Author of "Bedtime", "On a Hill", "Forgotten Valentine", "The Melancholy of Herbert Solomon", and many other horror stories. By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes... Subscribe to My Newsletter: http://eepurl.com/qSfCT
Another horror tale to keep you company at night. In tonight's episode we delve back to childhood, to a rain soaked street, and a terrible event which cuts deeper than any knife, in King's Drift...
‘Second Hand’, A Horror Story by Michael Whitehouse
I've always been curious about the histories connected to belongings. I buy many of my things second hand from charity shops, retro speciality stores - those sorts of places. You can call me cheap all you want, but for me things have feelings. The vinyl record you listened to the night you were dumped, scratches and all; the shoes you wore as you staggered home drunkenly last Birthday; that old guitar you never bothered to learn to play; all real tangible objects, all with a story to tell, all with a unique view of the world.
If something is new, it's like a baby. A clean slate with no experience of life. A brand new car, for example, has seen very little. A sterile factory as it was brought into existence, a showroom with a gleaming floor and an insincere salesperson with an equally gleaming smile. It has no knowledge of the open road, of the horizon stretching out into the distance like a limitless promise, or boundless threat. No, it's just a baby. Give me a car with a few thousand miles on the clock and wheels that have sucked up the dust of a summer's day, the frozen dirt of a winter's night, and spat it back out onto the road behind. That car has seen things, been a part of a journey, gotten to know its owner - the music she likes, the route she takes to work, that time she cried herself dry on the dashboard when she first heard the news. That car knows the world, at least part of it, it knows the people who have owned it, and it has embraced and assimilated all those raw feelings, tiny moments and life shattering times - all of them.
When I wander into a rundown charity shop I know that I am surrounded by treasures. A book for 50 pence - Ray Bradbury's Dandelion Wine - once read by an elderly lady peeling each page back as she reminisced achingly about her youth. The book tells two stories, one contained in the inked words, and the other of a life and time through every creased spine and yellowed piece of paper. And yet some memories, some experiences, are perhaps best left to diminish like breath on a mirror. I say this because, while I always romanticised about the stories objects could tell of their previous owners, I never for a second thought that they could truly describe a nightmare; suffocating, violent, and real.
1.
On a bright Spring day I saw it; sticking out from a pile of old clothes at the back of a charity shop. I'd been there many times before as the place sat on a quiet street just a few minutes from my home. I always smiled when I passed it, and looking through the sun kissed window to the abandoned things inside, somehow I felt that they smiled back.
An old sports jacket, dark grey with a slight hint of pinstripe; the buttons a mix of tan and black bleeding into each other like a wearied Yin and Yang: that's what I saw on that day. It peeked out from a torn black bin bag which itself lay crushed by an unceremonious collection of musty jackets, ties, shirts and shoes. It was clear that the lady in the shop - an amiable pensioner by the name of Sandra - hadn't had a chance to sort through the bags, and so there was no attached price for the jacket.
Lifting it out I was instantly taken with it. Normally, clothes were not my thing. I preferred objects - bashed board games, books, and other curiosities; but there was something about that jacket. The inside was a dark rich blue and felt like silk, although I was sure it wasn't. Instantly I approached Sandra who sat behind the counter rustling through a packet of boiled sweets. She smiled warmly at me, being one of her most trusted regulars, as I enthusiastically asked about the price. For just a few pounds the jacket was mine, and, oddly, I left immediately to return home and try it on, leaving any other unseen treasures behind which might have caught my eye.
Facing a full length mirror which hung on my bedroom wall - another pleasing bargain from a charity shop - I stood there wearing the jacket. It felt comfortable, like an old friend, and fit perfectly. Pleased with my find, I carefully placed it on a hanger inside my oak wardrobe, which sat at the end of my bed, and went about my day.
And yet, my thoughts returned continuously to my latest purchase, no matter where I was or what I was doing. I was almost giddy about it, the way a child is with a new toy. This was strange for me as I wasn't particularly interested in clothes, and could never understand the enthused pleasure some derive from them. I had always been a scruffy type, jeans and T-shirts were my thing, but there I was after a short period of time standing, yet again, in front of the mirror, modelling an old sports jacket and feeling unnaturally pleased with myself. It made me feel formal in some way, and my thoughts while wearing it were of an elderly gentlemen in a large ballroom, wining and dining in the lap of luxury, and entertaining his companions with stories of adventures during his service.
2.
That night I awoke to an unnerving experience. I sat up with a jolt as a loud sound tore me from a pleasant dream. Having fallen asleep while reading, my bedside lamp was still on and the dull bulb cast an increasingly diminishing light across the room. Of course there was nothing there, nothing palpable, just the silence of lifeless furniture resting in the night, but in the back of my mind that now absent noise still echoed, and with it the faintest hint of recollection. Try as I might I was unable to place anything but the familiarity of it. I wandered around my home, flicking on the lights in the hall outside my room first, then cautiously to the others until the entire house was bathed in yellow. But I could find nothing which suggested the cause of what woke me. The doors were locked and the windows all closed, and so, with confidence that the noise was merely the faceless product of a dream well forgotten, I returned to bed. And yet I still felt unnerved for some reason, keeping the bedside lamp on as I tried in vain to claw my way back to the warm comfort of sleep.
The next day I went to work, on edge due to a restless night, but again I felt my thoughts returning to the jacket in my wardrobe; how smart I looked in it, how refined. I couldn't wait to try it back on. As soon as the office clock struck five, I rushed outside with nothing but a mumbled word to my colleagues and headed home as fast as I could.
Fumbling with the keys in the lock, I made my way into my house, abruptly dropping my bag and coat on the floor, and rushed to the oak wardrobe in my bedroom; and there it was, hanging there like an empty vessel which had to be filled. I took the sleeve between my thumb and fingers, rubbing the dark grey material soothingly. With care, I removed it from its hanger and stood in front of the mirror. I was aghast at the sight of me! All my adult life I had been unkempt, my hair ruffled and messy. Wearing that beautiful jacket, it just didn't seem right. I felt ashamed of myself, of how I looked. Quickly, I went to the bathroom and soaked my hair, before running a comb through it forcefully.
When I returned to the mirror I looked more acceptable, my hair now shaped neatly into a side parting. Yes, I felt much more at ease, presentable even. A smile crept across my face as my mind explored the image of an elderly gentleman wearing the jacket - a man of industry, a man of experience. Yes, things do indeed tell tales. He'd seen terrible things, ordered his men resolutely. Shells and gunfire. A man of duty. Yes, I imagined the stories that jacket could tell, of an old officer dining with guests surrounding him. Did they know what the Captain had really done, as they sat there in their evening gowns and dinner suits? They could eat and laugh and drink and dance; but the Captain, he could smile, yes, yet inside the world was turning, poisoned by the cancerous artifacts of war.
The Captain had indeed seen things. But he had been more than a harmless spectator.
3.
In the throes of a dream, I was pulled involuntarily from a serene slumber. Familiarity then broke the silence; a sound I knew but could not place, this time louder than the night before. It had juddered suddenly before ceasing fire. Slowly I rose from my bed and wandered between the rooms of the house to investigate, frightened by the prospect of a burglar climbing through a window. The house sat in the bow of silence, its walls lifeless and the shadows of night, still and unerring. I knew the sound: I knew it. But like a reticent name on the tip of my tongue, the recollection refused to reveal itself.
The following day I struggled to work, shattered by my questioning mind in the night. The noise perturbed me, it engulfed me. I was frustrated by knowing yet not knowing. Just what was that sound? Two nights in a row I had heard it, but no sign or clue to its origin. Through the irritation of sleep deprivation, forced to falsely smile at my colleagues and surround myself with meaningless paperwork, my only comfort through the long day was to think of the jacket, that warm blanket of memory which had taken me into its embrace. Of course I knew that the Captain was merely a character in my mind, the latest in a long line of stories I had created to add sentiment to the world, but I was as fond of him as I was of his belongings.
By 5:30PM I was home, and, as I had done the day before, I dropped my bag and made my way to the oak wardrobe. Gazing into the mirror I felt disappointed at what I saw. My hair was pristine, combed to perfection, but the, now off-white, shirt I wore to work was cheap and grubby. In fact it was the first time I had noticed how ordinary my work appearance really was. It wouldn't do, no; it wouldn't do at all.
I managed to make it just before 6 o'clock - I breathed a sigh of relief that Sandra hadn't closed the shop. She smiled at me as I entered, but I barely noticed, and instead headed straight towards my objective, to where I had found the jacket before. I started rummaging around the bags which still sat there, untouched, filled with the discarded belongings of unseen others. Smiling as I approached the counter, sweat pooling on my brow, I made my purchase and headed home.
In amongst the bags I had found an old Burgundy shirt. I wasn't sure of the material, but it was beautiful, expertly crafted, and I knew immediately that it was a shirt worthy of the Captain's jacket. Further still, I had found a waistcoat which seemed to compliment both, and so there I stood, looking much more presentable. The Captain would be pleased.
4.
Once more I awoke to darkness, a sound having wrenched me from my sleep - the same noise I had heard for the previous three nights. I shivered slightly, not at the temperature of the room, but at something inside me. A virus or bug, whatever it was had produced a mild fever. My bedsheets were soaked in sweat, and I laboured to catch a breath. Feeling too weak to investigate the sound, I lay there in the grips of a strange and skewed apprehension. The room was black, but in the hints of objects, the outlines of walls and chair and wardrobe, I looked up to see the mirror. Not vacant, no, but filled with an indistinct reflection. Like a shadow, the silent suggestion of something. The memory remains vague, but one thing has stayed with me to this day - two eyes, white and wide, opened to meet mine from the mirror. An accusatory, angered stare which swept over me; a strange icy coldness then took me to sleep, try as I did to resist.
The following day I felt remarkably well, dismissing the reflection in the mirror as a fevered hallucination; indeed I seemed to have recovered from my ordeal to a great extent. I still had a temperature, however, and so called in to take the day off work. I must admit that the idea of having a day to myself was appealing, and so, after a shower and making sure I was presentable, I ironed the burgundy shirt, adorned the silk-like waistcoat, and proudly wore the jacket once more. And there I stood - facing the mirror. Smiling and happy.
It was only when my phone rang that I realised I had been standing, rooted to the one spot for most of the day, with little or no memory of the preceding hours; only vague shapeless visions of light and dark shifting before me accompanied by strange distant knocks and thuds. This would have been a concern to anyone in their right mind, but not to me. No, I was concerned with only one thing - I still didn't look right! I left my home, the ringing phone and an open front door, to make my way steadily, almost marching, to the charity shop.
Inside, Sandra asked if I was feeling well, as she was worried I looked a little peaked; but I abruptly told her to mind her own business as I waded through the unsorted bags yet again. Feverishly I pulled a pair of dark suit trousers from between two faded shirts, followed quickly by an old leather pair of shoes which had lost their shine many years before, and a leather belt with a similarly dulled buckle. I can't remember if I paid for them or not, all I can recall is staggering up the stairs outside my home, and to the mirror.
Sickness had taken me. My stomach ached and turned as if fighting against the unseen waves of a turbulent sea below. Struggling on, my compulsion would not let go, and before long I stared ever deeper into my reflection. Perfectly ironed suit trousers, a gleaming belt and buckle, leather shoes now shined and restored, a burgundy shirt expertly pressed, waistcoat, and of course, the Captain's jacket. Yes, I looked presentable. It would do nicely. Shipshape.
Breathing deeply, I gazed, and looked into the facsimile of myself which smiled back from the mirror. The sickness faded with each inhalation constraining the rhythm of my pulse. The seconds birthed minutes, and those minutes bled into hours. Moments; fragmentary slivers of consciousness seeped through like a morning haze creeping between a closed blind. Voices came to me. Mumbled, undefined, yet the tone was unmistakably one of anger. I saw flashes of light as I had before, and shapes of darkness moving nearby. My blurred vision continued to withhold the truth from me, the shapes trembling and shifting as if glimpsed through warped glass. A series of loud thuds, almost bangs, sounded; close yet distant.
As the sun set outside, the angered voices combined - voices of countless people, coalesced into one mind, one aching chant. Visions came to me. Unbearable sun, a scorched earth, and finally something finite, something tangible. Soldiers. Flags unfurled by a breathless wind. Boots, marching, a crowd of people frightened, and gunfire. Then there were bodies, countless bloodied victims strewn across a patch of dirt. The voice, now distilled, drew closer. Words forced their way between gritted teeth, ringing in my ears, still muffled as if spoken through an unseen viscous membrane.
I felt weight then, a heaviness which burdened my hands, dirtied and stained. In them, I held a rifle. And as I looked up I could see the light and dark which had shifted continuously before me. Patterns which I knew now to be the bleached sky, blocked by a tall shadowy figure. His eyes pierced my thoughts as he shouted, yelled; angered and filled with vengeance.
"Open fire!"
It was wrong, I knew it was wrong. Yet I raised the rifle up and pointed it at my target, people unarmed and afraid. The voice continued, carried high above the carnage, urging me on, commanding me to shoot. My finger began to squeeze the trigger as the man, that towering imperial figure which I had affectionately referred to as the Captain, moved closer, screaming in my ear, the heat from his breath close and palpable. I shivered. This was not me, not now, not then, not ever. My hesitancy drew condemnation from the shadowed outline of the Captain. I did not want to disappoint him, and while I felt pangs of duty and patriotism, I could not bear the looks of those people, staring up at me as they faced their final moments. I threw the gun to the ground, and as I did so I found myself staring at the mirror, my hand raised in salute. To whom or to what, I do not know.
The fever now returned, an aching pain burrowing in my stomach. I wretched as my body tried to expel something from within, yet it was not forthcoming. Collapsing to the floor I struggled to stay alert, panicking that I was in need of a doctor. I pulled at the captain's jacket, slipping it off my shoulders and throwing it on my bed; followed quickly by waistcoat, shoes, shirt, and trousers. I lay on the floor for a time, shivering, convulsing as the sweat seeped through my skin to the floor, as if ridding me of some insipid infection.
5.
It was not until after midnight that my strength returned. I pushed myself up from the floor and staggered to the bathroom, where I sat in the shower, cleansing myself of the horrid remnants of my hallucination. The beads of water slowly restored me, and so finally I returned to my room, looking at the clothes, jacket and all, which now lay in a crumpled heap on the bed. It wouldn't do at all!
Picking them up, I placed them carefully on a few hangers and hung them up inside the wardrobe. As I did so, a momentary sense of dread washed over me. How I wished I had listened to it. Deep down I knew that I should have been done with those clothes, but the thought of discarding them filled me with disgust - a lack of respect. Those clothes deserved admiration; they demanded it.
Exhausted from my earlier sickness, I staggered into bed. As my eyes gave in to the weight of tiredness, I experienced a moment of clarity. My thoughts cleared through the fog, and with the briefest flicker of insight, I questioned the illness and the profound visions I had experienced staring into that mirror. Whose voice had I heard? What violent act had I become privy to? My last impulse was an uneasy one - to escape my home and seek shelter far beyond the scope of a malevolent force, which now hung in the air, corpse-like and vengeful.
The fog of an unseen influence then dulled my senses. I felt being lulled, persuaded, even bartered with, to give myself to a comforting dream of rolling green hills, quaint villages, and a peaceful life far removed from the horrors of war. A place where one could put their atrocities behind them and continue on with a normal life.
The sound. That noise which had woken me on each of the previous nights; it once more called me to consciousness. I tried to pull myself up out of bed, but to my horror the sickness had returned, potent, the nausea griping my stomach. A cold sweat whispered across my skin to an almost unbearable crescendo. Yet the noise still rang in my ear, and in the clutches of sickness, its nature, its identity finally came to me. The realisation shook me, sending panic coursing through my body. A simple sound, one I had heard each day, but in the blackness of that room it took on new meaning. A threat, covered by the night. The noise came from the wardrobe, coat hangers clinking together like glass within.
I lay there frozen, staring at the wardrobe, which now appeared to me like a tomb. A standing coffin which played host to something unseen, and which infested the world outside with a stark apprehension. Holding my breath involuntarily, I waited for a sign of movement. I imagined the door slowly creaking open and revealing what lay inside. My heart raced, pounding like an unbearable drum, and in my weakened state fear truly took hold. I felt helpless, unable to mount a defence should something unearthly climb out from the darkness.
For a moment I thought I saw a shift in the wardrobe, something moving within causing its frame to shudder almost imperceptibly. I let out a gasp, and in that admittance of fear, that announcement of my wakened state, the truth presented itself; for there was indeed something there, something ominous and intrusive. Yet it was not inside the wardrobe. It was standing in the corner of the room, hidden by shadow. A figure, tall and dominant. Staring at me under cloak of night, its eyes pinpoints of light in an otherwise stygian nightmare.
Then there was a strange moment between us. A silence which provoked more fear in me than I have ever known. We stared at each other from across the room, and it felt to me as though the intruder was sizing me up. Calculating the cost. A strategy for attack, evaluating how weakened I truly was.
Suddenly it moved towards me, arms outstretched, and as it did so I saw it in greater detail, briefly illuminated by a slither of light from a streetlamp outside. The jacket which I had been so taken with, the waistcoat, the shirt, the trousers, the shined shoes, all there, presentable, respectable, and worn by the figure of a man, indistinct and shifting; his features and hands, nothing but blackened mist. The clothes moved with precision, and as I cried out in terror the shadowed trespasser was upon me. The dark coal-like fog which approximated a hand, grabbed hold of my face, feeling more like worn skin than was suggested by its incorporeal appearance.
I instinctively fell backwards, rolling out the other side of the bed, crashing to the ground. Despite my sickness adrenaline urged me to flee towards my bedroom door; but the man was quick and grabbed me by the arm, throwing me into the mirror which shattered on the floor at my bare feet. The glass slit open my back as it fell, and the sharpened pain of countless cuts congealed with the terror. It was then that the figure wrapped its misted fingers around my shoulders, lifting me up before slamming me against the shards of glass on the floor. Countless incisions and slashes rippled across my body as each piece of glass, small and large, ripped open my skin, embedding deep in the muscle beneath.
A silence fell across the room, broken only by the shifting weight of my attacker crushing glass under foot. It was then that I experienced physical pain which I cannot put into words. The fog-like figure, prim, proper, and presentable in the Captain's clothes, placed its foot upon my chest, and pressed down with merciless force. Each blade, sliver, and shard of glass pushed deeper through, then under, my skin, thrusting further into my body, violently encouraged by pincers of floor and unnatural foot.
I could not yell. I could not cry. I could only let out an involuntary gasp of air, and as I did so the figure finally spoke to me.
"On your feet", it ordered, loud, pronounced, and with command; and in those words I knew that I was face to face with the Captain. Leaning over me, his clouded hands reached out, encircling his fingers around my left arm. With ease he pulled me up off the ground. "On your feet!" he screamed again, and then battered me against the glass on the floor once more.
I wheezed and coughed as a searing pain ran up my side, the impact winding me. I felt a crack deep within as a rib gave in to the assault.
"I said, get on your feet, private!" the captain ordered, leaning over to grab me once more.
Panic and pain mixed together, coursing through my veins - I knew I could not survive another attack. The fogged darkened hands of the figure then bore down upon me, and in one last desperate plea for survival, I clawed at something close by. A loud tear cut through the night, followed by an almost inaudible gasp. I had inadvertently ripped the pocket of the Captain's jacket. My assailant staggered backwards for a moment in response as if wounded. Quickly, I grabbed a blade of glass which lay on the floor, and with ever ounce of life I had left in me I pushed up onto my feet.
Launching forward I feverishly slashed and cut, not at the shadowed man who had attacked me, but at the clothes which were the Captain's Achilles heel. Smog stained hands thrust up to stop me, but, now weakened, they could not prevent me from cutting through jacket, waistcoat, and shirt. Blood oozed out of my hand as the blade of glass cut deeper into my skin with each attack, but I could not relent should the Captain regain his footing.
He fell to his knees as I tore, scratched, and sliced at the clothes, giving me the high ground. Finally, exhausted, I sat on the bed. From there I watched the Captain lying on the floor, his strength slowly diminishing. The clothes rose and fell with each spectral breath, as the darkness, the fogged appendages and head of what lay within, faded away to nothing. I sat there in that silence, but it was not long before the pain of each fragment of glass stuck in my back returned, as adrenaline gave way to utter shock. In the black of night I heard a word, distant and whispered from some obscure history.
"Mutiny".
Then I was alone.
***
After spending several nights in hospital recovering from loss of blood, two broken ribs, and a concussion, I finally ventured back to my home. Looking at the glass broken on the floor, my blood dried and congealed, I stared at the torn jacket and other clothes which lay before me. Like the scene of a brutal murder, they outlined the figure - shoes, trousers, shirt, waistcoat, jacket - all implying the shape of a man.
I began to think that it was a damn shame. A waste. They deserved better, the Captain deserved more than that. Yearnings began to build, and for a few minutes I explored the idea of having the clothes mended. Perhaps I could have done it myself? Needle, thread, and all?
No, I came to my senses, and knew that whatever influence those belongings had, I could not yield to them. Quickly, I gathered them up, putting them into a black bin bag much like those I had seen at the charity shop. An hour's drive later, and I was in the countryside. I got out of the car and hiked for a while across some fields and through some woods, finally coming to a clearing. I did not know entirely where I was going, but Blackwood forest seemed as good as any a place to do what had to be done.
There I set a fire, for I did not want the ashes of those things near my home. As the flames grew I felt a deep urge to turn back and take the Captain's clothes with me. But I persevered, I resisted, and threw the wretched things in the fire. First the shoes and trousers. Then, the shirt and waistcoat. But just before I committed the jacket to the flames, something caught my eye. From inside the lining, which had been torn apart by my attacks, something now protruded.
A hand written letter of commendation for services "above and beyond the call of duty". The writing was worn and faded, and so I could not make out the rest. What I can say is that inside the envelope lay a medal which read "Captain Everett, Amritsar, 1919". I threw all of it in the fire, and as I did so I felt a deep sadness and sense of loss within me. As the flames consumed the jacket and other items, the crackle of each burning ember sounded remarkably like that of gunfire, distant, long ago, echoing out from the past, or from beyond.
****
Yes, things have more than feelings, they have memories. They soak up the thoughts and actions of the people nearby. Heartache, laughter, joy - dread. I have never forgotten those days and my brush with the Captain. Often my thoughts return to the medal, which I'm sure lies out there in the countryside, blackened with soot, yet unharmed by the fire. I think of the words and the name engraved on the metal - the pull of its memory still haunts me, goads me even. I have never researched the name of Captain Everett, the medal, or jacket, and while my dreams are often invaded by the sound of gunfire, and embittered eyes bearing down on me, I know that I must never entertain the compulsion to go searching for answers. For those clothes came from a man of varied deeds, and his sins have left their mark on the world, and by association, an uneasy burden upon me.
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‘The Last Laugh’ A Horror Poem by Michael Whitehouse
In a nearby town, there lives a clown
whose laughter fills the air,
and in crowded places, with his painted faces
he shocks with skill and flair.
Through a comic fall, and tales grown tall,
those watching delight with glee,
to forget their worries, of bills and moneys,
as the clown performs for free.
For ten short days he had shared his ways,
from the square of that known town,
and the sisters and mothers and fathers and brothers
applauded each time he fell down.
And as waning light, gave way to night
the clown concluded his act,
with a dance and a song, and a story not long,
it was time to fulfil their contract.
For each time he sang or fell with a bang,
he'd given the people such joy.
And it was only right that they reward, in light,
of his efforts which thrilled girl and boy.
So the clown lay his hat, near where he sat,
hoping the townsfolk would show
their kindness and thanks, for all foolish pranks,
are worth more than many can know.
But as the folk passed, including the last,
few pennies fell in the hat.
And the clown looked on, with a sad little song,
knowing that that, was that.
The following day, so many say,
was the darkest the town ever knew,
for many of those who'd watched the clown's shows
had vanished, and left just a few.
In warm bedrooms where, the missing took care
to sleep and dream and be still,
there was found something strange, a sort of exchange,
for body, and mind and for will.
On each empty bed, where once rested head,
a piece of torn cloth could be seen,
the colours were rich, yet raggedly stitched,
and one prankster it could only have been.
And while townsfolk grieve, without reprieve
at their loss of loved ones gone,
the clown packs his things, of tricks, jokes and strings,
and to your town, he now moves on.
** If you liked this poem, please do check out my other horror stories, poems, narrations, and short films in the following places **
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‘The Spare Room’ A Ghost Story by Michael Whitehouse
I've been reading creepy stories on Tumblr for several years, but I never thought I'd end up being in one. The last few months have been the strangest and most frightening of my life. Most of my friends think I've gone a bit mad, or I’m making it up. So where else was I supposed post this but to Tumblr?
It seems ridiculous typing this, but I’m sure my new flat is haunted, and believe me when I say: I wish it was all in my mind. It's not the most spacious of flats, I didn't buy it because I loved it, but it was all I could afford in an area close to work. The building isn't all that old, maybe twenty years or so, and the flat itself, which is three stories up, is quite modern inside, with wooden flooring and white walls. There are two bedrooms, one of which has been the focal point for everything that’s occurred.
When I moved in I threw everything I couldn't find a place for into the second bedroom; I’ve never been the most organised and I do tend to hoard things if I’m honest. The spare room was filled with rolled up posters, tools, DVDs, boxes of clothes and even some old bedroom furniture I still had left over from my last place. There wasn't much room to move around in there, so you can imagine my surprise when I heard something unthinkable coming from inside.
It all started about two weeks after I moved in. I was cooking dinner in the kitchen one evening and I had zoned out while stirring some pasta, listening to a podcast as I often do to get through the boredom of cooking. That was when I heard it.
The boiling water faded into the background as I realised that the sound of bubbles forming and bursting had been joined by a very distinct noise. I could hear the sound of footsteps walking slowly down the hall towards where I was. My nerves began to rattle; someone had broken into my flat and was making their way to where I stood. I grabbed a kitchen knife - for those who think this is extreme I've been burgled once before - and slowly made my way into the living room and then towards the hall. Just as I reached the hall doorway, the footsteps sped up to running pace, followed by a door slamming violently.
The hall was dark at first, as it has no windows, and as I entered it I felt like a child terrified of his own shadow, quickly reaching for the light. The front door lay at the end of the hallway, and I'd be lying if I didn't say that I thought about running to it and leaving the flat and any unseen intruder behind.
My imagination started to run riot and as my mind played with images of an attacker lurking behind one of the other three doors present, I nervously smiled to myself. I began to suspect that the footsteps had come from somewhere else, perhaps the flat above me. Still, I couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that I was not alone.
First, I peeked nervously into the hall cupboard. Nothing there but bedsheets and towels. Then I checked my bedroom - the only crime being committed in there the mess of the place.
Finally, I stood in front of the door to the second bedroom; the spare room. Swinging it open I let out a sigh of relief that the room was still filled with junk, but otherwise empty. At the time I put it down to my imagination, but now I know that it was the earliest indicator that something was wrong, that something was in the flat with me.
I'd say about a week or so passed before anything happened again, and by then I’d put the footsteps out of my mind. It was a Sunday afternoon. I’d had a bad cold that week and work had been difficult to get through, so I just stayed in the flat over the weekend hoping I’d feel better by the morning.
I was sitting on the living room couch binge watching a TV show. The light was streaming through the windows, and my mind was as far away as possible from anything frightening or supernatural. Suddenly, and with no warning, someone walked into the living room behind me and marched straight through into the kitchen. I was startled, and when I turned around I only caught the last moments of the kitchen door being slammed shut with a bang.
For some reason my first reaction was to start shouting and swearing that I was going to cause whoever was in the kitchen real bodily harm. I wanted to frighten them away, but really it was I who was terrified.
I ran into my bedroom and grabbed a golf club from my set, which had been languishing in a cupboard since I’d moved in. As I wandered into the hall, the fear got the better of me. I unlocked the front door, opened it, and ran out into the hallway, which I share with the other residents, and then out into the street. After a minute or so I was around the corner out of sight, phoning for the police.
30 Minutes later, the police arrived. I only entered the flat once they had searched it thoroughly for the intruder. Nothing seemed to have been stolen, but the kitchen door had been shut as I thought. The police entered the room, but found no one and told me that if someone had been in the flat, that they had already left.
The kitchen itself was intact, but bizarrely the intruder had turned on the lights, opened the oven and left it running on a high heat. The police seemed satisfied that no one was there, and while they told me to phone the local police station if I saw anyone suspicious, it seemed clear to me that they thought I had imagined the entire thing. Even I began to question it myself, wondering if I’d left the oven on from the night before and forgotten about it, dosed up on cough medicine.
The following night I knew there was more than just my imagination at play. I tried to put the previous day out of my mind, but the sounds of footsteps and banging doors stayed with me. I’ve always thought the best remedy for a weary mind is sleep, so that’s what I intended to do.
I went through my nightly routine before going to bed:
Front door locked - check.
Windows closed - check.
TV and other appliances switched off - check.
I shuffled off to bed, curled up and put the TV on so I had something to fall asleep to, the noise keeping me company and any paranoid thoughts at bay. Then, about five minutes later, I heard an unmistakable noise. A click. It was the light switch in the hall and was accompanied by light trickling underneath my door into my room.
I’m sure I must have taken in a sharp inhalation of air, but I remained silent; still and frozen. Someone was standing at my bedroom door. I could hear the floorboards creak under the weight. Before I had time to react, the intruder walked slowly down the hall away from my room, stopped for a moment, and then - I was sure of it - entered the spare room.
It took me a few seconds to piece together what had just happened. For a moment I hesitated again, wondering if I should phone the police or whether this was just another flight of fancy. Suddenly I heard a loud clattering noise. My things being thrown around violently.
I called the police quickly and then frantically moved a wardrobe up against my bedroom door, hoping that I would be left alone. Then I heard the intruder again. A door creaked open quietly, almost inaudibly, and slowly, surely, the footsteps began walking towards my bedroom door. They then stopped right outside my room, as if the person were about to enter. That was the most terrifying thing, having to wait to see what the intruder would do next. Suddenly, I heard a banging sound - the police were knocking on my outside door. The footsteps then turned, marched down the hall into the living room and then kitchen, before ending the entire ordeal abruptly with a loud bang of a slammed door.
By the time I let the police into my flat, I was visibly shaken. And yet they found very little: at first. The kitchen was as it had been before. The oven door lying open, spewing out heat into the night.
The spare room, however, was another story entirely. Everything in there had been violently thrown around, much of it broken and torn. An old mirror smashed, and most of the boxes and furniture upturned. I swore to the police that the intruder had never left, that they couldn’t have, and that they must still have been in the flat somewhere, hiding. But that suggestion was greeted with an unhealthy amount of incredulity.
I won’t bore you with the details, but these strange events continued for over two months. Sometimes it would be something small, a piece of furniture out of place, a light switching on by itself. But on three separate occasions the same exact occurrences which had left me barricaded in my room took place. Footsteps in the hall, the spare room left in disarray, and then the slamming of the kitchen door and the oven lying open.
Eventually, even on the quiet nights, the fear of something happening became too much for me. The anticipation took a heavy toll. Most nights nothing would occur, but then on others the same ghostly footsteps would wander through my home. I just couldn’t sleep there any longer. Finally, I couldn’t bear it any longer and so I spent several nights at my brother’s just to get a good night’s sleep. I told him the truth, but he just seemed more worried about my state of mind than anything else. I don’t blame him, I can imagine how it all must have appeared.
After a few days, he offered a solution of sorts - he would house sit with me. He wanted to see these occurrences for himself. I didn’t enter back into the flat lightly, but if someone else experienced what I had, it at least would confirm to me that I wasn’t going mad.
I slept on an airbed on my bedroom floor while my brother slept in my bed for three nights in a row, with nothing strange occurring. Then, finally, on the fourth night, as I was drifting off to sleep, I heard it: click. The light in the hall came on. My brother sat up startled and looked down at me on the floor, his expression one of disbelief.
He whispered for me to get up, which I did. We then listened. The footsteps gradually appeared, as if starting from somewhere far off. They continued, growing louder as they walked slowly towards my bedroom door. I think that’s the first time in my life when I’ve seen my brother genuinely scared. As the footsteps neared, he jumped out of bed and dragged my wardrobe in front of the door.
It was then that he made himself quite clear, whispering in a low voice. He hadn’t thought that anything would happen, in fact he just came and stayed with me to set my nerves at ease or to prove that I was sleep walking and causing the issues myself.
He didn’t believe, but as the footsteps stopped outside the bedroom door, he swore under his breath and stood by the window. I think it was a natural reaction, to look for a possible exit, but being three stories up, there wasn’t anywhere to go.
Then it played out as before. The footsteps turned and walked away from us down the hall. They entered the spare room, which was followed by the noise of my things in there being thrown around. Finally, the footsteps walked to my door again, stood, and then marched down to the kitchen, slamming the door behind.
Neither of us slept the rest of the night, and in the morning my brother recommended that I leave that place behind, and find a new home - easier said than done. As a condition of my mortgage I couldn’t sell the place until I had officially been living there for 2 years.
He offered for me to sleep at his until I could find somewhere else to rent in order to wait the two years out, but I just couldn’t afford it. My brother and his wife had two kids, and were trying for a third, in a 2 bedroom house. Staying there was no long term solution for any of us.
Later that day he phoned me, overly excited by the idea that he had found a solution. He had been doing some research online to see if other people had experienced similar strange goings on in their homes, and what they had done, if anything, to stop them from happening.
He told me that he’d read a couple of similar accounts - footsteps, lights being switched on and off, furniture being thrown around violently. One family from Arizona in the U.S. had supposedly ‘got rid’ of a similar unwelcome house-mate by simply confronting it. Several ‘experts’ - and I use that term lightly - believed that poltergeists and other ‘noisy ghosts’ behaved in such a way because they were confused and reacted violently to this disorientation.
I was sceptical, but as my brother continued it began to seem less ridiculous and worth a try at least, especially if it meant I didn’t have to sleep on someone’s floor for the next two years until I could sell the flat.
He then told me that one of these experts believed that such disturbances occur when the spirit of someone who has passed doesn’t realise it is dead. When it wanders around a place which it used to call home, it sees objects, belongings etc. which are unfamiliar, and simply cannot understand why. In this utter confusion, it lashes out, mostly at possessions, but occasionally at people who it sees as invaders of its home. One particular instance was reported in a family home. A bedroom would be thrown into disarray because it used to be the deceased’s. By confronting the spirit while it was manifest and telling it that it no longer lived their, and that it had passed on, the entity ‘dissipated’ and moved on.
It all seemed like mumbo jumbo to me, but then so too did the very idea of a ghost - and by this point I was convinced one was living, or unliving, in my flat.
We agreed then that we would at least try to confront it. I have to say I was curious, but part of me wanted to just leave it all behind. My brother had the idea that we should clear the spare room out completely, and sleep in there each night until the footsteps appeared. It made sense, as that was a focal point for the disturbances, but the entire wait filled me with apprehension.
On the second night, it happened.
There we were, sleeping on the floor like we did when we had sleepovers as kids, waiting in the spare room for something we didn’t understand to appear. With everything removed, the room seemed bare, and I felt a strange sadness for the place, an emptiness.
At around 1AM, I first heard it. Somehow I knew it would appear that night; I felt it in the atmosphere, like the tension before a storm.
Click.
The hall light came on. My brother looked at me with a mixture of fright and excitement. Silence. Then, the footsteps began. They walked slowly down the hall to my bedroom door. And there they waited, while we waited also, in the place where my belongings had been bashed and broken over and over. Finally, they turned and began their slow shuffling walk towards the spare room - where we now lay.
By the time the footsteps reached the door, my brother and I were both on our feet. I’ve never been so scared, and I could hear the terror in my brother’s shaking breath. Then, the handle turned slowly. The door opened.
Nothing.
There was nothing there, just an empty doorway. My brother had taken out his phone and was recording video, but he couldn’t see anything but thin air. I can’t remember the exact words we used, but between the two of us we hesitated, finally conveying that if anyone was there, they were dead, and that they no longer lived in the flat and needed to accept it and ‘move on’.
Nothing, again.
We waited for a moment. And as I turned to my brother to smile and suggest that perhaps it had worked. The door slammed shut and the light in the spare room went out. Utter darkness.
I panicked, and I’m a little ashamed to say I screamed for help, the fear of being trapped welling up inside me. I could hear my brother fumbling around. He told me to be calm. I wasn’t. He told me to look for the door. I couldn’t find it, disorientated by the dark as if the room had changed somehow. It felt smaller, cramped and stifled.
Then, in the darkness, I heard it. My brother clearly did too, as he swore under his breath asking if the sound was coming from me. My voice wavered and I simply said ‘no’. Behind us, in the gloom of that little room, we could hear breathing. The breaths were long and somehow carried threat with them. And then, a horrible inhaled gasp, followed by the deafening scream of a man right behind me.
Terror overcame me, and as I finally found the door, my brother knocked into me in the pitch black and headed out into the hallway, with me quickly behind. In the fevered escape I lost my footing and managed to fall onto my side, on the floor directly in front of the open door to the blackness of the spare room.
The wind had been knocked out of me, but if I could have I would have cried out in horror at what I saw. The light in the spare room flicked back on, revealing a figure standing in the room, facing the wall. It began to turn slowly, and as it did I could see what I can only describe as a face, its skin bloated and tinged with a bruised blue, and its hair oily and straggled.
I kicked the door shut, and as my brother helped me to my feet we ran out of the flat, only to hear the spare room door open behind us, and running footsteps heading once more into the kitchen. We did not look back.
I haven’t slept in the flat since then, in fact I could only step foot in it to retrieve some of my things when accompanied by my brother and two of my friends; during the day. I refuse to sleep there, and between my family and myself have managed to find the money needed to rent elsewhere while I wait to sell the place. It’s further from work and the area isn’t as nice, but I really don’t care.
After speaking to the couple who lived there before me, you might already suspect what they told me in way of an explanation. They too heard footsteps occasionally in the hall at night, but nothing else of consequence, and happily lived there with their young son for a few years. What they could tell me was that they had bought the flat from an estate agent and knew fine well the history, but not being superstitious, they knew they had a bargain on their hands if they ignored what had happened.
The original owner had lived there by himself. By all accounts he was a very private person, and so no one in the building knew him very well. One night a terrible scream was heard from the man’s flat (and believe me, it is his). When neighbours went to his door he did not answer, and soon afterwards the smell of gas filled the hallway outside. The emergency services were called and the building evacuated. When they entered the flat they found the man’s bedroom in disarray, his belongings torn and broken up. In the kitchen they discovered his dead body, kneeling on the floor, half sticking out of the oven, his skin blue due to asphyxiation.
I’ve thought about the entire events often, wondered why the man’s ghost still lingers there. I’ve wondered why he made his presence felt more strongly to me than those who lived there before me. Most of all there is one question, for some unknown reason, which never seems to leave me. What made him scream in the first place?
My father once told me that something could frighten a person so badly, that they would lose their voice. They would open their mouth and nothing would come out. No scream, no yell, no cry for help - nothing. No matter how desperately they needed another human being to save them, their voice would fail. For some reason this idea always stayed with me, and I would often wonder to myself: what would have to occur to produce such a profound reaction. Can something be that frightening? Recently, I found the answer for myself.
It was six months ago. I worked for a company which runs several nightclubs in the city where I live. A few weeks previous, I’d been promoted to assistant manager and given the task of opening a new bar, which would double as a nightclub after 11PM. I was excited about it. The job was a real step up the ladder for me.
The club has been renovated thoroughly (it had been a bar nearly a decade before) and is in a busy part of town, increasing its chances of success. Stairs lead down from two entrances to below street level; the club is basically a converted basement. There are four bars and together they hold about 750 people legally at fire capacity; although we quite regularly exceeded that during my time.
When the club was open at night, I had no problem working there: I liked the music, and we had a pretty good crowd - not too much trouble. It was when we were shut during the day that I hated being there. Every Wednesday morning we’d take in a delivery to be ready for the weekend, ordering in a couple hundred cases of alcohol to keep everybody happy, owners and customers alike. That was when I first noticed it - the silence of the place. Walking around the club during the day, a venue which was noisy and populated by hundreds of people each night, now quiet; I thought it was this contrast, and the fact that it was underground, which made me feel uneasy, but now I know it was something far more sinister.
On delivery day, I’d always be first in the building, usually about an hour or so before the rest of the day shift would turn up. They’d take any delivered cases to the stockroom. Even the thought of that place makes me shudder. Anyone who frequented the club wouldn’t have known, but behind one of the fire doors there was a long, dimly lit corridor with once-white flaking walls, which led to where thousands of pounds worth of spirits, beer, and other beverages sat locked up, tight.
Part of my job was to walk from bar to bar each Wednesday morning and make sure nothing had been stolen during the night — an all too common event in the nightclub trade, often staff members taking what they liked, thinking no one would notice. I suspect now that the reason I was given this “duty”, was because the general manager, my boss, knew there was something wrong with the building and didn’t have the guts to do it himself.
And so, I’d walk hesitantly between the four rooms which housed the different bars and dance floors, only to be presented with that strange emptiness, which was completely at odds with how the place should have been. Then the moment I always dreaded: checking the stockroom. Each time I opened the fire door, which led into a long hallway, I was greeted by a cold draft of air which carried with it the stench of stale beer, a horrid musty smell which often made me feel queasy. It isn’t an uncommon thing to encounter in a nightclub, especially where alcohol is stored, but that corridor always seemed to reek of it, more pronounced than anywhere else I have ever encountered.
I’d walk slowly down the corridor, my footsteps echoing between the flaking white walls, and each time the stale beer smell would make its way towards me on the chilled air. Then, feeling nervous, I would fumble for my keys and open the door to the stockroom (which was in fact two rooms, connected by an open doorway). I’d quickly switch on the lights and then leave as soon as everything seemed to be where it should.
This time was different.
Before I’d even thought about getting my keys out, I noticed something unusual - a small thin line of light squeezing its way between the double doors of the stockroom. The place always put me on edge, even though I had no real reason to be that way, but the unreasonableness of that sensation made me feel even more uncomfortable. I set my anxious feelings aside and unlocked the doors, pushing them wide open.
The first room seemed to be fine. As ordinary as it could be, just cases of alcohol stocked neatly on pallets; as far as I could tell nothing missing or broken. As I approached then open doorway to the second room, however, I heard a sound. Something unusual which made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck - a hissing noise which stopped me in my tracks. I paused for a moment, hesitant to continue, but then I rationalised it. The sound coming from the next room was surely CO2 seeping out from a canister. They were used to carbonate drinks, and it was with a sigh of relief that, when I finally gathered up my nerves to enter the second room, I discovered that indeed one of them seemed to be leaking.
The second room was narrower than the other, piled up cases of vodka partially obscuring my view of the source. When I squeezed past a couple of beer kegs, I found that one of the canisters had somehow unhooked from its line to the bars, and was hissing out CO2. I walked over to it and turned the valve shut. It was then that a chill gripped me, and I froze to the spot. I had turned the valve, shut it tight, but the hissing continued, and what was worse - it came from behind me, somewhere between me and the only exit.
I don’t know how, but with every fibre of my being I knew something unearthly was in that room with me. I didn’t want to turn around. I know this sounds strange, but, like a child, I felt that if I didn’t see what was there, I would be safe. Whether that was a conscious choice or if I was just paralysed with fear, I’m uncertain. I stood staring down at the closed valve of the canister, almost in disbelief, hoping that I would be left alone.
The hissing noise continued, but it had taken on another characteristic. No longer did it sound like gas seeping out into the air. There was now an organic quality to it, something subtle, like the wet hiss of breath across tongue and through teeth. It pierced the silence of the room, oppressing all around it.
Then it was joined by another sound; an echo; that of a footstep.
Then another. And another.
As each footfall filled my mind with unimpeded fear, the hissing, too, grew louder. The stockroom felt colder than usual, and as the hissing drew nearer the temperature continued to plummet. I fought the impulse in my mind to turn around, I didn’t want to see what was there. My mind and body had refused to accept the reality of it. And in that denial, terror had found a home. It was then that the footsteps ceased. Just as they stood right behind me.
I’m not sure how long I stood in that silence, and it stood behind me. It could have been seconds, but it felt like an eternity. Shivers swept across my body, and I noticed that the stench of stale beer had grown so potent that I felt sick to my stomach.
The hissing then blew into my ear.
I tried to scream. I tried to yell. Nothing came. I just stood there, petrified. I was incapable of acting. Then the hiss was replaced by a sound even more chilling: a quiet, mocking laugh which lasted only for a moment, like someone smirking perversely under their breath at another’s anguish.
That somehow provoked a response in me. I was angry. Someone was trying to make a fool of me, perhaps one of my colleagues. I spun around only to see nothing, and to be greeted by the cluttered emptiness of the stockroom.
There was no one there, no noise, no laughing figure. Nothing.
I breathed a sigh of relief as my numbness receded. Then the pallid shape of a man came rushing through the doorway from the other room. He lurched towards me, his hands outstretched, letting out a blood curdling scream; his eyes filled with what I can only describe as hatred. It all happened so quickly, my only instinct was to avoid the touch of his languid skin. I tripped over in the process, and my back landed on the sharp spout of a metal beer keg, which gouged deep through my skin, tearing a muscle and causing excruciating pain. I looked up, dazed, as the man ran straight into, and then through, a wall. When I dragged myself to my feet, I could see no one. I quickly stumbled out of the stockroom, knowing that I would never set foot in there again.
I wish I could provide some meaning or explanation for that terrifying event. Maybe the leaking CO2 had made me hallucinate somehow, I just don’t know. All I can say is that the general manager told me that other staff members had experienced strange goings on in the stockroom; the sense of being watched, footsteps, and that he himself had heard a strange hissing noise there.
Well, that’s the end of it, really. I didn’t last too long after that, and within a week I handed in my notice. I always wondered how frightened a person would have to be to lose their voice. On that day, in that cold and cramped room, I found out my limits, and I hope to never test them again.
A new story! This one is in audio format, but the written version will be out soon. Please do give my narration a listen and let me know what you think. Sit back and listen to "The Whispering Woods". https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ftf58m_Kf8Y
Among the Trees | A Horror Story by Michael Whitehouse
I grew up on campfire ghost stories. Loved them in fact. I used to sit there as a kid by the fire, listening to my Uncle tell tales of crazed killers and vengeful ghosts as we huddled around a dancing flame, all the while keeping one eye on the darkness over my shoulder. That was what made it exciting, being out there, remote, where many of the stories took place. Safe but not safe. Those are warm memories for me, and I cherish them, but my own experience of a camp fire ghost story is anything but happy.
I was 32 years old at the time, and myself and two friends had decided to do a spot of wild camping in the countryside. All three of us were adventurous, but it was Jack who was the most intrepid, while Derek and I were a little more cautious — cowardly or sensible, take your pick.
We had hiked into a thick web of forest thinking we’d be able to find somewhere flat and comfortable to camp for the night, but it proved much more difficult than we’d anticipated. Initially we followed a thin sliver of dirt track for a few miles. The forest grew darker as we progressed, and I was fascinated by how close together the trees had grown, blocking out much of the light above.
We had been hoping to pass a clearing at the side of the track, but as it narrowed Jack grew restless. Suddenly, he stepped off to the side and disappeared between two trees. Derek shouted on him but no reply was given. I laughed nervously, looking around me at the strangeness of the place. The thin track stretching off in a straight line for some distance.
Derek called out again seemingly just as nervous as I was. We peered into the dim light of the forest and waited. Silence. Broken only by the occasional leaf or branch being moved by the cold air, which seemed to whisper out from within like a silent breath.
Finally, Jack answered: “I thought I saw something.”
His voice seemed distant, as if he had wandered farther than I would have thought possible in the short few minutes since he left the track. I started looking back the way we came and noticed that the long path must have curved slightly in the distance. There was no light from the outside like I would have expected — a pinpoint in the distance at the end of a woodland tunnel.
The place began to feel claustrophobic to me and, I’m sure I imagined this, but it was as if the forest had closed in slightly, the light dimming overhead, partially obscured by the canopy above.
“I thought I saw something.” Those words have always stuck in my mind because they seemed genuine.
Derek and I stood for another few seconds, waiting for Jack to expand on what he’d seen from wherever he was behind the tree line; but again we only found silence. After calling out several times and waiting for a few minutes, I decided that I was going to go in and find Jack. I knew deep down that he was probably playing a prank, as he often did when he got bored, but in the pit of my stomach I felt that there was something off about the entire situation.
I dropped my bag to the ground and took out my torch. The light barely penetrated the trees and was stopped as the forest grew even thicker a few metres in. I took a deep breath and stepped forward off the track, but as I did so Derek grabbed hold of my arm. He didn’t say a word, and just pointed ahead down the path. It was Jack. He was standing about 20 metres away. I was confused by how he had managed it. The forest was so thick where he had entered, we should have heard him breaking through branches as he moved in that direction. But we had heard nothing since he shouted he had seen something, his voice sounding distant and much farther away from where he now stood.
What was left of the light broke through the trees above as a breeze swayed the canopy overhead. Jack was standing with his back to us, motionless. We called his name, but he never responded. At this point Derek started to laugh and was sure our friend was just messing around, but when I started to walk towards Jack, Derek stayed where he was, still laughing but his eyes appearing apprehensive.
I must admit, I was certainly feeling nervous. The entire situation felt strange, something was not right but I couldn’t figure out what it was. I drew closer, and as I did I asked Jack how he’d got over there without making a sound, but he didn’t turn around. He just stood there with his back to me.
Finally I reached him, standing directly behind. “Jack”, I said.”Stop messing about, it’ll be dark soon and we need to find somewhere to camp.” Again, no answer. He was as quiet as the forest. My heart began to race, and as it did I started to get angry. “Jack! Stop being an idiot!” And with that I put my hand on his left shoulder and spun him around towards me.
Two things I have never forgotten happened to me at that moment. When I touched his shoulder I felt a cold sting arc across my hand, like placing your hand in frozen water. The second occurrence has always stayed with me and still haunts me when I think of it. For the briefest of seconds, a flicker, the man who faced me was not Jack. I know how that sounds, and he did look like Jack, but there was something about his eyes which made me shudder. A moment where I looked into my friend’s face and saw a stranger.
Of course I passed it off as a ridiculous notion. Jack started laughing hysterically, and as he did I began to persuade myself that everything was fine and that it was just another prank. The three of us continued on and in fact we made it out of the forest on the other side, where we set up camp next to a river. Jack seemed fine, his usual adventurous self, and so I thought nothing of it… For a while.
We camped for another four nights in different places. Thankfully, on the way back to where we had parked our car, we were able to avoid the forest entirely, which I wished we had done in the first place. It was when I suggested taking a different route that Jack began to seem annoyed: more than annoyed in fact. He flew into a rage and stormed off ahead of us as if leading us back there, but I was always able to talk Derek around to my way of thinking, and so we outvoted Jack and followed the river to where we started instead.
On the way home Jack sat in the car in silence for most of the journey, which took a few hours. Derek was driving and dropped me off at my house first, but as I said goodbye to both of them, Jack leaned in from behind my seat and placed his hand on my shoulder before saying: “See you later, mate”
The same chill which I had felt in the forest ran across my shoulder and up my neck. I will not lie when I say I was glad to be out of the car.
Over the next few months Jack seemed to continue his grievance with me, at least that was the way it felt. He would leave me out of meet-ups and nights out, inviting Derek but not me. It didn’t entirely bother me as the experience at the forest had left me uncomfortable around him. Even though I knew logically that it was probably all in my mind, I kept coming back to that feeling I had when he first turned around to face me on that lonely path.
As of this writing it’s been a year since we went on our trip, and the real reason why I’ve written my experience down. You see, Jack managed to persuade Derek to go back to the forest with him, and he’s never been the same since. I’ve spoken to him, we’ve laughed and spent time together, in fact the three of us have, Jack’s grudge seemingly disappearing when they returned. I know this all seems ridiculous, and more than a small part of me thinks I have just exaggerated this whole thing and jumped to unrealistic conclusions; but there are moments between the laughter and good times, when the three of us are together and I feel like I am in the company of two strangers.
They continually ask me when we’re going to go on our next camping trip. I keep making excuses, and, imagination or not, that’s a habit I intend to maintain.
*****
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