This is not a diary. Or at least that is not my intention. I have no plans of writing down my day to day activities. I doubt that anyone would find my life interesting enough to want to read about it everyday. My ego is not so inflated that I think anyone should read this at all. Mostly I am seeking some way to alleviate my mind. Writing things down seems like the best way–the only way, to prove I am not insane.
It started happening a few weeks ago, I thought that some of my things in the house were going missing. My first reaction was that I had misplaced things. Items have always had a way of moving about of their own accord in the house, so much so that one would think I had an overzealous and meddlesome housekeeper following me about changing the house to suit her own purposes. This is not the case. I have lived alone for quite sometime now, so when it comes to moving things I have none to blame but my own meddlesome self. Or so I thought.
It was the damned furniture that made me uneasy.
I know if anyone were to read my little non-diary they would be scratching their heads in amused disbelief when I account that my furniture has been moving itself about the rooms, at all hours of the night. Sometimes going so far as to go from one room entirely to another. Madness you might say, and I might agree if I had not the proof of my own eyes. Proof that sadly I cannot give first hand, as I have not actually seen the animated furniture dance from place to place. But you could hardly think I my mind is befuddled enough that I would not notice when my bedroom dresser has vacated to the parlor.
Perhaps you are not yet so uneasy as myself as you read this. I can hardly blame you. It’s unbelievable to say to least. Perhaps you might be more convinced if I write of the strange things I began to hear..
If you have not experienced things that go bump in the night you cannot appreciate the sheer terror I felt on that first night when the pounding and scraping began. It surrounded me as if somehow I had wandered into the darkness into a chaotic dream, yet I knew I was well awake. All around me the sounds of scraping, pounding, scratching, the high pitched whine of things I cannot even begin to identify, and then. . . voices.
Oh yes voices. One can not mistake the hissing sound of disembodied voices filling the night. Every hair on my body rose in alarm, shocks of terror pulsated through my veins, as I frantically searched from room in room. Desperate to seek out my night time intruders. It was madness to wander in the inky blackness with nothing but my terror to defend me, but my home was being invaded.
Every room was occupied by those sounds echoing in my ears, it was enough to deafen me, and yet my eyes saw nothing in the pitch black of night. My trembling hands reached out to nothing but my own errant furniture, placed here in there in a way that was not even livable. I HAD NOT MOVED THEM I TELL YOU! THERE WAS NONE IN THE HOUSE, BUT MYSELF AND YET THE NOISES THE NOISES!!!!
What choice did I have, but to call the interlopers by their rightful names? I could not see them with my eyes, I could not account for the way they were upending my belongings. They had no regard for my residence here.
The dead, have taken over my home!
* * * *
Ghost, spirits, apparitions.
The very idea of it laughable, but I could not deny the way my house was transformed from an idyllic refuge, to a asylum of chaos by what felt like an army of unseen villains. To say that my unwanted guests lacked all the usual proclivities of the common phantom, would be an understatement. There was no drawn out suspense of silence filling my home, occasionally disrupted by their spectral comings and goings. I had not the opportunity to wait in fear of what they might do next. Their activities were perpetual regardless of the hour. They toiled day and night, upending my home, and bombarding my senses with their incessant noises. Their method of haunting seemed meant not to alarm me with the occasional bump or moan, but to instead terrorize me from dawn to dusk. Filling my ears with scratching, grinding, bumping,and whispers. The oppressive way the air clung to my flesh as they moved about me, telling me that if I had the method of reaching across the veil of life and death I could grip any one of them. Yet for all the ease they moved about me, they seemed almost ignorant of my presence, and that might have been the most insulting of all. What were they here for if not to bring me harm? Why upend my home, while seeming to not even know I was still residing in it? What were they waiting for?
My only place of refuge was the attic. For whatever reason the specters gave themselves free reign of my home, but left this last completely alone. I banished myself to the attic after the third night, but even in the quiet of my exile, I found no peace; for I knew they were still with me.
Every breath was drawn with the knowledge that they were lurking under the floorboards at my feet. The hairs along my arms, would quiver with the anticipation that any moment they would discover my hideout. I waited with anxiety for the air to shift with the weight of their presence, for that final moment when they finally realized that I was there all along. What would happen then? What could the dead do to the living? The disregard they held for my beloved furnishings, floors and walls did not hold much promise that they would treat me with tenderness. What were they waiting for?
Then almost as quickly as it began, it was over. I awoke, with some surprise that I had managed to find sleep in the first place, to only be newly surprised to find myself utterly and completely alone again. The incessant noises that had plagued me for nearly a week, were mercifully gone. The hallow dead voices that filled my ears, the bumping and grinding of animated furniture scrapping over my floors, was suddenly silent. I could not feel their presence, the weight of a hundred undead figures no longer crowded my halls and rooms.
I was alone.
With a joyful heart I descended the attic stairs, relief coursing through me I swung open the door that separated the attic stairway from the rest of the house, and I froze as my elation drained away to be replaced with cold horror.
In my mind’s eye I knew that the room before me had once been my bedroom, and as the shock radiated through me I observed that it had been utterly transformed. Yet, at that moment everything that lay before me was wiped away as my gaze fell upon a word scrawled across the opposite wall in what looked unmistakably like blood:
You’re Next. . .
* * * * * * * *
I found myself falling backward through the doorway leading back up to the attic. Cold fear pulsated through me as I stared at those hideous crimson words with mounting disbelief and terror. In all the comings and goings of my home wrecking specters I never imagined that an outward threat would be aimed at me. My worst fears were now confirmed. Whatever reason they had for invading my domain, I was now a target.
I gathered my emotions as best I could, and proceeded with some caution into what used to be my bedchamber. Were it not for the wild beating of my pulse in my ears, I would say that I was trapped in the most horrific dream. I can hardly say I recognized the bizarre catastrophe that lay before my eyes. Aside from being aggressively destructive my ghostly guests had decided to redecorate my home in a most macabre fashion.
Where once my placid bed had been a table remained cluttered with all manner of undentifiable gore. The sight was stomach turning, and I found myself looking away with a weakened stomach. Averting my eyes was no relief as my gaze fell upon the image of what could only be blood splashed in a violent fashion across my bedchamber walls.
I stuffed my fists against my lips to keep from screaming aloud, as I stumbled about the room. the floor was strewn with various body parts; recognizable to me as severed limbs and organs. My head spun as I fought back a sickening mix of nausea and terror. Was this the horror that awaited me at the hands of my spectral intruders? Did they mean to frighten me with images of what lay in store for me at their hands?
I fled the room, desperate to be free of the waking nightmare before my eyes, but there would be no solace in the doorway beyond.
More vileness awaited me in the hallway; a dizzying kalidescope of colors swam before me, swirling and undulating across the walls in a way that made me feel like I was falling into a multi-colored abyss with no ending. I staggered forward unsure if I would keep my footing, my hands grasping outward desperately trying to find purchase on the mottled walls.
I stumbled into what was once my study. To my pained surprise I found still more unnerving disarray. It seemed that my study remained intact, and yet it was altered to resemble some sort of wicked horrible library of the damned. The bookshelves were littered with all manner of bizarre instruments. Surgical tools of unnatural proportions piled upon one another among volumes of text with frightening titles written in demonic print. My beloved tomes had become evil at the hands of the fiends, and for what wicked purpose I could not say. I only backed away from the sight into the psychedelic hallway that awaited me once more.
I turned with mounting horror unsure if I could bear another ghastly suprise. Bile rose in my throat and my pulse quickened as I felt my feet propel me into the tomb that had taken the place of my parlor. Caskets of every shape and size was strewn about the room, no stench accompanied them and yet I could feel the physical reaction of my gall accelerate at the sight of them.
Wherever I looked was more horror; more images of intended violence. My mind spun in a frenzy of desperation as I began to understand what horrors awaited me.
For whatever purpose; for whatever reason I had given them to despise me, there could be only one conclusion:
The homicidal spooks intended to torture, eviscerate and bury me within my own home!
* * * * *
I barely had time to collect my thoughts, when I felt the unmistakable change in the room about me. A strange shifting of the air, a warm throbbing like the beating of a hundred hearts, that told me I was no longer alone. My breath stilled, as I felt a surge of panic. I stood motionless among the makeshift coffins in my newly constructed tomb; exposed and utterly petrified as for the first time my eyes beheld the figures of my loathsome house guests.
Demons crowded about me of measurable shape and color. Monsters of the most hideous design, moved about at a jarring pace. The walking undead shuffling around what used to be my shelter, the evidence of their decay flashing before my terrified eyes,
They scattered around the house, the sounds of their unnatural voices and wicked laughter filling my ears. They surrounded me, the gut wrenching feel of their bodies pressed and buffeted against mine, and yet for all the space we shared they seemed to be totally unaware of my presence.
Terror clung to my flesh as I tried to remain motionless. If they could not see me, perhaps I still could remain safe. With feet that almost could not obey me, I shuffled slowly backward away from the ever growing army of ghouls. Making my way slowly down the variegated hallway. I barely stopped myself from crying out in the moment when I forced myself to turn my back on them, and rocketed forward; nearly falling down the corridor into my former bedchamber.
I could almost feel them pressing at my back as I raced frantically for the doorway leading to my attic sanctuary. The hackles on the back of my neck raised in alarm, as I gripped the doorknob with sweating palms. I could hear their footsteps to my back, feel the change in the room as their spectral bodies filled up the space behind me.
I opened the door.
I vaulted up the attic stairway with a speed I thought I had not possessed. Slamming the door at the top of the stairs, I propelled myself across the dimly lit attic space to a darkened corner, where I collapsed nearly sobbing onto all that remained of my old things. A few bits of clothing here, an old trunk there. And this tattered journal which I write in now with a nervous hand. If it is hard to believe I cannot blame the reader, for even now I can hear the uneven footfalls of my ghostly visitors on the attic stairway. My hand grows shaky as I know for certain now they have found my hideaway and they are coming for me at last.
These words blur before my eyes as I write, I know not what they intend to do with me, I cannot believe that I will survive. I only wanted this last, this bit of writing to be my final testament, so that someday someone will know what transpired here.
Now the attic door swings open
The dimly lit space fills up with two figures.
They are here————–
“Jim! What the hell are you doing up here, it’s almost time to start letting people in,”
Jim spun around from the corner to see that Marc had followed him up into the darkened attic. He frowned, angry that he had been scared by the sound of his friend’s voice.
“Dude, did you feel that?” he said trying to keep the fear out of his voice.
“That weird cold feeling again. You know how all week we’ve been feeling that cold air rushing around?”
“Yeah?” Marc said uncertainly.
“Well I felt it again, and then I heard the attic door slam shut.”
Marc tensed for all of a moment, then he laughed, “Shut up man, you are just trying to freak me out. Save it for the people downstairs.”
Jim let out an exasperated sigh, “I mean it man, I felt something come running up here and then it slammed the door.”
“Bullshit.” was Marc’s succinct reply, “Nobody has lived here since that poet guy hung himself and that was like a hundred years ago, now quit messin’ around. Come on, there’s people lined up outside already. Let’s get this haunted house started!”
Jim stared back warily to the darkened corner, before nodding slowly, “Yeah alright.”
Together they moved slowly toward the door leading back downstairs where their job awaited in the “torture chamber” they had built for the haunted house.
“So what do you think?” Marc said casually as he reached the doorway, “Do I look Mad Scientist enough?”
Jim laughed, “Oh yeah, those people are going to be cryin’ by the time we get done with ‘em!”
They laughed and headed for the stairs.
Suddenly a gust of icy wind buffeted past them, and the door before them swung shut with a resounding finality. The air around them grew thick and vibrated with what almost felt like–anger.
Then the unmistakable feel of cold dead hands gripped the backs of their necks as they were slammed forcefully against the now locked attic door. Neither boy could speak or move, as unbearable pressure took over their bodies. Pressing them against the door with deadly force.
Cold breath touched the backs of their necks, the hissing of a disembodied voice filled their ears: