I'm the kind of person who starts counting down to
Halloween on November 1st. Always have been.
I could never get enough of the holiday when I was younger, and
that stayed with me as I've gotten older.
So you better believe every October I make it a point to
have that house on the block, the one that you can barely see
the lawn from, how many Halloween decorations there are
once the leaves start turning. That's my cue to put out the
decorations, and considering how people are always stopping by to
take pictures or drive past my house, I wouldn't have it any
other way. However, the one thing I can't
put out until shortly before Halloween itself are the Jack O
lanterns. Of course, that moment is always
a bit bittersweet for me, because on one hand, carving the
pumpkins means Halloween is almost here.
But on the other hand, before we know it, Halloween will be over.
But I recently got an idea. Why don't I carve some pumpkins
early? It could be a fun little quirky
tradition. Christmas in July is a thing, so
why not Jack O lanterns? When summer is in full swing?
I saw no reason not to try it, so I went off to get some
pumpkins. Finding them in the summer isn't
as easy as other times of the year, but in the modern era,
finding stuff out of season has never been easier.
So once I was able to find some pumpkins, it was just a question
of how many I wanted. I decided on five.
Then I paid for the pumpkins, bought some candles to go with
them, and brought the stuff home.
All that was left was to decide when to carve them and then get
down to work. I decided to do it that weekend
because we were due for a nasty storm.
Sure enough, the weekend came and the storm arrived right on
schedule and it was intense. This was no quick summer
downpour that lasts 10 minutes and then it's over.
It rained all day, and it didn't take long for there to be
flooding in the area. The sky was an overcast Gray and
I didn't feel like going anywhere, so that was my cue to
start carving pumpkins. By now I've done it a million
times, so I'm well practiced at it, which means it wasn't long
before I had hollowed out the first one and was working on
etching a face into the pumpkin surface.
This part was definitely way harder than hollowing out a
pumpkin, but I've practiced this enough as well, to the point
where I'm not horrible at carving a face, but I'm still
nowhere near the amazing artist that some people are at this.
That's the one Halloween thing I haven't mastered yet.
So my first one turned into a generic spooky face with a
twisted grin. It's simple, but a classic.
So then I got started on the second one.
This one I turned into a happy face with a genuine smile.
The other three I tried different things with but they
just ended up being variations of the 1st 2:00 but that didn't
bother me a bit. I always enjoyed the process and
they all truly become something special once you light the
candles, which is exactly what I did after that.
Then I placed them inside the pumpkins, turned off the light
in my kitchen and stood back to admire the effect.
It made me smile as it always does.
So now all that was left was for me to take them outside one by
one and arrange them. My house is a small two-story
building, but it comes with a comfortable front porch.
That's where I put some of the pumpkins once I've turned them
into Jack O lanterns along with on the three stone steps leading
up to my porch. So I arranged them and stood
back to admire my handiwork as the rain thudded on the roof and
filled the streets. It was a nice effect because the
pumpkins and the candles within them stood out starkly amongst
the Gray wet atmosphere and thanks to my porch roof which
extended all the way to the first stone step, it kept me dry
and gave me a great view of the entire street.
With that done, I went inside to enjoy the rest of my evening.
I had some ravioli with tomato sauce and salad for dinner and
treated myself to some red velvet cake for dessert.
Then I watched a movie on TV. Just before I went to bed, I
stepped back outside to blow out the candles inside the pumpkins.
The clouds in the sky made it seem extra dark outside, and
after the intense rain, the air was muggy and humid.
As a result, the candles in the Jack O Lantern seemed to shimmer
in the intense humidity, and the orange glow seemed incredibly
pronounced. For just a moment, I was briefly
transported to a crisp October night, but just as I was about
to extinguish the candles, I noticed something My porch light
and the candles revealed what looked like footprints leading
to and away from my front door. The heavy rain and the water it
left standing everywhere meant that if you went walking
tonight, you'd be leaving wet footprints everywhere.
And thanks to the intense humidity, those footprints
wouldn't immediately dry. So there I was, staring at a set
of footprints that arrived at my door, then went away.
I just shrugged it off and chuckled.
No doubt someone wanted to come for a closer look at my Jack O
lanterns, probably to take a picture or two.
Well, they got a look just in time because I extinguished the
candles, went back inside, and headed to bed.
Without a moment's hesitation. I got up the next morning, had
some breakfast, then went about my day.
After spending time with my family, I came home, put away
the leftovers from our meal together, and read a book on the
couch. After a while I had a snack and
since it was dark enough out, I went out on my front porch and
lit the candles in the Jack O lanterns.
Then I stood back to admire the site for a moment until I went
back inside and returned to my book.
The intense humidity had lessened a bit but was still
high, so I stayed indoors to read instead of sitting on the
porch like I often did. When it was time for me to head
to bed, I went back out to extinguish the candles.
The sight of candles inside the Jack O lanterns flickering away
against the thick night sky was striking.
I took it in for a moment before 1 by 1 the candles were out and
all that was left was a tiny wave of smoke billowing from
each one. I was just about to turn around
and go back inside when I looked down the street and saw someone.
Despite all the bright St. lamps positioned at every interval, I
couldn't see quite as clearly as usual, as the person was
standing far away and the humidity still lingered in the
air and gave everything a haze. But even from that distance, I
could have sworn that whoever was there was watching me, and I
couldn't be sure, but I thought the person was wearing some kind
of costume. But then a car drove down the
street, and when the car passed the spot where the person had
been standing, there was no one there.
So I went back into the house, turned off the lights and went
to sleep. The next day went by without
incident, and I arrived home from work at my usual time.
It was a bright sunny day, but not quite as humid as it was, so
that was nice. After I lit all the candles in
the Jack O lanterns, I ordered some pizza for dinner.
Then I watched some TV until it arrived.
Right on schedule, my doorbell rang.
My pizza had been delivered by a guy in his mid 20s.
When he told me the price, I handed him the money with a nice
tip. Told him to keep the change and
he gave me my pizza. Love the Jack O lanterns, by the
way, He told me just as I was about to close the door.
Thanks. And I don't think I'm the only
one who likes them. I saw a few people running by
just as I was about to pull up. They were in costume too.
So I think you started a trend. I laughed.
Maybe we'll see if it lasts. Thanks again for the pizza.
Sure. You have a good night.
Then. I went inside, put on a movie,
and had my pizza and some ice cream for dessert.
I didn't feel tired, but at some point I nodded off and woke up
to the sound of knocking at my front door.
I quickly checked my phone and saw it was 1015.
Then I headed to my front door. Whoever was at my door knocked
again just as I was about to answer it.
But just before I did, I looked through the peephole and saw
someone dressed as a vampire standing on the other side of
the door. The sight made me chuckle.
I was still chuckling when I unlocked the door and opened it.
I have a screen door that also locks, so it provided another
barrier between me and the guy in a vampire costume.
Now I could see it was a guy in his early 20s, and his costume
looked more elaborate than the typical one you get in a bag at
the costume store and his makeup looked carefully done, and he
was holding a candy bag in front of him.
Trick or treat, He called out enthusiastically a moment after
I opened the door. I didn't answer it first, but I
laughed. I love it, I said as I took in
the sight of the costume. I had to laugh at the
initiative. If I could carve pumpkins and
put them outside this time of year, I couldn't help but admire
someone doing this. The guy in the vampire costume
hadn't said anything else, but he looked at me expectantly, the
bag held out in front of him. Please give me one minute.
I'll be right back, I promise. I said sincerely before I closed
the main door and went to the kitchen.
I always had plenty of candy, so it wasn't hard for me to get
some miniature chocolate bars, some individually wrapped mints,
and some peanut butter chocolates and get back to the
door in a minute. When I opened the door again,
the guy in the vampire costume hadn't moved an inch, but he
held his bag up expectantly as he saw me with the candy in
hand. He stood back as I opened the
screen door and placed all the candy in his bag.
I thought he deserved a lot of candy for effort.
Here you are, I said as I placed the candy in the plastic bag.
You look great. Thank you.
He nodded respectfully as the last piece of candy fell into
the bag. Happy Halloween.
You too. Then he turned around, walked
off my porch, and headed down the block and out of sight.
Without saying a word, I took the opportunity to blow out the
Jack O Lantern candles before I went back inside.
I was still laughing at the guy asking for candy.
In all honesty, I was surprised more people hadn't done that.
The rest of the week passed without anything noteworthy
happening. In fact, I was so busy at work I
didn't have time to think about much of anything.
I had been staying late and I hadn't had time to light the
Jack O lanterns by the time I got home.
It was Friday afternoon by the time I could think about
something other than work, and I immediately kicked myself
mentally when I looked at my house and saw the pumpkins.
Thanks to the summer heat, the pumpkins which never lasted that
long when carved to begin with, we're not doing well at all, and
this would probably be the last night before I had to throw them
out. But it was fun while it lasted,
so I went inside to get the lighter to light the candles and
just managed to get them all lit.
Then I went back inside and made myself some dinner.
Exhausted from my long week, I fell asleep on the couch and
woke up later to knocking on my door.
I briefly checked the time, saw it was past nine, and went to
see who it was. A look at the people told me it
was more people in Halloween costumes, but this time the site
gave me a shiver. There were five of them, and
when I opened the door I immediately felt uneasy.
They were dressed as a clown, a witch, a skeleton, a doctor and
a ghost. They look to be about the same
age as the guy in the vampire costume, but that was where the
similarity stopped. The entire mood was different
from last time. There was a feeling of tenseness
in the air that I could sense the moment I saw them through
the locked screen door. The guy in the vampire costume
was quiet, but I could tell he had a sense of fun.
I could feel the five of them intently studying me.
I had no idea what they were looking for, but I didn't like
it. The clown had his face painted
in a wide, eerie grin that looked right at me as I looked
at them through the screen door. I stood there silently for a
moment, watching them, watching me trick or treat.
They all called out in unison from my front porch.
Hi. I smiled at them with what I
hoped was a convincing smile. I'll be right back with some
candy for you all. Then I immediately closed the
door again. I could still feel their
presence on the other side, their gaze still looking at me
Despite my best efforts, I could feel myself start to panic.
The vampire costume had been good, but these costumes were
creepy good. Too good to have gotten on a
whim from a store or put together at the last minute as a
simple joke on me, I tried to convince myself it was all in
good fun, but it all felt off. I knew something was up, I just
didn't know what to do about it. I was halfway to the kitchen
when I looked out the window overlooking the street and saw
the clown and the ghost had moved off the porch and were
watching me from the kitchen window.
I almost shouted out loud in shock but immediately tried to
play it off with a smile. Like, I knew they were just
joking and pointed for them to go back to the porch so I could
give them their candy. After what felt like an
eternity, I watched them go back around to the front of the
house. That made me feel a bit better,
but just a bit because inside I was now in full blown panic
mode. What were the other three doing?
Were they lurking in my backyard waiting for me or were they
trying to sneak into the back of my house?
My stomach lurched as I thought this might all be a diversion,
and that while the five of them distracted me, someone might be
trying to break into my house another way.
What was I supposed to do? What would I tell people if I
called for help? Despite the fear, I felt myself
take a bowl from the cabinet and stuff it with plenty of candy.
Then I went to the counter and took a knife out of the drawer.
I was just about to start walking back to the front door
when I heard two dull thuds come from the porch in quick
succession. I willed myself to go to the
front door, and after I took a deep breath, I looked out the
peephole. There was nothing there.
I slowly opened the door, still holding the knife, and braced
myself. Everything was quiet and the
five people in costume were gone and the entire mood felt
different. So I took another deep breath,
unlocked the screen door, and slowly set foot on my porch.
After a moment, I noticed something.
Two of my Jack O lanterns had finally reached the end and had
crumpled to the ground. The candles inside had been
extinguished and the smell of smoke lingered in the air.
Meanwhile, the candles and two of the others had finally burnt
out, so only one candle remained illuminated.
Or at least it did until I extinguished it a moment later.
Then, after I checked my whole house and yard to make sure
there was no one in a costume waiting to surprise me, I
scooped up the remains of the pumpkins and tossed them in the
garbage. I slept horribly, but nothing
happened and the people in costume didn't come back.
I still love Halloween, but I'll definitely hold off on carving
pumpkins until Fall gets here. It was almost Halloween.
Leafless tree branches swayed in the crisp breeze.
The Gray overcast sky hinted at yet another day of rain.
Yellow Gray corn stalks flitted past and dead leaves scattered
as the big brown Buick carried us down the empty Country Rd.
I looked forward to seeing Granny, even if she would be
working most of the time I was staying with her.
Grandpa agreed to watch me during the daytime.
He received a stipend from a back injury he received in the
Army. It wasn't much, but between the
monthly check and Granny working, it was enough.
He always enjoyed the company. He would tell me stories about
his time in the army, and he knew the funniest jokes I ever
heard. When he did his daily chores,
like cleaning the house, he let me explore the empty fields and
small woods near their house. I looked forward to trying to
find arrowheads playing on hay bales, climbing trees.
Maybe not that last one. The only downside to my visit
was I had to spend it with my cousin Casey.
My grandparents became her legal guardians after her mom left.
Mom and dad never explained where she went.
I always worried she might have gone to jail or ended up like
those people on Unsolved Mysteries.
I might have felt sorry for Casey if she didn't bully me
whenever the adults weren't around.
We're only going to be gone 3 days for this business retreat,
so I expect you to behave yourself.
Dad looked at me in the rearview mirror.
I don't want you in the hospital again.
Don't worry. I'll be good.
Mom turned in her seat to face me.
If you're a good boy, maybe we'll bring you back a present
for good behavior. You'll make sure he's good,
won't you Teddy? She held my stuffed bear and
made him nod his head like a puppet.
I was old enough to know Teddy wasn't doing it himself, but I
played along. Teddy gets a present too, right
for good Bear Havior. Mom smiled before turning
around. Of course sweetie.
The once smooth, quiet ride suddenly became rough and loud
as Dad's car transitioned from pavement to the dirt and gravel
leading the rest of the way to my grandparents house.
Granny would take me on long walks down this stretch of road
and I would look for little round rocks she called Indian
beads. I showed some to my first grade
teacher, Mrs. Smith, and she told me they were actually
fossils from a prehistoric plant.
As we came to a stop at a four way intersection, I noticed the
abandoned house on the corner. It was the only neighboring
house to my grandparents for miles most of the year.
It was completely hidden from view by the trees and overgrown
vines covering the chain link fence.
Even now, after many of the leaves had fallen, I couldn't
distinguish much other than the chipping paint and wrap around
porch. A few windows on the upper floor
appeared over the trees, their screens torn and shutters
unsecured. Somebody really ought to fix
that place up, Mom said. Too late for that, Dad said.
The roof is caved in. It's not safe.
That's a shame. It must be over 100 years old.
After the fence row to the abandoned house, an empty field
came into view. It probably belonged to whoever
owned the house, but the only thing that grew in it were
clusters of Indian grass, cattails, and most notably a
massive oak tree in the center of the field.
It was so big two grownups couldn't reach all the way
around it. Several of the limbs were low
enough I could reach them without any help.
I nearly forgot all the fun we had playing in this field when I
realized my grandparents house was coming into view.
Grandpa was smoking a cigarette on the front porch as we pulled
up. He was jolted from some reverie
as Maggie the black lab shot up and barked, wagging her tail.
The car wasn't even parked before I bolted out the door.
Grandpa. I ran to hug him.
I nearly knocked him over. He laughed as he steadied
himself on the porch railing. A tube of Gray cinders fell from
the tip of his cigarette as he laughed.
What are they feeding you, bucko?
You get bigger every time I see you.
I shrugged and he let out another loud laugh.
You know what? I got some cartoons recorded for
you. Really.
We only got local channels at my house.
The only cartoons were the ones on PBS, and that was only when
they weren't broadcasting boring home repair shows.
He smiled. Your grandma left the videotapes
next to the TV for you. Mom and Dad came up to the
porch. Dad with the suitcase.
Mom with Teddy. Grandpa bent down to whisper
something to me. I hid something for you under
your pillow. Really.
What is it? Don't you spoil the boy, Dad.
Mom handed me Teddy. Spoil him?
It's Halloween, isn't it, Johnny?
Uhhuh. Well, we hate to drop him off
and run, but we do need to get going.
My dad looked at his watch. Johnny, you behave now.
I will. I hugged my parents goodbye.
They waved as they backed out of the driveway and pulled onto the
road. The big brown car slowly
vanished in a cloud of dust. I picked up my luggage and went
inside. I'll be in there in a few
minutes, Grandpa said, settling into the lawn chair and sipping
his coffee. I just want to finish this
newspaper article. I walked through the living room
and saw the VHS tapes just like Grandpa said.
One of the labels read Speed Racer.
I couldn't wait to watch them. When I got to the guest bedroom,
I set my suitcase on the floor next to the bunk bed.
Casey always slept in the top bunk, which left me on the
bottom. I set Teddy down and reached
under the pillow. To my surprise, there was
nothing. Confused, I moved the pillow and
found the spot underneath was bare.
I looked under the bed, thinking maybe whatever Grandpa left for
me had fallen on the floor looking for this.
Casey was hanging upside down. From the top bunk.
She dangled a bag of assorted candy while biting off a piece
of taffy. Hey, Grandpa said.
That was supposed to be for me. Not anymore.
She chomped the sticky mess in her mouth between words.
A few Tootsie Rolls fell out of the bag as she rummaged for
something else. Oh, you can have those, she
grimaced. I don't like those.
Anyway, I picked up the pieces of candy from the floor and put
them on the bottom bunk. They're better than nothing, I
thought as I set Teddy on top of the pillow.
Why couldn't you just go with your parents?
Casey was scowling, still upside down.
They're going on a business trip, I said.
Kids aren't allowed, whatever, Casey said, disappearing over
the edge of the bed. I wondered if Casey was going to
be this way the entirety of my stay.
No, she couldn't be, not with the grownups around.
Even when they weren't, she could be all right sometimes.
Maggie's barking from the porch, interrupted the thought.
From the window next to the bunk bed.
I saw Granny's car pulling up the driveway and into the lean
to carport behind the house. I ran through the kitchen and
out the back door to meet her. Casey shoved me aside as she
rushed past me into the carport. Granny.
You'll never guess what I did at
school today. I'm sure it was wonderful,
sweetheart. Granny fumbled an unlit
cigarette to her lips. Hi, Granny.
Well, hi there, Johnny. Granny hugged me.
Are you hungry for some cheeseburgers?
You make the best cheeseburgers in the world, Granny.
She smiled as I said this and slammed the back door shut
behind us. It was an old door, possibly
part of the house's original construction.
The latch didn't work most of the time, and there was about an
inch between the bottom of the door and the threshold.
I remembered how scared I was last summer when I spent the
night. I could see coyotes feed under
the door as they walked through the carport.
Occasionally one would bump the door and it would open slightly,
only to be stopped by the chain holding it shut.
It was terrifying to see one of the wild dogs muzzles through
the small gap as they howled. Damn this old door.
Granny slammed it again two more times before kicking a wooden
wedge under it to keep it shut. The chain jangled as she
fastened it shut. Turning around, I could see her
look of exhaustion give way to anger as she looked over the
messy kitchen. Daniel Lee Grandpa hurried to
his feet and ambled inside the screen door, slamming behind
him. Why didn't you do anything while
I was gone? Today this place is a wreck.
I did plenty while you were gone, woman.
Oh, like the dishes? She gestured to the overflowing
sink of dirty cups and plates. I had to pace myself, so I took
out the trash, emptied the ashtray, checked the mail, made
some coffee, and then sat around listening to music and watching
The Weather Channel. Don't be mad, Granny, I said.
He has a bad back. I know, sweetie, Granny sighed.
Why don't you and Casey go outside and play?
After dinner, Granny took us to the field with the oak tree.
Casey and I use sticks we found like swords slashing through the
occasional cluster of tall grass.
You couldn't tell from the road, but trash littered the field,
smashed beer cans, worn out clothes, and who knew what else.
Casey and I prodded at a large black bag ripping at the seams.
Stay out of that, kids. You don't know where it came
from or what it is, Granny said as she lit another cigarette.
Casey and I bolted off ahead, fighting other imaginary pirates
until we came to the oak tree. We ran around it, played tag
under it, and swung from the low hanging branches.
Casey even helped me reach some stray acorns from a branch I
couldn't reach. I was a bit nervous climbing.
When I broke my arm last summer. Casey and I were trying to get
her kite out of the spruce tree in the front yard.
This felt eerily similar, but I got down with no trouble.
We divided the acorns between ourselves and pretended they
were doubloons. Casey could be alright at times
like this. Neither of us had siblings, and
it was fun having someone to play with.
I had to admit, even if she was terrible sometimes, Casey could
still be a lot of fun. You, Casey said, pointing
between a couple of the trees, Exposed roots.
What's that? What is it, Casey?
Granny looked down from the cloud she was looking at.
It's moving, Casey said, pointing A clump of ladybugs the
size of a football crawled around and over top of each
other. I couldn't believe we missed it
when we were playing our game of tag.
I had no idea why these ladybugs were doing this.
I wondered if Mrs. Smith would know.
She knew about lots of things. They must be huddling together
to stay warm, Granny said. She turned her head upward to
the darkening sky as Thunder rumbled in the distance.
Come on, you too. It sounds like rain is on the
way. Ah, Granny, can't we stay a
little longer? We're still trying to find the X
where the treasure is. Casey pouted as she said this.
Casey, Granny said with a stern look on her face.
Come on, Johnny, let's race back to the house.
Okay. I ran as fast as I could after
her, but it was no use. Casey was taller than me and a
faster runner. I could barely see her magenta
jacket between the sporadic growths of grass and the odd
Bush. Finally, she was out of sight.
I gave up and tried to catch my breath.
The distant rumble of Thunder became louder as I walked the
rest of the way back to the house.
Granny made us take baths before we went to the living room to
watch. TVI forgot to pack my pajamas,
so Granny gave me one of Casey's old ones to wear.
They were red flannel with a zipper and built in feet.
Kai's pajamas were almost identical, just bigger.
Granny thought us wearing matching outfits would make a
great picture. She snapped one of us on the
couch with her Polaroid. Granny had to get up early so
she couldn't stay up with us long.
Don't stay up too late, she said, hugging us.
Good night. Casey got up and left the room.
I decided to get one of the VHS tapes ready.
I checked the cartoon channels, but nothing good seemed to be
on. I just started the Speed Racer
tape when Casey plopped down on the couch with a bowl of
popcorn. I reached for a handful when she
jerked the bowl out of my reach. Don't wipe your hands on my
pajamas. She gestured to my borrowed
outfit. I wasn't going to good because
they're mine. I could already hear my
grandparents snoring in the small house.
I tried to enjoy the cartoon despite realizing Casey now had
free reign to torment me as much as she liked.
She made fun of how the people's lips didn't match what they were
saying. She mocked the characters and
made me wish I had just gone to bed.
Between her comments and the howling wind outside, I could
barely focus. We only finished one episode
when I decided to go to bed. I could always take the tapes
home and enjoy them there. At least she won't be able to
bother me while I sleep. I thought I was wrong.
The overcast, rumbling skies from earlier had given way to a
thunderstorm. Lightning flashed against the
skeletal tree branches out the window and I held Teddy tight.
Casey's long black hair hung from her upside down head as she
peered down from the top bunk. Her pale face looked at me in
the dark. I bet you don't know about the
witch that lives in those woods. She pointed at the woods behind
the house. There aren't any witches around
here are, so Kathy Connors showed me a book all about them
at school. Goosebumps are just made-up
stories. It wasn't a Goosebumps book,
stupid. It was about a town nearby with
a bunch of witches. They were caught casting spells
and making sacrifices in the woods.
The townspeople found them after hearing the cries of children
they were taking. I didn't say anything, I just
shuddered at the thought. Then Casey continued.
A bunch of angry villagers chased them through the woods
until they caught and executed every witch but one.
She escaped and was seen flying on her broomstick in the night
sky. She hovered over the gallows and
said she would avenge the death of the other witches in her
coven. Stop making things up.
None of that's true, I shuddered.
It is true, It was in that book, it said.
Bad things happen to the people who tried capturing her.
Their crops didn't grow, their animals died, and their children
vanished without a trace. They never found her, and she
still haunts the woods to this very day.
I held Teddy tight as Thunder clapped and wind raged outside.
I couldn't wait for this visit to my grandparents to end.
Birds scattered from behind a Bush as we ran through the empty
field. The thunderstorm of the previous
evening had given way to a crisp, foggy morning.
We found stick swords and decided to pick up our game of
pirates from the night before. Once we got through the
overgrown fence row, however, our attention was immediately
diverted to the oak tree it had fallen.
We looked at each other before throwing down our sticks and
running to see what happened. Granny told us the tree was over
200 years old. I couldn't believe it had
collapsed. I gasped for air as I tried
keeping up with Casey. Without the tree sticking up in
the center of the field, I realized how easily I could get
lost. Most of the Tufts of grass were
taller than I was. Besides a few trees in the fence
row, nothing else was visible. Casey was no help.
She ran so far ahead that I could barely catch a glimpse of
her magenta jacket as I rounded a cluster of grass before she
disappeared behind the thick fog and foliage.
My lungs burned and my throat was hoarse from breathing the
cold air. When we both stopped at the
terrible sight, the once great tree lay on the ground.
It's massive trunk splintered a couple of feet above the ground.
Most of the branches were crushed or broken off as they
fell. Casey and I looked at each other
before getting closer. The cluster of ladybugs was
nowhere to be found. The limbs I swung from just
yesterday lie shattered beneath the weight of the wrecked tree.
Worse still, inside the jagged stump I could see the wood in
the center was dead. Frowning, I grabbed A handful of
waterlogged, decomposing wood. Only the outer few inches of the
tree beneath the bark was actually alive, I realized.
It was probably on the verge of collapse since I first saw it.
You see? Casey said as I wiped the rotten
wood from my hands. It's the witch.
Casey jumped up on the collapsed tree trunk and walked its length
like a balance beam. She's still haunting those woods
all these years later. She's still making bad things
happen. I felt a chill, but couldn't
tell if it came from Casey's story or the strong breeze which
seemed to come from nowhere. A witch couldn't have done this.
I said. She'd be 100 years old by now.
Doesn't matter. Casey jumped from the trunk.
Witches live hundreds of years on the blood of children, just
like us. I desperately wanted this to be
false. I tried to think of a way to
prove Casey was lying. The witch couldn't live all year
in the woods. What about winter?
She would have frozen to death. That's why she killed the farmer
who used to plant this field. Why don't you think anyone lives
in the house at the crossroads? Casey gestured to the derelict
house at the opposite end of the field.
A window from the house's turret peeked ominously through empty
tree branches and rising fog. My dad said nobody lives there
because it isn't safe, he said. The roof is caving in.
Has he ever been there before? Casey wore a terrible smirk on
her face. I don't.
Of course he hasn't, because he knew the witch was living
inside. The wind was picking up again,
and I felt cold standing next to the old oak tree.
I'll bet none of the grownups have gone to that house.
They're probably all scared, just like you am not.
I felt my brow furrowing. Scaredy cat.
Scaredy cat.
I am not. Then come with me.
Where to? The witch's house, Stupid.
Before I could say anything, Casey took off through the fog.
Her bright jacket almost completely vanished before I
tried catching up with her. I didn't want to go to the
house, but I definitely didn't want to stay by myself in the
fog. At this point, I had no idea
where Casey was. I just knew the direction she
went. The occasional crow erupted from
a hiding place around the clumps of grass as I struggled to keep
up. Their loud cause were the only
sound I could hear besides the squishing of wet grass and my
strained breathing. As I ran, the fog seemed to
thicken at the far end of the field in some places.
I couldn't see more than a few feet ahead of me.
I finally reached the tree line before the house's yard when I
saw Casey's magenta jacket. She was moving slowly toward the
back porch of the house. I ran the short distance to
catch up with her. She must have heard my
footsteps, because she turned to face me with a finger to her
lips. She gestured for me to come
closer. Somebody is inside, she
whispered. Stop telling lies.
I shuddered at the thought. I felt exposed in the relatively
empty, albeit overgrown yard. I'm telling the truth.
Casey's eyes were wide. I saw a shadow move behind the
upstairs window. I looked at the dilapidated
house and realized it was an even worse shape than I thought.
Wooden siding hung loosely from the sides of the house.
Several of the windows were shattered.
Vines from some wild plant grew through the collapsed portion of
the roof. The porch was riddled with
termite holes. The door on the back porch stood
halfway open, giving us a view of the hallway wallpaper hung
peeling from chalky plaster. The wooden floor was covered
with Moss, scraps of paper, and broken ceiling tiles.
The staircase had several broken steps.
We stopped in our tracks at the bottom of the porch steps.
Come on, aren't you going to come inside?
Casey looked much less sure of herself.
Nobody could live in this place, not even a witch.
So you say? Casey took the first step onto
the porch. I followed close behind, keeping
a watchful eye to the trees around the house.
I felt like we weren't alone as we advanced on the back door.
I tried thinking of some way to get Casey to leave this place.
As the porch creaked under our combined weight, we avoided the
broken boards until we were at the threshold of the ruined
house with an uncertain foot. Casey stepped into the house.
Stray pieces of glass crunched under foot as I followed on the
filthy carpet. I looked through a door frame to
my right and could see light streaming in from the holes in
the roof. The vines I saw outside
disappeared into a large sink filled with decaying leaves and
blackened water. Debris under my feet made more
noise as I walked into the tiled floor of what I now recognized
as a kitchen. The plaster from the walls left
coarse white dust over most of the counters and floors.
I was about to turn and find Casey when I stopped in my
tracks. There was a muddy footprint on
the floor. I looked down at the wet mud
around its edges and felt suddenly sick.
It was at least twice the size of my own foot.
I followed the muddy outlines and realized they went up the
stairs. My eyes followed the stairs up
to the landing and fix themselves on a weather door.
On the top step, a door creaking echoed through the house.
It came from upstairs. Casey ran past me in the hallway
and out the back door. I heard noises like a cat
hissing loudly as I bolted from the kitchen.
After Casey, I felt my world spin as I slipped on some of the
trash and hit the wooden hallway floor with a loud thump.
I gasped and clutched my chest as I felt the wind knocked out
of my lungs. Large clumps of plaster ground
loudly against the wood and forgotten leaves of paper
crumbled as I scrambled out the front door.
A door somewhere in the house slammed as I jumped from the
porch. Casey was standing at the fence
row, waving for me to run. Her eyes looked back in horror.
I turned to see a shadowy figure behind the curtain at the top of
the turret move. We avoided the field the rest of
the day. We didn't even leave the house.
We just stayed on the couch and away from the windows until
bedtime. That night, Casey left her
blanket hanging over the edge of the top bunk to cover the window
looking into our room, and got into the bottom bunk with me.
I'll bet the witch saw us, Casey said.
Maybe she didn't. I knew how foolhardy the
suggestion was before I said it. Didn't you see her moving behind
the upstairs curtain? She had to have seen us.
Then why didn't she come after us?
Surely she wouldn't let us get away.
Casey thought for a minute. I could hear the flap slap
flapping of the worn out screen door in the carport.
I reassured myself. I checked the back door before I
came to bed. The chain was in place.
Nobody could open the door from the outside, not even with a
key. Maybe the witch only comes out
at night like a vampire. Maybe I lay there holding Teddy
tight. That morning I hadn't believed
anything about witches. Now I was having a serious
conversation about the possibility one could be just
across the barren field next to my grandparents house.
What are we going to do? I don't know.
The wind billowed past the window near the bunk bed.
I cringed as a low branch scraped against the glass.
I'll ignore it, I thought to myself.
I wasn't about to let a little wind bother me, not when I had a
real problem. That's when I heard the doorknob
to the back door rattle. I could hear the loud thumps as
something slammed into the back door.
We screamed in our beds as the chain rattled with each attempt
to shove the door open. Maggie, the black lab, barked
and started growling at the back door.
Someone is trying to get in. Tears ran down Casey's face.
I could hear the mattress in my grandparents room grown as they
got out of bed with speed I wasn't used to seeing.
Grandpa rushed past the open door to the guest room with his
shotgun. The glow of the flood lights in
the carport shine through the blanket covering our window.
Granny ran into our room and tried her best to comfort us.
It's all right, she said, hugging us.
It's just coyotes in all the commotion.
The blanket fell from the window.
Now the once familiar yard and fence row looked menacing in the
bluish light. Granny, it's not coyotes.
The witch is trying to get in. Casey cried again.
That old wives tale, sweetie. There's nothing out there but
those wild dogs. Grandpa is locking the door,
don't you worry. By lock she means shoving the
wooden wedge under the bottom to keep it closed.
I thought as I looked outside. I stared into the darkened tree
line and field beyond. It was impossible to tell if
anything was out there, but my eyes kept playing tricks on me.
Shoots of grass looked like a crouching witch.
Empty tree branches looked like emaciated hands.
Every rustling leaf and swaying tree left me more uncertain
about whether something lurked just beyond the reach of the
floodlights outside. We gathered enough courage to
venture outside the next day. The blue spruce swayed in the
breeze. I could still see the yellow
splinters where I broke a branch off trying to get my cousin's
kite. Last summer.
I remembered her telling me to go out on the limb alone because
it was too small for us both. We need to come up with a plan
for what to do about the Witch. Casey said as she climbed on top
of the platform of the old well. Grandpa said not to play up
there. The platform isn't safe to stand
on. Casey grabbed the long pump
handle on the well and rocked on the balls of her feet.
It creaked as she pumped rusty water from the spout, but Granny
said it was just coyotes. She just wanted to keep us from
getting scared. Would you want 2 little kids to
know a witch was trying to get into the house?
I shook my head. No.
Exactly. She probably had no idea how to
get rid of a witch in the 1st place.
I looked up at Casey. Do you?
Casey looked down as she jumped from the platform.
Salt. That's it.
Witches can't cross a trail of salt.
How do you know that? My cousin Jeremy told me so.
He's the one who let me borrow the book about witches.
I thought you said Kathy Coe. Casey looked angry.
Shut up. I told you I read it, didn't I?
Yes, I look down at my feet. But how are we going to put salt
all the way around the house? We'd need a huge bag.
Not if we just do the doors and windows.
Here's what we'll do. We can wait till Grandpa and
Granny are asleep. Then we'll get into the cupboard
and get their can of salt. Then we can spread the salt.
It's that easy. But what if the witch gets us
while we're outside? She won't get us.
Not if we finish before the witching hour.
The what? Midnight.
That's when witches come out. Suddenly Grandpa appeared on the
porch. Kids, lunch is ready.
Casey and I trudge through the yard and back to the house.
Climbing the steps to the house, I noticed something odd.
The radio was off. Grandpa might have turned down
the volume during the day while he watched the weather forecast
and local news, but he almost always kept it on till Granny
got home. The TV was also off as we walked
through the living room. It felt wrong for there not to
be some ambient noise in the house.
I pulled up a chair at the kitchen table and started
crushing crackers into my chicken noodle soup.
Grandpa was quiet as he sat down to eat.
His usual laid back demeanor was replaced with alert eyes and
silence. He was wearing the olive drab
jacket from his army days and I could see brass and waxed paper
cylinders in his pocket. I realized they were shotgun
shells. Casey and I looked at each other
as we ate our soup. I wondered if she noticed this
when the police scanner screeched to life in the living
room. Grandpa got up and turned the
volume down. After the dispatcher said
something about a suspect being at large.
I wondered what that meant. Why aren't you listening to
music, Grandpa? He made a small smile.
I have a bit of a headache. It'll go away with a little
quiet. We finished eating and Grandpa
asked us to stay inside while he made a phone call.
I thought it was unusual for him to take the call outside, but he
said we could watch TV while he was talking.
He spoke in hushed tones as he paced the porch, occasionally
looking over his shoulder. I wondered what had him acting
this way. As I turned on the TV, Grandpa
left it on the news and there was a hand drawn picture of a
man with long scraggly hair and strange looking eyes.
I didn't give it much thought before changing to a cartoon
channel. scooby-doo was on and I always loved watching them solve
mysteries. I hoped another episode would be
on next because Fred was pulling a mask off a supposed wolf man.
It was always just a man in a mask.
There were no real monsters, no matter how real they seemed.
Casey plopped down on the couch, Just checked.
There's plenty of salt in the cupboard.
Why can't we put the salt out now, in the daytime?
Do you remember how mad Granny was when you used all her spices
on experiments that one time? Besides, Granny might see the
salt and try to clean it up. I felt embarrassed, thinking
back to the time I dumped the whole spice cupboard into a
mixing bowl. I thought I was doing a
chemistry experiment, but in reality I was just making a mess
of nutmeg, cinnamon and garlic powder.
Are you sure it's safe? Of course.
I read that book. I even did a show and tell about
it. We were interrupted by the
rattling of the screen door. Well, Johnny, Grandpa said your
parents are coming back a day early.
The retreat ended, so they'll be here late tonight or early in
the morning to pick you up. They're on the way to the
airport right now. He ruffled my hair as he walked
through the living room, lighting another cigarette.
Your granny is coming home early from work today, too.
Maybe we'll have some more cheeseburgers for supper.
Grandpa smiled as he said these things, but I could tell
something was off. Casey and I kept watching TV
until Granny got home. Even with her back, the house
was quiet. She didn't get on to Grandpa for
not doing the dishes or cleaning up.
Around the house, my grandparents stayed, barely even
spoke, except for a few whispered words.
My parents called while I was in the bath to let my grandparents
know they were on the way, but it would be a few hours before
they showed up. We're going to head to bed,
Granny said as she rubbed her eyes.
Johnny, your parents are going to be here late tonight.
She glanced at the clock. You and Casey can watch cartoons
until they get here. Just promise me you'll wake me
up when they get here. Okay, okay Granny, I said,
giving her hugs before Casey and I settled back onto the couch.
One more thing, Granny said from behind her bedroom door.
Keep the doors locked. I thought this was a weird
request, but Kai and I both agreed.
Granny went to bed. I looked at the clock near the
TV. It was almost 11:00.
I wondered if I could get out of Casey's crazy idea.
It didn't take long before I could hear my grandparents
snoring in their room. I pretended to be interested in
the movie on TV. It was a kids movie about
witches trying to capture a small girl about my age.
She had a Big Brother who was trying to keep her safe.
I wished my cousin was more like him, I thought as I watched
Casey disappear into the kitchen.
I thought she was making popcorn until I heard the faint sound of
a chair dragging across the floor to the cupboards.
I thought about what she was doing when the movie suddenly
had my full attention. One of the kids in this movie
shook salt all around her just as the witches were closing in
on her. Casey hadn't read about salt
keeping witches away. She must have watched this movie
and assumed I had never seen it. I felt betrayed, the same
feeling I had as the branch of the spruce tree cracked under my
weight while I tried to get Casey's kite.
This was just another one of Casey's tricks.
She returned to the living room with a can, picturing a girl
holding an umbrella. Here, you take this.
She held out the salt shaker from the table.
Now it's simple. We go out the front door.
I'll go around the left side. You go around the right side,
then. No, I said.
Casey looked taken aback. I think it was one of the few
times I ever confronted her. What?
I'm not going to that side of the house.
It's closest to the empty field where the Witch's house is.
Yes, you will. If you try to make me go to the
right side of the house, I'll wake up Granny and tell her what
you're up to. Casey's lip quivered with
frustration. Fine, she said.
You take the left side, since you're such a freighty cat.
You cover the windows on your side of the house and I'll cover
mine. She threw the salt shaker at me
and waited next to the door. I looked at the clock before I
joined her. We still had almost an hour, I
thought, although I was considerably less confident in
this solution. I realized Casey was just trying
to use me again. As I put my sneakers on, I had
an idea. Why not simply act like I was
putting salt around the windows until she was out of sight, and
then sneak back inside? The door to the carport had that
large gap under it. I could spread salt under it
from inside the house. The front door of the house
opened silently, and Casey gingerly closed the screen door
after us. Meet back here, she said.
I nodded as I climbed down the left side of the porch and
salted around the window on the front of the house.
The cold night air made my breath fog up as I kept an eye
on Casey. She already finished her window
and disappeared around the corner of the house.
Once I was sure she wasn't coming back, I tiptoed up the
porch and carefully slipped inside the screen door.
I kicked off my shoes and walked to the back door to spread the
salt onto the threshold. I felt somewhat proud for
standing up to Casey. I tried to think of another time
I had done this, but couldn't. The shaker was almost empty as I
took the top off. I knelt to the ground to pour
the last of my salt along the threshold.
The white salt shone in the light of the clear night.
I admired the job I had done, even if I thought it wasn't
effective, and I knew Granny wouldn't be happy when she found
it in the morning. I was about to stand up when I
froze. Beneath the door were two muddy
boots. I was so shocked I didn't say
anything until the door creaked open slightly and I saw the
sharp blade of a knife hook into the links of the chain holding
the door closed. I yelled for my grandpa as I
realized what was happening. I scrambled away from the door
and under the kitchen table as I heard grandpa jump out of bed.
Through the crack of the door I could make out vague features of
the man outside. As he shook the door violently,
trying to get in with the long hair, the thin face, the wild,
deranged eyes, I realized it was the man on the news station.
Grandpa ran into the kitchen with nothing but his boxers and
the shotgun. Get the hell out.
He pumped the shotgun and the arm with the knife disappeared
through the battered door. Grandpa knelt down.
What happened? Are you hurt?
Where's Casey? We heard Casey's high pitched
scream from the kitchen floor. I could see through the window
in the guest bedroom. The crazed man had run into
Casey trying to get away and grabbed her.
Grandpa ran out the back door with the shotgun after them, but
he couldn't move fast enough, not with his bad back.
The last I saw of my cousin was her pale face screaming in
horror and her outstretched hand reaching for grandpa as she
disappeared into the overgrown field of Indian grass beyond the
reach of the floodlights. It was Halloween night and I was
home alone. The trick or treaters came and
left with bags full of candy. But it was getting late, so I
took a pumpkin shaped bowl, filled it with candy and put it
on a chair outside of my front door for the late bloomers.
Some parents don't get off work early enough, you know.
It's a shame for those kids not to get some candy on Halloween.
When I was a kid, my mother would Take Me Out for trick or
treating because she didn't have to work.
My dad would usually be home by the time we got back.
He always brought us some Halloween themed candy.
I could sense that he felt sorry for not being able to come with
us. A couple of times he spent one
of his off days to come with us on Halloween.
Although I could see he felt guilty about it, the family
could not afford to have him take a rest.
He never took a vacation. He preferred to cash in the
unused time off at the end of the year to buy us gifts for
Christmas. I wanted to have a family of my
own, but I lost the ability to have kids entirely.
At 27, I thought I had time for a family, but nature had other
plans. If only I started earlier, I
would not have to pass all my Halloweens alone.
That said, things were tough on my father back then.
Although I am just an old woman now, I can see that it's
incredibly tough to get the life I had as a child, even with both
parents working full time now. So I do this every year for the
kids that have to be raised in this day and age.
A little candy on the porch of the house with a Halloween
themed flood light pointed at the bowl, some spider webs on
the chair and a plastic skeleton behind it holding a sign saying
take as much as you want. Have a Spooktacular Halloween.
Usually after 8:00 PM I sit down and start watching my movies.
I usually refill the bowl just before I go to bed.
If I don't fall asleep on the couch, I have a marathon of
horror flicks that I have been preparing all year, but this
year the kids keep ringing my bell even after 8:00 PM.
Some of them didn't know when to give it a rest.
I had planned to spend the evening watching scary movies
and eating candy, but I started to feel uneasy as the night went
on. I tried to rationalize it away,
telling myself that it was just the spooky atmosphere of the
holiday, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was
wrong. I was about to check all the
locks and go upstairs to check the windows when I heard a noise
coming from the basement. I froze, listening intently.
There it was again, a faint, scuffling sound.
Someone was definitely down there.
Without thinking any further, I grabbed a fireplace poker and
crept quietly down the stairs. I peered around the corner,
poker at the ready, but there was nothing there.
The basement was empty. I slowly made my way over to the
other side, my heart pounding hard in my chest.
Again, there was nothing there. I was starting to feel like a
fool. Maybe it was just the wind or
something. I was about to go upstairs when
I heard the noise again, only this time it was coming from
right behind me. I froze, my breath not wanting
to leave my chest. I turned around slowly.
Poker held out in front of me, but there was still nothing
there. I was starting to freak out.
I turned to go back upstairs, and that's when I saw it.
There was a figure clocked in black all the way to the ankles,
standing in the doorway at the top of the stairs, watching me.
I couldn't see its face. The head was hooded with a deer
skull draped in front of it, antlers poking through the hood.
Sam Hain is upon us. Hail Sir Nunos, guardian of the
ways. I heard a feminine voice cry out
loud without any concern about being discovered, and then all
the lights of the house turned off all at once, and I was
plunged into thick darkness. From the depths of the void
spanning in front of me, I could hear chanting and it sounded
like there were hundreds of people speaking in unison,
accompanied by the sounds of nature.
I could hear owls, crickets and mockingbirds, along with the
sound of the wind passing through the branches of trees in
the forest. Am I still in my basement?
Suddenly I felt multiple pairs of arms coming from the
darkness, grabbing my shoulders, my head, my arms and my legs.
My feet left the ground. I felt as though I was floating
and then I felt pain as darkness gave away to red.
I guess I'm not going to be alone this Halloween after all.
This is a true story and it haunts me every single night.
It all started on a Tuesday night around 2:00 in the
morning. I'm lying alone in bed in the
dark and my window is cracked open.
I prefer having a breeze at night to stay cool.
I open my window every single night.
It doesn't matter if it's hot or cold or windy or rainy, I will
open my window anyways. I had to make this post because
it is really haunting me to explain.
All of a sudden the noise started.
I remember my eyes rapidly opening and the shivers being
brought down my spine. It was very paralyzing and it
made my whole body jolt like a shockwave running through my
nerves. This sensation is especially
intense at night when you are startled by a noise like your
old house resting, but this was unlike anything I've ever
experienced. To start, the noise that scared
me seem to be a man shouting from 1/4 of a mile away.
I thought to myself that this was extremely unusual.
I live in a desolate area and I don't have many neighbors around
so it couldn't have been them. I live in a woodsy area in a
humble neighborhood. Most people who live here are
hermits and don't leave their homes unless it's for biweekly
grocery shopping or leaving in the morning to go to work.
But the screams were very specific and were arranged in a
pattern. They almost sounded inhuman.
A loud but faint yell would sound about every two seconds,
and the yells were unintelligible words and lasted
for about one to two syllables. It was almost perfect, sounding
like a recording of a shout played again and again and
again, but for hours. The dreadful sound stayed in
place for three hours of nonstop yelling, and the man never
seemed to move locations except for when the noises slowly got
farther away, and that's when it seemed to stop.
The sounds lasted from 2:00 AM to 5:00 AM.
I assume the man making the disturbances in his early 30s.
It haunts me to think of someone just standing in the forest,
blatantly yelling words for three hours straight in the
middle of the night. The sounds didn't appear, like
they were desperate, as if they were in need of any help.
The only drastic thing would be if a bear mauled you to death,
but no one's stupid enough to go out at night like this.
The shouts sounded emotionless and of course, very terrifying.
I eventually was able to catch my breath and peek out the
window. It wasn't the wind causing the
noise and most definitely wasn't a branch scraping my window Like
someone would try claiming in order to debunk me, but I was
too afraid to go outside and investigate.
I had to debate whether calling the police would be the right
thing to do or not. I'm a short woman and I'm not
the absolute strongest, and I know if I investigated on my own
I would be the avid kidnapping victim.
From watching and reading horror stories.
I know the person who investigates always dies in the
end. I kept my ear close to the
window for a few minutes and I was starting to decrypt what he
was saying. It sounded like it was in a
different language or a gibberish word being spoken, but
it was very strange. I know I'm not crazy and I know
what I heard. I will probably never open my
window ever again since I don't want to find out who or what was
making those sounds and I definitely do not want them to
come back. Does anyone know what this could
be? I asked my neighbors if they
heard, and only one out of four claimed they did.
We both don't know what it was. It was a day like any other, the
Wyoming sun piercing down on us when Victor and I set out to add
another member to our family. His hand, warm in mine, matched
the heat of our shared enthusiasm.
We didn't need much. We already had our three dogs, a
lively bunch composed of my Welsh terriers Goldie and Teddy
and Victor's miniature poodle, Fifi, but there was an unspoken
agreement between us. Room for one more.
We drove to the local shelter. The drive was scenic, open plane
stretched out on either side, interrupted occasionally by
scrubby Pines. Buster Ace, Milo, Victor mused,
his eyes twinkling in amusement. I smiled back at him, a sense of
shared comfort lacing the silence that ensued.
The shelter was bustling with activity.
Yips and barks filled the air, a Symphony of canine voices that
were both desperate and hopeful. It was in this cacophony that we
first saw Joey. He was hunched in the corner of
his cage, a one year old English Mastiff mix.
He was a mountain of a dog, his frame significantly bigger than
the rest. His previous owners hadn't
expected him to grow so big and couldn't keep him.
Joey, despite his size, looked at us with tender brown eyes, a
gentle giant. I felt a slight twinge of
apprehension as we approached him.
Joey towered over me, a contrast to our smaller, playful dogs
back at home. But one look at Victor's
enamored expression and I knew there was no turning back.
As I reached out tentatively to pet Joey, I noticed his eyes
flicker from the brown. They turned a deep, mesmerizing
blue. I blinked, disoriented, but when
I looked again, they were brown as before.
On our way home, Joey sat in the back seat, his head resting
against the window. His size was commanding, but he
seemed docile, content even. I told myself the changing eye
colors had been a trick of the light, a momentary illusion.
Yet a small part of me continued to harbor doubts.
We introduced Joey to Goldie, Teddy and Fifi as soon as we got
home. Fifi, a normally spunky dog,
growled low in her throat and slunk behind the couch.
Joey seemed taken aback by her hostility, his expression one of
perplexed confusion. The other dogs didn't seem to
mind him. I brushed it off as Fifi,
needing time to adjust. That night, Victor and I sat on
the porch, staring out into the open Wyoming night.
We raised our beers in a silent toast to our new addition, while
my mind kept returning to the scene at the shelter, to Joey's
eyes shifting from brown to blue, I told myself it was
nothing, just the stress of the day playing tricks on me.
I should have known then that there's always more to it when
it comes to dogs, especially one like Joey.
In the days that followed Joey's adoption, I grew accustomed to
the rhythm of our expanded family.
The morning sun shone through our windows, our home bustled
with activity and the days were as lively as ever.
But something about Joey set me on edge.
There was an underlying current of weirdness.
At first it was Fifi. Poor girl, couldn't seem to
catch a break. She hid in the oddest places,
under the bed, behind the couch, even once in the laundry hamper.
She was a trembling bundle of nerves every time Joey was
around. The strange part was Joey's
reaction, pure bewilderment. It was as if he couldn't
understand why she was so terrified.
Then there were the nights, they say you're never truly alone
when you have dogs. And boy, I couldn't agree more.
It started with me waking up to Fifi's low whimpers and finding
Joey standing near her hiding places.
There was an unsettling rhythm to these occurrences that
disrupted the serenity of our Wyoming nights.
One evening, as I brushed past a hallway mirror, I noticed
something that sent a chill down my spine.
Joey, standing behind me, bared his teeth at Fifi, his eyes
gleaming menacingly in the mirror.
I spun around, my heart pounding, but found Joey sitting
calmly on the floor, his tail wagging gently.
Victor thought I was overreacting when I brought up
my concerns. Joey's a big teddy bear, he'd
say. You're just being paranoid.
I wanted to believe him. I truly did.
But I couldn't ignore the dread that lingered whenever Joey was
around. The unease in the house prompted
me to move Joey to the kitchen during the night.
That's when the strangest thing happened.
Every morning we'd wake up to find our food spoiled, as if
left out overnight. It was as if someone or
something had rummaged through our fridge.
As I held the rotten food, Joey would stare back at me, his eyes
full of a challenge that made my skin crawl.
I thought moving Joey to the backyard would end these
occurrences, but the bizarre incidents took a darker turn.
Every morning I'd find dead animals scattered across our
lawn. Their bodies were mangled,
organs missing, as if expertly removed.
Victor was oblivious, always at work before dawn, but I was
there, cleaning up the grotesque mess left behind.
When I confronted Joey about it, he snarled at me, a low,
threatening sound that had my heart pounding in my chest.
I'd never seen him so aggressive, not even with Fifi.
My fears were escalating, and Victor, caught in his world of
denial, refused to see what was happening.
The Wyoming sun continued to shine, the open plains continued
to stretch out, but my world was slowly closing in.
I felt trapped in my own home, my fears punctuated by Joey's
increasing hostility and the unnerving incidents.
My mind kept going back to that day at the shelter, when Joey's
eyes shifted from brown to blue. I had a feeling that something
terrible was about to happen, and it had everything to do with
Joey. In the shadowy quiet of Wyoming
Nights, a sense of dread took root within me.
I felt myself being pulled into, a horror I could neither
comprehend nor ignore. Our home, once a sanctuary now
teamed with unseen fears, their form given substance by Joey.
I tried talking to Victor about Joey, about the things I'd
noticed Victor's bond with. Fifi was special.
She belonged to his sister, who, along with her other dog, had
died in a car crash weeks before we met.
Victor had a soft spot for the poodle, and I hope my concerns
would make him reconsider Joey. But he shot me down, His face
hardened with anger. He couldn't bear to think his
beloved Joey could hurt Fifi, and I didn't have the heart to
push it any further. One night I awoke to a
bloodcurdling scream. It was Fifi.
Heart pounding, I rushed downstairs to find Joey in the
living room. The sight that met my eyes was
something out of a nightmare. Joey was tearing Fifi apart.
I screamed for Victor, tears blurring my vision as I took in
the horror unfolding before me. Victor came rushing in, his face
pale. He switched on the lights, and
it wasn't real. Fifi was safe, hiding under the
couch, her body shaking with terror.
The remains on the floor were that of a stuffed toy, not Fifi,
but I couldn't shake the image from my mind.
Joey. His mouth smeared with blood.
Victor berated me for my panic, for my accusations against Joey.
But all I could focus on were Joey's eyes, soulless, gleaming
with a sinister satisfaction that had my blood running cold.
My fears escalated to a point where I couldn't take it
anymore. My once peaceful home was now a
battlefield, my dreams haunted by visions of Fifi's death and
Joey's monstrous form. I was trapped in my own
nightmare. Then one night, the unthinkable
happened. I awoke to a grotesque figure
looming over me. Its limbs were twisted, its body
distorted, Its eyes are piercing blue.
It was a creature straight out of hell, and I knew it was Joey.
I woke Victor up, fear clawing at my throat.
But by the time Victor blinked his eyes open, Joey was back in
his dog form, looking as innocent as ever.
Victor dismissed my fears with a shake of his head and fell back
asleep. But I knew better.
I'd seen Joey for what he truly was.
The next morning, I woke up to an unexpected surprise.
Victor had planned a weekend getaway.
We hurriedly packed our bags, leaving Joey behind with a
friend of ours. As we drove off, I felt a sense
of relief wash over me. For the first time since we
brought Joey home. I felt safe.
But as I glanced in the rearview mirror, I saw Joey standing in
our driveway, his eyes gleaming A sinister blue.
My heart pounded in my chest. Something told me this was far
from over. As we drove further away from
home, the verdant plains of Wyoming seemed to lighten my
mood. We were heading towards a
destination where the echoing growls of a beast were no longer
part of my nightmares. But the lingering dread in the
back of my mind persisted. About 50 miles away from home,
Victor broke the silence. His voice was low, his words
delivered with a heaviness that made my heart sink.
He'd seen Joey, too, that night. Standing over us in his
grotesque form, he'd played down his reaction, but the sight had
shaken him as much as it had me. I was silent, processing his
confession. Victor had called an animal
rescue team instead of our friend.
He'd lied about Joey being aggressive and uncontrollable.
They were going to put Joey down.
The guilt etched on Victor's face was clear.
He'd seen what I'd seen, felt what I'd felt.
He just been too afraid to admit it.
We took refuge at my parents house, our home now tainted by
an inexplicable fear. We were safe, but the haunting
image of Joey in his true form lingered in my mind.
I wasn't sure we'd ever feel comfortable in our house again.
One evening, while Victor was outside talking to my dad, I
decided to check on Goldie and Teddy.
As I walked towards the room where they were resting, a
familiar fear clutched my heart. I heard a growl, low and
menacing, sending a shiver down my spine.
I pushed open the door, my breath hitching as I took in the
scene before me. Goldie and Teddy were huddled in
a corner, their eyes wide with fear.
Fifi was nowhere to be seen, and in the middle of the room a
large, twisted figure stood. Its eyes met mine, gleaming a
chilling blue Joey. A wave of terror swept over me,
my blood running cold. Joey was supposed to be gone.
He was supposed to be dead, but there he was, standing in front
of me in his grotesque, monstrous form.
A growl echoed through the room. That sounds so terrifying it
froze me in my tracks. And then in a blink of an eye,
he was gone. The room was empty, safe for
Goldie and Teddy. There was no sign of Joey or
Fifi. It was as if he'd never been
there, but the terror in the dog's eyes told me otherwise.
Joey was back, and he was far from done.
The Wyoming Knights had taken on a new form of terror, the
looming threat of Joey hanging over us like a dark cloud.
We thought we had escaped, thought we were safe.
But we were wrong. I looked out the window, the
moonlight casting long shadows across the yard.
I could almost see him there, Joey, his eyes glowing with an
unnatural blue. We had only just begun to
understand the nightmare we'd invited into our home from when
I was born. Up until four months ago, my
family of four lived in Nowheresville, Indiana.
The town consisted of exactly 37 streets, one school covering
kindergarten to 12th Grade 1, three story hospital, exactly 2
pizza places, and fewer than 6000 people.
We were well off owning a large three story house right next to
the school, but I always got the sense that my parents were
uneasy, specifically my father. He would go on month long
business trips to who knows where three or four times a
year, and he always seemed the happiest.
A few days before leaving, at around the age of nine, I came
to the conclusion that if his family wasn't here, he would be
living in some metropolis at least five states away.
He always seemed partial to New York.
We'd been there a few times, and he was always more energetic
than I'd ever seen him, dragging us from the Statue of Liberty to
the One World Trade Center to the top of the Empire State.
Then after at most a week, we would return to the land of
everybody, knowing everybody in a plethora of old white men
sitting on their porches in their rocking chairs, sipping
Arnold Palmer's and waving as you pass for some people, a
paradise, a retirement village if there ever was one.
But for my father? Purgatory.
The first incident happened at exactly 2:32 AM.
I was hunkered down in my room, blanket draped over my back,
illuminated by the glow of some horror movie.
I can't recall precisely what it was.
Perhaps The Exorcist, Or maybe Omen.
I've loved horror movies since I was old enough to get my hands
on them and I've seen all the classics.
I know The Legend of Jason Voorhees which scared me into
quitting sleepaway camp. I fear the dream demon Freddy
Krueger which made me pull 2 consecutive all nighters until I
collapsed in the middle of history from pure exhaustion.
Michael Myers stopped me from trick or treating one Halloween
and Pennywise keeps me at least 5 feet from a storm drain to
this day. Yet for all their downsides, I
couldn't tear my eyes away. Something about the monsters, be
the human, ghost, zombie or killer clown, always drew me
back, so I was up late into the night when I heard the whistling
first. It Jarred me when it started and
I paused the movie for a moment before forgetting about it.
It was a jaunty tune, cheerful yet erratic.
It never repeated itself, and despite its upbeat nature,
something about it was off putting.
Yet someone whistling, albeit late at night, was no cause for
alarm. However, as the movie progressed
and I drew the covers tighter around my skinny frame, the
sound persisted. After 5 minutes, I paused the
movie again to listen. It was coming from the same
general location, yet the direction of the sound shifted
ever so slightly, as if the Whistler was pacing.
It couldn't have been more than 20 feet from my house, but when
I checked my second floor window, it instantly ceased.
There was nothing except a spindly sapling sitting blocking
my view, yet I saw no one. I sat at the window for a minute
or two but nothing. I didn't think much of it and
finished my movie then collapsed into a nightmare filled sleep.
The next evening was much of the same.
The movie playing out on the screen this time was a personal
favorite of mine, Paranormal activity and during a quiet
tense scene about 2/3 of the way in the clock struck 232 and the
whistling began again. I instantly shut off the TV and
grabbed my phone, clicking on its flashlight.
The tune was the same, but not perfectly.
Again. It never repeated itself, but it
was the same pace, the same energy, the same set of notes.
Something about it piqued my curiosity.
I needed to know what it was, realistically.
I was sure it was only someone who couldn't sleep, waking up
and whistling their tune that they came up with themselves,
but something about it drew me in, something sparking my
curiosity. I crept to the window, careful
not to make myself visible or look out myself.
I waited for what felt like an eternity, but nothing changed.
The two never shifted significantly.
The Whistler never moved. I checked my phone repeatedly,
watching the minutes go by. By the 15 minute mark, a growing
sense of unease had settled in. I waited until exactly 3 in the
morning and then sprang up, scanning the area outside my
window. Yet only the tree sat there,
surrounded by a field of yellow brown grass stretching into
Infinity. The whistling immediately ceased
and my heart pounded in my chest.
I raced to my bed and sat against the corner, my covers
around everything but my head, my phone, flashlight pointed at
the window and door to my room. At some point I must have dozed
off, because the next thing I remember is my father shaking me
awake at noon. He looked mildly annoyed that I
had stayed up late again, but he didn't make a big deal out of
it. After I had breakfast, I settled
down near him on the living room couch.
Something weird happened last night, and Eldridge horror
forced you to stay up until sunrise.
I rolled my eyes in exasperation.
I heard some guy whistling outside for like half an hour.
I immediately knew something was wrong.
My father's entire body tensed up and his eyes snapped up from
his newspaper to meet mine. What?
I was taken aback by the sudden shift in tone, but I continued
to explain. Yeah, it was weird.
I heard whistling outside my window, maybe 20 feet away.
I listened for a while, but as soon as I looked out the window,
it stopped. He leaned towards me.
When did it start? A little past 230.
His face had gone pale. It was the most serious I'd ever
seen him, and I was terrified. I had no idea what was
happening, but he continued to interrogate me exactly when.
Thomas. How long past?
232 minutes, I think. Yeah, 232.
Dad. What?
Why are you acting like this? He paused, sat back, and slumped
forward, head in his hands. I was frozen.
I had no idea what this meant. Why did some whistling mean so
much to him? He picked up his head and asked
me a few more questions until I had relayed every detail of that
night. He paused for a long moment,
then got up and started to climb the stairs.
Halfway up, he turned to me. Stay inside for today.
I'm going somewhere with mom. Watch Sally.
The next day was Monday, and school resumed for the last time
that summer. The week passed in a blur and I
said bye to all my friends who were going away to camps, which
was almost all of them. Finally, on Saturday, the
inevitable announcement finally arrived.
We gathered around the dinner table and the mood was already
uncomfortable. Before I'd had a bite of my
spaghetti and meatballs, my mother started the conversation.
So I know you guys love this town.
My sister immediately interrupted.
I like New York better, but your father and I had to make some
financial decisions and well, we're moving.
Somehow I wasn't surprised. I had known for years it wasn't
a matter of if, but when. My 6 year old sister was less
than pleased when she realized our destination wasn't New York,
but a suburb adjacent to Boston. I quickly finished my meal and
retreated to my room around 10 That night I heard my parents
put my sister to bed and walk down to the living room.
I followed after a few minutes and as soon as I entered the
room, their quiet conversation immediately ceased.
What are you guys talking about? Nothing, honey.
Just the move. Bullcrap.
I didn't call them out on it though.
As I sat down across from them. Dad, he looked to me.
Yes. Is this because of the
whistling? He didn't react immediately.
Deep down, I knew. I knew that the answer was yes,
but I waited for his response. Thomas, I promise you, when you
are older, I will explain everything.
But I can't right now. So please, just go to bed, pack,
say goodbye to your friends, whatever.
But know that I'm doing this for us.
He paused again, locking eyes with me for this family.
Finally, I exploded. I don't remember what I said,
but it wasn't pretty after all. At the time, it seemed to me
like they were tearing my life apart because of a sound I heard
a couple of nights in a row. That night I stormed upstairs in
a fit of rage, eventually crying myself to sleep.
I didn't hear the whistling again for a month and 1/2.
In reality, I hadn't stayed up late enough to hear it.
At that time, with all the time in the world on my hands, I
hadn't found a reason to stay up past midnight.
After all, I had no friends in the state, much less nearby.
However, my parents seemed much happier.
My mother had already made some friends at some Pilates group,
and my father was acting like he did in New York every day.
Even my little sister had found some friends in the next door
neighbors. But I spent my days in my room
dying of boredom. So in late July I decided to try
to hear the whistle again. I didn't believe I would hear
it. After all, we had moved states.
It would be completely illogical to think I would.
And yet, when 2:32 AM arrived, it started again.
I was frozen in fear for some reason.
I couldn't put my finger on it, but I listened.
The tune was the same. It even sounded like the same
distance and direction from my bedroom window as it had been in
Indiana. After a few minutes I sprang up,
this time outside my window. There was a long, dark alleyway,
but still, as soon as I looked, nothing.
The whistling came to a halt and nobody was there.
I didn't tell my father about the whistling.
I don't know why, I wish I had, but at that moment it felt like
some little mystery for me to puzzle out, some special secret
only I had. How stupid of me.
The next day my 3 best friends paid us a surprise visit.
As soon as camp had ended, their parents arranged a surprise trip
to see me at the request of my parents, so for the next two
days they would be sleeping over.
I was ecstatic, and it immediately took my mind off
everything else. The night passed much the same
as it would back in Indiana. Horror movies, video games, and
an ungodly amount of snacks. At around 1:00, I started to
keep an eye on the clock as it inched forward.
I felt as though I needed to show someone just to prove I
wasn't hallucinating, that the loneliness hadn't pushed me over
the edge. I had made the decision to
reveal the phenomenon to my friends once again.
I wish I hadn't. I told them about 15 minutes
ahead of time and at first. They didn't believe me.
After all, we had spent the past six hours binging horror movies
and Past Midnight was the perfect time for a scary story
or a prank if you're ambitious enough.
But despite their complaining, I could tell they were intrigued
and I managed to convince them to hide under the window with
me. Sure enough, the whistling
began. Right on schedule, they didn't
have the patience to listen long.
Josh sprang to his feet after 2 minutes, despite my repeated
whispered protest, and the whistling stopped.
Huh. That's odd.
Why did you look? I was curious.
I told you not to, So not having enough energy to get mad over
it, I surrendered, frustrated, and we resumed our nightly
activities, eventually falling asleep at around 4:00 the next
evening. My friends had a plan.
David started to explain. So we just hide behind the
dumpsters in the alley, then we all spring out.
One of us stays in the house. If we get the Whistler in
between us and the window, there's no way to miss it.
I pleaded with them, begging them not to, but they ignored
me. I didn't even know why they were
so set on catching the Whistler that they were.
For some reason, I knew this was a terrible idea.
I felt something deep in my stomach screaming at me to stop
them, but they wouldn't give up funding humor in my terror and
ignoring me until I stopped trying to convince them.
You always yell at the horror movies on TV, but a group of 15
year olds can't be convinced they've had a bad idea.
No one was going to be the coward that took my side.
I eventually followed them out at 2:25 that night, carefully
sneaking out so as not to wake my parents.
I wish I hadn't. We all ducked behind the five
dumpsters lining one side of the alley.
None of us looked at our phones, or even at each other outside of
quick furtive glances. I could tell they were getting
impatient, pressed up against the freezing metal backside of a
full to the brim dumpster with rats scurrying around nearby.
Despite the fact that the wait couldn't have been more than 5
minutes, I finally risked a glance at my phone. 231 I
snapped my eyes back to the alleyway as my heart pounded
against my rib cage. The whistling started.
It was working. The whistling was coming from
between us and the house. I was petrified.
I knew I had to stop them from jumping out.
I had to get my friend at the window to look, to get it to
stop before they exposed themselves.
I don't know why I felt such a strong urge to stop them, but my
gut was telling me I couldn't let them look.
My phone buzzed, as did theirs. We all look down In Sync.
A text from our friend in the window jump as soon as the clock
hits 233. I frantically texted back,
telling him to look while shaking my head wildly.
I gazed pleadingly at the 2 with me begging them to stop.
They simply smirked and texted back.
Ignore Tom. Then they jumped.
I shut my eyes and held my breath, my heart skipping a
beat. I curled tighter into a ball and
I waited. After a few seconds of silence,
I emerged from my hiding place. My friends were standing in the
middle of the alley, dumbfounded, so I asked what.
They slowly looked at me, shaking their heads.
Nothing. I took that in for a second,
shocked. I thought they had to be lying,
but I could see on their faces that they were just as confused
as I was. I paused, considering what this
meant, and came to the conclusion that it meant we
should get back inside ASAP and I should never stay up past two
again. All right, you had your fun.
Now can we put? Before I could finish my
sentence, a shrill ear piercing sound tore through our ears.
I snapped my hands to my ears and locked eyes with my friends.
Seeing them do much the same, I sprinted back into the house, my
friends instantly following suit.
We slammed the back door shut behind us and after a second it
stopped one long, angry note. What the hell was that, Tom?
One of them shouted. I realized my legs were shaking
and I slid back against the wall.
I don't know. I don't know what you did, but
can we please go to bed? We all stayed there in shock
until Max raced down from his position at the window.
Are you guys all right? What the hell was that?
The next day passed in a blur until after dinner I was sitting
on the living room couch on my phone, my father taking in a
newspaper on the chair opposite me.
He had been acting off the whole day.
I knew he could tell something was wrong, but he seemed to be
purposely ignoring it. So I began to tell him what
happened. By the time I reached the end of
my story, he was staring at me, stone faced, but instead of
shocking his eyes, there was anger.
This isn't funny, Thomas. You don't understand what you're
joking about. Now go to your room and do not
ever say something like that again.
I sprang to my feet now angry as well.
Dad, I'm not joking. Ask David or Max or Josh.
They'll back me up. I swear to God, I'm not kidding.
My father stood up, towering 5 inches over me, staring down
into my eyes. It's not possible, Thomas.
We left that thing in Indiana. Now go to your room.
Why won't you tell me what this thing is?
I retorted. If there's some goddamn monster
you know about, why won't you believe me when I say I hear it?
He paused for a moment, then returned softly.
Because when I moved to Indiana, it stayed in Washington, and
when my father moved to Washington, it stayed in
Montana. And you will not tell me that
you have broken the chain. You will not hear the whistling
again until you have a child of your own.
Before I could respond, he walked briskly back to his room,
shutting and locking the door behind him.
I ran to catch up and hammered my fists against his door, but
no response. He didn't emerge for the rest of
the evening. That night I was terrified.
I tried desperately to fall asleep, but I knew I wouldn't,
and sure enough, I couldn't. When the time drew near, I threw
my blanket over my whole body and shoved my fingers in my
ears. I'm an atheist, but that night I
prayed. The whistling took a different
tune for the first time. It was erratic and never
repeating, but it was different in tune compared to its former
jovial sound. It was angry, terrifying.
I don't know how to describe it. It was as if all of a sudden I
had interrupted its nightly routine and it wasn't happy.
It's not him or her. Whatever this is, it isn't
human. It can't be.
I waited for over 10 minutes before it began to get louder.
At first it was a negligible increase, nigh unnoticeable even
after a couple of minutes of it slowly getting louder, I thought
it was my mind playing tricks on me.
But after 10 more minutes, I couldn't deny it.
It was getting louder and the speed at which its volume was
increasing was accelerating. It overrode every other sound I
could hear, growing louder and louder until I was sure my
eardrums would burst. As it crescendoed, I couldn't
take it anymore. I jolted up and craned my neck,
peering out the window as per usual.
It immediately stopped. At some point that night, I fell
into a fitful sleep, not waking up until 11 the next morning.
Once again, my father ignored my pleas for help.
My mother seemed worried, but she inevitably took my father's
side, and they forced me back to my room.
That night, I spent the next few hours coming up with a plan.
I waited until 1:00 in the morning, when I was sure they'd
be asleep, and snuck into my mother's bathroom, careful to
avoid creaky floorboards and squeaking doors.
I opened the medicine cabinet and sure enough, there it was.
Xanax. My mother was prescribed it some
seven years ago and continued to use them well.
After her prescription ended. I scanned the back of the
container, decided on one pill, and returned the container,
carefully making my way to the kitchen.
I filled a glass of water and looked at the pill.
I wasn't sure if this was too much.
The Internet had recommended half a milligram, but I couldn't
continue to stay awake. I swallowed it without further
thought and returned to my room. It only took about 15 minutes
before the effects began to kick in.
I fell asleep not long after. The whistling started right on
schedule for the first time. It jolted me awake.
My heart was pounding. I felt like I should be knocked
out, but I was awake. The whistling wasn't even that
loud, but as I checked my phone, I realized it had awoken me
right as it started. The only silver lining was that
it seemed to have resumed its jovial tune, and despite the
negatives of the situation, this comforted me at first.
When it began to move, my heart skipped a beat.
It had shifted a bit before, but all of a sudden it quickly shot
underneath my window. I froze up, terrified.
It continued to move, traveling over to where my back door is.
It paused for no more than a few seconds, and then I heard the
click of a lock and the door swinging open.
My heart pounded wildly as I heard the whistling pass under
my room to the other side of the house.
It traveled up my stairs without a sound other than its jubilant
tune, and I began to tense my muscles and hold my breath as it
approached my closed door. It sat at the entrance to my
room for over 5 minutes. I knew no one else in my family
could hear it now, as it was too loud for them to possibly sleep
through. My face was turned to the wall,
away from the door and window, but I was ready to turn.
Then my door swung open, banging against my wall.
I whirled around, ready to face the monster.
I wasn't sure what my plan was, but I was ready to fight
whatever was coming for me. But the whistling stopped
instantly and there in my doorway was my six year old
sister Sally, I said. I didn't realize how much I had
tensed up and as I relaxed I realized my words were slightly
slurred. The Xanax was still in effect,
yet I was awake. Were you whistling?
She looked confused. No, Tommy, I don't even know how
to whistle. Then why the hell are you in
here? It's like 3 in the morning.
I think I left bear in here. As I retrieved her teddy bear
for her. I considered telling my parents
what had happened, but the Xanax was calling me back to my bed
and the whistling had stopped for the night.
I would tell them the next morning, beg them to take us to
a hotel or something. As Sally left the room, I
collapsed back into my bed facing the wall, and began to
drift back into dreamland. I only wish I had faced the
other way. What happened next chilled me to
my core. Right before I slipped back into
sleep, the whistling started again.
It was right behind me. It was angry once again, and it
was looming over me, inches from my bed.
I resisted the urge to scream, curling into a ball, trembling
and sucking in shaky breaths. It moved closer by an inch than
another. It stopped there, probably
touching my bed for what felt like an eternity.
The terror I felt was incomparable to any I had felt
before. No horror movie could prepare me
for this. Then I felt pressure on my bed,
as if it had moved on to it, and I rolled over, swinging my fist.
I connected solidly with my bed frame, letting out an
involuntary gasp of pain. I scanned my room as I shook
nothing. Since then, I haven't moved.
It's around six, and the sun is rising as I write this, and I've
been furtively scanning my room between every sentence.
Tomorrow I'll make my parents do something.
Take us to a hotel, Maybe. But just in case I need my story
out there, wish me luck. It seemed like since the moment
I was born that the supernatural seemed drawn to me, though I
wouldn't have my first real experience with it until after
my second or third year of school.
I must have been 7:00 or 8:00 at the time.
I can't be sure anymore how old I was.
The older you get, the more the years all seemed to blend
together. It was during late summer, late
July, most likely Back in those days, I spent a good part of the
summer with my grandparents. It was okay, though, because
that meant I got to spend time with my Uncle Leo.
He was my favorite of all my dad's siblings.
He was still a young man in his late 20s.
He had fought in the war and lived at home to help my
grandparents out. Everybody has their favorite
aunt or uncle, and Leo was mine. Sometimes when he was off from
his job at the meatpacking plant, he would take me swimming
and fishing. We had this little spot, about
an hour's drive out of town, that we would frequent.
It was on one of those adventures that this fateful day
would occur. We got to the fishing spot a
little after 8:00 in the morning, made an entire day of
it. I got about 30 fish that day, a
record for me at the time. But that's not why I remember
that day. That's not why I remember it at
all. The day had been perfect up to
that point, but as all days must, they eventually have to
end. It was starting to get late.
The sun was already starting to set when we decided to call an
end to our fishing expedition. We were packing up the truck
when I first noticed it. Silence.
I don't mean it was quiet. No, I mean there was no sound,
no nothing. No birds, no insects.
Heck, even the wind had stopped blowing.
It was eerie, the sun fading in the back and the void of sound
around us. Suddenly there was this growl.
Almost a roar, actually. I couldn't pinpoint where it was
coming from. The way it echoed through the
air. It could have been coming from
any direction, but one thing was clear.
It sounded to be getting closer to us.
As the seconds ticked away, it sounded like it was maybe half a
football field away. That was when I heard the
rustling from the trees just to the left, almost directly above
us. Something was up there,
something large. You could hear the leaves
rustling, branches snapping as whatever it was jumped from tree
to tree. I looked over at my uncle.
If he heard it, then I'll never know he was paying it.
No mind just packing up all of our stuff, never once looking up
or picking up the pace to this day.
I still believe he knew it was there at that time, but he was
paying it no heed as not to panic me.
Fear of whatever this was started to overtake me.
I stopped what I had been doing, almost completely.
Helping load up our gear was the farthest thing from my mind.
I started to become frozen with fear.
My uncle had to practically yell at me to snap my attention back
to him. We're almost packed up.
Reco, let's get going. It's late already, and your
grandmother is going to be worried if we aren't home soon.
Hurriedly, I helped him pack up the remainder of our gear into
the truck. Whatever had made that sound, I
wanted no part of meeting it or finding out what it was.
We got the truck packed and I took one last look around to see
if I saw anything before hopping in the passenger side of my
uncle's truck. It was still dusk, not yet
completely dark. As we drove down the road, the
light was quickly fading overhead.
My uncle flipped on the radio. I don't even remember what was
playing at the time. Probably some jazz song.
My uncle loved that type of music.
We had been on the road about 10 minutes when things began to
feel not all right. You know that feeling You get
deep inside your gut when you know something was wrong.
I was feeling something fierce. Suddenly the headlights began to
dim and the radio began to fade in and out, and from above us
that rustling sound had returned.
Uncle Leo played with the dial sum, but once again he ignored
the noise. His focus remained on the
quickly darkening Rd. It was then that it happened.
I'll never forget it. The horror, the fear, the
uncertainty. We had just taken a curve on the
road. The rustling sound had gotten
louder, closer, when unexpectedly, bam, something big
and heavy landed in the back of the truck.
It had leaped down from the trees above.
It landed with such force that the front wheels of the truck
temporarily lifted off the road. My uncle almost lost control of
the truck as it skidded across the road.
Leo looked briefly in the mirror, then moved his eyes back
to the road. He briefly touched the crucifix.
He kept on the dash, then tightly gripped the wheel with
both hands. His knuckles turned white with
how hard he gripped it. I just sat there, staring ahead,
frozen in fear. Whatever it was, it was moving
around in the bed of the truck. I could hear it going through
our stuff, tossing things around, rummaging through our
cooler. I started to get up in my seat
so I could look back and see what was back there.
Uncle Leo grabbed me by the shoulder and pushed me back down
into my seat. No, Miho, just look ahead.
Don't look in the back, whatever you do, trust me.
There was fear in his voice. Not a lot, but a hint of it.
This was a man that had lived through the horrors of war, and
he was scared. I can tell you I did exactly as
he said without question. I could hear a small growl from
the back, and whatever was back there was moving around the
tailgate. Whatever it was, it was heavy.
The truck leaned towards the back because of the weight.
For the next 5 minutes I sat there, frozen in fear.
I looked at Leo. He just stared ahead,
occasionally glancing at his rearview mirror, unsure of what
to do. I sat there.
Fear had completely overtaken me.
I didn't know if the thin layer of glass between us and the bed
was enough to keep us separated. As my mind ran through every
possibility of what was back there that my biggest fear came
to be. Whatever was in the bed of the
truck was moving, not like before when it had stayed in the
rear of the bed. No, this time it was moving
forward towards the cab of the truck.
I was petrified. I couldn't move.
The creature had begun a slow, methodical move towards us, the
nails of the beast scrapped against the metal of the truck.
The truck shifted with its weight as it moved slowly closer
to us. Don't look, I will explain
later. Trust me, I trusted my uncle,
but I was scared. We were still miles out of town.
All that separated us from whatever was in the back was a
sheet of glass. No one lived near where we were
for miles, meaning no help. If somehow that thing decided to
come into the bed. The creature kept getting
closer, the scrapping louder. I could hear it's heavy
breathing now. My uncle kept looking ahead at
the road I saw in their left hand.
Though he had slowly unclipped the strap holding his sidearm,
he kept on his belt. Then there was the tapping.
You could hear the nails of the creature gently tapping the
glass directly behind my head. Tap, tap, tap.
The tears of fear begin to well up in my eyes.
Tap, tap, tap. The creature was just begging us
to turn around. What were we going to do?
What was it? Why did my uncle seem to know
what it was? What if it gets inside?
I was beyond scared. Nothing in my short life came
close to the fear I felt at that moment.
Just look ahead, no matter what. Never look back.
I'll never forget those words my uncle spoke or the sound of fear
in his voice. But that wasn't the worst of it.
No, not even close. What happened next?
I still dream about at night sometimes.
What is little one just up in the wind?
Do Owl let me in. An eerie, raspy voice spoke from
behind me. A gasp escaped my lips and tears
begin to flow freely down my cheeks.
My Uncle Leo gave the voice no notice and fiddled with the
radio. More.
Do not ignore me. Let me in.
Face your fate, angrier and louder.
The voice boomed. Then the banging started.
The creature, or whatever it was, began banging on the roof
of the cab with such force. That the truck begin to rock
with each blow. Bang, boom, bang.
The blows rain down on my poor uncle's truck, but still I
refuse to look back. This continued for the next 30
minutes or so. Just when I thought the roof
would cave in from the blows being rained down upon us, I saw
the lights of the city. As we neared the edge of the
forest. A roar erupted from behind us
and the creature muttered these final words.
This is not the end. No little one.
One day we meet our fates. That protection won't be there
for you forever. Till then.
And with that, the truck rocked as whatever was in the bed
leaped in the air and away from the truck.
We speed forward in complete silence.
My uncle said nothing when we were about two blocks from my
grandparents. My uncle pulled over and finally
turned to me. Rico, we must talk.
You can never tell your grandparents what happened here.
There is much you do not know and not enough time for me to
tell you everything. The world is filled with great
evils. Our family.
Some of our family are chosen. We have a gift to see the other
world. Not all of us are as strong.
Some just see glimpses. Others, like me and you.
Well, we can interact with that world.
But there are creatures that live within that world that
don't appreciate our gift. They prefer to remain hidden
from view as they do their work. But there are rules they must
follow in ways we can protect ourselves.
I'm going to give you something. My grandfather gave it to me
when I was about your age. Now it's yours.
With that, my uncle grabbed the crucifix around his mirror and
put it around my neck. I had never noticed before the
uniqueness of it. There was a large Black Rock in
the middle Obsidian and the outside of it was glass with a
thick red liquid inside. I have never taken it off since
my uncle gave it to me. It's still around my neck to
this very day. My uncle made me promise to
never tell outsiders about what happened.
They wouldn't believe it anyways, he said.
After that night, he said we could never talk about it again.
Talking about it gives them strength.
We talked for about an hour more on that side of the road.
He told me about where they come from and of the evil and
corruption that they wish to spread.
Afterward, we continued our drive home.
True to his word, my uncle never again spoke of that evening with
me and I well, I wasn't going to bring it up.
About 10 years later, just outside of those woods, Uncle
Leo crashed his truck and was killed.
I've often wondered if whatever had jumped on our truck that
long ago night had somehow caught up to him.
Finally. The world is a beautiful place.
No one can argue that. But there are evils out there,
some that stay hidden just beneath the light.
Never forget that Some things can't be explained, and perhaps
it's for the best that they aren't.
All it took was a heavy rainstorm to break my spirit.
When the Thunder rumbled and the raindrops started their
relentless drumming. I felt that old terror sees me,
the one that echoed the screams of the past.
The guilt inside me reacted like a beast to the lightning,
growing restless and gnawing at my consciousness.
It's been this way since the accident. 8 lives taken.
Because I couldn't see the damn Rd.
I became an expert at drowning out storms.
When the storm approached, I pulled the curtains tight,
sealed the windows, and buried my ears under my old noise
cancelling headphones. They're worn out pads of
familiar comfort. But tonight, as the storm raged
outside, the power in my house cut out.
I was plunged into a suffocating silence, broken only by the
terrifying Symphony of Thunder and rain.
For some reason, it wasn't the darkness that frightened me, but
the whispers. They called my name floating
towards me on the gusts of wind that threatened to shake the
house apart. I brushed it off as my mind
playing tricks, a desperate ploy to keep itself busy in the face
of the terror outside until I heard the knocking, a soft
rhythmic knocking that echoed the frantic beats of my heart.
I held my breath, listening, hoping I'd imagined it.
The knock came again, more insistent.
I found myself drawn towards the sound, like a moth to a flame.
Against every instinct in me to cower and hide, I grabbed the
old baseball bat from the closet.
It's worn wood, reassuringly solid.
Under my clammy palms, my mind was a whirlwind of fear and
confusion. Who could be out there in the
middle of this maelstrom? I flung open the door, stealing
myself for a confrontation, but found nothing but the storm.
Rain and wind lashed at my face, drenching me in an instant.
The whispers grew louder. A taunting chorus carried on the
Gale. I stepped outside, hoping to
catch sight of whoever was playing this cruel prank.
The door slammed shut behind me, carried by the force of the
wind. The click of the lock resonated
in the storm, echoing my growing sense of dread.
Through the curtain of rain I saw her, a woman sitting on my
porch, her dress whipping around her in the wind.
She was holding something, my spare key.
I squinted, trying to make out her face, but what I saw sent my
heart plummeting. The face was pale, almost
luminescent in the storm's gloom, split by a jagged sewn
up, gash from forehead to chin. It was her, one of the victims
of the accident. A bolt of raw fear shot through
me, my heart pounding so hard I was sure it would burst from my
chest. But the woman ghost, whatever
she was, didn't move. She just sat there, clutching my
key, watching me. A cold shiver ran down my spine
as she lifted a finger to her lips.
Was she telling me to be quiet, or was she asking me to listen?
The storm roared around me, and for the first time since the
accident, I stopped trying to block it out.
I stood there drenched and terrified, listening to the
whispers on the wind. Their message was clear.
This was just the beginning. No amount of wishful thinking
could wipe the slate clean. You can bury your past, bury
your guilt, but it seeps into the soil and taints the
groundwater. It was a truth I knew all too
well. That day started off just like
any other. As the County Sheriff, I had a
duty to protect and serve. I woke early, had a strong cup
of coffee, and started the long drive to the station.
It was a route I knew like the back of my hand, my car snaking
its way through the twisting, turning mountain roads.
The storm was unprecedented. It descended on us without
warning, a roaring Tempest that swallowed up the day.
I drove through the downpour, windshield wipers struggling to
keep up every droplet on the glass.
A bullet of distraction. But I kept driving.
I was the sheriff. People were counting on me.
Then a flash of light, a patch of wet asphalt.
I lost control. The car skidded, spinning out on
the wet Rd. Then the terrifying crunch of
metal, the shattering of glass. In that split second I saw them,
a minivan full of kids, their faces pale in the lightning, and
then darkness. When I came to, the storm had
passed, leaving in its wake a silence that was louder than any
Thunder. The air reeked of gasoline and
burnt rubber. The minivan was a wreck,
crumpled against a tree. Inside were eight young lives
extinguished, snuffed out like candles.
In the storm. I lived.
They didn't. It was a burden I had to carry,
an anchor that dragged me down. Every waking moment, my career,
my reputation, all lay in shambles.
I retreated from the world, my home in the outskirts of the
town, becoming my fortress of solitude.
The guilt was my constant companion, as loyal as a shadow.
And now, years later, the past had found its way to my door,
bringing with it a chilling reckoning.
The woman, the victim, the ghost, she was a reminder of my
deepest guilt, my greatest fear, the stitched up face, the silent
accusation in her eyes. They were etched into my memory
that night as I lay wide awake, the storm raging outside.
My guilt took on a new form. The past was not something I
could outrun. The whispers in the storm, the
spectral woman on my porch. They were all parts of a puzzle,
a grim Riddle that I had to solve.
I could no longer ignore the guilt, the fear, the whispers I
couldn't hide behind. My old noise cancelling
headphones couldn't retreat into my fortress.
This was a storm I had to face, a ghost I had to confront.
As dawn broke, piercing the gloom with weak rays of
sunshine, I made a decision. I would go back to the crash
site, back to where it all began.
The journey would not be easy. The wounds it would reopen would
be raw and painful. But I had to do it.
I had to confront my past. For the 8 lives lost, for the
ghost on my porch, and for me. The whispers on the wind were a
call to action, a message from the storm.
I had to listen. I had to face my past, because
this was just the beginning. See, the thing about the past
is, I muttered to myself, driving through the desolate
mountain pass. You can't erase it, you can only
confront it. The storm that had been raging
in my head had now manifested itself in the sky, echoing my
torment, my guilt, my fear. It felt as though the universe
was In Sync with my inner turmoil.
The roads were familiar, yet foreign.
Years had passed since I'd last traveled these routes, and time
had left its indelible marks just as it had on me.
The thunderous roars in the rain pelting against the windshield
served as a constant reminder of that fateful night.
The once bustling town was now nothing more than a ghost town.
Nature had reclaimed the town, the dilapidated houses standing
like silent witnesses to a bygone era, the faint echo of
children's laughter, the residual warmth of a community.
All were now replaced by the cold, gusts of wind and the
eerie silence. My destination was the site of
my worst nightmare, the scar that had never healed the crash
site. I parked the car at a safe
distance, my heart pounding in my chest.
The rain had reduced to a drizzle, nature pausing to
witness my confrontation with my past.
The site was haunting. The crumpled tree, the shattered
glass still scattered on the ground, the faint traces of tire
marks, all silent witnesses of that horrifying night.
My knees buckled as the weight of my guilt bore down on me.
I fell to the ground, my eyes welling up with tears.
A flicker of movement caught my eye.
I looked up, my heart in my mouth.
There she was, the spectral woman standing a few feet away,
her eyes empty, her face a mirror to my guilt.
The silence between us was deafening.
I stood up, my legs shaking, my eyes not leaving her.
I walked towards her, each step of battle against my fear, But I
had to do it. I owed it to her.
I owed it to them. As I reached her, I looked into
her eyes, my guilt reflected in them.
My voice choked, my words a mere whisper carried away by the
wind. I'm sorry, I said, my voice
barely audible. She didn't say anything, just
kept staring at me. And then, as if on cue, a gust
of wind blew and she vanished, leaving behind only the chilling
emptiness. The whispers on the wind seemed
to subside, replaced by a haunting silence.
I was left standing alone, my guilt still gnawing at my soul.
The rain had stopped, replaced by a gloomy silence.
I had confronted my past, apologized for my guilt.
But was it enough? The only answer was the cold
wind whispering in my ear. And in that moment, I realized
that this journey was far from over.
This was just the beginning. The whispers in the wind, the
ghostly woman, they were all a part of a mystery I had to
unravel, and I was ready to face it all, ready to chase the
whispers, the musty smell of damp earth and age-old secrets
hung heavily in the cryptic woodland.
Trees stood like ancient Sentinels, their leaves
whispering secrets that were as old as time itself.
The air was thick with an eerie stillness that weighed on my
shoulders, amplifying my apprehension.
A mournful howl echoed through the night, sending a chill down
my spine. The spectral woman's presence
seemed to permeate the forest, wrapping around the trees and
sinking into the soil. The ghostly cold of her touch
seemed to reach me, even though she wasn't there physically.
I started the trek towards the cabin.
Each crunching step on the leaf littered ground seemed to echo
my pounding heart. The cabin, once a beacon of
warmth and family, now stood ominously in the heart of the
woods, darkened windows seeming like gaping, blind eyes.
The memories of laughter and camaraderie now seemed like
whispers on the wind. I unlocked the door with a shaky
hand. The old wood creaked open,
revealing A dusty room, the air heavy with years of solitude.
The moonlight filtered through the broken window, casting long,
haunting shadows. My boots echoed in the silent
room as I stepped inside, the echo serving as a chilling
reminder of the life this cabin once held.
A chill ran down my spine as a sudden gust of wind blew the
door shut. The silence was disrupted by the
soft rustle of papers. I turned around to see an old
photo album lying open on the dusty table.
The faces of my family smiled back at me, oblivious of the
tragedy that was to befall them. My fingers trace their faces, my
heart heavy with guilt and sorrow.
A soft whisper echoed in the room, making me jolt up.
I looked around, my eyes scanning the room, but saw no
one. The room felt colder, the air
denser. The whispers grew louder, a
cacophony in the silence, echoing my guilt, my fear.
The spectral woman appeared in the moonlit room, her presence
casting a cold pallor. Her empty eyes bore into mine,
reflecting my guilt. You could have saved them, she
whispered, her voice the embodiment of my deepest fears.
I fell to my knees, the guilt overwhelming me.
The room began to spin, the whispers growing louder, echoing
the horrifying truth. I could have saved them.
Suddenly, everything went silent.
The spectral woman disappeared, leaving behind the chilling
emptiness. The moonlight had dimmed,
casting long, foreboding shadows.
The silence was broken by a distant wail, A sorrowful cry of
a creature in pain. The whispering wind carried A
horrifying realization. The spectral woman was not just
an embodiment of my guilt, but a manifestation of my fear, my
regret. This was my hell, my eternal
torment. I was alone in the cabin.
My guilt, my only company outside the woods, echoed with
sorrowful cries, a grim Symphony that would haunt me forever.
The spectral woman, the whispers, the guilt, they were
all a part of me, etched into my soul.
I was trapped in this endless cycle of guilt and fear, bound
to relive my worst nightmare. The whispers in the wind were a
constant reminder of my sin, my failure.
And as I sank into the darkness, the last whisper I heard was a
chilling promise. A promise of eternal torment.
The summer of 2022 was a warm one as far as summers in Alberta
go. During COVID, I had taken up
hiking as a means of both passing the time and keeping
myself in some semblance of good shape.
Now that the pandemic and it's related restrictions had largely
abated, I had grown so fond of my hiking expeditions that I
began to retain it as part of my regular activities.
I won't claim to be any sort of professional hiker, but I had
learned my fair share via trial and error to the extent that I
always packed well and took all the necessary precautions for
wherever I was heading. If you've never been to Alberta
before, I would highly recommend it.
We're not well known as far as Canadian provinces go, but we
have some of the best wilderness in the world for campers and
hikers looking to enjoy the serenity of nature.
The northern reaches of the Rocky Mountains form our western
border and provide an abundance of trails, campsites and
provincial parks that can be enjoyed for free, sparing the
expense of getting there. It was to the Rocky Mountains
that I had planned my latest hiking excursion.
The Heritage Day long weekend was fast approaching and I had
decided to abscond to the mountains for a good four day
hike to get a break from the bustle of city life.
I had recently found a trail that I had never hiked before,
called Crestwood Trail, which from the pictures online
promised to be a beautiful trip dotted with suitable campsites
for a three day journey. I had managed to rope a couple
of friends into coming with me on this hike.
Two were well seasoned in mountain hikes, Evan and
Evangeline, the other two Emma and Erin, not so much.
The plan was for all of us to arrive separately on Friday
afternoon, make camp at the trailhead, then begin on
Saturday morning to return sometime on Monday.
Having the Monday off due to the holiday, I booked that Friday
off work so that I could make my way to the mountains at a
leisurely pace, departing Edmonton as the sun reached its
zenith. I made Hinton just after 3:00
and pulled into the parking lot of a local diner to put
something in my stomach and to check on the status of my fellow
hikers. I settled into a booth, ordered
a cup of coffee along with a greasy plate of meat, eggs, and
hash Browns, and took out my phone.
The rest of the company was still some ways away, so I had
plenty of time to eat, reach the campsite, and pitch my tent
before expecting the presence of anyone else.
I finished my meal and leaned back, satisfied.
I always used hiking trips as an excuse to binge on my favorite
unhealthy breakfast foods. I got a refill on my coffee and
asked for the bill the next time The waitress happened by and sat
at the booth, gazing out the window, watching the cars zip by
on the highway. The coffee was strong and
bitter, but there's something about a crappy cup of diner
coffee that scratches a particular itch like nothing
else need. The machine, came a voice from
my right, and I pulled my attention away from the highway
to focus on the waitress standing next to me, smile on
her face and debit machine in her hand.
Yes, I will, thank you, I said as I set down my cup of coffee
and tilted to the side to fish my wallet out of my back pocket.
Heading to the mountains for the weekend?
The waitress asked as I punched my pin into the machine.
Yeah, three day hike actually, I replied with a smile as I
returned the machine to her and drained my cup of coffee.
Ooh, fun, whereabouts you headed?
She asked, tearing a receipt off the machine and handing me a
copy. Crestwood Trail a bit northwest
of here. Never been, I said with a smile
that quickly evaporated as I watched the face of the waitress
darken as I mentioned the trail. They say that's an evil trail,
you know? She said.
Evil like it's haunted? I asked, raising an eyebrow.
Well, no, it's not a ghost. Folks say it's a monster, she
said with a sly tilt of her head.
What kind of monster? I asked.
The waitress glanced around the diner.
It was in between the lunch and the dinner rushes, so the whole
place was pretty much empty, aside from me and two other
tables. After satisfying herself that it
wasn't too busy, she sat down across from me in the booth and
leaned forward. I always enjoy a good folk
legend, so my attention was fixed on her.
So way back in the early days she began, when settlers first
showed up here at the foot of the mountains, there was a
preacher who came from the east with his daughter and set up one
of the first churches around these parts.
Now this preacher was one of those old school men, the
Puritans or whatever. Super strict.
He and his daughter would be working all day, never laughing
and never smiling. But.
The one thing this preacher would allow his daughter was
that he got her a pet dog after her momma died.
A big beautiful dog who loved that girl and was always by her
side. The problem was, as the preacher
got older, well he got even stricter and harsher in the
house. Before long the preacher was
saying that his daughter loved the dog more than she loved God.
He might have been losing his marbles a bit by that point too,
because he was saying that the dog was possessed by a demon
that was making his daughter stray away from the Lord.
A text pinged on my phone, which I ignored, and the waitress
poured me another cup of coffee, which I sipped at absentmindedly
as I listened to the story. So this preacher, thinking that
there's a demon in his daughter's dog, gets up from his
prayers one day and grabs his musket to go put an end to the
mutt which was out playing in the field with his daughter.
Now, as you might guess, the daughter is screaming and crying
and begging her dad not to do it, but the preacher won't
listen. Now the preacher goes to shoot
the dog and the daughter. She pulls out her pocket knife
and stabs her dad right in the arm before her and the dog.
They book it off into the woods right up where Crestwood Trail
is nowadays. So the girl haunts the trail or
something. Then I asked, taking a sip from
my coffee. Nope.
The thing is, that preacher might have been right about
there being a demon in that dog, because she paused to look
around. They never saw the girl or the
dog ever again. But they say that when you go up
that trail, sometimes you find these things with the heads of
dogs and the bodies of people. So like a dog, Minotaur?
I asked with a smile. Pretty much, the waitress said,
laughing and standing up from my table.
Well, that's a good story. Where'd you hear it?
I asked. Family.
It's a story that makes the rounds.
In all seriousness, that trail does get some bears and wolves
now and then, along with a couple of rock slides.
You be careful up. There may not be no monsters,
but it is a dangerous trail, she said as she took my plate.
Oh, don't worry, I know what I'm doing, I said, standing up with
a smile. After finishing my coffee, I
strode out of the diner, taking a mint from the bowl by the
front door. On the way out, I lit a
cigarette and leaned against the driver's side door of my car.
I gazed up at the handful of clouds that were drifting lazily
across the sky and side out a cloud of smoke into the
pleasantly warm summer air. I chuckled as I thought over the
folktale that the waitress had told me and crushed my smoke out
under foot. I gave my back and legs a final
stretch, sat down in the car, and hopped back onto the highway
heading West into the mountains. It only took another hour to
reach to the trailhead of Crestwood, and most of that
delay was due to having trouble finding the spot.
I parked in the lot, packed up my things, notified the gang
that I was there, and set off for the campsite we were all
planning to meet at. It was a brief walk quite close
to the trailhead, which we planned merely to use as our
staging ground For the first day.
The trailhead was nearly deserted, with only one or two
other cars in the lot and not a soul Insight.
I had snapped a picture of the trail map at the lot just in
case I needed it later. It was the height of summer, but
a cool breeze was blowing off the mountains from the West.
The world felt fresh, crisp and alive.
Birds were singing, squirrels chased one another back and
forth, and a few rabbits were nibbling on patches of grass
aside the trail. I reached the clearing that we
had decided on for our first campsite, tossed my bag on the
ground, and took a deep breath of fresh air.
A small Creek was gurgling past the clearing and ancient Pines
ring. The space around the Crestwood
Trail was just visible past the underbrush, which would make it
easy to call out to my friends as they passed by.
I gathered a pile of stones from the Creek and created a small
spot for a fire in the center of the clearing, and after
gathering up enough Deadwood and kindling, had a respectable
blaze going. Shortly after, I pitched my tent
and sat down by the fire to bask in the peaceful serenity of
unadulterated nature. When I'm in nature, the closest
I get to keeping track of the time is knowing where the sun
is, so I can't tell you how long it took for Evan and Evangeline
to show up, but it couldn't have been that long.
I said hello and asked all the standard questions, like how
they were and how their trip was, and then help them set
their tents up. We were halfway through the
setup when Emma and Erin came plodding up the trail, causing
the whole process of questions, and set up to begin anew.
Barring a few hiccups by the two inexperienced hikers, we quickly
had our campsite set up and a small dinner cooked over the
fire stomachs full. We settled down and passed a few
drinks around the circle. As the sun began to sink below
the horizon, I heard the howling of something deep off in the
wilderness, either a wolf or a coyote, and it sent a quick
chill up my spine, reminding me of the story the waitress and
Hinton had told me. I piped up, told the group I had
a story, and related the tale that I had heard that afternoon
to the general approval of my friends.
They thought it was at least a unique local folktale, albeit
not a particularly scary campfire story.
This devolved into us telling scary stories around the fire
for another hour or so, though it was nothing beyond your very
stereotypical ghost stories or serial killers with hook hands
stories. With a slight buzz and a full
stomach, we all retired to bed after spending a good half hour
gazing at the beauty of the mountain stars, which were
shining in full, unobstructed beauty unimpeded by the light
pollution of a city. As I slipped into my cool
sleeping bag, my head filled with thoughts of trees gently
swaying in the wind and crystal clear glacial Creek snaking
silently along the floors of ancient valleys.
We woke early to the gentle tittering of the mountain birds
and I stepped out of the tent, shivering as I yawned.
Sunbeams were shattering themselves against the dew drops
that coated both the trees and the grass, causing the whole
clearing to glitter like crystal.
A few ribbons of fog were hung about the Creek, distant and
dismal cousins to the rolling banks of fog that embraced the
upper reaches of the mountain peaks About us.
I relieved myself and dug through the ashes of last
night's fire, where I found a few red coals desperately
clinging to life and heat in their ashen tomb.
With some kindling and a series of deep breaths, the crackling
of a fire soon joined the chorus of sounds on the morning
mountain. I sat for a while as I let the
warmth flood over me. Summer, though it is a night in
the mountains, is almost always cold, regardless of the time of
year. A lesson I learned the hard way
when I almost froze on a mountain one summer night.
I boiled a pot of coffee on the fire and began to fry up
breakfast, the smell of which served well and waking up my
still sleeping friends. We gathered around the fire,
eating and drinking in silence until everyone's mood seemed to
perk up. Once they had some coffee in
them, we broke camp and kicked out our fire, chatting all the
while about what had been going on in our lives.
At 8:00 that morning, we returned to the path and began
our hike up Crestwood Trail. The hike that day was largely
uneventful. Don't get me wrong, it was an
absolutely beautiful trail, snaking through the hearts of a
number of valleys. We were passing by Groves of
trees, fields of flowers, and pure blue ponds and rivers.
We sat on the side of a shale outcropping for a quick lunch
and a break from The Walking and camped that night on the banks
of a glacial pond. It was another great night of
stars and good company and we all went to bed early to rest
our aching legs. Emma and Aaron, not being avid
hikers, had slowed us down somewhat, but we were still on
track to reach the trail end by tomorrow and be back to the
trail head on Monday. I had my morning coffee while
laying on the Bank of an ice cold pond and watching dawn
break over the peaks of a mountain range.
It was absolutely beautiful, like the day before.
We broke camp quickly and we're off again on the trail.
This day promised to be harder than the ones before, as it was
largely uphill, with terrain far rockier and more treacherous.
The end of the trail was supposedly one of the most
captivating glacial waterfalls in the world, however, so I
found sore feet a small price to pay.
The five of us were crossing a portion of the trail that was
buried under a shale slide when I heard a Yelp from behind me
and the sound of rocks being tumbled down the side of the
hill. I spun around to see that Aaron
had slipped on some of the loose stones and tumbled a few feet
off the trail. You all right?
Evan called as he picked his way down to her to help her back to
her feet. Yeah, I think so.
Aaron winced as she was lifted back to her feet.
She let out a little Yelp and had to lean on Evan for a
moment, who lowered her back down.
We had gathered around, and Aaron had pulled her boot off to
reveal that her ankle looked in somewhat of a bad state.
Could be sprained, Evangeline said worriedly.
It's hurting when I put pressure on it, Aaron said.
I don't think you should keep walking on that, I added.
Well, not much of A choice at this point, Emma said, gesturing
to the broad wilderness all around us.
I can head back and you guys can keep going without me.
I don't want to spoil the weekend, Aaron said with a
smile. Not alone, you won't, Evan said.
We sat there on the shale and debated for a bit.
We found a walking stick for Aaron and managed to bind her
ankle up so it stayed in place better.
It was decided that Evan would take her as far back as they
could go that day and camp somewhere, meeting up with us as
we made our way back. The next day we sat on the shale
slide, taking a break and passing some whiskey around,
which seemed to put everyone, including Aaron, in a better
mood. We bid goodbye to one another as
Emma, Evangeline, and I carried on up the trail while Aaron and
Evan hobbled slowly away in the distance.
After about half an hour of walking, they were out of sight
with just the three of us, and now feeling like we were in
something of a hurry, we reached the end of the trail not long
after the sun had peaked in the sky.
It was as beautiful as promised. A stream of ice white water
cascaded down the stones above us to spill out into the
Riverhead that bounded down the mountain into the valleys below.
Pine trees and shrubbery filled the entire mountain Cove where
the waterfall began, and we spent some time exploring and
taking pictures. Hey, come check this out.
I heard the voice of Emma cut through the sounds of the
afternoon. I pushed through some underbrush
before I found her standing at the mouth of a yawning black
cave. Whoa, Evangeline said as she
emerged from the undergrowth to stand next to us.
The mouth of The Cave opened up the face of the mountain rock
and before The Cave was strewn a random collection of bones,
blood, feathers and fur. Some sort of totem was
constructed just outside the mouth of The Cave, a pile of
rock stacked one on top of the other with strange symbols and
patterns drawn on them in what looked like it was blood.
On top of the pile sat what looked to be the skull of a wolf
or huge dog that glared at us from empty black eye sockets on
the sides of the mountain. Flanking the entrances of The
Cave were what looked like ancient cave paintings, scenes
of animals being hunted. But unlike most cave paintings
where it was humans hunting Buffalo or whatever, this one
seemed to show some sort of animal headed man hunting
things. It looked like some sort of
ancient Egyptian God. The three of us stood in dumb
silence, gazing at the scene before us, and my stomach
started to turn as I thought of the story from the diner.
I knew, or thought I knew that monsters weren't real, they were
just stories. But at this moment, all reason
was out the window and I was ready to get the hell off of
that mountain. All right, that's enough for me.
Let's go, Emma said. Yep, I said.
Okay, Evangeline said, and the three of us turned and nearly
ran back down the trail, away from the waterfall.
I shuddered at the sound of a howl far off in the distance as
the three of us descended in silent haste.
I was taking up the rear, and though it was never vocalized, I
could feel that The Cave had unsettled all of us.
The unease was palpable. I cast a number of furtive
glances back over my shoulder, and periodically I could swear I
was seeing things in my peripheral vision.
We moved so quickly down the trail that we soon had to stop
and take a break. What do you think that was?
Emma asked with a quake in her voice.
Probably just some prank that has to do with the folk legend.
That waitress was pretty excited to tell me that story, I said,
between gulps of water. What if there's actually a dog
man monster thing on the mountain?
Evangeline said with an unconfident smile.
No such thing as monsters. I spoke.
Either way, I'm not dying sober, Emma said as she took a swig
from the bottle of whiskey that she was carrying in her bag.
She passed it around, and we all took a drink as well.
We kept a quick pace going as we traced the trail back to its
source. Each of us had picked up a stick
to use for support while walking, and perhaps on some
primal level, we wanted them as weapons in the event there was a
monster out there. Emma and I had each brought bear
spray with us, which we kept very close at hand as we walked.
All of our heads were on a swivel as we passed back down
the shale slide where Erin had fallen earlier.
We hit the floor of the valley quickly, and we're nearly
jogging down the trail when we stopped again for a break with
Erin's ankle. She and Evan can't have made it
much further. I bet we overtake them soon,
Evangeline said. Do we stop and camp or do we
make them keep moving? Emma asked.
I say we set up our tents and wait for Evan and Erin to come
back. They probably didn't expect us
for a few hours more and just wandered off.
And if they don't come back? Emma asked, sitting down and
fishing her whiskey out of her pack.
Then we deal with that when it happens, I said, shrugging my
pack off. Evangeline remains silent.
We set up our tents and heaped the campfire a bit higher.
Everyone was moving and working in nearly complete silence, ears
trained on the woods around us, starting at the slightest sound.
As much as I was trying to ram the idea into my head that there
was a perfectly rational explanation for what was going
on, I couldn't help but be startled a few times at the
sound of some of the sticks cracking and breaking in the
fire. We sat silently as an hour
passed, and then a second one. Our shadows were beginning to
lengthen, and the only thing on everyone's mind was that Evan
and Aaron should by all means have been back by now.
It was almost as if we were all too paralyzed to broach the
subject. That if none of us mentioned it,
if we didn't speak the words, it wouldn't be real.
They're not coming back, Emma said, slurring her words
slightly At this point. Evangeline turned away and
rubbed her face with her hands. I stared straight into the fire.
We'll find some Park Rangers when we get back and report them
missing. They'll find them, I said.
Find their bones more likely, Emma scoffed.
Let's eat something and get some sleep.
We can start back right at sunrise, I said as I began to
assemble a few things to cook over the fire.
I'm not hungry, Evangeline said as she quietly walked away from
the fire back into her tent. Emma followed her with her eyes
and then shrugged toward me. I cooked for Emma and me in
silence, and we ate quickly as the sun began to set.
We finished and packed our things up before I knocked on
the front of Evangeline's tent. Yeah, what?
Came her voice from inside. Emma's going to bed.
I'm going to stay up and keep watch, I said.
Okay, Evangeline said quietly. Goodnight.
Emma retreated to her tent, and I took up my walking stick and
my bear spray and planted myself next to the fire, which I heaped
with a few extra branches. My legs and back were sore and I
was exhausted, so I boiled some coffee for myself and shakily
smoked a cigarette. The nicotine calmed me down and
the coffee perked me up. The valley was silent, save for
the hooting of some owls and the skittering of some nocturnal
animals along the forest floor. I paced around the campsite for
a while to keep the blood flowing through my legs, and
managed to smoke my way through about half the pack of
cigarettes I had with me. Something howled far off in the
distance, which sent a primordial shiver of fear
through my body. What was normally the serene
beauty of the countryside, blanket of stars, now seemed to
mock me, displaying its beauty with cosmic indifference to what
was happening below. I turned at the sound of a tent
being unzipped. Evangeline was emerging from her
tent, wrapped in a jacket, and looked at me.
I nodded to her. Want me to take over?
She asked quietly. Sure, give me one of those
cigarettes first, she said with a weak smile.
I handed her one and held up my lighter for her.
She breathed the acrid iron smoke out into the still night
air and walked over to the fire. Good night, I said.
There's coffee there that's still warm, if you want some,
thanks. Good night, she smiled.
I crawled into my tent and tucked myself into my sleeping
bag without zipping it closed, preparing in case I had to
suddenly leap to my feet. Sleep overcame me quickly, but
it was a brief and fitful sleep, choked with nightmares and
visions of running through the forest, pursued by some
unnatural, antediluvian beast that snarled and snapped at my
heels. I was dreaming that the beast
had caught me and was sinking its teeth into my ankles.
I let out a shrill scream, but the scream sounded like it was
made with a voice that wasn't my own, I bolted awake.
The scream wasn't a dream. I ripped out from my sleeping
back and smashed through the flap of my tent, walking stick
in one hand and bare Mace in the other.
The scream was coming from Evangeline, who was sprawled on
the ground next to the fire with some sort of hulking human form
crouched over top of her. The beast had the body of a huge
hairy man, something like 7 feet tall, but the head.
The head was that of some mangy wild dog with blood on its teeth
and a huge tongue lolling down from its snout.
Its eyes were a deep blue and flashed violence by the light of
the campfire. I raised the bear Mace and
released it at the monster. A jet of aerosolized spray
leaped towards the beast and coated it from the head to the
waist. It reeled back off of
Evangeline, howling and tearing at its eyes and face.
It backed and bounded off into the tree line, crashing into the
trunk of a huge pine as it went, howling and screeching all the
way. What the hell was that?
Emma yelled as she was fumbling out of her tent flap.
No idea, I said breathlessly as I rushed over to where
Evangeline was lying bloody on the ground.
Whatever it was had got at her throat and opened up what I
assumed was an artery by how much blood was coming out.
She looked at me, her skin deathly pale in the firelight,
and she grabbed my arm with her blood soaked hand.
She tried to move, but grunted and fell back onto the ground.
She looked as though she was trying to say something, but all
that came from her mouth was a gurgling sound followed by a
trail of blood running out from her lips.
She went limp on the ground and shut her eyes.
Do something, Emma yelled. No use, I said as I stood back
up and readied my bear spray again.
The sound of the beast howling had faded to silence, and I
couldn't make out the sound of underbrush being crashed through
any longer. What do we do now?
Emma hissed. Grab only bare necessities.
Leave everything that would just be extra weight.
We're going to make it back to the cars, I said as I scanned
the tree line for any signs of movement.
Emma rushed back into her tent to pack things.
I gazed up at the sky briefly, where the stars continue to
twinkle and the moon sat shining down on the scene of horror
unfolding in the wild. Emma was ready in a moment, and
I left her to keep watch with her can of Mace while I packed
my things, which amounted to almost nothing save some water,
snacks, and a flashlight. I came back out and we left our
tents there in the clearing next to the smoldering fire.
We hit the trail and immediately started running, allowing the
moon to light our path and saving the flashlights only if
they were absolutely necessary. Emma was much shorter than me,
so we made a slow pace, and before long the sound of howling
began to cut the silence of the night behind us.
We're never going to outrun it, Emma said, panting and stopping
on the side of the trail. Do you have a better idea?
I said, as I opened my water bottle and took a long drink.
Nope, Give me a cigarette, Emma said, extending her hand.
I gave her one and lit one for myself now.
Doesn't seem like the time, I said, still catching my breath.
It ran from the Mace once. I think our only chance is to
hit it again and keep running, she said.
Or I leave you behind because you're not as fast.
I smiled. Screw off.
We moved off the trail and hid in a small ditch that was
surrounded by bushes, deciding that we had to try and
immobilize the thing one more time.
The howling was quickly getting closer and we wouldn't be able
to run all night. We each had a final swig of the
whiskey bottle as the howling started to get so close that the
hair all over me was standing on end.
We could both hear the thing prowling around just over the
lip of the ditch and we made eye contact and nodded.
We both jumped from the ditch at the same time, each of us
discharging a shot of the Mace at the thing.
It was covered head to toe, but instead of immediately turning
the monster, it merely howled and leaped toward us.
It landed on Emma and sent her crashing down to the ground.
The beast had obviously been blinded somewhat by the Mace as
it tried to sink its teeth into her, but merely managed to bite
into the ground next to her head.
As I raised my walking stick to strike the monster, the last
thing I saw was Emma's hand, which had managed to squirm its
way into her pocket, flicking the lighter she had taken from
me. When she lit her cigarette with
a sudden whoosh, A blinding light and a searing heat, the
monster and Emma were immediately engulfed in a
towering flame as the butane from the bear spray ignited in
half a second. The monster shrieked and
screamed and howled with a terrible, primal ferocity that
made my blood run cold as it writhed on the ground.
I heard a pitiful choked scream escape from Emma's burning form
as I turned in fear and began sprinting down the trail.
Adrenaline is an unbelievable drug.
I ran for what felt like hours, my legs screaming in pain and my
mind a furious hurricane of thoughts that had only the goal
of survival in mind. The screams of the dying and the
smell of burning flesh and hair never left my consciousness for
a second as I was running. As the sun began to make its
presence known in the eastern sky, I reached the parking lot
and collapsed on the gravel in front of my car.
I began crying, heaving sobs that were both gasps for breath
and attempts to expel the horror I had just witnessed.
My limbs felt like Jelly, and it took nearly 10 minutes before I
was breathing regularly enough to be able to swallow some
water. I climbed into my car, a
shattered husk of a person, and began to back out of the parking
lot with the goal of finding the nearest Ranger station.
Before I could floor the gas pedal away from the Crestwood
trailhead, I looked back to where I had come from, and far
off through the tree line I could make out a terrible black
loping shape. The hair had been burned off of
it across its entire body, and what wasn't covered in soot and
dirt was a mess of bloody, ragged skin that was beginning
to Slough off from the flesh consuming power of the Butane.
It merely stood in the tree line and stared at me with its
hateful, icy blue eyes. I made it to a Ranger station
and spilled out this entire story.
Unsurprisingly, they think I'm insane.
There's a huge search currently underway for the four that I
left behind, but nobody has been found yet.
Safe to say, I've now become suspect #1 in the disappearance
of everyone. So I've been asked to put my
story into writing for the use of the police and whatnot.
They might all think I'm insane, and who knows, maybe I am.
Maybe my mind got shattered on that mountain and I killed all
my friends. Monsters aren't supposed to be
real. Either way, I've never been the
same. I might as well have died on
that mountain, too. They say I'm crazy, but I know
what I saw. From the moment I was born, I
was tucked into the soft folds of darkness, a baby who entered
the world without the gift of sight.
Darkness was my cradle, my school, my sanctuary.
Sightless, yes, but sightless in a world where I learned to
appreciate textures, vibrations and sounds as a seer appreciates
colors. Some folks, I suppose, might
call it a tragedy, being shrouded in an eternal night.
But me? I never understood the fuss.
I've been blind from the get go, and you can't miss something
you've never known. That's not to say I wasn't
curious about this thing called sight, but I wasn't a mourner at
a funeral. I was just someone who couldn't
appreciate the visual scenery. My life was a series of well
practiced motions, much like a dance you've learned by heart.
I knew the terrain of my life, knew the pathways my feet had
memorized and the familiar corners that told me where I was
every day was a composition of routines, A repetition of known
landscapes. Home was an apartment about a
mile away from a local steakhouse, a run-of-the-mill
joint that did its stake just the way I liked rare the back of
my hand, every crack in the sidewalk, every rustle of the
trees, every hum of the city I called home.
It was a day like any other when I decided to take myself out for
a spin, indulge in a solo outing to my favorite haunt.
The air was crisp, the noises of the city a familiar song.
I navigated the familiar streets with the assistance of my white
cane. It's tap tap against the
pavement, A comforting sound in the Symphony of urban life.
There was a certain rhythm to it, a rhythm I had been dancing
to since I was a kid. The rhythm of life, I guess
you'd call it. There's a pleasure to
independence, to making your own way in the world despite what
life throws at you. Sure, I was blind, but I wasn't
helpless. I had my routines, my spaces, my
independence. That night was about a simple
pleasure. A steak dinner on my own.
Little did I know it was the night my understanding of my
world would change, the night, that darkness would take on a
whole new meaning. In that moment, though, I was
blissfully unaware, the tap of my white cane leading me towards
a delicious evening, an evening that was just a preamble to a
night that would redefine what I knew about the dark.
The restaurant was a modest place, tucked in between the
brick and mortar establishments that made-up my city's fabric.
There was nothing particularly special about it, but the
steakhouse had been there for as long as I could remember.
The smell of grilling meat was a landmark, a sensory signal that
told me I was close. It was bustling that evening,
the noises painting a vivid picture in my mind.
I could hear the clatter of dishes, the low hum of
conversation punctuated by laughter and the occasional
chime of the entrance bell. With my stick leading the way, I
found my usual spot at the bar, right next to the window that
overlooked the street. The texture of the weathered
counter beneath my fingertips felt familiar, the worn down
edges A testament to countless hands that had sat here before.
The bartender, a man named Dale, recognized my voice.
Evening. He greeted the usual.
His voice was warm, tinged with a bit of roughness that spoke
volumes of the cigarettes he smoked during his breaks.
Evening, Dale. Yes, the usual, please, I
responded. As I waited for my meal, I found
myself drawn to the conversations around me, the ebb
and flow of life unfolding in this little corner of the city.
There was a certain beauty in the mundane, in the routine
exchanges, the shared laughter, the clink of glassware.
It was a Symphony of normalcy that I cherished.
The steak arrived, the tantalizing aroma hitting my
senses before Dale's voice did. Enjoy your meal, and enjoy it, I
did. The steak was juicy, just the
right side of rare, and the baked potato was done to
perfection. It was a sensory feast, the
robust flavors igniting my taste buds, the satisfying texture of
the meat and the crunch of the potato skin grounding me in the
moment. In the cocoon of these familiar
surroundings, I was at ease, content.
I was just another patron enjoying his meal, another
thread woven into the fabric of the city's vibrant tapestry.
It was the perfect end to a day, a humble celebration of
independence and normalcy. As the hour grew late, I decided
it was time to make my way back. I paid my bill, left a generous
tip for Dale, and rose from my seat, white cane in hand.
As I made my way to the entrance, I could hear the
familiar sounds of the city outside, cars honking, people
chatting, and the distant sound of a dog barking.
Be safe out there, Dale called after me, a note of concern
coloring his tone. Will do, Dale, I called back,
stepping out into the cool evening air.
Walking back home, the noises of the night were a comfort, a
lullaby that was all too familiar.
Little did I know that the melody was about to change, that
my dance with the darkness was about to take a chilling turn.
My journey home was a practiced routine, each step as familiar
as the next. The night was draped around the
city, a comforting darkness that was as much a part of me as the
beats of my heart. About halfway home, my path
crossed with an alleyway, A narrow strip of city that ran
perpendicular to the sidewalk. It was usually quiet, nothing
but the echo of distant city sounds reaching its depths.
Tonight, though, something was different.
A sound broke the monotony, a strange noise that didn't fit
into the usual night music. I halted, head tilted, trying to
make sense of it. It was quiet but discernible, a
wet, squelching noise followed by a suppressed whimper.
I felt a chill race down my spine.
It was a sound I had encountered before, not in reality, but in
the scores of movies and shows I had listened to.
Someone was being hurt. I felt a surge of fear rise
within me, followed by the instinct to flee.
As quietly as I could, I started to retreat, hoping to disappear
into the night undetected. My attempt at escape, however,
was cut short by a sickening thud, like the sound of a heavy
bag of meat hitting the concrete.
It was followed by a loud yell. Panicked footsteps echoed
through the alleyway, growing louder as they neared.
I froze, backing up against the cold brick wall, heart pounding
like a hammer against my ribs. Hey, you.
A voice thundered, filled with rage and panic.
You weren't supposed to see that.
The voice cut off abruptly. The soft clatter of my dropped
cane followed, and an eerie silence filled the air.
Oh ho ho ho ho, you're blind. The man spoke again, his voice
softer this time but no less terrifying.
I stood there, rooted to the spot, my breath coming in
shallow gasps. I felt the rush of wind against
my face as he waved his hand before my eyes.
My delayed flinch must have confirmed his suspicions.
My, my, the man mused, his voice too close for comfort.
What a unique opportunity I find myself with.
Then, in a bizarre twist, I felt him grab my hands.
Pulling me to my feet, he placed my cane back in my grip.
I was too stunned to speak, too terrified to question What?
What are you doing? I stammered out my mind, racing
to make sense of the situation. I want to walk you home, he
said, his voice casual as if the idea wasn't horrifyingly insane.
I shivered as his hand traced my brow Ridge, a chilling touch
that sent goosebumps spreading across my skin.
I felt a push against my back, jolting me out of my terror
induced stupor. Now walk, he commanded, his tone
icy. And so I started walking, my
heart hammering in my chest, the sounds of the city replaced by
the terror filled silence of my world turned upside down.
We set off my steps, hesitant and his confidently firm.
I couldn't place his voice, couldn't gauge his size or age
or anything that might give me an advantage.
All I knew was that he was the puppeteer now, pulling the
strings of my fear. The city, so familiar a moment
ago, felt like a labyrinth of uncertainty.
A sudden metallic clatter Jarred me, sharp against the silent
backdrop of the cityscape. Oops, sorry, the man muttered,
his tone almost jovial. Dropped the knife.
His words hit me like a punch in the stomach.
The knife. The same knife that had ended
life in the alleyway. My skin turned cold, the grim
reality of the situation settling in.
Why are you doing this? Why don't you kill me?
Why? My voice was barely a whisper,
choked with fear and disbelief. He didn't answer.
His silence was deafening, the only sound being the steady
rhythm of our footsteps. The city seemed eerily still,
the usual cacophony of night sounds replaced by a hollow
quiet. It was as if the world was
holding its breath, waiting for the nightmare to end.
After what felt like an eternity, the familiar contours
of my apartment building came into focus.
Under my touch, relief washed over me, but it was short lived.
I could still feel his presence, A looming shadow that turned the
familiar into the terrifying. I reached for my key, hands
trembling, and unlock the door. There was a brief moment of
silence, then, the feel of a hand on my back, a chilling
breath against my ear. My heart pounded in my ears as
he whispered something, his voice a haunting lullaby that
drowned out everything else. I struggled to comprehend his
words, my mind a whirlwind of fear and confusion.
Have a good night, stranger, he finally said, his tone almost
friendly. I stood there, paralyzed as his
footsteps faded into the night. The echo of his voice hung in
the air, a chilling reminder of the horror I had just lived
through. I stumbled into my apartment,
the door shutting behind me with an echoing thud.
I was safe for now, ensconced within the familiar walls of my
home. Yet I knew the fear would remain
a ghost that had taken permanent residence in my world.
I was no longer the same man who had stepped out for a quiet
dinner earlier that evening. The simple pleasures, the
ordinary routine, everything was stained by the terror of the
night. Alone in the dark, I realized
that the nightmare was far from over.
It had only just begun. I spent the night locked inside,
every sound, every shift in the wind setting, my heart racing.
I was living in a world that had suddenly become a stranger,
every familiarity now cloaked in a shroud of terror.
Sleep was a far off land, unreachable through the
clamoring fear that had settled into my bones.
The morning came with a creeping dawn that I could not see, but
felt in the warmth seeping into my apartment.
I sat there, huddled on my couch, my cane lying lifelessly
by my side. The world had shifted on its
axis, and I was lost within its new, daunting topography.
It was midday when there was a knock on my door.
I froze, my heart pounding, the echo of the knock reverberating
through my apartment. I remained silent, praying
they'd leave, praying it wasn't him.
A few minutes passed, then the knock came again, louder this
time. With a deep breath, I rose and
walked towards the door, my cane tapping nervously against the
floor. Police.
A woman's voice called from the other side.
We're investigating an incident that occurred near here last
night. Can we ask you some questions?
My hand shook as I unlocked the door and let the officers in.
They questioned me about the night before, and I told them
everything I could hear the sympathy in their voices, the
underlying horror at what I had been through.
The encounter ended with a promise to do everything they
could to find the man who had tormented me.
Days turned into weeks and weeks into months.
I tried to find normalcy again, to erase the nightmarish stain
from my life. Yet every echo in the alleyway,
every unexpected sound sent me spiraling back into that night.
I was trapped in a never ending cycle of fear, my world of
prison, of unseen terrors. It was on one of these terror
filled nights as I lay huddled on my bed that I heard it, a
soft tap against my window. Like the wind teasing the glass,
I froze, my heart pounding in my chest.
Then it came again, louder this time.
I reached out, my trembling hand pressing against the cold glass.
You thought you could forget about me?
Hello, stranger, a voice whispered through the darkness,
his voice unmistakably. His laughter echoed through the
night, a chilling lullaby that sank into the depths of my soul.
I was blind and alone, trapped in a world of unseen terrors.
As his chilling words swirled around me, I knew with a
sickening certainty I would never walk alone again.
I'd never been one for the great outdoors.
Not like Jim. Jim was born with a compass in
his hand and a trail map in his head, the kind of guy who could
make a campfire sing. Me, I'm a city boy through and
through, but Jim was my best friend.
The kind you can't refuse. The kind you stick with through
thick and thin. And so when he suggested we take
a few days to trek some trail miles from civilization, I found
myself saying yes. We were rumbling down the old
highway, a Twolane Rd. Hemmed in by dense forest on
either side in Jim's beat up truck that had seen better
decades. Jim had a way of turning the
mundane into an adventure. Remember, it's not the
destination but the journey, he'd say, a grin splitting his
tanned face. His chiseled features, wild
hair, and sparkling eyes were more at home in this wilderness
than in any city. And as much as I found it
annoying, I couldn't help but admire his spirit.
We packed the truck to the gills with supplies.
I kept asking if we needed all that stuff, pointing to the
extra boots, the water filters, the emergency blanket, the bear
spray. Jim would laugh and slap me on
the back. You can never be too prepared,
buddy. The ride was filled with tales
of his upcoming marriage, future in Zurich, his excitement to
make me his best man, and his dreams of European wilderness.
He planned to make the Alps his new backyard.
We shared beers, laughs and songs, making the drive a
memorable one. It was one of those moments
where life felt whole. He was everything I wasn't a
free spirit, fearless, a man of the wilderness.
Me. I preferred my coffee brewed, my
food cooked, and my Wi-Fi strong.
But somehow the wilderness, the promise of an adventure, and a
bond of a decade made me tag along.
As we crossed the county line, I felt a twinge of unease.
I looked at Jim, who was humming along to a country song on the
radio. His eyes focused on the road
ahead. I could tell he was home, ready
for the adventure ahead. Meanwhile, I was unsure, out of
my comfort zone, wondering if my friend's sense of adventure
would get the better of us. But there was no turning back.
Now we're here, buddy. He said, patting me on the
shoulder as he parked the truck at the trailhead.
The forest loomed over us and untamed beast, ready to swallow
us whole. Ready.
Jim asked, looking at me with those twinkling eyes filled with
excitement and a dash of madness.
I took a deep breath, stepping out of the comfort of the truck.
I guess we'll find out, I said, my voice trembling just slightly
as we started our descent into the wilderness.
I had no idea what lay ahead. We started our hike into the
wilderness, the sun warming our backs, our bags full of gear
weighing us down. The trail was beautiful,
untouched. The towering pine trees, the
chirping birds, the crunch of gravel under our boots.
It was a different world from the city.
I was beginning to see why Jim loved this so much.
We had been walking for a couple of hours when Jim stopped
abruptly. He stood looking at something
off the trail. His usually jovial face was
drawn into a serious expression. I walked over to see what had
caught his eye. Lying there in the underbrush
was a body, a woman. Her body was crumpled up, face
down. Her blonde hair fanned out
around her head like a golden Halo.
Her pale skin stood out starkly against the dark greens and
Browns of the forest floor. A chill ran down my spine as I
took in the gruesome sight. Jim knelt down next to the body.
He was quiet, looking her over his experienced eyes, taking in
details that I couldn't see. He was no stranger to death in
the wild. He'd hunted and fished all his
life, but this was different. This was human.
We need to call the police, I whispered.
My voice choked. Jim looked at me, his eyes dark.
We're miles away from any cell signal, buddy.
Silence fell between us. I looked at the woman, my heart
hammering in my chest. She was young, barely older than
a teenager, I realized, my stomach churning.
We need to do something, Jim. We will, he said, his voice
quiet first. We need to be sure there's no
danger around the person who did this might still be around.
His words sent a cold chill down my spine.
My city boy instincts were screaming at me to run to get
away from here. But we were in the middle of the
wilderness, with a dead body and a potential murderer on the
loose. I was way out of my comfort
zone. We searched the area, our eyes
straining for any signs of the killer.
My heart pounded in my chest as every rustle in the underbrush
seemed like a potential threat, but there was nothing.
I glanced back at the lifeless form, an icy hand gripping my
heart. Jim insisted we continue with
our hike, arguing that it was the quickest way to reach help.
We left the body, marked the location on our map, and with
heavy hearts we moved. This was supposed to be a fun
trip, a last adventure before Jim got married and moved away.
It wasn't supposed to be a crime scene.
As we trek deeper into the wilderness, I couldn't shake off
the image of the girl, her lifeless eyes, her pale skin.
Who was she? Why was she here?
And who could have done something so horrible?
As the sun started to set? We set up camp, but there was no
laughter. Tonight, no stories or beers.
The forest was eerily quiet, and the darkness around us felt
heavy with the weight of what we had found.
As I closed my eyes, trying to sleep, all I could see was the
dead girl's face. The next morning was grim.
Neither of us had slept much. Our eyes were heavy with the
lack of sleep in the weight of what we had discovered.
We packed up camp quickly, barely speaking a word to each
other. The usual camaraderie between
Jim and me was missing. Our trek back to civilization
was tense. We moved as fast as we could,
but the dense forest and the rough terrain slowed us down.
The chirping birds, the rustling leaves, the sounds of nature
that usually brought me peace, only heightened my anxiety.
Now each rustle in the brush seemed like a threat.
Each bird's call felt like a warning.
After hours of walking, we saw it, the faint glimmer of a cell
tower civilization. We quickened our pace.
As soon as we had a strong enough signal, Jim called the
police. He gave them our location,
described the scene we had found.
His voice was steady, but I could see the worry in his eyes.
I sat down on a fallen tree, feeling exhausted and shaken.
The wilderness, which had always been a place of peace and
tranquility for Jim and a newfound escape for me, had
turned into something sinister and dangerous.
Jim ended his call and came to sit next to me.
They're sending a team right away, he said.
We did what we could. Now it's up to them.
But who was she, Jim? And who could have done
something like this? I asked, my voice barely a
whisper. Jim didn't have an answer.
He just patted my shoulder and gave me a grim smile.
When the police finally arrived, we led them back to the body.
They roped off the area, started their investigation.
Forensic teams moved around, capturing pictures, collecting
evidence. Jim and I stood off to the side,
watching the grim scene unfold. One of the officers, a gruff man
with a thick beard, came over to us.
He asked us questions about the body, about our hike, about what
we had seen. His questions were direct, to
the point I could tell he was experienced, that he had seen
scenes like this before. When he was done, he thanked us
and told us we could leave. As we walked away, I glanced
back at the scene one last time. The woman's body, now covered by
a police tarp, was a stark reminder of the tragedy we had
stumbled upon. As we drove back to the city, I
couldn't help but think about the woman.
Who was she? What was her story?
And who could have done something so monstrous?
The question circled in my mind, building a knot of worry and
fear. That night as I lay in my bed,
the comfort of my own home did nothing to ease my anxiety.
The image of the woman's body, the eeriness of the wilderness,
the knowledge of the evil that existed, it all weighed on me
heavily. Little did I know, this was just
the beginning. The wilderness had more secrets
to unveil, and they were far darker than anything I had ever
imagined. I sat at my kitchen table,
nursing my morning coffee. When Jim called, his voice was
heavy with urgency, pulling me from my thoughts.
They've identified the woman, he said.
My heart lurched in my chest. I found myself at the local
police station sooner than I'd like, the bitter taste of the
hurried coffee still lingering on my tongue.
The officer who had questioned us at the scene, Officer Wilson,
led us to a small room. I recognized it immediately as
an interrogation room. Too many crime shows, I guess.
He motioned for us to take a seat.
He began to speak, his voice grave.
The woman's name was Sarah Miller.
She was a local, lived in town with her husband and two
children. The family had reported her
missing a week ago. I felt a cold shiver run down my
spine as he relayed the information.
She had a family. She had a life.
She had people who loved her. Wilson's face was stern as he
told us about their preliminary findings.
There were signs of struggle, defensive wounds.
They were treating it as a homicide.
It was everything we feared but hadn't dared to articulate.
Sarah's picture was on the table, her smile eerily
disconnected from the grim discussion.
Her bright eyes seemed to follow me, her joyful expression a
stark contrast to the way we had found her.
The officer went on, talking about their investigation, their
leads, or rather the lack of them.
They didn't have any suspects yet.
Sarah's husband had been cleared.
He had a solid alibi. They had no idea who could have
done this or why. I felt a pang of frustration.
How could such a thing happen and no one had any clue?
The room grew silent. Wilson finished his briefing,
thanked us for our cooperation, and excused himself.
I stared at the photo of Sarah, her face forever frozen in a
moment of happiness. I couldn't reconcile it with the
image of her lifeless body in the woods.
Jim and I left the station in a somber silence.
As we walked to our cars, I couldn't help but glance back at
the police station. It was just a regular building
in our small town, but it held so much weight now I couldn't
shake off the feeling of unease. There was a killer in our midst,
a predator hiding in the wilderness.
The thought was chilling, and yet a part of me knew We
couldn't sit idle. We couldn't let Sarah's death go
unanswered. As I drove home, I couldn't help
but think about Sarah's family. How would they cope with such a
loss? And how could we, as a
community, ensure that this never happened again?
Sarah's murder was more than a tragedy.
It was a violation, a stark reminder of the evil that lurked
in the corners of our peaceful town.
As I parked in my driveway, I made a silent vow.
We would find justice for Sarah. We would find the monster who
had done this that night, as the moon shone brightly in the clear
sky. The peaceful wilderness felt
more like a battlefield, and I knew we were at war.
The whole town was on edge. You could feel it in the air, a
tense quiet that seemed to hang heavy over our once peaceful
town. Whispers in the grocery store,
hushed conversations at the diner.
Everyone was talking about Sarah, and the fear was
palpable. I spent the next few days with a
knot in my stomach, restlessly pacing around my house.
The silence was deafening. The isolation of my cabin, which
I usually found comforting, felt oppressive.
The nights were the worst, the shadows in the woods seeming
more ominous than ever. One afternoon, as I was
attempting to distract myself with some paperwork, Jim called.
His voice was a mix of surprise and disbelief.
It's Pete, he said. They took him in for
questioning. My heart pounded in my chest as
I processed what he was saying. Pete Walker, our Pete.
He was one of us, a well liked and respected member of our
community. Sure, he was a bit of a loner,
living up in the hills, and he had a bit of a temper, but he
was no murderer. I couldn't, wouldn't believe it.
I found myself at the police station again, this time of my
own accord. Officer Wilson looks surprised
to see me, but he let me in to see Pete.
The sight of him sitting behind the glass, his face pale and
drawn, was jarring. This wasn't right.
Pete denied everything. He claimed he was innocent, and
I wanted to believe him. The evidence, however, was
damning. He had been seen arguing with
Sarah a few days before her disappearance.
He couldn't provide an alibi for the night she was killed.
He had a history of violence, bar fights and domestic
disputes. His rifle matched the one used
to kill Sarah. The air in the room grew thick
with tension as Pete pleaded his innocence.
I didn't do it. He kept repeating, his voice
shaking. His eyes, usually so full of
life, were clouded with fear and desperation.
My gut twisted. I left the police station with a
heavy heart. The sun was setting, casting
long shadows over our small town.
Everything felt different, tainted.
Sarah's murder had opened a Pandora's box of suspicion and
fear, and there was no going back.
I didn't sleep that night. The thought of Pete alone in his
cell haunted me. The community was divided, some
voicing their support for Pete, others condemning him.
The piece we had taken for granted was shattered.
I couldn't shake off the feeling of dread.
What if Pete was innocent? What if the real killer was
still out there? As I stared out into the
darkness, the woods seemed to whisper secrets.
There was a killer among us, hiding in plain sight, and we
were his prey. The thought was chilling, but
one thing was clear. We wouldn't let fear paralyze
us. We couldn't.
We had to fight. We had to uncover the truth for
Sarah, for Pete, for our town. In the quiet stillness of the
night, I made another vow. We would not rest until we had
answers. We would not let fear rule us.
We would stand together, united in our pursuit of justice.
Because that's who we were. That's who we are.
A community. A family.
And we would protect our own, no matter what.
Days turned into weeks, and the peace that our town once enjoyed
seemed like a distant memory. The community was torn apart.
Suspicion hung over us like a dense fog.
The look in people's eyes, once friendly and open, was now
guarded and mistrusting. We had changed.
The question on everyone's mind was who did it?
Conversations whispered in shadowed corners about motives,
alibis, and past grudges. Despite our best efforts, Pete's
trial had turned up more questions than answers.
Jim and I pored over every scrap of evidence, every statement.
Our search for the truth became an obsession.
Each lead we followed ended in a dead end, leaving us back where
we started, lost and frustrated. The weight of our collective
failure hung heavy on our shoulders.
Then one night, everything changed.
Jim called me late into the evening.
He had a lead, something we hadn't considered, a piece of
information so significant, so shocking.
It threatened to turn everything we knew upside down.
He didn't share the details over the phone.
All he said was, you need to see this.
When I got to Jim's place, he was pacing the room, his face
pale. He handed me a letter, his hands
shaking as I read the words. A cold chill ran down my spine.
It was a confession. The letter was written by Bill,
the town's goodnatured mechanic, a family man, a friend.
His words were clear, his remorse palpable.
He admitted to killing Sarah. He wrote about the guilt, eating
him from the inside, the torment of carrying such a dark secret.
I felt a mix of emotions as I read the letter.
Shock. Disbelief.
Anger. Bill.
It couldn't be the thought of someone we had known for so
long, someone we trusted being capable of such a heinous act
was terrifying. We drove to Bill's house the
darkness of the night matching the darkness that had descended
on our hearts. The front door was ajar.
Inside, the house was deathly quiet.
And then we found him. Bill was in the garage, lying
motionless on the floor, an empty pill bottle next to him.
It seemed he had decided to escape the torment of his guilt
in the most tragic way possible. The air was heavy with the
stench of gasoline, and a single note lay on the workbench, the
same confession word for word that we had read earlier.
Next to it a matchbox. The realization hit us like a
punch to the gut. Bill had planned to take his own
life and burn everything down with him, leaving behind a pile
of ashes and a terrified, shattered community.
My heart pounded in my chest. The horror of it all was
overwhelming. Our small town had been
transformed into a scene straight out of a horror movie.
The trust we had in each other in our community was shattered.
As we walked out of the house, I glanced back one last time.
The darkness of the garage seemed to engulf everything, a
symbolic representation of the darkness that had descended on
our lives. It was a terrifying end to a
horrifying saga. We had found our killer, but at
what cost? Our town would never be the same
again, our sense of security forever shattered, we were left
with a haunting question. How well do we truly know
anyone?