The Origin 2

January 7th 2007
I have recently discovered the story of a haunting in an old house. A poltergeist, it would seem. My fellow paranormal hunter associates were discussing the matter at lunch, saying how walkers by and neighbours heard muffled screams and growls coming the house, even though it has been abondened for four years. I naturally took interest in this ghastly-going on and asked the where-a-bouts of this haunted establishment. My friend said it was in Liverpool, an old house by a bunch of newsagents and smallish homes. I pondered the sceptic explanations for the stated paranormal events, and the ghostly. I shall do some digging about this house tomorrow.

January 8th, 2007
The fair amount of information I found strongly points to ghostly explanation of this manor. I managed to find out it used to belong to a once wealthy man, who once ran a popular and successful business. Mr Walter W. Parkerson. WWP for short. He married his beautiful wife, Mary. They bought the house after Walters phone shop opened, and two months later had a baby girl. However, when this girl reached two, Mary left Walter, due to his rather un-hinged personality. Walter was an angry man, and snapped whenever something went wrong. He was a loose cannon, bursting in a frenzied rage, unpredictable, scary, sometimes. Mary didn’t want to live a life like this, and left him with her child. Walter tried his best to look after his daughter, but also tried to commit suicide multiple times. He became very un-sociable and bitter, and eventually, he died of unknown causes.
Muffled growls and screams coming from this house suggest the trapped soul of WWP, and I intend to explore the house in a couple of days, first, however, I am to see his daughter, Jenny, tomorrow.

January 9th, 2007
I found out a lot more about WWP today, and went to Jenny’s house and discussed her troubled childhood. She is a fine looking young lady, long sandy hair, healthy body, and a pretty pale face. She seemed very nervous when discussing her father.
“Hello.” I had greeted. “Please, take a seat.”
“Th-, Thank you.” She smiled, sitting as she did so.
“I hear you grew up in the house that has become a paranormal phenomenon?”
“Y, yes, actually.”
“You lived with your father, after your mother left, may I ask how that felt?”
“He was a lost soul, tragic really. He loved me, and my mum, deep down he did, but he had a hard time showing it. Ever since my mum left he slowly went angrier and scarier every day, to the point where whenever he walked past I would flinch.”
She was pulling a half smile now.
“It also says on the newspaper reports that your father tried to commit,” I found it awkward to discuss this in front of her. “Suicide.” I gulped.
“Yes, 3 times actually. It was terrible. The first time tried to use chemicals, but opposed to killing him, it caused him great suffering, it nearly blinded him, and caused his skin to turn into a sickly green colour. The second was drug overdose, which, as you could probably deduce, also failed. It ruined his vocal cords and caused his voice to be deep and throaty, blackening his lungs, and his heart. The third, was hanging. He would have finished off the job too if I hadn’t stopped him in time. It severely injured his neck, bounding him to his bed, shouting out his demands, and would only come out if clutching his cane, stomping and clacking his way downstairs.”
“That must have been terrible.” I added.
“It was, Every day he slowly turned more and more into a monster. My friends called him ‘The Big Bad Dad’, and I had to agree with them. He was barely human anymore, more like a living, walking corpse! I would always try and sneak out the front door to meet friends and actually enjoy my life, instead of caring for my monstrous father, but he always heard me. He’d roar ‘What are you doing?’ I scramble the key into the lock, desperately turning and twisting it. ‘I’ll get you for this, wretched girl!’ My panic would be un-imaginable, as I heard his clacking and clumping down stairs, calling down his threats, and when he finally came down he would…”
She was fighting back tears, hands clenched, head turned. She rubbed a big scar on her arm, and I knew that sentence needn’t be finished.
“It’s okay. It’s okay. Thank you so much for all your help.” I smiled hopefully.
“You’re welcome.” She then tried to change the subject. “I’m going on a date with my boyfriend tommorow.”
“How lovely. I’m sure whoever he is, is a very lucky man.”
She smiled. She showed me out and I ran over my notes. This story was getting deeper and deeper and more scary and exciting for the minute. I am to stay at the house tomorrow for the night, and monitor activity, if WWP does haunt his house or not, I’ll know.

January 10th 2007
As I am writing this, I am observing the house in front of me. It was large and dusty, and made up of red, fading, and crumbling bricks. It has a long, pointing tower at the top, but it is not that high. It has curved, dirty windows, 3 of them, all boarded up with rusted metal and planks of wood. A truly fascinating home. I am to step inside now.
As I stepped inside, the door creaked and dust consumed my sight. The corridor is narrow and the wallpaper is pale and peeled, to my right is a twisted, broken staircase. The house is dark, but not too dark, and a flashlight would fix everything. I shall explore now.
I have examined the whole bottom floor, and it is like a whole scavenger hunt of stories. In the kitchen, are smashed and foul smelling vials, which most likely held the chemicals that WWP had acquired. The cupboards were open and layered with dust, cobwebs and rats resided in it like parasites on human flesh. The surfaces were grimy and greasy, and the table was one feather weight away from falling apart into splinters. In the living room there was a dangling, twisted rope, the one that failed to kill WWP. The armchairs are beaten and battered, and the small television is smashed beyond repair. In the front room, there was nothing except an old pill bottle, and a dead rat, which had presumably met its fate eating the remaining pills, I shall explore upstairs now.
Oh my god. Oh my good god. My imagination is either over-active, or this house is indeed haunted. As I reached the top of the stairs, I turned round to look in the first of the three rooms, and just for a second, I saw a figure, illuminated by a dangling, dim light-bulb above. Brief, as its appearance may have been, it matched the description of WWP greatly. It had revolting, decaying green skin. It looked like a hellish mixture of dark green water-colours and vomit. It had, from what I can remember, twisted glasses and broken lenses, but no eyes to speak of. If anything, although this is a crude example, like Dr. Bunsen Honeydew out the Muppets! But sickly and deathlike. My heart is thudding in my chest, my breath fast and desperate. I shall see it again, I must!
I walk in into the room farthest to my left, and there is nothing except a boarded up window, a badly lit light-bulb and a phone. The phone itself, is covered in dust. I will walk towards it to get a better…
What was that. I heard a creek of the floor come from outside. My heart is beating faster, whether out of excitement or fear, I do not know. I walk slowly to the edge of the door, I shall look now.
Shit! He was there! He was right fucking there! He was walking slowly towards the room in the corridor. I got a better glimpse of him this time, he was wearing a purplish, blackish robe. I have leapt into the corner of this room, shaking and trembling as I write this. I hear another creak, oh no, oh no.
My god, he is walking in. I should be screaming and running, but I am frozen, struggling to breath. He is walking in towards me, no fear of me at all.
He’s raising a hand now, towards the light, I can barely write this. Oh god. I need to survive. People need to know.
CRAP! He’s just busted the light! Its complete darkness except his outline now, and a strange glue blow is forming by his hand.
He, is, he’s staring right at me. I can’t write. My writing is all jumbled. I cannot see my paper. I can’t see him. What, what’s happening? He’s breathing in my face. God, his breath is terrible. It’s a foul stench of decay and m ould.
Wh, what? My eyes are drooping, I’m, I’m falling asleep! I can’t, I can’t write much longer, he’s, he’s going towards the phone now. He’s putting his hand on the phone, the blue electricity forming around it, oh God. The phones working again now. What’s he going to do with that phone, his fingers are dialing, he’s ringing someone, who is he ringing, I can hear a muffled ‘hello’ from the phone, I can’t write, I can’t…

*****

So you’re making out with ur honey, Jenny, and the phone rings, you answer it, and the voice is, ‘What are you doing with my daughter…’

Credit To – YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE USERNAME!