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You can call me terrible, horrible, or the worst best friend you have ever heard of. But by the end of my story, I hope you realize why I did what I did, why I stood back and let my best friend die, and most importantly, I hope you don’t judge me.
We had just graduated, my best friend Eric and I, barely starting our lives and going out of town for college with nothing to look back on. We had moved out and in together, same school, jobs and everything since we didn’t know anyone miles from home. We spent almost every moment together, we grew stronger than we had ever been, and I was finally starting to fall in love with this boy that I had known my entire life. Everything was working out perfect, like something in a movie, something I never thought would happen to someone like me. I was ecstatic.
We had rented to own a house, a quaint, cheap, perfect little home for two college kids, and as a few years passed, we decided to start redecorating slowly but surely. Being a forensic science major, of course he wanted to look up more information about our house before we started tearing down anything, I had assured him that it wasn’t necessary, but his hardheaded ways prevailed again. So he searched, and he dug, and he found every bit of history he could get his hands on. Eric lost sleep and missed classes but he didn’t care the least bit. This went on for a good two or three weeks and I started to feel like I was the only sane being in the house.
He wouldn’t speak to me about anything he found out, he just kept saying that it was all “uninteresting”, but those bags under his once brilliant blue eyes proved to me that every single bit of what he uncovered was much more than “uninteresting”. I soon convinced Eric that he needed to go back to school, that he was acting ridiculous and couldn’t afford to do this anymore, he agreed after a while and I began my planning.
I was determined to find out everything he knew one way or another. So I started to stay home the days he left for school. I went through everything he owned until I came across a journal of his, where he had written down absolutely all he found, and to my horror, I became entranced. I read about the previous owners and the awful things they did in our home. The séances, the bloodletting, all of the miscarried children and affairs. Everything. I didn’t know how he knew all of this, but it sounded too true to be made up. I couldn’t believe my eyes, I didn’t want to. Because along with his notes about the houses past, he also wrote small diary entry’s. He said things I would of never expected to hear from him, things that he saw, and felt. The interactions he had with the spirit of the woman he saw in here, his attempt at retrieving the spirits and finding out more. He was losing his mind. He had gone mad over our house and there was no way of getting him to end it.
I started to do research of my own, knowing my will was much stronger than his, I was sure I wouldn’t get sucked in like he did. So I began. Everything I found in the library were things I already knew from his journal, and it wasn’t enough. I wanted, no, I needed to know more. I started to ask the neighbors, the landlord, anyone who I thought might know anything I didn’t. They all said the same things, every single person. It was so frustrating that there wasn’t a damned thing that led anywhere. I started to look for things around the house again, markings, hidden secrets, anything that would feed my mind information about the house or its past owners, but wound up with nothing.
Eric was slowly starting to slip back into old habits, and I was afraid he was going to figure out that I was searching as well. I couldn’t let him find out, we couldn’t both lose sleep over our own house, so I quit. I let him carry this burden on his own, I knew he wouldn’t get very far since I didn’t. But oh, I don’t think I could of called that one anymore wrong. He found out so much more than I did, he knew all the right places to look. But I didn’t bother asking anymore. I just let him take care of it on his own. I knew I couldn’t stop him, and it was getting to the point that he was a completely different person. I needed to take care of myself, I couldn’t handle all of these worries.
I started to see less and less of Eric as the weeks passed, he began to lock himself in his room for hours on end. I was curious, I was anxious, but over all, I was ecstatic. The same feelings that I had felt when we moved in, swarmed my body one night in my sleep during a dream, and I woke up with a smile on my face. I had had an epiphany that night, and I knew exactly what I needed to do.
I began to wait up till three or four in the morning, just to start screaming bloody murder from my room, and as soon as I heard his panicked footsteps approaching my door, I’d abruptly stop and pretend I was sleeping. He never asked and I never told, I was amazed that he never caught on, but he liked his secrets too much. I started to add on to my hopes of making him lose his mind faster. I had realized that if he kept on, then our lives would be ruined. I couldn’t handle all of this crazy. I needed it to stop. So I fed his imagination, I fed it till it was fat and ready to explode. And I knew soon enough, it would.
I soon befriended the town butcher, telling him I was doing research for school and I needed as many bones as he could lend me. He gladly agreed since his favorite doggy customer didn’t stop by anymore. So I collected, in secret, all of these tools that I needed to set us free. After a good month or so, I had what I wanted. One night, as Eric was sleeping soundly, I crept in and placed each bone on his wooden floor, quietly, perfectly, and returned to my own bed. That night I couldn’t sleep, as disgusted as I am now by those feelings, I felt like a kid on Christmas eve back then. So I did what I did almost every week, I screamed, louder than I ever have, and as soon as I heard him return my scream with one of his own, I knew he had found my gift to him. I ran over to his bedroom calling for him, and as I opened the door I let my jaw drop and played a fool. “wha…what the hell is all of this mess Eric?!” “I have no earthly idea Meri. I honestly don’t”. I climbed into his bed with him, placing my hand on his face to calm him down. He finally started to explain to me the things he knew, he confessed everything that night, asking how I didn’t hear the screaming that occurred so often. I just looked him in the eyes and said it was probably all in his head. He said he knew it was, and he couldn’t take it anymore. But it was far too late for him. That night we stayed up till sunrise, and I listened to everything he had to say, and as soon as he mentioned the slightest hint of suicide, I knew he was ready, and I knew I was ready to help him. That evening we sat at the dining room table in silence, the first time we had sat there together in a month. I looked at him and I could just see how he was sick of it all, his eyes cried into mine as we locked stares. I felt him ask me for help in those five minutes we sat there, and without a word, we both got up and headed to his room. He sat on his bed, and I walked around his floor of decay for a few seconds. I came to a halt at his nightstand,and slowly opened the top drawer, a lonely .357 magnum sat atop hundreds of pages from a torn out book, and I knew exactly what our next move should be. I took the gun casually in one hand and gave him a soft, warm gaze in his eyes, and handed him his future. He looked down at his hands, and then back up at me, he knew exactly what he wanted, and he was glad I was there to help. He let out a deep sigh, and I turned around knowing that it was time. The seconds that it took felt like hours, as if it didn’t go by fast enough. My ears only rang, and I darted around to see the mangled head of my love buried faced down in his pillow. I didn’t scream, or cry, I didn’t even feel my heart beat change. I walked over, laid down, and held his lifeless body in my arms for days, until the cops showed up, and by that time I was so delusional from dehydration and starvation I didn’t know what was going on. I was away for a long time before they figured out it was a suicide, they didn’t blame me for holding him, and I was found not guilty. Its been years since I’ve been able to tell my story of how it all exactly happened. No one would believe me, they wouldn’t understand that I did it out of love. They could never know what I meant. Some nights I still scream at the top of my lungs to see if he’ll come running. He usually does.
Credit To: Meredith E. Ripper