What up Buttpuppets!
The Gazinator here with some Mr. Spooktastic campfire stories fo' all da lil' chillins. On a dark and still night in a old and haunted farm house. In the middle of a Children of the Corn style corn field. Jack Gazwowski sat at his computer typing into the night..... bored out of his fucking gord!!!! Ok so I totally thought this was like going to be awsome. right. but like everyone here is like a total buzzkill. K. I'm gonna beak down for yall. #1 They all act like this shit is real. I mean come on people. haven't you ever seen the original haunted hill. This is a fear experiment dudes. Stop peeing your panties man the house is rigged. Which is awsome btw. #2 No one here parties dudes. And they frickin go to bed at like 9 o'clock. I'm like ghost hunting with the frickin Osmonds. First There's the hot little bitchy girl who can only comunicate by rolling her eyes. She invited me up and smell her room. Don't ask me dudes I've never undersood women. Next there's this Slick as shit badass dude who's like a CSI or somthing. He's all metro and shit and has fucked up nightmares. Aside from the nightmares the dude is all Johnny Depp smooth But Johnny Would have totally toked out with me. People who don't smoke out are just asking for life to be hard. One hit of the Whacky Tobacky and Johnny Slick would sleep like a fucking baby but what do I know he probably gets laid like all the fucking time. Next there's this EMT guy who is there to make sure we don't die and shit. Me I think he's just here to freak us out more. Ahh man wouldn't it be awsome i he was the fricken professor doing the study on us all frickin Jigsaw style. like in the end he all gets up and is like this was all a scam but noone can ever find out! and like locks us in a basement and like makes us like cut off our fucking feet and shit. Dude... I need to watch that guy. Ohh fuck I just typed that and he could read this and fucking take me out. Where's the fucking backspace button on this thing. Man Am I stoned. ... Then there is this hot Gothy girl as if that wasn't a horror movie cliche' that dudes like me wackit to all the frickin time. Wait! What if this shit's being put on fucking Youtube and shit. All fucking Big Brother style. I was just joking up there about the whole weed smoking thing. Those are just cigarettes that i'm smoking on camera. Fuck I'm hungry. I'm gonna go get more of that chicken.............
Ok I'm back. Where was i ...ok Goth Chick. I would totally hit on that but I don't hit on Goth girls since Nixon Suicide kicked me in the beans at a Toadies concert 2 years ago. Besides I think she's totally fucking Johnny Slick. Then the shinning hope of this Horror story Doc Joe. Doc Joe is like this badass ghost hunter dude and homeboy knows how to party. Dude parties and hunts ghosts. how fucking awsome is that. Dude I wonder if he believes in our underwater ally Nessie. I'll ask tommorrow. Dude what if he's a ghost. What if their all ghosts. Dude I'm Freaking myself out. I'm Gunna go make some pancakes.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Perfume and Gold
Lauren wakes to the overpowering smell of perfume for the third night in a row. The sickeningly sweet floral scent is so pungent she has to open the window to keep it from choking her. Her lungs burn as the fresh air wafts into the room, releasing her from the flowery prison once again. She inhales deeply, looking across the backyard at the moonlit fireplace below her.
It is old and broken, the red bricks starting to crumble with age. Ivy had wrapped its way around the frame, holding all of the desiccated pieces together. She goes to her suitcase to get her camera. If anything, she can get some really interesting photographs of the site.
Still feeling the burning sensation in her throat, she decides to head down to the kitchen to get something to drink. No doubt someone will be up meandering the common quarters. She walks down the hallway, padding softly on the hardwood floor. Joseph’s door is closed. No doubt he has turned in early to curl up with the stolen books he now has in his possession. She wonders if Dr. Martin is aware of his habitual thievery.
The light in the living room is on again and she pops her head in to see who may be up at such a late hour. No one is there. She glances at the clock. 12:38 am. This is the third night that someone has left the light on in this room. Maybe Joseph is afraid of the dark? She shakes her head at the private joke, crossing the room to turn off the lamp that sits next to the large sofa.
Darkness fills the house again. Feeling her way along the floor to the hallway once more, she heads into the kitchen to retrieve a bottle of water. As she gulps down the cool liquid, she can feel the ache in her throat subsiding. She decides it will probably be a good idea, not only for her health, to switch rooms. But that can wait until morning.
She wonders where the smell could be coming from. Maybe someone had spilled a bottle of perfume down the vent? It would make sense that every time the air conditioning kicked on or even the heater that the smell would overpower the room. She will have to do some investigating in the daylight.
When she gets back to her quarters, the smell had all but disappeared. She is too exhausted to do anything but climb under the covers. The chilly night air drifts across her face. It feels good, so she doesn’t mind the window being open. Lying back into the cool sheets, she closes her eyes and sighs deeply. She curls one hand under her chin and buries the other under the pillow.
It is then she feels something cold and hard under her palm. She pulls out the object. It is the ring that had been beside her laptop when she’d come into the room the night they had found the dress. She swears that she had put it on the dresser.
She places it on the nightstand by her head, pondering its whereabouts for a few more minutes before her exhaustion takes hold and she can’t keep her eyes open any longer.
It is old and broken, the red bricks starting to crumble with age. Ivy had wrapped its way around the frame, holding all of the desiccated pieces together. She goes to her suitcase to get her camera. If anything, she can get some really interesting photographs of the site.
Still feeling the burning sensation in her throat, she decides to head down to the kitchen to get something to drink. No doubt someone will be up meandering the common quarters. She walks down the hallway, padding softly on the hardwood floor. Joseph’s door is closed. No doubt he has turned in early to curl up with the stolen books he now has in his possession. She wonders if Dr. Martin is aware of his habitual thievery.
The light in the living room is on again and she pops her head in to see who may be up at such a late hour. No one is there. She glances at the clock. 12:38 am. This is the third night that someone has left the light on in this room. Maybe Joseph is afraid of the dark? She shakes her head at the private joke, crossing the room to turn off the lamp that sits next to the large sofa.
Darkness fills the house again. Feeling her way along the floor to the hallway once more, she heads into the kitchen to retrieve a bottle of water. As she gulps down the cool liquid, she can feel the ache in her throat subsiding. She decides it will probably be a good idea, not only for her health, to switch rooms. But that can wait until morning.
She wonders where the smell could be coming from. Maybe someone had spilled a bottle of perfume down the vent? It would make sense that every time the air conditioning kicked on or even the heater that the smell would overpower the room. She will have to do some investigating in the daylight.
When she gets back to her quarters, the smell had all but disappeared. She is too exhausted to do anything but climb under the covers. The chilly night air drifts across her face. It feels good, so she doesn’t mind the window being open. Lying back into the cool sheets, she closes her eyes and sighs deeply. She curls one hand under her chin and buries the other under the pillow.
It is then she feels something cold and hard under her palm. She pulls out the object. It is the ring that had been beside her laptop when she’d come into the room the night they had found the dress. She swears that she had put it on the dresser.
She places it on the nightstand by her head, pondering its whereabouts for a few more minutes before her exhaustion takes hold and she can’t keep her eyes open any longer.
King of Spades
Victor turns the weathered playing card over and over between his fingers. The lines and colors are scuffed and faded with age, the corners tattered, showing signs of having been shuffled countless times.
It's late and quiet. Everyone else has likely drifted off to sleep, leaving Victor awake and alone with whatever ghosts haunt this house.
The king doesn't look off to the side, but straight ahead.
Victor isn't sure what the kings mean, but he doesn't think it's good.
He's glad that things seem relatively normal in this house, though they did in the other house at first, too. At least Joseph has started behaving a little more civilly, though it seems more out of necessity than sincerity.
Marcus's replacement seems nice enough, though she seems to take people apart with her eyes. Victor imagines Lauren thinks she probably has a pretty good poker face, but she's not all that adept at hiding when she's analyzing someone. Given enough time and practice, and Victor is sure her eyes will sweep over someone with the practiced gaze of a criminal taking in all the details needed to make an assessment and move forward with the plan.
EV remains her indomitable self, though she seems to have gotten a little more reserved. Victor can see mixed signals fluttering across her pretty face when he's near, and he's pretty sure she's attracted to him but doesn't want to show it. In different circumstances, he might be attracted back, but the there are too many uncontrolled variables for it to be feasible.
This country house has just as many mysteries as the Victorian one did; it's just as full of locked trunks and books, jars and bottles, crates, cabinets, stairways and shadowed corners. The wedding dress intrigues him. Why was it chained into the armoire? Was someone afraid it would escape?
On a sudden impulse, Victor rises from his bed and crosses the room, opening his CSI bag and retrieving a slide. He walks down the hallway in his shirt and underwear, into the strange room with the armoire doors standing wide. The dress gleams white in the moonlight, and the unsightly stain running down the front is as black as ink.
It flakes off the fabric like old blood, onto Victor's slide, caught with expert precision. He covers the sample and carries it back to his room, ready to solve this mystery at least.
The king of spades watches from the bedside table, impassive, and yet seeming to anticipate what events might come next.
It's late and quiet. Everyone else has likely drifted off to sleep, leaving Victor awake and alone with whatever ghosts haunt this house.
The king doesn't look off to the side, but straight ahead.
Victor isn't sure what the kings mean, but he doesn't think it's good.
He's glad that things seem relatively normal in this house, though they did in the other house at first, too. At least Joseph has started behaving a little more civilly, though it seems more out of necessity than sincerity.
Marcus's replacement seems nice enough, though she seems to take people apart with her eyes. Victor imagines Lauren thinks she probably has a pretty good poker face, but she's not all that adept at hiding when she's analyzing someone. Given enough time and practice, and Victor is sure her eyes will sweep over someone with the practiced gaze of a criminal taking in all the details needed to make an assessment and move forward with the plan.
EV remains her indomitable self, though she seems to have gotten a little more reserved. Victor can see mixed signals fluttering across her pretty face when he's near, and he's pretty sure she's attracted to him but doesn't want to show it. In different circumstances, he might be attracted back, but the there are too many uncontrolled variables for it to be feasible.
This country house has just as many mysteries as the Victorian one did; it's just as full of locked trunks and books, jars and bottles, crates, cabinets, stairways and shadowed corners. The wedding dress intrigues him. Why was it chained into the armoire? Was someone afraid it would escape?
On a sudden impulse, Victor rises from his bed and crosses the room, opening his CSI bag and retrieving a slide. He walks down the hallway in his shirt and underwear, into the strange room with the armoire doors standing wide. The dress gleams white in the moonlight, and the unsightly stain running down the front is as black as ink.
It flakes off the fabric like old blood, onto Victor's slide, caught with expert precision. He covers the sample and carries it back to his room, ready to solve this mystery at least.
The king of spades watches from the bedside table, impassive, and yet seeming to anticipate what events might come next.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
The taste of salt
She realized she was dreaming when she looked down and saw the small child at her side. Pretty child with eyes so dark they looked like she had no iris at all.
“Hurry…She’s coming.”
“Who’s coming?”
“Mommy.”
EV tried to move but the acanthus leaf pattern in the rug had grown around her legs holding her in position. She pulled at the grasping vines, but they kept tangling themselves around her.
If this is a dream, why do I feel this?
She felt the heavy thuds before she heard them. The floor vibrating with a weight that was so much more than any human could weigh.
“Hurry…She’s coming.”
“Who’s coming?”
“Mommy.”
EV looked up and opened her mouth. Instead of a scream, salt poured out of her mouth in a steady stream to pile at her feet.
EV awoke with a start. The sheets were bound around her feet and she was shivering despite the fact that she was sweating profusely. She could hear voices in the other room. Joseph was going on and on as usual, the girl was talking as well, only EV couldn’t make out what they were saying. She heard Victor’s voice. It was calm and steady. Controlled. She took a deep breath and relaxed. Her lips tasted salty.
Why do I feel safe around him?
He was a little weird…a little obsessive. He was always looking over his shoulder. Even before the shit went down. He wasn’t like Joseph. He didn’t want to use her for some hidden agenda, some grasp at fame or fortune or whatever it was the “good doctor” was after. EV was used to guys wanting to use her. Victor looked at her differently. He was almost sad when he looked at her. Like he could see something she couldn’t. Or that he knew she was dying of some horrible disease and didn’t have the guts to tell her she was doomed.
She kicked at the sheets and finally untangled herself from their anaconda-like grip. She pulled at them and tossed them into the chair. She couldn’t seem to muster the strength to get up. You would think that after a nightmare like that, a person wouldn’t want to sleep again.
Why do I feel so tired?
She drifted off again.
A soft knock woke her up.
“EV?” It was Victor.
“Yeah?” she said groggily.
“Can I see your keys?”
She reached into her pocket and tossed them blindly at him. He caught them.
Fast hands.
She rolled back over and fell asleep as the door clicked closed behind him.
“Hurry…She’s coming.”
“Who’s coming?”
“Mommy.”
EV tried to move but the acanthus leaf pattern in the rug had grown around her legs holding her in position. She pulled at the grasping vines, but they kept tangling themselves around her.
If this is a dream, why do I feel this?
She felt the heavy thuds before she heard them. The floor vibrating with a weight that was so much more than any human could weigh.
“Hurry…She’s coming.”
“Who’s coming?”
“Mommy.”
EV looked up and opened her mouth. Instead of a scream, salt poured out of her mouth in a steady stream to pile at her feet.
EV awoke with a start. The sheets were bound around her feet and she was shivering despite the fact that she was sweating profusely. She could hear voices in the other room. Joseph was going on and on as usual, the girl was talking as well, only EV couldn’t make out what they were saying. She heard Victor’s voice. It was calm and steady. Controlled. She took a deep breath and relaxed. Her lips tasted salty.
Why do I feel safe around him?
He was a little weird…a little obsessive. He was always looking over his shoulder. Even before the shit went down. He wasn’t like Joseph. He didn’t want to use her for some hidden agenda, some grasp at fame or fortune or whatever it was the “good doctor” was after. EV was used to guys wanting to use her. Victor looked at her differently. He was almost sad when he looked at her. Like he could see something she couldn’t. Or that he knew she was dying of some horrible disease and didn’t have the guts to tell her she was doomed.
She kicked at the sheets and finally untangled herself from their anaconda-like grip. She pulled at them and tossed them into the chair. She couldn’t seem to muster the strength to get up. You would think that after a nightmare like that, a person wouldn’t want to sleep again.
Why do I feel so tired?
She drifted off again.
A soft knock woke her up.
“EV?” It was Victor.
“Yeah?” she said groggily.
“Can I see your keys?”
She reached into her pocket and tossed them blindly at him. He caught them.
Fast hands.
She rolled back over and fell asleep as the door clicked closed behind him.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Postmortem Assessment
The inside of the hotel room measures twenty-seven by forty feet, roughly, including the bathroom. The balcony is an additional four by eight feet.
The room is surprisingly clean. The sheets are freshly starched, without any stains revealed by blacklight. The mattress is less than pristine, but not drenched in forensic evidence. Victor can't find traces of blood anywhere.
There are thirty-nine sheets of hotel stationery left, along with three ballpoint pens emblazoned with the hotel's logo. There are two room service menus, one on top of the desk, one in the bottom drawer on the left.
There are six towels: two large, two medium, two small. There are two washcloths, one folded into the shape of a fan, the other draped over the towel bar.
There is one television in the room.
There are precisely zero explanations for what happened in that cursed fucking house.
Victor has been a pragmatist his entire life, despite the superstitious protestations of his Orthodox grandparents, the stories about the evils in the old country, the gilded icons and myriad saints. When he was a child, he always looked askance at fairy tales, myths about men who achieved greatness, Santa Claus. None of it ever seemed realistic.
He took great comfort in mathematics, though. Victor has always been fond of counting things. Four molars knocked out of a woman's mouth with a mallet. Two minutes before the police arrive to assess the situation. One hundred eighty eight droplets of blood left behind over three hundred sixty four square feet of terrain after a crime, roped in with yellow tape, CAUTION DO NOT CROSS.
What happened in the house can't be quantified with numbers or explained with science and forensics, which is quickly unraveling Victor's view of the world.
Can his senses really be trusted? They seem to be in working order now: the hotel suite is precisely seventy-eight degrees, and he weighs one hundred fifty seven pounds, naked on the sleek white scale left in the hotel bathroom by a previous guest.
He's still been sleeping with the lights on; he doesn't want to have to relive the memory of the terrifying silhouette in the cellar, the panic that drove him to shoot the lock of the cellar door with a bullet that materialized out of nowhere.
There are sixty-seven-and-a-half ceramic tiles on the floor of the bathroom, and no way for Victor to explain the fear that drove him to break the house's window with a chair, shattering glass like a barbarian.
He needs bullets for his gun. He's not sure how to get them; he doesn't want to venture out in public for fear of being spotted by the wrong person. He's mostly sure he's safe, but without knowing how much of a trail he's left behind, Victor isn't willing to risk it.
The more he thinks, the more he counts, the more he attempts to reason, Victor becomes increasingly certain that he will never be able to explain what's happened, and that thought is fucking terrifying.
The room is surprisingly clean. The sheets are freshly starched, without any stains revealed by blacklight. The mattress is less than pristine, but not drenched in forensic evidence. Victor can't find traces of blood anywhere.
There are thirty-nine sheets of hotel stationery left, along with three ballpoint pens emblazoned with the hotel's logo. There are two room service menus, one on top of the desk, one in the bottom drawer on the left.
There are six towels: two large, two medium, two small. There are two washcloths, one folded into the shape of a fan, the other draped over the towel bar.
There is one television in the room.
There are precisely zero explanations for what happened in that cursed fucking house.
Victor has been a pragmatist his entire life, despite the superstitious protestations of his Orthodox grandparents, the stories about the evils in the old country, the gilded icons and myriad saints. When he was a child, he always looked askance at fairy tales, myths about men who achieved greatness, Santa Claus. None of it ever seemed realistic.
He took great comfort in mathematics, though. Victor has always been fond of counting things. Four molars knocked out of a woman's mouth with a mallet. Two minutes before the police arrive to assess the situation. One hundred eighty eight droplets of blood left behind over three hundred sixty four square feet of terrain after a crime, roped in with yellow tape, CAUTION DO NOT CROSS.
What happened in the house can't be quantified with numbers or explained with science and forensics, which is quickly unraveling Victor's view of the world.
Can his senses really be trusted? They seem to be in working order now: the hotel suite is precisely seventy-eight degrees, and he weighs one hundred fifty seven pounds, naked on the sleek white scale left in the hotel bathroom by a previous guest.
He's still been sleeping with the lights on; he doesn't want to have to relive the memory of the terrifying silhouette in the cellar, the panic that drove him to shoot the lock of the cellar door with a bullet that materialized out of nowhere.
There are sixty-seven-and-a-half ceramic tiles on the floor of the bathroom, and no way for Victor to explain the fear that drove him to break the house's window with a chair, shattering glass like a barbarian.
He needs bullets for his gun. He's not sure how to get them; he doesn't want to venture out in public for fear of being spotted by the wrong person. He's mostly sure he's safe, but without knowing how much of a trail he's left behind, Victor isn't willing to risk it.
The more he thinks, the more he counts, the more he attempts to reason, Victor becomes increasingly certain that he will never be able to explain what's happened, and that thought is fucking terrifying.
Peculiar Preboarding
“Where are you headed to Miss?”
I hand the ticketing agent my confirmation information and driver’s license.
“Oregon.”
She looks up and smiles at me. Her eyes are kind and I smile back.
“And how many bags will you be checking Miss Canfield?”
I look down at the brown leather suitcase in front of me. It’s faded and worn around the edges, but still one of my favorite things that my father left me. It looks well traveled. It was. Dad was always going to seminars and conferences for his research. I missed him terribly.
As I stare at the case in front of me, I suddenly realize that this will be my life for the next few weeks at least. I hope I packed everything I needed.
“Just one, thank you.”
I lift it onto the scale. Just under fifty pounds. No extra charge.
She tags the bag and hoists it onto the belt so it can reach my destination in time. She smiles handing me a boarding pass and my tickets.
“You’ll be at gate B11. The security checkpoint is just to your right. Have a nice flight Miss Canfield.”
“Thank you.”
I gather up my carryon and head to the gate.
As I watch all the passengers going through the check point, I can’t help but assess their stress levels through body language. It has always been a compulsion of mine.
Getting through to the gate is relatively painless. I stop off at the deli and grab a sandwich and a drink. The flight will be long and the in-flight meals are always disgusting. I make my way to the magazine racks, grab a few and some snacks and head toward B11 to nestle in for the hour and 45 minute wait.
I am munching on my sandwich I notice a little old woman sitting across from me. I smile, knowing it’s the polite thing to do. She looks about 70 years of age, her shock white hair coifed into a perfect football helmet. She smiles softly. I can tell she wants to strike up a conversation but is nervous to do so. She drops her glasses and in an instant I am out of my chair and coming to her aid.
“Thank you dear.”
“Not a problem.”
I grab my things and sit down next to her. I love getting to know people and the elderly are so interesting.
“Traveling to visit loved ones deary?”
“No, I am going for a job.”
It is then I remember what I am actually doing. I become a little giddy inside. I get to work for THE Dr. Martin. He had called me personally to ask me to join the team. Apparently, one of their members, the one who took the job from me, couldn’t handle the stresses of the research involved. I am relieved to be so level headed. I hoped I was up for it.
Her facial expressions become reminiscent. I can tell she is going to regale me with a story of her past.
“My Henry used to travel a lot for his work too. That was until his accident.”
She is pained. I take her hand in mine to comfort her.
“What happened? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“You are sweet child, listening to an old lady’s stories.”
“Please go on.”
She pats my hand gently.
“He had been working in the old mill in Portland. He used to work long nights back then. We had three young ones then, and we needed the money. I usually called him in the evenings so that the children could say their goodnights and I could check on him. Well one night he was closing up alone and he swore he heard voices coming from inside the factory so he let me go. He thought it may be burglars, so being the true blue young man that he was, he went to investigate. He was just going to run them out, you know.”
Her eyes were serious as she remembered this vision.
“I hadn’t heard from him a few hours later, so I called up the foreman and asked him to go and check on Henry.”
Her skin was pale now and clammy. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes. I squeeze her hand gently.
“When they found him, his body had been tangled into one of the cutters. I remember his eyes being so large with surprise. And his hair…it was shock white.”
“I am so sorry.”
She straightened up, smoothing out the creases of her dress.
“It was a long time ago. I had to raise my children alone and I had to be strong for them.”
“You never remarried?”
“I couldn’t. Henry was the love of my life. I could never betray him like that.”
“Did they ever find out who killed him?”
“The verdict was vandals…but I feel it in my bones that it was something else.”
“What do you mean something else?”
She stared into my eyes, her voice becoming tinged with darkness.
“There are things out there young lady, that neither you nor I can explain.”
The intercom jolted me upright.
“Now boarding to Portland Oregon.”
Everyone bustled to the gate. I looked around for the old woman but she was nowhere to be found. I took my seat, shaken by the story I had just heard. I would definitely chronicle it in my journal. Maybe Dr. Martin would have some insight.
I buckled myself in, pulling one of the magazines out in preparation for the long flight ahead. I hoped to get along with my other teammates. It would be interesting to gain different perspectives on the scenarios we would encounter.
I hoped that this would be my big chance.
I hand the ticketing agent my confirmation information and driver’s license.
“Oregon.”
She looks up and smiles at me. Her eyes are kind and I smile back.
“And how many bags will you be checking Miss Canfield?”
I look down at the brown leather suitcase in front of me. It’s faded and worn around the edges, but still one of my favorite things that my father left me. It looks well traveled. It was. Dad was always going to seminars and conferences for his research. I missed him terribly.
As I stare at the case in front of me, I suddenly realize that this will be my life for the next few weeks at least. I hope I packed everything I needed.
“Just one, thank you.”
I lift it onto the scale. Just under fifty pounds. No extra charge.
She tags the bag and hoists it onto the belt so it can reach my destination in time. She smiles handing me a boarding pass and my tickets.
“You’ll be at gate B11. The security checkpoint is just to your right. Have a nice flight Miss Canfield.”
“Thank you.”
I gather up my carryon and head to the gate.
As I watch all the passengers going through the check point, I can’t help but assess their stress levels through body language. It has always been a compulsion of mine.
Getting through to the gate is relatively painless. I stop off at the deli and grab a sandwich and a drink. The flight will be long and the in-flight meals are always disgusting. I make my way to the magazine racks, grab a few and some snacks and head toward B11 to nestle in for the hour and 45 minute wait.
I am munching on my sandwich I notice a little old woman sitting across from me. I smile, knowing it’s the polite thing to do. She looks about 70 years of age, her shock white hair coifed into a perfect football helmet. She smiles softly. I can tell she wants to strike up a conversation but is nervous to do so. She drops her glasses and in an instant I am out of my chair and coming to her aid.
“Thank you dear.”
“Not a problem.”
I grab my things and sit down next to her. I love getting to know people and the elderly are so interesting.
“Traveling to visit loved ones deary?”
“No, I am going for a job.”
It is then I remember what I am actually doing. I become a little giddy inside. I get to work for THE Dr. Martin. He had called me personally to ask me to join the team. Apparently, one of their members, the one who took the job from me, couldn’t handle the stresses of the research involved. I am relieved to be so level headed. I hoped I was up for it.
Her facial expressions become reminiscent. I can tell she is going to regale me with a story of her past.
“My Henry used to travel a lot for his work too. That was until his accident.”
She is pained. I take her hand in mine to comfort her.
“What happened? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“You are sweet child, listening to an old lady’s stories.”
“Please go on.”
She pats my hand gently.
“He had been working in the old mill in Portland. He used to work long nights back then. We had three young ones then, and we needed the money. I usually called him in the evenings so that the children could say their goodnights and I could check on him. Well one night he was closing up alone and he swore he heard voices coming from inside the factory so he let me go. He thought it may be burglars, so being the true blue young man that he was, he went to investigate. He was just going to run them out, you know.”
Her eyes were serious as she remembered this vision.
“I hadn’t heard from him a few hours later, so I called up the foreman and asked him to go and check on Henry.”
Her skin was pale now and clammy. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes. I squeeze her hand gently.
“When they found him, his body had been tangled into one of the cutters. I remember his eyes being so large with surprise. And his hair…it was shock white.”
“I am so sorry.”
She straightened up, smoothing out the creases of her dress.
“It was a long time ago. I had to raise my children alone and I had to be strong for them.”
“You never remarried?”
“I couldn’t. Henry was the love of my life. I could never betray him like that.”
“Did they ever find out who killed him?”
“The verdict was vandals…but I feel it in my bones that it was something else.”
“What do you mean something else?”
She stared into my eyes, her voice becoming tinged with darkness.
“There are things out there young lady, that neither you nor I can explain.”
The intercom jolted me upright.
“Now boarding to Portland Oregon.”
Everyone bustled to the gate. I looked around for the old woman but she was nowhere to be found. I took my seat, shaken by the story I had just heard. I would definitely chronicle it in my journal. Maybe Dr. Martin would have some insight.
I buckled myself in, pulling one of the magazines out in preparation for the long flight ahead. I hoped to get along with my other teammates. It would be interesting to gain different perspectives on the scenarios we would encounter.
I hoped that this would be my big chance.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
House 1
Built in 1850 by Thomas Grey for his family, the manor is settled in a thick forested area outside of Bethesda. Consisting of nine bed rooms, a parlor, a library, dining room, kitchen, servants' quarters and cellar, the house is a well sized estate that raised only two generations of the Grey family. Jonathan Grey and his wife, Marian, inherited the estate after his father, Thomas, passed away of natural causes. They lived in the house until 1915.
Some say that the beginning of the tragedy that befell the house was when Marian's sister married a business associate of Jonathan's. William and Abigail left for their honeymoon to England shortly after the marriage. The ship they sailed out on never returned to port and they were never heard of after that. The ship is presumed to have gone down somewhere in the Atlantic during a rough mid-summer storm.
Shortly after the presumed death of her sister, Marian began seeing a medium. Accounts indicate that the medium, who's name is not filed on record, was introduced to Marian by a member of the Bethesda Women's Auxiliary club. The medium was reputed to be a gypsy from eastern Europe. Marian began seeing the woman in earnest for a few months before she invited the medium to live with them. Also around this time, Jonathan and Marian's young seven year old daughter was taken out of the boarding school she had been sent to due to deteriorating health conditions. Historians believed that she had somehow contracted tuberculosis from other students at the boarding school.
Shortly after the medium moved in with Jonathan and Marian, the women of the auxiliary club held a séance in the cellar to contact Marian's deceased sister. Historical accounts of the séance indicate that more than just the sister was contacted, and that a violent entity was called into the house on that fateful night. Embarrassed by the séance, his wife's actions, and upset by the cost of paying the medium and keeping her in his home, Jonathan threw the gypsy woman out on the street. There was some speculation that after this action, the medium placed a curse on the home.
Three weeks after the medium was gone, Marian woke in the middle of the night. She slit her husband's throat in his sleep with his shaving razor. She gathered all the cutlery in the kitchen and killed the two maids, house keeper, and grounds keeper; each with a different knife, slitting their throats in their sleep. She then went to her daughter's bedroom and slit her throat as well. Authorities found Marian the next day when her husband was reported missing from work. She was sleeping covered in blood, cradling her dead child's body in the child's bedroom. She was taken to a mental institution in Bethesda that day claiming that she had to make reparations and break the curse on their family.
Grey Manor stood abandoned to the elements until 1962 when a new family moved in. Ernest Green and his wife and twin sons moved into the home intent on repairing it to it's original beauty. Construction began immediately after they moved in.
The sons, Matthew and Jacob, were ten years old. Accounts indicate that the boys found an antique Ouija board in the cellar with some other artifacts from the Grey family. Shortly after using the Ouija board, the boys were institutionalized as they began displaying erratic and sometimes violent behavior. The boys had to be separated, sedated, and sent to different institutions after they murdered some of their fellow patients. At home, Ernest and his wife, Lily, began to fear for their own safety as frightening messages were left for them in various rooms of the house. Tools began disappearing and showing up in different locations of the home, and especially the knives were constantly being misplaced. After a frightening event where Mr. Green reported nearly being stabbed with a knife that flew at him the family left the house.
In 1994 the house was bought by a business man as an effort to revitalize it and convert it into a hotel. Again, as soon as the house was bought construction began. The business man did not live in the house, however many accidents were filed by the construction crews. One man was reportedly pushed off a ladder while installing light fixtures in one of the upstairs bedrooms. As multiple accidents occurred, many workers refused to return to the site. The project was abandoned, half finished after the business man went bankrupt.
Since then there have been no other residents of the house. The home is currently owned by the First National Bank. Our team spent two weeks in this home, and here are their stories.
Some say that the beginning of the tragedy that befell the house was when Marian's sister married a business associate of Jonathan's. William and Abigail left for their honeymoon to England shortly after the marriage. The ship they sailed out on never returned to port and they were never heard of after that. The ship is presumed to have gone down somewhere in the Atlantic during a rough mid-summer storm.
Shortly after the presumed death of her sister, Marian began seeing a medium. Accounts indicate that the medium, who's name is not filed on record, was introduced to Marian by a member of the Bethesda Women's Auxiliary club. The medium was reputed to be a gypsy from eastern Europe. Marian began seeing the woman in earnest for a few months before she invited the medium to live with them. Also around this time, Jonathan and Marian's young seven year old daughter was taken out of the boarding school she had been sent to due to deteriorating health conditions. Historians believed that she had somehow contracted tuberculosis from other students at the boarding school.
Shortly after the medium moved in with Jonathan and Marian, the women of the auxiliary club held a séance in the cellar to contact Marian's deceased sister. Historical accounts of the séance indicate that more than just the sister was contacted, and that a violent entity was called into the house on that fateful night. Embarrassed by the séance, his wife's actions, and upset by the cost of paying the medium and keeping her in his home, Jonathan threw the gypsy woman out on the street. There was some speculation that after this action, the medium placed a curse on the home.
Three weeks after the medium was gone, Marian woke in the middle of the night. She slit her husband's throat in his sleep with his shaving razor. She gathered all the cutlery in the kitchen and killed the two maids, house keeper, and grounds keeper; each with a different knife, slitting their throats in their sleep. She then went to her daughter's bedroom and slit her throat as well. Authorities found Marian the next day when her husband was reported missing from work. She was sleeping covered in blood, cradling her dead child's body in the child's bedroom. She was taken to a mental institution in Bethesda that day claiming that she had to make reparations and break the curse on their family.
Grey Manor stood abandoned to the elements until 1962 when a new family moved in. Ernest Green and his wife and twin sons moved into the home intent on repairing it to it's original beauty. Construction began immediately after they moved in.
The sons, Matthew and Jacob, were ten years old. Accounts indicate that the boys found an antique Ouija board in the cellar with some other artifacts from the Grey family. Shortly after using the Ouija board, the boys were institutionalized as they began displaying erratic and sometimes violent behavior. The boys had to be separated, sedated, and sent to different institutions after they murdered some of their fellow patients. At home, Ernest and his wife, Lily, began to fear for their own safety as frightening messages were left for them in various rooms of the house. Tools began disappearing and showing up in different locations of the home, and especially the knives were constantly being misplaced. After a frightening event where Mr. Green reported nearly being stabbed with a knife that flew at him the family left the house.
In 1994 the house was bought by a business man as an effort to revitalize it and convert it into a hotel. Again, as soon as the house was bought construction began. The business man did not live in the house, however many accidents were filed by the construction crews. One man was reportedly pushed off a ladder while installing light fixtures in one of the upstairs bedrooms. As multiple accidents occurred, many workers refused to return to the site. The project was abandoned, half finished after the business man went bankrupt.
Since then there have been no other residents of the house. The home is currently owned by the First National Bank. Our team spent two weeks in this home, and here are their stories.
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