Speaker 1: For decades, people have disappeared in the woods without a trace.
Speaker 1: Some blame wild animals, others whisper of creatures the world
Speaker 1: refuses to believe in. But those who have survived they
Speaker 1: know the truth. Welcome to Backwoods Bigfoot Stories, where we
Speaker 1: share real encounters with the things lurking in the darkness bigfoot,
Speaker 1: dog man UFOs, and creatures that defy explanation. Some make
Speaker 1: it out, others aren't so lucky. Are you ready, because
Speaker 1: once you hear these stories, you'll never walk in the
Speaker 1: woods alone again. So grab your flashlight, stay close, and
Speaker 1: remember some things in the woods don't want to be found.
Speaker 1: Hit that follow or subscribe button, turn on auto downloads,
Speaker 1: and let's head off into the woods if you dare.
Speaker 1: Not all stories from the backwoods have to do with
Speaker 1: hairy giants lurking between ancient oaks and moss draped pines.
Speaker 1: Sometimes the most terrifying tales emerge from places that should
Speaker 1: feel like home, places where families are supposed to find peace,
Speaker 1: where children should run freely through tall grass, and where
Speaker 1: the only sounds at night should be crickets and the
Speaker 1: gentle creaking of old wood settling into sleep. Sometimes the
Speaker 1: darkness that haunts the countryside is far more insidious than
Speaker 1: any creature with glowing eyes and massive footprints. Sometimes it
Speaker 1: wears the face of a twelve year old boy. This
Speaker 1: is my story. My name is Marcus Hartwell, and what
Speaker 1: I'm about to tell you happened when I was twelve
Speaker 1: years old. During the summer, my family moved to an
Speaker 1: old farmhouse in rural Tennessee. I'm thirty seven, now married
Speaker 1: with children of my own, and I've never told this
Speaker 1: story in its entirety to anyone, not even my wife.
Speaker 1: But I think it's time. I think people should know
Speaker 1: what can happen when you move into a house that's
Speaker 1: been waiting for you. I remember the exact moment I
Speaker 1: first saw the house. Our station wagon was coughing and
Speaker 1: wheezing its way down a gravel road that seemed designed
Speaker 1: to shake fillings loose from your teeth, and my mother
Speaker 1: was gripping the door handle like her life depended on it.
Speaker 1: My ten year old sister Emma was complaining about the
Speaker 1: bumpy ride, buried in a comic book. As usual, I
Speaker 1: had my face pressed against the window, watching the landscape
Speaker 1: roll by. When the farmhouse emerged from behind a stand
Speaker 1: of ancient live oaks. Even at twelve, I knew something
Speaker 1: was wrong with the place. Not obviously wrong. It looked
Speaker 1: like any old farmhouse that had seen better days. Two
Speaker 1: stories of weathered white clapboard, a wide front porch with
Speaker 1: sagging columns, and a metal roof that showed rust stains
Speaker 1: like old blood. But there was something in the air
Speaker 1: around it, a heaviness that seemed to press down on everything,
Speaker 1: like an invisible weight. My father was trying to sound
Speaker 1: optimistic as he pulled into the circular drive, talking about
Speaker 1: character and potential. My mother was less convinced. I could
Speaker 1: hear it in her voice even then, but I wasn't
Speaker 1: really listening to them. I was staring at the upstairs windows,
Speaker 1: and I could have sworn I saw a movement behind
Speaker 1: the glass, just a flicker, a shift in the shadows
Speaker 1: that could have been anything. The front door was solid oak,
Speaker 1: painted deep green, though the paint was peeling like diseased skin.
Speaker 1: My father found the key under a loose porch board,
Speaker 1: a heavy brass key that looked like it belonged in
Speaker 1: a museum. The metal was tarnished, almost black, and there
Speaker 1: were strange symbols etched around the head. At the time,
Speaker 1: I thought they were just decorative. When the door swung open,
Speaker 1: the air that flowed out was cool and stale, carrying
Speaker 1: scents of old wood and forgotten meals. But underneath those
Speaker 1: normal house smells was something else, something organic and vaguely sweet,
Speaker 1: like flowers left too long in water. My sister immediately
Speaker 1: complained about the smell, but my parents dismissed it as
Speaker 1: the mustiness that accumulates in a house that's been closed
Speaker 1: up for too long. The interior was impressive, in an
Speaker 1: old fashioned way, wide hallways, high ceilings, hardwood floors that
Speaker 1: gleamed despite their age. In the living room, above a
Speaker 1: massive fireplace hung a portrait that immediately caught my attention.
Speaker 1: It showed a stern looking man in old fashioned clothing,
Speaker 1: and the brass plaque at the bottom read Jeremiah Blackwood
Speaker 1: eighteen forty seven to eighteen ninety one, He who walks
Speaker 1: between worlds. Even at twelve, I thought that was an
Speaker 1: odd thing to put on a portrait plaque. The kitchen
Speaker 1: looked like it had been frozen in time, complete with
Speaker 1: the table set for four plates, glasses, silverware, even cloth napkins,
Speaker 1: all covered in a fine layer of dust. My mother
Speaker 1: suggested the reltor had staged it, but that didn't explain
Speaker 1: why anyone would stage a table setting and then let
Speaker 1: it gather dust. I was drawn to the back door,
Speaker 1: where I could look out over fields that rolled away
Speaker 1: toward the tree line. In the distance, maybe half a
Speaker 1: mile away, I could see what looked like the ruins
Speaker 1: of an old barn. Its roof had collapsed and the
Speaker 1: walls leaned at impossible angles. But something about it held
Speaker 1: my attention. It looked familiar somehow, as if I'd seen
Speaker 1: it before in a dream I couldn't quite remember. By
Speaker 1: the time we finished unloading the car, the sun was
Speaker 1: setting behind the trees, and the house had taken on
Speaker 1: an entirely different character. What had seemed merely old in
Speaker 1: the afternoon light now felt ancient and watchful. In the darkness,
Speaker 1: the shadows weren't just shadows anymore. They were presences, dark
Speaker 1: shapes that seemed to shift when I wasn't looking directly
Speaker 1: at them. We had no electricity that first night. My
Speaker 1: mother found candles in a kitchen drawer and lit them
Speaker 1: throughout the house, but the flickering light only made the
Speaker 1: shadows dance more ominously. We ate cold Chinese tape out
Speaker 1: at that dusty table, and I couldn't shake the feeling
Speaker 1: that we were being watched. I claimed the bedroom at
Speaker 1: the back of the house, directly above the kitchen. The
Speaker 1: room was larger than my sister's but smaller than our parents,
Speaker 1: with wallpaper featuring hunting scenes, men on horseback with packs
Speaker 1: of hounds chasing foxes through stylized forests. My mother commented
Speaker 1: on how cheerful it was, but I actually liked it.
Speaker 1: There was something about the room that felt right familiar somehow.
Speaker 1: The bed was a massive four poster made of what
Speaker 1: looked like walnut, and surprisingly comfortable despite its obvious age.
Speaker 1: As I lay there that first night, staring up at
Speaker 1: a ceiling where candle light made the plaster cracks look
Speaker 1: like writing, I listened to the house settling around me.
Speaker 1: Old houses make noise. Everyone knows that floorboards, creek pipes, gurgle,
Speaker 1: wood expands and contracts. But the sounds I heard that
Speaker 1: night went beyond normal settling. There were soft, scratching sounds
Speaker 1: that seemed to come from inside the walls, and occasionally
Speaker 1: something that sounded like footsteps in the hallway outside my door.
Speaker 1: And then I heard it for the first time, my name,
Speaker 1: called softly, as if someone was right outside my door.
Speaker 1: Not my mother's voice, or my father's or Emma's. This
Speaker 1: was a voice I didn't recognize, speaking my name with
Speaker 1: an intimacy that made my stomach clench with unease. I
Speaker 1: slipped out of bed and opened my door just a crack.
Speaker 1: The hallway was lit only by a single candle my
Speaker 1: mother had left on a table, and the shadows at
Speaker 1: the far end seemed thicker than they should have been.
Speaker 1: I whispered Hello into the darkness, feeling foolish, but got
Speaker 1: no response. Then I heard it again, Marcus. This time
Speaker 1: it seemed to come from the linen closet at the
Speaker 1: end of the hall. I walked toward the sound, my
Speaker 1: bare feet silent on the cold wooden floor. The closet
Speaker 1: door stood slightly ajar, and when I pulled it open,
Speaker 1: I found only shelves lined with old linens that smelled
Speaker 1: of lavender and thyme. Nothing that should have been speaking
Speaker 1: my name in the dark. But as I stood there,
Speaker 1: I felt something brush against the back of my neck.
Speaker 1: Not a touch, exactly, but a presence, as if someone
Speaker 1: was standing right behind me. I spun around, my heart racing,
Speaker 1: but the hallway was empty. My mother called up from downstairs,
Speaker 1: asking if I was okay, because she'd heard me walking around.
Speaker 1: I told her I was fine, just going to the bathroom,
Speaker 1: and retreated to my room. But I lay awake for hours,
Speaker 1: listening to the whispers in the walls and wondering what
Speaker 1: kind of place my family had moved to. That night,
Speaker 1: I dreamed of the ruined barn, but in my dream
Speaker 1: it wasn't ruined at all. It stood whole and imposing
Speaker 1: against a sky that was the wrong color, not blue
Speaker 1: or gray, but something in between that hurt to look
Speaker 1: at directly. There were figures moving around the barn, people
Speaker 1: in old fashioned clothing who turned to look at me,
Speaker 1: with faces that were just shadows under broad brimmed hat.
Speaker 1: One of them, a man in a long coat, beckoned
Speaker 1: to me, and I found myself walking across the field
Speaker 1: toward the barn. The grass whispered against my legs, and
Speaker 1: I could hear something calling my name from inside the building,
Speaker 1: something that sounded eager and hungry and absolutely delighted that
Speaker 1: I was coming closer. I woke just as my dream
Speaker 1: self reached the barn. Door, my heart pounding and my
Speaker 1: sheets soaked with sweat. Outside my window, the real barn
Speaker 1: stood in ruins against the pre dawn sky, but I
Speaker 1: could still hear the echo of that eager, hungry voice
Speaker 1: calling my name. The next few days passed in a
Speaker 1: blur of utility trucks and repair estimates. The electricity came
Speaker 1: back on with a flicker and a hum that seemed
Speaker 1: to vibrate through the walls themselves, though several outlets remained
Speaker 1: mysteriously dead. The phone service was restored, with a landline
Speaker 1: that crackled with static and occasionally picked up what sounded
Speaker 1: like conversations from decades past. My mother threw herself into
Speaker 1: unpacking with fierce determination, trying to make the old house
Speaker 1: feel like home. My father focused on repairs, fighting with
Speaker 1: plumbing that seemed determined to resist modernization. Emma adapted quickly
Speaker 1: as children do, claiming favorite spots and creating games that
Speaker 1: incorporated the house's quirks, but I found the adjustment more difficult.
Speaker 1: The house seemed to have focused its attention on me, specifically,
Speaker 1: as if I was the one it had been waiting
Speaker 1: for all these years. Doors that I'd closed would be
Speaker 1: standing open. When I passed them again, I'd find my
Speaker 1: belongings moved to different locations, despite being certain where I'd
Speaker 1: left them, and the voice, that soft, insistent voice calling
Speaker 1: my name continued to whisper through the house at unexpected moments.
Speaker 1: It wasn't every day, and it wasn't always clear. Sometimes
Speaker 1: it was just a sound that might have been my name,
Speaker 1: mixed in with the settling of old wood or the
Speaker 1: whisper of wind through the eves. But sometimes it was unmistakable, clear,
Speaker 1: and undeniably directed at me. My family didn't seem to
Speaker 1: hear it. When I asked my parents if they'd noticed
Speaker 1: anything weird about the house, they attributed my concerns to
Speaker 1: the stress of moving. Old houses make noise. They said,
Speaker 1: it's normal to feel unsettled at first, But I knew
Speaker 1: the difference between normal house sounds and something calling my
Speaker 1: name in a voice that didn't belong to anyone living.
Speaker 1: On Thursday morning, I found myself alone in the house
Speaker 1: for the first time. My mother had taken Emma to
Speaker 1: register for school, and my father was working in the
Speaker 1: basement trying to coax the water heater into functioning. The
Speaker 1: silence when I was by myself was different, not empty,
Speaker 1: but full, pregnant with possibility and thick with attention. I
Speaker 1: ended up in the living room, standing before the portrait
Speaker 1: of Jeremiah Blackwood. In the electric light. The painting was
Speaker 1: less ominous than it had seemed by candlelight, but there
Speaker 1: was still something unsettling about the man's expression. His eyes
Speaker 1: seemed to hold secrets, and that plaque he who walks
Speaker 1: between worlds remained as mysterious as ever. I found myself
Speaker 1: talking to the painted figure, asking who he was, feeling
Speaker 1: only slightly foolish for having a conversation with a portrait.
Speaker 1: The house seemed to hold its breath, waiting for an
Speaker 1: answer that didn't come. That's when I heard it again, Marcus.
Speaker 1: The voice came from directly behind me, so close I
Speaker 1: should have felt breath on my neck. I spun around,
Speaker 1: but the room was empty, filled only with dust motes
Speaker 1: dancing in the afternoon sunlight. The voice came again from
Speaker 1: a different direction, this time near the fireplace, where shadows
Speaker 1: gathered despite the bright day outside. I asked who's there,
Speaker 1: what they wanted, but got only silence and response. Then
Speaker 1: so softly I almost missed it. Come and see the
Speaker 1: words seemed to pull at me physically, as if they
Speaker 1: carried a weight that tugged at my chest. I found
Speaker 1: myself walking toward the fireplace without consciously deciding to move.
Speaker 1: The shadows near the hearth were deeper than they should
Speaker 1: have been, too dark for the time of day, and
Speaker 1: the amount of light streaming through the windows. As I approached,
Speaker 1: the shadows seemed to shift and swirl, forming shapes that
Speaker 1: might have been faces, or might have been tricks of
Speaker 1: my imagination, but there was definitely something there, something that
Speaker 1: wanted my attention. My father's voice boomed up from the basement,
Speaker 1: asking me to come help him, and the spell broke.
Speaker 1: The shadows snapped back to normal, and the pulling sensation
Speaker 1: in my chest disappeared. I was grateful for the interruption,
Speaker 1: though I couldn't shake the feeling that something had been
Speaker 1: disappointed by my failure to approach op The basement was
Speaker 1: a maze of stone walls and low ceilings, more normal
Speaker 1: than the rest of the house because it was primarily functional.
Speaker 1: While I held a flashlight from my father as he
Speaker 1: worked on the water heater, I told him I sometimes
Speaker 1: thought I heard things like someone calling my name when
Speaker 1: nobody was there, He nodded thoughtfully and suggested that old
Speaker 1: houses make a lot of noise that can sound like voices,
Speaker 1: especially when you're not used to it. Yet, he offered
Speaker 1: to take me on a walk around the property after
Speaker 1: he finished the repairs, suggesting that exploring the land might
Speaker 1: help me feel more comfortable with our new home. I agreed,
Speaker 1: though something inside me recoiled at the thought of approaching
Speaker 1: the barn ruins. In my dreams, it was always whole,
Speaker 1: always occupied by shadowy figures who beckoned me closer. But
Speaker 1: in reality it was just ruins, harmless piles of weathered
Speaker 1: wood and rusted metal. When my mother and Emma returned
Speaker 1: from town, they brought news that Emma was enrolled in
Speaker 1: school and stories about the friendly librarian who had given
Speaker 1: them local history. According to her, our property was one
Speaker 1: of the larger remaining parcels from what had once been
Speaker 1: a much larger farm, and the house was considered a
Speaker 1: local landmark, despite its reputation for being difficult to keep occupied.
Speaker 1: Stay tuned for more Backwoods Bigfoot stories. Will be back
Speaker 1: after these messages. My mother dismissed this as typical small
Speaker 1: town superstition about old houses, but I caught my father's
Speaker 1: eye and saw my own doubt reflected there. We both
Speaker 1: sensed there was more to the story than just people
Speaker 1: getting spooked by creaking floorboards. That evening, after dinner and homework,
Speaker 1: I lay in bed, listening to the house settle around me.
Speaker 1: The hunting scenes on my wallpaper seemed to watch me
Speaker 1: from the walls, and the shadows in the corners gathered
Speaker 1: like pools of dark water. I was just drifting off
Speaker 1: to sleep when I heard my name again, but this
Speaker 1: time it seemed to come from outside. I got up
Speaker 1: and went to the window, pressing my face against the
Speaker 1: cool glass. The night was cloudy, with only occasional breaks
Speaker 1: that let moonlight spill across the fields. At first I
Speaker 1: saw nothing unusual, but then movement caught my eye. A
Speaker 1: figure was walking across the field, heading toward the house.
Speaker 1: At that distance and in that light, I couldn't make
Speaker 1: out details, but the person moved with a strange, gliding
Speaker 1: gait that didn't look quite right. As I watched, the
Speaker 1: figure stopped and turned toward the house, seeming to look
Speaker 1: directly at my window despite the distance. In darkness then
Speaker 1: carried on the night wind, I heard my name again, Marcus.
Speaker 1: The figure raised one arm, beckoning, inviting, calling me to
Speaker 1: come outside and cross the field, to come closer where
Speaker 1: questions could be answered and mysteries explained. I backed away
Speaker 1: from the window, my heart pounding, and when I looked again,
Speaker 1: the field was empty. I climbed back into bed and
Speaker 1: pulled the covers over my head, trying to shut out
Speaker 1: the sound of my name being whispered by the wind
Speaker 1: against my window. I told myself that tomorrow I would
Speaker 1: tell my parents what was happening, that tomorrow I would
Speaker 1: demand answers. But deep down I already knew that tomorrow
Speaker 1: would bring only more questions, and that whatever was calling
Speaker 1: my name in the darkness was getting stronger, more insistent,
Speaker 1: more confident that soon I would answer. Friday morning brought
Speaker 1: the first real sign that the House's influence was spreading
Speaker 1: beyond just strange voices and mysterious figures. In the night,
Speaker 1: I woke to find my room rearranged, not drastically, but noticeably.
Speaker 1: My dresser had been moved three feet to the left,
Speaker 1: my desk chair was facing the window instead of the wall,
Speaker 1: and my bookshelf was now organized by color rather than alphabetically,
Speaker 1: as I'd arranged it the night before. I stared at
Speaker 1: the changes, trying to convince myself that I'd simply forgotten
Speaker 1: how I'd arrange things. But I remembered specifically placing the
Speaker 1: dresser to block the heating vent because the airflow had
Speaker 1: been bothering me, and I always organized my books alphabetically always.
Speaker 1: When I asked my mother if she'd moved anything in
Speaker 1: my room, she seemed genuinely puzzled by the question. Why
Speaker 1: would she rearrange my room? The idea clearly hadn't occurred
Speaker 1: to her, and I could tell from her tone that
Speaker 1: she thought I was confused about how I'd set things
Speaker 1: up in the first place. At breakfast, Emma announced that
Speaker 1: she wanted to explore more of the property, specifically mentioning
Speaker 1: a desire to walk to the old barn to see
Speaker 1: if any animals were living in it. The familiar chill
Speaker 1: ran through me at the mention of the barn, but
Speaker 1: my parents thought it was a great idea. My father
Speaker 1: suggested we make it a family expedition after he finished
Speaker 1: some household tasks. The morning passed in domestic routine, but
Speaker 1: I kept being drawn back to the living room and
Speaker 1: Jeremiah Blackwood's portrait. There was something about the painting that
Speaker 1: nagged at me, some detail I was missing. This time,
Speaker 1: I studied the background more carefully, and what I'd initially
Speaker 1: taken for artistic ambiguity began to resolve into more concrete forms.
Speaker 1: There were definitely other people in the painting, at least
Speaker 1: three figures standing behind Jeremiah, though their faces were obscured
Speaker 1: by darkness, and there was something architectural in the background
Speaker 1: that looked familiar. It looked like buildings, barn like structures
Speaker 1: with high peaked roofs and wide doors. The painting showed
Speaker 1: the property as it had been over a century ago,
Speaker 1: when it was a working farm with multiple outbuildings. I
Speaker 1: was studying these details when I heard my name called again, Marcus.
Speaker 1: I spun around, but the room was empty. The voice
Speaker 1: didn't stop there. It continued, a constant whisper that seemed
Speaker 1: to come from the walls themselves. Marcus, Come, Come and see,
Speaker 1: Come and understand. The words wound around me like invisible rope,
Speaker 1: tugging at my chest. In my mind, I found myself
Speaker 1: walking toward the front door, my feet moving without conscious direction.
Speaker 1: The voice was stronger, now, more insistent, and with it
Speaker 1: came a curious sense of anticipation, as if something wonderful
Speaker 1: was waiting for me outside. My hand was on the
Speaker 1: doorknob when Emma's voice cut through the hypnotic whisper, calling
Speaker 1: my name from the kitchen and asking if I was
Speaker 1: ready to explore the property. The pulling sensation snapped like
Speaker 1: a cut string, leaving me gasping and disoriented. I was
Speaker 1: standing at the front door, with no clear memory of
Speaker 1: how I'd gotten there, my hand gripping the brass knob
Speaker 1: so tightly my knuckles were white. The family expedition began
Speaker 1: cheerfully enough. The afternoon was warm, with a light breeze
Speaker 1: that made the tall grass dance. Emma skipped ahead while
Speaker 1: my father pointed out property markers and discussed his plans
Speaker 1: for eventually clearing some land for a garden. My mother
Speaker 1: walked beside me, and I noticed she kept glancing back
Speaker 1: at the house as we moved farther away from it.
Speaker 1: As we walked, I became aware of the sound the
Speaker 1: grass made under our feet, a constant whisper that seemed
Speaker 1: almost like conversation, and beneath that carried on the breeze,
Speaker 1: I could swear I heard my name being called from
Speaker 1: the direction we were walking toward the barn. The ruins
Speaker 1: came into view, gradually rising from the field like the
Speaker 1: skeleton of some enormous beast. What had once been a
Speaker 1: substantial building was now just a framework of way weathered
Speaker 1: beams and collapsed walls. The roof had fallen in decades ago,
Speaker 1: and vines had claimed much of the remaining structure. Emma
Speaker 1: ran ahead, but stopped abruptly about twenty feet from the ruins,
Speaker 1: announcing that it smelled funny. When I caught up with her,
Speaker 1: I immediately understood what she meant. There was a smell
Speaker 1: emanating from the ruins, sweet and organic. It was the
Speaker 1: same smell I'd noticed when we first entered the house,
Speaker 1: but stronger here, more concentrated. My father was more adventurous
Speaker 1: than the rest of us, picking his way carefully through
Speaker 1: the debris field around the barn's perimeter. He called back
Speaker 1: that the foundation was still solid stone and mortar, built
Speaker 1: to last, commenting that this had been a serious structure
Speaker 1: when it was whole. I found myself staring at the
Speaker 1: ruins with a growing sense of familiarity. The layout, the proportions,
Speaker 1: the way the remaining beams created geometric patterns against the sky.
Speaker 1: It all matched my dreams exactly. This was the barn
Speaker 1: I'd been visiting in my sleep, though in my dreams
Speaker 1: it was always whole, always occupied by shadowy figures who
Speaker 1: beckoned me closer. That's when I heard it again, Marcus.
Speaker 1: The voice was clearer here, stronger, as if proximity to
Speaker 1: the ruins amplified whatever force was calling my name. This time,
Speaker 1: my family seemed to hear something too. Emma asked what
Speaker 1: that sound was, looking around uncertainly. My father suggested it
Speaker 1: was probably the wind through the ruins, though his voice
Speaker 1: lacked conviction, but the air was still, with barely a
Speaker 1: breeze to stir the grass around our feet. The voice
Speaker 1: came again, Marcus, clearer now, and with it came that
Speaker 1: pulling sensation in my chest, urging me to step closer
Speaker 1: to the ruins, to explore the shadowy spaces where answers
Speaker 1: might be waiting. I took a step forward, then another.
Speaker 1: The sweet organic smell grew stronger, and now I could
Speaker 1: detect other sense beneath it, old leather, metal, something that
Speaker 1: might have been incense or candlewax. I was already moving,
Speaker 1: drawn by an urge stronger than curiosity. The ruin seemed
Speaker 1: to shimmer in my peripheral vision, and for just a moment,
Speaker 1: I could have sworn I saw the barn as it
Speaker 1: had been, whole and imposing, with figures moving in the
Speaker 1: shadows near the wide doors. My father's voice cut through
Speaker 1: my trance, sharp with alarm, asking what I was doing.
Speaker 1: Suddenly he was beside me, gripping my arm. I blinked,
Speaker 1: suddenly aware that I'd walked much closer to the ruins
Speaker 1: than I'd intended. I was standing at the edge of
Speaker 1: what had once been the barn's interior, close enough to
Speaker 1: touch the nearest fallen beam. I had no memory of
Speaker 1: walking this far, no awareness of having moved beyond that
Speaker 1: first step. When my father suggested we head back to
Speaker 1: the house because it was getting late, I realized the
Speaker 1: sun was indeed much lower than I remembered. How long
Speaker 1: had we been standing there? It felt like minutes, but
Speaker 1: the light suggested it had been much longer. As we
Speaker 1: walked back toward the house, I kept looking over my
Speaker 1: shoulder at the ruins. The shadows between the fallen beams
Speaker 1: seemed to move and shift and I could swear I
Speaker 1: saw figures there, people in old fashioned clothing who watched
Speaker 1: our retreat with what might have been disappointment. That night,
Speaker 1: the dreams were more vivid than ever. I found myself
Speaker 1: standing in the field outside the house, But it was
Speaker 1: the field as it had been in Jeremiah Blackwood's time.
Speaker 1: The barn stood whole and imposing against a dark sky,
Speaker 1: and figures moved around it with purpose and intent. They
Speaker 1: were preparing for something, arranging objects I couldn't quite see,
Speaker 1: into some sort of patterns. One of the figures, a
Speaker 1: man in a long dark coat, who might have been
Speaker 1: Jeremiah himself, beckoned to me from the barn doorway. His
Speaker 1: mouth moved as if he was speaking, but no sound
Speaker 1: reached me. Across the dream field, I found myself walking
Speaker 1: toward the barn, my feet moving through gras I asked
Speaker 1: that whispered my name with every step. The sweet organic
Speaker 1: smell grew stronger as I approached, and now I could
Speaker 1: see what the figures were arranging inside the barn. Candles
Speaker 1: and complex geometric patterns, strange symbols carved into the wooden walls,
Speaker 1: and something that might have been an altar made of
Speaker 1: stacked stones. The man in the long coat spoke as
Speaker 1: I reached the barn doorway. You're ready. Now, you've been prepared.
Speaker 1: The house has been teaching you, guiding you. Now it's
Speaker 1: time to understand. When I asked what I was supposed
Speaker 1: to understand, he gestured toward the altar inside the barn.
Speaker 1: Your purpose, Why you were brought here, Why the house
Speaker 1: chose you specifically? Your family was selected carefully, Marcus, You
Speaker 1: were selected carefully. The house has been empty for so long,
Speaker 1: waiting for the right configuration, the right combination of people
Speaker 1: and circumstances, but most importantly, waiting for you. I tried
Speaker 1: to step backward, tried to retreat from the barn and
Speaker 1: the terrible implications of his words, but my feet wouldn't obey,
Speaker 1: and I found myself walking forward into the barn, passed
Speaker 1: the man in the long coat, toward the stone altar
Speaker 1: that seemed to pulse with its own dark light. When
Speaker 1: I whispered what he wanted from me, the man smiled,
Speaker 1: and his face wasn't entirely human anymore. Everything body mind, soul,
Speaker 1: a bridge between worlds, a doorway for those who wait
Speaker 1: in the spaces between the House has been preparing you,
Speaker 1: making you ready. Soon you'll understand completely. I woke with
Speaker 1: a gasp, my heart hammering, and my sheet soaked with sweat.
Speaker 1: Moonlight streamed through my bedroom window, and for a moment,
Speaker 1: the hunting scenes on my wallpaper seemed to move, the
Speaker 1: painted hounds appearing to turn their heads toward me with
Speaker 1: expressions of hungry interest. I got up and went to
Speaker 1: the window, needing to reassure myself that the barn was
Speaker 1: still ruined, still just a pile of weathered wood and
Speaker 1: broken dreams. But as I looked out across the moonlit field,
Speaker 1: I could swear I saw lights moving among the ruins, flickering,
Speaker 1: dancing lights like candle flames, and carried on the night wind.
Speaker 1: Faint but unmistakable came the sound of voices chanting in
Speaker 1: a language I didn't recognize, but somehow understood They were
Speaker 1: calling something, summoning something, preparing for something that would happen soon.
Speaker 1: Very soon. Saturday brought news that should have been caused
Speaker 1: for celebration. My mother announced that she'd found a contractor
Speaker 1: willing to tackle the house's most pressing repairs, and my
Speaker 1: father had successfully negotiated with the insurance company for coverage
Speaker 1: of the roofwork, but I barely heard the good news.
Speaker 1: I was exhausted from another night of vivid dreams and
Speaker 1: disturbed by what I'd seen in the ruins. When my
Speaker 1: mother asked if I was sleeping okay in my new room,
Speaker 1: studying my face with concerned attention, I gave her the
Speaker 1: automatic response that everything was fine. Nothing about my situation
Speaker 1: felt fine. Emma was full of energy, chattering about exploring
Speaker 1: more of the property, and I envied her ability to
Speaker 1: see only adventure where I saw only danger. My father
Speaker 1: announced he needed to go into town for errands, hardware store, bank,
Speaker 1: maybe the library to research the house's history. When he
Speaker 1: asked if anyone wanted to come along, I felt a sudden,
Speaker 1: irrational panic at the thought of being left alone in
Speaker 1: the house again. Yesterday's experience with the voice calling my
Speaker 1: name and the strange pulling sensation had been bad enough.
Speaker 1: When my family was nearby, I quickly volunteered to come
Speaker 1: with him. The trip to town was a relief. The
Speaker 1: rural highway connecting our property to civilization was lined with
Speaker 1: normal farms and normal houses, where normal families lived normal lives,
Speaker 1: no mysterious voices, no shadows that moved wrong, no sweet
Speaker 1: organic smells that had no obvious source. At the library,
Speaker 1: a helpful librarian named Missus Patterson was eager to share
Speaker 1: what she knew about local history. When my father mentioned
Speaker 1: our address, her expression grew thoughtful. She called it the
Speaker 1: Blackwood Place, describing it as one of the oldest homesteads
Speaker 1: in the county and certainly one of the most interesting.
Speaker 1: She led us to a section devoted to local history,
Speaker 1: pulling several thick volumes from the shelves. According to the
Speaker 1: historical records, the Blackwood family had farmed that land for
Speaker 1: three generations from the eighteen forties until the eighteen nineties.
Speaker 1: Jeremiah Blackwood was the last of the line, never married,
Speaker 1: no children, very reclusive. When he died in eighteen ninety one,
Speaker 1: the property was sold to settle debts. I leaned forward,
Speaker 1: studying a photograph of the property as it had been
Speaker 1: in the late eighteen hundreds. The house looked much the same,
Speaker 1: but the barn was whole and imposing, exactly as it
Speaker 1: appeared in my dreams. There were other outbuildings too, a smokehouse,
Speaker 1: a grain silo, several smaller structures that were now just
Speaker 1: foundations hidden in tall Stay tuned for more Backwoods Bigfoot stories.
Speaker 1: We'll be back after these messages. When my father asked
Speaker 1: what she'd meant by calling the place interesting, Missus Patterson
Speaker 1: glanced around the library, then leaned closer and lowered her voice.
Speaker 1: There had been stories about Jeremiah Blackwood, she explained, rumors,
Speaker 1: mostly the kind of things small towns were famous for.
Speaker 1: People said he was involved in unusual pursuits. Spiritualism was
Speaker 1: popular in those days, but Jeremiah's interests were said to
Speaker 1: go considerably beyond seances and table tapping. She opened another
Speaker 1: book filled with newspaper clippings from the eighteen eighties and
Speaker 1: eighteen nineties. There had been reports of strange lights on
Speaker 1: the property, sounds that carried farther than they should have,
Speaker 1: people who went missing after being seen walking toward the
Speaker 1: Blackwood Farm. Nothing was ever proven, of course, but the
Speaker 1: rumors persisted until Jeremiah's death. I stared at a newspaper
Speaker 1: headline from eighteen ninety local man missing after visit to
Speaker 1: Blackwood Farm. The accompanying article described a traveling salesman who
Speaker 1: had been seen approaching the property but never reached his
Speaker 1: next scheduled stop. When I asked how Jeremiah died, Missus
Speaker 1: Patterson flipped through pages until she found another clipping that
Speaker 1: was one of the mysteries. She explained, he was found
Speaker 1: in the barn, apparently from natural causes, though he was
Speaker 1: only forty four years old. But the strange part was
Speaker 1: that he'd been dead for at least a week when
Speaker 1: they found him, yet his body showed no signs of decay,
Speaker 1: as if something had been preserving it. My father frowned,
Speaker 1: commenting that it didn't sound natural. Missus Patterson agreed, then
Speaker 1: continued with what she called the strangest part of the story.
Speaker 1: When they found Jeremiah's body, he was surrounded by what
Speaker 1: the sheriff described as a cult paraphernalia, candles arranged in
Speaker 1: complex patterns, symbols carved into the barn walls, and what
Speaker 1: appeared to be an altar made of stacked stones. I
Speaker 1: felt my blood turned to ice water. The scene she
Speaker 1: was describing matched my dreams exactly. The candles, the symbols,
Speaker 1: the stone altar. But how could I be dreaming about
Speaker 1: something that had happened over a century ago. When I
Speaker 1: asked what happened to the barn. Missus Patterson explained that
Speaker 1: it had burned down about a month after Jeremiah's body
Speaker 1: was found. The sheriff claimed it was an accident, but
Speaker 1: most people believed it was deliberately destroyed. Too many strange
Speaker 1: things had happened there and folks wanted it gone. But
Speaker 1: if the barn had been burned down in eighteen ninety one,
Speaker 1: I thought, then the ruins we'd explored weren't the remains
Speaker 1: of Jeremiah's barn. Someone had built another barn on the
Speaker 1: same site, and that barn had eventually collapsed from age
Speaker 1: and neglect, or had it collapsed naturally. I remembered the
Speaker 1: sweet organic smell emanating from the ruins, and the way
Speaker 1: the shadows between the fallen beams seemed to move and shift.
Speaker 1: My father asked if anyone else had lived on the
Speaker 1: property since then. Missus Patterson nodded, explaining that several families
Speaker 1: had tried over the years, but none stayed very long.
Speaker 1: The longest anyone remained was about eighteen months back in
Speaker 1: the nineteen seventies. Usually people moved in with grand plans
Speaker 1: for restoration, then found reasons to leave within a year.
Speaker 1: When pressed about what kind of reasons. Missus Patterson's expression
Speaker 1: grew carefully neutral. Different reasons she said, financial difficulties, job
Speaker 1: opportunities elsewhere, family obligations. Nothing specific or consistent enough to
Speaker 1: establish a pattern, but I could hear what she wasn't saying.
Speaker 1: The families left because something in the house or on
Speaker 1: the property made staying impossible. They left because of voices
Speaker 1: in the night, shadows that seemed to linger, and dreams
Speaker 1: that were too vivid to be just dreams. We spent
Speaker 1: another hour at the library, looking through old maps and photographs,
Speaker 1: but my attention and kept drifting back to the newspaper
Speaker 1: clipping about Jeremiah Blackwood's death. The description of the scene
Speaker 1: in the barn matched my dreams so perfectly that it
Speaker 1: couldn't be coincidence. Somehow, the house was showing me memories,
Speaker 1: preparing me for something that involved the same rituals Jeremiah
Speaker 1: had been conducting when he died. The drive home was quiet,
Speaker 1: both my father and I lost in our own thoughts
Speaker 1: about what we'd learned. As we turned into our gravel driveway,
Speaker 1: I noticed that several windows in the house were open,
Speaker 1: despite the fact that my mother and Emma should have
Speaker 1: been inside working on their projects. The curtains fluttered in
Speaker 1: the afternoon breeze, and for a moment I thought I
Speaker 1: saw faces looking out from the upstairs windows. Not my
Speaker 1: mother's or sister's faces, but other faces, older and less familiar.
Speaker 1: When I looked directly at the windows, they were empty,
Speaker 1: showing only the interior darkness of rooms where no one
Speaker 1: was standing. We could hear voices coming from inside the
Speaker 1: house as we approached the front door, my mother and
Speaker 1: Emma talking, but also other voices, softer and harder to identify.
Speaker 1: I felt that familiar chill as we entered in the kitchen,
Speaker 1: we found my mother and Emma, but both looked pale
Speaker 1: and unsettled. Emma was sitting at the table with her
Speaker 1: art supplies, but her latest painting showed the barn as
Speaker 1: it appeared in the old photographs we'd seen at the library,
Speaker 1: with dark figures standing near the entrance. My father asked
Speaker 1: how their afternoon had been, and my mother described it
Speaker 1: as eventful. She asked Emma to tell us what she'd
Speaker 1: been hearing. Emma put down her paintbrush and looked directly
Speaker 1: at me. Someone had been calling my name, she said, simply,
Speaker 1: all afternoon from upstairs, from outside, sometimes from the basement.
Speaker 1: My mother had heard it too. I felt my stomach
Speaker 1: drop as I asked if they'd really heard it. My
Speaker 1: mother confirmed it someone saying Marcus over and over again,
Speaker 1: clear as day, but when they went to look, there
Speaker 1: was never anyone there. Emma, I mentioned something else. While
Speaker 1: my father and I were gone, she'd kept having the
Speaker 1: strangest feeling that she should go outside, like something was
Speaker 1: calling her to come to the barn. She'd wanted to
Speaker 1: go so badly it almost hurt, but my mother wouldn't
Speaker 1: let her. My father grimly said that based on what
Speaker 1: we'd learned in town, it was good my mother had
Speaker 1: prevented Emma from going to the barn, especially alone. But
Speaker 1: even as he spoke, I could feel the pulling sensation
Speaker 1: starting again, that invisible rope tugging at my chest, urging
Speaker 1: me to walk outside, to cross the field, to approach
Speaker 1: the ruins, where something was waiting with infinite patience for
Speaker 1: me to come close enough to touch. And this time
Speaker 1: the pulling was stronger than it had ever been before,
Speaker 1: as if whatever was calling my name was running out
Speaker 1: of time and growing desperate. Sunday morning arrived gray and overcast,
Speaker 1: with clouds hanging low over the fields like a blanket
Speaker 1: pulled too tight. The house felt different when I woke,
Speaker 1: more expectant, more alive. I could hear my family moving
Speaker 1: around downstairs, but everything seemed muffled and distant, as if
Speaker 1: I was hearing it through thick glass. My room felt
Speaker 1: simultaneously too small and too large, the walls pressing in
Speaker 1: while the ceiling stretched away into shadows that seemed deeper
Speaker 1: than they should have been. When I tried to get
Speaker 1: out of bed, I discovered that my legs were weak
Speaker 1: and unsteady, as if I'd been running for hours. My
Speaker 1: reflection in the dresser mirror looked pale and hollow eyed,
Speaker 1: and for just a moment, I could have sworn someone
Speaker 1: else was looking back at me, someone or something ancient,
Speaker 1: with eyes that held knowledge I didn't want to know.
Speaker 1: Emma called up from downstairs that our mother had made pancakes,
Speaker 1: But when I tried to get dressed, my movements felt
Speaker 1: disconnected from my intentions. My hand went to the wrong drawer.
Speaker 1: When I reached for my shirt, my fingers fumbled with
Speaker 1: shoelaces I'd been tying successfully for years. It was as
Speaker 1: if someone else was directing my movements, someone who wasn't
Speaker 1: in entirely familiar with the mechanics of my body. Downstairs,
Speaker 1: my family was gathered around the kitchen table, but they
Speaker 1: looked wrong to me, somehow too bright, too solid to
Speaker 1: present in a world that was growing increasingly insubstantial around me.
Speaker 1: Their voices sounded like they were coming from the bottom
Speaker 1: of a well, and their movements seemed to leave trails
Speaker 1: in the air. When my mother asked if I was
Speaker 1: feeling okay, studying my face with concern and commenting that
Speaker 1: I looked flushed, I said I was fine automatically, but
Speaker 1: my voice sounded strange to my own ears, lower than usual,
Speaker 1: with an accent I didn't recognize. My father suggested I
Speaker 1: stay home from church, that I should rest up and
Speaker 1: make sure I wasn't coming down with something. The idea
Speaker 1: of leaving the house, of getting into the car and
Speaker 1: driving away from the property filled me with something that
Speaker 1: might have been panic. I insisted I wanted to stay here,
Speaker 1: the words coming out more forcefully than I'd intended. My
Speaker 1: family exchanged glances. They'd been planning to attend church together,
Speaker 1: but something in my tone made them hesitate. After much
Speaker 1: discussion and repeated assurances that I would call if I
Speaker 1: needed anything. They left for church. I watched from the
Speaker 1: living room window as their car disappeared down the gravel drive,
Speaker 1: leaving me alone with whatever was waiting in the shadows.
Speaker 1: The silence that settled over the house wasn't empty. It
Speaker 1: was full of whispers and movements and sounds that existed
Speaker 1: just below the threshold of hearing. I could feel attention
Speaker 1: focused on me from multiple directions, as if every room
Speaker 1: in the house contained watchers who had been waiting for
Speaker 1: this moment, Marcus. The voice was clearer now than it
Speaker 1: had ever been, no longer a whisper, but a normal
Speaker 1: speaking voice that seemed to come from right beside me.
Speaker 1: It's time. I turned toward the sound, but saw only
Speaker 1: empty air. The living room looked exactly as it should have,
Speaker 1: but the quality of light was different, somehow, thicker, more golden,
Speaker 1: as if it was being it filtered through old amber.
Speaker 1: I asked the empty room what it was time for,
Speaker 1: and the voice responded to understand, to fulfill your purpose,
Speaker 1: to become what you were brought here to become. The
Speaker 1: voice was definitely coming from the direction of the portrait
Speaker 1: now and When I looked at the painting of Jeremiah Blackwood,
Speaker 1: the man's eyes seemed to track my movement. The other
Speaker 1: figures in the background, the shadowy people I'd noticed before,
Speaker 1: were clearer, now more defined, and all of them were
Speaker 1: looking directly at me. The voice continued, and now I
Speaker 1: could see that Jeremiah's mouth was moving, forming words that
Speaker 1: emerged from the painted canvas with impossible clarity. I'd been prepared,
Speaker 1: he said. The house had been teaching me, showing me memories,
Speaker 1: making me ready. Now it was time to take the
Speaker 1: final step. I tried to back away from the portrait,
Speaker 1: but my feet wouldn't obey. Instead, I found myself walking
Speaker 1: closer to the painting, drawn by a force that was
Speaker 1: stronger than my conscious would bill. I whispered and asked
Speaker 1: what he wanted from me, and Jeremiah's painted face smiled
Speaker 1: with an expression that was anything but reassuring. A bridge,
Speaker 1: he said, simply, a doorway between worlds, the living and
Speaker 1: the dead, the present and the past, the possible and
Speaker 1: the actual. I had the right sensitivity, the right malleability.
Speaker 1: With my help, those who waited in the spaces between
Speaker 1: could step fully into the world again. The other figures
Speaker 1: in the painting were moving now, stepping forward from the
Speaker 1: background shadows, and I could see that they weren't entirely human.
Speaker 1: Some had faces that were too long, features that were
Speaker 1: too sharp, eyes that reflected light like an animal's. Others
Speaker 1: were partially transparent, as if they hadn't quite finished the
Speaker 1: process of becoming solid. I said, I understood they wanted
Speaker 1: me to go to the barn. Jeremiah confirmed this. The
Speaker 1: barn was where the boundaries were thinnest, where the work
Speaker 1: had been begun long ago. The altar was prepared, the
Speaker 1: patterns were set, the summoning circle had been waiting for
Speaker 1: over a century. All they needed was a willing participant,
Speaker 1: someone to serve as a bridge between what was and
Speaker 1: what could be. Again. I felt the pulling sensation start
Speaker 1: in my chest, stronger than it had ever been before.
Speaker 1: But this time it wasn't just a gentle tugging. It
Speaker 1: was a demand, an imperative that seemed to override my
Speaker 1: nervous system. My feet began moving toward the front door
Speaker 1: without my permission, and my hand reached for the doorknob.
Speaker 1: Despite my desperate attempts to stop it. I said no,
Speaker 1: though my voice came out weak and unconvincing. Jeremiah told
Speaker 1: me I would go because I had no choice anymore.
Speaker 1: The house had claimed me, prepared me, made me ready.
Speaker 1: My family had been selected specifically because of me, my sensitivity,
Speaker 1: my youth, my potential. The process had begun the moment
Speaker 1: I set foot on the property. My hand closed around
Speaker 1: the door, my fingers gripping the brass with mechanical precision.
Speaker 1: The metal was cold against my palm, but underneath the
Speaker 1: cold was something else, a pulse, a rhythm, like a heartbeat,
Speaker 1: calling me to step outside and walk across the field.
Speaker 1: Jeremiah continued conversationally, explaining that others had tried to resist,
Speaker 1: previous families, previous children with the right qualities, but they
Speaker 1: always gave in. Eventually, the house was very patient, very persistent.
Speaker 1: It knew how to wear down resistance, how to make
Speaker 1: the inevitable seem like a choice. The door opened under
Speaker 1: my hand, and afternoon air flowed into the house, carrying
Speaker 1: the sweet, organic smell I'd grown to associate with the
Speaker 1: barn ruins. But the smell was stronger, now more complex,
Speaker 1: layered with scents of old leather and metal, and something
Speaker 1: that might have been incense. I tried to plant my
Speaker 1: feet on the threshold, tried to resist the compulsion that
Speaker 1: was driving me forward, but my body was no longer
Speaker 1: in hily under my control. I stepped onto the front porch,
Speaker 1: then down the steps, then across the gravel drive toward
Speaker 1: the field, where tall grass whispered my name with every
Speaker 1: gust of wind. The ruins of the barn seemed closer
Speaker 1: than they should have been, as if distance was compressing
Speaker 1: around me. With each step, details became clear, and I
Speaker 1: could see that what I'd taken for random debris was
Speaker 1: actually arranged in deliberate patterns. The fallen beams formed geometric shapes,
Speaker 1: the scattered stones created symbols, and the shadows between them
Speaker 1: moved with purpose and intelligence. As I walked, I became
Speaker 1: aware that I wasn't alone in the field. Figures were
Speaker 1: emerging from the tall grass, translucent at first like heat mirages,
Speaker 1: but growing more solid with each step I took toward
Speaker 1: the ruins. They were people in old fashioned clothing, men
Speaker 1: and women and children who looked like they belonged in
Speaker 1: the eighteen hundreds, all walking alongside me toward the barn.
Speaker 1: But there was something wrong with them, something that became
Speaker 1: more apparent as they solidified. Stay tuned for more Backwoods
Speaker 1: big Foot stories. We'll be back after these messages. Their
Speaker 1: movements were too fluid, too graceful, as if they were
Speaker 1: floating slightly above the ground. Their faces were too pale,
Speaker 1: too perfect, unmarked by time or weather or human frailty,
Speaker 1: and their eyes held depths that no human eyes should contain.
Speaker 1: One of them, a woman in a long dress with
Speaker 1: elaborate Victorian curls, spoke to me as we reached the ruins.
Speaker 1: She said, they'd been waiting for me for such a
Speaker 1: long time. The ruins themselves were transforming as I watched.
Speaker 1: The fallen beams were rising, fitting themselves back together with
Speaker 1: impossible precision. Walls were reforming from scattered stones, and a
Speaker 1: roof was materializing from memory and desire. Within moments, the
Speaker 1: barn stood whole and imposing, exactly as it had appeared
Speaker 1: in my dreams. The woman explained that this was how
Speaker 1: it had been, how it always was. In the spaces
Speaker 1: between moments. Physical reality was so limiting, so temporary, But
Speaker 1: here in this place, the past and present existed simultaneously.
Speaker 1: The barn door stood open, revealing an interior filled with
Speaker 1: dancing shadows and flickering candlelight. I could see the stone
Speaker 1: altar I'd dreamed about, surrounded by candles arranged in complex
Speaker 1: geometric patterns. Symbols covered every available surface, carved into the
Speaker 1: wooden walls, painted on the floor, etched into the stones
Speaker 1: of the altar itself. Jeremiah Blackwood emerged from the barn's interior,
Speaker 1: looking exactly as he had in the portrait, but more real,
Speaker 1: somehow more present. He told me, My part was simple.
Speaker 1: Lie upon the altar, allow the summoning to begin. My
Speaker 1: life force would serve as the bridge, the doorway between worlds.
Speaker 1: It wouldn't hurt much, he said, and afterward I'd be
Speaker 1: one of them, free from the limitations of flesh, able
Speaker 1: to exist in multiple times and places simultaneously. I wanted
Speaker 1: to run, wanted to scream, wanted to fight against the
Speaker 1: compulsion that had brought me here. But my body continued
Speaker 1: to move forward, my feet carrying me toward the barn entrance,
Speaker 1: despite every instinct screaming at me to resist. Jeremiah continued conversationally,
Speaker 1: mentioning that others had fought too. The traveling salesman in
Speaker 1: eighteen ninety the minister's son in nineteen twenty three, the
Speaker 1: farm boy in nineteen fifty six. All had possessed the
Speaker 1: same sensitivity. I had the same potential to serve as
Speaker 1: a bridge. But they'd all come around eventually. The house
Speaker 1: was very persuasive. I crossed the threshold into the barn,
Speaker 1: and immediately the air grew thicker, more substantial. The candle
Speaker 1: flames burned without flickering, and the shadows they cast seemed
Speaker 1: to move independently of their sources. The sweet organic smell
Speaker 1: was overwhelming, now layered with other sense that spoke of
Speaker 1: rituals performed in darkness, and promises made to things that
Speaker 1: should have remained nameless. The altar stood in the center
Speaker 1: of the space, surrounded by the watching figures of people
Speaker 1: who were no longer entirely people. They formed a circle
Speaker 1: around the stone platform, their faces expectant, their eyes hungry
Speaker 1: for something I didn't want to give. Jeremiah instructed me
Speaker 1: to lie down, to let them begin the work that
Speaker 1: had been interrupted so many years ago. His voice carried
Speaker 1: the weight of absolute authority. I felt my legs moving,
Speaker 1: carrying me toward the altar, despite my desperate attempts to
Speaker 1: stop them. My hands reached out to grip the edge
Speaker 1: of the stone platform, and I could feel the cold
Speaker 1: seeping through my palms, like ice water in my veins.
Speaker 1: But as I prepared to climb onto the altar, as
Speaker 1: the figures around me began to chant in languages that
Speaker 1: predated human speech, I heard something that cut through the
Speaker 1: compulsion like a knife through silk. Marcus. It was Emma's voice,
Speaker 1: calling from outside the barn, Marcus, where are you? The
Speaker 1: chanting faltered, and the figures around the altar turned toward
Speaker 1: the sound with expressions of surprise and anger. Jeremiah's face darkened,
Speaker 1: and the restored barn seemed to flicker like a candle,
Speaker 1: flame and wind. He snarled that they weren't supposed to
Speaker 1: return yet, that the church service should have lasted another hour.
Speaker 1: Emma's voice came again, closer, now, asking where I was
Speaker 1: and saying that our parents were looking for me. The
Speaker 1: spell holding me broke, like glass shattering. I yanked my
Speaker 1: hands away from the altar and stumbled backward, my vision
Speaker 1: clearing as the barn's interior began to fade around me.
Speaker 1: The figures in their circle were becoming translucent again. Their chanting,
Speaker 1: growing distant and hollow. Jeremiah called after me as I
Speaker 1: ran toward the barn entrance, saying I could not escape.
Speaker 1: The house had claimed me. They would call me back
Speaker 1: again and again until I submitted there was nowhere I
Speaker 1: could run that they couldn't reach. But I was already outside,
Speaker 1: running across the field toward my sister's voice. Behind me,
Speaker 1: the barn was collapsing back into ruins, the restored walls
Speaker 1: crumbling into scattered debris, the roof dissolving into memory and shadow.
Speaker 1: I found Emma standing at the edge of the field,
Speaker 1: her face pale with worry. When she saw me running
Speaker 1: toward her, relief flooded her features. She told me they'd
Speaker 1: come back early because our mother had a headache, and
Speaker 1: when they couldn't find me in the house, they'd gotten worried.
Speaker 1: She paused, studying my face, commenting that I looked terrible,
Speaker 1: and asking what had happened. I glanced back toward the ruins.
Speaker 1: But they were just ruins again, scattered beams and fallen stones.
Speaker 1: Nothing more. No restored barn, no figures in old fashioned clothing,
Speaker 1: no altar surrounded by impossible candles, but the sweet organic
Speaker 1: smell still clung to my clothes, and I could feel
Speaker 1: Jeremiah black one Wood's eyes watching me from somewhere beyond
Speaker 1: the edge of perception. I told Emma nothing had happened,
Speaker 1: that I'd just gone for a walk, though my voice
Speaker 1: shook with the lie. She looked skeptical, but before she
Speaker 1: could ask more questions, our parents appeared at the edge
Speaker 1: of the field, calling our names with relief. As we
Speaker 1: walked back toward the house, I could feel the property's
Speaker 1: attention focused on me, like a weight pressing down on
Speaker 1: my shoulders. The barn might have returned to ruins, and
Speaker 1: the figures might have faded back into whatever spaces between
Speaker 1: worlds they usually occupied, but nothing was over. If anything,
Speaker 1: it was just beginning. That night, as I lay in bed,
Speaker 1: trying to ignore the whispers in the walls and the
Speaker 1: shadows that moved in the corners of my room, I
Speaker 1: could feel something changing inside me. The experience at the
Speaker 1: barn had left its mark, had created some kind of
Speaker 1: connection between me and the things that waited in the
Speaker 1: spaces between worlds. I knew, with a certainty that chilled
Speaker 1: me to the bone that they would not give up.
Speaker 1: They would call me back again and again until I
Speaker 1: either submitted to their will or found a way to
Speaker 1: break the connection entirely. The house had claimed me, just
Speaker 1: as Jeremiah had said. The only question now was whether
Speaker 1: I could find the strength to resist long enough to
Speaker 1: save not just myself but my entire family from whatever
Speaker 1: the watchers in the shadows had planned. The answer came
Speaker 1: three days later, in the form of a discovery that
Speaker 1: should have been impossible. I was helping my father clean
Speaker 1: out the basement storage room when we found the trunk
Speaker 1: hidden behind a false wall in the stone foundation. The
Speaker 1: trunk was old, older than anything else in the house,
Speaker 1: and when we pride it open, it contained documents that
Speaker 1: dated back to Jeremiah Blackwood's time. Most of the papers
Speaker 1: were incomprehensible ritual instructions written in languages that predated English,
Speaker 1: diagrams of summoning circles and binding spells, correspondence with others
Speaker 1: who shared Jeremiah's interests in what lay beyond the boundaries
Speaker 1: of normal reality. But one doc document was different. It
Speaker 1: was written in English, in Jeremiah's own hand, and it
Speaker 1: was addressed to whoever would eventually live in the house
Speaker 1: after his death. The letter began by acknowledging that if
Speaker 1: someone was reading it, then the house had chosen them
Speaker 1: as it had once chosen him. They would have felt
Speaker 1: its attention, heard its voices, experience the pulling that drew
Speaker 1: them toward the spaces between worlds. They would know, as
Speaker 1: he had known, that resistance seemed futile and submission inevitable.
Speaker 1: But he offered what no one had offered him, a choice.
Speaker 1: The house was a gateway, he explained, a thin place
Speaker 1: where the barriers between worlds grew weak. Those who waited
Speaker 1: in the spaces between had been seeking a way through
Speaker 1: for centuries, and they would use whatever tools were available
Speaker 1: to achieve their goal. They had used him, and they
Speaker 1: would use me unless I took action to prevent it.
Speaker 1: The ritual could be stopped, but only by someone with
Speaker 1: the sensitivity to perform it. The house must be cleansed,
Speaker 1: the gateway sealed, the watchers sent back to the spaces
Speaker 1: where they belonged. It required sacrifice not of life, but
Speaker 1: of the very sensitivity that made me valuable to them.
Speaker 1: I would lose the ability to hear their voices, to
Speaker 1: see beyond the veil, to walk between worlds. I would
Speaker 1: become ordinary. Insensitive to the mysteries that surrounded us. For some,
Speaker 1: this loss would be unbearable, For others, it would be
Speaker 1: a relief. The choice was mine. The instructions for the
Speaker 1: cleansing ritual were included with the letter, but he warned
Speaker 1: that once begun, it could not be stopped, and once completed,
Speaker 1: it could not be undone. I should choose carefully, and
Speaker 1: choose soon. The watchers grew stronger with each passing day.
Speaker 1: I read the letter three times before showing it to
Speaker 1: my parents. The ritual instructions were complex, but not impossible.
Speaker 1: A series of actions that would effectively burn out my
Speaker 1: psychic sensitivity, like cause a wound. I would lose something
Speaker 1: I'd never fully understood I possessed, but I would also
Speaker 1: free myself and my family from the attention of things
Speaker 1: that should have remained in the shadows. The discussion that
Speaker 1: followed was long and difficult. My parents had to accept
Speaker 1: that their twelve year old son was dealing with forces
Speaker 1: beyond normal understanding. Emma had to come to terms with
Speaker 1: the fact that the strange experiences we'd all been having
Speaker 1: were real, not imaginary. But in the end, the choice
Speaker 1: was unanimous. Whatever I would lose by performing the ritual,
Speaker 1: it was worth it to ensure our safety and our
Speaker 1: freedom to live normal lives in our new home. The
Speaker 1: cleansing took place on a Tuesday evening, exactly two weeks
Speaker 1: after we'd first arrived at the house. I followed Jeremiah's instructions, precisely,
Speaker 1: drawing symbols with blessed salt, burning specific herbs, speaking words
Speaker 1: and languages that felt familiar despite being foreign. As the
Speaker 1: ritual progressed, I could feel the watch gathering since their
Speaker 1: anger and desperation as they realized what was happening. Voices
Speaker 1: called my name with increasing urgency, Shadows pressed against the
Speaker 1: windows like hands seeking entry, and the air itself seemed
Speaker 1: to thicken with supernatural rage. But I continued the ritual
Speaker 1: even as I felt something essential being burned away inside me,
Speaker 1: some fundamental part of my nature being sacrificed for the
Speaker 1: greater good. The sensitivity that had made me valuable to
Speaker 1: the watchers, the ability to hear their voices, to see
Speaker 1: beyond the veil, to serve as a bridge between worlds,
Speaker 1: was disappearing like smoke and wind. When it was over,
Speaker 1: the house felt different, lighter, empty in a way that
Speaker 1: was peaceful rather than ominous. The shadows returned to being
Speaker 1: just shadows, The voices faded to silence, and the sweet
Speaker 1: organic smell that had permeated everything since our arrival finally dissipated.
Speaker 1: I could no longer hear the whispers in the walls
Speaker 1: or feel the attention of unseen watchers. The loss was profound,
Speaker 1: like losing a sense I'd never fully appreciated, but it
Speaker 1: was also liberating. For the first time since we'd moved
Speaker 1: to the property, I felt truly free. My family settled
Speaker 1: into our new life with a gratitude that came from
Speaker 1: having survived something that could have destroyed us. The house
Speaker 1: became just a house, old in need of repairs, but
Speaker 1: fundamentally normal. The barn ruins remained ruins, holding no more
Speaker 1: mystery than any other abandoned structure. I grew up to
Speaker 1: become a perfectly ordinary teenager, then a perfectly ordinary adult.
Speaker 1: I lost my sensitivity to the supernatural entirely, but I
Speaker 1: gained something more valuable, the ability to live without fear
Speaker 1: of voices calling my name from the darkness. Sometimes late
Speaker 1: at night, I look out across the fields toward the
Speaker 1: barn ruins and remember what it felt like to walk
Speaker 1: between worlds. The memory is like trying to recall it
Speaker 1: dream after waking, frustratingly vague but somehow significant. But I
Speaker 1: never regret my choice. Some doorways are meant to remain closed,
Speaker 1: some voices are meant to go unanswered, and some spaces
Speaker 1: between worlds are meant to stay empty. The house kept
Speaker 1: its secrets, but it no longer demanded sacrifices, and in
Speaker 1: the end that was enough. Not all stories from the
Speaker 1: backwoods have to do with hairy giants lurking between ancient trees.
Speaker 1: Sometimes the most terrifying tales come from places that should
Speaker 1: feel like home, from voices that whisper your name in
Speaker 1: the darkness, from choices that must be made between what
Speaker 1: you are and what you could become. Sometimes the bravest
Speaker 1: thing you can do is choose to remain ordinary. Sometimes
Speaker 1: that choice is the only thing that saves you. Di
Speaker 1: at