A few months ago I was watching television in my living room when I heard the first howl. It reverberated through my bones like something from my darkest nightmares, leaving me temporarily immobile with the shock of it. After a few moments I tried my best to regain my composure, reassuring myself with a forced laugh of self-deprecation that it was most likely just a stray dog or coyote. I told myself that it had just startled me with it’s suddenness, nothing more. After all, I reasoned with myself, the mind likes to exaggerate things. The rest of the night passed without further events and I went to sleep having all but forgotten. My dreams, however, were less forgiving. In them I stumbled through darkened woods, heard echoing howls that seemed to come from every direction at once, was haunted by the feeling of piercing eyes following my every movement. When I finally woke a short while before dawn I was covered in sweat. A lingering unease clung to me until daybreak.

The next few weeks were pretty uneventful. Rarely I would, on occasion, hear some strange sounds as if someone was walking in another room or on the porch, but nothing that I wasn’t able to simply shrug off as my imagination. The worst thing that happened was a recurring dream similar to the first I’d had. I would find myself walking down a dark stretch of country road located near my home at night. The dirt road stretched out in front of me, seemingly for an eternity, while the trees on either side formed a dense canopy that only allowed for a few stray shafts of moonlight to illuminate my way. As I walked onward, I would always hear movement to either side, just out of sight. I remember only on rare occasion catching brief glimpses of silhouettes in the dark. But always, always, I could feel eyes on me.

Aside from the occasional dreams, it was about a full month from the first night before I heard the howling again. This time it was not singular, but a series of overlapping howls that gathered to form a melancholy crescendo. It seemed like the howls came from every direction at once and with such piercing clarity that I could have sworn the sources were almost on top of me. I was horrified, there was something that just felt fundamentally wrong about these howls. I covered my ears and closed my eyes, trying to will away the horrendous cacophony. I truly felt like I was going to be driven to pure insanity by the piercing sounds of it all.

As embarrassing as it may be, I was in the fetal position rocking back and forth with my arms over my ears when the howling finally subsided. I was trembling from fear to the point where it must have taken me a full minute to even stand. Trembling, I made quick a lap through my house shutting all of my curtains and ensuring that my doors were locked and dead-bolted, never lingering by any of the windows for long. When I finally reached the sliding glass door leading to my back porch, I heard footsteps. I was just barely able to see the black silhouettes that broke up the faint glow of the moon on my porch. If I’d had the lights on in the room I probably wouldn’t have even noticed until I was only inches away.

Slowly, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my cell phone, all the while aware of the distinct sensation of their eyes upon me. I took one quick picture as my hands trembled, then slowly backed away, unable to stop gazing into those eyes which burned like the coals of hell itself. Eventually I inched back enough to duck into my hallway, sliding to the floor as fear took hold and drained the strength from my legs. With my back pressed to the wall, I fumbled for the hall light switch, part of me expecting to hear the telltale sound of breaking glass at any moment.

Nothing, no glass breaking, no footsteps on the porch. Absolute silence filled the air, not even the chirping of crickets reached my ears. Pulling out my cell phone and staring at the screen, not even daring to look at the picture I had taken, my hands shook as I tried to figure out who to call. Who could I call? “Ghostbusters…” I whispered aloud to myself after a moment, trying to force myself to calm down with a bad joke. The cracked mockery of my voice that came out of my mouth only served to solidify my fear. I remember thinking about what I had just seen, could I really call a friend, family member or even the authorities? Even worse, the gate to the driveway was almost half a mile away and I would have to go to my car and drive the distance to let anyone in.

In the end, I crept to the over side of the hall, cautiously entering my room and retrieving my CZ-52 pistol. I sure as hell wasn’t going to look for a fight, but I decided that I wasn’t about to die without one either. I ended up sitting there against the wall until morning, only mustering the strength to lean around the corner and look out the sliding glass door when the room was bright from the sun’s rays. The porch was empty. With gun in hand, I made a few laps around the house, feeling slightly more confident with the comfort of the sun. The area was clear, I didn’t even find any tracks.

Over the next few weeks I was haunted by the same dreams of being stalked as before. I could see the silhouetted figures more clearly in the trees now as if they were getting closer. I could see the redness of their eyes reflecting in the pale light of the moon. They never howled in my dreams, they barely even made a sound as they crept along and shadowed my movements. A call to animal control revealed little except that a few people reported hearing howling as well. They said that it was normal of coyotes and that the light had played tricks on me. Unconvinced, I made a habit of locking and bolting my doors as soon as I got inside and was always indoors by dusk, with my sidearm always at the ready.

I used the internet to try and figure out what could be going on. I poured through information about canidae. Canis lupus, Canis lupus familiaris, Canis latrans, I researched all of them. What I saw did seem like a wolf or coyote, but those eyes, those howls, they were just so unnatural and unnerving that I couldn’t accept this. Then there was the picture, that blurry picture from my cell phone that showed what I could only pray was a trick of the light. It was as if the creatures exuded tiny tendrils made of shadow that writhed in the air around them. I could only hope they were diseased or covered in wet and knotted hair.

A part of me knew there wasn’t such a clear cut and simple explanation to this, however. Despite wanting to remain skeptical, what I had seen and heard lead me to suspect there was something supernatural and malevolent about these things. Searches lead to stories of barghests and Black Shuck, mythical black dogs that are said to roam the English country side as harbingers of death. I hated to even imagine this as a possibility, that my own death was just slowly stalking me until the time was right, that my end was near.

Trying to allay my fears, I posted the picture I had taken on various forums, ranging from ones about wolves and wild dogs to those dedicated to the occult and supernatural. It seemed that every time I told my story I was either met with ridicule or nut-jobs who linked it all to ludicrous things like alien plots. I caught a few leads eventually in news reports. Stories started popping up from nearby towns of people committing suicide or being attacked by wild animals, people who had reported of hearing eerie howls much like I had. The sites were spread apart and seemingly randomized, but I kept up my search for similar incidents. I had to find something that would prove to myself that I wasn’t simply losing my mind. Sadly, all I could do was keep searching and hope to eventually find some sort of meaning to it all.

Finally, four nights ago my dream changed. After walking for so long I could finally see the end of the road. I was horrified. A few hundred feet in front of me the road simply stopped, vanishing into a wall of trees. In shock, I stood there, staring at the throng of old pines, wondering if I should turn back. I had scarcely a moment to think before I saw it. Out of the center of the mass of trees, plodded a large black wolf-like creature. Barely more than a shadow, its eyes pierced the darkness as it eyed me. Behind those eyes was an unmistakable malice. Even more frightening, there was an unmistakable intelligence in them. I was frozen.

After what seemed like an eternity, the beast sprinted at me. As the distance closed I could see its body clearly covered in flowing black tendrils that flowed in the air as if its very essence was reaching out to devour all around it. Instinctively recoiling, I braced myself for the impact as it lunged at me, covering my stomach and neck to try and save myself. At the very moment in which I knew that everything was over, its haunting howl echoed through the night and caused me to wake up with a start.

My heart was pounding in my chest as I woke, my hand was already reflexively gripping the pistol that I now kept under my pillow. Sitting upright, I was trying my best to catch my breath when I heard and saw it. Like a black smoke it poured through one of the darkened corners of my room, almost seeming to suck the light from the area around it. As more and more started to creep in I could clearly see those damned red eyes that were now dripping with blackened blood and a muzzle full of razor sharp teeth starting to form. What happened in the next few seconds will be forever burned into my brain.

I got off only three shots between the time it had formed and lunged on top of me. I remember in the back of my mind I was shocked that it even had physical form as the impact knocked me backwards onto the bed. My gun was knocked out of my hand as it pinned me and pushed its muzzle towards my throat. Its eyes were burning flashes like cigarettes in the dark, leaving bright trails as it maneuvered for a good bite. With one hand I gripped its throat while with all my strength fighting to keep its gnashing teeth from my neck. While struggling,  the putrid stench of a thousand rotting corpses assailed my lungs as it’s breath washed over me.

With my free hand I groped frantically across my nightstand in a state of panic for some kind of improvised weapon. I was keenly aware of the sensation that my entire body was going numb. Those writhing tendrils of darkness seemed to permeate my very flesh, every where they flowed through my body felt like it was submerged in freezing water. I had lost all sense of feeling in my arm that held the creature at bay by the time my hand touched the base of a familiar metal surface. My touch lamp blazed to life.

In an instant the snarling atrocity which lumbered over me seemed to fade from existence. Nearby I heard a loathsome howl that echoed through my ears like a curse, then dissipated into nothingness. It took hours for me to regain feeling in my arm and my body, but I laid there until morning in complete and utter terror.
Had the light driven it back? Was pure luck the only reason I was now alive? I could scarcely believe that it wasn’t all some sort of hallucination. I wish that it had been something as merciful as insanity.

In bed, I remember pondering my situation. Trying to put some sense to this all. Three shell casings laid strewn across the floor and there were no holes in my wall. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that. It told me a few things, however. There was no blood, but that beast had been hit and I was able to touch it. The sudden bright light seemed to have driven it back, but I had heard it later, so I doubted that it was fatal. It had appeared out of the darkest corner, so it possibly needed to manifest in darkness. Oh yeah, it also stalked me in my fucking dreams and toyed with me, only to then follow me into my bedroom and try to rip my throat out. I had no clue what the hell it was.

I felt like I would never know what was going on. I started leaving all of my lights on all night and switched all of my bulbs to 100 watt. Saving power isn’t exactly high on my list of priorities any more. I’ve tried staying awake forever. Didn’t turn out so well, but I can’t remember what I dreamed of these past few nights. That’s something I really don’t find myself regretting. I’ve heard it nightly; outside, howling, walking around on my porch. I don’t think anyone can ever become accustomed to that accursed howling, but it doesn’t completely paralyze me with fear any more. It may not have been much progress, but it is something.

Last night I had a bit of a breakthrough, although it doesn’t really help my current situation. I’d long ago assumed there wasn’t any chance of actually getting a serious response in any of the forums I had visited and given bits of my story to, but last night I received an email from an alleged government worker. It seems I’m not the only one with firsthand experiences. He has been dogged (if you forgive the pun) by these same beasts for some time now as well, but unlike myself he was able to dig up some information from classified documents that I would never have been able to get to. At first I was extremely skeptical– until I began to read through the information he had sent me. Too many pieces fit into place for it to be sheer coincidence or him making things up.

Although it is a lot of data to process, I’ll relay the story as it was told to me.

————–
Over the past few decades, dogs have been the focal point of myriad scientific experiments. Soviet scientists, for example, used them extensively in their experiments. From studies of the effects of weightlessness on the body to attempts to preserve living organs outside the body. Some died in orbit as the first animals to ever travel into the blackness of space, countless others died deep in underground labs under the surgeon’s knife in countries around the world.

Not all of them, however, remained dead.

Dr. Peter Safar, the inventor of CPR, introduced a concept to the Army that must have seemed laughable at the time. He suggested that you could keep a body in suspended animation for hours by replacing all the blood in a body with an ice-cold saline solution. It was shelved for nearly two decades. But, again, eventually dogs were put on the chopping block in the name of science. Organs were torn and bones were broken, only to be repaired by the ones who did the damage. The saline was drained after hours of operation, blood was re-inserted into the corpses and their hearts were jump-started. Safar was right, you could keep a patient in stasis for hours until they could be operated on, then resurrected. It was an astounding medical breakthrough, one that would soon be twisted into a blasphemous mockery of it’s original purpose.

Despite many practical applications for saving trauma patients and wounded soldiers, this treatment is still not in widespread use, at least not as originally intended. The government decided to do what it had always done with new technology designed to benefit mankind. The decision was made to weaponize it. Once more, due to repeated successful re-animations, man’s best friend was placed firmly in scientists’ sights once more. Thus began the project henceforth known as the Kerberos Project. Whoever gave it this moniker likely thought it was extremely clever.

If only they had known just how fitting their choice was.

It was surmised that, while in this state of suspended animation, procedures which would almost certainly kill a living creature from shock could be carried out with significantly reduced risk. In this vein, the original plan was to test concepts on the canines, which would then be carried over to select active special forces troops if successful. One of the primary goals was to make physiological ‘enhancements’ that would make the test subjects much more resilient in combat. Wolf-dogs were selected as prime test subjects due to their oft larger and sturdier frames that resulted from cross breeding.

The first test subjects were put under with the aim of implanting subcutaneous body armor in the form of layered titanium plates, which would theoretically be able to deflect bullets. While many were able to survive this procedure, the scientists were completely unable to find an acceptable balance between weight and protection. Results varied from dogs who could not move under their own weight which were slightly resistant to small caliber rounds to dogs which were highly mobile but statistically no more likely to survive small arms fire than a dog without the augmentations. Many subjects were lost to suffocation through their own weight, while the lightly armored dogs were simply put under yet again, their armor removed. Eventually the solution was found in sheets of carbon nanotubes, woven into a lightweight ‘fabric’ that was both flexible and able to resist small arms fire. The resulting armor was a mere 0.6mm thick and capable of flexing freely. An astounding seventy percent ratio of tested dogs survived the procedure and showed an astounding resistance to small caliber handgun and rifle rounds.

Having proven the plausibility of a bulletproof super soldier, they began to focus on potential offensive enhancements to the animals. Again and again, the dogs were put into a suspended state and operated on. No real breakthroughs were to occur, however. Notions such as replacing claws and fangs with much sturdier and sharper materials resulted in the animals shredding themselves into grisly ribbons when they attempted to scratch themselves. It was in this period, however, that abnormalities started to make themselves clear. The wolf-dogs that had been under the knife the most started to show signs of instability. They ran into the walls as if chasing an unseen foe, they snarled and growled at vacant corners. It seemed that prolonged and repeated death and re-animation had resulted, unavoidably, in brain damage. The decision was made to continue the studies and to see just how many times the dogs could withstand the process before they were unable to fully function.

The symptoms became worse and worse, the dogs seemed to stare at things that were not there, their ears began to twitch as if listening to sounds unheard. Speculation arose that the animals had begun to hallucinate as a side-effect of brain damage, but the tests were not interrupted. In time, every single of the surviving dogs displayed erratic behavior to some degree. The ones that had been subject to the most experiments had started to even show signs of a weakening vascular system, their heart rates slowed to an almost death defying pace and their eyes began to fill with red as if all their capillaries had burst. Extreme cases began to develop where blood actually started to slowly pour from the eyes and nose of the animals. These cases were accompanied by an inexplicable darkening of the fur and behavior that, if applied to a human, would be classified as paranoid schizotypal behavior. Both fear and aggression were markedly increased, the dogs alternately slunk from and/or bit at anything around them, be it real or imagined. The order came down from the high brass that these red-eyed beasts were too unpredictable for practical applications or to even continue research on. Research was confined to an observation only basis.

Within a week, the first reports of howling on the base began. Dogs began to disappear from their cages, each time with no trace as to how they had escaped. All of the cages found empty had been magnetically locked and there were no records that indicated loss of power. With each night, reports of strange howling grew as the numbers of subjects inside the lab dwindled. Sightings of black ‘wolf’ silhouettes were reported by the guards, often seen vanishing around a corner to never be located again.

The corpses started turning up on the fifth morning. Twelve dead. In the nearest town people were found dead in their beds, at their computers and on their couches. Some had their throats ripped open, others had their entrails devoured entirely. This was easily attributed to the escaped animals, but the most puzzling thing is that a few of the homes had been locked, without any signs of forced entry. Frightened townspeople recounted hearing an ominous howling throughout the night that seemed to be coming from every direction at once. Some even reported witnessing strange movements in the shadows and claimed to have been stalked by creatures by dark red iridescent eyes.

Within sixteen days all of the remaining animals, totaling over two hundred, had inexplicably vanished from their cages. During this period the omnidirectional nightly howling that pervaded the nearby countryside pushed people to their mental limits. Local police were inundated with calls from panicked individuals who had locked themselves in their homes, afraid to turn out their lights or even sleep until morning. It wasn’t until the end of the third week that the death toll began to wane into nothingness. Reports of the eerie howling started to be confined to the most rural of homes before they stopped entirely. The total of missing and dead was tallied at ninety-seven, with eighteen deaths attributed to suicide. Of the suicides, four were notable for happening in the victim’s beds and for a complete lack of physical trauma or traces of known drugs or medications in their blood streams.

In the end, nondisclosure agreements were signed by staff. The government wiped its hands of responsibility and claimed the incidents in town were due to a massive rabies outbreak. All data was classified as Top Secret and summarily filed away.
————–

This is basically the meat of the information he gave me. As far as I can gather from our correspondence, this happened originally in a remote location in Arizona which was blacked out of the files. Given my location in rural South Carolina and the fact that I have only witnessed a few at most, I could only assume that most of these animals have branched off into small packs and been roaming ever since. Sadly, I can’t do anything but speculate on the details of what really happened based on what I’ve seen.  The conclusions I’ve drawn only serve to horrify me even more, but I can’t think of any better explanations.

These dogs were taken into the realm of death dozens of times, only to be ripped back into our world. What if, each time, they took a part of the realm of death itself back with them?  It’s as if they began to see and feel that which exists on both sides of the veil of death simultaneously and it cracked their minds. They underwent this turbulent transformation into some sort of semi-physical manifestation of the other side, becoming literal avatars of death. Now this transformation is complete and they aren’t broken minded killers any more, but stalking agents of the afterlife that like to toy with their victims before taking them down. At will it seems that they can manifest out of the blackness and travel the void between both worlds, somehow neither truly alive or dead, but something in between.

I don’t know if they can be killed, but the light holds them at bay. Earlier, I gathered all of my courage when I heard my demonic stalker on the porch and confirmed this theory. I slowly opened the back door after I had flooded the room with light. I locked eyes with the beast, but he simply glared with hatred through the glass door. He made no attempt to press forward through the light.  It was a horrific few moments, but I had to be sure that the light could offer protection.  I now feel like a prisoner of my own home, but at least I am alive for as long as I have power.

One fear keeps repeating itself in my mind, though. What happened to the four reported dead in their beds with no explanations why? Did they reach the end of the same road that I did and simply never wake up?

They’re out there. They’re hunting.

The only advice I can offer is to keep your lights on… and try not to dream.
Credit To – Wolfen

Last night was the most heart-wrenching and frightening of my life, so much so that I can barely bring myself to contemplate it. By now I will have submitted what occurred during my visit to that cursed place I once called home; a visit which heralded the return of my childhood fears. No matter what foul thing befell me then, nothing could have prepared me for last night.

After waking up to the chilling sight of that toy soldier, bitten in half, I found that the window to my bedroom was slightly ajar. On closer inspection it looked entirely as if the window had been prised open from outside. The latches were bent back, out of position as if subjected to an unrestricted, unbound brute force.

From the outside looking in, I could see three indentations where the unwelcome housebreaker had used some kind of tool to leverage the window unnaturally away from its latch. What was peculiar about those markings was that they seemed to cut across the outside of the window frame like an old uneven razor, unlike a crowbar or other implement which would have merely left a dent where it had been used as a wedge, to force the window open.

Nothing had been stolen and I attempted to rationalise the markings on the window as human-made, and not ‘claw-like’ as they appeared to be. The toy soldier, returned to me so violently, I could not explain. My heart sank at the very thought of it.

I knew it was a message, but it seemed to me to be more of a twisted joke, announcing the arrival of my childhood predator, rather than something to be puzzled over or interpreted.

I spent the morning checking each room of my house and its contents; nothing was missing. I could only hope that whatever that fiend had been in the back seat of my car the previous night, that it had only wished to frighten me one last time, and then be on its way.

Perhaps its reach would be weakened so far from my childhood bedroom.

It is all too easy for any sane person to persuade themselves that a traumatic event is something more benign, but in this instance I could not; that broken toy was not a mere joke, but a promise. A promise that it would return, for what I did not wish to know.

My thoughts naturally tumbled inwards and back to those terrifying nights I had as a child. I was now re-introduced to the apprehension of bedtime, the longing for the day, and the anxiety of night. Like an old and relentless enemy, my fear grew throughout the day, festering inside of me leading to strange and ominous thoughts about the consequences of unwittingly bringing that thing home.

Do not misunderstand me, my fear was not simply for my own safety. As a child I believed that my nightly visitor was transfixed and consumed by wanting me, but I did not feel that my loved ones were in any danger. This, however, had changed. I did worry. This time I did feel nothing but fear for my loved ones, because you see, I do not live alone.

My girlfriend and I moved in together over two years ago. I have caused enough damage now, that I do not wish to speak her name and will simply refer to her as ‘Mary’. Mary and I had had a happy existence and in fact, we were very much in love. This coming Christmas morning I was going to propose to her, but that beautiful moment has now been bitterly taken away from me by that rancid abomination.

I knew that Mary would be home that evening. She works in events and promotion and as a result is often away from home for days at a time, travelling around the country coordinating various conferences and exhibitions. I do not complain about this, as she and I both know that I am a solitary character, and that the odd few days of solitude normally do me good, allowing me to dive headlong into my writing, absorbing each and every word, undisturbed.

Despite this, I always miss her, and with the events of the past week, reliving those torturous nights and then allowing them to return, I had missed her far more acutely than I had ever previously done so.

She arrived at around 6pm and I greeted her with a smile, a warm embrace, and a passionate kiss. I tried to hide my perturbed state of mind from her, but Mary knows me better than anyone I have ever met and immediately enquired:

“What’s wrong?”

I tripped and fumbled through my words as I explained to her that I had written a story about my childhood and that exploring those dark and twisted memories had left me distraught. Mary has an incredibly caring nature and she immediately lay her suitcase and bags on the floor, sat me down on our couch, and with her soft and gentle way, asked me to talk about the whole ordeal.

But I couldn’t!

I couldn’t mention this thing, this wretch which had now found its way to our home; an invisible and twisted invader which had been led there by my idiotic curiosity! At the time I felt that she would think me mad, but now how I wish I had told her the truth!

If there is one thing more damaging to a relationship than a lie, it is a half-truth. Not because it is deceitful, but because it is a corruption of the truth; perverted and abused to suit the teller’s needs.

I told her my half-truth.

I told her about my story, that of the thing in the narrow room and the watcher at the end of my bed, but that is where the truth ended and a lie began. I deliberately and deceitfully mentioned that it was of course just my imagination as a child, and neglected to talk of my experiences of returning to the scene of those depraved crimes. Knowing that she would see the damaged window latch and claw marks, I spun my web as I told a grand tale about waking up to a burglar attempting to break into our house, and having to chase them away.

I was quite the hero. I lied to her, and she showed me great sympathy and kindness for my deception.

I was embarrassed by the truth then, and I am ashamed of my lie now. If I had been truthful, then perhaps we could have faced this menace together, but instead that thing took advantage of my dishonesty and put a wedge between us.

The events of last night desecrated the most important thing in the world to me.

Night time arrived in all of its bleakness, and was unwelcome. I lay in the darkness, waiting. Mary was sound asleep next to me, each breath a soothing reminder of companionship, but despite my growing aversion to loneliness, I would have no sleep that night. I knew from experience that when my uninvited guest would show itself, it would do so with subtlety, increasing its grip on me with each visitation as if requiring time to build up its strength; a leech feeding on my fear for succour.

My nerves kept me on edge, which fought back the oncoming onslaught of sleep admirably. In the end though, biology won and as my bedside clock lumbered towards 4am, sleep took me; the relaxing blanket of nightly oblivion, anxiety washed away, my worries a distant memory, sinking deeper into the soft mattress below and finally into a long sought for rest.

Sleep, no matter how deep, is rarely all encompassing. For as I hovered over the cusp of a dream, something began to bother me. Something invasive, yet distant. I slowly opened my eyes and allowed them to adjust to the darkness. Mary lay soundly asleep and I calmed myself by listening to her breathing in the night. Inhale was followed by exhale, again, and again, rhythmically, hypnotically, I began to drift towards sleep once more.

But, no. There it was, something else, distinct yet undefinable.

It was distant, out of the way, almost obscured or smothered as if coming from…behind something. I strained my ears in an attempt to define it, but it was all too quiet. I remained in the bed for several more minutes, but with each passing second that almost inaudible sound grated on me, like broken glass on a raw nerve.

Sleep was now abandoned, and with much frustration I decided to reluctantly investigate the source of the noise. I sat up in the bed and listened intently. It was unlike any other sound I had ever heard. Quiet, low, but as my mind adjusted to the noise I slowly began to piece its nature together. It was most certainly obscured by something, but the closest thing I could relate it to…was a repetitive murmur.

I heard something similar previously when I was a child visiting my Grandmother in a nursing home. A place which had left an impression on me, seeing the wandering residents confused and of a fractured mind, meandering around the grounds like lost inmates murmuring repetitively to themselves of days gone past, repeating nonsensical phrases and words.

This is what it reminded me of; a continuous stream of indecipherable words, uttered by someone in the throws of confusion.

I turned to check on Mary, watching her chest rise and fall with each breath. Assured that she was undisturbed, I left the bed. As I stood up I recognised immediately that the murmuring was louder. While dark, I had left a light on in the hall as I always do which crept under the door and allowed me to view the room in a dim, but visible way.

I looked around to see if anything was out of place, but the room appeared as expected. My mind ambled back to that night as a child in the second room, when noises could be heard from some unseen, yet ever-present menace.

I took a step forward and as I did so the noise once again grew in volume. While I was still at a loss in deciphering the words, I could now hear the character of the voice. It was old, scratched by age with a harsh, guttural undertone to it. The words were being repeated at a frantic pace and seemed anxious, yet muffled by some unknown barrier.

I was frightened, but I drew strength from Mary being in the room, and with a deep breath filled with trepidation, I took another slow, and silent step forward, my bare feet cushioned by the cold floor below.

Again, the voice became louder. I wasn’t sure if I was imagining it, but I could have sworn that it had become more agitated as I drew closer. The next step I took, shook me to my very core, for as that murmuring, garbled voice grew louder still; amongst the rambling, gravelled sound of it, I heard a word. A word which shot an icy shudder through my bones. A word to be feared.

It spoke my name.

Dear God it knew my name! To me it was as if knowing who I was somehow endowed that thing with an unlimited reach. That I may never be rid of it. That it could kill me at any moment.

Something suddenly caught my eye, a movement accompanied by a ruffle of cloth. I knew now where that rhythmic, agitated voice originated. I knew now why it was muffled and difficult to decipher. I could now see it, only a few feet in front of me.

Standing.

Standing behind the closed curtains.

The moon was in its ascendancy outside, and while its glimmer could not entirely penetrate the thick cloth, it could barely, and faintly, outline the thing watching between my window and the curtains. I cannot now convey the strangeness which then overcame me. My anxiety and terror had heightened, but an unusual compulsion, an untimely sense of purpose took me over.

I had to see what it was.

I took another tentative step towards the curtains. They swayed slightly as if caught by a breeze, but I could not tell whether the movement had been caused by myself, or the hand of that thing hiding behind a shroud of cloth. I was now close enough to hear its laboured breathing, the displacement of fluid at the back of its throat palpable with each inhalation.

This was it.

I was going to confront this monstrosity from my past, this tormentor of children, this coward. Raising my right hand slowly, I accidentally touched the fabric of the curtain, causing a subtle ripple which parted the them momentarily. I gasped, for through that temporary slit, only for a moment, I saw it.

My God, how can I describe what was standing there? Even now, I close my eyes and wish that I could erase it from my memory. It shivered and shook as it continued to murmur, repeating some indecipherable phrase, sounding like a bizarre mixture of numerous languages. Its emaciated skin stretched over an unnatural frame of brittle and prominent bones; vertebrae, ribs, and other inner workings almost protruding through its paper thin, pale, languidly pink, and almost bruised looking husk. As malnourished as it appeared, the stomach was distended in places and its bony appearance did nothing to diminish the feeling that it was capable of exerting itself with brute, perverted force on any of its victims.

Sickness swelled in my stomach, a tainted, offensive smell filled the air, and as it murmured and whispered in the darkness through what sounded like broken, fractured teeth, I could not help but feel pity for this wretch, quivering in the night as if victim of a long starvation.

I quickly came to my senses and realised that this thing was not to be pitied, but feared. Not to be understood, but exposed. It was not shivering because it was cold, it was shaking with excitement, like a drug addict anticipating their next dose.

Standing there contemplating what I had just seen between the curtains, I once again prepared myself to remove its shrouded, clothed protection and to reveal it for what it was; a cold hearted vandal, a prowler of the worst kind, a deviant festering in its own delectation.

As I once again raised my hand to draw the curtain, something caught my attention. Its incessantly confused, gravelly, and inarticulate whispers squeezed through that broken mouth and uttered the three most terrifying words I have ever heard.

“Look behind you”.

A cold breath slid down the back of my neck.

Momentarily I froze, but love is a powerful motivator. Had I been on my own, fear would have taken me, shaking any possibility of resistance from my mind, but with Mary sleeping soundly in the same room as that thing; shielding someone I loved from that wretch was my only thought.

I turned around slowly and as I did so, I could hear it wheezing, gasping, groaning for air. At a quarter turn, I could smell its breath, the stench of death hung in the air, plague-like and foul. Then, I heard another voice. It was not that horror in the darkness, but Mary. She let out a scream which startled and distressed me to my very core. A scream which will haunt me for the rest of my days.

I turned quickly and laid eyes on it, but it wasn’t behind me, it was on the bed! It writhed and rasped, wheezing in delight, its bony spine curved with the anguish of countless years protruding through a ragged, torn piece of cloth which hung loosely over its torso, in a vain attempt to appear almost human.

But was it human? Had it once been human? Or was it something so vile, so despicable, so utterly and sorrowfully contemptible that no man or woman could ever attempt to quantify or understand it?

I sprung forward towards it, grabbing, hitting, pulling at that thing with every ounce of my strength, its loose skin slipping through my hands. It squeezed and forced Mary’s face into her pillow with glee, as its other limbs arched and contorted, tearing at her nightdress, running its long, starved fingers over her naked body with its sordid caress.

Mary’s screams were muffled by the pillow as I began to fear that she was being suffocated.

I shouted, I yelled, I pleaded with that thing to leave her alone, to take me, to do anything it wanted, but that only served to animate the fiend to even greater depths of depravity. It was hurting her, cutting her… my beautiful Mary.

Suddenly it stopped attacking her, but it still kept one of its brittle, gangly, and gaunt yet weighted hands on the back of Mary’s head, pushing her face further into her pillow. I had my hands around its putrid neck, trying as best I could to strangle the beast, but my efforts were in vain. Its scrawny frame belied its overpowering strength. I watched in sickly disbelief as it began to run its cadaverous fingers through Mary’s hair, slowly, and almost with affection.

I could now here the twisting and cracking of bone, the popping of cartilage, the snapping of tendons.

Thank God it was not coming from Mary! I was now on its back with my arm wrapped around its throat, and my chin rubbing against the abrasive skin of its shoulder. As its spine dug sharply into my stomach, it twisted its head in an entirely inhuman way. Its neck clicked and groaned under the strain with every arthritic movement, as if hindered by a thousand years of rigamortis.

It was now looking at me.

I have heard it often said of some people that they cannot see the forest for the trees, but now I truly appreciate that sentiment, so close was I to its black, icy stare that I could not take in its surrounding features.

I increased my grip, I swore, I screamed, I would have torn its throat out if I could have, but it was all in vain as it continued to run its scrawny fingers through Mary’s hair nonchalantly while looking at me.

I don’t think I will ever truly recover from the sound which seeped out through what I assumed to be its approximation of a grin; a wheezing sigh; a grunt; something which sounded very close to a sinister, otherworldly laugh.

As its face touched mine, its eyes stared deep into me. Not even my reflection was returned; two looking glasses into a sanctuary for the dark, devoid of light, happiness, and love. It was staring as if it wished to say something, as if it was trying to communicate a simple idea to me.

Malice.

With a wrenching, stuttered and violent movement, it tore an entire fistful of hair from Mary’s head leaving behind it an open wound. Then it was gone. Mary did not scream, she merely whimpered. I turned the bedside lamp on, but no words of care or sympathy could console her.

She wept uncontrollably.

The bed was soaked in blood which had seeped out from the numerous scratches on her back and the large cut where an entire section of her hair had once been. I hugged her, told her that everything would be all right; then she looked at me.

Looking at her tear filled eyes I knew what she thought immediately. She thought I had attacked her, that I had done those terrible things to her. Of all the experiences I have had, the look of betrayal, disgust, and contempt on Mary’s face will remain the most painful.

She is gone.

After composing herself, she gathered up some things and left. I tried to explain, I tried to tell her everything that had been happening, but she would not listen. Who would believe such a preposterous story? She simply said that she would not call the police, but that if I ever attempted to contact her, she would do just that. To her, I was the aggressor, not that thing. As she left, she turned to look at me one last time and then burst in to tears.

I know now that I have lost her forever. The woman I love more than anything on this earth thinks I am a violently hideous human being. If only she could understand that whatever did this, that it was not human, and if it ever was, it had long since abandoned that nature.

It was 5am when Mary left me; it’s 9am now. I am sitting here in the cold light of day at my kitchen table, writing this so that there is some record of what has transpired, so that people know, so that Mary knows, that whatever happens, that whatever occurs from here on in, that it was that despicable creature from my childhood, from that cursed narrow room all those years ago which rained this misery down upon me; upon us.

I must now dispense with the sentiment. I could easily sit here mourning the loss of my relationship with Mary, or I could allow myself to be overcome with fear; to do nothing. But that simply will not do.

I can hear the laughter of my neighbour’s children outside. At different stages in my life, I remember that same feeling of joy and happiness from something as simple as playing with friends, or climbing a tree, or kissing the woman you love, or even drifting off to sleep at bedtime to dream of what could be, in the safety of a happy family home. Memories, only memories…I fear I will never experience that happiness again. This thing has broken me. But I am resolute. Whatever that hideous wretch has in store, whatever it desires to do with me, I will not allow that thing to harm another person, or to invade another child’s life as it did mine all those years ago.

I must leave you all now as there is much to be done before it gets dark, before it returns. My plans are made and with any luck they will succeed. I wish I could say we will speak again, but I think that is unlikely. I hope you understand what must be done.

Because tonight, I’m going to kill it.

Credit To – Michael Whitehouse
Note: This story is part of a series. You can read the first installment here – Bedtime
Look forward to more installments being posted over the next few days!

Staring at the tree, whiskey in hand, Pete was pleased that this year would be different from the last. It had been the strangest time of his life, but he truly felt like things were finally coming together, and when better to come together than at Christmas? A time he loved more than any other.

In some ways the past year had been like an eternity, in others as if it had succumbed to time in the blink of an eye, but either way he was glad to see the back of it.

Staring at the Christmas tree, its beautiful lights casting a warm hue over the room, and the snow quietly falling outside as the sun set, Pete began to think of the past year, of his daughter Lana, and his wife Janet.

It had started with a very normal December, 12 months earlier. The small town in which they lived was covered in a thick layer of snow, the residents spending most of their days clearing driveways, and Pete’s wife going off for one of her usual wanders.

She had been gone for a couple of hours, but while Janet was utterly devoted to her family, she still needed moments to herself. To clear her head. To diminish the stress that comes with a loving yet disorganised husband, and a little girl who was kind, but whom enjoyed trying her parents’ patience as much as possible.

When the tensions of a domestic life clouded her feelings, or began to weigh on her spirits, Janet would wander out of the back door into the fields and woodlands which characterised the entire area, and trek for a little while through the pines which dotted the landscape.

It therefore wasn’t unusual for her to be gone for fairly long periods, especially since it was around that time of year when she would take it upon herself to choose the Christmas tree. No matter how much Pete or Lana asked to help out; this was Janet’s job. She loved the tradition of it, the process of choosing the best possible tree, cutting it down, and then seeing the bright smiles on her family’s faces, as they would gleefully take the tree indoors and decorate it with sparkling glitter garlands, warm glowing lights, and an array of festive baubles.

It was a small Highland town, where they lived, far away from any major city, but Janet and the rest of her family loved their home. The simplicity of it, the feeling of being an integral part of a close-knit community, and of course the beautiful surroundings, lush during the Scottish summer and cold, crisp, stark but yet awe inspiring in the winter. Most importantly, she loved the pine woods nearby, specifically a collection of trees which sat at the top of a small hill within walking distance from the house: Perfect for picking a Christmas tree! She would return there each year, and while their numbers thinned due to a few other neighbours going there for the exact same purpose, there were enough trees to last a good many years.

When she had been gone for three hours Pete began to grow nervous, as this was longer than usual, and since it was getting dark, he took it upon himself to venture outside, telling Lana to lock the doors after him, and that he would not be long. Lana laughed when he told her that he expected that mummy was struggling through the snow with a huge tree; bigger than any other they had ever had!Pete loved to see the excitement in his daughter’s face at this time of year, and he told her to watch from her bedroom window to see what they would bring back. With this, she excitedly ran up the stairs straight to her window before he had to call her back down to lock the door.

Gazing at the beautiful tree, he could remember that night like it was yesterday.

The snow was crisp on the ground and crunched under his feet as it began to freeze. Small flakes fell from the sky occasionally, but Janet’s footprints remained uncovered. Even without them, Pete knew where they were heading.

The hill where Janet returned each year was only a forty minute hike away. She would pick a pine tree from there. In fact sometimes she picked two. One around six foot, the other a young tree about half the size, if they could find one suitable. It was difficult at times to find smaller trees as they seemed to be rare in that area. Everyone in the town seemed to like the idea of having a small tree in their children’s bedrooms, so people would climb up there with an axe and take what they wanted, so there weren’t as many at hand. Lana at one time had thought it was sad to cut down and kill the trees just for people to look at, but Pete explained to her about tradition and that he was sure more would grow back. With time, she forgot this protest and looked forward to the years when she could have one. If a smaller tree couldn’t be found, they had a lovely synthetic one which would sit at her window – secretly she loved this just as much, but as her father had said: ‘Tradition is tradition’.

The larger tree would be placed in the living room and adorned with an assortment of baubles, glittering decorations, and lights. The other, in Lana’s room, would be sprayed with a can of fake snow and covered in hanging candy sticks and chocolates. Although she was always told she could only have one a day before bed as a treat. Of course occasionally she would break this rule and just hope no one would notice. Janet could always tell, but she would let it go. Christmas time was the best of times after all, and it was so brief.

As Pete approached the hill, he knew something was wrong; he felt it in his bones. As he climbed, the snow began to fall in greater volume and the sky dimmed with it. Standing at the humble summit, a stillness spread; silence interrupted momentarily by the almost audible patter of snow flakes floating gently to the ground.

He followed the footprints now with purpose, knowing that if the snowfall increased that it would be nearly impossible to find Janet. Twilight fell, covering everything in a dark blue wisp of colour, as the frost began to nip at his now rosy cheeks. The footprints bobbed and weaved their way through the huge pines, finally stopping next to a wonderfully thick and vibrant tree. One which was perfectly suited for their purposes. The perfect size; almost seven foot tall, a deep life-filled green, and a thick abundance of branches and pines which made it almost impossible to visually penetrate its cover in such a light. But yet Janet was nowhere to be seen, and as far as Pete could tell there were no other tracks in the snow leading away in any direction. She had most certainly been here, but where had she gone?

This was both puzzling and worrying. It seemed impossible, but there they were, Janet’s last two footprints engraved in the ground, but the snow all around, virgin, undisturbed, and lacking all signs of life. It was as if she had just vanished into the night.

Looking at the base of the tree Pete ran his fingers over a deep gash in its trunk. There was no doubt about it; Janet had taken a few swipes at it with her axe. Then for some unknown reason, she had left, or perhaps moved on to a tree she felt was more suitable.

Surely not though? This tree was perfect!

That must have been it though, she must have moved on. Perhaps there was some random, freakish flurry of snow which covered her tracks. Yes, that must have been it. But Pete knew this was wishful thinking. He had lived there for years, and in all of that time he had never seen such a thing.

Then he saw it. Several metres away lying in the snow, was Janet’s axe. He rushed over to the object, falling once as the snow deepened. Rising to his feet it was now unmistakeable. Yes, it was partially covered in snow, but it was Janet’s axe all right. It lay there much like the footprints, isolated but with the absence of any human imprints. It was as if the tool had been dropped from a great height, but Pete did not care to speculate. A sense of growing worry permeated his mind as the thought of Janet lying somewhere injured increased his anxiety.

Shouting his wife’s name repeatedly drew no reply as darkness now began to creep ever closer. If she was hurt, he would have to raise the alarm and get the town out looking for her, along with mountain rescue. She wouldn’t survive long in the snow, in that biting cold. At this thought the panic grew; worry, fear, hurt that can only be felt through love.

With torch in hand he continued in the direction the axe had taken him. As he entered a thick den of pine trees, he noticed the broken branches littered on the ground as if something had rushed passed, tearing them apart and breaking them off on impact.

Maybe Janet ran through here?

The scale of the damage, however, looked too great to have been dealt by one person alone. Had he been in any other country he would have assumed a bear was nearby, but they had been hunted to extinction in Scotland long ago, along with the wolves and any other predators. For a moment his torch reflected off of something scuttling under a bush, but it looked more like an insect than anything else, and again far too small to cause such devastation.

Pete fixed his scarf, trying to cover his face as the frost bit deeper, but just as he did so, something caught his eye. Something on the ground. Shining his torch on what he at first thought to be a dead animal, was the crumpled body of Janet, lying still on the ground.

A heart attack they said. A heart attack! But Pete had seen her face, he had looked upon those eyes once so filled with kindness, transfixed in a frozen stare. Cold, glassy, black with fear. Her hands were clenched in front of her and the pathologist told him that this was perfectly normal for one suffering such a massive heart attack in such low temperatures. As was the contorted look on her face, although at the mention of this Pete saw a flicker in the pathologist’s eyes which gave away that he was as puzzled by that look as anyone. A look Pete would never forget. Darling Janet, love of his life, mother of his children. Dying alone in the cold, with lips pulled back over teeth in agony, frozen into an inhuman sneer.

The whole ordeal had devastated him. If it hadn’t been for their daughter Lana, for the necessity of her needs to be met before his own, Pete would have found it nearly impossible to have gotten through it.

The past twelve months had been cluttered with reminders of an aching loss. As with any bereavement, the first time of doing something once shared without that person made the pain more acute. The first Christmas, the first day at work, the first walk to school, the first family get together; every person’s face etched in concern accompanied by the usual well-meaning but empty traditions of ‘how are you holding up?’, ‘It must have been so difficult’, and ‘If there’s anything I can do…’.

Helping his daughter through the loss of her mother was all he had to make sure he could face another day.

But that stopped now. They had been through the horror, through the denial, through the silent meals, through the lonely cries of despair at night, through the birthdays empty and sombre; they had been through it all. All these ‘firsts’ were over. It had been over twelve months since Janet’s death and Pete felt almost exhilarated by this. He still missed her everyday, the pain would never truly leave him, but the feeling of accomplishment, of strength – something which he thought had deserted him – that he had endured, filled him for the first time with thoughts of the future; thoughts that life does indeed go on, even when our dearest have gone before us.

And what of his beautiful daughter? Dear, kind Lana. He may have felt compelled to bring her through the past year, but her empathy and strength had left him in awe. Characteristics which someone so young had no right to possess, but which were thankfully present nonetheless.

When she had cried he had been there, and on more than one occasion when he lay sobbing, staring at that empty void of space in his double bed at night, Lana would waken and climb in beside him, and they would both cry together until they fell asleep.

She was his rock, and by God she was going to have the best Christmas she’d ever had. Pete had made a number of arrangements. He had spent a fortune on every gift imaginable, he had filled the house with every food and treat that she enjoyed, and both Janet’s parents and his own were flying in for Christmas dinner to be with their brave, sweet little granddaughter. He’d also organised for Lana’s friends to have a sleepover on Boxing day which she had pleaded for, but Pete always knew he would give in eventually. She never asked for much, but this year, this Christmas she would have more than she could imagine.

The house was perfect, but there was one thing left to do. One thing that Pete had dreamt of since the night he found Janet’s body. She had chosen that tree. It was going to be sitting in their living room adorned with all manor of decorations. That was its purpose, its very reason for being. Janet never finished cutting the damned thing down. It was in many ways her dying act, and Pete was going to make sure that it was fulfilled.

On the anniversary of her death, he wandered through the snow, winding his way through the pines until he stood at the foot of that ominous little hill. The sun shone brightly and it wasn’t as cold as it had been the night Janet died, but each footstep was accompanied by a sickness in the pit of Pete’s stomach. Each stride a morbid reminder of the previous year, and that terrible heartbreak in the snow.

Marching to its peak, he first walked to, and observed the scene of Janet’s untimely death. Standing there where her body had laid, Pete wiped the tears from his eyes and placed a small Santa figurine on the ground, burying it in the snow. It had always been hung from the branches of each yearly tree, and was her favourite decoration, it seemed only right that it be with her.

After another few minutes of trudging, there it was. It was still standing! That damned tree! As if ravenous for revenge, Pete pulled Janet’s axe from his backpack and charged at the pine. He battered and chopped at the cut which Janet had made the previous year, making it deeper with every slice, with every pound of pressure he could muster.

The tree groaned and creaked as if in pain, but Pete did not care. This tree was the final reminder of Janet’s death. Whatever had happened that night, it happened because of that tree. As crazy as it seemed, it all made sense for a moment, and then clarity was clouded by mundane reality.

She had simply died of natural causes.

With the roar of cracked wood breaking under its own weight, the tree swooned and collapsed to the ground in defeat. Tying a rope around its trunk, and then using string to fold its branches inward, Pete dragged that memory, that cold hearted pillar of nature’s brutality through the snow, over grass and gravel, and finally to his back door.

He was victorious.

With little thought for carpet or furniture, he dragged it up the stairs into the house and placed it in front of the window in the living room, wedging it upright into an old wooden stump they had used as a stand every year. Breathless and covered in sweat, he stood back looking at the tree standing tall over all it surveyed.

You picked a good one love. You picked a good one.

He held back the tears and waited for Lana to return home from her friends. Pete put an old Christmas film on the television as they both decorated the tree together, singing, laughing, and being a family. There were moments, fleeting glances when they caught one another’s stare. A glance which showed pain buried deep down inside. One which said: I miss her too.

But it was Christmas, and the moments of grief passed, buffered by longer, caring, periods of happiness. Contentment caressed smiles from ear to ear, and festive spirit once more filled that home, which had for too long been host to loss and anguish.

As night began to fall, after Lana went to bed – earlier than usual because the excitement had worn her out – Pete decided to reward himself for the day’s efforts. The lights were dimmed, and after pouring himself a large whiskey, he sat on the living room couch and stared at the tree. Draped in tinsel garlands and adorned with bright white Christmas lights, it really was a sight to behold. The best tree they had ever had.

‘Here’s to you, gorgeous’ Pete said, lifting his drink to the sky in a symbolic gesture.

Staring at the Christmas tree, its beautiful lights casting a warm hue over the room, and the snow quietly falling outside as the sun set, Pete began to think of the past year, of his daughter Lana, and his wife Janet.

Time passed slowly as he thought of all things gone, how they had led to this moment through pain and suffering, but now hopefully onwards to the future, and one filled with at least the briefest possibility of joy.

The glow from the tree reflected off of the window, but it penetrated far enough to illuminate the now thick blur of snow, falling to the ground silently outside. The room remained dark, but the lights bathed everything subtly in a warm Yuletide radiance, which when accompanied by the orange lambency of the fire only served to cultivate the anticipation for Christmas even more so.

For the first time in a year, Pete was happy.

Something bothered him though. There was a slight apprehension or annoyance at the back of his mind. Something which was spoiling the display. Sipping at his whiskey, casting a glance at the entire room, he finally saw what the problem was; two of the Christmas tree lights were occasionally flickering. Not constantly, but often enough to be noticeable, and more importantly, aggravating.

Downing the rest of his drink, Pete rose to his feet, now feeling the aches in his muscles from the effort exerted while dragging that thing all the way home from the hill. Walking over to the tree the lights were indeed flickering, but there was something unusual about them. They seemed deeper than the rest, as if coming from around the trunk, rather than resting on the branches. Again, Pete was struck by how dark the interior of the tree was. That even in the presence of many lights placed upon it, he could not peer, or adequately see between the branches. Even the two lights which sat deeper behind the pines did not seem to illuminate their surroundings in any way.

The empty glass slipped from his fingers, smashing on the floor.

The lights were fine, they were not flickering at all, but the occasional blinking of two eyes amongst the branches had been enough to catch his attention. He froze to the spot, and it was as if the room grew somehow darker. Something stirred between the pines, between the knotted wood, and the scratched porous surface; something lived there. A feeling of utter paralysis now took hold, his feet firmly glued to the ground as the two eyes slowly pushed forward. Creaking and cracking, a face revealed itself from between the pine covered branches, as if seeping out from its innermost visceral point. Mould covered, ancient, its features twisted in rage.

Fear began to course through Pete’s veins. His heart beat faster and faster as the face moved closer, its eyes devoid of pupils now swamped in a maddening yellow, and from below, the protrusion of two thin, moss covered legs arching out from between the branches. With a creak and snap, it straightened itself now standing in all of its terrible glory in front of the tree.

It was now pitch black outside, and it would have been clear to Pete that this animal, this creature was of a nocturnal nature, but in its stare he found himself helpless. His heart skipped. First it was a palpitation, then he could feel a searing pain in his left arm. He clutched his chest, but his feet remained adhered to the ground and it was impossible to look away from those yellow unmarked eyes.

Its gaze came closer still, and in the pain which it brought, Pete knew he was going to die. To be found like Janet, cold, face contorted, and the second victim of that which lived amongst the pines on that hill.

The pain was now unbearable, but the paralysis removed the possibility of a scream. What little light there was from the fireplace now illuminated its head, elongated on one side and pulsating on the other, its face dominated by a large dark hole which appeared in place of a mouth or nose. One which no light could penetrate. As its boil ridden head stooped to meet his own and the hole in its face almost touched his mouth, an involuntary sneer pulled Pete’s lips up to reveal his teeth, as his face contorted into an entirely unnatural position.

Then that one word. A word so powerful, so pure that even the most evil of intentions could be dispelled by it:

‘Daddy’.

With the snap of wood, the gargoyle-like creature turned its wide, yellow gaze to Lana. Standing at the bottom of the stairs in her pyjamas, her scream echoed out into the night. Arms outstretched, its odd-numbered fingers moved with a stutter as its moss covered legs groaned, carrying it forward in a peculiar unbalanced motion towards her.

Now Lana was paralysed by its stare, and with each step closer, her face contorted more fiercely, and the pain in her chest brought her to the point of unconsciousness. As intense as its ancient gaze was, it was focused. So focused that it did notice Pete clawing his way across the floor towards the kitchen.

The wooden creature’s unsure movements made it appear more like a puppet than a thing of autonomous purpose, and as it reached Lana, it cupped her face in its uneven hands and stared wide eyed and pupil-less into her face. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

The sound of feet running filled the air, and as it twisted to investigate, a loud crack was heard as Pete ran up onto the couch, jumping high into the air bringing Janet’s axe down deep into its spine.

No blood ran or gushed, but a plague of unfamiliar insect-like critters poured out of the wound. Instead of a howl of pain, the creature emitted a crescendo of strange squeals and clicks before throwing Pete to the ground and smashing through the back door.

Lana’s father gave chase, but it was impossible, as the wooden creation moved at an unimaginable pace, gliding on the ground with each stride, leaving no footprints in the snow.

After a visit to the nearest hospital, both Lana and her father were given a clean bill of health, but they never returned to that house, filled with memories of the good times, the happy times; of a mother, a wife, a kind soul; of birthdays, and weddings, and of course, of Christmas time.

Pete didn’t know what that creature was, whether it was alive, or dead, or something else entirely inconceivable to human mind, but he made a solemn promise to himself from that moment on: Never again would he cut down a tree, decorate it, and take enjoyment in its appearance as it died, because no matter how pretty they are, no matter how much warmth they may give, no matter how much they might make people think of Christmas; you just don’t know what may be living inside.

Credit To – Michael Whitehouse

A few days ago I submitted two nightmarish accounts from my childhood, perhaps you best read them to truly comprehend what has befallen me. I had been compelled to silence, gripped by the irrational fear that somehow even after all of these years, should I speak of it, that those things would seek me out and once again wreak havoc on my life.

In the name of science and reason I confronted those fears and set out to vanquish those tormented memories once and for all by sharing them with others, exposing them for what I believed they were; the delusions of a troubled child. I have held on to my scepticism and rationality for dear life, I have allowed them to define me, but this morning I was presented with verifiable, physical evidence. Evidence of what I do not know, but it cannot be ignored, and it seems strange to me that the last few days have been so tainted by apprehension and misfortune after finally breaking my silence, that I can no longer rely upon entirely conventional explanations.

In the wake of sharing those traumatic experiences I had as a child, I have been plagued by an overwhelming sense of unease. Initially, I attributed this to the fear I had experienced in simply recounting and reliving those terrible events in my mind, but as the days past it felt like so much more; a feeling of impending doom consumed my every thought.

While sleep came to me, rest did not. Each morning I awoke, my nerves on edge, as if deprived of sleep for an age. Nothing overtly frightening happened during the first few nights, no visitation, no unwelcome bedfellows, no wheezing breaths reaching out from deep within my bedroom walls, but I had that distantly familiar feeling of not being alone.

Do not misunderstand, I did not sense someone in the room with me. I did not hear, smell, or feel anything remotely supernatural, but throughout my days and nights I have sensed something subtle, almost on the periphery of my awareness; the feeling that something is on its way, something is coming, like the first few stagnant blasts of air from a subway tunnel, heralding the arrival of a lurching, unstoppable monstrosity; surprising, yet expected.

My sense of unease grew with each passing day, pushing its way under my skin, deep into my mind like some form of cancerous infection. I tried to focus my attention on various writing projects in a vain attempt to fill my mind up to the brim with other thoughts, hopefully leaving no room for those contaminated memories, but those thoughts came to me nonetheless.

My anxiety gained momentum until I could think of nothing else. I had to do something! I had studied Psychology for years at university, with this I knew that anxiety is often the result of a loss of control, and that one of the most effective ways to combat it is to empower oneself; this is what I intended to do. Call it foolhardy, but I was going to go back to that place, that house where those terrible events took place. I was going to confront those memories and expose them for what they were; nonsense.

It was an hours drive to my old home, but it was one filled with elation. I was confident, at ease, happy; I was in control now and nothing was going to get in my way from showing that the place I had feared my entire life was nothing but an average, humdrum, harmless little suburban house.

Gleefully negotiating the country roads and then motorway, finally I made it to the city. Gradually the streets began to take on a familiar appearance. Memories of playing in that neighbourhood came flooding back to me; a play park with my favourite slide, an ash pitch where we used to play football, my school yard filled with hide and seek and friendships long since abandoned, but never forgotten.

My mind wandered through those memories like a prodigal son walking home; wandered so much so that before I realised it, I was pulling into the street where I had once lived. The road was long and disappeared far into the distance finally entering into a sharp, blind turn. It was an old neighbourhood, and had been planned and built long before the advent of the car; this was evident by the narrowness of its roads creating a strangely claustrophobic feeling, as if the houses on each side rose up, leering at passers by.

I slowed my speed and cast my eye over each house that I passed. It was a uniform place, with every house looking not dissimilar. My heart suddenly began to beat faster as a cold chill crawled up my spine; there it was, there was the house! It was late afternoon and the street was quiet, almost lonely. I stared at that little place wondering how such an ordinary home could have instilled so much fear in me.

I had initially intended to only look at the house from afar, confirming it to me as a material construction, entirely explicable, and removed from anything uncanny. But as I parked I took a deep breath, and before I knew it I was out of my car, walking towards that old, metallic gate, its once bright floral shapes now darkened by aged, flaking deep green paint, revealing nothing but rust beneath. I ran my fingers over its uneven top, and with a subtle gasp, I pushed it open.

Walking along the path I was shocked at how disused the garden was. I thought to myself how much of a waste of a good lawn it was, which was all but obscured by a thick mosaic of weeds and other invasive species, but as I neared the house, I realised why: It was unoccupied. Once again a shudder crept through me, but as my anxiety rose up, I crushed it with my rational mantra:

“The simplest of explanations is usually the correct one”.

I assumed that due to the current economic climate that the house had probably just been on the market for some time, and that the owner wasn’t too aware of the old sentiment that the first bite is with the eye, but as I looked around I could see no “For Sale” sign, nor one “To Let”. It genuinely seemed as though this house had been forgotten, abandoned, and left to rot.

The windows at the front of the house were filthy and, as such, almost impossible to see through, but as I wandered around to the back of the building, I could see more clearly inside. I would have imagined that a house such as this one would be empty, but on the contrary, it was entirely occupied , occupied by the trappings of a modern life. I could see a television sitting in the living room corner, a coffee table with magazines strewn across it, various pieces of furniture sitting as if ready to be used, and a couple of coffee cups sitting on the windowsill still full, covered in mould. I would have thought the house was lived in if it was not for a thick layer of dust lying over everything, accompanied by the occasional spider’s web.

It seemed as though the most recent occupants had left in a hurry, and never returned.

Clambering through a sea of waist-high grass and bushes, I eventually arrived at that innocuous little window at the back of the house. The very sight of it frightened me, but this was mere memory and not the strange feeling of being watched from within as I had experienced as a child. Peering in, the room looked eerily familiar. I suppose there is little that can be done with a room so small, so oddly narrow, but through the dirt covered glass the room looked almost unchanged from when I had slept in it. A bed, a set of drawers, and what looked like an assortment of toys on the floor.

A profound sense of anger washed over me momentarily, but I shook it quickly from my mind. The room was clearly that of a child’s and the thought of that thing harming another innocent filled me with contempt for such a thought, and within me swelled the desire to protect any child from such an abomination.

As I gazed at that wall, of which a bed lay alongside it, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. For a moment (and it was for only the slightest) I thought I saw the blanket on top of the bed move. More than that, through that window pane I could have sworn I heard a wheezing gasp. Closing my eyes tightly I repeated another scientific mantra:

“Science does not owe its debts to imagination.”

Opening my eyes I saw nothing but an empty bedroom. No foul spirits, no unearthly things; just a room, no more, no less. I breathed a sigh of relief as it that all was well with world for the first time in many days. You may think that it was wishful thinking, but I genuinely felt that I had shown myself that there was nothing to be scared of, other than my over-active imagination.

It was starting to get dark and I wanted to be home before the night. Filled with confidence now that my anxieties were behind me, there was one last thing I needed to do. When we had left that house we did so in a hurry. As a child it was disorientating, even frightening to leave everything I knew behind, but there was one thing left which I always wondered about.

At the bottom of the garden stood a sycamore tree which looked to be even older than the house. I was amazed at how unchanged it was. I had grown up, gone on to pastures new, but the old sycamore still stood, wise, warm, almost friendly in its appearance.

I think it’s a rites of passage for any child to have a place to hide things. It’s often their first experience with independence, something removed from any authority figure. For me, my ‘stash’ was half way up the old sycamore. I’m sure I must have looked like a fool, but I happily and gleefully climbed the tree with abandon. The configuration of the branches had changed in places, but overall the happy memories of playing amongst the limbs of the old sycamore, of having a little piece of the world to myself away from everyone else, seemed vivid as it was remarkable how much remained unchanged.

Half way up I caught my breath and smiled to myself. In the central trunk of the tree lay a hollow. Whether it had been created by an animal, or perhaps the tug of a gale on a weakened branch long ago, I do not know, but it was where I kept things. If I found something which I was sure would be taken from me for being ‘inappropriate’, into the hollow it would go. The truth is though, that the majority of the items inside were not very interesting, mostly just toys and rarely exotic pieces of contraband like a slingshot or some smoke bombs. I had no reason to hide the toys, but when I was young it felt adventurous to have a secret.

The hollow was dark and filled halfway with rotting leaves, no doubt deposited there from countless autumns, nevertheless I reached deep inside to see what remained. I couldn’t believe it! I had found a toy that I had hidden there before we moved, all those years ago! I could feel the plastic in my hand, it’s sharp edges unmistakable, but the leaves and darkness of the hollow obscured its view from me as I struggled to remove it from the thick,wet mixture of rotting leaves and rain water. It seemed to be caught amongst a collection of small twigs.

The reason I was so excited was that I knew when we moved that I had left one of my favourite toys behind; a small plastic First World War British Soldier. It may not sound like much, but I had grown up on my family’s stories of my Grandfather’s adventures during both wars, and while he had passed away before I was born, I would often act out exaggerated versions of the stories with this small soldier in the role of the hero: My intrepid Grandfather. At the time I thought a hollow the perfect hiding place for a soldier.

My delight, however, quickly turned to horror. I felt sick to my stomach, for as I pulled the soldier out, I realised it was not my toy, but something else entirely. Stuffed into the back of the hollow amongst the sludge, and now in my hand, was the skeletal remains of a small animal. The bones crunched together in my grip as the few small flakes of hair and flesh left on it putrefied between my fingers. I almost lost my balance as the rotten and potent smell of death escaped through my moist grasp, invading my senses.

I climbed back down carefully, dejected. There was nothing else in the hollow, my toy was gone, probably taken by another child during the subsequent years. What remained of the poor animal, I buried under some loose earth in the garden.

I left that place immediately.

Despite my unfortunate encounter in the hollow I still felt empowered’. That I had actually plucked up the courage to revisit that place, to see how ordinary it really was, made me feel in control once more of my faculties. I did not at that time require anything other than a conventional explanation.

I said goodbye to the old neighbourhood, to that bad memory once and for all, and began to make my way home. By the time I had driven onto the motorway, something had begun to filter through from the back of my subconscious. At first I disregarded it, dismissing it as my imagination, but as the sun shone its last and dipped below the horizon, I sensed the growing of a compulsion in me. An idea which seemed to have been born and nurtured for no good reason. No rationale, no sound causal footing, but one which had to be followed, at all cost…

I must get home!

I increased my speed, zipping sporadically between the slower cars on the motorway, looking in the rear view mirror, keeping an eye on what might be following.

I had to get home!

Again, I drove faster constantly looking behind as if racing some unseen pursuer: 70, 80, 100 miles per hour! I tore along the road, I beeped, I yelled, the sweat lashed off of me. What was happening to me!?

Please, just let me go home!

White knuckled, I finally made it off of the motorway and onto the country roads which would lead directly to my town. The roads were narrow and wound around the now bleak and ominous countryside. Darkness seemed to blanket the road in front of me. I turned my full beam on and breathed a sigh of relief to see a bright light again, even if artificial. The manic anxiety which had seemed to grip me on the motorway appeared to have diminished, however, I still glared into the rear view mirror more often than I should have, just to make sure that there was nothing following me.

What a ridiculous thought! To think of something chasing my car! To put myself and others in danger by speeding down a busy motorway… Madness!

Still, madness or not, I had felt compelled to get away as quickly as possible and even though I had managed to collect my nerves, the loneliness of the road I was on fuelled my yearning for my own town, my own street, my own bed!

Nervously, I traversed the web-like winding roads which seared through the countryside, feeling relieved at the first sign of a lamp post, of civilisation, and of the boundaries of my town. I pulled up outside of my house, switching the engine off, and sat for a moment in silence. I had to stop all of this nonsense! Things coming out of walls, watchers smothering me at night, looking into someone’s window like a prowler, all of this was lunacy!

Tomorrow, I would start afresh, no more writing about my childhood experiences, no more reliving of dread filled nights. Just getting back to normal, carrying out my work, spending time with my girlfriend, and most of all reaffirming my belief, faith, and confidence in science and rationality.

Then the thing in the back seat leant over, grabbed me by the shoulder and breathed a foul, rancid breath from deep inside its lungs down the back of my neck.

I scrambled for the door, my arms flailing around looking for the lock. Fear possessed me, shook me; a fear I remembered all too well, a fear from all those years ago, lying awake at night in that sickening room. The inside of the car had grown much colder, but that was nothing compared to the icy fingers burrowing into my shoulder.

I honestly thought I was going to die, that this thing would finally get its way after all this time.

The door handle popped in my panicked grip and I fell out of the driver’s seat onto the pavement. For the briefest of moments I thought I caught a glimpse of something in the back seat; vague, the form of an old man, yet twisted and distorted grinning from ear to ear. Luckily there was no one around, as had there been I would have appeared a mad fool, for the car was empty. I grabbed the keys from the ignition and booted the door shut with my foot, locking it for the night.

I staggered down the path and into my house. I’m not going to lie to you but I drank myself to sleep last night. You may recall that I said I had evidence, actual physical evidence of something unnatural. You might be wondering what that evidence is. Well, I could say that it was the marks on my shoulder that made me shudder with fear, or I could tell you that my bedroom window lying prised open this morning, by what looked like claw marks, has left me dreading tonight, or any other. But no, none of that scared me as much as what I saw today upon waking.

Sometimes the most frightening of messages are the most simple, for lying on my chest as I awoke this morning, was a toy soldier, the soldier I had hidden in that hollow all those years ago; returned to me as an adult, bitten in half.

Credit To – Michael Whitehouse
Note: This story is part of a series. You can read the first installment here – Bedtime
Look forward to more installments being posted over the next few days!

When going to Las Vegas, ride the rides from places like New York, New York and the Stratosphere, gamble away your money in a drunken state on a few hands of poker, or take a complete stranger back to your expensive hotel room. Or perhaps you’d prefer a magic show from Cirque Du Soleil or David Copperfield? I would suggest this option for your first night in Sin City. Real magic is to be found in Vegas, but not on the Strip, oh no. For a true experience that will make you believe in the realm of magic, you must seek out master illusionist Mephisto Centurion.

To see his astounding performance, drive off the Las Vegas Strip past the airport, and keep going until you reach desert. Be sure you make this journey after midnight, for Mephisto’s act is only to entertain the nightlife. Once it seems like you’ve made a wrong turn, stop your car, get out and peer across the night desert. You won’t see anything at first, but then a hotel shrouded in darkness will catch your eye. Leave your vehicle behind and approach the hotel in the distance.

You will notice that no lights are on in this hotel, but don’t be fooled, it is plenty occupied. Walk up to the hotel’s entrance and knock on the glass doors, which will swing open. The entire lobby will be dark, and no one will be there to greet you, so bring a flashlight as you enter the building and make your way through a large, empty casino, following the signs hanging from the ceiling that will direct you to the hotel’s theatre. While there will be no one around, if you get the sense that you’re being watched, you’re correct, but don’t let that feeling hold you back. Continue to follow the signs until you come to two large, golden doors with many faces sculpted on them.

These doors will open for you, and to your surprise, you will find an enormous, bright theatre filled with hundreds of people you didn’t even know were there. It will be a full house, but one seat will still be available in the front row. Take it, it’s yours. Once you are seated, the lights will dim, the curtains will open, and the great Mephisto Centurion will appear in a flash of light onstage, dressed entirely in black with a cape, top-hat, and a long, black beard and mustache. He will have a wide variety of tricks up his sleeve that will astonish you, so try not to blink.

The beginning part of his act typically consists of card tricks like making a card float in the air right out of the deck, or making the card appear on the other side of the room. Something even more mind-boggling is when he takes a real sword and impales himself right through the stomach. This special trick isn’t even performed inside a box, it looks like the sword is actually going through his body, and he’ll pull it straight out and be just fine. He can also make real animals and automobiles disappear and reappear at his command. His talents are endless.

Fire will accompany many of his acts, and you will find yourself cheering and applauding with amazement, but in the back of your mind you’ll be thinking that nothing you saw actually happened in real life. Once this thought crosses your mind, Mephisto will ask for a volunteer, and point directly at you. He tells the audience that he will make you disappear, how can you resist such an honor to be part of his legendary act? A spotlight will shine upon you, and the whole audience will join in to give you encouragement. Stand up, and get onstage where the real experience will begin.

You may have seen disappearing acts before, and you’ll probably think that a trapdoor will open, and then Mephisto’s assistants will help you back to your seat while everyone claps for you. Instead, you’ll feel the most intense rush of your life. Mephisto, at nearly seven feet tall, will loom over you, and inform the crowd that the trick is about to begin. He’ll have you tell everyone your name and what you do for a living, then he’ll have you stand atop a platform and wave his hands at you while chanting words of an ancient language. At a certain point during his speech, you’ll notice his eyes glowing an eerie purple, and before you can scream, a beam of white light will engulf you.

After the light comes the darkness, but it only lasts for a few moments before you’re flying through a wormhole at a very fast rate beyond your control. It will be quite a thrill, so don’t close your eyes. When you reach the end of the wormhole, the next thing you know, you’ll be soaring high in the air above the Stratosphere, and an invisible force will keep you up there. The feeling of the wind will make you realize that it’s not a dream. Don’t be afraid to swoop down over the Vegas Strip that glows in the night.

Enjoy this flying sensation, don’t even question it, just have fun while you can because it won’t go on for too long. Before you know it, you’ll be teleported inside a lion’s habitat at The Mirage. A lion will wake up and approach you, and you’ll run for your life, frantically searching for an exit, but there will be none. The ferocious beast will eventually have you cornered, and ease in for the kill. In fear, you’ll curl into a ball, shut your eyes and prepare for the end.

When you open your eyes again, you’ll be in a dark room with a wide opening at the top. You’ll realize all too quickly that you’re standing inside The Mirage’s volcano, and the show is about to start. You may scream loudly in hopes that someone will rescue you, but it will be too late. A ball of fire will come for you, and there will be no way to escape it. Just seconds from your impending doom, there will be another flash, and you’ll be back at your seat, sweating and trembling as you suddenly hear clapping from everyone in the theatre.

Mephisto knows your journey was intense, but he was there with you the entire time to guide you along your way. He welcomes you back and thanks you, then he bids the crowd farewell and vanishes. Converse with the crowd, if you wish, then make your way back through the dark lobby. As soon as you exit the hotel, there will be another flash, and then it will be morning, and you’ll be in your own hotel room with no memory of how you got there. That’s when the realization comes that the magic trick isn’t over… and it never will be.

Don’t bother looking for this place in the daytime, you won’t find it. If you look up Mephisto Centurion online, all that exists will be a single article titled: “Vegas hotel burns; Illusionist goes missing.” This article was written in 1960, only a few days before the famous El Rancho hotel burned down, which was a far bigger story. The hotel was called The Vegas Illusion, and Mephisto’s act was the main attraction. Little did the audience that attended know their entertainer was completely out of his mind.

He committed arson that night, burning the whole place down with the intent of taking himself with it. Many guests fled, but some did not make it out alive, and their remains were never found. Mephisto, real name Albert Torrance, worshipped an ancient god who promised him great power if he sacrificed his body, and he would do it in the most dramatic way possible with one show. Now he has abilities you can’t possibly comprehend, and he’ll be entertaining you for all eternity.

You can ask for help from the people around you, but they won’t hear you because, well, you’re dead. You died the second you got out of your car and stepped into a dark abyss that consumed you. There was never a hotel, there was never an audience, there was only HIM, and his beloved act. How do I know all of this? I am The Creator of the Magic Realm, I am amongst you, and I invite you to the show of a lifetime. I promise that my dear apprentice will make it all worthwhile.

Credit To – J. Stan Shocker

After writing my account of an horrific experience I had as an 8 year old child, many have encouraged me to speak about the aftermath. I’ve been hesitant to do so as I have felt unsettled since I broke my silence. Sleep has not come easy to me these last few nights. My scepticism, however, remains resilient and as such I will tell of what I experienced in the other room.

This won’t be as long, as what occurred only took place over a few days but that was more than enough for me.

If you recall, after that unwelcome nightly visitor left me, I was moved into another bedroom a year later. This room was much larger than the previous one and had a warm and welcoming atmosphere to it. Some places feel bad. The room before felt foul, but this one did not.

Thankfully I was given a normal bed, the previous one was taken apart and thrown out (a welcome sight I might add). I loved my new room, I enjoyed the space for all of my toys, I was happy that the place was large enough to have my friends drop by, but most of all I was relieved to just be out of that uneasy, foreboding part of the house.

On the first night I slept more soundly than I had done for a long, long time. Of course I still moved my bed several feet from the wall. I told my mother that I and my friends liked to use the gap between the bed and wall as a hiding place when we were playing.

I awoke the next day feeling refreshed and relaxed. As I lay there watching some of my favourite cartoons on a small portable television, I noticed something odd. An old dark brown armchair which had always been there, sat at the foot of my bed, large and looming. It was frayed and worn, having been given to us as part of a suite by my cousin, but it had been used many times even by then. The chair itself was not unusual, but what unsettled me was that I could have sworn that before I had went to sleep, the chair had been facing away from the bed. Now, in the cold light of day, the chair was facing me. I assumed one of my parents had moved it while I slept, probably looking for something which had been left their before we switched rooms.

The second night was not as restful. It was around 11pm and I could hear my parent’s television from the other side of the house. The room was largely in darkness, the only illumination an orange hue drifting through my window from the street lights outside. I lay there content. Content, until I heard something quiet, yet unmistakable.

At first I thought it was the sound of my own breath exhaling and inhaling as I rested, but when I stopped for a moment, the quiet almost inaudible sound of someone else in the room breathing in and out did not cease. It continued, rhythmically and without pause.

I lay there in the darkness, but while I was still recovering from the terror instilled in me from my experiences in my previous bedroom, I was not entirely afraid. The breathing was so distant and unlike the wheezing I had heard during my encounter with that thing in the wall, that I remained calm, and even at that early age I believed that it was so subtle, that it was probably my imagination playing tricks on me.

Still, I took no chances, I stepped out of bed, walked across the room and turned the light on. The sound had gone. I stared at that old worn armchair facing the foot of my bed, which was within reaching distance of where I slept, and turned it around to face the other way. I had no real reason to do so, but something about it sitting there filled me with dread.

The third night I was not so fearless. Again, I awoke in darkness. Lying on my back I stared up at the ceiling which seemed to happily absorb the dim orange light from the street. The tree outside my window swayed in a calm breeze casting a strange collection of improbable moving shadows across the room.

I could hear nothing but the long and distant hum of the city’s night traffic. Just as I began to drift back into sleep, I heard it; a creak from the bottom of my bed as if something had moved, or shifted its weight on the floor.

I raised my head, peering through the darkness, but saw nothing strange. Everything sat as it had done throughout the day, nothing was out of place. I cast my gaze across the room; some comics on the floor, a few boxes which had still to be unpacked, the armchair unmoved still facing away from the bottom of my bed; there was nothing sinister here.

I was now fully awake, glancing over at my television considering whether or not to enjoy some late night TV. I’d have to keep the volume low of course as my older brother would hear it in the next room and no doubt tell me to switch it off.

Just as I sat up fully in bed, I heard it again. A low creak, accompanied by a sound. The sound of the slightest of movements. I looked again at the room. The dim orange shadows cast by the leaves hanging by my window now took on a more menacing form.

I still saw no reason to be afraid. I stared at the chair at the end of my bed and saw nothing unusual about it. It’s quite common for the mind to take a moment to fully come to terms with what it is seeing. It takes time to put the full horror of what is in front of you together, into a moment of cold, bitter realisation.

Yes, I was staring at that old worn armchair in the dark, but what I was also staring at was the person sitting in it!

In the dim light I could only see the outline of the back of its head, the rest obscured by the spine of the chair. I sat motionless, staring, praying, hoping that my eyes were being misled by their surroundings. The slow creak of movement as it shifted in its battered throne chilled me to my very core; this was no mere trick of the dark.

Then, it shifted onto its right side. I knew what it was doing, it was turning to look at me. It was difficult to make out, for even in that room it seemed darker than everything around it. I saw what looked like a collection of long fingers slip over the crest of the chair, and then another. The room was silent but for the sound of this thing shuffling in its seat, and the crash of my racing heart.

At first I could only make out the outline of its forehead, but then it began to rise up revealing two pin points of light in the dark recesses of its deeply set eye sockets .

It was staring at me.

I screamed, and within a moment my brother and mother came into the room, switching the light on, asking if I’d had another bad dream. I sat speechless, barely acknowledging them, staring intently at the now empty armchair.

I was only in that room for another few days before we suddenly moved. I saw nothing for the remaining nights, except for my last sleep in that room where I awoke to the warm air of something breathing into my ear. I jumped out of bed, turning the light on. The slow rhythmic breath of something unseen remained, louder than before. I spent the rest of that night on the couch in the living room.

Two years later I slept soundly in my bed, in our new house. There had been no other incidences, and I was sure I had left behind whatever strangeness had plagued me, in that little average suburban home.

I was, however, left one parting gift. My tormentors (and in my opinion the watcher in that armchair was a different entity to the thing in the elongated room) had one last surprise in store for me. Like an animal claiming its territory, I was not entirely out with their grasp.

For one last, terrifying moment I felt the presence of those, things. I lay their sound asleep, two years since those horrifying experiences. I was in the throws of a nightmare and suddenly, happily found myself awake, safe and sound in my bed. The room was darker than usual. I breathed a sigh of relief as one does when waking from a nightmare.

But the room was so dark.

I could see nothing at all, as if something had snuffed out the light. I chuckled to myself, realising that I must have pulled my blanket up and over my face while sleeping. The cotton blanket felt cool against me, but the air was a little too warm, almost stifling. Just as I was about to remove the blanket for some air, I heard it: For the last time I heard it.

The rhythmic breathing of the watcher at the end of my bed.

Fear gripped me, followed by anger and despair. Why could I not be left alone? I then did something most peculiar. I decided to speak to it. Perhaps this thing did not mean to harm me, perhaps it was unaware of the terror it had caused. Surely a young boy deserved some mercy?

As the breathing grew louder and closer, I began to cry. I could feel its presence on the other side of the blanket, its breath hanging over me like a stagnant wind.

Through the tears I uttered two words, words which surely would put an end to all of this:

“Please stop”.

The breathing began to change, it became more animated, quicker somehow. I could hear something shuffling next to me, standing close by. The breathing then moved, first back to the foot of my bed, and then slowly across the room, through the door, into the hallway, and then gone.

Half crying, half elated, I lay in the still darkness, my face still covered by the blanket. You may consider this a victory of some sort, but I do not. If those things were real, I know now beyond a shadow of a doubt that their intentions were not misconstrued, they were twisted, filled with malice. I would normally never use such a word to describe anything, but it’s as close to evil as I hope I ever come.

How do I know that? I’ll tell you how. Moments after that thing seemed to have left the house, something pressed forcefully down on top of me, pushing the blanket with great strength against my face. I could feel a large hand with long thin fingers wrapping the covers around my skull, its nails imprinted upon me like razor sharp ridges. I managed to slide down into the gap between the bed and the wall, quickly making my escape, clambering and screaming out of my room waking my family.

Make no mistake, that thing in the darkness tried to smother me, smother me to death.

Credit To – Michael Whitehouse
Note: This story is part of a series. You can read the first installment here – Bedtime
Look forward to more installments being posted over the next few days!

Mirrors surround us, human beings, through all our history. Even before the first mirror was invented, one could see his reflection in some body of water. Whatever happened in the world, the mirrors would reflect everything and everyone. They have retained the millions of faces including the ones that belonged to madmen, miscreants and murderers.

In the middle of the night, I woke up in cold sweat – for the third time in a week. I couldn’t sleep anymore thinking about the creature who wanted to hurt me and my children. I lived in a constant fear, and noone could help me, neither police, nor a psychoanalist. The most terrible thing was that I couldn’t tell anyone the whole truth, and if I did, I would end up in a lunatic asylum. They would take away my kids and find them another family, which would be obviously better than living with a schizophreniac mother.

It started about a year ago when my husband was found dead in a hotel where he stayed while going on a business trip to another town. He would go in such journeys quite often, and I never thought that something terrible could happen. I still remember that morning when I got a phone call, and that voice told me that gruesome news. They found him before a broken mirror with a shard of glass in his hand. His throat was slit, and there were some other cuts on his body. The police thought that he did it himself because the door was closed from inside. However, I knew he would never do this, would never leave us alone, and even if he wanted to commit suicide, why would he choose such a horrible way?

First months after his death I didn’t imagine that someone could threaten me. Of course, I was depressed, and my life turned much harder, but it was not untill that night when an unspeakable fear took over my mind. I woke up and went to the bathroom when I saw something strange while passing by a mirror in the hallway. There was something wrong with my reflection. It could be just some kind of optical illusion what is not unusual when you look at things in the dark. However, when I went closer to the mirror, I saw something that made me jump in my skin.

It was not me in the mirror – in fact, it looked like some grotesque version of me. The back was crooked a bit, and the neck was unnaturally elongated. Its ashen face looked like a mask copying some of my features, but distorting them in some eerie way. The thing in the mirror moved, and its movements didn’t seem human. Scared out of my wits, I still tried to think rationally, and I turned on the light.

The thing disappeared. In the mirror, I could see only my usual doppelganger, although it looked really frightened. I told myself that it had been an illusion, a weird play of light and darkness. But in the morning I remembered that I had seen, and I could no more approach any mirror. At least, I’d never allow myself to get in a dark room where would be anything where you can see your reflection.

Now imagine yourself having a job where you have to meet a lot of people, where you have to worry about the way you look, and the sheer idea of looking into a mirror makes hair on your neck stand up. The worst thing was that I was afraid not only for myself, but for my children too. I told them not to look in the mirror when nobody’s around. Of course, they laughed at me telling that I was crazy. What could I do? I didn’t know anything about that creature, and I wasn’t even sure that it was real. My rational self tried to persuade that it didn’t exist, that it couldn’t exist from any reasonable point of view. But I still couldn’t chase away an idea that behind this cold glass surface hid someone or something that expected me to make some fatal mistake.

One night my daughter went to her friend for a slumber party. There, they played some stupid old game, summoning Bloody Mary or some other boogeyman. My daughter had to go in a dark room and stand before a mirror. She remembered that I had forbidden this, and although she had never believed me, that time she hesitated for some reason. The other kids laughed at her saying that her mother was away, and she could do whatever she wanted. She agreed.

I still don’t know the exact details of what happened. Different people would tell me different things. At some point, they had heard her scream, so they came in and found her on the floor with several burns on her arms and shoulders. She was taken to a hospital where she would recover her consciousness only in the morning. Medics couldn’t give me any answers, just like the cops who investigated my husband’s death. With tears in my eyes, I took her home with no idea what had happened to her. All I knew, was that my daughter had changed. First, I thought that it was a consequence of a shock that she had survived, and her doctors told me the same. Then I started to understand that something indeed was wrong.

My daughter had never been too talkative, but after that accident she completely retired into herself. I would try to talk to her, but I would hear only insults. Later, I learned that she started to skip her classes, and at some point, one of our neighbors spotted her torturing animals. I didn’t understand what was going on with her. Some people proposed me to get her to a doctor, the others, probably inseriously, advised to call a priest who would exorcise an evil spirit from her. But I already suspected that this thing had nothing to do with an illness or religion. I started to think that something had killed my daughter, taken her form and replaced her.

This idea was absurd, and I knew that. At the same time, my fear kept growing worse. One night I caught her near my son’s room with a pair of scissors. I asked her what she wanted to do, but she only laughed. I took the scissors away and told her to go to sleep, but she attacked me and hit me. Her punch was strong and painful, especially for a girl of her age. Then, I left all my doubts, and a single thought started gnawing my mind.

My son was three years younger than her, and I was afraid for him. I decided that if this thing had taked one of my kids, I couldn’t allow it to hurt the other one. Only a terrible mother would leave her daughter alone, and only an even more terrible mother would let her son live under the same roof with a bloodthirsty creature. So, one day I took my son, and we drove to my mother. I’ve told him that we were only going to visit her for some days, and that his sister couldn’t join us only because she had to prepare for her exams. I shamelessly lied, but it was a white lie. So I thought.

We’ve spent some days in safety. I still couldn’t overcome my fear who got himself a new powerful ally – the guilt. Again and again, I would think that my daughter needed my help. That I was wrong, and there was no monster in the mirror, and that leaving my daughter was an unexcusable mistake. I needed to be sure that all that I had done was right.

One day, I walked to a mirror in the living room and looked at it. I’ve seen myself, yes, I’ve seen myself. I didn’t do it for nearly a year. My skin was creeping, and my hands were shaking – I felt something strange, something unusual. “I have nothing to fear, I have nothing to fear”, I whispered to myself.

I was about to be moved in tears. My daughter could be a victim of some nervous breakdown, maybe, it was my fault, as I didn’t pay enough attention to her. She was in such a difficult age! I hated that stupid irrational fear, and I hated myself for giving up to it. All I wanted was to go back, to find her wherever she was, and whatever she had gone through because of me, just to give her a hug, to tell her that no word can make her forgive me.

Suddenly, I remembered that the creature could appear only in the dark. This thought struck me. I needed to be sure. I needed to see myself in the night.

At night, I took a candle and lit it before the same mirror. I made sure that nobody could hear me and looked into the mirror. I looked myself into the eyes. My face was covered by shadows, my eyes were pitch black, but it was me. Always me. I stared upon my double, and I didn’t notice myself that I couldn’t move my sight away. I seemed to be hypnotized.

My reflection started to get more and more disfigured. Its neck stretched out, its back bent, and its teeth grew up so much that hey were sticking out of its mouth. I wanted to run, but I felt like I was paralyzed. I wanted to scream, but only a yelp could break out of my throat. The creature stretched out its arms, and I saw that the candle’s flame swayed.

Its fingers touched my arms, and a burn brought me back from that mezmerized state. I screamed and waved my arms, but its grip was too tight. Something pulled me forward, and I felt myself sinking in some large and empty space. I had no power over my body being carried into some distant light which I first took for my candle’s reflection. I faced the light, and it consumed me whole.

I was no more. Nothing was left of me. Now I can only think. Think about my destroyed life. Think about the horrible things that this creature wearing my face and speaking with my voice can do to my boy. But I have a hope, a hope that one day you’ll enter a dark room and look yourself into the eyes.

And then you’ll look into my eyes.

Credit To – CandleClock

This is Private Blake Aaron of the U.S. Special Forces, I’m stationed outside the city of Los Angeles with what is left of my original squad and I am recording the events that I have just witnessed in the hopes that someone finds this report if we don’t make it out of here. This report itself will be dedicated to my fallen comrades and my big brother Dan Aaron, who I suspect is dead. Dan was a news reporter doing a story on the very event I’m going to talk about before he was attacked. We are dealing with dangerous beings that possess powers no military force could have prepared for because they’re not of this world. The information on these attackers is said to be classified, but let’s face it, no one knows what the fuck they are.

My experience started after my team was scrambled at sundown and sent to L.A. after a supposed riot broke out, and we were to take control. A large S.W.A.T. team had been sent in before us, and these “rioters” had overwhelmed them, and it was our job to save the day. We expected to get the situation under control in no time, but when we arrived at the scene by nightfall, the whole place had already been transformed into a chaotic battleground after only a few hours. Buildings and cars were on fire, there was barely anything left of the S.W.A.T. team, and there were tons of citizens out on the street yelling and screaming. Our first instincts told us to get those people to safety, so we tried to establish order, but we soon found out that the people on the streets were actually our enemies.

My squad and I all of a sudden started to hear shouting from people who had barricaded themselves into the nearby buildings, and we realized they were warnings, saying that the seemingly ordinary people outside were evil, and that we should engage them. As you can imagine, this caused a lot of confusion, but that’s when we looked around and noticed the remains of the squad that went in before us. It had been a riot-control team, and riot-shields, helmets and pieces of body armor littered the streets. Some massive force had to have done this, and the only suspects around were harmless-looking citizens.

We all thought we’d show up on the scene guns blazing, but we just stood there with no plan. Suddenly, shots were fired into the crowd from three surviving squad members that had been hiding behind an over-turned van. Since they were on riot-control, the bullets in their guns were rubber, so the crowd wasn’t too affected. Then I saw a frail, old woman walk up to the three troopers, open her mouth and let out the worst noise I’ve ever heard, followed by a blast of energy that shot out of her body and reduced them to ash. Our team leader, Frank Hobsen, then gave the command to open-fire before he too was vaporized by another member of the crowd.

I held down the trigger on my machine-gun and instinctively grabbed a riot-shield as I ran for cover while more blasts of energy came my way. Four more members of my squad were gone in seconds, and the rest of us took cover behind wrecked vehicles of all kinds. Tobey Gearhart, my squad’s second-in-command, immediately radioed for back-up, and emphasized that tanks and helicopters were needed. The rest of us took shots at the crowd, and although some of them were going down, it didn’t seem to do much good because more of them were coming from a portal that had opened up far off in the distance. To make matters worse, the ones that had been shot started to get back up, and although it was hard to see through all the smoke from the nearby fires, they didn’t seem to have any bullet-wounds.

You read correctly, these living weapons came from a portal that just opened up without warning, that’s the only way I can describe the phenomenon. The eerie light that shoots out of their eyes and mouth would be astonishing if it wasn’t so terrifying, it’s a very interesting method of attack that simply should not be possible. What’s even more interesting is their appearance as human beings, and they must have been studying us for a very long time to mimic us so well. There’s another thing about their appearance that’s even harder to believe.

I was blindly shooting at these things, pointing my gun through the car window that I was hiding behind, but then I decided to look up over the car, and that’s when I saw the face… of my wife. Alisa Aaron, the woman I’ve been married to for six years, was standing amongst the crowd of invaders, screaming my name and crying with joy. I released the trigger, and so did two others when they also saw people they recognized in the crowd. Her presence in the battle-zone was impossible, but for some reason my mind didn’t even question it. The urge to drop my gun and run over to her was almost too much to resist.

I would have given in to this urge if I hadn’t noticed that the faces of the other people were constantly changing depending on who they were looking at. It then became all too clear that their plan was to beat us by getting into our minds and playing with our emotions through shape-shifting. I remember calling out, “It’s a trick, they’re not our loved ones!” to my comrades before putting a hole in my wife’s head, who just returned fire in my direction moments later. Despite this, some of my comrades still refused to fight, one of them being none other than Tobey himself, the toughest bastard I’d ever known who surpassed me in every military training session I could think of. The guy literally stood up, dropped his gun, and abandoned us because his emotions would no longer allow him to shoot at people that looked like those he cared about.

With two of our leaders gone, I volunteered to become the new team leader, even though I knew we would be fighting a losing battle. I ordered my men to fall back, and by doing so I could not only get them to a safer place, but I was also expecting the evil crowd to follow us so all the people hiding in the buildings could sneak out and possibly escape the city. My plan seemed to work, but that also meant we had to run like hell as energy blasts were fired at us. Those things began to chase us down the street, and they made horrible screeching noises as they did so, which were unbearable to listen to. One team member couldn’t stand the noise any longer, and he covered his ears and fell onto his knees, making him an easy target who was killed quickly.

I believe the man’s name was Jerald, the youngest of the group who was very recently added to my squad, and seeing his skin burn away and bones disintegrate made me think just how hopeless our struggle was. All I could do then was continue to flee for my life, not knowing how many of my teammates were still with me. We briefly hid behind a diner to return fire, and as I shot at the killers some more, I gazed further back past the crowd to see a group of survivors leaving their building and running to safety. A couple of them, however, were not so lucky, as they fell for the same trick I almost did. Several beams of the eerie light shot the diner, setting it ablaze, so I gave the orders to keep moving as the armies of the strange beings hunted us.

We ran down the doomed streets as fast as our legs could carry us, and nearly got ran over by some vehicles heading far away from Los Angeles. It was around that time that we heard the buzzing of helicopters, and the rumbling of several tanks that were headed our way. Once the tanks became more visible, we ran into the nearest alleyway out of their line of fire. One chopper flew over our heads, shined a light down on us, then landed away from where the invaders were. There was nothing more we could do, we had to board the helicopter and leave.

As we ran for the chopper, we heard loud booms behind us that shook the ground hard. Once we were in the air, I caught a glimpse of the battle scene that I’ll never forget. Dozens of invaders blasted a tank all at once, causing it to melt. The other tanks fired many shots that sent the enemies flying back, and bullets rained down upon them from the other helicopters. I never got to see if those that were hit stood back up, but I’m sure at least some of them are finally dead, assuming they’re able to die at all.

The view from the chopper of the dark city below was haunting, to say the least. Nearly all the lights were out in every building, with only the glowing of the fires to illuminate it. An evacuation was underway, and all exits leading away from the city were clogged with cars. Our pilot reported back to base that he could spot more armies of the invaders marching towards the nearby neighborhood. There were other teams standing by to help with the evacuation, and we would need all the help available to us to get citizens far away from the extermination squads that were in full force.

We were flown to a camp that had recently been set up in an area overlooking the city, with plenty of vantage points in case our enemies tried a sneak attack. This camp is where I’ll be sleeping tonight, and I’ve been told to stay put and wait for further instructions from the people now in charge. The boys and I only have one TV set up, and I’ve been watching reports from newscasters on this disaster from literally all over the world, I shit you not. It’s on one of these reports that I heard my brother’s last words. One of those things got into the building where he was hiding, and from experience I know that you can’t survive if they get too close.

There’s something I’ve been trying to talk to people about, but they won’t listen to me, so I’ll just put it down right now: I know what these beings really look like. When one of them invades your mind and tries to make you lower your defenses, you get brief flashes of their true face. It must be like your minds are becoming one. Their skin has a metallic silver shine, their eyes are large and diamond-shaped, and they have razor-sharp teeth and no noses. The weirdest part of them is their eyes because they’re vertical, and that image will never leave my memory.

I must say that there’s something very strange about the people we’re now taking orders from, the first thing being that they don’t seem to be with the military. There are troops marching around with black armor like Darth Vader, and they won’t even make eye-contact with me. Someone keeps radioing in about what sounded like an unsuccessful attempt at capturing one of the invaders. So far, I’ve at least been able to talk to Agent Matthews, the person who seems to be running this operation. He informed me that my men and I were relieved of our duties for the time being, but to stand by anyway.

Agent Matthews is a shady character, and I get the feeling he knows something the rest of us don’t. There’s an odd calmness about him, even though we’re at the brink of an apocalypse. He and his men were quick to respond, almost as if they knew these invaders were coming, and that makes me want to ask more questions, but I know that will be frowned upon. I’m not here to have questions answered, I’m here to fight when told to because I’m just a grunt… although because of my recent actions, there’s talk that my status as a Special Forces operative might change soon. That doesn’t matter much, however, not after the mass-exterminations of humans everywhere.

One more thing I’ll mention about Matthews is that he’s constantly on his cell-phone with someone he keeps referring to as “Master”. I’ve been in the military for a long time, and I haven’t heard the word “master” uttered as a military term. Obviously there’s someone far up the chain who put this operation in Matthews’ hands, and to fuck it up would lead to a harsh punishment. The only time the guy ever seems to get anxious is when he’s on the phone receiving orders. Maybe someday I’ll get to actually meet this mysterious person, because I’d sure like to know who I’ll be fighting for.

You can bet I’ll be sleeping with my machine-gun tonight, even though I have the feeling that I’ll wake up dead. Whatever traveled to our planet is here to stay, and it won’t be easy to stop them when they already know all of our weaknesses. If I don’t make it through this nightmare, and someone happens to stumble upon this report, please find a way to let my wife Alisa and my son Colton know that I fought my damn hardest to save what’s left of this world.

Credit To – J. Stan Shocker

Note: If you liked this, please read the original story – Miracle City

Laura looks at the clock on her dashboard which reads “5:43”. She curses herself for staying late at work, but there was just too much to do to justify leaving early. Being Valentines Day, she knows she should have made an effort to get home on time to be with her husband. They managed to somehow get the kids out of the house for the weekend and the thought of missing out on this opportunity for some alone time is nearly frightening.

Rolling into her driveway, she notices something posted on the door. The stack of papers on the passenger seat is stuffed into her bag as she exits her minivan and walks up to the door. Her eyes squint the whole way, trying to make something of this disconformity. It’s a note. She reads it and her heart sails.

“Meet me inside for some fun…”

Part of her feels her level of guilt double, being that he has put some real effort into this special day, but the other part can’t wait to see what her husband has cooked up. She turns around to see if anyone is watching, slightly embarrassed that perhaps someone has seen this sultry example of foreplay. No one. She tears off the note and dances inside, giddy with excitement.

The lights throughout the house are all turned down while candles burn, their dim ambiance casting soft rays of amber against the beige walls. She tosses her bag to the floor and starts searching. The second note is found in the kitchen, stuck to the side of a can of whipped cream.

“You’re almost there. Come to the bedroom and bring this with you.”

Her heart is pumping with anticipation as she grabs it and makes her way to the staircase. She grasps the banister with her free hand, arms shaking. Each step has a rose petal placed delicately on it and rich vanilla cascades from a candle perched somewhere in the dark abyss of the hallway. Reaching the top floor she sees another note on the door to the bedroom.

“Welcome.”

She quickly fluffs and fixes her hair before flinging the door open, standing in the threshold in her sexiest stance. The bed is made up with heart shaped pillows. A bottle of champagne is chilling in a bucket of ice. More candles fill the room with light and scent but something is wrong. Her husband is nowhere to be found. Confused, she looks around finding one final note across the room, stuck to her dresser.

“Your husband is dead. Perhaps you would like to join him in the closet?”

Credit To – DtheJG

The new house was fantastic. It was an old farmhouse, and looked the part. There were barns and fields, acres and acres of field. My wife, Carrie, and I were looking for a good place to start a family, and this house could not have been more perfect. It was a 10 minute drive to the village, with a school and supermarket and anything you could ever need. Not forgetting the price, the price was astonishing! For all the land that comes with the house, it was an absolute bargain.

Therein lay the only problem. Yes, the house did need a bit of work done on it, but apart from that, there was nothing to deter a buyer. Carrie joked that it was probably a murder house, but we laughed it off. Then I started to think about it. I looked into the property and there was nothing. No news articles about vicious slaughter, or tales of any mad men that once lived there. Not even any listings on any estate agent websites. It was as if the house, my house, had never existed. I had heard about it from a friend who had just moved to the village. He knew we were looking for a place and when he saw it, he told us and we went straight there. The seller had moved to England, so when we phoned the number on the sign, he discussed prices over the phone with me and we settled. That was when I assumed that the only reason the house was so cheap was that he had been waiting a long time for a buyer and got fed up.
T
he paperwork was sorted, and me and Carrie began our long journey to the countryside to move into our new home. We hired moving vans and did all of the transporting with our friends that lived in the village. We stayed with them until we were all settled in. The village was a lovely place. The people were nice, the scenery was nice, the shelves were stacked. An older couple on their mid fifties took an interest in us. Frances and George owned the local pub. We went in one night and got to talking. They seemed like a very nice couple. They had children who had since moved away. They had not asked us where we were moving to.

“So is it the house on Monteith Place?” enquired George. “Oh that is a fabulous property.” Added Frances.
“Oh no, we bought that fantastic farmhouse down the road. We want to start a family, and all the space we have there is perfect for kids. We are thinking of selling off some of the further afield land.” I said proudly.

The colour had left their faces like a cloud covers a blue sky. George tried to say something, but his words caught in his throat, and he began stuttering at us.
“Have you slept in the house?” Frances asked. Her lips were pursed in an almost angry manor.
“What?”, was all I could muster after seeing their reactions.
Frances’ face went from pink to white to red in a space of 30 seconds.
“Have you slept in the fucking house? Answer me.” There was no denying the anger now.
“No, we’ve been staying at our friends while we get settled. Why, what are you two doing?” Carrie replied, giving me a scared look.
“If you come back in here again, your welcome won’t be so warm…” George’s eyes moved to the gun above the bar. It appeared he had found his voice again.

We were utterly dumbstruck. These two people who had been on the way to being our good friends not a minute before, were actually threatening us with a gun. Even if the gun didn’t work, I think we’d heed their warning, we obviously weren’t welcome. We paid for our drinks and left, every eye in the pub watching us walk away. We headed back toward our friends house in complete silence until I spoke.
“What in the fuck was that?” I stopped to look at my wife. She looked more sad than angry. “I don’t know. Did we say something? We must have said something offensive.” she said. I could see the tears welling in her eyes. I moved in to hug her. I racked my brain to think of everything that had happened in the pub. It was the house. Something about the house. It could be something petty and silly, but I literally could not think of any reason why this would happen.

When we got back to our friend Tom’s house, we told him what happened. He looked just as shocked as us, which turned to anger.
“Those pieces of shit. Those stupid old shit heads. What the fuck are they doing?” He said as he was pacing around the room.
“I don’t know. I think you might have to do our shopping for us Tommy boy.” I said trying to make light of the situation.
“Peter this isn’t a joke. You were literally going to go and live there without a care in the world before they opened their damn mouths.” Tom was still pacing around the room, back and forth, not looking at us.

For the rest of that night, we discussed matters and decided that we would simply travel an extra 10 minutes when we needed to shop, the next village over was close enough. We drank and tried to forget the disturbing events of the night.

The next day we got up early and moved out to the house. We bid Tom our farewells and told him we would see him later or the next day. Although as we were driving off, a few people were watching us leave on the street, and more from their windows. It was early on a weekend, and I wondered why so many people were awake. We drove in near silence to the house. As we approached, it had a much more ominous, forbidding feel to it. We got out and tried to be as normal as possible. But something was putting me off. I wasn’t enjoying even just being in the house, and I could see Carrie wasn’t either. Frances and George weren’t the only things bothering me. Why did nobody in the pub speak up to us being threatened with death. Why was everybody in the damn village staring us out as we left.

We started to unpack boxes, putting away cutlery and clothes, setting up the TV, and as each piece of furniture was placed down, the house began to look and feel more of a home. Carrie and I weren’t mentioning the events of the day before, and we kept working and working, until the living room, kitchen and our bedroom looked fit for a family. The rest of the house was still a mess. The spare bedroom had wallpaper peeling off, the bathroom had mould on the roof, but these small details could be taken care of fairly easily. We had a handyman coming the next day to try and fix the place up, as well as a man to fix us up to the cable TV and internet.

After a long day of work, me and Carrie sat down and watched a movie in our new home. Something cheery to put the final seal of joy on the house. Carrie fell asleep with her head on my lap. The movie finished and the credits were beginning to roll. I thought that there was no use waking her up just to go sleep in the bedroom, so I began to drift off to sleep. As I felt the tendrils of sleep curling around me, Carrie screamed a blood curdling scream. She kept going and going. I was screaming back trying to get her to stop, but she turned on her back to look into my eyes. Her eyes had rolled into the back of her head and her mouth was wider than I thought possible. I started shaking her to wake her up, she must have been having some sort of nightmare. She suddenly stopped. She looked dead. Her eyes were still rolled back, her mouth open as if she was still screaming.

“CARRIE! CARRIE WAKE UP NOW!” I was seriously panicking. I was shaking her violently. Tears filled my eyes and I got up to phone an ambulance. That was when I remembered that we had no phone connected. I turned back around to grab my mobile.

Carrie was sitting up on the couch. Eyes still white, but replacing her gaping mouth was a terrifying smile. It spread across her whole face. I was crying freely now. I wanted to go to my wife, but I couldn’t move. All at once her eyes came back, the smile disappeared and she fell down to the floor. That was when I ran to her. I managed to shake her awake.

“My head…what are you doing?” She looked fine, but I had to be sure. I took her to the car, still in pyjamas. The nearest hospital was a half hour drive away, so there was no use calling an ambulance. I reversed out of the driveway, but just as I was about to turn on to the country road, I glanced in the rear view mirror. Standing in the living room was a man. Just a man. The lights were off so I couldn’t see his face, only his shape. I looked again to check if I was just seeing things, but there was definitely a man standing in the middle of my god damn living room.

“There’s a man.” I said to Carrie. “In the living room, there is a man standing in the living room”
“What are you talking about?” She turned around to look out of the car, and began screaming, not as before, but a genuine, human scream of fear.

I got out of the car and ran towards the house. I could hear Carrie in the car screaming at me to come back and not leave her there. I kept running to the house to get that bastard. I opened the door and grabbed a hammer that was in the hallway. As I stood outside the living room door, trying to build up my courage, thinking of something to say to this guy, I heard him in there, the floorboards creaking under his slow heavy footsteps.

“Excuse me mate what-” I cut off when I shoved open the door. There was nobody. I turned on the lights and looked around. Behind the couch, under the coffee table, behind the curtain. I looked out to the car where Carrie was, and the man was there. Standing next to her door, looking at her. She was staring at me, with a scared look on her face. She didn’t know he was there. I pounded on the window, screaming at him.
“FUCK OFF! GET AWAY FROM HER!” Carrie just looked at me and held her hand to her ear, signaling that she couldn’t hear me. The man turned and looked at me. His features were still shrouded in blackness, apart from his eyes. The shined in the light of the house as he turned, wide and black. His hand reached out to the car as he turned back to the car. I sprinted outside and over to the car.

Gone. Again, he was just gone. No evidence to suggest that he was ever there. I jumped in the drivers seat and looked at Carrie. She just stared back into my eyes, a smile on her face.
“Carrie, did you see him. He was standing next to the car, where did he go?” She made no move to respond, only gazed. “What is this, is this some weird fucking joke?” I moved my hand to touch her arm.
She moved like a cat and grabbed hold of my wrist, still smiling, still staring. her nails were digging into my hand.

“Don’t touch.” She whispered. “She’s mine.”

I was trying to pull her hand off of me when she suddenly snapped out of it. She let out a gasp as if she’d been living under water and started crying hysterically. I knew this was my wife again. I was crying as well. I had no idea what had just happened to the woman I had spent years of my life with, if it was her. We drove to the hospital, not just for her, but for my wrist. We were out by 3:00 and decided it better to check into a hotel for the night. I was physically and mentally drained. I’d phone the police in the morning.

When we woke up it was around 12:00. We both worked for the same firm and had no need to work in an office, so we just conducted our work from home. We got something to eat and headed to the house. We talked on the way back. Trying to work out what was happening. My wrist was still burning from the deep gouges torn from my flesh. Carrie explained that she remembered looking at me pounding on the living room windows. She felt as if she was being watched, but when she looked out of the window, all she saw was pitch black. The next thing she remembered was waking up with her hand around my wrist, feeling more than terrified.

I phoned the police the second we got home, they came within the hour and searched the area. I was sure they wouldn’t find anything, but I had to call them. Just to assure myself.
The next few weeks went by without a hitch. We stayed with Tommy for a few nights after it happened, although he was hardly there. When we moved back in, we still felt uneasy. Carrie was, understandably, shaken and kept to herself.

That was when we started talking about the future. Children I mean. carrie wanted it to happen straight away, to make a new start and try to put the incident behind us. I was a bit more adamant. I was even thinking of trying to find a new place to live. She convinced me that I was over reacting. Even still, I felt like we should wait a while, just until we were financially secure.

That night in bed, Carrie started to get a bit frisky. We were kissing and she said she was going to get a condom. When she came back it was good. Really good. When I finished she just held me there. We kissed as I lay on top of her, and I felt as if we were back when we started going out. I hadn’t felt passion like that in a long time. After a couple of minutes I got up to go brush my teeth. I felt something hit my foot. The condom had burst.
“Shit, do you have any pills left?” I asked.
“What? No, why?” she looked confused. I pointed down and her face turned to realization.
“Peter, what if this is a sign. I think we should keep it. I mean if I even am, which isn’t likely.” She said comforting me. I thought about it all night. I barely slept. I didn’t feel like we were ready, but she seemed so sure. When I finally did get to sleep, I had decided that it didn’t seem like such a bad idea having a little one running around here.

Carrie fell pregnant. It was a shock, and the chances were so slim, but we were happy. She started to come out of her shell a bit more and was being more of the woman I fell in love with again. We were making plans for the baby, looking for clothes and cribs and prams.

5 months into the pregnancy, we were back at the doctors getting a scan. The doctor said he could finally tell us the sex of the baby. I didn’t want to know, but Carrie did and he told her while I left the room. When I came back in Carrie had a huge smile. I knew she wouldn’t tell me. I looked to the doctor and he looked horrified. He was looking at the scanner and he pushed a button and 2 nurses came running in. The heart monitor was beeping and the 3 were moving Carrie onto her side.

“What’s happening?” I asked running over to the doctor. I caught a glimpse of the screen. It looked as if my baby had a hand, around it’s throat. For the first time i saw my babies eyes. Black and shining, looking at me. I managed to catch a glimpse of my wife’s face before I passed out. She was looking at me as well, smiling.

The month our baby was supposed to be born. I walked around the house, stopping in our would be daughter’s room. I still couldn’t bear to get rid of all of the things we had bought. Carrie was doing a bit better than me. She comforts me every night. I gazed at her stomach and just thought, imagined what she would have looked like. I was proud of her for moving on, but I wish she had shared my feelings. I wish she had understood.

One December night, we were doing the same thing we had done the first night we had gone to the house. We were cuddled on the couch, watching a movie. I was forgetting my woes for a night. The movie ended and we were heading to bed. I climbed under the covers while Carrie brushed her teeth. I lay down my head and began to drift off, then I heard a noise from the bathroom.
“Carrie?” I called. No reply. “I’m coming in are you decent?” I walked to the bathroom.
Carrie was on the floor, writhing, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Whats wrong? Carrie tell me what’s happening, are you ok?” I knelt down next to her.
She looked up at me through her teary eyes.

“Peter, he’s here. You have to let me out. It’s him. All him.” She struggled to say.
“What?” I was crying as well, I didn’t understand. What was she saying to me? Was it the man again?
“Peter please, you have to get out, it’s not me.” She whispered before suddenly becoming still. Her eyes were closed, the tears still staining her face. Then her eyes opened. They were dark. Like the eyes of the man, the eyes I saw on the sonogram. I ran. I left my wife on the floor. I ran for the car, grabbing my jacket on the way. I sat in the car for a moment, and thought over what had just happened. Before I could get my head together, i saw her. Standing in the middle of the living room. She was watching me. I had to go.

As I drove along the road toward the village, I had to think of what my plan was. Tom had stopped talking to us. I don’t know why. I was sure Frances and George still wouldn’t welcome us. It was late and Tom was the person I kept coming back to. I drove for his house. I banged on the door constantly until he opened. His eyes went wide when he saw me standing there in a t-shirt and boxers.
“Pete, wha…what are you doing here?” he said, rubbing his eyes.
“Tom something happened to Carrie, could I come in?”
He looked at me hesitantly.
“Look man, it’s late, I’ve got to be up early, couldn-” I interrupted him as I shoved past. “No don’t come in here, not yet.”

Tom’s place was a mess. There was paper lying everywhere. As well as pictures of me. Me and Carrie together. Next to old pictures of other couples. Newspaper clippings, old files, tape recordings. I turned to look at Tom, he was standing at the door, looking down, avoiding my gaze.
“I like you two. We go back a long time. I couldn’t let it happen to you.” He still wasn’t looking at me.
“Tell me what this is.” I was angry. Why did Tom have these pictures? What was all this stuff? We sat down and Tom explained.

The farmhouse. It went back over a hundred years. He moved out here after hearing about the farm from brother of the man who lived there before. They were friends from school. Tom told me that when the farm was built, it was just a farmer and his wife who lived there. His wife was barren, and he had no other relatives to take over the farm once he was gone. He tried and tried to get his wife pregnant, but it was no use. He started to deteriorate. It started with him forgetting to feed the animals, and plough the fields. After time the animals died, the crops soon followed. The farmer started to find other women to bring home. He wanted his son, and would do anything to get one. His wife was faring no better, she had began to lose herself in jealousy and rage. Eventually the farmer got a woman pregnant. She wanted to go home and raise it with her parents, but the farmer wouldn’t let her leave. She was locked in a room for the entire pregnancy. The farmer barely left her side, and forgot about his wife. His wife became more and more enraged with each passing day. When the baby was born, the farmer killed the mother, claiming that he only cared about his own wife, but she couldn’t handle the presence of the bastard gift that she could never give him.

She killed the baby. She suffocated it, while the farmer slept next to her. When he woke to find the baby dead, he blamed his wife. His wife died at the stake. He watched her burn at the back of the farmhouse, then died himself of starvation.

Since then, every family that has stayed there had had a miscarriage, which drove the wife insane. Every single person that lived in that house had died there. The villagers didn’t want the world knowing about this ‘curse’, to avoid bad press, so it was kept strictly within the local community.
I was utterly dumbstruck. This sounded insane, it couldn’t be true.

“Tom…if you knew about all of this, why did you tell us about the house, you told us to live here.” I had to know why my friend had doomed me and my wife.

“I had to try to stop it. When James’ brother died there, he was distraught. He knew I could find out about the house, and I thought if you two lived there, I could stop it.” He went back to looking at the floor. “I was there. The night you two moved there. I saw him Pete. I was in the field, opposite. He went into Carrie, I saw him go into her, and she-…he looked at me. That was when i got the fuck out of there.” He was visibly shaken regaling that. Yet he continued. “You two turned up at my door when you came back, and I asked her. I asked if it was her or him, and her eyes. Fuck Pete, her eyes were black. She just looked at me, and I knew. I wanted to tell you, but knew I’d be dead if I tried.” His eyes were glistening. I was sure that he wasn’t lying. He saw the man. I hadn’t told him that when we came to his house.
That was when it all fit together. The condom, Carrie had burst it. She went to get it from the bathroom and made a deliberate hole in it, hoping to get pregnant. The hand on the sonogram, it was him. Carrie’s smile as our baby died. The way she had been throughout the last few months. Not quite herself. “Peter, he’s here. You have to let me out. It’s him. All him.” That was what she said. She was in there, but couldn’t do anything. It was the farmer. He had been doing it for years. Taking children to find his heir. To a fucking farm.

“Tom, tell me what to do. Please, Carrie is there, she’s back the-” I was interrupted by a knocking on the door. Slow and deliberate. I looked at Tom’s face, filled with terror, then to the front door. I knew she was there. I stood up and walked to the front door.

“Don’t. Peter, don’t. You know it’s him.” Tom said, exasperated. I ignored him and looked out the window.

She was there.

She was looking at me again. That smile with those eyes. She lifted her hand to her face, and dug her nails into the soft flesh of her cheek. Horrified I went for the door. Tom jumped on me before I could.
“You dick don’t you understand, thats my wife. She’s fucking tearing her face off!” I screamed at him. He tried to hold me down, but it was useless. I felt a sudden burst of rage. He is trying to stop me saving my wife. I punched him. His nose began gushing blood. Through his burst mouth, he was trying to say something to me. I made out “wife”, but I didn’t stop long enough to let him finish. I kept pounding and pounding, but my rage didn’t subside. He had always been in love with her, I know he had. The way he looked at her. He wanted my wife for himself, that was what he was trying to tell me, I knew it was. I kept going until his face was a bloody wreck, my hands felt like they were like to explode. There was blood all over the walls, and Tom was most definitely dead. Yet my rage burned no lower.

I stood and looked around. I was going to do something, but couldn’t remember what. Then the door was pounded again. I walked over, passing a mirror. I stared long and hard at my face. I hadn’t looked at myself in a long time. I looked horrible. Blood spattered across my face, but I smiled. The light was shining right into my eyes, but still they were black. The wife.

Credit To – Not So Jolly Boy John