My back was against the cottonwood bark. My breath held still in my chest.

I could hear his heavy footsteps crushing the lifeless leaves that littered the forest floor.

I could see his haunting shadow cast on the ground before the full moon’s light.

I could hear his gravely voice whispering my name.

I could smell his putrid odor penetrating the crisp autumn wind.

I could hear the heavy breath seeping in and out of his lungs.

I could feel his presence creeping up the hairs on the back of my neck.

I could sense the evil swirling in his heart.

I could tell that my end was near.

Dear reader,

If you ever need to be outside late at night, you have to avoid Dorton Alley at all costs. For when it becomes eerily quiet and you are the only one walking through the dimly lit place, not even the almighty savior can save you from the grim fate.

Maybe tired after a long day of work or drunk after a party—regardless of your condition, you cannot but be at least a bit startled when the lamp above your head begins to spark and almost immediately turns off. In a matter of seconds, with a spine-chilling feeling, you shall find yourself surrounded by uncanny murk. Your sixth sense will tell you that an ominous existence may have started to lurk behind you.

If you are half as pigeon-hearted as I was, you will start to run as soon as you sense danger. It is common human nature to believe that fleeing from every problem is the answer. Of course, attempting escape will be futile. You will frantically rip through the darkness only to find out even more. Meanwhile, the sinister being will slither closer and closer.

The worst part of all is—you will never know who or what ended your life, let alone the baleful reason behind it. You will be stupefied before long and your ears will be deafened by the terrifying shrieks of the trapped souls. Being forcefully drained of vitality, you will probably want to scream along with them in agonising pain. However, not a single sound will come out.

You may ask how I know so much or why I even bothered to tell you everything. Well, I am one of the unfortunate victims who have faced this dreadful situation. Only my thoughts still linger to warn others so they can hopefully avoid facing the same tragedy. Thus I expect you to listen to my advice.

Sincerely,

A concerned entity from afterlife

P.S. I would like to thank @Bird_Watcher for helping me spread this message.

I don’t like the basement of our house. No particular reason, but I know I don’t like it. I won;t tell my husband, because he will either tease me or try to prove that everything is okay. It would be alright if he proved me wrong, but it would only mean that if I truly had reason to not like the basement, I would be walking into a bad situation blind. If there is something bad down there, I want to be ready for it.

I love our new house. We bought it barely a month ago, and I’ve had the time of my life setting up each room exactly how I want it to look. I’ve even started painting again to decorate all our bare walls. Our apartment was too small to showcase my art, so I’m making up for lost time. I love fixing up each room, except for the basement.

The staircase going down is right next to our bedroom, which I think is weird. If I lean just right on the bedframe, I can see the first couple stairs. I don;t want to look, though. I try my hardest to ignore the noises that wake me up at night. It’s just the cats making a ruckus. Also, I ignore the fact I’ve had nightmares every day since we’ve moved in.

We have our computers set up in the basement. Mostly because it’s much cooler, and it would deter anyone from stealing them. My husband gets irritated that I keep asking what he’s mumbling. He insists he hasn’t been talking to me. I won’t wear my headphones when I’m by myself. So, I turn my music all the way up to drown out the cats thunking around upstairs.

Our laundry room is also in the basement, which I’m not excited about in the least. I’ll start putting clothes into the washer, and then I’ll hear the door click shut behind me. It must be the stupid cords since they’re leaned right up against the back of the door, so it’s impossible to keep open for long. If I prop the door open, it’s okay, but then I can hear the stairs squeaking. If I just hurry up, throw in the clothes without sorting them, grab the dry stuff, and then rush back up the stairs, it’s just fine.

When I turn the lights off to go upstairs, I ignore my impulse to run up. I fight the urge to walk upstairs backwards so I can watch behind me. There’s no boogeyman. I haven’t believed in monsters since I was 9. So, I ignore the urge to run. I ignore the sensation of someone breathing on my neck. I ignore my fear that something is about to grab my ankle. It’s just a musty old basement, and I’m too old to believe in monsters anymore.