Traumatized: Special Edition

By Alexander S. Brown

Within this book reside fifteen dark tales, stories that do more than thrill and chill, that aspire to leave readers not only changed, but scarred. Prepare to be Traumatized.

Author Alexander S. Brown explores the darkest recesses of the heart and soul to bring readers to the edge of the abyss, ready to see themselves in the hole below. Traumatized: Special Edition from Pro Se Productions exposes the depths of human depravity and the dank realms of the macabre. Learn of a depraved congregation beyond the comforts of church. Journey the downward spiral that forces a morally corrupt celebrity to revile her ugliness. Experience the lengths to which a madman will go to keep his true love.

Join Brown as he explores the world of maniacs, the supernatural, creatures, eternal damnation, and the occult. Divided into five chilling sections, Traumatized features the atmospheric and evocative art work of artist Robert K. Read and realize that bump in the night isn’t just a tree branch tapping at your window. Learn what it really means to be Traumatized.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pro Se Press
• Release date: Oct 7, 2014

Book preview

TRAUMATIZED: SPECIAL EDITION

BY ALEXANDER S. BROWN

Copyright © 2014 Alexander S. Brown

Published by Pro Se Press

The stories in this publication are fictional. All of the characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing of the publisher.

Table of Contents

INTRODUCTION

GHOSTS

IT’S ALL TRUE

BLOODLINES

A DEAD RINGER

CREATURES

THE ACQUIRED TASTE

BLISS HILL

FEAST OF THE PIGS

OCCULT

ALTHEA’S LAST DANCE

FROM MIDNIGHT TO ONE

THE END OF SUMMER

MANIACS

APRIL

HOUSE BY THE RIVER

LIVE THROUGH THIS

DAMNATION

TWO MILES

THE GOD COMPLEX

ZOE’S SWAN SONG

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Special Thanks

I would like to offer my heartfelt thanks to everyone who has helped make this collection of stories possible. Special thanks go to my assistants Cheri Loden and Zach Booth for their editorial suggestions and also to my photographer Brandi Loden. A special thanks goes to my friends, my parents, and my grandmother for enduring this long hard road with me.

I would like to dedicate all of the hard work and effort that went into creating Traumatized to some special people—Jessica Wigley, Nichole Hebert, Louise Myers, and James Buddy Miller.

INTRODUCTION

By Alexander S. Brown

The Collection

Death is an angel who can transform into anything it wishes. This eternal figure can become animal or human. It can come to its next victim in the form of man, a woman, a boy, or even a girl. Unlike mythical creatures that only roam the night, Death can appear at anytime, anywhere. Death can steal a scene during the dark night, the cold winter, the blistering summer, or even during a spring day.

The true face of Death is one that humanity cannot comprehend, but it is a face that everyone has seen at least once. They have seen this face in their friends, family, enemies, and even strangers on a deserted road. When Death comes to each of us, we are never sure exactly what face it will wear. The only fact we are certain of is that we will eventually meet Death, even if it is a little girl, on a spring day, carrying a basket of remains from one victim to the next.

Death is a collector and the collection changes its appearance depending on what scene Death wants to act in or which character it cares to portray. Despite what form the collection appears in, it always appears as something natural, but if one looks close enough, they will be able to see that there is something dreadful and bizarre about its form. An example could be that when Death is playing the role of a girl on a spring day, it could carry a basket filled with flower petals.

If one were to admire these petals that would be most suitable for a Gardenia bush, they would notice the imperfections. In the field of white there would be the stains of gray and black, appearing similar to an ink blot card. When observing closer, one would see that each petal resembles a skull.

This flaw is not a coincidence. Again, this is her collection—specifically her collections of souls. She carries them with her everywhere, the way an avid reader would never forget their favorite book while on a vast journey. Actually that’s what her collection of souls is—it is a book. It is more so a diary.

This is a collection that she is most proud of. Each petal tells a different story, and each story more bizarre. The stories that are closest to her are not the ones that conclude with natural causes, or even simple murders. Her favorite stories are those that are the most grizzly and unexplained. They are the sort of tales that traumatize people.

When someone shows interest in the collection, it causes Death’s black heart to skip a beat. Death is not only a collector but a sharer of stories. Today, as you come across Death and you look into her little wicker basket, she will ask that you be silent and listen. When your curiosity causes you to succumb to her request, you listen.

At first the voices of her victims are jumbled. They are the voices of men and women, some of which are elderly, others are simply in their prime. The lost souls want to be heard. There is one voice crying over the other, a few voices are screaming for mercy. For her collection there isn’t any discrimination. She is the owner of multiple genders, races, sexual preferences, and religious denominations. Death merely places a finger to her lips and says, Shhhhh. One at a time.

Then the cries dwindle and the screams calm. The lost souls know that if Death is displeased they will suffer a much crueler fate than the one they are currently enduring. Then one by one, the lost souls speak and if you have the time and patience to listen carefully, you might just learn how to avoid becoming a part of her collection.

There are moments when even to the sober eye of reason, the world of our sad humanity may assume the semblance of hell.

—Edgar Allan Poe

The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear.

—H. P. Lovecraft

To suffering there is a limit; to fearing, none.

—Francis Bacon

GHOSTS

IT’S ALL TRUE

John Elliott was filled with regret on All Hallows’ Eve. Already he was troubled with debate and conflict over his life and career. If he were to enter the house before him, it could mean his death; if he were to remain in this brisk fall weather, he could miss the opportunity for a new best seller. Insecurity consumed him as he realized the house was waiting for him, and there was no turning back.

With the ghostly October moon gleaming, he trotted to the lonesome museum-style home. He studied the two-story Victorian landmark to notice trickery of the natural light. The house was white, but under the cold light, it appeared blue and its green shutters black. The stairs squeaked as he ventured upward. He noticed shattered glass on the porch that reflected the underlayer of the roof. John shifted his gaze from the mosaic of broken glass to the front door, which displayed a ragged sign stating the consequences of trespassing.

He supposed it was the chance of harm and the stories pertaining to this home that caused the sign to be posted. If it weren’t for his work, he would be at home. But this was research for his new nonfiction novel Doctor Death, his second piece of work concerning the subject of haunted history.

Legend had it that this two-story mansion was once a hospital for Civil War soldiers. It was famously known for Dr. Sanders who day in, day out performed amputations. John recalled how his eighth-grade history teacher told the tale one Halloween. Mrs. Harris had explained the brutal situation simply. She stated the procedure of amputations were simple back in that day. First, the doctor would place a cloth mask over his nose and mouth. He would secure his hair with a surgical cap; then, he would wrap a black rubber apron around his body. Into his hands, he would take an old saw that was usually rusted, and he would perform the operation. Preparation was also simple; a nurse would wrap a stick in rags, then give it to the patient to bite. If whiskey was near, the nurses would just liquor up their patient. Finally, the nurses would secure their subject as the doctor sawed through flesh, meat, muscle, and bone. Then, to cauterize the area, the doctor would take a frying pan so hot, that when the cooking tool touched the bleeding stub, it would scream with a sizzle. Plenty of times, this was unsuccessful.

Within the matter of a day or so, the patient would develop a severe infection with fever and would pass away. For the longest time, John imagined scenes of a man in a mask and rubber apron approaching his bed at night with an old, rusted saw ready to dismantle any limb. Finally at this older age, he was ready to investigate what haunted him in his teen years.

The flashback ended, and his mind returned to the present time. He was uncertain of how, but he would work everything into his new novel. Begin it with perhaps a grizzly lesson in history and then continue with his research that he would perform tonight.

John, who preferred being more of a writer than a paranormal investigator, passed the threshold of the rathole, feeling jitters arise. Immediately, he tried suppressing his fear; however, he could only think of the folklore that haunted this home. The legends, most probably fake, were birthed by children that dare venture into the area. Supposedly, there were sightings of sawed limbs stacked as high as a person’s chest. This apparition usually surrounded the base of the home and occurred after dusk. Also, there were tales of seeing a plump man wearing a rubber apron, a surgical mask, and a surgical cap with fried, frizzy hair emerging beneath. Some even said that on nights of a full moon, such as this night, light would gleam onto the rusted saw he held. Finally, there were apparitions of dead soldiers, all missing either an arm or a leg.

Although hesitant, everything for this escapade was ready and situated upon John. Around his neck hung a thirty-five-millimeter camera loaded with infrared film. In the left pocket of his jeans was a recorder containing a microphone so sensitive that it would detect the faintest whisper. Cradled next to his right pants pocket was a flashlight that he had now taken into his hand. John reached in his left pocket, then pressed Record.

He nudged the unstable door, then began speaking of the date and time of the occurrence. When he entered the home, he detected that the temperature differed a few degrees, all of this was documented. The flashlight, which wasn’t very helpful, disturbed the room. John scanned the light about to see a crumbling fireplace, decayed hospital beds; some of which were turned onto their side, then from the ceiling centered between the beds were metal tracks with a few pieces of plastic swaying from them.

John moved through the room like some uncertain animal that was curious and frightened. Feeling chilled with doubt of the stories being fake, he placed the flashlight upon the mantel above the fireplace. Neighboring the flashlight, he placed his camera; then, he pressed the button that would begin the automatic response of the flash, aperture, and shutter speed. When the flash lit the room, John noticed gleaming cobwebs, multicolored graffiti, and holes that completed the area. After the aperture closed from seconds of being opened, he turned the lens face to the front door where another photograph of this neglected home was shot.

A breeze blew, and with its small breath, the remains of the plastic curtains created a chilling, flapping sound. A breeze just blew, he noted, in it, I can vaguely detect the scent of roses and other flowers. Best description I can offer is the aroma of a funeral home. The time is now 9:58 PM. Within the last minute, I have taken two photos of the rest area.

John placed the camera around his neck, then retrieved his flashlight, his hand shaking. He advanced farther into the room, floorboards creaked, and the room rounded into an area that looked like it was once a kitchen. This area was with one window caked with mildew. Before him was a pump with chipped paint at the sink, dressed in cobwebs. A decrepit preparation table rested on its side with termites feasting on the legs and middle part of the body. To the far left of the room was an iron stove that was covered by rat droppings and dead roaches. Nearing that was a hole in the wooden floor, a few feet in circumference, but splintery with cracked boards.

At first, John couldn’t look away from the hole until a chill returned to him, forcing him to quake. Glancing over his right shoulder to see nothing but the plastic flaps slapping in the wind, he turned back to the hole. He had no desire to approach the area, understanding the floor may not accommodate his weight; however, there was no other choice. To the right of that stove was a door with the frame leaning to the right, where it seemed as if the wall was gradually becoming warped due to weathering. This threshold would advance him to further levels, not only that, but he acquired another photograph of the room, and being near the stove would allow a good angle.

He walked toward where the floor could be a hazard, then placed his camera on the stove where a petite section was clear of dead roaches. With the press of a button, a blue flash flourished about the room, and he was liable to view yellowed wallpaper that peeled away from rotting boards. Before he ventured farther, he turned the camera in order to capture another angle of the kitchen.

After the aperture closed, he brought his flashlight back into his hand. 10:01 PM, two photos of the kitchen have been taken.

He grabbed his camera, then turned to the leaning threshold. This space was narrow and received only a little light from the second story. At the peak of the staircase was the doorway leading to the second level, and he dared to know what awaited him.

With intent to move forward, he couldn’t accommodate the strength to proceed. Fear grew stronger, not only because of what he may find, but also because he understood the stairs were fragile. The best seller, he reminded himself. The thought of fame motivated him, and he began upward with caution. Hesitantly, he climbed worrying which rickety board beneath him would be the first to collapse. Just advance at a slow rate, no sudden movements, he warned. John sighed. This was a death wish, he realized. Chances were if the stairs collapsed, he could break his neck or become impaled by a piece of the home. It could be days before anyone found him.

Halfway up, he turned with the feeling that a picture was needed. He brought the camera to his right eye after he placed his flashlight in his pocket. John leaned against the wall for support. The snap of the camera burning an image onto film sounded after a flash. For the brief moment that the blue light illuminated the staircase, he noticed something floating in the air, something that hovered in the dark. It resembled light blue sperm cells that floated elegantly in a variety of lines.

He removed the camera from his face, grabbed the light from his pocket, then aimed to see nothing. John moved from the wall with a sticky sensation tugging the fabric of his shirt. With his free hand, he touched the substance that was odorless but syrupy. It felt like snot, which is exactly as it appeared. 10:07 PM, he stated as he sniffed the substance, ectoplasm found at the center of the staircase. Its only detectable movement was through the camera lens. The walls are caked in the substance, he noted as he looked about the wallpaper that was streaked with the ghostly formula.

It has no smell, it feels something like mucus and is clear.

As a chill raced up his spine, he wiped his hand on the side of his pants. Momentarily, he felt not alone. What is your name? he asked, then waited to hear dead silence. Do you have a reason for remaining here? Again there were no haunting whispers or cries of agony. He remained still for a minute in case something near him had a desire to be recognized.

Not for a second did he doubt what his eyes accepted, and just because he could hear nothing did not mean nothing occurred on his recorder. John knew from past experiences when he had heard nothing or detected nothing, things had appeared on film or had resulted in electronic voice phenomena. Later, he would rewind the tape to find if something had answered his questions.

Without turning his back, he continued upward for two-steps. John felt chilled, but throughout half of his life being a paranormal writer slash investigator, he had never received any form of abuse that was physical, no matter how enraged the spirit. This was somewhat puzzling, considering that some hauntings craved revenge for their agonizing death. Excluding a torturous death, the only other explanation for a haunted house was simple: the deceased individual was unaware he or she was dead, but here there was something more. Here, in this house, John began feeling on edge. In this house, many individuals had died of torment and agony. He began feeling intimidated, somewhat like a child who was scared of the dark.

John turned with a weight on his chest, then walked farther upward until he reached the doorway of the upper level, which was brighter than the lower portion of the home. In this room were the remains of twelve little beds, similar to the ones beneath him.

I have just entered the quarters that belonged to the doctor and his nurses. I know what I learned as a child is true, I can feel the hate of this Godless home. It is patronizing, but I can ignore this feeling. Everyone died here either by infection, disease, or murder by a Yankee. I feel something is left unfinished, John paused. It feels like the spirits are jealous, perhaps because I am alive.

Quickly he turned to make sure that some dead thing had not begun climbing the stairs with a rusted saw and a surgical outfit. Nothing existed except the dark. He began forward to the center of the room to find that no extra light would be needed, for the moon was bright enough and shined through the glassless windows. John advanced to a windowsill that was located in the middle of the decrepit cots. He positioned the camera in the center of the window where another image was burnt onto film. 10:15 PM, photograph of the sleeping quarters has been taken.

By the time he stated this, the aperture on the camera closed. After placing the strap of the camera around his neck, he propped his elbows on the windowsill, then snapped a photograph of the outside world. When he looked through the lens, everything seemed neglected and abandoned. But when he pressed the button that opened the aperture, a new world was ignited. Mounds of bloody sawed limbs surrounded the home; however, as soon as the flash ended, the vision also vanished.

John lowered the camera, confused about what he witnessed. He glanced at his gold wristwatch, then noted with excitement, 10:16 PM from the upper level, I photographed the land below. When the flash occurred, I saw mounds that appeared chest high. I’m not certain, but they appeared to be human limbs.

He backed away from the window, knowing he had seen something supernatural. Although fearful, John began examining the beds to establish where he would sleep for the night, not exactly sleep but rest. All mattresses were filthy with grime and dirt, most of which were too destroyed to bother with. The remains of the upper level appeared feeble except one cot that seemed sturdy enough to maintain his weight.

This cot was located in the shadows to the far right of the room. John approached where he would recline, staring at the rotting, mildew-stained feather mattress. He began hitting the mattress that would bring him mild comfort as dust clouds floated from the material. A sneeze escaped his nose twice, and he wondered if he should stay the night.

The bottom line was simple: he was willing to suffer a few allergies and fear for a new best seller that would stay in the top ten for at least three months. As he sat on the mattress, he heard the boards expand. He placed his legs on the dusty bed, then leaned his head back against the graffiti-stained wall.

After removing his recorder and flashlight, he attempted to relax to the full extent but was unable. If anything or anyone in this home has a request, state it now, please, John announced, holding the recorder in the air for a few seconds.

He removed the camera from around his neck. He was proud he had only spent a few negatives. For what seemed like half an hour, he waited while attempting to acknowledge any sound that could occur. As he waited, a soft sobbing alerted him; he ignored his gooseflesh to document the fact in a faint whisper.

When 10:40 PM arrived, he flipped the minicassette in his trusty recorder, which had caught voices and sounds of the afterlife plenty of previous times. John pressed Record, then announced, Side B, 10:41 PM, if anyone would like to commune, please do so now.

John slid the oblong black recorder beside his left hip, and he sighed, then waited as his fingers rummaged in his right jeans pocket to find another tape, which was also set aside. The boards squeaked as he moved from the bed to the window while stretching.

An icy finger ran down his stiff spine ending near his tailbone. After his body rhythmically quivered as though he had just climaxed, John leaned against the window. The smell of damp, stale funeral flowers piqued his senses and aided in erecting his microscopic hairs. Once he checked his wristwatch, he noted, 10:43 PM, an icy chill aroused me, and the smell of flowers reoccurred.

He took the camera into his grasp, placed it at eye level, then he pressed down on the Shutter Release button. As the aperture opened, a blue light penetrated the room. But in that brief half second of haunting blue light, there was more. Perfect spheres floated and glowed in that quick pause of time. Orbs, he believed the correct term to be.

10:45 PM. An uncounted number of orbs appeared when I photographed the room. They ranged in size and were a brilliant, bright white. Also the temperature has decreased. John placed his hand past the window frame. Inside the home there is a gentle constant breeze, though there is no evidence of wind blowing about outside.

He listened, hearing only the whistling breeze. Tomorrow he would listen to the tape and develop the negatives. After he understood what he was dealing with, he would ask a friend of his, Constance, who was blessed with the gift of psychic ability to come help these tormented souls cross to their final destination. If he was dealing with a sinister force, he would seek his relative, Father Paul, to perform one more exorcism before his heart grew any weaker.

Being an individual connected to the paranormal, John had encountered many things that remained enigmas; and a spirit, no matter how cruel its intent, had never harmed him. However, a home demonically possessed was different. Reaching a hand beneath his shirt, he grazed his fingers over a seven-inch scar that was indented above his hairy navel. This had been the only damage ever received during his ghost hunts. It had occurred while investigating the exorcism of a five-year-old Asian girl known as Miuki. This had been the first time he and cousin Father Paul had worked together. It was also the first time he had felt such fear and hate.

That experience in California with Miuki was the only time he had ever felt the devil accept him under his wing. It was then that the cut on his stomach mysteriously appeared like some specter had slashed him with an invisible razor. That fear he felt years ago had now returned. But tonight, he could not feel the hand of the dark prince cradling him. Because of this, John was forced to think differently: the land wasn’t sour; it didn’t vibrate when he walked across it. But hate was absorbed over the years, and the house was nothing more than a sponge soaked with contaminated decadence yearning to be sparked back to life.

The hate was relevant. Rage intertwined with the madness below him, above him, behind him, and before him; and it had formed into something with his unintended aid. Into what, he was uncertain. But how long would it stay invisible? Something was evolving from this house of death, and it was growing stronger with the ectoplasm, orbs, smells, and his feelings of being threatened. Entities wanted to hurt him or perhaps saw until he was nothing more than unrecognizable pieces. Before he could work himself into a frenzy, he recalled that a spirit had never hurt him, yet. That was the keyword though: yet, which was true but equally a terrifying possibility.

John jumped away from the window, feeling the bony, cold hand of death caress the nape of his neck. Anxiety continuously grew to make him realize that if he would allow the rage of the home one more inch, the spirits would take a mile and become real like flesh and bone. But he dare not give the home or its damned spirits that extra inch. If he allowed power, things would be birthed, which he would refuse to imagine or accept into comprehension.

Stumbling backward, he reached the bed and sat with a complete loss of body function. 10:49 PM. Hate, this home is filled with so much hate. It feels like there is something surrounding me that wants to inflict pain. The odd thing is I think the house wants me, maybe because I’m trespassing or I’m alive, but it won’t have me, and I refuse to give the spirits power to manifest any further.

John closed his eyes, then breathed words, Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven—

A gentle knocking occurred, he ignored the sound, then continued his prayer. With each word he spoke, the knocking grew louder and closer. It was in the same room with him. His words began spilling faster from his mouth, causing a few syllables to become slurred, In Jesus Christ’s name, I pray. Amen.

After opening his eyelids, he felt the evil that had bestowed itself upon him vanish. John reached for the camera, then raised it to his right eye. He focused, then held his finger above the trigger button, but he refused pressing. It was unknown what would be seen in the flash of blue light. Momentarily, John desired not to see the ghosts because he knew something waited near him with the desire to be captured on film and given power. With what he experienced, he realized the spirits fed from him; they had become their strongest when he recalled unpleasant memories.

Regardless something in the room remained, only now it was a fraction weaker, thanks to the prayer.

10:52 PM. I think it has paused. I can still smell flowers, but the activity has reached its peak.

The thought that he was antagonizing the spirits crossed him, but he would refuse to give them any further power. Tonight was the first time anything had fed from him. It weakened John, not only of energy, but also his senses, which were already paralyzed with horror. For minutes, the home was silent, and the paranormal investigator turned nonfiction novelist anticipated its next trick in dismay.

Tonight, trying to rest would be futile. He realized this when the cassette tape clicked in the recorder, and his body flinched. He pressed Record after replacing the tape. 11:11 PM. Tape 2, side A, the smell of moist flowers has lingered, the breeze of the room has a deathly chill. Fear, the spirits of the house, they feed on hate, anxiety, and fear. I believe they are earthbound, and they rely on their visitors to energize them. I don’t know how I know this, but it’s something I feel.

While speaking, his eyes refused to abandon the shadowed doorway where a gleaming spiderweb was built in the far right corner. Expectations of a ghostly specter entering the room through this dark entrance were high, perhaps too high. But all he could do was sit and wait for dawn. Somehow he had buried himself alive in this home.

This had never occurred before, but he felt trapped. John could leave the home anytime; in order to do so, he would have to proceed down the stairs. But the thought of what could be waiting for him on the staircase or in the kitchen imprisoned him in the moonlight on this cot.

Ghosts can’t hurt you, he said aloud to kill the silence. Unfortunately, the sound of his voice came too soon.

Below, a thump sounded; then, a thud was born near the front entrance. Golden silence was once more. His eyes widened like an adolescent viewing a slasher flick for the first time. The beating of his heart increased, then skipped a beat. Jump out the damned window if you have to, John advised himself.

The silence didn’t last, for something grim made a thump. Not long after he heard what could only be described as a thud……he paused as he heard the noises again. Somebody’s walking.

A scraping alerted his eyes to the far left of the room to see two crouched women or what appeared to be women hidden in the shadows. They scratched at the walls with stubby nails. Upon the long stringy black hair of both women sat old nurse caps that were white and misshapen. On their skinny bodies, which would best suit a heroin addict, was crimson-stained uniforms. Simultaneously, they raised their hands, then clawed at the wallpaper. In the moonshine, he saw that their skin was adorned with black bruises highlighted in a dull yellow. The appearances were frightening, but they hadn’t noticed him. If he stayed quiet with refusal to move, they may never look away from the wallpaper.

The thump, then thud drew his eyes back to the doorway. After minutes of madness, more of trauma, the gentle but harsh thump thud entered the kitchen. John forced his lids to shield his eyes. He thought doing this would be the only thing that would protect his heart.

Still, he could hear the women scratching, and the thump thud cross the bottom level of the home. To cover the hellish sounds, he began to whisper the Lord’s Prayer. By the time the prayer concluded, the scratching of the women ceased. But the sounds below commenced to the base of the staircase right outside his bedroom door. The racket paused, possibly debating to continue upward. After a few seconds, nothing moved, but John doubted that the horror had retreated.

The only thing that had entered John’s mind was to pray, which he did louder than a mere whisper. Over the ranting of his own words, he heard the spirit climb the stairs like a stumbling lush. With the proceeding of this ghost, he could feel his pulse rise, and his blood pressure jump to a possible one hundred and forty something over ninety-eight. Then his heart discontinued thumping to escalate to beating harshly against the inside of his chest.

In the middle of his prayer, he heard the ghost, possibly the doctor, reach the top step. John ended his prayer, then shivered as the smell of flowers disappeared, and the rancid smell of a skunk roasting in the Mississippi summer sun became dominant.

After a gagging fit subsided, he covered his nose and mouth with his right palm. Once he had become accustomed to the stench, John noticed the steps had halted on the rickety staircase.

Curiosity forced his eyelids to flutter open. The room and doorway were empty. Before relief could be found, his eyes stared at the opening of the room while wondering what lurked in the intimidating abyss. Nothing came forward, but John knew whatever was in the shadows waited.

Chilled fingers aroused John as a sadistic energy watched him where light dared not touch. A figure crept into the light of the room. The specter was six foot tall and was mainly built of rancid meat and swollen flesh that appeared to have the same texture and color of mud-stained algae. Adding to the wild image was the gray frizzed hair that prodded from beneath the surgical cap. Behind its surgeon’s mask was a rotted head that was almost skeletal with teeth visible by a hole ripped into the right sunken cheek. Clinging tight to its husky body was a plastic apron with fresh blood beading down the chest and stomach. Gripped in the left hand was a rusted gore-stained hacksaw.

John did not take time to debate. He jumped from the bed but fell face first onto the dusty floor, where sticky stains of rat urine touched his hands and lips. Around his ankle was a hand. Connected to that horrid palm was the body of a worn, grungy soldier who was an amputee, missing both legs above the knee. The spirit pulled itself onto John and held on to him as Dr. Death came closer.

John struggled while the dead soldier held him in place. As the doctor knelt, John realized his body was weighted down. Dr. Death grabbed John by the wrist, then positioned the saw a few inches below the investigator’s shoulder. The harsh points were felt poking at his skin.

Behind the rancid doctor were the spirits of the home, many crawling toward him without legs. Other apparitions stood missing an arm while a few were nurses who were fully intact and appeared anorexic. Blended in the crowd was a mixture of sobbing, screaming, and deranged laughter. John looked away from the manifestation to notice the dull blades of the hacksaw pressing down, then sawing back and forth. IT’S ALL TRUE! STAY OUT OF THE HOUSE! John screamed in a horrified voice that had lost sanity as the doctor began deconstructing him. As he felt the saw meet his bone, John realized he would never leave alive, and he had only himself to blame.

A day later, Deputy Anthony came to the home to search the premises. He was somewhat new to the area, but had heard the stories of this home. Truthfully, he didn’t expect anything to shock him. With his large hand inches away from the gun at his side, he asked, Anyone in here?

The burly Italian deputy stood at the base of the staircase. He gazed into the short hall with his brown eyes that focused on the doorway to the second level. Hello? he asked with his backwoods Louisiana accent.

A chill consumed him; gradually he withdrew his gun, pressed his back against the wall, then proceeded upward with his weapon ready to fire. He stayed calm and cool until he reached the top level of the home. Deputy Anthony rushed into the room to see the pale limbless body of John Elliott drained of all life. To the far right corner of the room, Anthony noticed the arms and legs of the late author near a broken camera and tape recorder. From where the limbs lay at the corner of the room and where the body lay near the door, Anthony figured John had pulled himself away from where he had become an amputee. This trick could have only been performed by pulling with his chin and shimmying with his waist, the way a worm would crawl.

Curiosity moved him to the recorder where he wrapped his hand in a thinning sheet. Anthony pressed Rewind with a few seconds passing. The deputy pressed Play to hear a crowd of cries, screams, and desires, some male voices, some female voices. Then a dominant voice belonging to John Elliott verified the reality of this issue. Confusion made his youthful face wrinkle while he became occupied with the screams captured by the late investigator’s recorder.

Without Anthony acknowledging the power he offered the manifestations, a chill that made his hairs stand erect overwhelmed him. The minor chill he radiated was just enough juice to offer strength to the dead for a while longer. Quietly, the mob of amputees, people who had died of disease, and the doctor who still carried a saw that dripped of blood appeared. Patiently, they waited for the deputy to turn and face them.

BLOODLINES

1

The December day was drawing to a chilly end as the pinkish orange sun disappeared in the countryside’s distance. Distraught trees protruded from the muddy, frozen ground in twisted silhouettes. The only existence of life was the four vehicles parked at Grey Oakes Manor.

Emily Walker stood outside the historic mansion, feeling uneasy and unsure of the reason for her invitation to this weekend gathering. For forty-three years, she had lived here in south Louisiana, enjoying the gardenias and magnolias in the summertime. She was accustomed to the yearly Mardi Gras festival where foods such as seasoned shrimp, spicy crawfish, and gumbo were considered lavish entrées, but she’d never even dreamed of being invited to this renowned landmark.

Before the sun completely set, she admired the mansion and hoped the people inside wouldn’t look down their noses at her and the cheap, but respectable, gray business suit she wore. She marveled at this three-story antebellum home, wishing such a place would be offered to her; however, over the years, she had almost grown used to living in tiny HUD homes and run-down trailers with her seventeen-year-old daughter, Natalie. This wealthy home had flawless white siding flanked by dark green shutters. Emily approached the house with her cell phone in hand. She began dialing her home number as she admired the fancy navy blue curtains that covered the windows. With each step she took toward the mansion, gravel crunched beneath her feet. It was hell walking in her high heels, especially since it had stopped raining a few hours earlier, and the ground was still soggy.

She began walking up the iron steps to the large wooden front porch as she placed the phone to her ear and heard it ring.

Hello, her daughter answered.

Well, I’m here. Now, are you sure you’re going to be okay by yourself? she asked as she continued climbing the steps to the porch.

Her daughter replied, a bit irritated, Yes, Momma, I will. You don’t need to worry about me. I’m about to eat, and Jessica is going to come over in a little bit, so I won’t be alone.

Okay, I’ll give you a call later, sweetie.

Love you, Momma.

Love you too, sweetie.

Emily hung up, then placed the phone back into her handbag. Now that she was on the porch, she turned to face the steps she had climbed and gazed at the sun setting across the dead farmland. She saw the sky behind the trees was fading from fluorescent pink to dark purple then to black. She shivered as the cold wind that howled through the bare tree branches struck her with a vengeance. Emily moved to the enormous wooden front doors adorned with two golden handles. Beside the doors was a small sign that read, Ring bell before entering. Removing the gray glove from her delicate hand, she pressed the small white button to the left of the door to alert the people inside of her arrival. She pressed it twice with her index finger, then waited. It felt as though her body froze with each blast of the blowing wind, so she pressed the small circle again. Finally, the door opened, revealing an elderly bald gentleman with two small strips of silver hair over his ears that met around the back of his head. This old butler reminded Emily of an elderly, but clean-cut, Isaac Hayes dressed in his best tuxedo.

Welcome to Grey Oakes Manor. My name is Albert Delaney. How may I assist you? he asked in a cracking, gravelly voice.

My name is Emily, Emily Walker. A week ago I received an invitation to come for dinner and to stay the night.

Before she was allowed in, he stood firm in the doorway and asked, May I see some identification?

Wanting to escape the bitter cold, she quickly opened her handbag and searched for her license. She found the small plastic card instantly, but felt a bit embarrassed to show it. Her license photo made her appear like Kermit the Frog on crack. The butler’s large rough hand gently took the card from her and held it up in the light. Squinting his eyes, he attempted to read the small print.

Please enter, madam, he said as he handed the driver’s license back to her. Emily stepped in from the cold and felt the warmth embrace her. She inhaled and smelled the burning embers of pine logs, but her breath was stolen as she began to view the room she was in. On her right was a staircase with shiny wooden steps, and to its left was a thin gold railing that led down to the first floor. To her left was another staircase, which was decorated identically to the stairs at her right, it led upward to another level. Hanging above her was a crystal chandelier that bathed the grandfather clock, which began its deep chime, in the distance of the greeting area. As Emily stood in awe, she looked at the oil paintings of belles holding umbrellas in the summer sun and gentlemen proposing on bended knee. These pieces of art hung in antique golden frames on the walls, which were dressed with flowered paper and were probably worth a few thousand dollars each. The sound of her heels clicked on the marble floor as she turned to face a nine-by-twelve-foot mirror positioned on the wall beneath the staircase that led up. Beneath that mirror was a nightstand that held a Boston fern and a small lamp for when the overhead lights were turned out.

On the left and right sides of the mirror were two openings. The entrance on the left led to the living room, which branched into the study. The threshold on the right led to a sunroom and library.

I’ll need to take your handbag for safekeeping, instructed Albert.

That’s all right, announced Emily in a voice only higher than a whisper, her eyes twice their normal size. I want to keep it with me.

We can never be too safe around here. I’ll place it in the vault along with everyone else’s belongings, he announced, approaching her as she admired the painting of the Mother Mary draped in a blue shroud, holding a sleeping cherub. Emily began searching in her handbag and removed her credit card and cell phone.

Your credit card won’t be needed. Everything is free of charge tonight.

Emily looked toward Albert as though he were pulling her leg, but she doubted this was a joke, considering he didn’t appear to be the joking type by his stern features. She placed her card back into her handbag.

Your cell phone isn’t allowed either. There is a phone in your room.

She wanted to question Albert’s authority, but decided against it. Tonight she had a free room, meal, and probably cable, if there was a television in her room. Emily turned the phone off, then placed it in her handbag and snapped it shut. Trusting the butler, she handed him her purse, believing it would be in good hands. After all, he didn’t look like a thief or a pathological liar; even under his stern features, there was a hint of kindness. To her, he appeared to be a gentle giant. Once her purse was secure in his oversized hand, he asked, Are you ready to see your room?

Yes, sir, she replied.

She followed Albert to the staircase that led upstairs. Her hand gripped the gold railing, and she held on to it as she proceeded up. When she was about halfway up the staircase, she turned to her left to admire the painting of a sophisticated man dressed in a gray suit. This man was Caucasian with a curled red mustache, but lacked hair on his egg-shaped head.

What’s the story with this house? she asked.

They reached the top step, and she found that the hall, although lit by a chandelier, was not as bright as the downstairs.

Albert cleared his throat and began, It was built in the early eighteen hundreds. The wealthy Gish family owned it. The house is now owned by a descendant of the man who built it way back then, he explained as they approached the second closed door in the hallway.

On the shiny door was a gold plate with the words Victorian Room engraved on it.

He turned the golden knob on the door and added, The only abnormal occurrence concerns the disappearance of the remaining ancestors after the father of the house died. The maids even vanished. The only people left alive were the ones not mentioned in the will. I’m sure even they have passed on of natural causes by now. However, the owner Draven is the only person I know that carries the Gish bloodline and is still alive.

Emily looked toward him and noticed there were gaps in his story, but good old fashioned ghost stories or urban legends usually contained those.

As stated in the invitation you received, we have all the necessities you will require in your room, everything from toothpaste to a nightgown.

He opened the door as wide as it would go and ushered Emily into the room.

She felt bedazzled by its gothic beauty. This room held so many lavish items and fancy pieces of furniture she was unsure of which item to look at first. Tonight there would be no worries, just relaxation.

Albert remained in the doorway and announced, Dinner at six, which is in thirty minutes, but make yourself at home, refresh yourself, and try to relax before dinner. Also, may I please wish you a good night at our home.

Thank you, she said while still in somewhat of a daze.

When Albert closed the door, Emily turned to her bed with a smile growing over her face and broad cheekbones. Never had she pictured herself sleeping in a home like this, better yet, in a bed like this. She sat on the mattress and relaxed, feeling vibes of energy flood throughout her body. Emily recalled the last time she felt this way. It was before her husband left her for a younger woman. Her ex-husband had taken her to Houston, Texas, for their anniversary; and their daughter, Natalie, who was ten at the time, came along too. They had such a good time then, and she was having a good time now. It’s too bad that Natalie can’t be here to enjoy this with me, she thought, but she knew the invitation said, Admit One.

Feeling too impatient to sit any longer, she stood and advanced toward the bathroom. She flipped on the light switch, and her aching smile widened in disbelief as she saw the hot tub. Emerging from the sink was a miniature television to watch while enjoying the jetted tub. Emily figured she would use this device before the night was over.

She moved to the sink, then looked in the mirror to check her makeup and found that everything still looked good except the shade of