Veho Nex
04-18-2008, 03:32
There’s always going to be something creepy about living in a house others have died in. Even if you don’t believe in the paranormal, there’s something about the whole idea that’s usually more than enough to make at least a few hairs on the back of your next stand up.
It was almost enough to make me reconsider purchasing the old house, but the fact the price had been slashed again and again left we with an offer simply too good to refuse. I disregarded my fear as the result of too many scary books and re-runs of ‘The Shining’ on late night TV. Now however, I recognize my denial as my first mistake. Fear is described as a survival mechanism for a reason; I know now that ignoring it is one of the worst mistakes a person can make, regardless of how irrational the fear may seem.
The house was big. Not exactly a mansion, but a good two stories (although it looked much smaller from the outside. About a third of the first story was below ground. I’m still not entirely sure why, perhaps if just formed a stronger foundation, or was necessary to create such a large cellar. Regardless, this is irrelevant). The house was built from light cobblestone; It was definitely an older house. The roof was made of dark blue tile, and several vines had begun to wind their way up the front of the establishment. They might have just been over grown weeds, but it added to the building a kind of charm.
A black iron fence had been erected around the yard; that would have to go. I should probably explain. The iron fence had been connected to one of the houses two deaths. About 17 months ago, one of the elderly residents had thrown himself from the second story window in the right wing, where the fence runs noticeably closer alongside the house. That in itself had crossed me as strange when I’d first heard it.
As I mentioned earlier, the house isn’t as tall as a normal two story house. It doesn’t seem like the kind of height someone would throw themselves from if they wanted to end their life. Regardless of whether the height would or wouldn’t have killed him, the old man had become impaled on the black iron fence, and that had done the trick. Either the old man was aiming for the fence, or he had faith that the relatively short drop would be enough for his age worn bones. The former seemed extremely gruesome for a suicide, while the later seemed foolish.
This first death had set into motion a series of events which directly lead to the next. The old man’s wife, according to the police report, returned home from some simple grocery shopping, found her husband impaled and tried to pull him down. After failing (and bloodying her hands in the process) she retreated inside where, in her grief, she had taken her own life. She had gone into the walk in pantry, and hung herself with a length of super strength fishing line. The scene had been gruesome; the blood of her husband had been smeared on the walls as she flailed and suffocated; the jump from one of the shelves having failed to break her neck and make it quick. Furthermore, the lady had torn at the wire with her fingers as she flailed, tearing up her hands and neck as the wire failed to come loose.
Still. A bargain is a bargain. I didn’t regret it in the slightest until my third night sleeping there.
At about 3AM I awoke. Something had whispered to me. There was no doubt in my head; this wasn’t a trick of the mind. Something had whispered to me in a rasp, tortured whimper, and it had been enough to awake me instantly without the usual drowsiness. I would say the whisper chilled my spine, but that would do how I felt no justice. I was petrified. The tortured whimper had sounded elderly, and instantaneously it bought to mind images of the old man who used to inhabit the house. After a moment I began to wonder where those images had come from; I’d never seen any photos of the deaths, nor had I any desire to. Then I realized I must have dreamed them. My mind had thrown together a spooky concoction of all the descriptive language I was offered by the salesman. Regardless of whether the images were real or not; the whisper was. With its message fresh in my mind, and ringing in my ears, I began to head upstairs to the attic. I don’t know what compelled me to do so at that exact time of night, but I had to. The voice needed me. It had said so.
‘Please. Help me. He’s coming back.’
I studied the attic from its entrance at the top of the stairs. So this was the room in which the first elderly resident had taken his life; the hair on the back of my neck danced in what seemed like a freak cold breeze. What was I even doing here; this was crazy? But I had heard that whisper. There was something here I had to see, someone I had to help. My concentration was broken by a noticeable slam downstairs. Instinctively I threw myself behind some abandoned furniture from the previous tenants; an old couch caked in dust. I could hear heavy footsteps, pounding away at the floorboards. Someone was moving with speed, and they were headed up the stairs. I reached out behind me for anything to make me feel less vulnerable. I settled for an old copper bed lamp. Not exactly a gun, but it would have to do. I braced myself, back to the couch and tried to control my breathing. I peered around the corner. An old man had reached the top of the staircase, he was flustered and sweat beaded down his temple. I was about to try and jump the elderly intruder. He seemed old enough to be over powered without much risk, despite his valiant effort at the scaling stairs. Something stopped me, however. That voice; a whimper, an elderly woman. Crying.
‘No. You need to see. You need to see what happened. You need to know. Oh god, he’s coming back.
I had entirely taken my focus away from the old man, those tortured words still haunt me to this day. I couldn’t describe them. The despair in her voice, like she already knew she was dead. My trance was broken by a cry of despair from the old man. He had seen something at the bottom of the staircase. Only now I noticed his shirt was ripped across the front, he may even have been bleeding.
Oh god, I realized. He’s running from something.
The old man backed further way from the stairs, his back facing the large window from which I’d been told one of the previous tenants had leapt from. Suddenly I knew how it was all going to unfold. Nothing I could do here was going to make a difference, it had all already happened. The most I could do was watch. Learn. I needed to see what really happened.
Another figure emerged from the staircase; clad in a heavy raincoat, bright yellow with a shiny plastic finish. Wearing gumboots, and with his face covered by the raincoats hood. Only now did I realize it was raining outside. The old man’s eyes widened in terror as he saw the intimidating figure approach. The new intruder didn’t hold any noticeable weapon, but I noticed red handprints smeared across the front of his raincoat, confirming my previous assumption that the old man had been wounded. The old man began to grovel.
‘No, please, who are you? What are you doing here? Please, just go, why would you do this!?’
The figure in the raincoat kept advancing, and the old man realized there was no reasoning with him. As a last resort, he turned to face the window and charged forward as fast as he could. The window shattered and the old man when flying. I didn’t bother checking on him. I knew of this story had ended. Or at least this chapter. After walking up to the shattered window, the raincoat killer, as I so creatively dubbed him, seemed to fade out of existence. The window appeared to be un broken, and there was no sign that anyone but myself had set foot upstairs. I stood in silence for a moment; contemplating what I’d seen, as well as my next course of action. The only logical step, if logic still had a part to play in all of this, was to check the pantry. I began to descend to stairs and froze stiff. Down the bottom of the stairs was the figure in the raincoat, staring at me.
My heart was racing a thousand beats a minutes. I braced for what seemed like the inevitable; for the intruder to throw himself up the stairs in pursuit of me. But he didn’t. He slowly looked away from me and began advancing towards the kitchen. It was then I realized it must be some kind of illusion, just as before. I was being shown something. It seemed I no longer had a choice in the matter; slowly I followed him into the kitchen. I could hear crying again. Was it? Yes. Definitely. Whoever was crying was definitely the voice I had heard earlier.
It was coming from the pantry. The next page of the story unfolded in my brain. The old lady hadn’t killed herself in the pantry; she was hiding. She heard her husband murdered and cowered for her life. A chilling scream pierced the air as the pantry door was opened by the raincoat clad killer. I noticed a length of fishing wire in his right hand. I turned away. I didn’t have to see what was happening to know how it was all unfolding.
The murderer had chased the old man upstairs. He had made a leap of faith to try and save his life, and had impaled himself on the iron gate outside. Hearing the commotion, his wife had hid in the pantry, where after hearing her whimpering, the killer had turned his attention. He had strung her up with the fishing line. She had fought back, smearing her handprints on the walls, and trying in vain to pull the wire from her neck. There were no suicides here at all. They were all brutal murders.
I turned back in time to see the pantry door closing, and the raincoat man fade from existence. I had no idea what to do now. I felt sick in my stomach, I thought I was going to lose my dinner. I did. I stood retching in the corner of the kitchen, when I started to hear a laugh. It was coming from the pantry. Someone was laughing at me from the pantry. I advanced slowly, and opened the door. The old lady was still in there, hung from the fishing line; but for some reason, smiling. Again, she started a hearty chuckle, which got louder and louder. It seemed almost too deep for her. I was about to reach for a kitchen knife that sat on the bench beside me, but stopped. This was another vision. There was something I had to see. I swallowed my fear and spoke up to the lady.
‘What is it? What do you want me to see? Do you have a vision for me?’.
The old lady laughed again. Her reply chilled me to the bone.
‘No. No more visions. I warned you he was coming back.’
It was almost enough to make me reconsider purchasing the old house, but the fact the price had been slashed again and again left we with an offer simply too good to refuse. I disregarded my fear as the result of too many scary books and re-runs of ‘The Shining’ on late night TV. Now however, I recognize my denial as my first mistake. Fear is described as a survival mechanism for a reason; I know now that ignoring it is one of the worst mistakes a person can make, regardless of how irrational the fear may seem.
The house was big. Not exactly a mansion, but a good two stories (although it looked much smaller from the outside. About a third of the first story was below ground. I’m still not entirely sure why, perhaps if just formed a stronger foundation, or was necessary to create such a large cellar. Regardless, this is irrelevant). The house was built from light cobblestone; It was definitely an older house. The roof was made of dark blue tile, and several vines had begun to wind their way up the front of the establishment. They might have just been over grown weeds, but it added to the building a kind of charm.
A black iron fence had been erected around the yard; that would have to go. I should probably explain. The iron fence had been connected to one of the houses two deaths. About 17 months ago, one of the elderly residents had thrown himself from the second story window in the right wing, where the fence runs noticeably closer alongside the house. That in itself had crossed me as strange when I’d first heard it.
As I mentioned earlier, the house isn’t as tall as a normal two story house. It doesn’t seem like the kind of height someone would throw themselves from if they wanted to end their life. Regardless of whether the height would or wouldn’t have killed him, the old man had become impaled on the black iron fence, and that had done the trick. Either the old man was aiming for the fence, or he had faith that the relatively short drop would be enough for his age worn bones. The former seemed extremely gruesome for a suicide, while the later seemed foolish.
This first death had set into motion a series of events which directly lead to the next. The old man’s wife, according to the police report, returned home from some simple grocery shopping, found her husband impaled and tried to pull him down. After failing (and bloodying her hands in the process) she retreated inside where, in her grief, she had taken her own life. She had gone into the walk in pantry, and hung herself with a length of super strength fishing line. The scene had been gruesome; the blood of her husband had been smeared on the walls as she flailed and suffocated; the jump from one of the shelves having failed to break her neck and make it quick. Furthermore, the lady had torn at the wire with her fingers as she flailed, tearing up her hands and neck as the wire failed to come loose.
Still. A bargain is a bargain. I didn’t regret it in the slightest until my third night sleeping there.
At about 3AM I awoke. Something had whispered to me. There was no doubt in my head; this wasn’t a trick of the mind. Something had whispered to me in a rasp, tortured whimper, and it had been enough to awake me instantly without the usual drowsiness. I would say the whisper chilled my spine, but that would do how I felt no justice. I was petrified. The tortured whimper had sounded elderly, and instantaneously it bought to mind images of the old man who used to inhabit the house. After a moment I began to wonder where those images had come from; I’d never seen any photos of the deaths, nor had I any desire to. Then I realized I must have dreamed them. My mind had thrown together a spooky concoction of all the descriptive language I was offered by the salesman. Regardless of whether the images were real or not; the whisper was. With its message fresh in my mind, and ringing in my ears, I began to head upstairs to the attic. I don’t know what compelled me to do so at that exact time of night, but I had to. The voice needed me. It had said so.
‘Please. Help me. He’s coming back.’
I studied the attic from its entrance at the top of the stairs. So this was the room in which the first elderly resident had taken his life; the hair on the back of my neck danced in what seemed like a freak cold breeze. What was I even doing here; this was crazy? But I had heard that whisper. There was something here I had to see, someone I had to help. My concentration was broken by a noticeable slam downstairs. Instinctively I threw myself behind some abandoned furniture from the previous tenants; an old couch caked in dust. I could hear heavy footsteps, pounding away at the floorboards. Someone was moving with speed, and they were headed up the stairs. I reached out behind me for anything to make me feel less vulnerable. I settled for an old copper bed lamp. Not exactly a gun, but it would have to do. I braced myself, back to the couch and tried to control my breathing. I peered around the corner. An old man had reached the top of the staircase, he was flustered and sweat beaded down his temple. I was about to try and jump the elderly intruder. He seemed old enough to be over powered without much risk, despite his valiant effort at the scaling stairs. Something stopped me, however. That voice; a whimper, an elderly woman. Crying.
‘No. You need to see. You need to see what happened. You need to know. Oh god, he’s coming back.
I had entirely taken my focus away from the old man, those tortured words still haunt me to this day. I couldn’t describe them. The despair in her voice, like she already knew she was dead. My trance was broken by a cry of despair from the old man. He had seen something at the bottom of the staircase. Only now I noticed his shirt was ripped across the front, he may even have been bleeding.
Oh god, I realized. He’s running from something.
The old man backed further way from the stairs, his back facing the large window from which I’d been told one of the previous tenants had leapt from. Suddenly I knew how it was all going to unfold. Nothing I could do here was going to make a difference, it had all already happened. The most I could do was watch. Learn. I needed to see what really happened.
Another figure emerged from the staircase; clad in a heavy raincoat, bright yellow with a shiny plastic finish. Wearing gumboots, and with his face covered by the raincoats hood. Only now did I realize it was raining outside. The old man’s eyes widened in terror as he saw the intimidating figure approach. The new intruder didn’t hold any noticeable weapon, but I noticed red handprints smeared across the front of his raincoat, confirming my previous assumption that the old man had been wounded. The old man began to grovel.
‘No, please, who are you? What are you doing here? Please, just go, why would you do this!?’
The figure in the raincoat kept advancing, and the old man realized there was no reasoning with him. As a last resort, he turned to face the window and charged forward as fast as he could. The window shattered and the old man when flying. I didn’t bother checking on him. I knew of this story had ended. Or at least this chapter. After walking up to the shattered window, the raincoat killer, as I so creatively dubbed him, seemed to fade out of existence. The window appeared to be un broken, and there was no sign that anyone but myself had set foot upstairs. I stood in silence for a moment; contemplating what I’d seen, as well as my next course of action. The only logical step, if logic still had a part to play in all of this, was to check the pantry. I began to descend to stairs and froze stiff. Down the bottom of the stairs was the figure in the raincoat, staring at me.
My heart was racing a thousand beats a minutes. I braced for what seemed like the inevitable; for the intruder to throw himself up the stairs in pursuit of me. But he didn’t. He slowly looked away from me and began advancing towards the kitchen. It was then I realized it must be some kind of illusion, just as before. I was being shown something. It seemed I no longer had a choice in the matter; slowly I followed him into the kitchen. I could hear crying again. Was it? Yes. Definitely. Whoever was crying was definitely the voice I had heard earlier.
It was coming from the pantry. The next page of the story unfolded in my brain. The old lady hadn’t killed herself in the pantry; she was hiding. She heard her husband murdered and cowered for her life. A chilling scream pierced the air as the pantry door was opened by the raincoat clad killer. I noticed a length of fishing wire in his right hand. I turned away. I didn’t have to see what was happening to know how it was all unfolding.
The murderer had chased the old man upstairs. He had made a leap of faith to try and save his life, and had impaled himself on the iron gate outside. Hearing the commotion, his wife had hid in the pantry, where after hearing her whimpering, the killer had turned his attention. He had strung her up with the fishing line. She had fought back, smearing her handprints on the walls, and trying in vain to pull the wire from her neck. There were no suicides here at all. They were all brutal murders.
I turned back in time to see the pantry door closing, and the raincoat man fade from existence. I had no idea what to do now. I felt sick in my stomach, I thought I was going to lose my dinner. I did. I stood retching in the corner of the kitchen, when I started to hear a laugh. It was coming from the pantry. Someone was laughing at me from the pantry. I advanced slowly, and opened the door. The old lady was still in there, hung from the fishing line; but for some reason, smiling. Again, she started a hearty chuckle, which got louder and louder. It seemed almost too deep for her. I was about to reach for a kitchen knife that sat on the bench beside me, but stopped. This was another vision. There was something I had to see. I swallowed my fear and spoke up to the lady.
‘What is it? What do you want me to see? Do you have a vision for me?’.
The old lady laughed again. Her reply chilled me to the bone.
‘No. No more visions. I warned you he was coming back.’