Journals of Horror: Found Fiction

by Todd Keisling

  The next week followed this pattern. In the morning I would cruise the internet, trying to get a handle on what kind of damage I had done. At night, I would watch the news till I couldn't take it anymore, then go to bed. Occasionally I would catch a glimpse of glowing eyes peering in my windows, and the sickening laugh could be heard pretty much nightly. When I walked out to check the mail each morning I began to notice something had been chipping away more and more at the mortar patching the cracks in the porch.

  My internet wanderings showed me what the mainstream press would not. The dark corners of the western world were aflame. Police forces were strained to the brink trying to handle the huge rise in murders, plus the plethora of ancillary other crimes these 'Samaelian cults' as they were known were perpetrating. Arsons were common, as were killing of animals, nightly desecrations of holy sites, you name it.

  It was all so obvious to me. It blew my mind that no one had put the pieces together. I now suspect that...supernatural forces...were clouding the minds of the people, making them blind to the connections between these crimes. But as I dug deeper I found that wasn't necessarily true. One group, who I won't name as their secrecy is their greatest weapon I feel, was devoted to battling this evil.

  A call to my accountant got that group set up to be the largest benefactors of my inevitable death. It was all I could do. Save not write that is.

  The whispers had been utterly silent since the night they screamed at me. Life would likely have continued on like this unchanged, me more or less trapped in my own house (I realize voluntarily, but that is how it felt), its servant, whatever it was waiting, lurking outside, if it had not been for Riff. He was prone to wandering off for a night or two every so often, I guess to play at being a feral for a bit. One day he wandered off. The next day I found his poor little body mangled almost beyond recognition on my writing desk.

  Sobbing I buried him under the tree he got stuck up in once, that damnable laughing coming sporadically from the treeline. I then dried my eyes enough to drive into town, and purchased the gun that sits beside me now. It's amazing how quickly three day waiting periods evaporate when large sums of money get tossed around.

  So now I sit here, typing this on my old Selectric. The whispers have returned, crooning into my ears. What was once a soothing sound now grates and scrapes its way into my mind, leaving me more and more shaken. It has no idea what I'm writing, only that I'm writing again. And for the past hour now I've felt that green eyed thing sitting a few feet behind me, hearing it laugh every so often, seemingly unable to help itself. I'm guessing gloating in it, thinking that it’s won.

  Truth is, I could crank this out, and go back to writing horrors, and grow richer and richer, and go back to living my oblivious life. But my eyes have been opened now, opened with fear and tears. I can't go back. And I know now I will never be allowed to just live a life without writing now. So as soon as this paragraph is done, I will wind out this sheet, set it neatly on the stack with the others, pick up the pistol, and blow out my brains. I know I can do nothing to undo the damage I've done, and saying sorry isn't good enough. The best thing I can do to battle this evil is to die, so my wealth can go to those who can. With that, farewell. May you find the peace pray I soon will. And if ever the wind whispers to you, God help you.

  Author bio: Bob McGough, an Alabama native, is a two time graduate of Troy University. Having written for bands and music publications in the past, he has in the past two years delved into the world of short fiction. He is currently working on a collection of southern horror stories, and has been published in The Rubicon. Vist his website: talesbybob.com

  There's something in my house

  By Wesley Thomas

  Case #BF 6744796853

  Journal transcribed from notes written in the blank sections of a Bible.

  I have never been one to write journals or diaries; I have always felt they were slightly self-indulgent, and severely pompous. Or in contrast, immature. People who write accounts of their every day existence were one of two people: melodramatic teenagers expressing the emotional pain of adolescence and the transitions one has to go through to become a mentally stable adult. Or an arrogant, self obsessed and neurotic individual who adores talking about their magnificent life that sparkles with perfection.

  But this is neither. This is a real account of the pure horror I have experienced since living here, in this house. This is a warning to future inhabitants of this property, and if after reading this you still wish to stay here, then good luck, you'll need it.

  Basically, I moved in around a month ago. I am a single man in my twenties, dark hair, slightly chubby, and I work for a bank as the head of sales. I have very little family and like to keep to myself. I have no pets, and my only hobbies are crime/mystery movies, novels, and architecture.

  I was dazzled by this house, its sheer splendour. A generously sized building with several impressive and desirable features; my architectural flare was burning bright. Wooden floors throughout, several bedrooms, study, conservatory, screening room, five bathrooms, and a gigantic garden that was comparable to a miniature island. I had dreamt of a house like this my whole life. I was bursting at the seams with excitement when my real estate agent told me it was available.

  I wasted no time staining paper with scribbles of ink, and there I was, the official owner of this palace.

  It wasn't until a week after I had moved in that my suspicions arose as to the very possible reality that this superb dream house was... haunted. In today's modern society real estate agents are legally obliged to divulge everything about the property that may affect your purchase, such as: deaths, accidents, faulty electricals, or foundation related problems and if it would eventually turn into a money pit. I trusted my agent. So I felt that these problems were simply me becoming accustomed to my new house. There were several incidents when I experienced fear. And when people say fear, I truly believe that they have no idea what this means; but now, I do. The true definition has corrupted my soul.

  I moved in on a weekend, and a week later I was sat in the living room eating a takeout pizza and watching some crime show, which was my tradition to end a week. Sometimes I would add a nice glass of Merlot, or throw back some rum. But I had absent mindedly forgot to buy some from the store. So I sat captivated by the car chases taking place on screen and the blurry cop cars skidding across asphalt, when out of nowhere I heard a scream.

  Ezekiel 9

  'Show no mercy; have no pity! Kill them all - old and young, girls and women and little children'

  This was a high pitched loud scream, as if a witch were trapped in an upstairs bedroom or was stood on my roof all decrepit, with a heart lusting for pigs feet or eye of newt. I instantly jerked, knocking the last few slices of pizza on the floor, and stood paralysed. Upside down pizza lay at my feet, meaty toppings scattered about and tomato sauce spattering the wood. My entire body was humming with nervousness, like a car's engine sending subtle vibrations through the metal carcass.

  My breathing stopped as I looked at the stairwell through an open living room door. I half expected someone or something to come running down: a person, entity, mischievous animal, but nothing. I was convinced I'd heard something, and I knew I had to check. This was very frustrating to me as I was one of those people that on the rare occasion watched a horror flick, and would be yelling repeatedly at the utter lack of common sense being portrayed by the dumb characters going to investigate strange sounds. But in this moment, I felt I was stuck in a horror movie myself, and I knew I couldn't rest or even set myself at ease until I knew for sure what that sound was, and where it had come from.

  I remember ascending the wide wooden steps clutching a kitchen knife and trembling more than a child dreading a beating from his father after misbehaving. A tiny pin-prick sensation pierced every pore around my chest. At one point I thought I was having a heart attack, but as breathing was not a problem I surpassed this and carried on. I anxiously tread the two flights of s
tairs and entered the first bedroom on the left, opposite the stairwell. All the bedrooms were plotted on one side of the house with all their doors along one wall. Whilst the recreational rooms took you on a maze of corridors and hallways. But I wanted to check the bedrooms before anything else. The first appeared normal, fine furniture, polished and tidy from the début visit of the cleaning lady a couple of days prior to this incident. Each bedroom after that was the same: unperturbed, nothing moved, destroyed, or soiled. Until I got to the last bedroom: my bedroom.

  I opened the door and darkness dominated this vast space, and my eyes instantly fell on the window, and the silhouette of a man stood next to it. My heart stopped and I almost yelled, once again the goosebumps had spread on the surface of my skin, hairs standing stiff and rigid. I then closed my eyes, hoping my optics were playing tricks. When I raised my eyelids slowly and cautiously I knew my eyes had adjusted to the blackness. So I followed them to the same spot, and the man's feet were not there. Phew! I was relieved and ready to retire downstairs when a creak came from behind me. I turned and glared down the hall to see a man dressed as a clown clenching a bloody knife, and wearing a hideous smile.

  Jeremiah 48:10

  'Cursed be he who does the Lord's work remissly, cursed he who holds back his sword from blood'

  It had an electric blue wig, white painted face, sinister red smear of a grin streaked across his mouth, and yellow eyes with vertical black slits for pupils. The eyes were more alike to cat eyes than a human's. The clown was giggling, and the laugh was comparable to the scratching of chalk on a classroom board. I hollered and dropped my own knife. It somersaulted to the wooden boards at my feet and the blade ripped a faint pale line across the veneer. He continued to chuckle hysterically and move closer to me; it was as if he was floating in an air of grace and horror.

  As if a thick cloud was moving him towards me like a demented magic carpet. The high pitched echo of his hysteria was the most petrifying sound I had ever witnessed, a continuous shriek that echoed down the hallway, tainting every surface with a deafening shrillness. As he advanced even closer, I began to steadily shuffle backwards. My legs trembling and overwhelmed with a numbness, it felt as if an IV drip had been jabbed into my calves. I felt as if I were having to force my legs through a thick sloppy consistency that would hinder a person's movements. Until a hand touched my shoulder.

  The next thing I could recall was awaking on the upstairs hallway. This had not been a nightmare; it was real. I could sense it in my marrow. Although part of me did blame the pizza, ordering from a new pizza joint, maybe it was made using dirty ingredients? Or one of the chefs was ill. I always have nightmares if I eat just before bed. My mother had told me that from a very infantile age, so she would never let me eat after six o'clock. Which possibly credits the reason why I eat so late, both on a weekend, and during the week. A way of rebelling against my mother, as an adult, my way of proving I am a big boy now. Even though that sounded incredibly juvenile. But last night I did not have this level of arrogance, I didn't even have a sprinkling of confidence against a vague figure by a window, and then a God damn clown! It was utterly terrifying. I then realised I had no idea what time it was. I trudged into one of the guest rooms and looked at the clock showing 4:02am Monday morning. What the? Holy crap! I have to start getting ready for work in two hours.

  I will always remember that Monday, that will now be referred to as 'The Monday'. The day that I forced myself to explain the previous night's events and tried to streak a line of rationalization through it, like a pen checking a multiple choice box. But I couldn't shake the feeling that this was just the beginning of a long line of disturbances that would test my heart's endurance and tolerance of the several creatures that go bump in the night. At this point I just assumed I was going crazy, my sanity dwindling like a candle in the wind, or my brain rotting prematurely. A zombie-like infection ravaging my anatomy. I wish to God that had been the reason, but God must have been strapped for mercy that day, or it was the devil that took hold of my fate and decided to entertain himself at my misfortune.

  I found a local therapist who administered a drug called 'zotepine'. He suggested it was just moving jitters, my sub-conscious self adapting to a new environment. But to send me on my way to slumber and feel more relaxed, he gave me a small dosage of this medicine to block my brain's demonic projections. Which he told me were due to stress, and I believed him, what a chump!

  Exodus 29:16

  'Slaughter it and take the blood and sprinkle it against the altar on all sides'

  That night I endured a combination of dread, rage, and breathless suspense. I felt like an illegal immigrant who worried someone had told the authorities of his non-existent visa to live in this country, and was constantly on edge, drenched in guilty sweat.

  I ordered Chinese. I was not in the right frame of mind to cook that night, work had been stressful, then there had been the therapist, which made me arrive home later than usual. So I felt I'd earned another take out.

  That night I sat in my room and enjoyed a crime movie starring a beautiful red haired youthful lady whose pale but luminous skin was covered in tiny freckles. I couldn't not admire her remarkable acting ability. I was nibbling away at egg fried rice and soaking in her excellent portrayal of a female investigator, when I picked up a whisper.

  This hushing appeared to come from behind me on the bed. I felt a hot breath on my neck and spun around to see the face of an old man. His skin all wrinkled and saggy with murky evil eyes, and blood stained teeth. His eyes were wide, and an insidious grin engulfed half his face. “NAUGHTY BOY,” he yelled.

  I launched my food in his direction, rice raining on everything, and rushed into the hall barely managing to control my limbs for a swift, speedy exit. I leant against the wall concentrating on my breathing, with tears actually dripping down my face. Then I realised I had forgot to take the medication. It was on one of my bedside tables, and per instructions from the expert I was going to take with food. But I'd been distracted by the delicious food, and riveting story unfolding on screen.

  I had to go back into that room.

  A few minutes later my head became more lucid and my heart danced more mildly, to a gentle jazz tune rather than hardcore rock. The fabrication of the old man would surely have disintegrated into nothingness. So I sheepishly sauntered in, still cautious and aware that the phantom could very well be lurking inside waiting for me. I turned into the room and it was empty. Furniture still in place, but the old man had vanished. I wasn't sure how much more I could bend before I broke. Eager to swallow one of these pills and see if they benefited me, I guardedly paced to the bedside table. The pills weren't there.

  After briefly scanning the room for the tiny plastic bottle full of hope I noticed they were on the bed powdered with rice. I had definitely not put them on the bed; they had been moved. But at this point I was more concerned about getting the stuff into my system as quick as possible to banish these horrid creations of my apparently sick and alarmingly morbid mind. I reached over the bed and in my peripheral vision I spotted dusk through the window, but with something blurred also in sight.

  Exodus 20:13 NIV

  'You shall not murder'

  I whirled towards the window to see the old man again, this time angered, “NO” he shouted.

  I scooped up the bottle, stumbled out of the room, raced downstairs and threw myself outside the house onto the lawn where I was bound in bitter winds.

  Normally I had to take any capsules with water as I had trouble swallowing. But I frantically popped the cap and emptied out the contents into the palm of my hand and conveniently only one came out. I harpooned this into my mouth and it hit the back of my throat, quickly tumbling down my gullet as if the pill itself was fearful of this malevolent presence. I instantly became serene, not as a result of the superhuman rate of the medicine working its wizardry on my despair, but relief at being outside and having taken some 'zotepine'. This annoyed me, how did I feel m
ore relaxed in the garden, than in my own home, MY OWN HOME. Those three words lingered in my mind like swilling a person's palate with a fine wine. Enough was enough. I stomped back inside riding high on testosterone and bubbling over with vengeance. Angst was now a distant memory. Shockingly, that night, I slept like a baby.

  The next morning I awoke brave and proud of myself for having overcome my abhorrence. I brewed some intense coffee, took a sip, then retreated back upstairs to shower. As I washed away sweat and grime I felt as if today was going to be a good day. I couldn't have been more wrong.

  I went about my Tuesday advising on sale tactics, attending meetings, producing power-point presentations and gulping down caffeine-crammed beverages by the gallon. By the end of the day I was shaking as if my whole body had been overcome by Parkinson's decease. I drove home and decided to stop off at a local book store, which I hadn't had the pleasure of visiting yet. I was desperate for a new crime novel, and today I had closed a deal worth millions, so I had most certainly merited some reward. I entered the traditional and quaint little book store, where hundreds upon hundreds of crafted bindings were encompassing me. Thick oak wood held this impressive collection of novels and autobiographies, but my focus was to locate the crime section and delve deep to discover my latest thrilling conundrum. There was a mix of people in various clumps of the store, stood in the genre they felt most comfortable in. Some brave individuals craving horror, others hungered for distraction in the fantasy corner, a few students in the education area, then I sighted it. CRIME. Crying out to my obsession like a bag of cocaine to a drug addict. In bold letters, calling to me like a seductress beckoning with a mystical voice. After an hour of exploring a variety of covers and intriguing blurbs I decided on 'Pin Drop'. A crime/thriller about a rash of teenage girls that keep going missing under very unusual circumstances.