Hello to the very small group of people that actually read my blog! First off, thanks for sticking around even though I haven't been posting lately. I've been a lazy buns and haven't done ANY work on my writing lately and for that I apologize. Life has been extremely hectic and non-conducive to the creative process :/ So, instead I'd like to offer you some more true tales of the various paranormal things that have happened to me. Tonight's tale of terror is... well, I can't think of a clever name but it's a story of a possessed light switch. Sounds lame, but it gets better, I promise. Read on.
This happened way back in the winter of 2006. I was working nights at Hitachi, slaving away over a hot soldering iron. I hand-soldered chips to PCBs for 8 hours a night and it was a hell of a lot of fun. I loved my job and the hours, and the facility had a great cafeteria as well. It could get a bit pricey though, and as much as I liked my job, the pay wasn't exactly stellar so I would often go home for lunch.
Lunch was at 3am every night. Side note- funny how most of my frightening encounters happen around 3, huh? It IS the witching hour, so I guess it's to be expected. Anyway, so I head home for lunch one night and put some water on to boil for my crappy meal of 15-cent ramen. I didn't have cable or even a standard antenna back then, so my entertainment consisted of DVDs and old VHS tapes.
When the ramen was done, I headed back to my bedroom with my bowl to resume watching the DVD I had been watching earlier before work- The Exorcism of Emily Rose. I was about 2/3 of the way through the movie and it was just getting to the really scary part in the barn where they're trying to perform the exorcism. I'm sitting on my bed, eating, just engrossed in the movie and it gets to the part where she's reciting all the different names for the demon inside of her. Just after she declares that she's the devil in the flesh, my bedside lamp turned itself on.
Now, this wasn't the kind of lamp where an electrical short or a breeze could cause it to turn on or off by itself. It was one of these, a cheap desk lamp with a stiff switch on the back that took a good hard twist to turn on. I actually heard the switch click too, it was a loud, substantial click.
Something that I could not see purposely turned that lamp on as I sat next to it. Something wanted me to know that it was there. I didn't touch the switch, I lived alone, and both my dogs were outside at the time(not that a dog even has the paw dexterity to operate a twisty switch, but still). I wasn't even finished with my ramen but I slammed the bowl down and immediately got the hell out of there.
That house was extremely haunted and I have other stories from the 4 years I lived there, but this is the one that really stuck with me cause there's just no way that that lamp could have just turned itself on with no outside help. I have tons of pictures of orbs taken in that house, a video as well, and every picture of me taken in that house shows at least one orb floating next to me on my right side. I have to do some digging, but I'll find those pictures & post them here.
I may have been the sole occupant of that house, but I wasn't alone there. The house had sat empty for years before I moved in, and I found some old personal items in the garage that suggested the previous occupant may have been very old and/or sick, and may have possibly even died there. I never felt threatened or like whatever was there wanted me to leave, in fact I always felt like it was just lonely and wanted to get my attention. I used to try to talk to it sometimes too, so maybe switching on my lamp was its way of trying to communicate with me.
More stories to come, but I hope you enjoyed this one, brief as it was.
Thanks for reading :)
Friday, October 9, 2015
Tuesday, July 21, 2015
Midnight Snack
"Mommy mommy! I found a grasshopper, a BIG one!"
I looked up from my book to see my 4 year old daughter, Amy, running towards me with yet another creepy-crawly clutched in her tiny fist. She was barely out of toddlerhood but she was already an amateur entomologist. She was fascinated with all manner of insects and was constantly catching them and bringing them inside to show me. She spent hours online reading about them, she knew their scientific names along with which ones were safe to play with and which weren't, and I knew she was gifted even though she wouldn't start school for several years yet. She proudly held out her latest catch- an unusually large brown grasshopper, which was spitting brown juice all over her hand. I expressed my obligatory oohs and aahs and she beamed as she ran back outside to release it. I chuckled quietly and thought to myself that tonight would definitely be a bath night.
My name is Emily and my daughter is my whole world. My husband, John, and I went through a lot to get her, and every day we're grateful to have her. Amy was adopted, but we loved her as much as if she were our biological child, if not more. Some people adopt out of the goodness of their hearts, some because they don't want to go through the pain of childbirth, some to be able to pick out a "perfect" child without having to take a gamble with pregnancy complications or birth defects. We adopted because I can't have children. We didn't learn this through trial and error like most couples do, though. I've known since I was 17 that there is no chance that I will ever be able to have a baby of my own or even get pregnant at all. I'll tell you the story of how I came to find this out, but I warn you now that it isn't a pleasant one.
-------------------------------------------
The night I became infertile took place about 15 years ago. Like I said, I was 17, and John was just turning 18. It was the night of his birthday, actually. We've known each other since middle school and have always been good friends, though in the months leading up to his birthday I had found myself hoping that we would become something more. I suspected he had developed some feelings for me too too, since he seemed to find little ways to touch me all the time now and had been wanting to hang out a lot more than usual lately. I hoped tonight would be the night that something would finally happen with us. He was having his birthday party at his house, and his parents were cool enough to make themselves scarce for the night. His house was a sprawling, creaky, drafty old bungalow on the edge of a small forest. It sat on a large plot of land and they had horses, chickens, goats, a number of large dogs, and several dozen cats. I absolutely loved going over there, both to see John and to play with the animals.
As my mom's car crept up the long driveway, I heard the steady thrum of loud music and saw that the party was already in full swing. Some of the boys were doing cannonballs into the above-ground pool, while most of the girls were over by the horses petting their velvety muzzles or cuddled up on the deck with a cat or two. I grabbed my hastily-wrapped gift and jumped out of the car, telling my mom that I'd either call her when I was ready to come home or have John drop me off. She drove off and John ran up to me and wrapped me in a big hug, calling forth a nice swarm of butterflies in my stomach.
Several hours later, I was full of pizza and a few beers pilfered from the garage fridge. I was enjoying being tipsy and the feeling of John's arm around my shoulders as we all sat on the deck watching the sun go down. The conversation soon turned to talk of urban legends about what kinds of evil things might lurk out in the forest. After that came the dares about who could go the farthest into the forest without a flashlight. The guys taunted each other until one of them got brave enough to venture out. He strode confidently into the thicket of trees but came running out 30 seconds later, batting madly at his face and screaming about spiders. Everyone laughed, John the loudest. Still picking bits of web out of his hair, the victim snarled, "Funny huh? Lets see how far YOU get, birthday boy!" Everyone cheered and started teasing John. He groaned, but stood up and started toward the steps. I didn't know most of the other kids at the party and didn't feel like making awkward small talk with them, so I grabbed my purse and told him to wait for me. "You pussy, even your chick is braver than you!" One of the other boys shouted. They all howled with laughter and John shoved his heckler into the pool. I giggled and John grabbed my hand, leading me down the deck steps into the woods.
We walked through the dense undergrowth in semi-darkness for several hundred feet, stumbling over roots and getting scraped by errant branches, when John stopped and began rummaging through the pockets on his cargo shorts. I asked what he was doing and he responded by switching on the small flashlight he had pulled out of his pocket and shining it at me. Clever boy, I thought. I was floating on the high of my fading beer buzz and the warmth of John's hand in mine, when I noticed that we were deep into the woods and the sky no longer had any trace of color in it.
John had switched off the flashlight to conserve the battery and we had been walking by the scant bit of moonlight that filtered through the trees. "We've gone far enough, don't you think? We can probably go back now..." I said, my voice a notch higher than usual. John's response was to wrap his arms around me and kiss me. I was deleriously happy even though I was almost certain there was at least one spider in my hair. "I've been wanting to do that all night." He said with a smile once we parted. "I like you Em. A lot. I want you to be my girlfriend." I said yes, probably a bit too enthusiastically, and he kissed me again. "And I don't wanna go back yet, I'm having fun!" I had a bad feeling about going further, but I was so happy that he had asked me out and I didn't want the night to end, so I didn't protest.
And so we kept going, walking for what I estimated was close to an hour. I had sobered up, I was getting tired, and the warm glow of our newfound relationship was no longer enough to stave off the growing chill. It was early October, and even though the days were still warm, the temperature dropped significantly once the sun set. "John, can we please go back now? Its getting cold and I'm tired." I couldn't see his face in the darkness or else I'd have seen the worry on it. He let out a heavy sigh and stopped walking. "I'm sorry Em. We've taken several turns and I'm not completely sure which way to go to get back. I've never been out this far before." I started to squeak out a "What?!" but he quickly reassured me, "Don't worry though, if we keep walking we'll reach the edge of the forest eventually and then I can get my bearings." We had no choice but to keep going, John keeping one arm around me in a futile attempt to stop my teeth from chattering.
Sure enough, about half an hour later the trees began thinning out and more moonlight illuminated our path. Relief washed over me and we picked up our pace. We emerged from the forest and John turned to me and smiled, his face finally visible in the moonlight. I managed a weak smile back, and thought to myself that if I wasn't so uncomfortable, that this might actually be kind of romantic. My relief didn't last long though, as I realized I had no idea what the hell we would do once we were out of the forest. According to my watch, it was past 11 o'clock. We had left the house at 8. Even if John managed to regain his bearings, it was going to be one hell of a long walk home.
"So what now?" I asked, trying to keep the growing anxiety out of my voice. "Well, we have a couple of options," John replied after a few moments. "We could walk around the forest and get back to my house that way, or we could try to find a house out here with a phone we can use. My dad used to tell me stories about an old settler's town on the other side of the forest, and if he wasn't making it all up, it shouldn't be too far from here." I asked how long he thought it would take if we skirted the forest, and he admitted it would probably take at least two or three times as long as it took to get through it. We wouldn't be back home till almost dawn. We decided to go with the second option.
We came upon a lone house after another mile or so. "Oh, thank god!" I exclaimed, but my happiness soon faded as I saw that not a single window in the house was lit. Either nobody was home or else the inhabitants were all asleep. Even though we were approaching desperation, I really didn't like the idea of intruding upon decent country folk at 11:30 at night to use their phone. As we got closer though, I realized it was far more likely that the house was abandoned. It was severely dilapidated; the paint had long since rotted away, many of the windows were broken, and several portions of the roof were sagging dangerously or caved in completely. "Fuck..." I heard John whisper. There was a small shed on the side of the house, and I started making my way over to it, beckoning John to follow. He pulled the door open and shone his tiny light inside, illuminating a respectable collection of antique farm tools that were older than both of us by a good 50 years. Thick cobwebs covered every inch of the shed's interior, making it obvious that none of the tools had been used or even moved in a very long time.
The house was definitely abandoned, and we would not be using anyone's phone tonight. A cold, quiet panic began to radiate through me as the reality of being lost in the wilderness at night struck me, and I was afraid I might start crying. "Well, there goes the phone idea." John mumbled, turning to me and pulling me into another embrace. "I'm sorry babe. I'm sorry I got you into this. This is all my fault." I sank into his arms, grateful for the warmth. "No... I wanted to come, remember? If we had to pull a dumbass and get stuck out here, I'm glad we're at least in it together."
We held each other silently for a few minutes until John spoke again. "I do have one more idea. You probably wont like it, but... we could spend the night in the house. I know it's creepy and falling apart, but it's at least some sort of shelter, and the walk home will be a lot less shitty in daylight." Almost on cue, a coyote howled in the distance. As much as I didn't want to go inside, I had to admit it was probably our best option.
We started for the house and the closer we got, the stronger the feeling of pure dread within me grew. Every shred of my common sense was screaming get the hell away from that house, and I had to force my feet to keep moving. We climbed the sagging porch steps and were somewhat surprised to find that the door opened easily. We stepped gingerly inside, our sneakers crunching on the fallen plaster that littered the floor. John switched on the flashlight and swept it around the front room. Faded wallpaper, ancient furniture with ripped, stained upholstery, dusty books on built-in shelves, an empty china hutch in the corner, and a faint odor of rot in the stuffy air. I thought to myself that it might actually be kind of cool to explore a place like this in the daytime, and I guessed that John must have felt the same way. I heard him whisper "Oh wow..." as the beam lit upon a framed portrait of a family in turn-of-the-century dress. The furniture was old, but it wasn't quite Victorian. Maybe depression-era at most. The people in the photo must have been the grandparents, or the great-grandparents, of the last people who lived here. As I speculated on the history of the former inhabitants, a wave of exhaustion washed over me and I hoped there would be a bed among the various treasures contained within the house. I didn't care how old or musty it was, my body ached and all I wanted to do right now was sleep.
A loud thump from the second floor startled me back to reality. My blood ran cold as I realized we were not alone in the house. We froze where we stood, hoping that it was just a draft slamming an old window shut or something, but the footsteps we heard seconds later dashed those hopes to pieces. "Shit!" John swore in a panicked whisper. He grabbed my arm and dragged me toward a small coat closet by the hallway entrance. We ducked inside, closing the door as quietly as we could. "Don't make a sound!" John whispered, though the words didn't need to be said. My skin began to register the thick cobwebs clinging to me, and I stood frozen with fear, trying not to spit or scream. I felt something crawling on my leg and hoped that if I stood perfectly still, whatever it was wouldn't bite or sting.
The footsteps came down the stairs. John's grip on my arm tightened, and I could feel him trembling. The tears that threatened to embarrass me earlier streamed freely down my cheeks, and I held my hand tightly over my mouth so that I wouldn't accidentally sob out loud. I had always been pretty agnostic, but I was praying to every god I'd ever heard of to please spare us from whoever was in the house with us. The footsteps grew heavier and louder as they reached the landing, and we both held our breath as they tromped past the closet.
Whoever it was went into the kitchen and I was surprised to hear the unmistakable sound of a refrigerator door opening. Surely this old place couldn't still have electricity... could it? I heard the sounds of something heavy scraping across the wire shelving of the fridge, followed by a drawer opening. After a few moments, the fridge door opened and closed again. They must be getting a snack, I realized, and I found myself both fascinated and horrified that a person actually lived here; eating, sleeping, and going about their daily business in this decaying old hovel. How could anyone live like this? The footsteps passed by the closet again and ascended back up the stairs, and my terror lessened slightly as I realized that he or she didn't know we were here. We could still escape.
After a few minutes, John cautiously opened the door and we stepped out into the living room, careful not to tread too noisily on the brittle chunks of plaster. I made for the front door but John held me back. I looked back at him, confused, and he whispered, "Wait a second, I wanna see what's in the fridge." I whispered back "Are you nuts? Let's go!" but he just rolled his eyes and motioned for me to follow. I wanted to strangle him but I followed, cause damned if I was gonna hang around in the living room by myself.
Moonlight streamed into the kitchen, shining on an ancient fridge. It was a 1940s model with rounded corners, faded pastel green enamel, and a single door. John gripped the handle and I cringed as it clicked loudly. He hesitated, then slowly pulled the door open. The tiny bulb inside struggled to illuminate the whole kitchen, and I smelled the contents before I saw them. This was where the smell of rot was coming from. John whispered "oh fuck!" and clapped a hand over his mouth. On the top shelf, on a tarnished silver serving platter, sat a decomposing human head. On the shelves below it were remnants of the rest of the body. Mutilated arms, a leg, along with various organs in glass jars.
The smell was indescribable. You think you know what rotting meat smells like, we've all driven through the country and smelled roadkill at one point, but rotting human meat is something else entirely. My stomach lurched and I turned away just in time to throw up the remnants of my pizza from earlier. John stood motionless, staring in shock at the gruesome contents of the fridge. I hazarded another look once I recovered, and saw that the cheeks and scalp had strips of flesh missing, as if someone had sliced thin pieces off to fry up like Spam. Bile began to rise in my throat again and I begged John to please close the fridge and lets go, and to my relief he actually listened to me for once that night. Then the footsteps started tromping across the floor over our heads again.
We didn't dare try to make it back to the closet in the living room to hide, but there was a sunroom off of the end of the kitchen. We spotted a pile old blankets in the corner, and John had the idea to hide under them. They reeked of mildew and vomit, but when faced with the choice of fouled blankets or cannibal creep, the blankets easily won out. I dove under them, John followed, and we laid as flat as we could and tried not to breathe too deeply.
The footsteps came down the stairs and into the kitchen. I heard a plate clatter into the sink and the person began to walk back out of the kitchen. The footsteps abruptly paused, and a horrifying realization struck me- I had puked on the floor by the fridge and they must have seen it. This person, this murderer, knows they're not alone now.
I was paralyzed with fear. There was nothing left to do now but hope that they wouldn't figure out where we'd hidden. After several excruciating minutes the footsteps started again, across the living room and back up the stairs, and I don't think I've ever felt so relieved in all my life. We threw off the putrid blankets and scrambled to our feet. In a stroke of incredible luck, there was a screen door in the sunroom that led out to the yard. Not even trying to be quiet anymore, we ran across the room, ripped the door open, and sprinted outside.
We ran till our lungs burned, which, in our exhausted state, wasn't very far. We got about 50 yards from the house before we had to stop and catch our breath. All the dust and foul air we inhaled in that house had done a number on us. We stood there panting, hunched over, ready to collapse, but we looked at each other and smiled because we had made it. We were free. I threw my arms around John and allowed myself to sob freely. We might need therapy for the rest of our lives, but we were alive. After I cried it out, I pulled away and wiped my face on my shirt. John wiped away a few tears of his own before turning to look back at the house. He swore loudly, and I whipped my head around and nearly fainted from what I saw.
There was a single window illuminated on the second floor, with a silhouette of a large man standing in the middle of it. And he was looking right at us.
"Run!!!" John screamed. I tried to run but I was so shaky that I stumbled and fell. I looked back at the house and screamed when I saw the light go out. John yanked me to my feet and this time my legs decided to work, and we bolted.
The town wasn't far ahead, but it was run down and clearly abandoned. No way would there be a working phone anywhere in it. As we ran I dared to glance behind us, and what I saw nearly made me drop dead from fright. There was a behemoth of a man- 7 feet tall at least- striding purposefully toward us. The man from the house. He was less that a football field's length away, and gaining quickly.
We ran frantically, hoping desperately to see a light in a window or any other sign of human life. Nothing but darkness, dilapidation, and overgrown weeds. An old building that was once a diner came into view, and I had an idea. "The diner, John! There might still be knives in the kitchen!" I didn't have to explain my idea any further, and we put on a fresh burst of speed.
The diner's old glass doors hung loosely open, lazily swaying in the wind. We ran inside, heading straight for the kitchen. John fumbled with the flashlight and shone the weak light around the room, and just as I had hoped, there was an entire set of now-vintage butcher knives hanging from pegs on the wall. John grabbed one and handed it to me, then grabbed the biggest one for himself. We gripped the handles tightly and looked for a back door or some other means of escape. John's light settled on a door at the very end of the galley-style kitchen, but we found it locked tight with a rusted deadbolt. That same moment, the sound of breaking glass rang out from the front of the diner. He was here.
The only place to conceal ourselves in the kitchen was an old walk-in freezer. We ran inside, knowing we were basically trapping ourselves, but we had no other option. Seconds later the kitchen doors slammed open. I'm ashamed to say that my bladder gave way at that moment, but I think even the bravest of people would have pissed themselves in our situation. I couldn't see John but I could feel his body heat and hear him breathing. His breaths were ragged and fast, and I knew he was readying himself to defend us. The man stomped around the kitchen and each second dragged. I remember thinking that this is what it must feel like for prisoners on death row- you know you're going to die, it's going to happen any minute, and you just have to be patient until it does.
Suddenly the freezer door swung open, and with the help of what little light existed in the kitchen, I saw John raise his knife and rush the man.
John didn't stand a chance though, and the man felled him with one blow in a fraction of a second. I heard the sickening, wet crack of breaking bones and John crumpled helplessly to the floor. My knife slipped out of my shaking hands and clattered to the floor, and the man turned his attention to me. I tried to back away but he reached me in half a stride. The last thing I heard in the darkness was the sound of my scream being silenced as his massive hand wrapped around my neck, cutting off my airflow.
-----------------------------------------------------
The next thing I remember was waking up in a hospital bed and hearing my mother's voice before I could see her. "Alan! Alan, she's awake!" she cried. My blurry eyes focused just in time to see my father, sitting in a chair in the corner, raise his head from where it rested in hands. Both of their faces were red and puffy, and it was obvious they'd been crying. My father rushed to my bedside and new tears streamed down both of their faces. "Don't cry guys, I'm okay!" I tried to say, but the words came out as a feeble croak instead. Something was wrong with my voice and my throat hurt horribly. "Sssh, don't talk sweetie. Just rest." My mom said, and bent down to gently hug me.
I managed to find enough of my voice to ask my parents where John was, bracing myself to hear bad news. They exchanged worried glances, but told me that he was alive and recuperating in a room a few doors down from mine. From outside my room I heard an announcement over the loudspeaker calling Dr. so-and-so to the ICU, and it dawned on me that I was in intensive care. I knew that my parents knew more than they were telling me and I pressed them for details, but before they could answer a short but commanding middle-aged nurse swept into the room, undoubtedly alerted to my awakening by the myriad of machines I was tethered to. My parents were hastily shooed away so she could look me over and check my stats.
I asked her what had happened to me but she shushed me continued her examination, tight-lipped. She announced that she'd come back in a few minutes with more painkillers when I winced and moaned through all the poking and prodding, and 15 minutes later I was pumped full of fresh drugs and a foggy, narcotic-induced sleep soon overtook me.
I woke up in the ICU for a second time later that evening, and this time I demanded to see John. My mom did her best to convince me that I shouldn't see him just yet, but I refused to take no for an answer. My dad left to find my nurse, and soon she came into my room followed by an orderly pushing a wheelchair. After she got done unhooking me from the machines and hanging my multiple bags of medicine onto a mobile IV stand, I tried to swing my legs over to climb out of bed but nearly fainted from a white-hot wave of pain. "Honey, no! Wait for us to help you!" The nurse said. "You've got a broken pelvis and you're gonna be in a world of hurt if you try to stand up on your own." Reeling from pain, I allowed her and the orderly to hoist me up. They slowly lowered me into the wheelchair but despite the care they took not to jostle me, the pain was almost unbearable.
Once I was safely in the chair, the nurse went to speak with my parents while the orderly wheeled me down the hallway into a room 2 doors down from mine. I didn't even recognize the boy in the bed, but it had to be John. His entire face was swollen and discolored, his left arm was in a cast, and a breathing tube was taped into place in his mouth. The orderly pushed my wheelchair as close to the bed as possible and told me he'd give me a few minutes with John and then take me back to my room, but the words barely registered.
I was hoping John would be awake so I could talk to him, but he was still unconscious. I reached over and took hold of his right hand, the one part of him that wasn't obscured by tape and medical equipment. Hot tears stung my eyes as I looked him over, numb from the shock of his appearance. His stomach bulged out noticeably, and my curiosity got the best of me. I let go of his hand and as gently as I could, I pulled the thin blanket down to see what was causing the distension.
John's stomach was covered in surgical bandaging, and there was quite a bit of blood seeping through it. He must have just gotten out of surgery recently, but why would they operate on his stomach? Horrified, I tried to pull the blanket back up with my shaking hands but I must have bumped the dressings because his heart rate suddenly spiked, causing the machines to start beeping madly. A severe-looking woman rushed in, his nurse I assumed, and saw me fumbling with the blanket. She gave me a dirty look as she strode over to silence John's monitors, and called loudly for the orderly to take me out of there. My face burned with tears and embarrassment as I was pushed back to my room, and I couldn't forget the sight of that horrible-looking bandage on John's stomach. I had to find out what happened.
The next few days were full of pain and frustration. Nobody would tell me how my pelvis got broken or what happened to John's stomach, and several times I saw cops talking to my parents just outside the door to my room. Their conversations were always just barely too quiet for me to eavesdrop on, but one time I heard my mom say in a clipped tone, "No, she's not ready yet!". Not ready for what?
After about a week though, I finally got a break. I managed to forge a sort of friendship with one of my nurses, a young one, and after much pleading I finally got her to tell me what had happened to John and I.
The night of the party, after we'd been gone for several hours, John's friends started to get worried and a few of them ventured out into the forest to try and find us. They shouted themselves hoarse calling our names and when we didn't answer, they went back to the house and called 911. John's parents were called along with mine, and a search party was organized. Thanks mostly to the police dogs, we were finally found at the edge of the forest, but the sight that greeted the search party was a horrific one.
We were both unconscious when they found us. John's jaw was broken along with his left arm, and he was missing a lot of teeth. His shirt was torn halfway off, and his stomach had been ripped open by what the searchers assumed at the time was a wild animal. I was found completely naked and covered with blood and handprint-shaped bruises. Copious amounts of blood flowed from between my legs as well.
When they got us to the hospital, our injuries were found to be much worse than they initially thought. It turns out I had been assaulted so violently that they couldn't even perform a rape kit. The nurse told me, her voice breaking, that when they took me into surgery, the doctors had a hard time fixing me up because none of my reproductive organs were even in the right place anymore. She told me with tears in her eyes that there had been so much damage that they had to remove everything down there- uterus, ovaries, everything- and that it took all their skill to rebuild what was left into something functional. One of the handful of pills I'd been choking down daily during my stay there was estrogen, and I'd have to take it for the rest of my life.
Numbly I asked her about John's stomach. She hesitated, knowing she was violating HIPAA and risking her job, but told me that when they got him on the operating table, the abdominal wound that was initially thought to be the work of a coyote or wild cat was found to have been deliberately inflicted. The edges were clean, and it was obvious that he had been cut open with a sharp knife. As the surgery progressed, the surgeon discovered that a substantial section of his small intestine had also been cleanly cut out as well. In the end they managed to get us both cleaned up and put back together for the most part, but they still had no idea who had done this to us.
I knew though.
The man from the house had done this to us. I had been the night's entertainment, and John had been the midnight snack. I wonder if his intestines were in a jar in that old fridge, or if they'd been eaten quickly instead.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It finally made sense why my mother had told the cops that I wasn't ready yet; they obviously wanted to get a statement from me for their investigation. I ended up calling them in myself when my parents weren't there and told them I was ready to talk, and I told them in detail exactly what had happened that night, at least the parts that I could remember anyway. I told them all about the man, the body parts in the fridge, and where to find the house. They came back the next day and told me they'd found the house, but that there had been no one there, no signs of anyone having been there for decades, and that there was nothing at all in the fridge. They asked me to tell them the whole story again from the beginning, and I knew it was because they didn't believe me. They thought I either made it all up or was delusional, and they wanted me to retell it to see if I'd slip up or change any of the details.
John and I both spent a long time in the hospital. He finally woke up after a week in the ICU, but he had a harder time recovering than I did. His wounds went septic and he had to be on heavy-duty antibiotics for weeks. He nearly died. Thankfully though, he pulled through and as soon as he was allowed to get out of bed, he started coming to visit me every day. We couldn't really talk due to his broken jaw being wired shut, so we mostly just laid in bed holding each other.
One day he handed me a note that said "its all my fault". I tore it up and angrily told him to never say that again. Yes, it was his idea to keep going farther into the woods, but there's no way he could have possibly known what was going to happen and I refused to let him take all the blame. We did a lot of crying together too.
I had to have months of physical therapy, both in hospital and at home. You have no idea how long the pain can linger when your entire lower half gets torn apart and rebuilt, but I eventually got to the point where I could walk and go to the bathroom without wracking pain. My mind though... that was a different story. You know how when something bad happens to a person, it takes a while for the reality of it to sink in? Well, I never understood how that worked before, but I do now. In the hospital it was all take your meds, let the nurse check your vitals, go to sleep, wake up, choke down a bit of food, wash, rinse, and repeat. You don't have time to think about what put you in there in the first place. At home though, laying in your bed late at night, all by yourself... you have plenty of time to think about and relive what happened to you. And that's exactly what I did.
Over the months following my release from the hospital, I had a complete mental breakdown. I couldn't get the horror of it all out of my head, I lived in constant fear of the man finding me again, and I became basically nonfunctional. I tried to commit suicide a couple times, and I spent 2 weeks in a mental hospital under 24-hour watch. In addition to my estrogen, I was now taking powerful antidepressants and even an antipsychotic as well. I was convinced the man was still out there, stalking me, and I couldn't stand to be in any rooms with windows at night.
There were nightmares too. Vivid reenactments, often with new twists and details that my now-sick mind invented. It was a rare night that I didn't have them, and John was the only one who could calm me down whenever I woke up screaming. After many a late night call to his house, my parents finally just asked him to move in with us so he could be there to soothe me when I needed him. I can't even put into words how much it helped to have him there. As horrible as that night in the woods was, one good thing came out of it- it rendered John and I inseparable. I don't think either of us would have made nearly as much progress as we did if we'd had to go it alone. I never went back to John's house ever again, and about a year after the incident his family packed up and moved away. John stayed with me though, and the following fall he started classes at the local college.
He earned his degree in engineering and we got married after he graduated. As much as it hurt to do it, I bade goodbye to my parents and we moved across the country to start over. We both wanted to get as far away from those woods as possible. I was mostly okay by then, functional again anyway, but I still had episodes where I'd lock myself in the closet after the sun went down because the windows scared me too much. When we had our new house built, John had the builders put in reinforced steel panels over all the windows that could be opened during the day and bolted shut at night. We put in a high fence around the backyard as well, and wired it to be electrified. Logically I know he's not out there trying to get to me, but still, the extra safety measures made me feel better.
Anyway, the incident happened in Arkansas and we live up north now. I won't say where, on the off chance that he might somehow be reading this, but there's over 1,000 miles between us and those woods now. I can't take any chances, I can't let him find us again or god forbid- hurt Amy.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
I was a silly, naive, sheltered little girl for the first 17 years of my life, but that night in the woods forced me to grow up. It opened my eyes. It showed me that the world is a wild, unsafe place, and it awakened primal instincts within me that I never knew I had. I know now that I can kill. If anyone tries to hurt my young, my mate, or even my pets, I will attack with deadly force. I keep weapons hidden all over the house, some that John doesn't even know about, just in case I have to defend us. All tucked safely out of reach of my baby's curious little hands of course, but easily accessible to me. My little girl will never go through what I went through, she will never know what it's like to have her innocence violently stolen. I lost my virginity to a monster, one who is still out there somewhere, but I will not let her suffer the same fate.
I need to be more careful in the future though. There have been some... accidents. I always make John a big, delicious dinner every time he has to dig another grave, but I know he's getting tired of coming home and having to spend his evening working outside. The back field is starting to fill up too. We live in a rural area and we've been able to dispose of most of the trespassers, but a couple of them ended up being missed. If John didn't make such good money, we wouldn't have been able to afford the amazing attorney who got me off on an insanity plea and the "stand your ground" law.
I showed remorse in court like the lawyer instructed me to, but I'm not sorry. They all deserved it. You don't just come to someone's home unannounced, even if it is your "job" to harangue strangers about God. It's simple- if I perceive you as a threat, I strike. Humans are animals after all, and I was just following my animal instincts to protect my kin. For John though, I'm trying really hard to count to ten and let people announce their intentions before I kill them. I have an appointment next week with a new doctor and I promised John I'd take the pills for real this time instead of just hiding them under my tongue and spitting them out when he wasn't looking. I have to make sacrifices for my family. Another round of lawyer fees would bankrupt us, and I already promised Amy we'd go to Disneyland this summer.
I don't look forward to when she starts dating though... those poor boys.
I looked up from my book to see my 4 year old daughter, Amy, running towards me with yet another creepy-crawly clutched in her tiny fist. She was barely out of toddlerhood but she was already an amateur entomologist. She was fascinated with all manner of insects and was constantly catching them and bringing them inside to show me. She spent hours online reading about them, she knew their scientific names along with which ones were safe to play with and which weren't, and I knew she was gifted even though she wouldn't start school for several years yet. She proudly held out her latest catch- an unusually large brown grasshopper, which was spitting brown juice all over her hand. I expressed my obligatory oohs and aahs and she beamed as she ran back outside to release it. I chuckled quietly and thought to myself that tonight would definitely be a bath night.
My name is Emily and my daughter is my whole world. My husband, John, and I went through a lot to get her, and every day we're grateful to have her. Amy was adopted, but we loved her as much as if she were our biological child, if not more. Some people adopt out of the goodness of their hearts, some because they don't want to go through the pain of childbirth, some to be able to pick out a "perfect" child without having to take a gamble with pregnancy complications or birth defects. We adopted because I can't have children. We didn't learn this through trial and error like most couples do, though. I've known since I was 17 that there is no chance that I will ever be able to have a baby of my own or even get pregnant at all. I'll tell you the story of how I came to find this out, but I warn you now that it isn't a pleasant one.
-------------------------------------------
The night I became infertile took place about 15 years ago. Like I said, I was 17, and John was just turning 18. It was the night of his birthday, actually. We've known each other since middle school and have always been good friends, though in the months leading up to his birthday I had found myself hoping that we would become something more. I suspected he had developed some feelings for me too too, since he seemed to find little ways to touch me all the time now and had been wanting to hang out a lot more than usual lately. I hoped tonight would be the night that something would finally happen with us. He was having his birthday party at his house, and his parents were cool enough to make themselves scarce for the night. His house was a sprawling, creaky, drafty old bungalow on the edge of a small forest. It sat on a large plot of land and they had horses, chickens, goats, a number of large dogs, and several dozen cats. I absolutely loved going over there, both to see John and to play with the animals.
As my mom's car crept up the long driveway, I heard the steady thrum of loud music and saw that the party was already in full swing. Some of the boys were doing cannonballs into the above-ground pool, while most of the girls were over by the horses petting their velvety muzzles or cuddled up on the deck with a cat or two. I grabbed my hastily-wrapped gift and jumped out of the car, telling my mom that I'd either call her when I was ready to come home or have John drop me off. She drove off and John ran up to me and wrapped me in a big hug, calling forth a nice swarm of butterflies in my stomach.
Several hours later, I was full of pizza and a few beers pilfered from the garage fridge. I was enjoying being tipsy and the feeling of John's arm around my shoulders as we all sat on the deck watching the sun go down. The conversation soon turned to talk of urban legends about what kinds of evil things might lurk out in the forest. After that came the dares about who could go the farthest into the forest without a flashlight. The guys taunted each other until one of them got brave enough to venture out. He strode confidently into the thicket of trees but came running out 30 seconds later, batting madly at his face and screaming about spiders. Everyone laughed, John the loudest. Still picking bits of web out of his hair, the victim snarled, "Funny huh? Lets see how far YOU get, birthday boy!" Everyone cheered and started teasing John. He groaned, but stood up and started toward the steps. I didn't know most of the other kids at the party and didn't feel like making awkward small talk with them, so I grabbed my purse and told him to wait for me. "You pussy, even your chick is braver than you!" One of the other boys shouted. They all howled with laughter and John shoved his heckler into the pool. I giggled and John grabbed my hand, leading me down the deck steps into the woods.
We walked through the dense undergrowth in semi-darkness for several hundred feet, stumbling over roots and getting scraped by errant branches, when John stopped and began rummaging through the pockets on his cargo shorts. I asked what he was doing and he responded by switching on the small flashlight he had pulled out of his pocket and shining it at me. Clever boy, I thought. I was floating on the high of my fading beer buzz and the warmth of John's hand in mine, when I noticed that we were deep into the woods and the sky no longer had any trace of color in it.
John had switched off the flashlight to conserve the battery and we had been walking by the scant bit of moonlight that filtered through the trees. "We've gone far enough, don't you think? We can probably go back now..." I said, my voice a notch higher than usual. John's response was to wrap his arms around me and kiss me. I was deleriously happy even though I was almost certain there was at least one spider in my hair. "I've been wanting to do that all night." He said with a smile once we parted. "I like you Em. A lot. I want you to be my girlfriend." I said yes, probably a bit too enthusiastically, and he kissed me again. "And I don't wanna go back yet, I'm having fun!" I had a bad feeling about going further, but I was so happy that he had asked me out and I didn't want the night to end, so I didn't protest.
And so we kept going, walking for what I estimated was close to an hour. I had sobered up, I was getting tired, and the warm glow of our newfound relationship was no longer enough to stave off the growing chill. It was early October, and even though the days were still warm, the temperature dropped significantly once the sun set. "John, can we please go back now? Its getting cold and I'm tired." I couldn't see his face in the darkness or else I'd have seen the worry on it. He let out a heavy sigh and stopped walking. "I'm sorry Em. We've taken several turns and I'm not completely sure which way to go to get back. I've never been out this far before." I started to squeak out a "What?!" but he quickly reassured me, "Don't worry though, if we keep walking we'll reach the edge of the forest eventually and then I can get my bearings." We had no choice but to keep going, John keeping one arm around me in a futile attempt to stop my teeth from chattering.
Sure enough, about half an hour later the trees began thinning out and more moonlight illuminated our path. Relief washed over me and we picked up our pace. We emerged from the forest and John turned to me and smiled, his face finally visible in the moonlight. I managed a weak smile back, and thought to myself that if I wasn't so uncomfortable, that this might actually be kind of romantic. My relief didn't last long though, as I realized I had no idea what the hell we would do once we were out of the forest. According to my watch, it was past 11 o'clock. We had left the house at 8. Even if John managed to regain his bearings, it was going to be one hell of a long walk home.
"So what now?" I asked, trying to keep the growing anxiety out of my voice. "Well, we have a couple of options," John replied after a few moments. "We could walk around the forest and get back to my house that way, or we could try to find a house out here with a phone we can use. My dad used to tell me stories about an old settler's town on the other side of the forest, and if he wasn't making it all up, it shouldn't be too far from here." I asked how long he thought it would take if we skirted the forest, and he admitted it would probably take at least two or three times as long as it took to get through it. We wouldn't be back home till almost dawn. We decided to go with the second option.
We came upon a lone house after another mile or so. "Oh, thank god!" I exclaimed, but my happiness soon faded as I saw that not a single window in the house was lit. Either nobody was home or else the inhabitants were all asleep. Even though we were approaching desperation, I really didn't like the idea of intruding upon decent country folk at 11:30 at night to use their phone. As we got closer though, I realized it was far more likely that the house was abandoned. It was severely dilapidated; the paint had long since rotted away, many of the windows were broken, and several portions of the roof were sagging dangerously or caved in completely. "Fuck..." I heard John whisper. There was a small shed on the side of the house, and I started making my way over to it, beckoning John to follow. He pulled the door open and shone his tiny light inside, illuminating a respectable collection of antique farm tools that were older than both of us by a good 50 years. Thick cobwebs covered every inch of the shed's interior, making it obvious that none of the tools had been used or even moved in a very long time.
The house was definitely abandoned, and we would not be using anyone's phone tonight. A cold, quiet panic began to radiate through me as the reality of being lost in the wilderness at night struck me, and I was afraid I might start crying. "Well, there goes the phone idea." John mumbled, turning to me and pulling me into another embrace. "I'm sorry babe. I'm sorry I got you into this. This is all my fault." I sank into his arms, grateful for the warmth. "No... I wanted to come, remember? If we had to pull a dumbass and get stuck out here, I'm glad we're at least in it together."
We held each other silently for a few minutes until John spoke again. "I do have one more idea. You probably wont like it, but... we could spend the night in the house. I know it's creepy and falling apart, but it's at least some sort of shelter, and the walk home will be a lot less shitty in daylight." Almost on cue, a coyote howled in the distance. As much as I didn't want to go inside, I had to admit it was probably our best option.
We started for the house and the closer we got, the stronger the feeling of pure dread within me grew. Every shred of my common sense was screaming get the hell away from that house, and I had to force my feet to keep moving. We climbed the sagging porch steps and were somewhat surprised to find that the door opened easily. We stepped gingerly inside, our sneakers crunching on the fallen plaster that littered the floor. John switched on the flashlight and swept it around the front room. Faded wallpaper, ancient furniture with ripped, stained upholstery, dusty books on built-in shelves, an empty china hutch in the corner, and a faint odor of rot in the stuffy air. I thought to myself that it might actually be kind of cool to explore a place like this in the daytime, and I guessed that John must have felt the same way. I heard him whisper "Oh wow..." as the beam lit upon a framed portrait of a family in turn-of-the-century dress. The furniture was old, but it wasn't quite Victorian. Maybe depression-era at most. The people in the photo must have been the grandparents, or the great-grandparents, of the last people who lived here. As I speculated on the history of the former inhabitants, a wave of exhaustion washed over me and I hoped there would be a bed among the various treasures contained within the house. I didn't care how old or musty it was, my body ached and all I wanted to do right now was sleep.
A loud thump from the second floor startled me back to reality. My blood ran cold as I realized we were not alone in the house. We froze where we stood, hoping that it was just a draft slamming an old window shut or something, but the footsteps we heard seconds later dashed those hopes to pieces. "Shit!" John swore in a panicked whisper. He grabbed my arm and dragged me toward a small coat closet by the hallway entrance. We ducked inside, closing the door as quietly as we could. "Don't make a sound!" John whispered, though the words didn't need to be said. My skin began to register the thick cobwebs clinging to me, and I stood frozen with fear, trying not to spit or scream. I felt something crawling on my leg and hoped that if I stood perfectly still, whatever it was wouldn't bite or sting.
The footsteps came down the stairs. John's grip on my arm tightened, and I could feel him trembling. The tears that threatened to embarrass me earlier streamed freely down my cheeks, and I held my hand tightly over my mouth so that I wouldn't accidentally sob out loud. I had always been pretty agnostic, but I was praying to every god I'd ever heard of to please spare us from whoever was in the house with us. The footsteps grew heavier and louder as they reached the landing, and we both held our breath as they tromped past the closet.
Whoever it was went into the kitchen and I was surprised to hear the unmistakable sound of a refrigerator door opening. Surely this old place couldn't still have electricity... could it? I heard the sounds of something heavy scraping across the wire shelving of the fridge, followed by a drawer opening. After a few moments, the fridge door opened and closed again. They must be getting a snack, I realized, and I found myself both fascinated and horrified that a person actually lived here; eating, sleeping, and going about their daily business in this decaying old hovel. How could anyone live like this? The footsteps passed by the closet again and ascended back up the stairs, and my terror lessened slightly as I realized that he or she didn't know we were here. We could still escape.
After a few minutes, John cautiously opened the door and we stepped out into the living room, careful not to tread too noisily on the brittle chunks of plaster. I made for the front door but John held me back. I looked back at him, confused, and he whispered, "Wait a second, I wanna see what's in the fridge." I whispered back "Are you nuts? Let's go!" but he just rolled his eyes and motioned for me to follow. I wanted to strangle him but I followed, cause damned if I was gonna hang around in the living room by myself.
Moonlight streamed into the kitchen, shining on an ancient fridge. It was a 1940s model with rounded corners, faded pastel green enamel, and a single door. John gripped the handle and I cringed as it clicked loudly. He hesitated, then slowly pulled the door open. The tiny bulb inside struggled to illuminate the whole kitchen, and I smelled the contents before I saw them. This was where the smell of rot was coming from. John whispered "oh fuck!" and clapped a hand over his mouth. On the top shelf, on a tarnished silver serving platter, sat a decomposing human head. On the shelves below it were remnants of the rest of the body. Mutilated arms, a leg, along with various organs in glass jars.
The smell was indescribable. You think you know what rotting meat smells like, we've all driven through the country and smelled roadkill at one point, but rotting human meat is something else entirely. My stomach lurched and I turned away just in time to throw up the remnants of my pizza from earlier. John stood motionless, staring in shock at the gruesome contents of the fridge. I hazarded another look once I recovered, and saw that the cheeks and scalp had strips of flesh missing, as if someone had sliced thin pieces off to fry up like Spam. Bile began to rise in my throat again and I begged John to please close the fridge and lets go, and to my relief he actually listened to me for once that night. Then the footsteps started tromping across the floor over our heads again.
We didn't dare try to make it back to the closet in the living room to hide, but there was a sunroom off of the end of the kitchen. We spotted a pile old blankets in the corner, and John had the idea to hide under them. They reeked of mildew and vomit, but when faced with the choice of fouled blankets or cannibal creep, the blankets easily won out. I dove under them, John followed, and we laid as flat as we could and tried not to breathe too deeply.
The footsteps came down the stairs and into the kitchen. I heard a plate clatter into the sink and the person began to walk back out of the kitchen. The footsteps abruptly paused, and a horrifying realization struck me- I had puked on the floor by the fridge and they must have seen it. This person, this murderer, knows they're not alone now.
I was paralyzed with fear. There was nothing left to do now but hope that they wouldn't figure out where we'd hidden. After several excruciating minutes the footsteps started again, across the living room and back up the stairs, and I don't think I've ever felt so relieved in all my life. We threw off the putrid blankets and scrambled to our feet. In a stroke of incredible luck, there was a screen door in the sunroom that led out to the yard. Not even trying to be quiet anymore, we ran across the room, ripped the door open, and sprinted outside.
We ran till our lungs burned, which, in our exhausted state, wasn't very far. We got about 50 yards from the house before we had to stop and catch our breath. All the dust and foul air we inhaled in that house had done a number on us. We stood there panting, hunched over, ready to collapse, but we looked at each other and smiled because we had made it. We were free. I threw my arms around John and allowed myself to sob freely. We might need therapy for the rest of our lives, but we were alive. After I cried it out, I pulled away and wiped my face on my shirt. John wiped away a few tears of his own before turning to look back at the house. He swore loudly, and I whipped my head around and nearly fainted from what I saw.
There was a single window illuminated on the second floor, with a silhouette of a large man standing in the middle of it. And he was looking right at us.
"Run!!!" John screamed. I tried to run but I was so shaky that I stumbled and fell. I looked back at the house and screamed when I saw the light go out. John yanked me to my feet and this time my legs decided to work, and we bolted.
The town wasn't far ahead, but it was run down and clearly abandoned. No way would there be a working phone anywhere in it. As we ran I dared to glance behind us, and what I saw nearly made me drop dead from fright. There was a behemoth of a man- 7 feet tall at least- striding purposefully toward us. The man from the house. He was less that a football field's length away, and gaining quickly.
We ran frantically, hoping desperately to see a light in a window or any other sign of human life. Nothing but darkness, dilapidation, and overgrown weeds. An old building that was once a diner came into view, and I had an idea. "The diner, John! There might still be knives in the kitchen!" I didn't have to explain my idea any further, and we put on a fresh burst of speed.
The diner's old glass doors hung loosely open, lazily swaying in the wind. We ran inside, heading straight for the kitchen. John fumbled with the flashlight and shone the weak light around the room, and just as I had hoped, there was an entire set of now-vintage butcher knives hanging from pegs on the wall. John grabbed one and handed it to me, then grabbed the biggest one for himself. We gripped the handles tightly and looked for a back door or some other means of escape. John's light settled on a door at the very end of the galley-style kitchen, but we found it locked tight with a rusted deadbolt. That same moment, the sound of breaking glass rang out from the front of the diner. He was here.
The only place to conceal ourselves in the kitchen was an old walk-in freezer. We ran inside, knowing we were basically trapping ourselves, but we had no other option. Seconds later the kitchen doors slammed open. I'm ashamed to say that my bladder gave way at that moment, but I think even the bravest of people would have pissed themselves in our situation. I couldn't see John but I could feel his body heat and hear him breathing. His breaths were ragged and fast, and I knew he was readying himself to defend us. The man stomped around the kitchen and each second dragged. I remember thinking that this is what it must feel like for prisoners on death row- you know you're going to die, it's going to happen any minute, and you just have to be patient until it does.
Suddenly the freezer door swung open, and with the help of what little light existed in the kitchen, I saw John raise his knife and rush the man.
John didn't stand a chance though, and the man felled him with one blow in a fraction of a second. I heard the sickening, wet crack of breaking bones and John crumpled helplessly to the floor. My knife slipped out of my shaking hands and clattered to the floor, and the man turned his attention to me. I tried to back away but he reached me in half a stride. The last thing I heard in the darkness was the sound of my scream being silenced as his massive hand wrapped around my neck, cutting off my airflow.
-----------------------------------------------------
The next thing I remember was waking up in a hospital bed and hearing my mother's voice before I could see her. "Alan! Alan, she's awake!" she cried. My blurry eyes focused just in time to see my father, sitting in a chair in the corner, raise his head from where it rested in hands. Both of their faces were red and puffy, and it was obvious they'd been crying. My father rushed to my bedside and new tears streamed down both of their faces. "Don't cry guys, I'm okay!" I tried to say, but the words came out as a feeble croak instead. Something was wrong with my voice and my throat hurt horribly. "Sssh, don't talk sweetie. Just rest." My mom said, and bent down to gently hug me.
I managed to find enough of my voice to ask my parents where John was, bracing myself to hear bad news. They exchanged worried glances, but told me that he was alive and recuperating in a room a few doors down from mine. From outside my room I heard an announcement over the loudspeaker calling Dr. so-and-so to the ICU, and it dawned on me that I was in intensive care. I knew that my parents knew more than they were telling me and I pressed them for details, but before they could answer a short but commanding middle-aged nurse swept into the room, undoubtedly alerted to my awakening by the myriad of machines I was tethered to. My parents were hastily shooed away so she could look me over and check my stats.
I asked her what had happened to me but she shushed me continued her examination, tight-lipped. She announced that she'd come back in a few minutes with more painkillers when I winced and moaned through all the poking and prodding, and 15 minutes later I was pumped full of fresh drugs and a foggy, narcotic-induced sleep soon overtook me.
I woke up in the ICU for a second time later that evening, and this time I demanded to see John. My mom did her best to convince me that I shouldn't see him just yet, but I refused to take no for an answer. My dad left to find my nurse, and soon she came into my room followed by an orderly pushing a wheelchair. After she got done unhooking me from the machines and hanging my multiple bags of medicine onto a mobile IV stand, I tried to swing my legs over to climb out of bed but nearly fainted from a white-hot wave of pain. "Honey, no! Wait for us to help you!" The nurse said. "You've got a broken pelvis and you're gonna be in a world of hurt if you try to stand up on your own." Reeling from pain, I allowed her and the orderly to hoist me up. They slowly lowered me into the wheelchair but despite the care they took not to jostle me, the pain was almost unbearable.
Once I was safely in the chair, the nurse went to speak with my parents while the orderly wheeled me down the hallway into a room 2 doors down from mine. I didn't even recognize the boy in the bed, but it had to be John. His entire face was swollen and discolored, his left arm was in a cast, and a breathing tube was taped into place in his mouth. The orderly pushed my wheelchair as close to the bed as possible and told me he'd give me a few minutes with John and then take me back to my room, but the words barely registered.
I was hoping John would be awake so I could talk to him, but he was still unconscious. I reached over and took hold of his right hand, the one part of him that wasn't obscured by tape and medical equipment. Hot tears stung my eyes as I looked him over, numb from the shock of his appearance. His stomach bulged out noticeably, and my curiosity got the best of me. I let go of his hand and as gently as I could, I pulled the thin blanket down to see what was causing the distension.
John's stomach was covered in surgical bandaging, and there was quite a bit of blood seeping through it. He must have just gotten out of surgery recently, but why would they operate on his stomach? Horrified, I tried to pull the blanket back up with my shaking hands but I must have bumped the dressings because his heart rate suddenly spiked, causing the machines to start beeping madly. A severe-looking woman rushed in, his nurse I assumed, and saw me fumbling with the blanket. She gave me a dirty look as she strode over to silence John's monitors, and called loudly for the orderly to take me out of there. My face burned with tears and embarrassment as I was pushed back to my room, and I couldn't forget the sight of that horrible-looking bandage on John's stomach. I had to find out what happened.
The next few days were full of pain and frustration. Nobody would tell me how my pelvis got broken or what happened to John's stomach, and several times I saw cops talking to my parents just outside the door to my room. Their conversations were always just barely too quiet for me to eavesdrop on, but one time I heard my mom say in a clipped tone, "No, she's not ready yet!". Not ready for what?
After about a week though, I finally got a break. I managed to forge a sort of friendship with one of my nurses, a young one, and after much pleading I finally got her to tell me what had happened to John and I.
The night of the party, after we'd been gone for several hours, John's friends started to get worried and a few of them ventured out into the forest to try and find us. They shouted themselves hoarse calling our names and when we didn't answer, they went back to the house and called 911. John's parents were called along with mine, and a search party was organized. Thanks mostly to the police dogs, we were finally found at the edge of the forest, but the sight that greeted the search party was a horrific one.
We were both unconscious when they found us. John's jaw was broken along with his left arm, and he was missing a lot of teeth. His shirt was torn halfway off, and his stomach had been ripped open by what the searchers assumed at the time was a wild animal. I was found completely naked and covered with blood and handprint-shaped bruises. Copious amounts of blood flowed from between my legs as well.
When they got us to the hospital, our injuries were found to be much worse than they initially thought. It turns out I had been assaulted so violently that they couldn't even perform a rape kit. The nurse told me, her voice breaking, that when they took me into surgery, the doctors had a hard time fixing me up because none of my reproductive organs were even in the right place anymore. She told me with tears in her eyes that there had been so much damage that they had to remove everything down there- uterus, ovaries, everything- and that it took all their skill to rebuild what was left into something functional. One of the handful of pills I'd been choking down daily during my stay there was estrogen, and I'd have to take it for the rest of my life.
Numbly I asked her about John's stomach. She hesitated, knowing she was violating HIPAA and risking her job, but told me that when they got him on the operating table, the abdominal wound that was initially thought to be the work of a coyote or wild cat was found to have been deliberately inflicted. The edges were clean, and it was obvious that he had been cut open with a sharp knife. As the surgery progressed, the surgeon discovered that a substantial section of his small intestine had also been cleanly cut out as well. In the end they managed to get us both cleaned up and put back together for the most part, but they still had no idea who had done this to us.
I knew though.
The man from the house had done this to us. I had been the night's entertainment, and John had been the midnight snack. I wonder if his intestines were in a jar in that old fridge, or if they'd been eaten quickly instead.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It finally made sense why my mother had told the cops that I wasn't ready yet; they obviously wanted to get a statement from me for their investigation. I ended up calling them in myself when my parents weren't there and told them I was ready to talk, and I told them in detail exactly what had happened that night, at least the parts that I could remember anyway. I told them all about the man, the body parts in the fridge, and where to find the house. They came back the next day and told me they'd found the house, but that there had been no one there, no signs of anyone having been there for decades, and that there was nothing at all in the fridge. They asked me to tell them the whole story again from the beginning, and I knew it was because they didn't believe me. They thought I either made it all up or was delusional, and they wanted me to retell it to see if I'd slip up or change any of the details.
John and I both spent a long time in the hospital. He finally woke up after a week in the ICU, but he had a harder time recovering than I did. His wounds went septic and he had to be on heavy-duty antibiotics for weeks. He nearly died. Thankfully though, he pulled through and as soon as he was allowed to get out of bed, he started coming to visit me every day. We couldn't really talk due to his broken jaw being wired shut, so we mostly just laid in bed holding each other.
One day he handed me a note that said "its all my fault". I tore it up and angrily told him to never say that again. Yes, it was his idea to keep going farther into the woods, but there's no way he could have possibly known what was going to happen and I refused to let him take all the blame. We did a lot of crying together too.
I had to have months of physical therapy, both in hospital and at home. You have no idea how long the pain can linger when your entire lower half gets torn apart and rebuilt, but I eventually got to the point where I could walk and go to the bathroom without wracking pain. My mind though... that was a different story. You know how when something bad happens to a person, it takes a while for the reality of it to sink in? Well, I never understood how that worked before, but I do now. In the hospital it was all take your meds, let the nurse check your vitals, go to sleep, wake up, choke down a bit of food, wash, rinse, and repeat. You don't have time to think about what put you in there in the first place. At home though, laying in your bed late at night, all by yourself... you have plenty of time to think about and relive what happened to you. And that's exactly what I did.
Over the months following my release from the hospital, I had a complete mental breakdown. I couldn't get the horror of it all out of my head, I lived in constant fear of the man finding me again, and I became basically nonfunctional. I tried to commit suicide a couple times, and I spent 2 weeks in a mental hospital under 24-hour watch. In addition to my estrogen, I was now taking powerful antidepressants and even an antipsychotic as well. I was convinced the man was still out there, stalking me, and I couldn't stand to be in any rooms with windows at night.
There were nightmares too. Vivid reenactments, often with new twists and details that my now-sick mind invented. It was a rare night that I didn't have them, and John was the only one who could calm me down whenever I woke up screaming. After many a late night call to his house, my parents finally just asked him to move in with us so he could be there to soothe me when I needed him. I can't even put into words how much it helped to have him there. As horrible as that night in the woods was, one good thing came out of it- it rendered John and I inseparable. I don't think either of us would have made nearly as much progress as we did if we'd had to go it alone. I never went back to John's house ever again, and about a year after the incident his family packed up and moved away. John stayed with me though, and the following fall he started classes at the local college.
He earned his degree in engineering and we got married after he graduated. As much as it hurt to do it, I bade goodbye to my parents and we moved across the country to start over. We both wanted to get as far away from those woods as possible. I was mostly okay by then, functional again anyway, but I still had episodes where I'd lock myself in the closet after the sun went down because the windows scared me too much. When we had our new house built, John had the builders put in reinforced steel panels over all the windows that could be opened during the day and bolted shut at night. We put in a high fence around the backyard as well, and wired it to be electrified. Logically I know he's not out there trying to get to me, but still, the extra safety measures made me feel better.
Anyway, the incident happened in Arkansas and we live up north now. I won't say where, on the off chance that he might somehow be reading this, but there's over 1,000 miles between us and those woods now. I can't take any chances, I can't let him find us again or god forbid- hurt Amy.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
I was a silly, naive, sheltered little girl for the first 17 years of my life, but that night in the woods forced me to grow up. It opened my eyes. It showed me that the world is a wild, unsafe place, and it awakened primal instincts within me that I never knew I had. I know now that I can kill. If anyone tries to hurt my young, my mate, or even my pets, I will attack with deadly force. I keep weapons hidden all over the house, some that John doesn't even know about, just in case I have to defend us. All tucked safely out of reach of my baby's curious little hands of course, but easily accessible to me. My little girl will never go through what I went through, she will never know what it's like to have her innocence violently stolen. I lost my virginity to a monster, one who is still out there somewhere, but I will not let her suffer the same fate.
I need to be more careful in the future though. There have been some... accidents. I always make John a big, delicious dinner every time he has to dig another grave, but I know he's getting tired of coming home and having to spend his evening working outside. The back field is starting to fill up too. We live in a rural area and we've been able to dispose of most of the trespassers, but a couple of them ended up being missed. If John didn't make such good money, we wouldn't have been able to afford the amazing attorney who got me off on an insanity plea and the "stand your ground" law.
I showed remorse in court like the lawyer instructed me to, but I'm not sorry. They all deserved it. You don't just come to someone's home unannounced, even if it is your "job" to harangue strangers about God. It's simple- if I perceive you as a threat, I strike. Humans are animals after all, and I was just following my animal instincts to protect my kin. For John though, I'm trying really hard to count to ten and let people announce their intentions before I kill them. I have an appointment next week with a new doctor and I promised John I'd take the pills for real this time instead of just hiding them under my tongue and spitting them out when he wasn't looking. I have to make sacrifices for my family. Another round of lawyer fees would bankrupt us, and I already promised Amy we'd go to Disneyland this summer.
I don't look forward to when she starts dating though... those poor boys.
Saturday, June 20, 2015
I'm still alive (for now)
Just a quick post to let you all know I'm still alive and haven't abandoned this blog. I'm currently on vacation for the next 2 weeks but I'll have some downtime soon and I plan to finish up a story in the next few days. Also- I GOT A NEW WRITING LAPTOP! It's actually just a tablet with a keyboard dock, but it runs full windows 8.1, it's got a quad-core proc, expandable storage, USB ports, and it actually runs really well. Nice & quick. It's no Surface pro but it's quite a bit of bang for the buck($227 @ wal-fart). Let's just hope I don't piss off any more otherworldly beings, I don't want this one breaking too :S
Okay, I'll shutup now. I'll try to post something at least mildly spooky soon so you all don't lose interest.
Okay, I'll shutup now. I'll try to post something at least mildly spooky soon so you all don't lose interest.
Sunday, June 7, 2015
Welcome readers!
Hello everyone! I thought I'd get the blog rolling by posting a bit of an introduction.
First off, I make no claim to be an excellent writer but it is definitely one of my greatest passions. I've always loved both reading and writing, and English/Literature/Language Arts were the only classes I ever cared about or excelled in. My favorite assignments have always been essays and any other kind of writing assignments. In 11th grade we did a unit on Beowulf and we each had to write a short story from an alternate character's point of view and I chose Grendel. The teacher read my story to the whole class(embarrassing me half to death at the time) and told me after class that it would be a crime if I didn't become a writer. I'll probably rewrite that story and post it here to see what you all think, but that just goes to illustrate how long I've loved writing stories. Funny tidbit of trivia about me- I got almost all of my tattoos for free by writing. I have a friend who's a tattoo artist, and I wrote his college essays for him in exchange for tattoos. He got As, I got ink, and I enjoyed writing them too so everyone wins!
Most of my stories are inspired by the vivid nightmares I've had ever since early childhood, though some are inspired by real-life events like the one I'm going to post a bit later on tonight. I've always been too self-conscious to ever let anyone else read them, I'm my own worst critic and I often reread my stories and cringe, but recently I let my husband read one and thanks to his very warm and encouraging reception and at the request of a few dear friends, I've decided to start posting them online. Most are scary, some are extremely dark and twisted, and some are just plain weird, and I sincerely hope you enjoy reading them. I must warn you though that I'm a compulsive editor, I often will go back and reread the things I write and edit the shit out of them so you'll have to forgive me if I do that here. My writing style is; write it all down in one fell swoop, go back and proofread, change tons of stuff, then publish. Then proofread again and edit the hell out of it some more. I will REALLY try not to do that here, but I can't promise anything.
Happy reading!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)