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Ghost Story
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Here is the Fear and the Night saga in its current entirety. The first entry, and the first entry alone is based upon my own, factual experiences. The
rest is not. Please enjoy, and comments would be appreciated.
Fear and the Night
Journal Entry, dated 03 April
I don�t know what was wrong that night. Usually, I find the darkness a comfort, like an old blanket or a well-worn shirt. That night�.that night, something was off. It felt like someone was walking (or dancing, I suppose) over my grave. My dog and I, we walked along the bike path. I was musing to myself and he was sniffing things, as usual. Somehow, my mind wandered to spirits and the like. Ghosts. Death. To take my mind off the uncomfortable thoughts, I looked up at the sky. Everything was different. The clouds were orangy, and so was the gigantic half moon above them. The stars weren�t even out.
As my dog �watered� the grass, I had a sudden flashback. I was in grade ten again, and the class was sitting in a half circle around our teacher as he recalled stories from HIS childhood. He had lived out with his aunt on a farm briefly. He recalled, every October 24th, that the voices would come in the night. The first time they had come, his uncle had heard them. Faint and indistinct, he thought perhaps some people had wandered onto his farm and were seeking help. He went out with the lantern, searched the entire farm, and come back empty handed. He shrugged it off until he heard them again, louder this time. It sounded like a family, with a father, mother, some children and an infant.
Again, he went out, and again they assailed him from all directions. I could hear the tremors in my teacher�s voice as he described it. Every October 24th afterwards, his uncle would sit in the kitchen with a shotgun across his lap and a bottle of whiskey in hand while everyone else cowered beneath the table and wished the voices away. The ghostly voices seemed to be coming from everywhere. He described each one with frightening clarity. The father�s voice boomed commands across the fields, angry and worried. The mother�s was out towards the barn, crying in frustration, trying to calmly keep her children under control. But they were the worst, he said� they were the worst. They screamed and cried and howled like banshees. The children called out questions and pleas, while the baby just kept crying. He didn�t know what made them do that. He guessed that maybe the house had been burnt down, but they would never know. It was an old farm, from way back in the days when Canada was just being settled.
Now, I�m not saying ghosts or spirits or whatever you want to call them exist, but if they do, I have every reason to respect them. I live perhaps no more than five hundred feet from Munn�s Graveyard. I can almost see it from my bedroom window. I�ve had my own run ins with them. Some nights, when I�m in bed and up because I�m a bit of an insomniac, I see auras, sort of. You know, when you get up too fast and everything becomes a sheet of dotty yellow? Put that into the shape of a person and make it transparent, and that�s what I see. I�ve seen a whole bunch. You can tell who they are by the way they move. There�s an old man, a farmer, a soldier� The longer I look at them, the more defined they become. It�s creepy.
Most nights, when I see them, I just face the wall and hide my face. I�m terrified of them. Once, one started to move towards me. It was like the size of a five year old, and it seemed to be beckoning me to play. I just flipped myself over and started to repeat the words �no fear� over and over again. I couldn�t have been more than an inch from the wall, but when I managed to open my eyes again, the face was there, half in and half out of the wall. I just stood stock still. It did the same, and as we stood there looking at each other, it � she � started to sort of congeal. The features became three dimensional, then started to round out, then the eyes�the sockets formed. I just closed my eyes. When I opened them again, she was gone. I haven�t seen her since. But sometimes, it feels like someone�s touching my body: usually my hair or head, but sometimes my legs. I know nothing�s there, though. It�s creepy as hell.
As we walked, I tried to purge my mind of these thoughts. My throat had swelled and hackles risen as we emerged into the light of a streetlamp. I felt as if someone was staring as my back, trying to burn a hole in it. I whipped around, but no one was there. Nothing. Not a single sign of life. My neck still felt odd, as it there was a faint pressure there. A thin line around it, actually. I rubbed it, yet the sensation did not fade. I could still feel the presence behind me. I jogged the rest of the way home, casting worried glances of my shoulder the entire way. Once, just once, I thought I might have caught a glimpse of a small form made purely of shadow. It was there and gone at the same time, and I could swear that there was a smile on the �face�. Even now, as I write this, I can still feel it. I feel like I�ve tried to swallow a tennis ball whole. Except now, it�s like someone�s stepping on my throat every time I try to write a word�.
Letter, found unopened
Dearest Alexander,
I can barely remember life beyond the Shroud anymore. It seems so far away now, so inconsequential. It WAS almost two centuries ago, I suppose. Time doesn�t matter here, hovering between life and death. I can still see the world of the living, through the miasma of grey that forms the barrier between myself and all that mattered�matters to me.
I remember when this bustling suburb was just a wood mill and a few farms. I lived on one, for that matter. Now, it�s spread out so far. I watched it all. It boomed as Toronto boomed, construction companies buying out the tired old farmers to create opulent townhouses and condominiums for the arrogant yuppies who thought themselves too good for inner city living.
Before all this, in a simpler time, I was just a young woman, only nineteen when it happened. I was the most beautiful girl in the area, the envy of the few teenagers for miles around. Then, it happened. I don�t know whether Momma was cooking something, or there was an accident in Father�s smithy, but it all burned - my family, our log home, and most of the surrounding fields of wheat. By the time that the neighbors finally got the blaze under control, all that they found was our charred bones. They buried us all at Munn�s cemetery, way out on the edge of town. I watched it all. I saw everyone cry, I watched my life float away in the smoke, and I�ve continued to watch ever since. There�s nothing else to do.
I learned in all the spare time, and made friends with the growing number of fellow ghosts. There�s only about twenty of us in the city now, but I started off all alone. So, when people left books open or went to the library, I read. My mother had taught me basic reading skills, and with nearly fifty years before the radio was invented, I had plenty of time to hone them. During the night, when I saw strongest, I could turn the pages by myself. It would take all my strength, but I did it. After that came those people who left radio sets or televisions on. I watched the world I had known crumble away into dust.
In my eyes, the world destroyed itself. Nearly everything of value was put to technology�s torch. Restless and growing angry, I roamed through each new house as the ruthless expansion annihilated the place I grew up in, each new home crawling closer to my burial site. It was the only thing I had left anymore. A few years ago, new houses came up within spiting distance of my last stronghold. Fearing that they would uproot what little remained of my previous existence, I began to harass the inhabitants of the homes. Well, I did until I saw you.
You were only thirteen, young compared to me, but still remarkable. Your angst mirrored my own. I grew fascinated with you, inhabiting the house as surely as you did. I watched you grow, I watched you suffer, I watched you revel and I watched you cry to yourself when you thought no one was looking. You�re eighteen now, an aspiring writer. You has so little idea how much your words hurt everyone, Alexander. I can see it in you� you�re torn between the few joys you�ve found in life and the anger and hatred of everything. It cut me to the core as I watched you fight off your parents time and again, claiming that you had no friends. I called out, screamed to you. I was here, just waiting, Alex! I understood! But you couldn�t see me. I realized this, and sulked off. I returned later, unable to keep away.
Eventually, your interests branched out into the obscure, the abstract, and the occult. You made yourself runes, bought a pack of tarot cards. I waited anxiously as it was mailed to you. Finally, I thought, it was my chance to communicate with you! Every day that passed, I was more excited than the last. I would sit with you as you watched your favorite shows, observe as you wrote your stories, and sigh as I realized the eventuality that we would be�forever separate. How could you love something you couldn�t see? That epiphany did not dilute my love for you one iota. I still cling to the shred of hope that lies deep with us�me.
You got the pack, and the first time you used it, I came through them to you. I helped you along your path as best I could. But the more you used our precious medium, the more you felt and the more you saw back into the Shroud. I could feel it, see it. The fear in your eyes explained everything.
At night, as you would take dog for walks I would skip along behind you, enjoying the fact that you could be at peace out here amongst the shadows and moonlight. However, the more you used the cards, the more you could feel my presence. You cast wary gazes past me, through me, at something that you felt followed you with ill intent. On occasion, I took the child-ghost Mary with me. Merely five when she died, she was curious and wide eyed at her new existence. She looked up to me as a big sister, a role I couldn�t deny the poor girl. We would walk hand in hand and follow you, my Alexander, and your dog, and she would ask me questions about you. I would answer them as best I could, knowing that if I was her big sister, than you were something of a distant cousin she couldn�t understand.
One night, we decided to try something new and watch as you walked towards us, waiting on the bike path you usually take. We were both excited. You had been using the cards a lot more than usual, that night. As we watched you stride towards us, long legs eating up the distance, we smiled to ourselves. In the pale splendor of a full moon, you looked better than the cur you claim you are. I stared longingly at you, as Mary jumped up and down with excitement. Suddenly, your dog balked a mere ten feet from us. The large, golden brown mutt of golden retriever and German shepherd sat down and refused to go forwards, pawing the leash whenever you, my beloved, tried to yank him forwards. Squinting into the darkness, you saw nothing. Casting a baleful glare at the path as a whole, you turned and took a different route. Mary turned and looked up at me, asking, �Andrea, why does Alex hate us? He can�t even see us!�
I was at a loss to explain it to her before she scampered off and chased you. You later wrote of seeing the shadow of a young girl- that was her, chasing you and pleading for forgiveness for some unknown sin. A few somber nights later, myself, Mary, and the spirit of an old man who called himself �Gaffer� found ourselves in your neighborhood. We dragged him along many a time to see you as you slept fitfully, or some nights not at all. This night was different.
At the height of your perceptions, you saw us that night. You wrote of that incident as well, and I learned much from the experience. I found out that those times I could not resist trying to touch you, make my affection known, you had felt it. It had terrified you in the beginning, my tender caresses, gentle touches that had... had the taint of death about them. It heartened me in the end, realizing that I had finally gotten through to you and saddened me as you recoiled from my touch. Some nights, I lie down next to you and try to comfort you as you weep silently, so desperately lonely. It scares you as you feel the sudden pressure as I lay down on his bed, as I place one arm over you in a gesture that has been the symbol of love and protection since time immemorial. It hurts, but it will change in time. You still fear my touch, but the terror in you grows less and less. You simply feel my presence, sigh quietly to yourself, and turn on the light to read and allay your fears. I put my head on your shoulder and try to keep pace, reading along with you. These days, the sensation of me gazing at you takes a mere fifteen minutes to calm. You accepted that I�m watching you, that you can�t help it. I can�t help it either, beloved.
I follow your example, my love, and write down my thoughts. It has taken me almost two years to compile these few pages. In them, I hope you can find the answers you seek, and take me for what I am. If you see fit, perhaps we will find each other again someday. I merely wished you to know of my experiences, my feelings, and my devotion.
Signed,
Andrea Fitzgerald
Journal entry, dated 27 May
It�s been awhile since I�ve seen any ghosts or what have you. Small graces, I suppose. But the other night�the other night was different. It was one of those nights where I couldn�t resist going out with my dog. It had rained all day, so the night was filled with a dreary pea-soup fog. You know�the kind where you can barely see thirty feet ahead of you. Gorgeous.
So we set out, traipsing across the slick black asphalt. The lights cut through the fog, hindering rather than helping sight. The mist seemed to make the amber into something solid, real. Breathing in the dank like some deprived smoker, I let it sit in my lungs. This is what it�s all about. The drizzle didn�t bother me, or the cold. I was so completely embroiled in the scenery that everything else became window dressing- the sleep deprivation, the angst, everything. Me and my dog, we took our time.
I don�t think very many people can appreciate the fog like I can. It�s like a comfort- you know, like when you wear certain clothes, you feel protected? Armored, even. Invulnerable. That�s how I used to feel about the fog. Now it�s just hindrance, another hunk of wool over my eyes. It hides as much as I do. Everything�s beneath the surface, where angels fear to tread�where everything fears to tread.
I could hear my dog�s claws click across the cement. Silence � pure, unadulterated, beautiful � was the only other thing that could make its way through the shroud of grey around us. I passed my house again, circling. It was perfect Zen for a moment- cyclical peace.
Then I saw it. The outline. The shadow. Call it what you will. I don�t care. It was there, goddammit! Damifino what it was. I squinted through the night, trying to make it out. It was maybe four feet, tops. It looked like it had a dress on, real old style. All I could see was a silhouette. So, as me and the dog got closer, I concentrated some more on it. Then it was broken by something so it eerie it chills me to the bone even now. The only way to describe it was laughter; half-remembered and musical in a desperate sort of way. Wind chimes�that�s what it was like. Female and young, it was distant yet seemed to come from every direction.
I got curious and cocky�real cocky. I kept advancing. Another giggle, and it was away. It seemed to effortlessly twirl and dance, yet managed to be ahead of us no matter how fast we ran. The maniacal giggling drowned out even the sound of my pounding feet and labored breathing as I gave chase. It frustrated me to no end. At once mocking and joyous, it grated on the nerves until I was snarling and snapping my teeth like my dog as he no doubt wondered what the hell we were getting ourselves into.
Then, all of a sudden, it stopped. Both the figure of the little girl and the sound of the laughter just stood stock still. I skidded to a stop, tripping over something low and lost in the fog. Leaning on my legs, I panted and stared over my glasses. It was still there, observing. Watching. Waiting. I returned whatever look it was giving me � it was no more than ten feet away at this point. The figure remained quiet, and I couldn�t hear anything but the gasping breaths my dog and I drew. Looking over to him, I noticed that his ears were flat to his head, hackles raised, and both his tail and head were down.
I looked back up. In the haze, I managed to catch a glimpse of an obelisk and a rounded rectangle beyond the ghost. Three more childlike figures had congealed from the fog, boxing us in. The realization dawned on me�we�re screwed. We had wandered into Munn�s cemetery. I stared at each of the small beings, trying to find some trait, some similarity. I turned back to the first, who appeared vaguely familiar. It dawned on me in a flash of epiphany. The little girl who had followed me all that time ago� �I know you. Why�d you bring me here?�
The laughter intensified in my head, nearly sending me into a bout of vertigo. Bombarded from all directions by the twisted, demented laughter of the children, I repressed the urge to spin and fall. Staggering on my feet, I watched the mist part. She was there! Terrible, beautiful�I don�t know how to describe her.
She moved from the mist, defining itself as it grew closer. Floating above the ground, she advanced on me. A long, diaphanous dress trailed behind her as long, slender hands reached towards me. Her figure was that of a young woman, entrancing and beautiful. But the she-wraith was terrifying in visage. Long, scraggly hair erupted from a skull long ago shorn of all flesh. Empty sockets seemed to focus on me, despite the lack of their contents. My jaw dropped in terror, and I retreated two steps. She paused a second, almost confused. She ran alabaster fingers across her own death�s-head visage once before continuing forwards, reaching out. I could hear her call out to me, in the back of my head. I recoiled in horror.
My dog was lying down in the fog, cringing before she entered five feet of me. Yanking him to his feet, I quickly decided that discretion was the better part of valor. Leaping the gravestones, we ran like madmen. I kept looking over my shoulder, watching the distant pursuit by the spectral party. Seconds after clearing the necropolis, it ripped through me. Overwhelming me, the psionic cry of grief was beyond anything I had ever experienced. A young woman�s voice tore through my mind, howling in pain and despair. I don�t remember so much falling as the ground inexplicably rushing up to me, then darkness.
It cleared into a great grey brightness as I awoke, half an hour later. Someone was kneeling beside me, asking if I was okay. I groaned and nodded. Soaking wet, bleeding from a gash on my head, I raised myself up onto my elbows. I was lying on the gravel shoulder of the road as the driver of a car questioned what had happened to me. I made up some bull story about slipping and falling while walking my dog (who was still conveniently tethered to me by the leash) and thanked him for his help. I staggered home, bruised and weary. Dodging my parents, I dumped my wet clothes and took a shower, trying to wash away the experience. I still don�t know whether or not it actually happened, or if I�m coming apart at the seams and going insane. Neither seems like a particularly pleasant idea. Only time will tell, I suppose.
From a book found open on Alex�s dresser, 01 June
-and as such, the experiences of Kyromato, Smith and Polanski prove the thesis that if spirits of the dead do indeed exist and interact with the living, either they have transubstantiated into a non-corporeal form or exist in another, superimposed dimension on top of ours. Presuming all poltergeists, ghosts, and other manifestations of psychic energy attributed to the dead are the work of the souls or consciousnesses of human beings who have entered either means of existence, one must take into account their bizarre, territorial claims to certain areas. In 90% of all cases in which a haunting has been investigated, there has been a strong link between the purported spirit and the area inhabited such as said area being a murder scene, a childhood home, or the home of a loved one.
The first theory put forth in this chapter discussed the idea of ghosts as non-corporeal beings. If this is the case, then it does indeed leave a number of ethical and religious questions. For what reasons do only some people become spirits? Some point out the age-old myths about revenge. Others claim that superstitions no longer followed are the reason for ghosts. For instance, in ancient Greece, in order to avoid hauntings relatives of the dead buried them with coins in their hands or over their eyes, so that they could pay Charon (the ferryman who brought the souls of the dead over the river Lethe to Hades) instead of paying with their own eyes or hands. It was thought that the deformed dead would return to haunt the living in order to take vengeance for forcing them to be maimed.
The most rational theory brought forth has been in the works of one Edna Reliant. She believes that the dead do not simply cease to exist. Instead, they pass on to a realm superimposed over ours. Through many consultations with mystics, mediums, and other occult means she had formed a rational hypothesis around a concept similar to subspace. In this other dimension, the dead are free of observe the living, but are mostly powerless to affect them. However at certain points, the barriers between the two worlds thin. She calls them �power spots� or �leylines�. Even without those, the dead may take a great deal of trouble in order to attempt to interact with the living. Depending on the emotion and purpose driving the ghost, she believes it possible to cross over and affect the living to various degrees. Thus while all the dead are trapped on the Other Side, not all of them are able or willing to contact their relatives, friends or enemies. She even theorized that some moved on beyond the superimposed dimension to achieve �final rest�.
In either case, the dead must undergo a number of traumatic changes (such as dying) before being able to cross over into the limbo between life and death Reliant proposes. In the next chapter, we will further discuss the repercussions of the living upon the dead. Building upon that idea, one must consider the concept of our own time to cross. However, it must be noted that the process of death and the realization that said persons can still see and hear the living must be a devastating event that can in no way be beneficial to a ghost�s psyche�
Note, found on top of previous letter to Alex
My love,
I apologize for scaring you last night in the graveyard. I promise I will make it up to you. I will earn your love yet, any way I can.
Andrea
Journal, dated 09 June
Well, my shrink is telling me to write about the dreams. Every night, I have them. Always the same, always a little different. The shrink said it would help. I don�t see how- everything�s falling apart. My girlfriend has been complaining and freaking out lately. She looks really strung out, and practically never wants to talk to me anymore. I miss her. So, here goes.
It starts out usually with a big view of the open sky. I�d call it painfully blue with white clouds drifting around. I can see it�s all hemmed in by yellow stalks on one side. So, I try to stand to see where I am, and then I realize that my left arm is connected to something. So I look down at it, right? And look, there�s this gorgeous brunette there holding my hand. Beautiful in that gentle sort of way, like the classic girl next door sort of thing. She�s got these depthless green eyes that just go on and on and make me feel like I�m drowning in them and I just want to dive deeper. She looks like a statue, smiling up at me, like she wants nothing more than for me to lie down next to her for a year or two. Then, it happens.
The entire picture flashes, and suddenly I�m staring at that face I saw in the graveyard. The skull is staring up at me, in the same clothes. It�s grinning. Behind it, the grey flashes dark and grey, and the stalks of wheat have shriveled. Everything is dead and grey.
Then, it all goes back to normal. I sort of shake my head, and pull her up next to me. The girl leaps up into my arms, wearing that long, white dress. She puts her arms around me and it just feels NATURAL, like I belong there. So, at any rate, we�re standing there and I can see that it�s an infinite wheat field, stretching on in every direction I can see. I can feel her next to me and we start running. We�re holding hands and looking at each other as we run and laugh, feeling the wheat part for us. Suddenly, as I�m looking at her, that beautiful face turns into the skull again. I trip and fall. She rushes up and asks me what�s wrong. I look up, and she�s normal again. I touch her face, and it�s smooth and warm. I can feel her affection radiating out towards me, then she flashes again. It doesn�t go cold� in fact, it warmer, stronger. Everything changes back again, and she lays down on top of me. I hear her whisper �Alex, I love you. Never leave me.� I kiss her cheek, and smile. Then, I wake up, feeling empty, like something�s been taken away from me. I don�t know why.
My parents are all worried about how I�ve been acting lately. I hear voices sometimes...whispers. What�s weirder is that sometimes, I can make out what they�re saying. I know it�s not normal, but the voices are pretty damn insightful. I passed comment on something I shouldn�t have known about, and when I let slip about it to my parents, they asked where I got the information from. I didn�t tell them for awhile (at least until they threatened to take away my internet), and when I did, they sent me to Dr. Morrough. I feel kind of stupid, but it�s not normal. The ghosts still come around every now and again, but not that girl from the graveyard or the children. They still scare me #less, though. Well, maybe this will help. I doubt my life could get any more screwed up at this point�
Letter found among Alex�s girlfriend�s personal possessions
Heather,
I know what you�re been doing. I�ve watched from the shadows. I don�t know how you live with yourself. How could you hurt Alex like that? He�s done nothing but good by you. He�s always been faithful. He has never asked anything from you. All he ever wants is to make you happy, bending over backwards to. Did you know he spent half the money he had saved for a new computer on that silver necklace you wear all the time? No, of course not.
Now I�m not going to pretend as if I don�t love him more than life itself, but I know I can�t make him happy like you can. I know you used to love him. Even if you don�t now, the least you could do is break up with him. I�m here to catch him if he falls. But please�spare him as much pain as possible. I�m begging you, one woman to another, to please keep him from this hurt.
I�ve seen you with that other guy. I don�t know who he is, and I don�t care. Get rid of him, for my sake, if not Alex�s. I won�t say that I�ll become your worst nightmare if you don�t.
I�ll become your every nightmare.
Alex�s Angel
Journal, dated 16 June
Whispers. Whispers. The dark whispers to me now. I can feel emotion on the wind. I�ve been up for fifty-two hours now. In the dark, I saw them. I felt them. The ghosts. They don�t want to hurt me, I can tell. But what the #? They�re DEAD! Why are they showing themselves to me? I�m sitting here, writing, and they�re watching me. It�s absolutely unnerving. The light is on, but I can still see them, just barely. The tall one just cocked her head at me, like a dog that doesn�t understand what you�re trying to tell it. It�s like they�re radiating....feeling. I don�t know how to describe it. I don�t understand what�s going on. I can�t sleep. I hear things. I feel things. I have to get out of here.
Found at Dr. Morrough�s Office
Patient shows signs of extreme stress brought on by family and girlfriend. EEG�s are irregular, showing a near-perfect two-step pattern. MMPI and Weschler scores are extremely deviant. Scores show high levels of depression, above average intelligence, and most notably a T-score of 104 in the schizoid scale.
Patient displays fugue-type symptoms, extreme depressive states and a nearly-schizoid mentation. Will recommend to family that he be put until psychiatric observation.
I am prescribing valium in 4mg doses, as well as standard doxepin.
Dr. Morrough
DE
[edit on 30-8-2004 by DeusEx]
Fear and the Night
Journal Entry, dated 03 April
I don�t know what was wrong that night. Usually, I find the darkness a comfort, like an old blanket or a well-worn shirt. That night�.that night, something was off. It felt like someone was walking (or dancing, I suppose) over my grave. My dog and I, we walked along the bike path. I was musing to myself and he was sniffing things, as usual. Somehow, my mind wandered to spirits and the like. Ghosts. Death. To take my mind off the uncomfortable thoughts, I looked up at the sky. Everything was different. The clouds were orangy, and so was the gigantic half moon above them. The stars weren�t even out.
As my dog �watered� the grass, I had a sudden flashback. I was in grade ten again, and the class was sitting in a half circle around our teacher as he recalled stories from HIS childhood. He had lived out with his aunt on a farm briefly. He recalled, every October 24th, that the voices would come in the night. The first time they had come, his uncle had heard them. Faint and indistinct, he thought perhaps some people had wandered onto his farm and were seeking help. He went out with the lantern, searched the entire farm, and come back empty handed. He shrugged it off until he heard them again, louder this time. It sounded like a family, with a father, mother, some children and an infant.
Again, he went out, and again they assailed him from all directions. I could hear the tremors in my teacher�s voice as he described it. Every October 24th afterwards, his uncle would sit in the kitchen with a shotgun across his lap and a bottle of whiskey in hand while everyone else cowered beneath the table and wished the voices away. The ghostly voices seemed to be coming from everywhere. He described each one with frightening clarity. The father�s voice boomed commands across the fields, angry and worried. The mother�s was out towards the barn, crying in frustration, trying to calmly keep her children under control. But they were the worst, he said� they were the worst. They screamed and cried and howled like banshees. The children called out questions and pleas, while the baby just kept crying. He didn�t know what made them do that. He guessed that maybe the house had been burnt down, but they would never know. It was an old farm, from way back in the days when Canada was just being settled.
Now, I�m not saying ghosts or spirits or whatever you want to call them exist, but if they do, I have every reason to respect them. I live perhaps no more than five hundred feet from Munn�s Graveyard. I can almost see it from my bedroom window. I�ve had my own run ins with them. Some nights, when I�m in bed and up because I�m a bit of an insomniac, I see auras, sort of. You know, when you get up too fast and everything becomes a sheet of dotty yellow? Put that into the shape of a person and make it transparent, and that�s what I see. I�ve seen a whole bunch. You can tell who they are by the way they move. There�s an old man, a farmer, a soldier� The longer I look at them, the more defined they become. It�s creepy.
Most nights, when I see them, I just face the wall and hide my face. I�m terrified of them. Once, one started to move towards me. It was like the size of a five year old, and it seemed to be beckoning me to play. I just flipped myself over and started to repeat the words �no fear� over and over again. I couldn�t have been more than an inch from the wall, but when I managed to open my eyes again, the face was there, half in and half out of the wall. I just stood stock still. It did the same, and as we stood there looking at each other, it � she � started to sort of congeal. The features became three dimensional, then started to round out, then the eyes�the sockets formed. I just closed my eyes. When I opened them again, she was gone. I haven�t seen her since. But sometimes, it feels like someone�s touching my body: usually my hair or head, but sometimes my legs. I know nothing�s there, though. It�s creepy as hell.
As we walked, I tried to purge my mind of these thoughts. My throat had swelled and hackles risen as we emerged into the light of a streetlamp. I felt as if someone was staring as my back, trying to burn a hole in it. I whipped around, but no one was there. Nothing. Not a single sign of life. My neck still felt odd, as it there was a faint pressure there. A thin line around it, actually. I rubbed it, yet the sensation did not fade. I could still feel the presence behind me. I jogged the rest of the way home, casting worried glances of my shoulder the entire way. Once, just once, I thought I might have caught a glimpse of a small form made purely of shadow. It was there and gone at the same time, and I could swear that there was a smile on the �face�. Even now, as I write this, I can still feel it. I feel like I�ve tried to swallow a tennis ball whole. Except now, it�s like someone�s stepping on my throat every time I try to write a word�.
Letter, found unopened
Dearest Alexander,
I can barely remember life beyond the Shroud anymore. It seems so far away now, so inconsequential. It WAS almost two centuries ago, I suppose. Time doesn�t matter here, hovering between life and death. I can still see the world of the living, through the miasma of grey that forms the barrier between myself and all that mattered�matters to me.
I remember when this bustling suburb was just a wood mill and a few farms. I lived on one, for that matter. Now, it�s spread out so far. I watched it all. It boomed as Toronto boomed, construction companies buying out the tired old farmers to create opulent townhouses and condominiums for the arrogant yuppies who thought themselves too good for inner city living.
Before all this, in a simpler time, I was just a young woman, only nineteen when it happened. I was the most beautiful girl in the area, the envy of the few teenagers for miles around. Then, it happened. I don�t know whether Momma was cooking something, or there was an accident in Father�s smithy, but it all burned - my family, our log home, and most of the surrounding fields of wheat. By the time that the neighbors finally got the blaze under control, all that they found was our charred bones. They buried us all at Munn�s cemetery, way out on the edge of town. I watched it all. I saw everyone cry, I watched my life float away in the smoke, and I�ve continued to watch ever since. There�s nothing else to do.
I learned in all the spare time, and made friends with the growing number of fellow ghosts. There�s only about twenty of us in the city now, but I started off all alone. So, when people left books open or went to the library, I read. My mother had taught me basic reading skills, and with nearly fifty years before the radio was invented, I had plenty of time to hone them. During the night, when I saw strongest, I could turn the pages by myself. It would take all my strength, but I did it. After that came those people who left radio sets or televisions on. I watched the world I had known crumble away into dust.
In my eyes, the world destroyed itself. Nearly everything of value was put to technology�s torch. Restless and growing angry, I roamed through each new house as the ruthless expansion annihilated the place I grew up in, each new home crawling closer to my burial site. It was the only thing I had left anymore. A few years ago, new houses came up within spiting distance of my last stronghold. Fearing that they would uproot what little remained of my previous existence, I began to harass the inhabitants of the homes. Well, I did until I saw you.
You were only thirteen, young compared to me, but still remarkable. Your angst mirrored my own. I grew fascinated with you, inhabiting the house as surely as you did. I watched you grow, I watched you suffer, I watched you revel and I watched you cry to yourself when you thought no one was looking. You�re eighteen now, an aspiring writer. You has so little idea how much your words hurt everyone, Alexander. I can see it in you� you�re torn between the few joys you�ve found in life and the anger and hatred of everything. It cut me to the core as I watched you fight off your parents time and again, claiming that you had no friends. I called out, screamed to you. I was here, just waiting, Alex! I understood! But you couldn�t see me. I realized this, and sulked off. I returned later, unable to keep away.
Eventually, your interests branched out into the obscure, the abstract, and the occult. You made yourself runes, bought a pack of tarot cards. I waited anxiously as it was mailed to you. Finally, I thought, it was my chance to communicate with you! Every day that passed, I was more excited than the last. I would sit with you as you watched your favorite shows, observe as you wrote your stories, and sigh as I realized the eventuality that we would be�forever separate. How could you love something you couldn�t see? That epiphany did not dilute my love for you one iota. I still cling to the shred of hope that lies deep with us�me.
You got the pack, and the first time you used it, I came through them to you. I helped you along your path as best I could. But the more you used our precious medium, the more you felt and the more you saw back into the Shroud. I could feel it, see it. The fear in your eyes explained everything.
At night, as you would take dog for walks I would skip along behind you, enjoying the fact that you could be at peace out here amongst the shadows and moonlight. However, the more you used the cards, the more you could feel my presence. You cast wary gazes past me, through me, at something that you felt followed you with ill intent. On occasion, I took the child-ghost Mary with me. Merely five when she died, she was curious and wide eyed at her new existence. She looked up to me as a big sister, a role I couldn�t deny the poor girl. We would walk hand in hand and follow you, my Alexander, and your dog, and she would ask me questions about you. I would answer them as best I could, knowing that if I was her big sister, than you were something of a distant cousin she couldn�t understand.
One night, we decided to try something new and watch as you walked towards us, waiting on the bike path you usually take. We were both excited. You had been using the cards a lot more than usual, that night. As we watched you stride towards us, long legs eating up the distance, we smiled to ourselves. In the pale splendor of a full moon, you looked better than the cur you claim you are. I stared longingly at you, as Mary jumped up and down with excitement. Suddenly, your dog balked a mere ten feet from us. The large, golden brown mutt of golden retriever and German shepherd sat down and refused to go forwards, pawing the leash whenever you, my beloved, tried to yank him forwards. Squinting into the darkness, you saw nothing. Casting a baleful glare at the path as a whole, you turned and took a different route. Mary turned and looked up at me, asking, �Andrea, why does Alex hate us? He can�t even see us!�
I was at a loss to explain it to her before she scampered off and chased you. You later wrote of seeing the shadow of a young girl- that was her, chasing you and pleading for forgiveness for some unknown sin. A few somber nights later, myself, Mary, and the spirit of an old man who called himself �Gaffer� found ourselves in your neighborhood. We dragged him along many a time to see you as you slept fitfully, or some nights not at all. This night was different.
At the height of your perceptions, you saw us that night. You wrote of that incident as well, and I learned much from the experience. I found out that those times I could not resist trying to touch you, make my affection known, you had felt it. It had terrified you in the beginning, my tender caresses, gentle touches that had... had the taint of death about them. It heartened me in the end, realizing that I had finally gotten through to you and saddened me as you recoiled from my touch. Some nights, I lie down next to you and try to comfort you as you weep silently, so desperately lonely. It scares you as you feel the sudden pressure as I lay down on his bed, as I place one arm over you in a gesture that has been the symbol of love and protection since time immemorial. It hurts, but it will change in time. You still fear my touch, but the terror in you grows less and less. You simply feel my presence, sigh quietly to yourself, and turn on the light to read and allay your fears. I put my head on your shoulder and try to keep pace, reading along with you. These days, the sensation of me gazing at you takes a mere fifteen minutes to calm. You accepted that I�m watching you, that you can�t help it. I can�t help it either, beloved.
I follow your example, my love, and write down my thoughts. It has taken me almost two years to compile these few pages. In them, I hope you can find the answers you seek, and take me for what I am. If you see fit, perhaps we will find each other again someday. I merely wished you to know of my experiences, my feelings, and my devotion.
Signed,
Andrea Fitzgerald
Journal entry, dated 27 May
It�s been awhile since I�ve seen any ghosts or what have you. Small graces, I suppose. But the other night�the other night was different. It was one of those nights where I couldn�t resist going out with my dog. It had rained all day, so the night was filled with a dreary pea-soup fog. You know�the kind where you can barely see thirty feet ahead of you. Gorgeous.
So we set out, traipsing across the slick black asphalt. The lights cut through the fog, hindering rather than helping sight. The mist seemed to make the amber into something solid, real. Breathing in the dank like some deprived smoker, I let it sit in my lungs. This is what it�s all about. The drizzle didn�t bother me, or the cold. I was so completely embroiled in the scenery that everything else became window dressing- the sleep deprivation, the angst, everything. Me and my dog, we took our time.
I don�t think very many people can appreciate the fog like I can. It�s like a comfort- you know, like when you wear certain clothes, you feel protected? Armored, even. Invulnerable. That�s how I used to feel about the fog. Now it�s just hindrance, another hunk of wool over my eyes. It hides as much as I do. Everything�s beneath the surface, where angels fear to tread�where everything fears to tread.
I could hear my dog�s claws click across the cement. Silence � pure, unadulterated, beautiful � was the only other thing that could make its way through the shroud of grey around us. I passed my house again, circling. It was perfect Zen for a moment- cyclical peace.
Then I saw it. The outline. The shadow. Call it what you will. I don�t care. It was there, goddammit! Damifino what it was. I squinted through the night, trying to make it out. It was maybe four feet, tops. It looked like it had a dress on, real old style. All I could see was a silhouette. So, as me and the dog got closer, I concentrated some more on it. Then it was broken by something so it eerie it chills me to the bone even now. The only way to describe it was laughter; half-remembered and musical in a desperate sort of way. Wind chimes�that�s what it was like. Female and young, it was distant yet seemed to come from every direction.
I got curious and cocky�real cocky. I kept advancing. Another giggle, and it was away. It seemed to effortlessly twirl and dance, yet managed to be ahead of us no matter how fast we ran. The maniacal giggling drowned out even the sound of my pounding feet and labored breathing as I gave chase. It frustrated me to no end. At once mocking and joyous, it grated on the nerves until I was snarling and snapping my teeth like my dog as he no doubt wondered what the hell we were getting ourselves into.
Then, all of a sudden, it stopped. Both the figure of the little girl and the sound of the laughter just stood stock still. I skidded to a stop, tripping over something low and lost in the fog. Leaning on my legs, I panted and stared over my glasses. It was still there, observing. Watching. Waiting. I returned whatever look it was giving me � it was no more than ten feet away at this point. The figure remained quiet, and I couldn�t hear anything but the gasping breaths my dog and I drew. Looking over to him, I noticed that his ears were flat to his head, hackles raised, and both his tail and head were down.
I looked back up. In the haze, I managed to catch a glimpse of an obelisk and a rounded rectangle beyond the ghost. Three more childlike figures had congealed from the fog, boxing us in. The realization dawned on me�we�re screwed. We had wandered into Munn�s cemetery. I stared at each of the small beings, trying to find some trait, some similarity. I turned back to the first, who appeared vaguely familiar. It dawned on me in a flash of epiphany. The little girl who had followed me all that time ago� �I know you. Why�d you bring me here?�
The laughter intensified in my head, nearly sending me into a bout of vertigo. Bombarded from all directions by the twisted, demented laughter of the children, I repressed the urge to spin and fall. Staggering on my feet, I watched the mist part. She was there! Terrible, beautiful�I don�t know how to describe her.
She moved from the mist, defining itself as it grew closer. Floating above the ground, she advanced on me. A long, diaphanous dress trailed behind her as long, slender hands reached towards me. Her figure was that of a young woman, entrancing and beautiful. But the she-wraith was terrifying in visage. Long, scraggly hair erupted from a skull long ago shorn of all flesh. Empty sockets seemed to focus on me, despite the lack of their contents. My jaw dropped in terror, and I retreated two steps. She paused a second, almost confused. She ran alabaster fingers across her own death�s-head visage once before continuing forwards, reaching out. I could hear her call out to me, in the back of my head. I recoiled in horror.
My dog was lying down in the fog, cringing before she entered five feet of me. Yanking him to his feet, I quickly decided that discretion was the better part of valor. Leaping the gravestones, we ran like madmen. I kept looking over my shoulder, watching the distant pursuit by the spectral party. Seconds after clearing the necropolis, it ripped through me. Overwhelming me, the psionic cry of grief was beyond anything I had ever experienced. A young woman�s voice tore through my mind, howling in pain and despair. I don�t remember so much falling as the ground inexplicably rushing up to me, then darkness.
It cleared into a great grey brightness as I awoke, half an hour later. Someone was kneeling beside me, asking if I was okay. I groaned and nodded. Soaking wet, bleeding from a gash on my head, I raised myself up onto my elbows. I was lying on the gravel shoulder of the road as the driver of a car questioned what had happened to me. I made up some bull story about slipping and falling while walking my dog (who was still conveniently tethered to me by the leash) and thanked him for his help. I staggered home, bruised and weary. Dodging my parents, I dumped my wet clothes and took a shower, trying to wash away the experience. I still don�t know whether or not it actually happened, or if I�m coming apart at the seams and going insane. Neither seems like a particularly pleasant idea. Only time will tell, I suppose.
From a book found open on Alex�s dresser, 01 June
-and as such, the experiences of Kyromato, Smith and Polanski prove the thesis that if spirits of the dead do indeed exist and interact with the living, either they have transubstantiated into a non-corporeal form or exist in another, superimposed dimension on top of ours. Presuming all poltergeists, ghosts, and other manifestations of psychic energy attributed to the dead are the work of the souls or consciousnesses of human beings who have entered either means of existence, one must take into account their bizarre, territorial claims to certain areas. In 90% of all cases in which a haunting has been investigated, there has been a strong link between the purported spirit and the area inhabited such as said area being a murder scene, a childhood home, or the home of a loved one.
The first theory put forth in this chapter discussed the idea of ghosts as non-corporeal beings. If this is the case, then it does indeed leave a number of ethical and religious questions. For what reasons do only some people become spirits? Some point out the age-old myths about revenge. Others claim that superstitions no longer followed are the reason for ghosts. For instance, in ancient Greece, in order to avoid hauntings relatives of the dead buried them with coins in their hands or over their eyes, so that they could pay Charon (the ferryman who brought the souls of the dead over the river Lethe to Hades) instead of paying with their own eyes or hands. It was thought that the deformed dead would return to haunt the living in order to take vengeance for forcing them to be maimed.
The most rational theory brought forth has been in the works of one Edna Reliant. She believes that the dead do not simply cease to exist. Instead, they pass on to a realm superimposed over ours. Through many consultations with mystics, mediums, and other occult means she had formed a rational hypothesis around a concept similar to subspace. In this other dimension, the dead are free of observe the living, but are mostly powerless to affect them. However at certain points, the barriers between the two worlds thin. She calls them �power spots� or �leylines�. Even without those, the dead may take a great deal of trouble in order to attempt to interact with the living. Depending on the emotion and purpose driving the ghost, she believes it possible to cross over and affect the living to various degrees. Thus while all the dead are trapped on the Other Side, not all of them are able or willing to contact their relatives, friends or enemies. She even theorized that some moved on beyond the superimposed dimension to achieve �final rest�.
In either case, the dead must undergo a number of traumatic changes (such as dying) before being able to cross over into the limbo between life and death Reliant proposes. In the next chapter, we will further discuss the repercussions of the living upon the dead. Building upon that idea, one must consider the concept of our own time to cross. However, it must be noted that the process of death and the realization that said persons can still see and hear the living must be a devastating event that can in no way be beneficial to a ghost�s psyche�
Note, found on top of previous letter to Alex
My love,
I apologize for scaring you last night in the graveyard. I promise I will make it up to you. I will earn your love yet, any way I can.
Andrea
Journal, dated 09 June
Well, my shrink is telling me to write about the dreams. Every night, I have them. Always the same, always a little different. The shrink said it would help. I don�t see how- everything�s falling apart. My girlfriend has been complaining and freaking out lately. She looks really strung out, and practically never wants to talk to me anymore. I miss her. So, here goes.
It starts out usually with a big view of the open sky. I�d call it painfully blue with white clouds drifting around. I can see it�s all hemmed in by yellow stalks on one side. So, I try to stand to see where I am, and then I realize that my left arm is connected to something. So I look down at it, right? And look, there�s this gorgeous brunette there holding my hand. Beautiful in that gentle sort of way, like the classic girl next door sort of thing. She�s got these depthless green eyes that just go on and on and make me feel like I�m drowning in them and I just want to dive deeper. She looks like a statue, smiling up at me, like she wants nothing more than for me to lie down next to her for a year or two. Then, it happens.
The entire picture flashes, and suddenly I�m staring at that face I saw in the graveyard. The skull is staring up at me, in the same clothes. It�s grinning. Behind it, the grey flashes dark and grey, and the stalks of wheat have shriveled. Everything is dead and grey.
Then, it all goes back to normal. I sort of shake my head, and pull her up next to me. The girl leaps up into my arms, wearing that long, white dress. She puts her arms around me and it just feels NATURAL, like I belong there. So, at any rate, we�re standing there and I can see that it�s an infinite wheat field, stretching on in every direction I can see. I can feel her next to me and we start running. We�re holding hands and looking at each other as we run and laugh, feeling the wheat part for us. Suddenly, as I�m looking at her, that beautiful face turns into the skull again. I trip and fall. She rushes up and asks me what�s wrong. I look up, and she�s normal again. I touch her face, and it�s smooth and warm. I can feel her affection radiating out towards me, then she flashes again. It doesn�t go cold� in fact, it warmer, stronger. Everything changes back again, and she lays down on top of me. I hear her whisper �Alex, I love you. Never leave me.� I kiss her cheek, and smile. Then, I wake up, feeling empty, like something�s been taken away from me. I don�t know why.
My parents are all worried about how I�ve been acting lately. I hear voices sometimes...whispers. What�s weirder is that sometimes, I can make out what they�re saying. I know it�s not normal, but the voices are pretty damn insightful. I passed comment on something I shouldn�t have known about, and when I let slip about it to my parents, they asked where I got the information from. I didn�t tell them for awhile (at least until they threatened to take away my internet), and when I did, they sent me to Dr. Morrough. I feel kind of stupid, but it�s not normal. The ghosts still come around every now and again, but not that girl from the graveyard or the children. They still scare me #less, though. Well, maybe this will help. I doubt my life could get any more screwed up at this point�
Letter found among Alex�s girlfriend�s personal possessions
Heather,
I know what you�re been doing. I�ve watched from the shadows. I don�t know how you live with yourself. How could you hurt Alex like that? He�s done nothing but good by you. He�s always been faithful. He has never asked anything from you. All he ever wants is to make you happy, bending over backwards to. Did you know he spent half the money he had saved for a new computer on that silver necklace you wear all the time? No, of course not.
Now I�m not going to pretend as if I don�t love him more than life itself, but I know I can�t make him happy like you can. I know you used to love him. Even if you don�t now, the least you could do is break up with him. I�m here to catch him if he falls. But please�spare him as much pain as possible. I�m begging you, one woman to another, to please keep him from this hurt.
I�ve seen you with that other guy. I don�t know who he is, and I don�t care. Get rid of him, for my sake, if not Alex�s. I won�t say that I�ll become your worst nightmare if you don�t.
I�ll become your every nightmare.
Alex�s Angel
Journal, dated 16 June
Whispers. Whispers. The dark whispers to me now. I can feel emotion on the wind. I�ve been up for fifty-two hours now. In the dark, I saw them. I felt them. The ghosts. They don�t want to hurt me, I can tell. But what the #? They�re DEAD! Why are they showing themselves to me? I�m sitting here, writing, and they�re watching me. It�s absolutely unnerving. The light is on, but I can still see them, just barely. The tall one just cocked her head at me, like a dog that doesn�t understand what you�re trying to tell it. It�s like they�re radiating....feeling. I don�t know how to describe it. I don�t understand what�s going on. I can�t sleep. I hear things. I feel things. I have to get out of here.
Found at Dr. Morrough�s Office
Patient shows signs of extreme stress brought on by family and girlfriend. EEG�s are irregular, showing a near-perfect two-step pattern. MMPI and Weschler scores are extremely deviant. Scores show high levels of depression, above average intelligence, and most notably a T-score of 104 in the schizoid scale.
Patient displays fugue-type symptoms, extreme depressive states and a nearly-schizoid mentation. Will recommend to family that he be put until psychiatric observation.
I am prescribing valium in 4mg doses, as well as standard doxepin.
Dr. Morrough
DE
[edit on 30-8-2004 by DeusEx]
Random bump.... because I'm having trouble delivering a finishing blow to this story to editify it. So, yeah. Comments, suggestions, worship... all
are welcome.
DE
DE
de, i got the chills reading that...beautifully told..i enjoyed reading it very much
Alex’s Journal, dated 23 June
They figured out what was wrong. I'm seeing a psychologist and a therapist now, and I'm on meds. Yeah, it's about as much fun as it sounds. They have two different approaches- meds and symptoms on one hand, and 'talking' on the other.
Well, my shrink is telling me to write about the dreams. So, back to the journal. I'm supposed to use it every time I have an 'episode' so the doc and the shrink can try to figure out what's wrong with me. Every night, I have these dreams. Always the same, always a little different. The shrink said it would help. I don’t see how- everything’s falling apart. My girlfriend has been complaining and freaking out lately. She looks really strung out, and practically never wants to talk to me anymore. I miss her. So, here goes.
It starts out usually with a big view of the open sky. I’d call it painfully blue with white clouds drifting around. I can see it’s all hemmed in by yellow stalks on one side. So, I try to stand to see where I am, and then I realize that my left arm is connected to something. So I look down at it, right? And look, there’s this gorgeous brunette there holding my hand. Beautiful in that gentle sort of way, like the classic girl next door sort of thing. She’s got these depthless green eyes that just go on and on and make me feel like I’m drowning in them and I just want to dive deeper. She looks like a statue, smiling up at me, like she wants nothing more than for me to lie down next to her for a year or two. Then, it happens.
The entire picture flashes, and suddenly I’m staring at that face I saw in the graveyard. The skull is staring up at me, in the same clothes. It’s grinning. Behind it, the grey flashes dark and grey, and the stalks of wheat have shriveled. Everything is dead and grey.
Then, it all goes back to normal. I sort of shake my head, and pull her up next to me. The girl leaps up into my arms, wearing that long, white dress. She puts her arms around me and it just feels natural, like I belong there. So, at any rate, we’re standing there and I can see that it’s an infinite wheat field, stretching on in every direction I can see. I can feel her next to me and we start running. We’re holding hands and looking at each other as we run and laugh, feeling the wheat part for us. Suddenly, as I’m looking at her, that beautiful face turns into the skull again. I trip and fall. She rushes up and asks me what’s wrong. I look up, and she’s normal again. I touch her face, and it’s smooth and warm. I can feel her affection radiating out towards me, then she flashes again. It doesn’t go cold in fact, it warmer, stronger. Everything changes back again, and she lays down on top of me. I hear her whisper “Alex, I love you. Never leave me.” I kiss her cheek, and smile. Then, I wake up, feeling empty, like something’s been taken away from me. I don’t know why.
My parents are all worried about how I’ve been acting lately. I hear voices sometimes...whispers. What’s weirder is that sometimes, I can make out what they’re saying. I know it’s not normal, but the voices are pretty damn insightful. I passed comment on something I shouldn’t have known about, and when I let slip about it to my parents, they asked where I got the information from. I didn’t tell them for awhile (at least until they threatened to take away my internet), and when I did, they sent me to Dr. Morrough. I feel kind of stupid, but it’s not normal. The ghosts still come around every now and again, but not that girl from the graveyard or the children. They still scare me #less, though. Well, maybe this will help. I doubt my life could get any more screwed up at this point.
A.
Alex's Journal, dated 27 June
Heather's acting weird. She has huge bags under her eyes, and she's all nervous all the time. She came by my place to watch Pulp Fiction the other night, ended up curled up against me and shivering in her sleep halfway through the movie. It was weird, like she was on coc aine or something. I don't know, I just hugged her, drove her home. It was weird. Today, I bought a sword. No, I don't know why. It just felt...natural, you know? I looked at it for awhile, so long the owner of the shop started to ask me to buy something or leave. So I bought it. It's a katana. It's graceful and beautiful and I just don't know how else to describe it. Maybe I feel weird all the time now, like it's the new normal. I'm starting to hear whispers at night again, like someone talking quietly in another room, but right next to my ear. It's hard to describe. I can't make out what they're saying. The drugs are supposed to be helping with that but...whatever. Do I even have the ability to care anymore?
Instant Messenger log, recovered from Alex's computer
[email protected] writes: i know miss you [email protected] writes: How do you know about that? [email protected] writes: someone who loves you don't worry about your driving test [email protected] writes: Who the # are you? [email protected] writes: i miss you alex so far apart [email protected] writes: Do I know you? [email protected] writes: hello alex please respond
Alex's Journal, dated 29 June
I've been getting these weird texts lately, from God knows who. I blocked the address after awhile, but it was pretty worrying. The meds have been making me sick. Queasy. That sense of everything just being…surreal is getting to me. Normal is now surreal. Heather came by again, tonight. She’s been reading my journals and stuff for Dr. Murrough, and asking a lot of questions, mostly about the girl in my dreams. I don’t think she’s bothered by it being another girl, which is sort of weird. She seems to be honestly curious. She’s looking worse and worse every day.
I asked her about that, too. She looked past me, shook her head. I don’t know what’s gotten into her. She says it isn’t drugs, it isn’t anything at home. Maybe she’s lying. I worry about her a lot.
Walked my dog for the first time in two weeks. It felt good. He’s been with me since this all began, so I figured I’d take him out to the dog park just past Munn’s cemetery. It was so strange. We got there, he started playing with the other dogs, and all of a sudden everything changed. They were playing fetch, chasing one another, when they all just stopped. It was the damnedest thing. A bunch scurried out of the way of something like it scared the # out of them. I felt this…presence. Unearthly and warm and unsettling. Someone looking at me. I could feel it. I called my dog, leashed him, and started for the car. I could feel it staring, following. The dogs were all barking, circling around me, watching. I #ing ran. Got in the car, took off, got home. I spent an hour pacing.
Dr. Murrough asked me today if I believed in witches or anything. I said I didn’t, but there’s stuff out there we don’t know about. Ghosts and stuff. She nodded, said something about ‘ascribing everyday occurrences to the supernatural’. My ass! What happened at the dog park wasn’t natural at all. I’m going to the library some more, see if I can’t find that book again. Maybe a few others.
Alex’s Journal, dated 31 June
That’s it. I’m sick of the pills, of the therapy, especially of Dr. Murrough. I’m sick of the tremors, the nausea, the constant sleepiness. I’d rather be a little crazy than very drugged. The pills are in the garbage can. It’s over. Now, all that’s left is waiting this thing out.
A.
DE
They figured out what was wrong. I'm seeing a psychologist and a therapist now, and I'm on meds. Yeah, it's about as much fun as it sounds. They have two different approaches- meds and symptoms on one hand, and 'talking' on the other.
Well, my shrink is telling me to write about the dreams. So, back to the journal. I'm supposed to use it every time I have an 'episode' so the doc and the shrink can try to figure out what's wrong with me. Every night, I have these dreams. Always the same, always a little different. The shrink said it would help. I don’t see how- everything’s falling apart. My girlfriend has been complaining and freaking out lately. She looks really strung out, and practically never wants to talk to me anymore. I miss her. So, here goes.
It starts out usually with a big view of the open sky. I’d call it painfully blue with white clouds drifting around. I can see it’s all hemmed in by yellow stalks on one side. So, I try to stand to see where I am, and then I realize that my left arm is connected to something. So I look down at it, right? And look, there’s this gorgeous brunette there holding my hand. Beautiful in that gentle sort of way, like the classic girl next door sort of thing. She’s got these depthless green eyes that just go on and on and make me feel like I’m drowning in them and I just want to dive deeper. She looks like a statue, smiling up at me, like she wants nothing more than for me to lie down next to her for a year or two. Then, it happens.
The entire picture flashes, and suddenly I’m staring at that face I saw in the graveyard. The skull is staring up at me, in the same clothes. It’s grinning. Behind it, the grey flashes dark and grey, and the stalks of wheat have shriveled. Everything is dead and grey.
Then, it all goes back to normal. I sort of shake my head, and pull her up next to me. The girl leaps up into my arms, wearing that long, white dress. She puts her arms around me and it just feels natural, like I belong there. So, at any rate, we’re standing there and I can see that it’s an infinite wheat field, stretching on in every direction I can see. I can feel her next to me and we start running. We’re holding hands and looking at each other as we run and laugh, feeling the wheat part for us. Suddenly, as I’m looking at her, that beautiful face turns into the skull again. I trip and fall. She rushes up and asks me what’s wrong. I look up, and she’s normal again. I touch her face, and it’s smooth and warm. I can feel her affection radiating out towards me, then she flashes again. It doesn’t go cold in fact, it warmer, stronger. Everything changes back again, and she lays down on top of me. I hear her whisper “Alex, I love you. Never leave me.” I kiss her cheek, and smile. Then, I wake up, feeling empty, like something’s been taken away from me. I don’t know why.
My parents are all worried about how I’ve been acting lately. I hear voices sometimes...whispers. What’s weirder is that sometimes, I can make out what they’re saying. I know it’s not normal, but the voices are pretty damn insightful. I passed comment on something I shouldn’t have known about, and when I let slip about it to my parents, they asked where I got the information from. I didn’t tell them for awhile (at least until they threatened to take away my internet), and when I did, they sent me to Dr. Morrough. I feel kind of stupid, but it’s not normal. The ghosts still come around every now and again, but not that girl from the graveyard or the children. They still scare me #less, though. Well, maybe this will help. I doubt my life could get any more screwed up at this point.
A.
Alex's Journal, dated 27 June
Heather's acting weird. She has huge bags under her eyes, and she's all nervous all the time. She came by my place to watch Pulp Fiction the other night, ended up curled up against me and shivering in her sleep halfway through the movie. It was weird, like she was on coc aine or something. I don't know, I just hugged her, drove her home. It was weird. Today, I bought a sword. No, I don't know why. It just felt...natural, you know? I looked at it for awhile, so long the owner of the shop started to ask me to buy something or leave. So I bought it. It's a katana. It's graceful and beautiful and I just don't know how else to describe it. Maybe I feel weird all the time now, like it's the new normal. I'm starting to hear whispers at night again, like someone talking quietly in another room, but right next to my ear. It's hard to describe. I can't make out what they're saying. The drugs are supposed to be helping with that but...whatever. Do I even have the ability to care anymore?
Instant Messenger log, recovered from Alex's computer
[email protected] writes: i know miss you [email protected] writes: How do you know about that? [email protected] writes: someone who loves you don't worry about your driving test [email protected] writes: Who the # are you? [email protected] writes: i miss you alex so far apart [email protected] writes: Do I know you? [email protected] writes: hello alex please respond
Alex's Journal, dated 29 June
I've been getting these weird texts lately, from God knows who. I blocked the address after awhile, but it was pretty worrying. The meds have been making me sick. Queasy. That sense of everything just being…surreal is getting to me. Normal is now surreal. Heather came by again, tonight. She’s been reading my journals and stuff for Dr. Murrough, and asking a lot of questions, mostly about the girl in my dreams. I don’t think she’s bothered by it being another girl, which is sort of weird. She seems to be honestly curious. She’s looking worse and worse every day.
I asked her about that, too. She looked past me, shook her head. I don’t know what’s gotten into her. She says it isn’t drugs, it isn’t anything at home. Maybe she’s lying. I worry about her a lot.
Walked my dog for the first time in two weeks. It felt good. He’s been with me since this all began, so I figured I’d take him out to the dog park just past Munn’s cemetery. It was so strange. We got there, he started playing with the other dogs, and all of a sudden everything changed. They were playing fetch, chasing one another, when they all just stopped. It was the damnedest thing. A bunch scurried out of the way of something like it scared the # out of them. I felt this…presence. Unearthly and warm and unsettling. Someone looking at me. I could feel it. I called my dog, leashed him, and started for the car. I could feel it staring, following. The dogs were all barking, circling around me, watching. I #ing ran. Got in the car, took off, got home. I spent an hour pacing.
Dr. Murrough asked me today if I believed in witches or anything. I said I didn’t, but there’s stuff out there we don’t know about. Ghosts and stuff. She nodded, said something about ‘ascribing everyday occurrences to the supernatural’. My ass! What happened at the dog park wasn’t natural at all. I’m going to the library some more, see if I can’t find that book again. Maybe a few others.
Alex’s Journal, dated 31 June
That’s it. I’m sick of the pills, of the therapy, especially of Dr. Murrough. I’m sick of the tremors, the nausea, the constant sleepiness. I’d rather be a little crazy than very drugged. The pills are in the garbage can. It’s over. Now, all that’s left is waiting this thing out.
A.
DE
Written on inside cover of Supernatural Encounters Vol. III
POSION PILLS
DON’T TAKE
SEE ME
A.
Page 224-225, Supernatural Encounters Vol. III
-aside, there are few ghosts who seem to be more than apparitions. To put it metaphorically, most of our investigations gave few signs of any true intelligence or sentience from the spirits. Most are more like recordings that a select few can perceive. Think of them as a videotape of the final days of a select few, playing over and over again into eternity. The man on the stairs, endlessly going up and down. Cries and whispers from the wall. Of all our non-poltergeist related investigations, seventy percent of the spirits we found evidence of anecdotally or personally seemed to be recordings and little else. They did not perceive us, nor did they attempt communication with us. Our attempts at communication with them failed via all means. I do not believe they are ‘undead’, as it were. Instead, they were permanent psychic impressions left upon a place by a person.
The thirty percent remainder, however, was problematic at best. One half of them seem to perceive us- looking straight at my party or others, whispering or sending messages via other means. However, that is the extent of their actions. They look, occasionally whisper or otherwise make sounds. When attempts at communication are made either orally or via medium, there is no response. They simply disappear, or continue to stare. They display little desire or ability to commit poltergeist-like actions. They do not interact with the environment or human beings, except when they are perceived which we suspect is more accidental than deliberate.
One quarter of the spirits did attempt communication or respond to our actions, but they seemed enfeebled or simply ineffective at the task. Barely audible responses, gibberish or smiles were common, as were slight movements of objects or minimal poltergeist activity. Musical instruments played a few notes when no one touched them. Cameras were turned off. Women in the party were fondled, but little in the way of meaningful communication occurred. No reasons were given for their hauntings, for what they did.
The final quarter were the worst to deal with. They were, indeed, sentient. More than sentient, they disapproved of our investigations. Responses ranged from warnings and threats to leave, to silence, to physical harm of several crew through thrown objects, heated objects, or randomly manifesting wounds. In one case, a camcorder in hand became so hot a cameraman had to be hospitalized for second-degree burns. No explanation was ever conceived as to how the camera could have become so hot on its own. Female spirits scratched myself and three others in random attacks in the Summersgill estate case as detailed on page 156. These responses were intelligent, if aggressive responses to our attempts to communicate. As a general rule, ghosts wish to establish and maintain a status quo, not interact with humans.
An interesting sidenote to our experiences is that those who are actively taking psychoactive medications…
Alex’s Journal, dated 02 July
It’s about three in the afternoon now. I can see them. I can hear them. Faint outlines, little whispers. My parents might be cluing in to the fact I’m off my meds. I sort of…guessed at the financial situation of the house. I mean, of course that I plucked exact figures off the top of my head for the mortgage payments without even paying attention. My parents never told me that. I just sort of heard it, not quite whispered. I was just as surprised as everyone else.
Heather looks like hell. She says she can’t take it anymore, doesn’t sleep or eat. She has these weird bruises, and I keep demanding answers. She won’t give them to me. I don’t know what I’m going to do with that woman.
Last night, it was awful. I heard this voice, talking to me. Trying to comfort me, telling me she loved me, that she was protecting me. Acting in my best interests. Then, I felt it. The stroke of fingers cold as death up my forearm. It was like beetles under the skin, I shuddered and leapt out of bed. The voice stopped. I was panting, sweating bullets. I didn’t know where the voices were coming from. I took some sleeping pills from my parents’ cabinet, took them. As I drifted off to sleep, I thought I could hear quiet sobbing.
Tomorrow, I’m going to set up one of those Killian camcorders or whatever they use. Someone’s going to believe me.
A.
Suicide note, found at Heather’s home
I can’t take it anymore. I can’t. She follows me everywhere, the skull-headed woman. She watches me. She judges me. She beats me when I see Rob, beats me when I touch Alex. Always watching. Every time I’m about to tell him what I see, she just shakes her head and raises a bony claw at me. She says she’s his angel, but she’s more of a demon. It’s over. You win, bitch. Take him. I can’t live like this anymore.
Heather Morgan
Page 344-345 Supernatural Encounters, Vol. IV
The collected volumes of anecdotal material on “Alex’s” encounters with the supernatural tell volumes about his struggle, his battles with supposed mental illness, but most telling is his final moments, recorded some three days after the death of his girlfriend. The majority of it consists of Alex sleeping, however, at 0200 local time, he spontaneously awakes. He glances about furtively, as is afraid. Rushing for a wall-hung Japanese sword, he unsheathes it and grips it unsteadily. As we watched, we saw the form of light phase through the wall, turn to him.
“Stay back,” the young man intones, tip of the sword shaking at the apparition.
It turns towards him, and says something. I imagine she made platitudes to him, proclaiming her love from beyond the grave.
“No, you DON’T love me. You’ve driven me crazy.”
More silent words from the apparition. The nerve of that young man is astounding, holding his ground against her. With only a cheap piece of sharpened steel, not knowing if it could even harm a being that phased through walls with ease.
“I wanted Heather! I don’t care!”
More words from the ghost. The light form seems to burn more furiously, darker.
“You killed her?” Alex says in shock. The form once again reaches out to him. With a roar, he drives his sword through it. The light begins to fade quickly, but not quickly enough. It reaches out, into his chest. Alex falls, still struggling and chopping the ghost with his sword. The coroners never saw the tape, but did pronounce him not only dead on arrival, but suffering of a massive heart attack as well. The novelty of a perfectly healthy twenty year old having a massive coronary explosion seems to have more or less passed them by.
We can only imagine his final stand against the form of his unliving lover. The medium we brought in did indeed confirm that there were no ghosts in the house any more, though there had been recent activity. Historical research does indicate that a woman by the name of Andrea did die in a fire a century and a half before the events described, in a massive wildfire that also killed ten others. We can only imagine what strength of character it took for him to stand there, facing the charred, skeletal ghost I imagine her to be, and fight to his dying breath…
POSION PILLS
DON’T TAKE
SEE ME
A.
Page 224-225, Supernatural Encounters Vol. III
-aside, there are few ghosts who seem to be more than apparitions. To put it metaphorically, most of our investigations gave few signs of any true intelligence or sentience from the spirits. Most are more like recordings that a select few can perceive. Think of them as a videotape of the final days of a select few, playing over and over again into eternity. The man on the stairs, endlessly going up and down. Cries and whispers from the wall. Of all our non-poltergeist related investigations, seventy percent of the spirits we found evidence of anecdotally or personally seemed to be recordings and little else. They did not perceive us, nor did they attempt communication with us. Our attempts at communication with them failed via all means. I do not believe they are ‘undead’, as it were. Instead, they were permanent psychic impressions left upon a place by a person.
The thirty percent remainder, however, was problematic at best. One half of them seem to perceive us- looking straight at my party or others, whispering or sending messages via other means. However, that is the extent of their actions. They look, occasionally whisper or otherwise make sounds. When attempts at communication are made either orally or via medium, there is no response. They simply disappear, or continue to stare. They display little desire or ability to commit poltergeist-like actions. They do not interact with the environment or human beings, except when they are perceived which we suspect is more accidental than deliberate.
One quarter of the spirits did attempt communication or respond to our actions, but they seemed enfeebled or simply ineffective at the task. Barely audible responses, gibberish or smiles were common, as were slight movements of objects or minimal poltergeist activity. Musical instruments played a few notes when no one touched them. Cameras were turned off. Women in the party were fondled, but little in the way of meaningful communication occurred. No reasons were given for their hauntings, for what they did.
The final quarter were the worst to deal with. They were, indeed, sentient. More than sentient, they disapproved of our investigations. Responses ranged from warnings and threats to leave, to silence, to physical harm of several crew through thrown objects, heated objects, or randomly manifesting wounds. In one case, a camcorder in hand became so hot a cameraman had to be hospitalized for second-degree burns. No explanation was ever conceived as to how the camera could have become so hot on its own. Female spirits scratched myself and three others in random attacks in the Summersgill estate case as detailed on page 156. These responses were intelligent, if aggressive responses to our attempts to communicate. As a general rule, ghosts wish to establish and maintain a status quo, not interact with humans.
An interesting sidenote to our experiences is that those who are actively taking psychoactive medications…
Alex’s Journal, dated 02 July
It’s about three in the afternoon now. I can see them. I can hear them. Faint outlines, little whispers. My parents might be cluing in to the fact I’m off my meds. I sort of…guessed at the financial situation of the house. I mean, of course that I plucked exact figures off the top of my head for the mortgage payments without even paying attention. My parents never told me that. I just sort of heard it, not quite whispered. I was just as surprised as everyone else.
Heather looks like hell. She says she can’t take it anymore, doesn’t sleep or eat. She has these weird bruises, and I keep demanding answers. She won’t give them to me. I don’t know what I’m going to do with that woman.
Last night, it was awful. I heard this voice, talking to me. Trying to comfort me, telling me she loved me, that she was protecting me. Acting in my best interests. Then, I felt it. The stroke of fingers cold as death up my forearm. It was like beetles under the skin, I shuddered and leapt out of bed. The voice stopped. I was panting, sweating bullets. I didn’t know where the voices were coming from. I took some sleeping pills from my parents’ cabinet, took them. As I drifted off to sleep, I thought I could hear quiet sobbing.
Tomorrow, I’m going to set up one of those Killian camcorders or whatever they use. Someone’s going to believe me.
A.
Suicide note, found at Heather’s home
I can’t take it anymore. I can’t. She follows me everywhere, the skull-headed woman. She watches me. She judges me. She beats me when I see Rob, beats me when I touch Alex. Always watching. Every time I’m about to tell him what I see, she just shakes her head and raises a bony claw at me. She says she’s his angel, but she’s more of a demon. It’s over. You win, bitch. Take him. I can’t live like this anymore.
Heather Morgan
Page 344-345 Supernatural Encounters, Vol. IV
The collected volumes of anecdotal material on “Alex’s” encounters with the supernatural tell volumes about his struggle, his battles with supposed mental illness, but most telling is his final moments, recorded some three days after the death of his girlfriend. The majority of it consists of Alex sleeping, however, at 0200 local time, he spontaneously awakes. He glances about furtively, as is afraid. Rushing for a wall-hung Japanese sword, he unsheathes it and grips it unsteadily. As we watched, we saw the form of light phase through the wall, turn to him.
“Stay back,” the young man intones, tip of the sword shaking at the apparition.
It turns towards him, and says something. I imagine she made platitudes to him, proclaiming her love from beyond the grave.
“No, you DON’T love me. You’ve driven me crazy.”
More silent words from the apparition. The nerve of that young man is astounding, holding his ground against her. With only a cheap piece of sharpened steel, not knowing if it could even harm a being that phased through walls with ease.
“I wanted Heather! I don’t care!”
More words from the ghost. The light form seems to burn more furiously, darker.
“You killed her?” Alex says in shock. The form once again reaches out to him. With a roar, he drives his sword through it. The light begins to fade quickly, but not quickly enough. It reaches out, into his chest. Alex falls, still struggling and chopping the ghost with his sword. The coroners never saw the tape, but did pronounce him not only dead on arrival, but suffering of a massive heart attack as well. The novelty of a perfectly healthy twenty year old having a massive coronary explosion seems to have more or less passed them by.
We can only imagine his final stand against the form of his unliving lover. The medium we brought in did indeed confirm that there were no ghosts in the house any more, though there had been recent activity. Historical research does indicate that a woman by the name of Andrea did die in a fire a century and a half before the events described, in a massive wildfire that also killed ten others. We can only imagine what strength of character it took for him to stand there, facing the charred, skeletal ghost I imagine her to be, and fight to his dying breath…
*kickkickBUMP*
Can I get a few opinions before I take a kick at expanding and editing this story? Many thanks.
DE
Can I get a few opinions before I take a kick at expanding and editing this story? Many thanks.
DE
BLOODY HELl!!
That was amazing!
Been hooked seriously this is brilliant and such a clever way to write!
You got any others I can read?? x
That was amazing!
Been hooked seriously this is brilliant and such a clever way to write!
You got any others I can read?? x
There's spades of stories here on ATS by me- some good, some not so much. I can U2U my favourites to you if you want, Mad.
Hello,
Here a short site, I am sendinf one of short story from this site
site ->
free-shortstories.com...
The Pride of the Giraffe
It was a dry summer and hardly any grasses were left for the herbivores of the jungle. It was only on tall tress that little leaves were left. It was almost impossible for most of the tiny animals to have them as their food.
Giraffe refused to help and said with arrogance that they have so many other works to do. Each one has to help himself so it’s better if they can climb up the trees and satisfy their hunger. All animals felt bad and decided not to speak to giraffe ever.
After a few days, it down poured and jungle became green again. Soon tall grassesShort Stories, Online Children's Stories, Funny Kids Story, Free Short Stories covered the dry land. One day while all animals, including giraffe, were basking under the sun, a group of lion attacked. Since the grasses were tall other animals managed to hide themselves. Giraffe who were at some distant from the rest were not aware of the attack. No animal cared to inform them and because of their tall height they fall easy prey of lions.
Here a short site, I am sendinf one of short story from this site
site ->
free-shortstories.com...
The Pride of the Giraffe
It was a dry summer and hardly any grasses were left for the herbivores of the jungle. It was only on tall tress that little leaves were left. It was almost impossible for most of the tiny animals to have them as their food.
Giraffe refused to help and said with arrogance that they have so many other works to do. Each one has to help himself so it’s better if they can climb up the trees and satisfy their hunger. All animals felt bad and decided not to speak to giraffe ever.
After a few days, it down poured and jungle became green again. Soon tall grassesShort Stories, Online Children's Stories, Funny Kids Story, Free Short Stories covered the dry land. One day while all animals, including giraffe, were basking under the sun, a group of lion attacked. Since the grasses were tall other animals managed to hide themselves. Giraffe who were at some distant from the rest were not aware of the attack. No animal cared to inform them and because of their tall height they fall easy prey of lions.
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