your bed. This will ensure deep, peaceful rest. Best of luck, dear Jamie, I eagerly await the next update.

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It’s worse I believed her after such an obvious mistake, but I was so frightened by the dangers at home, I didn’t see the obvious red flag of my name in her response —that’s how completely she held my trust… that demon banshee of hell!

I wasted no time in opening her email and with a jumbo sharpie, I drew pentagrams in each room. Once again wrapped in a blanket of false security, I ate breakfast and worked in the office for a few hours before deciding to take a nap. I’ve slept so little in the last few nights; I could barely keep my eyes open.

I had such a vivid nightmare; I may never sleep soundly again. In the dream, I was Martin Hayes; I not only saw everything from his perspective, but I also genuinely believed myself to be him. Even though I knew nothing of this family before moving here, I possessed all the dead man’s memories. It is not an exaggeration to say I would have preferred the role of victim.

I never knew such pure, blind, rage existed, and it’s unlikely I will ever feel clean again. My soul has been marred by something black and evil that will never leave me. The longer I am awake, the more finer details fade, but the emotions will haunt me forever.

Martin was forced to work late that fateful night, but it didn’t stop him from opening his flask at the usual time. Unfortunately, he then crushed a coworker’s foot via forklift, costing him the job entirely. He went to a bar, and his foul temper worsened with each drink. By time he arrived home, poor Helen never stood a chance.

Events would have unfolded the same regardless, but the fight started when his dinner was not waiting on the table. Helen recognized the dangerous look in his eyes, and with a sadly sincere, desperate apology, she begged forgiveness. The terror on her face is still vivid enough to make me nauseas, but it is nothing compared to what came next.

Fully aware of the small boy watching from the doorway, Martin grabbed his wife by the hair, pulling her to the ground. I can still feel her brunette locks tangled in my fingers as she was dragged into the kitchen. Trevor screamed for his mother as Martin straddled her crumpled body and began punching.

I’ve never been in a fight before… it’s nothing like tv… you never think of punching someone as painful, but it is. I felt my knuckles splitting wider as Helen’s bones shattered from each impact. It didn’t stop until her face was no longer recognizable. I can’t believe such damage could be caused by fists alone…

The sound of retreating footsteps earned Martin’s undivided attention. His resentment toward Trevor was indescribable; the boy was too expensive, always wanting something new and outgrowing his clothes, but no more! He found his son hiding beneath the bed and pulled him out roughly.

The child’s screams were cut off by two large hands at his throat. Martin stared into Trevor’s wet, brown eyes as he choked the life from him. He felt no remorse after, and did not place his neck in the noose until a week later, when the first police cruiser appeared.

I awoke screaming. Nothing about that experience was dream-like; I don’t pretend to know how it is possible, but I am certain events unfolded exactly as seen.

That is when I decided to do my own research, as I should have from the beginning. It took hours, but with the decision to never sleep again, I had nothing but time. The information was as conflicting as I feared, but enough sites agreed on the basic facts. The knowledge you have not only lived your worst fear, but facilitated it at every step, is a burden I hope none of you ever bear.

I logged into Blewit, ready to give Lady the ass chewing of a lifetime but was surprised to see a new message from her. The time indicated she sent it ten minutes before, but I don’t understand how.

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Lady Nopeingham 5:28pm

I am greatly saddened by your loss of faith. I have done my all to assist you at every turn, yet you doubt my intentions. You speak as if I am some vile creature who only wants to suck out your life essence to prolong my own! While that is not the case, rest assured, if it were – there would be no higher honor! I cannot fathom a more noble cause for one’s soul to be dedicated.

If you wish to proceed without further assistance, I am afraid that is your prerogative. It’s not as if angry, evil spirits allowed me to pinpoint your location – and the pentagrams are certainly not an invitation to retrieve fresh blood donations, don’t be absurd, Jamie! I will expect a heartfelt apology when I see you tonight. Until then, try to get some rest, you look terrible.

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Obviously, after copying each message, I deleted my Blewit account and apps. Lady Nopeingham is clearly a sick, deranged individual, and I am having no further contact. She must be a hacker! That must be it; I bet she gained access to my cameras somehow! I can fix that problem!

… … I went inside only to unplug the Wi-Fi. Once I finish this last part, I’ll disable cellular data as well. I have spent several hours in my car, putting this information together – all the while dreading this very moment. I am not ready to discuss the last incident, but I can delay no longer.

Before going to bed, I scribbled over each pentagram, hoping to negate their effects, but the plan was unsuccessful. I was not roughly roused from sleep as with previous incidents. This time, a faint scratching sound stole its way into my dreams before I understood it to be real. Forcing myself to sit up, I tried to determine its source. I swung my feet to the floor, and a cold hand clamped around my ankle.

The bone felt like it would snap in the steel grip, and nails dug deep into my skin. Warm, sticky blood spilled beneath my feet as I struggled to free myself. I tried to stand but was pulled down, slamming painfully into the floor. I screamed, flailing in desperation as my body was dragged backwards. I didn’t know what would happen if it pulled me all the way under, but surely nothing good.

Finally, I felt a kick connect with something hard. Ignoring the resulting throbs that shot up my leg, I scrambled away from the bed without looking back. After fumbling my way through the door, I raced downstairs to be greeted by the pale, translucent figure of a small boy. The prominent bruises on his neck remained even in death, but my sympathies have been wholly replaced by fear.

Trevor and I stared at each other, unmoving until the sound of pursuing footsteps could be heard descending the stairs. I had no choice but to run past him if I did not want to face Martin again. For some strange reason, I believed the man to be the only one with ill intent. I suppose that confirms my complete ignorance of the subject matter, even now.

At the last moment, the child extended his small hand. I was moving too fast to dodge away when his dead, cold, fingers went into my stomach before solidifying. No word known to humans will ever be strong enough to describe the pain and fear. I was oddly fascinated by the lack of blood, but that was probably from shock.

How I went from standing to lying on my back is fuzzy, but I somehow came to be paralyzed in that state as three ghostly figures stood above me. My bladder voided itself as Helen came to kneel by my head and placed both hands into my mouth. If I had to describe the taste of her fingers as she forced my jaw open – I would guess a mixture of dirt, maggots, and rot.

How my heart continued to beat, I do not understand, but death would have been kinder than what came next. I watched in absolute horror as Martin faded from a solid man to a ghostly image before shifting into a foul, black cloud of smoke. Please understand, I say “smoke” to give you an accurate image, but the substance was completely solid as it forced its way down my throat.

I thought I would suffocate when it cut off all airflow, but I remained conscious for every miserable second. How my jaw was not dislocated is equally puzzling… nor do I know how long I laid there. When the last wisps of smoke were gone, so were Helen and Trevor. I was left alone, laying in a crumpled, soiled heap at the base of the stairs.

It is clear I cannot stay here anymore; I know that. I plan to remain in the car until morning, then I will pack a bag and go to my sister’s. I don’t care how much money I lose in selling this place, but I will never enter that house again. When I find an apartment, I can hire movers or buy new stuff.

I think I will be safe if I stay outside. After I am settled in at Jessie’s house, I will let everyone know I made it out safe. I feel better just knowing this will be the last night I spend here.

—HauntedSoul666, 3:00am

This is Jamie’s sister! I don’t know what you sick people are doing, but whether this is some kind of weird role playing game or just a bunch of delusional psychos, you’ve gone too far! You’ll be hearing from the police soon; I’m showing them every word of this madness!

Do you understand you pushed a real, living human-being to commit suicide?! Was that your intention?! I was the one who found the body! Jamie was in the bathtub, wrists sliced, water still running, and printed copies of this thread strewn all over the place! Are you children capable of comprehending the lives you destroyed? Our parents will never recover! Do you even care?!

I will make sure each and every one of you pay for this if it’s the last thing I do! Especially you, Lady Nopeingham…

—HauntedSoul666, Thursday 5:17pm

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Alert: 1 unread message

Lady Nopeingham 5:23pm

I am heartbroken to hear this tragic news! I fear there has been a terrible misunderstanding, perhaps we should meet in person. I can explain everything, including what really happened to our poor Jamie. I will pay a visit tonight, and show you how very innocent I am. See you soon.

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