They Called Me Lady
The garlicky flavor of escargot had enveloped my senses. It had been a perfectly enchanting evening of roses, wine and romance. I nervously anticipated that Brant was planning to ask me back to his apartment. My cheeks flushed with arousal and excitement as I wondered if I should go with him because I had only met him a few hours ago. But he was so damn sexy as a little cowlick draped his forehead, drawing my avid attention to his deep blue eyes. I closed my eyes as I felt his hand wander up my thigh, slipping under my panties.
“Come home with me?” he pleaded in a husky sensual voice.
“Let’s go!” I capitulated, “but I need to use the restroom first.”
As I walked to the ladies’ room, I heard two men at a table whisper to me, “Lady, come over here for a minute.”
Out of curiosity, I stopped at their table but they didn’t say a word to me, just handed me a note. I continued on to the restroom where I opened the missive. “Run,” it said. My heart caught in my throat as I considered the meaning of this. I decided to not take any chances with my date and went back to the table and told him I couldn’t go home with him.
Fury bubbled up on his face as he stomped out of the restaurant, leaving me stranded alone at my table.
“Well, maybe those men were right,” I thought, “If he could anger so easily. I’m sure glad I didn’t go home with him. No telling what he would have done. Maybe he was a psychopath!”
Luckily, I had met him here at the restaurant, leaving my car in the parking lot. I paid the bill and headed out to my vehicle, watching carefully to make sure my date wasn’t anywhere in sight. I saw the two gentlemen who had warned me and thanked them profusely. All of a sudden, the men grabbed me and threw me into the back seat of their car.
“We told you to run!” they chorused in unison.
The Conversation: Chapter 2
“Hey, dude, I got something on the spirit box.”
“What did it say?”
“I think it said your name.”
“Can you do it again? Can you say my name again?”
“You hear that?”
“Yeah, it definitely said your name.”
“We’re investigating a haunting that took place here. Are you the ghost that resides here?”
“Can you tell us what happened here?”
“Died? How did you die?”
“Murder? Were you murdered?”
“Who murdered you?”
“It just said Billy. Who’s Billy?”
“Coming? What’s coming?”
“Dude, it just got cold in here. Can you feel that?”
“It still said coming.”
“I don’t like the sound of this.”
″Coming! Run! Hide!”
“EMF’s going crazy!”
“Are you still there?”
“No response. It’s freezing in here.”
“I think something else is in here.”
“Are you Billy?”
“Play? You think this is a game? You can’t scare us-”
“HOLY SHIT! ZACH, BEHIND YOU!”
“OH MY GAWW-”
#Horror #Paranormal #HarryHorrors
"tell your friends not to turn around or even answer when they heard someone call their names" the caretaker of the house were staying in told me
"why?" I asked we don't believe in old sayings
"just tell them young lady it's for your own good, you're not home" the old lady told me with an expression I can't understand
"friends welcome to our humble abode" I greeted them enthusiastically
Everyone was excited to explore the house to see what's in-store for us
Evening came I relay the message from the old lady to my friends
"it's a folklore I don't believe folklores" Audrey exclaimed
"it's just a precaution, we're not going to lose anything if we believe this for a moment" I said
"I'll prove to you it's just a story" she answered back
A week later
We're stuffing our things in our van we were ready to go back to our city life after a week of relaxation no one heard the caller.
It was three in the afternoon quarter of the gang is in the van fighting for relaxing place to sleep whole travelling when
"yes? I'm coming" Audrey suddenly exclaimed then attempted to ran back in to the house James and I caught both of her arms
"where are you going?" James and I both exclaimed
"didn't you hear? Someone called me, she's till calling me" she exclaimed she's more determined to go back than before
James and I exchanged a quick glance I felt my blood left my face "no one is calling you, Audrey" James exclaimed
"she's at the back of the house" Audrey whispered and ran
"no one is calling her" I whispered
James, Dan and Aubrey her twin sister followed her while I stayed with the others. We waited for thirty minutes when I heard a scream, Aubrey
Everyone was out of the van in an instant we tried to go after them but it was not needed anymore.
Three of them were walking towards us, everyone's as white as snow, one has bloodshot eyes, the two were carrying someone as white as snow with fresh blood on her.
Voice From the Dark
The voice echoed through the empty hall. Again, more urgent, "Sam!"
"Where are you?" came the answer. Sam stumbled in the darkness, fumbling for a light switch. The switch produced a faint buzzing, but no light emanated from the bulb.
The bulbs, of course, would not turn on. Most creatures of the night can see to that. For now I could stay in the shadows, but my time to strike was nearing.
"Over here! Around the corner! Hurry!"
Sam sighed and turned the corner. The unwary human was faced with more dark hallways, but straight ahead was the back entrance to the ice rink's shop.
"In here! Sam!"
Sam stopped. "This isn't funny anymore! Who are you?"
Sam turned and walked.
"No! Don't leave me Sam, I'm scared! Please!"
A groan preceded another change in course. Sam entered the skate shop through the open door. The darkness covered the shop, obscuring the merchandise. Racks of dresses were barely distinguishable from the bins of hockey sticks. Sound is more telling at night; I could hear shallow breaths and human heart beating ever faster.
"Look, you don't need to be scared!" Thump-thump, thump-thump. "I'm here, so why don't we just leave together now?"
"Come get me Sam, I'm back here."
"All right, I'm coming."
Sam's hand traced the counter. I heard scuffing as the human's feet shuffled over the floor without leaving it. Clever. With each step, Sam drew closer to the back of the store.
The air grew thicker and the shadows denser. Sam groped along beneath the shelves of skates, trying to locate the source of the voice. Without breaking the silence, I approached, now almost on top of the human.
Sam stood facing away from the wall, completely oblivious to the true source of danger. Slowly, stealthily, a pair of skates wormed their way to the edge of the shelf. Time for the finale.
"I'm right here, Sam."
With one last tug, the skates descended straight for the human's head. I shoved Sam forward, and the skates hit the ground, shattering the silence. Sam screamed and ran blindly, knocking over a bin of blade guards on the way out.
"Fool," growled a voice from the ceiling. "Who dares come between me and my prey?" A bald creature with glowing red eyes and clawed limbs crawled down the wall. It gazed into the shadows, searching for the interloper who had deprived it of an easy meal.
I didn't dignify its threat by moving or responding. Even if it knew what I was, it wouldn't be able to tell shadows from shadows.
It growled, clearly confused by not seeing anything. "You may be able to hide for now, but I will find you, and when I do you will face the wrath of a --"
I pitched the skates right back at it. The creature yelped and retreated into the air vent. I heard metallic scraping as it ran away. There was no need to follow; I had secretly foiled its hunts for weeks. If it didn't want to starve to death, it would have to return to the woods and give up on human prey.
I put the skates back on the shelf and straightened up the bins. I didn't want Sam to start a rumor that the rink was haunted. There was no need to attract more attention than necessary; ghost hunters can get annoying. As far as the other humans need be concerned, someone stayed past closing and got spooked by their own shadow.
Names will never hurt
After a morning of vigorous exercise clearing away a lazy vagabond who had set up camp in his south field, Farmer Brown decided to cut himself a new shillelagh from the ancient blackthorn thicket.
The old shillelagh, with its smoothly worn knob handle and spikey shaft had broken due to his perhaps over-eager discouragement of the traveller.
“Damned scrounger”, he had yelled, throwing the broken stick after the ragged figure of the fleeing man who was clutching a mandola in one hand and a bundled kerchief of possessions in the other.
The shillelagh’s loss was the only thing he regretted from the encounter, since the stick had belonged to his father and before that to his grandfather. By tradition it was said to bring luck to its bearer.
A new bargain with 'the lady' was best sealed by selecting a replacement stick from the very same thicket, growing beside the holy ballaun stone, that had been chosen by his grandfather.
The gaffer, as he was called, was a wily one, and was rumoured to have struck a deal with the thicket’s faery owner.
Not that Farmer Brown really believed in that nonsense. Still, better to be safe than sorry.
Hence, when he reached the hollowed out bullaun stone, Brown followed the old ways carefully, first circling it three times.
Each time he passed the holy stone, he threw a pinch of salt over his left shoulder to protect against bad luck.
On the third circuit he recited in a confident voice, “If anyone objects to me taking a stick from this thicket, please speak now.”
From the thicket came a stern voice, “Farmer Brown?"
The farmer was dumbstruck. “Who calls my name?", he asked cautiously.
"Would you like me to appear?", came the reply.
Brown hastily denied any desire to see the tricksy faery.
"I bring honey and goat’s milk,” he stammered.
“That’s better! Do you think a fine shillelagh grows on its own?”, came the reply.
Brown swallowed hollowly and, facing away from the blackthorn bush, set down the traditional gifts of honey, now somewhat crystallised, and a small crock of milk that had almost gone off.
After all, as he had told his wife, it was only a token, wasn’t it?
There was an anxious wait as he sensed rather than heard a presence sampling the crystallised honey and sipping the sour milk.
With sinking heart, he heard a gagging noise.
Seconds later, a confused whirl of movement came. The bewildered farmer felt a rough burlap sack being thrown over his head, blocking his vision entirely and confining his arms.
“You have not given fair price”, said the voice. “Therefore I must, by the laws of faery equity either take three fine sovereigns or gift you with seven years of bad luck.
“Do you agree with my bargain?”
Now terrified and anxious to see the end of this ill-judged affair, the farmer stammered, “Yes, yes, take the gold and let me be.”
He felt a deft hand relieve him of his goodly purse of leather and heard a faint clinking. The faery counted, “one, two, three, sovereigns, come to me.”
The gleeful voice continued, “Are you ready to receive your stick?”
The farmer kept his eyes pressed closed under the sack and muttering “yes” in a somewhat subdued voice.
A furious rain of blows from a hefty stick followed, knocking Brown right off his feet.
The attack continued without pause for several minutes as the farmer rolled over and over desperately trying to protect his more vulnerable parts, and cursing helplessly.
At last the faery let be. With a thud the new blackthorn stick dropped beside Farmer Brown’s bundled up form, together with his good leather purse, now much lighter than before.
After a few minutes of silence, Brown struggled cautiously out of the sack, flinging it to one side, and picked up the purse, angrily kicking the new blackthorn shillelagh aside.
Prudently, with never a backwards look, he limped home, a wiser, but poorer man.
From behind the blackthorn thicket the vagabond watched Brown go with an inward chuckle before continuing to dress his bruises from the morning’s encounter with vinegar and brown paper.
When he had finished, he picked up the mandola, and played an impromptu tune. “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me”, he sang. Then he patted with a grin the pocket in which now resided three sovereigns bright.
The voice wafted to her ears as the door closed behind. The bar was littered with sporadic life, compressed shoulders and hunched backs, all unaware of her or each other or of the voice which seemed to be all around them. All were drowning in their own life streams, or damming up the tributaries. Whichever.
As she moved to the bar a melody warbled about her and strains of music followed along with it. She caught the bartender's attention and a glass was set before her. She made it disappear and ordered another. She was aware of the voice once again. It was lilting, effervescent, describing words which wound into unbroken sound. She supposed it was music; turned to find it.
The dimly lit stage lay beyond the skeletons of empty tables. A figure was seated there, at the piano, and she could discern the movement of arms as hands fingered the teeth of the detuned beast. She clutched her freshly filled glass and walked to the stage. The tables surrounding it were devoid of life and sat haplessly barren. The regulars at the bar regarded her as she weaved between that emptiness. The notes from the cavities of the beast became clearer and her mind comprised an image of knuckled fingers tickling ivory, handling, relinquishing, fingertips sculpting a circle of fifths into a hendecagon of sevenths.
She sat at a table nearest the pianist and the words wafting from his straightened back were muffled still but she would catch a syllable here, there, delivered in what seemed to be a reoccurring pattern of cryptic significance. She sipped the fire in her glass and it settled into an uneasy existence.
The figure was dressed in a very nondescript way so that she could not determine whether it was man or woman. The voice itself, contralto? Countertenor? It alluded to neither, an ambiguous form conveying what could be described as music for it could not be described as anything else.
And there was those syllables congealing together, alone and repetitive and the notes of the piano like a thousand twinkling instruments, cascading around the androgynous voice. The song persisted, seemed to have no end, was reluctant to transition, determined to explore the intricacies of a single theme.
She didn't seem to mind for, repetitive though it was, the melody grew on her, summoned feelings in her long since forgotten. Her glass now empty, her fingers traced the grain of the table with absent-minded intent. Her turquoise flats upon the floor, she massaged the back of a calf with a foot, up and down, backward and forward, perhaps in time with the music, perhaps to the beat of her heart.
She closed her eyes as all eyes at the bar quietly regarded her. The pianist didn't turn, didn't deviate from its purpose, its arms moved as hands fingered the teeth of the detuned beast. The notes rose and fell the same as they always had, effortlessly, eternally.
Her fingers traced labyrinthine routes upon the grain, her head softly bobbed, her skin felt a world apart, an article of clothing, disconnected, malleable. The melody caressed her, the words were soft as if whispered, the image in her mind regarded the stage from the bar and the figure which hardly moved but moved the world. She listened to the melody and that languid two syllable word contorted and vocalised in every way. She heard it clearly now but could not remember its meaning or if this was music at all. What was music? The things around her lost significance, were merely things relating to another world, another layer beyond perspective.
The pianist continued the strain, never deviating, never tiring, the hypnotic movement of the arms, the slight glimpse of knuckled fingers, the impossibly straight back, the timeless attire. She watched the stage as the others watched. The bartender refilled their drinks when needed no longer needing to ask what they preferred.
"Hair of the dog," she thought, as a glass was set before her, but what was dog? What was hair? This glass of fire fitting embers in her middle. The stage, so far away, surrounded by tables, all of them empty, all but the one nearest the stage where someone had discarded a pair of turquoise flats. She turned to the others at the bar, they also found this amusing.
How have you been? I mean, I know how you've been, but are you dealing with it well? Sorry, I know losing people is hard. I know how you are, too. The need to find answers. You can't just let them be dead, you have to figure out why and you won't be ok until you do.
So I'm trying to explain to you. It was their own fault, you know. They never found their bodies, did they? Any of them? That was a red flag for you, I'm sure. That many people don't just "go missing". They brought it on themselves, though. You know how certain creatures can't enter a place uninvited? This works in a similar way.
It's certainly been windy lately, hasn't it?
I'm only telling you this because you've already failed. This information won't do you any good now, and I am truly sorry. I wanted someone to know, though, so you'll have to do. You can't do anything about it anymore.
You answered me. You shouldn't have done that.
Don't answer a voice calling your name unless you can see the body uttering the syllables. I thought this was common knowledge.
You haven't seen me yet. But I've been here, always, in the shadows, possessing the breeze, calling names... You'll see me soon. I'm sorry.
I can't help it. It's in my nature, an undeniable instinct. I must speak. I can't live without them. Their materials, their souls, I need them. They gave me permission. I didn't do anything by force. I promise.
I am dying.
I tried. So long, I tried. Tried to just be a shadow, a gentle breeze, not speaking a word. But it would have driven me insane. Starving.
I don't know what you'll see me as. Sometimes I glance in their mirror and my face is a wolf, sometimes a demon. I think I must take the form of their fear, what their minds think is killing them.
"Killing" is a harsh word. I don't like using it. I don't like doing it.
Anyway, you don't have much longer. Tonight at the darkest hour, actually. You'll feel a breeze in your room, one you've never felt before. You'll see the slightest movement, out of the corner of your eye. You'll hear your name again, barely more than a whisper. You'll whisper your last words.
Always Pay the Entertainment
I was working in the office one day, when suddenly my cell phone rang. I answered it, and there was no response. Then, finally, I heard an eerie, high pitched voice say,
"Michellle," and then it hung up.
I sat there for a moment, slightly unnerved, but I went back to work anyway. Then, 42 minutes later, I got the same call;
"Michellle,"- but this time, the voice stayed on the line for a few minutes, breathing hard, then started to cackle like a gleeful hyena. That laugh made my blood turn to ice.
"Hello?" I asked, "Who's there? Hello?"
Then the voice hung up again.
I was starting to get seriously freaked out now. I tried hitting redial, but the number didn't exist. I called the operator, and tried to sort it out myself, but no dice.
So, I went back to work once more, and did not give it another thought for the rest of the day, until, exactly 42 minutes before the end of the day, i got the call again. This time the voice said my name, then cackled, then, at the very end, before it hung up, I heard the distinct sound of a bike horn honking, and the sound of circus music, tinkling away as if from a great distance.
Then, the voice hung up again. I was really starting to freak out. I tried to concentrate on my work once again, but, I couldn't focus. Finally I decided to go and talk to building security. They might at least know someone who could find out where that call was coming from.
I got up and headed into the stairwell, and started down the stairs. I was about halfway down when I heard it again. It was echoing circus music, mixed with demonic cackling and that freaky bike horn, coming from somewhere up above me.
I hesitated, knowing I should ignore it, and just keep going, but something, maybe a morbid curiosity, made me throw caution to the wind and start heading up.
I walked up, and up, and up, all the way to the very top floor. I was panting by the time I got out, and I stood in the doorway for a moment, catching my breath. Then, I straightened and looked around.
The top floor was little more than one room, under construction and completely empty. I looked over at the empty elevator shaft, where the music was coming from, and noticed a small boom box, shaped like a clown, sitting on the floor in front of the taped off elevator.
Slowly, I walked over to it, standing above it. My eyes widened as I saw what was taped to the top. It was my name, in big, dripping letters that looked like they could either be make-up or blood.
Then, a loud bike horn honked behind me, and I gasped, jumping a million feet in the air and spinning around to see what was behind me.
My heart turned to ice. It was a clown, wearing the creepiest make-up you could imagine, and carrying a bike horn in one hand and a huge chainsaw in the other. What made the whole image even worse was that I recognized this clown. He had performed at my son's birthday party in the park, and I had left before I had gotten a chance to pay him.
He smiled at me, tilting his head and letting out a bloodcurdling, shrieking bark of laughter. Then, he said, in that horrible, high pitched voice,
"Michellle! You really should have paid me, Michelle!"
He turned on the chainsaw, madly widening his eyes, his mouth stretching to an impossibly wide, ravenous grin, as though he was going to swallow me whole. He started walking toward me, bouncing from foot to foot, like clowns like to do. I scrambled backward in horror, and tripped over the boom box, breaking through the caution tape and falling into the darkened shaft. As I fell, I saw him above me, his cackles audible even above the chainsaw. My last thought as I watched him slowly fade into the distance, before I hit the bottom of the shaft, was one of deep regret. Damn, I really should have paid him.
As I do my chores I heard mama call
So I answered she wasn't there at all
So I went back to what I was doing
yard work, weeding and mowing.
I heard my name again, yet there was
Not one soul to be found as I was
working on the grounds.
"Who is that? Who is calling me?"
Next thing I know I'm in a room with giggling
Kids and they have a funny looking board
They are playing with. They can't see me,
but I'm trying to yell "Send me back home or I'll send you to Hell!"
Death Follows All
Steve ’s footsteps crunched as his boots broke through the frozen crust of snow that covered the ground. It was only 5:00 but it was already quite dark, and the lights of the houses that backed on the park glowed golden and inviting that winter evening. The view from the path along the skating pond looked like a Christmas card; all that was missing was a light snow to complete the scene.
“Steve?!” The call was soft but the voice seemed familiar. Steve stopped walking but did not turn.
“Steve?!” It was slightly louder this time and closer. “STE-VEN!”
Slightly annoyed, Steve looked from left to right and as far over his shoulder as far as he could see. No one was visible. As he did so, a conversation he had had with his grandfather some time before suddenly came into his mind. They had been sitting in the living room watching an old episode of The Munsters when something in the show that Steve could not longer recall triggered one of his grandfather’s old country warnings.
“You must never answer if you hear someone call your name but you can’t see them,” his grandfather had said.
“Come on, Grandpa. This isn’t Transylvania, or wherever you come from, in the 1800s,” Steve had joked. His grandfather did not come from Transylvania (although the Munsters did), but to Steve, a village near the Black Sea was the same thing.
“Don’t mock me, Young Man,” said his grandfather sternly. “You just remember what I told you.”
“All that stuff is just made up to scare people,” Steve protested.
“The world is very strange, Steve,” his grandfather told him seriously. “There are plenty of things we can’t see or even feel, but they’re there just the same.”
“Your Grandpa is in good company,” Steve’s father put in. He was marking student essays. “Shakespeare said ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’”
His grandfather was always telling him things like this, so Steve put the warning out of his mind and turned back to the show. It occurred to him that his grandfather was a lot like Al Lewis on the old TV program, except he didn’t have a mad scientist’s lab in the basement.
“STEVEN!” The voice was insistent.
Steve could not see anyone around, but the sky was overcast, and the lights on the streets were too far away to provide much illumination.
“What?” Steve yelled in annoyance. “Where the Hell are you?”
He turned fully around and, for the first time, saw what appeared to be an old man approaching him. He immediately regretted having said ‘Hell.’ It was clearly one of his grandfather’s friends out walking his dog. All the old men his grandfather knew had dogs they walked in the park.
The figure dressed in a dark overcoat came slowly toward him. After a moment, Steve saw the man was younger than he first thought. Perhaps it was one of his friends’ fathers or even someone’s older brother. The figure walked up to him, and Steve realized it was another teenager, one who was wearing the same winter jacket as he was. Looking closer, Steve saw the stranger had the same wool hat he did and a striped scarf just like the one his grandmother had knit for him in the colors of his high school team. His stomach lurched horribly in a combination of terror and shock. The smiling face of the stranger was his own.
An article in the newspaper two days later described how a local boy had tragically drowned in the skating pond just after dark. He had been walking home through the park and, because of the snow, didn’t realize he had strayed from the path. Only Steve’s grandfather, in sorrow and confusion, realized that Steve had literally met his Death when the ice broke.