December sixteenth, one am. There is no rest for me tonight outside the
wind house with yet another winter storm. And here in this remote Kevin the
University has so graciously afforded me. I find the gale closely resembles the sound
of a woman screaming. It is maddening to tuls in turn, like I
have so preoccupied with falling asleep that the effort itself is what is keeping me
awake. So I returned to these pages once more, a man half craved
with exhaustion. Yet the impulse to record these musings jolts the energy to my
bones that is so strangely absent during waking hours. This morning I found a
new set of tracks going past my front door. A closer inspection indicated that
it was a quadrupedal creature traveling fast. I couldn't help but wonder if the
animal had survived the night. This wilderness was like none other I have studied
before. It's being so barren and cold and dark. To my knowledge,
the only predators out there are bears and wolves, the former of which should
be hibernating. Photos were taken, observations noted, and uploaded accordingly. My
venture into the surrounding woods had been fruitful as well. The subtle signs of
life had whispered all around me, bracing themselves for the coming storm. The
piny branches reached heavenward, gathering what sunlight they could. The bark of the
aspen stripped repeatedly by what was likely I heard of deer, the shrill call
of a hawk, and circling patiently as it sought out its dinner. The
wonder of nature, even in the dead of winter, it seems, the
cold never truly sleeps. My own dinner had been a heated can of chilli
and several pieces of French bread, smothered and butter. The supplies come every
two weeks, and I'm learning how to ration them without allowing the fresh produce
to go to waste. I suppose, in a way I should be grateful
for this solitude, for this chance to study over the holiday break, so
that I may record and publish my findings in next semester's journal. But even
so it can get eerie at times, especially when I cannot sleep. Before
making another futile attempt at slumber, I feel the need to record one puzzling
aspect of today's trek, as I'm certain it will fade from my memory and
time. Upon my return, just before sunset, I found what looked to
be initials carved into an aspen tree, not more than twenty yards from my
front door. Now I'm positive it was not there when I first left.
The sloppy letters resembling an M and an E were just about the size of
my hand, and surely I would have noticed those when I first headed out.
Either that or I was preoccupied with the journey to come that I simply
passed right by it. I could see the letters when I turned to look
from my front door. It was bizarre but intriguing. Perhaps I have a
neighbor. December eighteen, eleven, seventeen pm. The storm lasted straight through
the past two days, making any travel impossible. Outside my window, it
has been nothing but a wash of white, and the world gone quiet and
blank as canvas. I've attempted to head to bed early, but to no
avail. Being cooped up with these four walls has not done me any favors.
I'm sure my body is restless, but my mind entirely preoccupied with my
lack of progress, the halt of my work, and a single streak upon
my only window. I had discovered it upon waking this morning. This must
be the isolation. I've been fascinated by it all day. The window adjacent
to my front door had a line drawn in the frost down its dead center,
about a foot in length, as if someone had pressed their finger to
the icy glass outside and swiped downward. It brought dim recollections of me doing
this as a child, except would draw stick figures or write my name.
Did someone come to my window? I've tried to make reasonable assumptions. Perhaps
a chunk of snow had fallen from the roof and grazed the glass on its
way down, or maybe the wild wind had blown something against my window and
I just hadn't noticed it. But a quick assessment had proved neither of these
things were possible, as the snow beneath the pane was as smooth as the
landscape. It was white. It was white. It was white. No
pile of dislidge snow, no foreign object laying atop the powder. I've settled
on the likelihood that whatever it was is buried beneath the drifts. The accumulation
has been swift and steady while the storm rages on I stay awake tonight now
wondering what else may the snow have hidden. December nineteenth, two seventeen A
m A snowman. These writings are becoming a habit of mine now. I'm
not sure why, but I feel most inclined to pin my thoughts as the
night slips into the wee hours of the morning. This night, I am
more justified in it, I think, after the events of this morning.
I was glad to see that the storm had finally abated upon waking, and
so I made a fullheartedly effort to shovel what path I could outside my front
door. The process was slow going, and I was so preoccupied with my
task I had failed to notice the latest addition to my wintry landscape. I
had thought at first I was hallucinating that the sunlights glare against the snow was
hindering my vision. But no, situated by the tree that bore the mysterious
initials was a snowman facing my small dwelling. The sight of it, and
even thinking of it now, makes my heart drop. Someone is out there
this wilderness with me, someone who no doubt finds these small intrusions on my
privacy quite entertaining. Even now I cannot make sense of it. There are
no neighborhoods nearby, no cities, no easy means of transport. My study
on the habitats of local Alaskan wildlife had deemed it necessary that I would be
placed quite literally in the middle of nowhere. The possibility of campers in this
wild land at this time of year simply does not seem possible. I have
decided the most likely culprits are my home based team back in Anchorage, who
ensure my supplies will be delivered to me. I cannot imagine while Mac or
Leslie would think this is funny, but it's the only thing that makes any
sense. They are the only humans I know for a fact. We're out
this way just a few days ago to drop off my latest load. Now
I do not want to sit here and dwell on how this could be and
where they're staying, or why. I can barely sleep as it is.
And as soon as I saw the snowman grinning cheekily with his pebble mouth,
some powerful sort of rage had come over me, and I had barreled through
the snow just to knock off its head, and if Leslie or Mac think
this is funny. Well, the department head. We'll be hearing about this.
They never struck me as to be so unprofessional. From where I sit
now, I can just make out my newly decapitated friend. It seems silly,
but I feel a sense of satisfaction that I had gotten them back as
pretty as it is. Maybe now I'll be able to get some sleep.
December nineteen eleven, eleven am. It's back. I don't know how this
is possible, but the damage thing is back. I woke late this morning,
sleep deprived as I am, and I went about my usual routine before
heading outside to begin my hike into the nearby woods. And there it was.
The head was back in place. I don't know how this happened.
No one has been here. I'm sure of it this time, because there
are no tracks in the snow. Let this record show that I didn't dream
any of this. December twenty two, fifty six am. I will not
be sleeping tonight. I'm keeping guard with only my raging thoughts and endless cups
of coffee to keep me company. Whoever is doing this is not going to
be allowed to continue. I cannot sleep, I cannot focus. I cannot
relax, Harmless prank or not. This is having a vast effect on my
studies, and I will not allow it to go on. Even as I
write this, I'll pause every few moments to glance out the window and ensure
that damn snowman is not standing. I destroyed it earlier today after I got
back from my journey. A snowman cannot build itself, so I will sit
here all night if I have to, until I catch the culprit in the
act. I've given it some thought and realized that it would certainly be feasible
for mac Leslie or Dmitri, maybe all three of them, to be camping
out somewhere nearby. It's entirely possible, even in sub zero temperatures. I've
heard some of the locals do it with state of the art and extremely expensive
camping gear, and why they would go to such extremes is beyond me,
and it's taking everything within me to not call the university the first chance I
get. There's only one thing I do not understand. Though the other instances,
it was easy to trace back the lack of evidence to the storm and
the consistent snowfall, But for the life of me. I cannot figure out
how they did it this last time around without leaving any footprints in the middle
of the night too. Is that really how far they're willing to go for
a stupid prank? God, I need some sleep. My mind is a
jumbled mess, and once this is all figured out, I'm going to sleep
for an entire day. December twenty two, twelve fifty nine am. Every
time I knock it down, it's back. It's back, and I never
see or hear anything. I call the university today, finally fed up,
and I was informed that Leslie had been out sick for a week and Mac
was visiting family for the holidays. Dmitri was accounted for two though. I
had stopped listening when they told me that someone is out here. Someone is
watching me and taunting me. The snowman stands guard no matter how many times
I knock him down, so I stopped trying. His daily resure have completely
unnerved me, and I feel like I have to get out of here.
But there's another storm coming tonight, a big one, and I'm effectively trapped
for the next few days. My studies have ceased, my mind and my
cabin is a mess. I do not feel safe here. This journal has
become my only solace. The wind is howling once more and earlier tonight.
I could do little else but stare into the darkness, the breath cold in
my throat, waiting for the door to open, or the window to shatter,
or some ghostly apparition to appear by my bedside. I wonder now if
the isolation is driving me mad, if I am somehow imagining all this.
I have read up and heard of such things happening before the cold, the
dark, the solitude. These things play tricks on our primitive minds, and
even in that vein I cannot explain the fear I suddenly have. These pranks
have been harmless, as unnerving as they are, they bear no real threat.
Yet the eeriness of it has sunk into my bones and into my subconscience,
so that in the rare moments I finally fall asleep. It is all
I dream about. Damn it all I am afraid. December twenty five,
twelve a m. Midnight. I have seen something I cannot explain. It
defies description, It defies logic, It defies all laws of God and man.
God help me, God help me. I do not know what to
do. The door is barricaded, and the storm has knocked out my power,
and it's circling around my cabin now seeking away in and no doubt it
will succeed. Oh God, the sounds it makes is like something from the
gates of Hell. Tever finds this. Must know the truth of what is
out here. Forget all that you have been told, because what I'm seeing
will haunt me to my dying breath. It's at my door, it's here,
the photos and documentation are in my The night was silent and draped in
an inky darkness that swallowed the whole world outside the small security room, I
sat alone, surrounded by an array of flickering screens that illuminated my face in
a ghastly blue glow. The hum of surveillance equipment was the only sound in
the room. It's monotony broken only by the occasional creak of the buildings settling
or the distant wail of a siren. I was a lone sentinel, task
with safeguarding the premises during the bewitching hours of the night shift. Hours had
passed since I settled into my chair, and my eyes had diligently scanned the
labyrinthine halls and desolate rooms of the building. Everything appeared to be as it
should, empty, lifeless, and early quiet. But as the clock ticked
deeper into the night, a sense of unease settled in the pit of my
stomach. The air seemed charged with a palpable tension, as if something sinister
alurked just beyond the reach of the camera lenses. I leaned forward, adjusting
my seat and peering closer at one of the monitors, and in the dim
light, the corridor appeared to stretch endlessly, the flickering fluorescent lights casting long,
ominous shadows on the walls. As my eyes started across the screen,
I saw a movement, a mere blur at the edge of the frame.
My breath caught in my throat, and I focused on the camera. My
heart was pounding. There in the grainy black and white footage was a figure.
It was tall and gaunt, its features obscured by shadows. The figure
moved slowly, almost purposefully, down the hallway, its gait uneven and unsettling.
I squinted, trying to make out any distinguishing features, but the face
remained hidden, shrouded in darkness. A shiver crept up my spine as I
grabbed the radio at my side. Central this is security. I've got a
visual on an unidentified person in corridor Sea. I need backup, static crackled,
before the voice responded, thick with sleep gopy that we're sending someone your
way. Stay on the line. I nodded, my eyes, never leaving
the screen. The figure continued its eerie saunter, disappearing momentarily from one camera's
view, only to reappear on another. It seemed to be toying with me,
always staying just out of clear sight, a phantom in the night.
Minutes dragged on like hours as I waited for the arrival of my colleagues.
The figure persisted in its haunting stroll, growing closer to the main entrance with
every passing moment. I gripped the edges of my desk, my knuckles turning
white, and I watched in tread as it reached the lobby. As if
sensing my gaze, the figure turned its head toward the camera and I gasped
its eyes. Two points of cold blue light glowed in the darkness, fixated
on the lens as if it could see me, and I recalled, and
my heart pounding so loudly that I could hear it in my ears. Central
it's looking at the camera, I stammered into the radio. I need someone
here now. The response was a garbled mess of static and fragmented words.
Desperation clauded me as I watched the figure approach the security room. It moved
with an unnatural grace, its movement silent and deliberate. My fingers fumbled for
the door lock, and I managed to secure it just as the figure reached
the hallway outside and the lights flickered, casting an eerie shadow across the room,
and I pressed myself against the wall, my breath shallow and rapid.
I could hear its footsteps, now soft and deliberate, as it approached the
door, and each step sent a chill down my spine, and I prayed
that the lock would hold. The figure stopped just outside the door, and
I held my breath, willing myself to be invisible. And through the frosted
glass window, I saw its silhouette, tall and imposing, its hand reached
out, fingers curling around the doorknob. Now, I bent down hard on
my lip to stifle a scream, my entire body tense, ready to bolt
at a moment's notice. Seconds stretched into an eternity before the figure withdrew its
hand and I heard its footsteps fading away down the corridor, and relief washed
over me, But it was short lived. The building seemed to groan in
sigh around me, the very walls whispering secrets that I couldn't comprehend. Summoning
my courage, I cautiously unlocked the door and peeked into the hallway. It
was empty, devoid of any sign of the figure, and I hesitated for
a moment before venturing out my flashlight, casting shaky beams of light across the
wall. The air was thick with a sense of dread, and I could
feel the unseen eyes watching my every move. I retraced the figure steps,
my footsteps echoing in the empty corridors. Each flickering light and distant sounds sent
my heart racing. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being followed,
that the figure was still there, just out of sight, waiting for the
perfect moment to strike. I finally reached the lobby, my eyes scanning the
area for any signs of movement. The room was still, the silence broken
only by the distant wail of sirens. I let out a shaky breath,
and my nerves frayed to the breaking point. Whatever had been in the building
with me was gone, but its presence lingered, a haunting memory etched into
the very walls. I made my way back to the security room, my
steps quickening with each passing moment, and as I entered, I glanced at
the monitors, half expecting to see the figure staring back at me, but
the screens were empty, showing only empty halls and deserted rooms. I sank
into my chair, my hands trembling as I reached for the radio central.
This is security. I I think it's gone. I don't know what it
was, but it's gone now. The response was a crackle of static,
and then a voice came through, tinged with concern. Are you all right?
Do you need medical assistance? I hesitated for a moment before shaking my
head, even though I felt far from all right. Now, I'm fine,
Just shaken up, that's all. I'll be okay. The sun began
to rise, casting a faint light through the windows and dispelling the darkness that
had settled over the building. My relief was palpable, but the memory of
that night would forever haunt my dreams. I had come face to face with
something beyond my explanation, something that defied logic and reason. As the day
shift arrived to relieve me, I gathered my belongings and made my way to
the exit. The building, once familiar and comforting, now felt alien and
menacing. I stepped out into the daylight, the warmth of the sun dark
contrast to the cold grip of fear that still clung to me. I glanced
back at the building one last time, my eyes drawn to the security room
window, and for a brief moment, I thought I saw a flicker of
movement inside, a shadowy figure standing amidst the monitors. But it was gone
in an instant, leaving me to wonder if it had ever been there at
all. I walked away, my footsteps quickening with every step. The world
around me seemed to blur, the events of the night replaying in my mind
like a nightmare. I didn't know what I had encountered, and I wasn't
sure I wanted to. Some things, it seems, were better left in
the darkness where they belonged, Albert said, quietly, awaiting his turn along
with the rest of the crowd gathered on the town common. He had been
selected as one of the town's people who would contribute to the contents of the
city's two hundredth anniversary time capsule. It would be placed at the foot of
the new statue, commemorating the soldiers that had been perished in various wars over
the years. He wasn't a member of the military, although he did have
family members who served and died. He was denied admission to the military because
he had lost two fingers in a farm accident when he was just a young
boy. After learning of his rejection, many of his classmates took to pointing
with the fingers he liked and making jokes at his expense. His family was
one of the first families to settle in the small town that would become a
mid sized city in the Midwest. His great grandfather started a farm in a
lumber business that became a success. The family fortune in the name would grow
along with the town. When his parents passed away, he became the richest
man in the city, but that did nothing to improve his social standing.
He was still quietly shunned by the more active social groups. He was only
invited to events where donations were important. They always needed money, and he
had more than most of them combined. He hated the affairs, but felt
obligated to attend out of respect to his family. No matter his age,
whenever he was there, he always felt like the little boy that everyone pointed
fingers at and laughed. Other than his family name, Albert was as forgettable
as any man you would ever meet. He was short and plain and frail.
He led a quiet life running a business his grandfather had started back in
the early nineteen twenties. He was happy for a few years when he met
his w wife. She was the only person in his life that ever truly
loved him for who he was and not what he had. They married when
he was thirty two and she was twenty seven. She was a social gadfly
and was loved by everyone that met her, and they both wanted a family,
but his wife passed away before they had children. After she passed away,
he lost interest in life in general. He was recognized as a pillar
of his community, was active in every social group, and contributed what money
he could whenever asked but he was active because he knew his wife would have
wanted him to be. He volunteered whenever the need arose. He volunteered as
a firefighter, and when hikers and children are residents from the surrounding towns were
lost, he would guide the search parties. He was only seventeen years old
the first time he joined a search party. He was seventy one when he
joined the last one. The searches found many of the missing, but there
were many dozens over the years that were never found, adults and children,
males and females, cases that were never solved. There were cold cases,
as they were referred to by law enforcement. There were many theories that followed
the cases. People believed it was the work of occultist or a sex pervert.
Many suspected a jealous husband, but the murders were done in different ways
with different weapons, and that made it impossible for the task force to find
the killer. The last unsolved murder was committed almost five years ago, and
by now the people had almost forgotten it. No one seemed interested in discovering
the identity of the mysterious monster. Only the killer was still craving the fame
and notoriety he felt that he deserved. He had expected to be discovered years
ago and taken to leaving small clues at the crime scenes, hoping the detectives
would put them together. But despite the years and the abundance of forensic evidence,
the authorities never came close to identifying the killer. The media never even
gave the killer a name. Despite the killer's efforts to give the police clear
clues to help them find him, he wasn't even sure they ever linked the
crimes together. Now, Albert had volunteered to work on the task forces and
had done his best to track down the killer. No matter how hard he
worked, no investigation ever came close to finding the killer. What the people
who had been chosen to contribute added to the time capsule would remain a secret.
The contents were intended for the residents that would be there one hundred years
from now. Albert had decided that the string of murders were a vital part
of the town's history, even if they were an er part of the town's
history. Maybe he could contribute in a way so that people in the future
would be able to finally reveal the identity of the person that terrified their town
one hundred years before. He reverently placed the small metal box into the concrete
container along with all the other trinkets and mementoes. He stepped back and stared
at the box as it was lowered and covered, enshrined in the soul for
the next hundred years. The box he had placed in the capsule was very
special. It was a box his grandfather had kept all of his prize possessions
in. The contents he had placed in the box were every bit of special.
The capsule would be opened one hundred years from now. It meant that
it would be another hundred years before the town before the world finally knew who
the killer was. In the box he had placed in the capsule were twelve
different fingers from twelve different victims. They were his favorite trophies from the seventy
three victims that he had kidnapped, tortured, and killed over his lifetime.
He had cut off many pieces of his victims over the years, but fingers
were his favorites. More than a few of them were from people that had
enjoyed pointing their fingers at him. They made sure to point their fingers at
them when he was done cutting them to pieces. Along with the fingers was
a map indicating where the remains still survived and could be found one hundred years
later. On the map was the location of the home that he'd lived in
all his life and assigned confession. Maybe in some distant lifetime he would finally
get his own name in the papers. The asylum security surveillance room was a
claustrophobic chamber adorned with peeling wallpaper, crumbling shelf stacked with aged records, a
small wooden desk, and an uncomfortable metal chair that creaked under the most minute
amount of weight. A single rotary dial telephone sat on the desk. A
thick layer of dust covered every surface but the desk and chair, and the
dim overhead light bulb flickered sporadically, casting eerie shadows across the aging linoleum floor
that peeled in the corners. The centerpiece of this dilapidated room was a massive
wall lined with outdated grayscale CCTV monitors. Each monitor displayed a different section of
the asylum, a haunting panorama of deserted hallways and medical examination rooms furnished with
rusting metal beds and equipment. There were large dining areas and office spaces in
various other rooms, possibly used for forms of recreation. The monitors were ancient
relics of bygone eras. Their screens emitted a faint, sickly glow that seemed
to exaggerate the shadows lurking in the corners of the rooms. The images displayed
were grainy and distorted and pixelated. A small handwritten label accompanied each screen,
indicating the location of the video feed. The cameras themselves, once cutting edge
technology, were now obsolete and barely functional, occasionally losing connection for a few
seconds at a time. The crackling audio of static from the occasional disconnected video
feeds added to the eerie ambience. It was as if the very essence of
the asylum had seeped into the wires and circuits, impuning and unsettling presence into
the surveillance system. James was two hours into his new job and already regretting
accepting the position. As a college drop out, struggling to make ends meet,
the job posting for a part time security surveillance officer with great pay was
almost too good to be true. There were no certifications or education required to
apply, and the agency didn't even require any previous experience. The pay was
nearly double the current minimum wage, and the only downside to the posting had
been the hours from nine pm until five am. James was surprised to find
that he was the only one to accept the position following the interview. On
willing to let such a good paying opportunity pass, He agreed to all the
terms he was presented during his interview and had no follow up questions of his
own when asked as such, He was hired on the spot and given the
time in the address of his first shift. Looking back, James realized he
should have asked at least a few questions, such as where he would be
working and why no one else had accepted the position following the interview. This
sanitarium was built in the nineteen twenties and was nestled deep within the forest of
the Pacific Northwest. The nearest city, taking at least an hour and a
half by car, was Portland, Oregon, and the hospital consisted of three
separate buildings. The central four story building contained the medical rooms, the recreational
suites, and other administrative offices. Each two story wing building housed bedrooms with
minimal furniture, a dining hall complete with roads of tables and chairs, and
basements with locked holding rooms. Only. The hallway leading to the doors for
the holding rooms contained a camera in each basement. Every room in the sanitarium
still contained original furniture from the time it was abandoned, as if all inhabitants
simply left for the day and never returned. Vacated in the late nineteen fifties,
the entire property was left untouched for nearly seven decades. Courtyards, fields
and small farming patches were overgrown, nearly reclaimed by the forest whose land it
was built upon, and despite the impending vegetation, the buildings themselves were surprisingly
in good condition, despite the rust and the mold and the riting surfaces.
Upon relieving the daytime officer at nine o'clock, a gangly old man who provided
no explanation of his duties other than to not fall asleep, James settled in
for the night. The metal chair behind the desk protested against his weight,
and he made a mental note to bring a cushion for his next shift,
Figuring he would need help staying awake and being kept from boredom, James brought
a backpack stocked with snacks and energy drinks, his hand held gaming console,
and a few books his sisters had lent him. He had wondered if he
would get in trouble for playing games or reading wall on duty, but how
hard could watching the screens of empty rooms be. Surely he would get in
more trouble for falling asleep rather than being partially distracted gazing between the monitors on
the wall before him. A sense of unease settled deep within his gut.
The screens were grainy and out of focus, an occasional ripple in the feed
given the effect of movement and catching his attention. The wall of monitors was
so wide that he had trouble viewing every screen without having to turn his head,
causing the screens of the opposite side to disappear from his focus entirely.
As the minutes ticked by with no changes, James relaxed and pulled his gaming
console from his pack. He kept the volume low just in case, and
was careful to peek at the screens between each level of his game. The
few games he owned that didn't require internet connection quickly lost his interest. He
glanced at the time on his cell phone. It was ten thirty nine and
a half into his shift and he was already bored. James reached for his
backpack. The scratchy sound of static caught his attention. One of the screens
in the top row, which was labeled East Wing Dining Hall, showed nothing
but black and gray and white interference. His heart leaping into his throat,
James watched the lines dance across the screen. Less than a handful of seconds
later, the feed resumed and he was presented again with long rows of tables
and chairs. He breathed a sigh of relief, and James slumped back into
his chair, the metal groaning again in protest. Waiting for his heart rate
to settle, James took in the creepy aspects of the dining hall showing through
the feed. Long wooden tables made up the major already of the space,
Looking to be made of one solid piece of wood. James could only imagine
how heavy they must be. The chairs dotted the spaces between the tables.
They all pulled out and looked to have been haphazardly pushed around, a few
even laying on their sides, and in the far left corner, of the
room, a single door stood open, leading to the hallway beyond. James
attention was fixated on the chairs. Had they been pushed out from the tables
before racking his memory, he thought that they had been pushed in, not
that he had paid any special attention to the small details. Clearing his thoughts
with a shake of his head, he pulled one of his energy drinks out
and popped the cap. Perhaps he just remembered wrong. James pulled out a
notebook and pen and began taking notes on the condition of each room. More
for his piece of mind and to pass the time than any other reason,
he began taking specific notes about each room, starting with the main building.
He wrote lobby, large circular desk, rows of wheelchairs, neatly stacked,
multiple couches and chairs, rows of gurneys against the wall. Office, staff
rooms all the same, desk, chair, filing cabinet drawers, closed door
closed, medical examination rooms all the same, the patient bed. He hadn't
realized before just how uniform and orderly every room was for a mental hospital that
was supposedly abandoned. The only monitors he did not take notes on were the
ones facing outside toward the overgrown courtyards and fields. Satisfied, James checked the
time again. It was eleven o'clock, two hours down and six to go.
He flipped to a fresh page in his notebook and started another list,
this time with ideas of items to bring to help pass the time and fend
off the boredom. He also jotted down a note to do some research on
why this place had been abandoned and to inquire with his employer as to why
there was a need for twenty four hour surveillance. Blaring static calls James jump
and nearly knock what remained of his energy drink right off his desk. Another
camera feed had disconnected, this one labeled to be the main building inside of
the staff office. He waited for the static to clear, and he held
his breath just as before. The picture resumed. Only after a few seconds.
His sigh of relief lodged in his throat, nearly causing him to cough.
The filing cabinets were all open. Breathless, James stared at the screen.
Had the cabinets been opened before he could have sworn they were closed.
With shaking hands, he flipped through the pages of his notebook until he came
across the description for that camera feed filing cabinets he had written drawers closed standing,
James reached up and tapped the screen showing the office, as though this
act would either close the drawers or fix the feed to reflect what he had
jotted down in his notebook, and of course neither of those happened. James
lost track of how long he stood staring at the screen, unable to come
up with a cohesive thought. The sound of static blared once again. He
flinched so violently that he nearly lost his footing. Bracing himself on the desk
before him, James watched in the dawning terror as another screen fizzled with black
and gray and white lines. The label under the monitor read West Wing Basement
Hallway. When the image cleared, James kept his eyes focused on the label,
to afraid to see what change might have happened this time. The hallway
containing only doors, wasn't hard to guess. Slowly, he lifted his gaze
and confronted the screen. The door halfway down the hall was standing wide open.
From the angle of the camera, James could not see into the room,
something he was immensely grateful for. He did not need to reference his
notes this time, he knew the doors had all been closed. Sitting heavily
in his chair, James ran a clammy hand down his face. He could
do little more than stare at the screen and focus on his breathing. Once
his panic had settled slightly, he reached for his cell phone, intending to
call his employer. The time showed twenty four minutes past midnight. As he
tried to navigate towards the email that contained emergency contact numbers, he nearly slammed
the phone down on the desk as he realized that this far out into the
forest he had no signal. Snatching up the receiver of the old rotary dial
telephone on the desk, James spared only a second to thank his mother's love
of old movies for providing the knowledge of how to use such a relic.
Of This knowledge proved for naught, as the phone, though wired to the
wall, provided not even a doll tone. The line was dead. Movement
from one of the central screens startled him. He dropped the metal receiver.
Its impact with the wooden desk much too loud for the small, cramped room,
and it caused him to flinch again. James frantically scanned the monitors,
trying to find the source of the movement. All the screens were showing their
respective feeds, none having lost connection or filled with static. James forced a
few deep breaths, and though this did nothing to ease the panic sickness rising
from his stomach and up in his throat. His hands though cold sweated perfume.
He rubbed his palms on his jeans as he began pacing the small room.
He had half a mind just to leave. What was the worst that
could happen. He would get fired with how these first few hours were playing
out. Being fired, never coming back to this place wasn't much of a
deterrent. The small room housing the security surveillance was in a small, standalone
building that perhaps was once used to be a shit located just off the main
entry road and only a few steps from the entrance to the main building.
It would be all too easy to step outside and hop in his car and
leave this place far behind. There was more static in James Froe's mid stride
toward his backpack. Another feed had disconnected, and this time the label indicated
the camera that was in the main lobby. He waited once again with baited
breath for the camera to reconnect, and once the screen reappeared, a whimper
broke from him before he could stop it. The wheelchairs, which before were
placed in neat rows along the far wall, were now scattered throughout the lobby.
Most were still standing on their wheels. Others looked as though they were
thrown or kicked over, resting either on their sides or completely upside down.
A few gurneys previously against the other wall either knocked over as well or shoved
on top of the lobby receptionists and desk. The large double doors leading to
the front courtyard stood wide open. James would only need to open the door
to his surveillance room and turned to the right to see the open doors of
the institution. All thoughts of leaving the safety of this small room went away.
Within seconds, another feed dropped the room, filling with the harsh sound
of static once again. Before James could look to read the label, another
monitor flickered abruptly to black, gray and white fizzle lines, and then another
and another, until every single screen lost connection with their corresponding camera as abruptly
as it had begun. The first feed to disconnect refreshed once again. The
bedroom in the screen was in complete disarray. Sheets were shredded and tossed about
the space. The wardrobes drawers were pulled free from their frame, and the
empty containers tossed haphazardly around. The small desk was cracked down at center.
The screen jolted back to static as another feed cleared. This time it was
a medical examination room. Cabinets were torn open and equipment strewn about the space,
and surgical tools were embedded in the furniture and walls. And before James
could observe anything else, another screen cleared, pulling his attention away. All
the doors in the basement hallways of both wings were open. One was still
swinging on its hinges, as though whatever influence opened the door had done so
with force. Every monitor flickered between static and clear video feeds so quickly that
James was able to do little more than see snippets before the feed was either
disconnected or his attention was drawn to another screen. Every room was in complete
disarray, the level of destruction changing each time the feed fizzled out and returned.
The single fluorescent light in the ceiling of his small rooms surged brightly before
shattering, pitching the room in an eerie darkness, only interrupted by the flashing
black and white of the camera feeds. The scratching noise of static became more
than James could bear, and he longed to run, but terror held out
him in place. Having unconsciously backed into a corner of the room, he
buried his head beneath his arms, trying desperately to cut out the sound of
the static, and he wanted to scream, and though wasn't sure if perhaps
he already was screaming, as nothing could be heard over the interference. Huddled
on the floor, James peaked between his arms at the wall of monitors flickering
in and out of connection. A few times he thought he saw movement and
a monitor as it reflected a room, though the connection was cut too soon
for him to tell all at once. Every monitor but the middle most fizzled
to static and did not reconnect. From his huddle position in the corner,
James could not make out the screen's contents, though he could tell something was
different. Working up what smidgen of courage remained, he unfolded from himself and
crawled forward until he could see the details of screen. A small room was
shown, containing a single desk, a metal chair, a few shelves,
and a large wall of static screens. A figure was on their hands and
knees in the middle of the room, gazing toward the wall of monitors.
James was looking at himself. The view of the screen would place the camera
directly behind him, in the corner adjacent to where he huddled against earlier.
He did not have to turn and look to know there were no cameras in
this surveillance room. Too afraid to tear his eyes from the screen, it
fizzled to a static for only a fraction of a second before clearing again.
The screen was the same, except for another figure standing behind James in the
corner he had occupied only seconds before. A scream louder than the static ripped
from James's throat as he lurched forward and away from the entity. Without a
glance or a second thought, he grabbed his half open backpack and sprinted for
the door. Ice cold air stung his lungs and chilled his tear streaked cheeks
as he bolted for his car, and gravel and dirt flew from the spinning
tires as he sped away from the institute. Unable to resist, James glanced
in the rear view mirror. Next to the open double doors of the main
building stood a figure shrouded in darkness, watching the retreating form of his car
disappearing into the forest. In nineteen ninety seven, I lived in Lafitte,
Louisiana. It's a city across the river from New Orleans, where I'm from.
I was nineteen at the time and too young to get into the clubs,
so my brother, our friends, and I would either hang out at
a different local park, or sometimes we'd go to each other's houses. Another
place we liked to go three or four times a week was an old cemetery.
Seemed fun and it was kind of creepy, perfect for a group of
teens on the verge of manhood. Lafitte, like a lot of the New
Orleans area, was mostly suburban, but always in close proximity to the woods.
The cemetery where we hung out was right in the swamp. It was
very close to Jean Lafitte National Park. One night, it was just me
and my brother, who was a few years younger than me, and our
friend James riding around in James's car. It was something we did a lot
back then. When we got bored doing that, we decided to head to
the cemetery. We pulled up to the creepy old iron swing gate and James
pushed it open with his car, or maybe it was already open. I
don't remember. What I do remember is that something didn't feel right that night.
We pulled about ten feet beyond the gate and we stopped the car.
Cypress and oak trees loomed all around us in heavy coats of Spanish moss,
and it gave the impression of them being specters with arms raised, ready to
pounce. We all looked around us in silence, and I wasn't the only
one experiencing the oppressive atmosphere. The cemetery sat on the edge of a canal,
surrounded by miles of woods. On other occasions, we would get out
of the car and hang out in the peace and quiet of the night.
Sometimes we'd go for walks by the water, or maybe do the kinds of
stupid things teenagers do. But we didn't that night. As we all silently
stared out the windows, a feeling of dread fell over us. Something out
there was menacing and it wanted to kill us. I felt like a rabbit
in a field being watched by a hunter through a scope. It's easy to
dismiss our experience as three teenagers getting creeped out by a cemetery, but this
was different. I've never felt anything like that before or since, not in
any other cemetery, not even when I've camped out in the woods for weeks
at a time. There was a presence in that graveyard, and it wanted
to hurt us. We sat there for a couple of minutes before James says,
I'll tell you what, We're gonna turn around and we're gonna get our
happy backsides out of here. We were back on the road a matter of
minutes, and we didn't look back. I don't know what was in the
cemetery that night. Being of strong religious beliefs, I've always attributed it to
something demonic. I still think that is most likely the answer, but lately,
after listening to a lot of your stories, I'm beginning to wonder could
it have been something else? Were we being watched by an angry bigfoot or
a dog man? No matter how many times I've tried to tell people about
that night. I've never been able to come up with the right words to
describe how threatened we all felt. And no matter how many times I've been
in the woods, both before and after that night, the one place I
know I'll never go again is anywhere near that cemetery. Something lives there,
and it doesn't like visitors. Hane sat in the dim glow of the CCTV
screens, the soft buzz of electronics filling the otherwise silent room. As the
security guard for a remote government research facility. His nights were typically uneventful,
but Haini didn't mind the solitude. After serving as a calf scout at Fort
Bragg and being accustomed to high pressure situations, to monotony was almost therapeutic.
His eyes, sharp and observant, moved from screen to screen, ensuring that
all was well within the facility's sprawling compound. It was said to be focused
on minerals and energy research, but Haini's top secret clearance from his military days
told him there was likely more to the story. He often wondered what lay
beneath the ground level lapse. However, he wasn't paid to ask those questions,
as the hours. Crept by eyeflicker on Camera twelve caught his attention.
He leaned in closer. It displayed one of the deep underground tunnels where minerals
were extracted for testing. Hainey could see a shadowy figure standing still, almost
as if it was staring directly at the camera. The figure had no discernible
features, just an amorphous, ghostly silhouette. Chills ran down his spine and
his heart rate picked up. The underground sections were off limits during night hours,
and there weren't any other cars in the parking lot, his protocol dictated.
Haney reached for the phone to report the siding to his supervisor, but
the line was dead. He tried other lines, but they too were silent,
and a sense of unease settled in. After a few deep breaths,
Haney decided he had to investigate. Ensuring his firearm was secure and ready,
he left the comfort of the control room and ventured into the belly of the
facility. The halls echoed with footsteps, the sounds unnaturally loud, and the
stifling silence, and making his way to the entrance of the underground tunnels,
he swiped his clearance card. The heavy metal door hissed and slowly slid open.
Cold air met him as he began his descent, the temperature dropping with
each step. The walls were lined with embedded lights, and their pale blue
glow casting eary shadows. As Hati went deeper, he couldn't shake the feeling
that he wasn't alone. Finally reaching the spot from the CCTV feed, he
found nothing. A tunnel was empty, but the ground was marked as if
someone or something had been dragged. Haini's instincts told him to be on high
alert. Suddenly, a sound echoed through the tunnel, a faint whisper,
unintelligible, but undeniably human. It seemed to come from farther down the tunnel.
Haini followed, every sense heightened. The tunnel opened up into a cavernous
chamber filled with large crystalline structures. They pulsed with a soft light, and
in the center of the room stood the shadowy figure, its form more defined
now it seemed to be absorbing energy from one of the crystals. Hani gripped
his firearm and stepped closer, and the figure turned and its face, though
still indistinct, seemed to be twisted in pain or maybe sorrow, and it
spoke. Its voice echoing through the chamber helped me. The plea took Hane
aback. This wasn't a threat, It was a lost soul. But how
why? His training had prepared him for combat for threats, but not for
this. The figure moved closer, its form being clearer. It was a
man, or at least it had been at some point. The energy it
trapped me. I'm neither here nor there. Haini, realizing that the crystals
might wholesome power, approached one and touched it. The room pulsed, and
the figure let out a cry, beginning to dissipate before Haine's eyes. With
one last look of gratitude, it vanished completely. Breathing heavy, Hani backed
out of the chamber, the reality of what he had just witnessed weighing heavily
on his mind. He needed to get out to report this, to make
sure that no one else would suffer the same fate, so he raced back
through the tunnels. Every shadow made Hani's heart leap into his throat. He
tried to shake off the eerie sensation that clung to him, but the image
of the tormented figure was etched into his mind. The corridor lights, which
previously provided a comforting god, now seemed to flicker and dim, as if
the energy from the chamber was influencing the entire facility. Upon reaching the security
room, Haini instinctively reached for the communications console, desperate to report the night's
events. As he was about to dial out, a sudden, blinding burst
of energy emanated from the CCTV monitor, forcing him to shield his eyes.
The room's electronics buzzed angrily, and then all the screens went black. When
the surge subsided, Haney hesitantly approached the console. He attempted to pull up
the footage from the camera twelve, but the system resisted. After several failed
attempts, a chilling realization set in. The energy blast had wiped out all
the recordings from the night, and every trace of the shadowy figure the pulsating
crystals were all gone. Feeling a mix of frustration and disbelief, he tried
to restart the system, and the screens flickered to life one by one,
but they now only displayed the mundane visuals of an ordinary research facility. The
underground tunnel, once a source of eerie mystery, appeared undisturbed. Hainey sank
into his chair. His thoughts were old wind. He knew what he had
witnessed, but without evidence, who would believe him. The line between his
military passed in present reality blurred, leaving him questioning his own sanity. Hours
passed and dawn's light first began to creep into the room. The events of
the night felt like a distant dream, yet the weight in Haine's chest told
him it was all too real. He considered documenting everything, but without the
footage, it would be his word against the vast bureaucracy of the government.
The phone finally rang, piercing the room's silence. It was his supervisor,
checking in, as he did every morning. Everything all right, Haine,
came the voice over the line. Haine paused, hesitating, and then replied,
yeah, just another quiet night, sir. He knew it was far
from the truth, but with no evidence to back up his claims, what
could he say. As the day's shift began, the facility buzzed with activity,
oblivious to the night's events. Hainey, however, couldn't shake off the
memories. He sat there, surrounded by the hum of the restarted electronics,
staring at the screens as he always did, but with a newfound sensi bewilderment
and wonder about the mysteries that might still lie hidden deep within the facility's walls.
In a forgotten corner of a small, decrepit town nestled deep in the
Appalachian Mountains, a sinister legend whispered through the shadows. The townsfolk rarely spoke
of it openly, but every man, woman and child knew the story of
the Devil's bargain. It was said that once in a generation, a desperate
soul could make a deal with the devil himself, but the price was steep
and the consequences were dire. For Thomas Barrett, a once prosperous business man
who had fallen on hard times, Desperation had become his daily companion. His
family was teetering on the brink of destitution, and his business was crumbling faster
than the decaying timbers in his ancestral home. The mounting debts and the relentless
creditors had driven him to the brink of madness. On a moonless night,
as the winds howled like tormented spirits and rain pelted the world outside, Thomas
found himself sitting alone at his creaking oak desk. He stared at a stack
of unpaid bills and felt the gnawing emptiness in his chest. And it was
then that he remembered the ancient legend passed down through generations. A spark of
desperation flared within him, and he resolved to make the Devil's bargain with true
trembling hands. He scrawled a letter to the devil, addressing it to a
certain cave that stood sentinel at the edge of the town. The cave,
known as Devil's Hollow, was a place few dared to approach, for it
was said to be a gateway to the underworld. Thomas sealed the letter with
wax and placed it on his doorstep. As the clock struck midnight, he
watched the letter vanish into the darkness, seemingly carried away by an unseen hand.
Days turned into weeks, and Thomas's despair deepened. The creditors grew more
relentless, and the wolf of hunger loomed closer to his family's door. Just
when he thought all hope was lost, a chilling presence filled his room.
One night, he could feel eyes upon him, eyes colder and more malevolent
than any he had ever known. And then a voice like a rustle of
autumn leaves on a tombstone, whispered in his ear, Thomas Barrett, I've
heard your plea turning, he beheld a figure draped in shadows, its eyes
blazing like twin embers in the darkness. It was the Devil himself, come
to collect his due. Who are you, Thomas stammered, his voice quaking
with fear. I'm the one you saw, the devil replied. You ask
me for help, and I've come to offer it. But remember, Thomas
Barrett, nothing in this world is free. With those ominous words, the
devil laid out the terms of their agreement, and in exchange for Thomas's soul,
the devil would grant him immense wealth, success beyond his wildest dreams,
and the power to control the minds of those around him. The catch was
that he would have to carry out a task for the devil when called upon,
and there would be no questions to ask. Thomas, desperate and consumed
by greed, agreed to the devil's terms. A chilling contract written in blood
appeared before him, and he had fixed his signature with trembling hands. In
an instant, the contract vanished, and the devil disappeared into the shadows.
True to his word, Thomas's fortunes reversed overnight. His failing business surged with
newfound life, and his family lived in opulence. He became a revered figure
in the town, wielding power and influence like a king. Yet the darkness
that now dwelled within him was undeniable, a constant reminder of the pact he
had made. Years passed and Thomas had nearly forgotten the devil's bargain. But
on a stormy night, as he sat by the fire, a bone chilling
wind swept through his mansion. It carried with it the scent of brimstone and
the echoing laughter of the devil. He knew the time had come to fulfill
his end of the agreement. The devil's voice echoed in his mind, instructing
him to journey to the very cave where he had first made the pack.
With a heavy heart, Thomas set out, his every step, waited by
dread. He knew not what the devil would demand of him, but he
understood that there would be no escape. He entered the devil's hollow. The
cave's eerie glow bathed him in an other worldly light. At its heart,
he found a desolate altar, upon which lay a single white rose, untouched
by the ravages of time, and the devil materialized beside the altar, his
presence more formidable than ever. Thomas Barrett, the devil hissed, I've come
to collect. What do you want? Thomas pleaded, his voice a mere
whisper. The devil's eyes bore into him, and a wicked grin twisted his
lips. Your daughter, Emily, Thomas recoled in horror. No, not
my daughter. She is innocent, She knows nothing of our pack. That
is precisely why I want her. The devil replied, I crave the soul
of one untouched by sin, one pure and uncorrupted. She will serve as
my vessel in this world, and in return, your debt shall be considered
paid. Tears welled up in Thomas's eyes as he realized the depth of his
folly. He had traded his own soul for wealth and power, and now
he faced the unthinkable prospect of sacrificing his beloved daughter to the devil. I
beg you to please spare her, Thomas implored, take anything else but spare
her. The devil's laughter echoed through the cave, a sound that chilled Thomas
to his very core. There is no bargaining now, Thomas Barrett. You
may your choice, and now you must face the consequences. With a wave
of his hand, the devil conjured chains that bound Thomas to the altar,
and as he helplessly watched, the devil plucked the white rose from the stone
and crushed it in his hand, releasing a swirl of black smoke that enveloped
Emily, who lay asleep in her bed At that very moment, Thomas's heart
shattered as he realized that there was no escape, the price of his bargain
had been paid, and his daughter was now a vessel for a malevolent spirit
of the devil. With a final bone chilling cackle, the devil vanished into
the darkness, leaving Thomas alone in the desperate cave. The next morning,
the townsfolk discovered Thomas Barrett's lifeless body in Devil's hollow, his face twisted in
eternal torment. The mansion that had once been a symbol of his wealth and
power stood in ruins, consumed by flames that seemed to dance with the very
fires of Hell. Emily, now inhabited by the Devil's spirit, wandered the
town, her innocent demeanor replaced by sinister malevolence that sent shivers down the spines
of all who crossed her path. The legend of the Devil's Bargain lived on
in the town, a cautionary tale of the dangers of making deals with the
devil. The people spoke of Thomas Barrett's tragic fate, a once prosperous man
who had sacrificed everything for worldly riches and power, only to be consumed by
the darkness he had invited into his life. And so the small, decrepit
town in the heart of the Appalachian Mountains remained a place where the shadows whispered
of the Devil's Hollow, a place where desperate souls were warned of the price
they might pay for making deals with the devil in the dead of the night,
under the cold and moonless sky. All right, this is Cam Buckner.
I appreciate you listening to this podcast. If you enjoyed it, you
could follow me on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Stitcher, iHeart any podcast app.
Also on YouTube, we have a channel called Dixie Cryptid on the podcast
Network. It's called the what If It's True? Podcast. And all we
do is read stories to nice people. That's all I do. And I
hope you enjoyed this Halloween production. Spend more time on it than I have
any Halloween production because it was just fun to do and these were great stories.
So hope you guys have a great Halloween week and your kids get a
lot of candy and everybody's happy. I'll put out another Halloween podcast, probably
next weekend. I've got one long story it's too good to pass up,
so there'll be another one. Enjoy your week and we'll see you guys on
the next one. Thank you.