greetingsfromthebottomofthewell

[greetingsfromthebottomofthewell]

THE HOUSE THAT DEATH FORGOT

[source] [triggers]

it might as well happen this way.

Melinda hated driving at night. She did her best to avoid it. Short trips to the store if she just realized she ran out of tampons or had nothing for dinner after getting home — that sort of thing happened now and then. But she did her best not to go out after dark unless someone was coming to pick her up.

So, naturally, she found herself on the longest drive of her life tonight, with no moon, few stars, swirling clouds above her, and acres of forest on either side.

As so many unpleasant things in her life, this was her father's fault. She hadn't seen or spoken to the bastard in fifteen years, but just after falling asleep tonight...no, that was wrong. It would be yesterday by this time. Out of the blue, her phone rang, and his voice was on the other end.

"I need you, Mellie. Please come, now."

He'd said just that, and then the line went dead.

The old ass was probably drunk, but he'd never called her before — not since she was a child and he was still trying to convince her mother to take him back. It felt like she had been dreaming — waking up to hear his voice again after all these years. It sounded like he was crying. His voice sounded just the same as the last time she'd heard it.

As though in a dream, she had risen, dressed, and gotten in the car. She was well out of town and halfway to his old place before realizing that she had no way of knowing if he even still lived there. She received updates from her mother from time to time over the years about where he was. The last time she heard from her mother about him was seven years ago. Had he ever stayed in one place that long?

Not to her recollection. She had been seven when her mother finally had enough and showed him the door. Prior to that, a move had come every few months. The house they had been living in was their longest stay in one place; a full sixteen months. It turned into two years after that, and then the next house had been the one she left when she moved out on her own. In all that time, she heard from him sporadically at best, and had finally decided it was best to simply forget about him.

Until tonight.

She had found out after a two-hour drive that she had been right to wonder if he was still in the same place. His last known address was a sketchy apartment in a low-income area of the town she had grown up in. Had he been number 24 or number 42? Maybe he was 14. It definitely had a four. It didn't matter. His name wasn't on any of the buzzers.

Bastard! Her drunk of a father had called her at night, all but demanding she come to him for reasons he didn't even feel were important enough to tell her over the phone, and then just expected that she would know where he lived now.

In a flurry of rage, she turned and marched back to her car, slamming the door and starting off in the direction she came. She was so angry she didn't even look where she was going and missed her turn-off.

The next thing she knew, she was on this lonely stretch of road. Cars were sparse, but she took some comfort in the fact that she would pass one every half-hour or so. Her dashboard clock now read 2:27 AM. She had been driving for more than five hours since leaving her house. At night.

Every five minutes or so, she checked her cell phone. Ever since realizing she was lost, she had checked her phone and found no bars at all. She even stopped at a gas station (closed, of course), just sure there should be some service around here somewhere, but nothing.

Take stock of your life, Mellie, she thought. You're over thirty, you hate your job, you and your mother don't get along, you haven't seen or spoken to your father in just under half your life, you have no time for your friends or a relationship thanks to the aforementioned job you hate, and now here you are, trapped on a road you've never been on before, at night, and you can't even so much as call AMA let alone check Google Maps. Smart lady you are.

She briefly considered stopping and flagging down the next car that passed. She quickly realized the futility of that plan. Any car on this road would also have no service. So there was nothing for it. She'd have to drive until she saw a house. She'd feel bad for waking someone up, but there was no choice. She needed to find her way back to the main highway.

But so far, all that she could see on either side was trees. Mile after mile of trees. No lights shining through the boughs. No sign that anyone had ever been here before except that there was a road and people were obviously still driving on it.

There weren't even any road signs other than the mile markers. Had she really found the middle of nowhere? She was just in the middle of this thought when her headlights illuminated something just up the road; a square, wooden sign — obviously made by someone other than the government. This wasn't a gas/food/lodging sign, or a mile marker, or a distance-to sign. This looked like the kind of signs advertising a private business was nearby. She slowed down to read it.

Granny Royce's Road House Come stay the night at Granny's! She'll take good care of you! Room! Board! Low Prices! Next Exit!

Her heart sped up. She certainly wasn't interested in spending a night at Granny Royce's, but every business had a phone. At the very least, she'd have a map, or know the way back to the highway. She decided she would stop there.

She almost missed the turn. Granny Royce's Road House was buried at the back of a long, dirt driveway, secluded amid the trees. She was almost past the little dirt "road" that led back to it before realizing it was there. She skidded to a stop and turned in.

The little house lay ahead. It was two stories and looked to have about eight to ten rooms. Big for a home but small for anything announcing room and board. She got closer and looked for a vacancy sign. Nothing. It wasn't that the sign wasn't lit; there was no sign. The porch light was on and the front of the building was illuminated by that light and by her headlights. No signs of any kind.

She almost wondered if she'd gotten the wrong place, but she was certain that she had seen no other exits between this house and the sign announcing it.

She paused in the driveway and took out her cell again. Still no service. She did a quick search for any available wireless signals. To her complete lack of surprise, there were none. Not even any secured.

There's no one here but me, she thought.

At this point, she wouldn't be surprised to find the house empty as well. But the light was on and this was supposed to be a road house. Someone would be manning the front desk.

She got out of the car and headed for the front porch. As she turned around to make sure the lights flashed when she hit the lock button on her fob, she thought she could see a flash of movement in the trees. Something human-shaped. She stopped and looked again. Nothing. She decided she imagined it.

At the front door, she hesitated. If it really was a road house then she should be able to just go on in. But what if she got the wrong house? If she tried the door and just walked in, she could find herself arrested out here in Buttfuck, Nowhere.

Cautiously, she tried the knob. It turned. She pressed gently on the door. It opened. Relief flooded through her when she saw that she was in a small, but tastefully decorated foyer that had obviously been repurposed as an admissions area. A quaint desk with an honest-to-god guest book had been placed in the far right corner and some chairs had been set out, along with magazines on a table. She read the titles briefly—Mademoiselle, Blue Book, The New Country Life, Arts & Architecture—before turning her attention to the little desk.

There wasn't a computer. That was a cute touch. It was like the house was from a past era. Perhaps old Granny Royce really didn't like modern technology. There was, however, a little bell, just like there would have been in 1929. It wasn't even the round silver kind you slapped to ring; it was a little porcelain hand-bell. This place was starting to out-cute her.

Please let her have a phone, and please let it use the numberplan, not 50s exchanges.

She picked up the bell and gave it a shake.

For a while, nothing happened. Then she saw a light come on in the back room and the shadow of an old woman sprang up on the wall. The shadow moved toward her and within a few seconds, she saw its owner: Granny Royce, who perhaps looked like every grandmother in every storybook ever.

"Well, goodness me," she said. "My lands. Good morning deary. Pardon my tardiness but it's been a while since we got guests at this hour. Can I take your name, honey?"

Granny Royce was smallish, her grey hair tied in a neat bun behind her head, a dress that would have looked like it belonged to a senior citizen in the twenties, and a faded pink sweater. Melinda thought that she looked just like she would have wanted her own grandmother to look like, but her mother's mother had died when she was young, and she'd never met her father's mother. It almost hurt to deny this sweet little woman her business, but nevertheless, she had to get home.

"Actually, I'm sorry," she began. "But the fact is I'm lost. I'm not even sure where I am in the direction of..."

"Oh, you poor thing," said Granny Royce. "You just sit down and let me fix you some tea, or something. You must be cold."

"Really, thank you, but I'm okay," Melinda said gently. "I just need to use the phone, if I could, or if you've got a map, even that would be lovely. I really only live a couple of hours from here..."

She trailed off, not knowing if she was even right about that. She easily could have driven those five-plus hours in the wrong direction entirely.

"Oh dear," said the little woman sadly. "I'm sorry, honey, but the phone lines are down. As for a map, well...I used to have one, and if I look I still might, but it's probably quite out of date by now. The highway moved since then, I know that much."

Melinda's heart sank. How could her luck get any worse? No phone, cell or land line, and no map. What could she do? She had to get back home. She was expected to work at 8 AM tomorrow. And why were the phone lines down? The weather was coldish but clear. Were they fixing a line nearby?

She told Granny Royce the name of her town, but Granny only said "Believe it or not, I've never heard of that town. What did you say the name was?"

She told her again.

"No, doesn't ring a bell. I'm sorry. But I could not say which direction it's in. Why don't you stay the night, sweetie. I'll give you a discount for your trouble."

"Thank you. That's very kind of you. But I have work tomorrow and I need to get back home. I'm not even sure why I'm out tonight. The only reason I had doesn't seem to matter anymore."

"Honey, I wouldn't advise trying to drive back that far tonight," Granny Royce said. "Why, it's almost three in the morning, and you've not had any sleep. Maybe the lines will be up in the morning, and you can call your work and let them know you'll be late."

"That won't work, either," she replied. "I'm the opener. No one will be there. No, I'm sorry, I've really got to leave. I'll head in the other direction until I find the road I was on."

At that, Granny Royce's expression, already one of kind concern, seemed to shift somewhat — to one of fear. She paused, looking at Melinda as though she wanted to say something else to keep her inside. Finally she said, reluctantly, "Alright, honey, if you're sure. Just you be careful, now. Don't speak to nobody until you're back on the road."

That last warning seemed a little silly. After all, what was Melinda, a little girl? She thanked Granny Royce for her kindness and headed back to the car. About halfway to the car she remembered thinking she saw something moving in the trees. Her eyes scanned both sides of the secluded little cleared area she was in, looking for anything that appeared to be moving on its own rather than being blown by the slight wind. She saw nothing. Satisfied, she headed for her car. All four tires were flat.

Goddammit!

She leaned down and saw long slash marks on each tire. Someone in this little slice of Green Acres had slashed her tires in the time it took her to find out that she had no way of contacting anyone tonight.

Kids from a local farmhouse, gotta be, she thought grimly. Nothing else to do, so you might as well go out at night and slash tires.

She stopped and let the reality sink in. She wasn't going anywhere tonight. She had no choice now; she had to stay the night here until morning, when hopefully the phone lines would be up and she could call someone from work to ask them to go in for her, and then AMA to get her tires dealt with. She sighed and walked back in the house. She could hear Granny Royce as she was walking back to her room. She had already turned off the lights. Resigned to her fate, Melinda rang the little bell again.

"That you, miss?" she heard Granny Royce call.

"Yes, it's me," she answered. "Sorry to be a bother. My name is Melinda Orton. Sorry I never mentioned it before. I guess I will take a room for the night, if the offer's still good."

"Oh, of course it is, deary," said Granny Royce, re-entering the room and turning the lights back on. "Melinda. Oh, that's such a pretty name, honey. Well. Let's get you situated. You put your name and arrival time in the book there and I'll get you a key. All the boarding rooms are on the second floor, and there's only a couple left."

"There are others here?"

This was surprising. Not a single car had been in the front lawn when she pulled in.

"Oh, yes, Miss Melinda." Granny was puttering around in the adjacent room. "Mr. Norris, young Calvin, there's a few of us here." She came back out with a key in her hand. "Just out of curiosity, what made you change your mind?"

She seemed to brighten as she asked the question, as though relieved that Melinda would stay after all

"Oh, it's probably just local kids getting kicks," she said. "But I found my tires slashed."

Granny stopped suddenly, her face twisted with concern and worry. Then she resumed, as though nothing was wrong.

"Nothing to be done for it, I suppose," she said, with an err of sadness.

"Well, not until morning, at any rate," said Melinda. "Then hopefully the lines will be up."

"Oh," said Granny Royce, distractedly. "Yes, hopefully."

She led Melinda up the darkened staircase into an empty, quiet hall. Or perhaps not so quiet. From one end of the hall came the muffled sound of someone crying. Whoever it was was crying softly — not with anger or petulance or fear, but with deep sadness. It sounded as if crying was something this person was used to, but they were still unable to stop.

"Who is that?" she asked, pointing in the direction the crying was coming from.

"Oh, pay that no mind, honey," said Granny. "That's just Mr. Norris. He's been like that a while. Older man, you understand. Not all there." She tapped her temple.

"I understand," Melinda replied, but wondered privately how an old, out-of-touch man would wind up at a road house. "Has he been here long?"

"A while, I'd say," answered Granny. "Don't really recall how long, exactly."

How does he pay for room and board?

"I guess he doesn't drive," she said to the old woman.

"Actually, it doesn't look like anyone else here has a car."

Granny started at this, looking up with an almost guilty expression. "Oh, well," she said. "That kind of thing is the business of the guests. I don't ask about such things."

She turned the key in the lock of the room she had led Melinda to, and opened the door. Turning on the light, she showed Melinda the quaint little room. Melinda thought it looked like stepping into the past. She could swear this room would have looked modern in the early fifties, at the earliest.

Come to think of it, so could the rest of this place, she thought. No wireless service, no computer, that old bell. And those magazines, they looked new, but...

That thought was cut off as Granny put the key on the nightstand and started in with instructions.

"Now, the bathroom is down the hallway there. You'll be sharing with the whole floor, so please bare that in mind if you have to go. There's a shower schedule on the door, as well. First come, first serve. You just add your name to the first available line and that's the order the showers are in. I wouldn't worry about that if I were you, though. I'm sure you'll be first in line. I get up at 6 AM sharp every morning and start breakfast, but you come on down whenever you're ready and I'll whip something up for you.

"Oh, and one last thing, my dear. I would strongly advise you not to leave the house until sun-up. You just never know what could happen out there. In the dark."

"Of course," she replied. I'd never go out there in the dark if I didn't have to...

She stopped that train of thought right out of the gate.

After a few moments, she was alone. Alone, without anything to wear to bed, and nothing to shower, brush her teeth, or hair with in the morning. She sat on the bed and looked out the window, which faced front. Her car still sat where she had left it, the only thing for miles that seemed like part of her world.

And an expensive, over-large paperweight until I can get a hold of someone, she thought bitterly.

Despite the homeyness of the room, she felt an unwillingness to rise and shut off the light. Somehow the thought of going to sleep in this backward little room seemed unthinkable. So instead, she continued to sit and stare out the window. A figure in black detached itself from the shadows of the trees and made its way to her car.

The hell?! She jumped up and ran at the window.

The figure was tall, and seemed to be wearing a cloak made of night. She saw as its arm extended. In its hand was a long, jagged dagger. It dragged the dagger across the side of her car, leaving a long gash-mark in the paint and metal.

"Hey!" she shouted.

The figure kept dragging the dagger. She reached for the window to open it. It wouldn't budge. She looked for a lock, but couldn't see one.

"Hey!" she yelled again.

This time the figure raised its head. She could see the glint of two eyes under the hood. The figure raised the dagger, slowly, determinedly. It pointed it straight at her face. She leaped away from the window and ran for the door. A noise on the other side stopped her. Footsteps. Dragging, shambling footsteps. And crying. The sound of a person for whom deep, longing sadness is a way of life.

Mr. Norris!

She waited. Somehow, she just felt that she should let the old man pass before she opened the door. Before he got very far, however, she heard other footsteps - these much quicker and lighter — run up the stairs and stop near the door of her room.

"Stop it!" hissed Granny Royce. "Go back in your room right now! You know better. She can't see you yet. Hopefully she won't have to at all. Now you go back in there. You've got no business being out at this hour anyway."

What on Earth?

How could that sweet old woman talk to another human that way, let alone an old man with a foggy mind? She almost opened the door right then, but somehow her hand stopped, and waited until the shuffling, crying man had made his way back down the hallway. She heard his door open. She opened her own door just in time to see his foot, shod in a well-worn house-shoe, slide into his room. The door closed softly after him.

That poor man, she thought.

But now she was determined to find out what was going on. The punk outside in the Halloween costume slashing up her car followed by Granny yelling at an old man made her begin to understand that not all was well here. She went back down to the front desk area, which was completely unlit except for the moonlight and porch light coming through the window.

There was, however, a light on near the back room that Granny Royce had emerged from before. Melinda paused to take a look outside the front window. The maniac with the dagger was nowhere to be seen for the moment, but she was now determined that it was he that she had seen moving through the trees.

He could have killed me!

She strode in the direction of the light, seeing that it was the light to the kitchen. She kept going, expecting to find Granny Royce still puttering about with whatever an old inn-keeper did with herself during the early hours of the morning.

Instead, she found Granny sitting with a young man of about twenty. He had dark hair and a scruff of stubble and was wearing a dark brown corduroy shirt and khaki's, along with a pork-pie hat. He looked like he was ready to go sell newspapers on a street-corner in the thirties. He was quietly sipping tea while Granny was admonishing him from the other end of the table.

"Now that was a horrible thing to say!" she said. "When I was your age, young men minded their manners!"

"That's a laugh, talking about my age," muttered the young man with a sneer. "And just how old are you? Do you even remember?"

"Calvin Davidson, you are trouble, young man," she hissed back. Neither had noticed Melinda yet. "One of these days you're going to say something you'll regret."

"Oh, come on, Granny, what could I possibly say that will make things worse than they already are?" demanded Calvin. "I mean, look at old Mr. Norris up there! Both of us are ol...um, hullo, miss. I didn't know we had anyone else here." He had just seen Melinda.

"Uh, hi," she said.

She had the feeling she'd walked in on an old argument the two of them had had many times, and that did not concern her. Her fear and anger were forgotten for the moment. Calvin had been talking to Granny like a sullen kid, but something about what they were saying seemed...wrong.

"Can I help you, Melinda?" asked Granny Royce. "Is there something wrong with your room?"

That brought her back. "No," she said. "The room is fine. But nothing else is! I mean, what on Earth do you even have a road house out here where it seems like no one ever stops? Why are most of the rooms full even though mine is the only car out there? Why did I hear you talking to Mr. Norris like he was a dog? And why would you want to make sure I didn't see him?"

She got no further before Calvin cut her off.

"Good lord, she's not even been here a night and she can see it. Why did you even let her in, Granny? Why don't you just bolt the door? Hell, if I could go take down that sign don't you think I would have, by now? Lord love a duck."

There's something you don't hear many young men say, thought Melinda. She decided to ignore Calvin for the moment, otherwise.

"And besides that, there's someone out there! He's the freak who slashed my tires and he's been out there messing up my car since then! And you can't even call the police! Are you gonna tell me you've never had vandals out here before?"

There was a long pause in the room. Neither Granny nor Calvin seemed willing to break it. Calvin scratched at his neck. For the first time, Melinda noticed a red slash at his throat, half-hidden by his collar. It looked like either a very fresh scar or a slightly healed wound.

"Listen, miss, I don't know your name," he finally said.

"Melinda," she told him.

"Melinda," he repeated. "Melinda, I think you should sit down. I have to tell you something that you may find...troubling."

Melina did not like how he said that. She also didn't like the way his tone had switched from sullen child to serious adult. He looked several years her junior but he was talking to her like he was her uncle, or her boss. He swallowed a sip of tea and sighed.

Then he looked her straight in the face and said: "The reason I don't have a car out there is that when I got here, no one my age, no one in my line of work, would have owned a car. It would have seemed like an impossible dream."

"What...what are you talking about?" she asked, hesitantly.

"I worked in a textile mill," he said. "The mill was shut down by the time I got here. Most businesses were. So I struck out on my own; a drifter looking for what work I could find. And I stopped here. Forever."

"Businesses were shut down...I don't understand," said Melinda. "We're having a rough time of it right now, but businesses are mostly staying open..."

"Not then, they weren't," said Calvin, sadly. "I arrived here...in 1929."

Melinda blinked. Something had exploded behind her eyes.

"This place was new then," said Granny. "My man and I had just opened it. And young Mr. Calvin was a sweet young lad of sixteen. I offered to take him on as hired help over my husband's objections. Well, my husband was a well-meaning man, but he knew how to pinch a penny. T'was a year after I took Calvin on that Mr. Royce died. Calvin and I have been here ever since. And every few years or so, someone joins us."

"Yep," Calvin broke in. "Miss Tillie was first; she was a woman of ill repute who ran here, pregnant and scared that the man who'd run her trade up in New York was gonna find her and kill her. She and that baby..."

He broke off, now seeming on the point of tears.

"And then," said Granny, "there was Mr. Standish. He was a traveling minister. He doesn't travel anymore."

"Mr. Norris got here in '69," said Calvin. "His story is probably the worst. He was a...well, he was a bank-robber, you see. Carried a pistol. And he didn't like learning how long we'd all been here." He paused, stood and walked to the kitchen window. "He tried to leave on his own, you see. He ain't the first to try it. That was me, actually. I warned him not to try, but he wouldn't listen. But when he got outside...and he met him..."

"Calvin!" hissed Granny. "We don't talk about this!"

"She's gotta know," said Calvin. "There's no point in her finding out slowly."

"There's still a chance for her!" said Granny in a stage whisper. "All she has to do is wait until morning..."

"She's not going to wait until morning," said Calvin with some remorse in his voice. "No one ever waits until morning. The fact that she came down here is proof enough of that. Besides, what good would that have really done her? Her car is useless. We have no phones here. There was no phone when this place went up and there won't never be a phone here. You know that."

"Okay, everyone, stop!" Melinda shouted. "That's enough! Now, you can't keep me prisoner here and I have no intention of staying any longer. Only that knife-wielding maniac out there is keeping me from running up the road this minute! Now, I need to know what's really going on here and I need to know it now!"

"We've been telling you," Calvin said. "Granny may not want you to know everything, but you need to. Because you won't be leaving. Oh, we're not trying to keep you prisoner. I don't even care if you run out that door right now. But you'll never leave this house again afterward."

"Like hell I won't!" yelled Melinda.

"Listen, child!" said Granny, rising from her spot at the table. "Listen, please! None of us mean you harm, my dear, not even Mr. Norris. There's scant he can do anymore, and he knows it. That's why he's up there crying all the time. But we're stuck here, all of us. I hoped there was a chance for you to run for it in the morning, but Calvin's right. There's no guarantee you'd be safe in the morning, anyhow."

"What...the...hell...is wrong with this place!?" choked out Melinda.

She was beginning to break down. she could feel the tears welling in her eyes.

"It was about a month after Mr. Royce died," said Calvin. "When he came. He was wearing that long, black robe and carrying that ridiculous dagger. I saw him when I was trimming the hedges in the back. I told him he needed to get out of here, because I didn't like his look. He...he moved so fast I never saw it coming. And he got me, from here..." Calvin touched his neck. "...to here." He touched his lower abdomen on the opposite side from the neck slash. He began to undo his shirt. Melinda almost vomited. Under his shirt was a long, ugly slash that went deep...and was still seeping blood. She could see bone, muscle and intestines wriggling within that mangled ruin. "I died that night," said Calvin.

"But then I didn't. The next thing I knew, I was being dragged into the house by Granny, and when I woke up, I nearly scared her to death. She was sure that I was gone. The thing is, I was. But I was awake. I could talk, walk, do anything I could while alive. Well, except take any enjoyment or nourishment from food or drink anymore. I still drink that tea because it keeps my skin from turning ash-grey. I learned that about fifty years ago."

"He didn't go away, though," Granny broke in. "I went out to deal with him, carrying my axe. He took my axe and buried it in my back. I won't show you the wound, honey. Calvin shouldn't have shown you his, either. No one should have to see it."

"But that's how he works, Melinda," continued Calvin. "He's got that knife, but if you try to use a weapon on him, he just...moves like he does and takes it from you. You never stand a chance. He'll use whatever weapon you try to take him down with to end you. Mr. Norris learned that the hard way."

"This...this is not happening!" Melinda was ready to break down. She had to hold it together. She had to get out of here, somehow. Nothing about this was right. Nothing about it could be real.

It was all a dream; too much didn't make sense. Her father calling her out of the blue. Her leaving to go to him without a second thought. Getting lost so quickly, and so irreversibly. No cell phone service anywhere on this road. This place, everything about it! She was dreaming; that had to be it. But if so, she was going to survive this dream. She turned and ran for the stairs. Her purse was still in her room, but she was going to grab it and go. She'd had enough.

Protesting voices began babbling behind her; she cared not one whit. Mr. Norris was waiting at the top of the stairs. Contrary to Granny Royce's description of him, he was not old at all. No more than about forty.

But she saw instantly what she meant by "not all there". The top half of Mr. Norris's head looked normal, like a reasonably attractive man with dark hair peppered with grey here and there. His eyes, a clear green, were moist with fresh tears. The lower half of his face was a ruin of bone fragments, shredded muscle and blood. So much blood. His left side was similarly destroyed. His arm hung on a few hanging strings of muscle, his hip was just as much a mess of bone and blood as his face was. He kept his one good hand on the bannister as he shuffled toward her. Behind him stood a young woman in a bra and a pair of panties. Her stomach was cut open, and looking out of the wound with bright, intelligent eyes was the mangled remains of a baby.

Melinda turned and bolted for the front door. Her hand had just closed around the knob when Calvin rushed up to her, placing his freezing cold hand over hers.

"They're not going to hurt you," he said quickly. "But he will. If you step out for so much as a moment, he will kill you, and it will hurt. And it will go on hurting. Forever. After a while you learn to function with the pain, but it never goes away."

Sobbing, she asked the question she'd been afraid to ask since coming here.

"Who is he?"

"We don't know," said Granny, from behind Calvin. "He just...came here, and he won't go away. He likes to watch us, and do things to incite us to come out again. As soon as someone does, he hurts them more. But no matter how many times he kills us, we don't die. Believe me when I say, we all wish we could."

Melinda had had enough of this. She pushed Calvin away and threw open the door. He was standing on the porch. The knife was held out in front of him, just at face-level. Melinda ran into him at a rush, the knife puncturing her right eye and its tip sliding on through, out the other side. She just managed to see the grinning, pure-white face of her killer, before everything went black.

A few hours later, the house erupted with screams from upstairs as Melinda awoke to a world of pain, the like of which she'd never known.

[greetingsfromthebottomofthewell]

THE WELL, THE WHEEL, AND WILHELM

[source] [triggers]

it’s good advice.

Karl Wilhelm’s left arm was the first limb that was smashed. The executioner’s club shattered it with enough force so that witnesses in the back of the crowd could hear the cracking sound clearly. He cried out in agony as he lay across the span of an old wagon wheel. His limbs were tied fast to the wheel’s edge, and its spokes supported his body. The wheel itself was atop an old, unused well, and Karl stared heavenward as the executioner, encouraged and energized by the whooping and cheering of the crowd, dragged the large club along the ground as he positioned himself at Karl’s right side. With all of his strength, the masked executioner brought the heavy instrument up above his head, and as the club reached its apex the crowd paused in anxious anticipation. The club fell down, and Karl’s right arm cracked under the blow. The crowd cheered uproariously.

The man in the mask moved along to each of Karl’s legs, breaking them both above and below the knee. Bone protruded through the torn skin as blood dripped through the ruptures and into the well below. The crowd screamed their approval and threw rotten fruit at the condemned man. The executioner removed his mask and raised his arms to encourage the crowd to cheer further. His last strike landed on Karl’s chest, breaking several of his ribs. Blood erupted from his mouth and nose. With that, the executioner dropped the club and stepped away from the well.

From the back of the crowd, a boy of about ten studied Karl’s gasping form. “He’s still alive,” the boy said to his uncle.

“That’s all part of the punishment, Victor,” his uncle responded. “He’ll lay there in pain. Death will take him when it’s ready. I’ve never seen a man who lasted past sunset.” The boy continued to study the dying man through the other onlookers, many of whom were taking turns spitting and urinating on Karl.

Victor recalled the list of charges that Karl Wilhelm had been accused of. “What is lycanthropy?” he asked of his uncle.

“It means he can become a wolf. It’s the mark of a wicked man.”

Victor nodded his understanding. “Can we stay and watch him die?”

“I have work to do, but you can stay until sunset. Don’t forget I need your help tonight at the tavern.”

“I’ll be there,” Victor assured him.

As his uncle walked away, Victor could hear the broken man plead to the crowd with strained breaths, “Please, just kill me.” This only encouraged the horde more, and they jeered and roared at his predicament. However, as the afternoon heat began to take its toll the excitement of the crowd began to wane. One by one, the men and women left for their cottages and hovels until only Victor and a few others remained.

The boy stepped closer to the dying man with uncertainty apparent in each step. When he was as close as he dared, he pursed his lips and launched a phlegm projectile that struck Karl between his eyes.

With great effort, Karl turned his head to where Victor stood. The two made eye contact. “So... thirsty,” Karl rasped.

Victor stared at the face of the accused man. Each of Karl’s brown eyes reflected the swirling white clouds above him. Longer and longer Victor stared, losing track of time and relinquishing awareness of his surroundings. He had no idea how long he maintained eye contact with Karl Wilhelm, but when he finally broke his stare, it was almost sunset, and the village square was nearly empty. Victor backed away from the wheel and its man, and as he headed off to his uncle’s tavern, he felt a twinge of regret that he had spit on someone so defenseless.

His uncle’s prediction, that Karl would be dead by sunset, proved to be entirely wrong. Those who lived nearest to the old well had their slumbers disturbed throughout the night as Karl screamed and moaned. His pleas for mercy and death went unanswered as the village residents held pillows and blankets over their heads in an attempt to drown out the horrid sounds of the dying man.

All through the next day, Karl continued with ungodly shrieks and screeches as death refused to take him. Residents, who just a day earlier had made merriment at the man’s suffering, soon found themselves anxious and disconcerted as his cries carried on throughout the day and into the next.

“Go get the executioner,” some of them demanded. “Have him finish his job.”

Others argued against that. “No, he’ll die when he’s supposed to. No mercy for the wicked.”

On the third night after his supposed execution, Karl Wilhelm still appeared to be very much alive, as proven by his unceasing cries of pain and requests for mercy. From his uncle’s tavern, Victor could hear him clearly between pauses in the conversations. Frazzled patrons lined the bar and occupied all the tables as Victor weaved in and out, bringing mugs to the tap for refilling and then returning them to the customers. Various discussions about the man outside dominated the night, and fear punctuated the dialogue as the men nervously proclaimed to understand what was going on.

“Hell doesn’t want him, that’s why he won’t die!” proclaimed Peter the shoemaker. Others raised their mugs in nervous agreement.

“I don’t think he’s guilty at all,” came a response from across the room. The men all paused and looked at Conrad Becker, one of the village’s oldest men. “We’re being punished - forced to listen to the cries of an innocent man until we ourselves go insane.”

“How could he possibly be innocent?” others demanded.

“I looked him in the eyes, and I know the stare of innocence.” The tavern became hushed as Conrad Becker spoke. “And why should we believe the allegations against him? Did anyone observe him turn into a wolf?” The men all looked at each other, waiting to see who among them would stand up as a witness. “The judges on the counsel are only interested in making a name for themselves, the truth doesn’t concern them.”

Victor’s uncle spoke up. “Then who tore apart Walter Earnst? And who ripped his daughter’s head off? A giant wolf was seen walking on two legs outside of Karl’s farm, and his hatred of Walter was well known. That’s close enough for me. Who else could it have been?” Cheers of agreement supported him.

Conrad protested. “That’s not real evidence! Lots of people didn’t like Walter Earnst! Some of them are in this bar right now!”

“Then who is the lycanthrope if it’s not Karl Wilhelm?” the men asked as they began to break into smaller discussions amongst themselves.

They argued late into the night. Most seemed to agree that Karl Wilhelm was indeed guilty, but a few maintained his innocence. As the crowd dwindled, Victor said goodnight to his uncle and headed home. His trip was interrupted by the moaning of Karl Wilhelm. Victor’s paces stopped, and after a moment’s hesitation he turned and walked toward the well, the wheel, and Wilhelm.

As he approached, Wilhelm’s ears twitched and he seemed to sense Victor’s presence. “Water,” came his strained request.

Victor hesitated.

“So thirsty,” Karl said in a raspy voice that was barely above a whisper.

Victor viewed the pathetic form in front of him, and a stitch of sympathy took hold. He looked to the dewy ground and saw a small dirty puddle where the night’s condensation had collected. Glancing behind him to make sure no one was looking, Victor made a cup with his hands and bent down to gathered as much of the water as he could. He carefully stood up and moved his hands over Karl’s mouth. As he loosened his fingers, the water flowed down and dribbled into Karl’s delirious maw. He repeated the act of mercy two more times, until the puddle gave no more water.

“Thank you.” Victor noticed that Karl’s voice was noticeably less raspy.

“You’re welcome.”

Karl stared up into the starry night and enjoyed the sensation of a wet throat. Eventually, he spoke again to Victor. “My father taught me to never let a debt go unpaid, but I have nothing I can give you except for advice.” He paused for a moment to think. “Always remember that the world exists in shades of gray.”

Victor contemplated what was told to him but failed to understand what the man was getting at. Without saying anything more, he backed away slowly and left for home. Soon, any relief that had been visited upon Karl was gone, and his screams and wails started up. In their homes, the residents spent another night trying their best not to hear it.

Karl held strong throughout the next day. His pleas were ignored but not unheard, and nearly everyone within earshot was noticeably on edge. His gangrenous legs, chapped skin, and sallow features made him appear as something other than human to those few who wandered over to look.

That night, many of the residents again gathered within the tavern, thankful that the activity of the crowded room was able to drown out the noise from the man on the wheel. Ironically, they spent most of their evening talking about the very man they were trying to get away from.

The arguments from the previous night were far from settled, and Victor listened as the inebriated men took up their positions once again.

“Only a wolf-man could survive out there this long!” some claimed.

Conrad Becker, the primary defender of Karl’s innocence, shot back, “If he was a wolf he would have changed into one by now! Clearly he’s just a man, and only a man.”

Victor tuned them out. The beers he brought to the men kept them slaked and heated at the same time. Soon, the air in the room grew thick, so Victor was glad when his uncle allowed him to take a break. He stepped outside into the fresh air and took some deep breaths. The first thing he noticed is that the night was quiet. Curiously, he walked over to the village square to check on the condition of Karl Wilhelm. The man was still breathing.

“Victor? Victor is that you?” the condemned man asked as he approached. Victor hadn’t realized that Karl even knew his name.

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Thirsty...”

Victor reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a flask that he’d earlier filled with water. He opened it and held it over Karl’s mouth, allowing the liquid to slowly dribble its way down.

“That tastes good,” Karl said. The two of them waited in silence as the man slowly regained some sense of humanity. “And now I must repay you." He stared at the heavens thoughtfully. "You will be better off in life to forgive past transgressions.”

Victor considered the advice and then took his leave before anyone saw him talking to the living dead man. Karl’s screams began again shortly thereafter.

Day broke, and the residents tried their best to carry on with their normal activities, but they found themselves becoming more and more irritable as Karl’s moans pierced their ears and penetrated their minds. A small group of men, led by Conrad Becker, gathered in the village square. A few of them believed in Karl’s innocence, while the others had simply had enough of his loud suffering and were anxious to see it end.

“That man should be put out of his misery,” Conrad declared with an axe in his hand. The men nodded and hummed their agreement. With raucous cheers they headed to the wheel.

Victor, who was preparing his uncle’s tavern for the night, heard the unfolding scene and went outside just in time to see Conrad lift the axe above his head, poised to strike down on Karl’s skull. Even from across the way, Victor could see Karl’s muscles relax, relieved that a finishing stroke was only moments away. Before Conrad could bring the axe down, the thunder of fast approaching footsteps was heard.

“Don’t you dare end that man’s life!” came a scream from behind Victor. It was Hans Stein, a prominent village leader who had sat on the counsel that had found Karl guilty of lycanthropy. He was accompanied by several other men.

“Can’t you see what’s in front of you?” Conrad protested as the second group made their way toward the well. He hesitantly lowered his axe. “Look! This is no longer a man, but a miserable wretch! Have you no mercy?”

Hans arrived at the well. “I agree that this is no man, but a wretch he is not. He’s a wolf, and God or the Devil will take him when they’re ready.”

Conrad gave a once-over to the tortured man in front of him. Flies buzzed above the rotten flesh on Karl’s legs. Deep cracks spread out over his skin like spider webs, revealing dried musculature underneath. His eyes appeared to have sunken deep into his skull, and his limbs were contorted at odd angles.

With resolve, Conrad lifted he axe back up with a shout. “Death is his only choice now, and the quicker the better!”

Before he could land a strike, two burly men came up from behind Hans and grabbed onto him, slamming him to the ground. The head of the axe fell onto Conrad’s leg causing a long gash to form along his shin.

For a tense moment, it appeared as if the two groups of men were going to come to blows, but the determination of Conrad’s group wavered as they all took turns waiting for someone else to act first. In the end they only stared at each other ashamed.

Hans took advantage of the lack of leadership within the rival group and spoke loudly, “There will be no intervening! All of you leave before you’re arrested.” He directed the two burly men to drag a semi-conscious Conrad away from the well.

“Please...” came the scraping voice of the man on the wheel.

Hans ignored the pleas and waited while the group dispersed. When he was sure the mob had disbanded, he too left, and Karl was alone in his agony. His pained moaning began yet again as the sun beat down on him.

Victor had watched the scene unfold with conflicted feelings, but soon he retreated back into his uncle’s tavern where they were preparing for the nightly crowd.

“Uncle, Do you really think that man is guilty of being a wolf?”

“I believe in the counsel,” his uncle replied. “They say he is guilty, therefore he is guilty... and good for business,” he added with a chuckle. He looked closer at Victor. “You don’t think he is innocent, do you? You just take those concerns and bury them if you do.”

“Yes uncle,” came the reserved reply.

Karl Wilhelm was indeed good for business, and that night the tavern was as full as it had ever been. It was only in the late hours that Victor had a chance to slip away. He stepped out of the tavern and into the cool air. Across the square, he could see Karl lying across the well. A low hum was emanating from his lungs, but it ceased as Victor approached.

“Victor? Is that you?” Karl asked with a wheezy whisper. His eyes, which were pointed directly up into the sky, were completely dried out and lifeless.

Without saying a word, Victor removed a flask and attempted to pour some water into Karl’s mouth.

Karl shook him off. “Save it. I’m beyond thirst now.”

Victor lowered his arms dejectedly, and both the man and boy remained silent in the cool night air. Victor could hear the crickets chirping for the first time in days. It was almost entrancing.

“Victor, do you know where my house is?” Karl asked to the surprised boy.

Victor took pause at the odd question, but affirmed with a murmur that he knew where the house was.

The visit from the boy seemed to energize Karl, and he spoke clearly. “Good. I have one more favor to ask of you. In the corner of the bedroom there’s a loose floorboard. If you lift it up, inside you will find a common belt, just like the one you’re wearing to keep your pants up.”

Victor glanced down at his leather belt.

“Please, will you retrieve it for me?” Karl asked with a cough.

Victor scratched his head. “What do you want with a belt? How can it help you?”

“It was made for me by my wife nearly twenty years ago, right before she died. It’s one of the only things I still have that remind me of her. I believe she’ll find me and guide me into the afterlife if I wear it.”

The boy looked at the pathetic man in front of him who wanted nothing more than to die, then glanced back at the tavern, where the libations were still flowing freely and he knew he was needed. “I can’t leave right now.”

The sounds of vigorous arguing filtered through the walls of the tavern and littered the night air. Karl allowed the sounds to envelop him before speaking. “I promise, those men inside won’t be angry with you.” Then, Karl sweetened the deal. “There are some gold coins hidden alongside the belt, they can be yours.”

Victor considered his options. He knew his uncle would be upset if he was gone too long, but the promise of the coins intrigued him. “I can get it for you later tonight,” he offered.

“I’ve waited here long enough, Victor. My house is only minutes away if you run fast.”

The moon shone down upon the two of them as Victor finally agreed to the request. He wasted no time as he bolted off. His feet carried him quickly to the outskirts of the village, and then beyond. Down the trail he ran as the trees and thickets grew denser around him. Soon he found Karl’s farmhouse, which had been abandoned since his jailing. He pushed on the front door, which creaked as it slowly opened. The house was completely dark inside, which forced Victor to inch his way to a window and push aside the ratty curtains. Bits of moonlight streamed into the room; barely enough for him to see. He crept further in until he made it into the back room of the home.

The rickety floor bent under his weight as he shuffled to the only unfurnished corner in the room. He knelt down to feel for a loose floorboard while the smell of dust kicked his nose. He methodically felt each board until a loose one moved in his fingers. He eagerly moved it out of his way and jammed his hand down into the murky hole. His fingers felt the belt immediately. He pulled it out and put his hand back inside, looking for the gold coins which he’d been promised, but he felt nothing more within the hole. Disappointed, he reached further in, feeling along the dirty crevices. There was only emptiness.

Victor knelt in the darkness mulling over his situation. Had Karl lied to him about the gold, he wondered, or had someone already come along and taken it? Either way, he knew his uncle was going to be furious, and he had nothing to show for his absence. He grabbed the belt and inched his way out of the gloomy dwelling and pushed through the woods on his way back to the town.

He arrived back at the village square out of breath and exhausted. On his run back, he’d made the decision to bypass Karl and return directly to the tavern, but as he approached, the renewed moaning from atop the well gave him pause. He still had sympathy for the tortured man.

The moaning stopped as Victor approached. “Do you have the belt?” Karl asked.

“There was no gold!” the boy sputtered.

“I’m sorry. I lied to you about the gold,” Karl replied between obvious bouts of suffering. “I had no choice.”

Disillusionment crept along Victor’s face.

“Please forgive me, Victor. I ask one last thing of you - put the belt around my waist.”

Victor, who only wanted to go back to the tavern, decided to give the man his one last request and then be done with him for good. He climbed on top of the well and reached his hand under the man’s back, threading the belt under and then over him. He closed the buckle and then jumped down from the well and started walking back toward the tavern.

“Victor!” came the suddenly much stronger voice of Karl Wilhelm, “Have you thought much about the advice I gave you?”

The boy stopped in surprise at how much stronger the man sounded. He ran through his previous conversations with Karl... shades of gray, forgiving past transgressions – he wasn’t sure what it all meant.

“You see, Victor, I was a good man, but I still wanted to see Walter Earnst dead. He attacked my wife many years ago and never paid for his crimes... he was too close to the village counsel.”

Victor returned to the well, and noticed that Karl’s eyes were no longer sunken into his skull. In fact, his entire face looked much healthier.

“So I called to the Devil, and it took years, but he answered. I wanted Walter Earnst to pay for his deeds in the most horrible way.”

Karl’s deflated muscles began regaining their form.

“It was he who gave me the belt, not my wife. Again, I’m sorry I had to lie to you.”

Victor took a step back as he saw the broken bones in Karl’s legs straighten out and heal.

Karl continued, “and when the deed was done, I was ashamed of myself because I had killed his daughter too. When they came to arrest me, I allowed it. I could’ve gotten away.”

The wheel began cracking under the strain as Karl’s growing limbs pushed against its rim.

Karl’s voice grew deeper. “And I laid here for days, waiting for a death that refused to come. It finally became apparent to me that God won’t have me, and the Devil thinks I still have more work to do.”

In the moonlight, it appeared to Victor that Karl’s very face seemed to be contorting into something different.

“So I’ll do HIS work.”

Coarse gray hair began growing upon his body as Victor sat frozen in fear.

Karl’s voice had attained a deep, animalistic growl. “You’ve done me one last favor, and as before I can only repay you with advice.” He turned his head and stared at the boy. His eyes were yellow. “Run.”

Victor fell backwards onto his bottom and crawled away. When he heard the wooden wheel begin to break apart, he finally stood up and heeded the advice, running away beyond the boundary of the village.

The wagon wheel splintered to pieces as the man attached to it doubled in size. His body contorted to a wolfen shape as he stepped down from the well and howled. Walking on two feet, the beast approached the tavern, while inside a sudden confused silence fell over the men. For the most part, they were the same ones who had laughed at Karl, the same ones who had spit and pissed on him, the same ones who had allowed his suffering to go on unabated. Karl owed them for five days of torture and agony, and as he entered the tavern through its only door, the single thought on his primitive mind was that he should never let a debt go unpaid.

[greetingsfromthebottomofthewell]

CANDLE COVE: DAY OF THE DEAD

[source] [triggers]

this does actually seem to be a fairly standard therapy session, and that is the real horror of this

“Most of the laugh tracks on television were recorded in the early 1950s. These days, the people you hear laughing are dead.” —Chuck Palahniuk, "Lullaby"

"We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, of course."

"I thought that's what your job was about: talking?"

"Actually Mrs. Chelsea, I would say that my job is about trust. I can't expect people who don't trust me to talk about sensitive things with me. So this session is entirely in your hands."

"I'll talk about it. Therapy was my idea, after all. They said that since there was just the one incident it wasn't really necessary but...I thought it was a good idea."

"All right then. Tell me what happened."

"It was just a drawing on the sidewalk. A stencil, you know? Artists leave them around the city, sometimes, and I was out shopping with my family when my son pointed it out. It was a skeleton wearing a top hat, and it had the word 'Saturday' underneath it. What do you think that means?"

"It sounds like Baron Samedi."

"Who?"

"He's a loa; a voodoo spirit. He watches over the dead and he's usually represented by a top hat and a skull. 'Samedi' means 'Saturday'. So this drawing frightened you?"

"I had a kind of fit when I saw it. They called it an anxiety attack. They even took me to the hospital."

"And what did they find out?"

"They said there's nothing wrong with me physically. They talked about stress and lack of sleep. And they said I should take it easy but not to worry unless it happened again. But I'm worried anyway."

"Has anything like this ever happened before?"

"Once. The same day...that my son died."

"You said your son was the one who noticed the stencil?"

"That's my youngest son, Dylan. I had an older son, Jonah. But he's not with us anymore. He was murdered five years ago."

"I'm very sorry, Mrs. Chelsea. Can I ask if you received any psychological counseling afterwards?"

"No. I was busy with Dylan, you see. Isn't it strange? The day Jonah died was the same day I found out I was pregnant again. And I guess I just...poured everything into managing the pregnancy. So that I wouldn't think about anything else. And for years, I didn't. Not until this week. Should I talk about the murder?"

"As I said, you don't have to talk about anything you don't want to."

"I...I'll talk about it.

"Jonah was fifteen; I had him when I was still in high school. He was very gifted. He played the cello, and the piano, and they made him the organist at our church. That was what got him into trouble.

"The minister was friends with my husband, Jonah's stepfather, and he loved to hear Jonah play, so he put him at the organ. Everyone loved him. It wasn't just that Jonah was talented, he was...I guess you could say he had a performer's charisma. I...I'm sorry, it's hard to talk about..."

"It's all right, Mrs. Chelsea. Should we change the subject?"

"No, I've already said this much. Something people liked about Jonah, he would always play the hymns but he'd play some of his own music too, before and after the service. He composed his own material; it was very strange sounding, but everyone liked it. Well, almost everyone: One day a man came to us after church and told him to stop."

"Told him to stop playing?"

"Told him to stop playing his own music. He was very upset. He looked like he hadn't had much sleep; he might have been drunk. He told us that the song Jonah played that day was...wrong, somehow. That it was driving him crazy. He was screaming at us in the parking lot, telling us that we didn't realize what we were doing, that he'd spent his whole life trying to get away from that music. It didn't make any sense."

"Tell me about the song?"

"It was very odd, now that you mention it. It was...bouncy. It made me think of the circus, for some reason. It made sense if you knew Jonah, though; he was always playing for laughs. I heard him practicing it in his room. It made me feel...unsettled, the first time I heard it."

"Hmm. And what about this man?"

"Well, that day in the parking lot he just ran off, after scaring the daylights out of us. But the next week, he came back. ...with a gun."

"Mrs. Chelsea—"

"It was the Day of the Dead. November 1st. I remember that. Someone had left something on the organ for Jonah, as a joke. You know those Day of the Dead decorations, the little statuettes of skeletons doing everyday things? Skeleton housewives cooking or a skeleton barber with scissors and a razor or—"

"A therapist."

"Huh?"

"I have one that's a skeleton therapist, with a skeleton patient on his couch. A client gave it to me. It's actually quite funny."

"Oh. Well, this one was a skeleton playing the piano. Jonah thought it was hilarious. He showed it to everyone. Nobody would admit to leaving it. Then he started playing. Everyone was enjoying it. He was coming to the end of the song, and then that man from the week before stood up. And then..."

"...where is that man now, Mrs. Chelsea?"

"In a mental hospital. I've visited him a few times. He cries a lot and tells me he's sorry, but he says, 'You must understand why. You of all people must understand why I did it.' I don't know why he says that. ...but the thing I remember about that day now that I never remembered before is that little Day of the Dead statue. The skeleton was wearing a top hat, you see."

"Ah. So the stencil drawing reminded you of it."

"No, that wasn't it. I mean, I suppose it did, but...doctor, I've never told anyone this before, but the day that Jonah was murdered, everyone assumed I was hysterical because of what happened, and I was, but it started before that. It started when I saw that little statuette on the church organ.

"Something about that figure, the skeleton and the hat, it terrified me. It scared me so bad that I wanted to stand up and shout to Jonah to run away from it, but I was too frightened to even move. And by the time I could, the man with the gun had already...he'd..."

"It's all right, Mrs. Chelsea. ...but you're sure that your fear response started before the shooting? Not after?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm sure."

"Hmm. So the skeleton and the hat: That image upsets you. Do you know why?"

"I can't imagine."

"Can you think of the first time you ever saw it?"

"Well... when I was a child I used to have a nightmare. There was a little girl in a room—"

"Was it you?"

"It might have been, but it was hard to tell. Whoever she was, she was in a dark room, and she was crying, and all around her there were these...I guess puppets, or dolls? And they were screaming."

"The puppets were screaming?"

"Yes, all of them, screaming and screaming, and the little girl was crying."

"Did you have this nightmare a lot?"

"All the time, when I was five."

"What does this have to do with the skeleton in the top hat?"

"That was one of the puppets. That's the first time I can remember seeing that image. Well, not seeing exactly, but that's my earliest memory."

"I see. What did your parents do when you told them about this dream?"

"They took the TV away."

"Why?"

"They said that I had the dream because of something I saw on TV."

"Do you remember that?"

"No. And I didn't at the time either. But they insisted. It was...actually very strange, now that I think about it. It seemed to scare them, somehow. Of course, it's hard to remember. I was so young, you know?"

"Of course. Do you still have this dream?"

"No. That is...not until very recently."

"But you've had it again?"

"Yes, just after the stencil drawing, and the anxiety attack. That same night, actually. But only that once. And that was the first time in, oh, forty years, I guess. It's normal, right, to have that dream again, after seeing something that reminded me of it?"

"We don't really deal in words like normal or abnormal here, Mrs. Chelsea. I would say that it is noteworthy that you had the same dream after so long. But I don't think it's something you have to worry about. Can I ask, was anything different about the dream this time?"

"...Yes."

"And what was that?"

"One of the puppets. It looked like...it looked like Jonah..."

"It's all right to cry, Mrs. Chelsea. Here, dry your eyes. I can imagine it was very upsetting, but it's important to remember that dreams are your mind's way of trying to tell us something. Can you remember any other strange dreams about your oldest son?"

"For a while right after he died I would have one where I was standing on the shore, watching him sail away on a big ship."

"That's a very common image."

"No, not like this; there was something wrong with that ship. Something terrible. And the people on it with him...they weren't people. Not normal people. I had the feeling they were, you know, kidnapping him. Carrying him away, like they were—"

"Pirates?"

"Yes, that's it. And I heard music too: strange, jumbled circus music. It sounded a little like the song that Jonah played in church. And you know, come to think of it, he told me that the song came to him in a dream first. It might even have been a dream about a ship. I didn't pay much attention. I remember I even faked having to make a phone call so I could leave the room and stop listening to him talk about it. Isn't that terrible? But at the time, hearing about his dreams upset me very much."

"Let's move on: Have there been any other incidents lately that have upset you? Anything unusual that's disrupted your regular routine?"

"I'm not sure what's important."

"Anything might be important. We won't know for sure unless we talk about it."

"Well, a few weeks ago—this was before the panic attack—I was at a toy store, trying to find something for Dylan. He was turning five that week. And I found this...thing. It was a doll, you know, but not a normal one. It was like a little pirate, but its head was one from a porcelain baby doll, the old kind? It looked like something a serial killer would make in their basement."

"And that bothered you?"

"Well it was horribly ugly. I asked the owner and she said she'd found it when she was cleaning out the storeroom. She had no idea where it came from. She wasn't sure whether she should sell it or not. I told her to throw it away. It scared me. I guess it sounds silly now. Why would something like that get to me so much?"

"To grind your skin."

"...What?!"

"I said, things get under your skin."

"I thought you said...never mind.

"There was something else too: As I was cleaning my son's room the next day I thought I saw that same doll in there."

"Thought you did?"

"As I was cleaning under his bed something caught my eye: It was that red bandana. And I saw that doll's little face staring at me, with those cracked, painted eyes, and I swear I just about screamed. But when I looked under the bed again it wasn't there. And I told myself I just imagined it, but...are all these things really important?"

"Oh yes, Mrs. Chelsea. I'd say we're making great progress. With these sorts of things, you have. To go. Inside."

"...What did you say?"

"You have to go inside. Of your mindset, you know, inside of your issues."

"But why did you say it that way the first time?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"Doctor, I—"

"Let's move on. It seems that your anxiety is being triggered by some very specific imagery. Tell me when else it's come up."

"I..."

"Tell me, Mrs. Chelsea. Please."

"...My neighbor, she had Halloween decorations up on her house for weeks. And there was one that was a kind of skeleton that hung in her window, the sort of thing you'd buy at a drugstore this time of year. It startled me when I looked out my window and saw it. It was like it was looking right into my house. It had big glass eyes that were too large for its skull...that bothered me.

"I had such a strange feeling when I saw it. The first time I thought to myself, 'He's found me.' It just popped into my head, and a second later I couldn't have told you what it means. But that's not what scared me."

"What did?"

"My neighbor took all the other decorations off her house after Halloween, but she kept that one. Every morning I'd see that thing staring into my window. And finally one day I mentioned to her, very casually, you know, that it was almost Thanksgiving and she really ought to take that last Halloween decoration down. And she said, 'I don't know what you're talking about? It's been gone for weeks.'"

"Was it there when you looked out the window again?"

"No."

"Do you think it was ever really there to begin with?"

"I...I don't know."

"What else has been on your mind?"

"Dylan. He's a very bright child, like his brother. And they look a like. But he's not a musician; instead he draws."

"Has he been making strange pictures?"

"How did you know?"

"A lucky guess. Do go on, Mrs. Chelsea."

"I feel sick. I feel like...the room is moving?"

"It's your imagination. Tell me about Dylan's pictures."

"They're of...a sailing ship. But not a normal one. It has a, you know, a figurehead at the front of it that's too big. And it talks."

"The figurehead talks?"

"Yes."

"How do you know that, if it's just a picture?"

"I just know. And he's been drawing it for weeks and weeks, over and over. And sometimes he draws other things too...strange things...terrible things..."

"But things you recognize."

"...Yes."

"Where have you seen these things before, Mrs. Chelsea?"

"In my dreams. And...on the television. When I was five years old. The show came on everyday. And I was scared of it, but I watched it anyway. And when I tried to get my parents to watch it with me they said...they said..."

"What did they say?"

"...that there was no show. And I didn't understand what they meant. And that's when the nightmare began. And I remember now, that's where I first heard that song, the strange one that Jonah played. That's why I was upset when I heard it, because it reminded me of that show. And I thought maybe that's why the man at the church was upset by it, too. I guess as I grew up I kind of forgot about the whole thing, but..."

"But you didn't forget, did you? You never forget the things that are really important in childhood."

"I guess you don't."

"And we didn't forget about you either."

"What?"

"I said, they didn't forget—"

"No you didn't. You said 'we'. 'We didn't forget about you?'"

"...Well, it's true. We didn't forget. We've been waiting for you, Janice. All this time."

"Dr. Horace, why are you laughing like that? Dr. Horace?"

"I'm not a doctor. And you see this isn't a doctor's office at all, is it? It's the cabin of a ship, that's why it's moving, that's why you started to feel seasick."

"What's going on?!"

"You're off on an adventure on the high seas, Janice, just like the ones on television when you were a little girl. The ones we made just for you."

"Stop talking like that. And stop calling me that too, my name isn't Janice."

"But it could be! You'd make as good of a Janice as anyone. And think how much better life would be if you were? Janice never had a murdered son. Janice never had to worry that she was losing her mind. Janice only had adventures all the time."

"But they were so awful, so frightening..."

"Well, being a child is always a little frightening, isn't it? But you won't be alone here; all of your old friends are onboard. And we have some news ones too. Even Jonah is here..."

"Jonah...?"

"Oh yes. He's been just the best little crewmember for us. And he's been waiting for you. Just think about how wonderful it will be to see him again, and to see everyone else too. All one big happy crew together."

"But what about Dylan?"

"Your other boy? Oh, don't worry about him. We'll get around to him, in due time. But do you hear that, Janice?"

"I...I hear a voice..."

"And what is it telling you?"

"I don't want to listen to it! I don't want to be here, I want to go home!"

"This is home, Janice. This is the home we made for you, the home that's been waiting for you, the home that you'll be in forever and ever. The voice that you hear, why, that's the voice of your new home. And what is it saying?"

"I..."

"What's it saying, Janice?"

"It's saying that...

"I have. To go. Inside."

[greetingsfromthebottomofthewell]

DEAD BART

[source] [triggers]

give it a chance, will you? this is one of the parents of its genre, so when it mentions “hyperrealistic” gore, it was one of the firsts to ever do so.

You know how Fox has a weird way of counting Simpsons episodes?

They refuse to count a couple of them, making the amount of episodes inconsistent.

The reason for this is a lost episode from season 1.

Finding details about this missing episode is difficult, no one who was working on the show at the time likes to talk about it. From what has been pieced together, the lost episode was written entirely by Matt Groening. During production of the first season, Matt started to act strangely. He was very quiet, seemed nervous and morbid. Mentioning this to anyone who was present results in them getting very angry, and forbidding you to ever mention it to Matt.

I first heard of it at an event where David Silverman was speaking. Someone in the crowd asked about the episode, and Silverman simply left the stage, ending the presentation hours early. The episode's production number was 7G06, the title was Dead Bart. The episode labeled 7G06, Moaning Lisa, was made later and given Dead Bart's production code to hide the latter's existence.

In addition to getting angry, asking anyone who was on the show about this will cause them to do everything they can to stop you from directly communicating with Matt Groening. At a fan event, I managed to follow him after he spoke to the crowd, and eventually had a chance to talk to him alone as he was leaving the building. He didn't seem upset that I had followed him, probably expected a typical encounter with an obsessive fan. When I mentioned the lost episode though, all color drained from his face and he started trembling. When I asked him if he could tell me any details, he sounded like he was on the verge of tears. He grabbed a piece of paper, wrote something on it, and handed it to me. He begged me never to mention the episode again.

The piece of paper had a website address on it, I would rather not say what it was, for reasons you'll see in a second. I entered the address into my browser, and I came to a site that was completely black, except for a line of yellow text, a download link. I clicked on it, and a file started downloading. Once the file was downloaded, my computer went crazy, it was the worst virus I had ever seen. System restore didn't work, the entire computer had to be rebooted. Before doing this though, I copied the file onto a CD. I tried to open it on my now empty computer, and as I suspected, there was an episode of The Simpsons on it.

The episode started off like any other episode, but had very poor quality animation. If you've seen the original animation for Some Enchanted Evening, it was similar, but less stable. The first act was fairly normal, but the way the characters acted was a little off. Homer seemed angrier, Marge seemed depressed, Lisa seemed anxious, Bart seemed to have genuine anger and hatred for his parents.

The episode was about the Simpsons going on a plane trip, near the end of the first act, the plane was taking off. Bart was fooling around, as you'd expect. However, as the plane was about 50 feet off the ground, Bart broke a window on the plane and was sucked out.

At the beginning of the series, Matt had an idea that the animated style of the Simpsons' world represented life, and that death turned things more realistic. This was used in this episode. The picture of Bart's corpse was barely recognizable, they took full advantage of it not having to move, and made an almost photo-realistic drawing of his dead body.

Act one ended with the shot of Bart's corpse. When act two started, Homer, Marge, and Lisa were sitting at their table, crying. The crying went on and on, it got more pained, and sounded more realistic, better acting than you would think possible. The animation started to decay even more as they cried, and you could hear murmuring in the background. The characters could barely be made out, they were stretching and blurring, they looked like deformed shadows with random bright colors thrown on them.

There were faces looking in the window, flashing in and out so you were never sure what they looked like.

This crying went on for all of act two.

Act three opened with a title card saying one year had passed. Homer, Marge, and Lisa were skeletally thin, and still sitting at the table. There was no sign of Maggie or the pets.

They decided to visit Bart's grave. Springfield was completely deserted, and as they walked to the cemetery the houses became more and more decrepit. They all looked abandoned. When they got to the grave, Bart's body was just lying in front of his tombstone, looking just like it did at the end of act one.

The family started crying again. Eventually they stopped, and just stared at Bart's body. The camera zoomed in on Homer's face. According to summaries, Homer tells a joke at this part, but it isn't audible in the version I saw, you can't tell what Homer is saying.

The view zoomed out as the episode came to a close. The tombstones in the background had the names of every Simpsons guest star on them. Some that no one had heard of in 1989, some that haven't been on the show yet. All of them had death dates on them.

For guests who died since, like Michael Jackson and George Harrison, the dates were when they would die. The credits were completely silent, and seemed handwritten. The final image was the Simpson family on their couch, like in the intros, but all drawn in hyper realistic, lifeless style of Bart's corpse.

A thought occurred to me after seeing the episode for the first time, you could try to use the tombstones to predict the death of living Simpsons guest stars, but there's something odd about most of the ones who haven't died yet.

All of their deaths are listed as the same date.

[greetingsfromthebottomofthewell]

THE GALLERY OF HENRI BEAUCHAMP

[source] [triggers]

before doing a bit of research before posting it, i had no idea that a “green fairy” had anything to do with alcohol. i just thought that was interesting.

If you go into this one tiny, dingy one-story bar in Paris, and the right bartender is behind the counter that night, you might be able to see a very exclusive gallery show of the lost works of one Henri Beauchamp. But, to get in, you have to prove you're a devotee of the artist.

You'll be asked, in clear and perfect English, "What would like to partake of this glorious night?" Answer "absinthe", no matter what. Any other drink, from whiskey to water, will kill you as you sleep.

The next question will regard the type, and you MUST answer one of two things: "The stuff that Man himself could not bear to take," or, "The good stuff. The best stuff." If you ask for any other absinthe, in any other way, you will be plagued by nightmares for 13 days. Each night's dream will be more horrible than the last, until, upon the thirteenth dream, your nightmare will follow you, every moment of your waking and sleeping life.

Don't try and cheat the barkeep: the door locked behind you. You have to drink what he gives you, doom or not. That such a powerful man granted you audience should be enough. Besides, I've heard that the dying complimented his drinks in their death throes.

If you make it that far before sealing your fate, the bartender will say, "Be sure you handle this with care; this is the finest I have." From here, you may do one of two things: Say, word for word, "I overestimated my fortitude, and I bid you good eve." If the barkeep nods, you may leave the door you entered, unharmed and with nothing gained and nothing lost (except the time spent inside).

Or you can go on.

You will be given a glass with a seven-sided rim, with each side twisting ever so delicately around the basin until forming a sleek and simple handle. You will also receive a very, very, very special absinthe spoon, in the shape of a key; the holes at the key's top serve as the draining point for the alcohol to pour over the sugar cube. And, of course, an unmarked bottle, stripped long ago of its label, scraps of paper sticking to its sides, covered in the rot of the decades past.

The spoon is completely flat, but has two distinct sides: one with a groove along the shaft of the key, and one without. Turn the shaft down, so its groove will be face down. If you attempt this face up, your absinthe will taste foul, your nose will burn, and your eyes will shrivel in their sockets with unspeakable horrors not of this world.

Now, if your spoon is the right way up, begin preparing the absinthe as one would (put the sugar on the spoon, and pour the alcohol over so it gains its color and "special qualities").

Say "cheers" to your friend, the barkeep, and bottoms up. If you don't, the absinthe will burn every innard it touches with the power and pain of sulfuric acid.

If you've done it right, the already dim lights will go off, and darkness will consume the bar. Don't be afraid; the darkness is the cue that you've been approved for the exhibit. Wait out the darkness, and keep silent as the dead, lest the bartender decide to make you so.

Eventually (not too long, two to three minutes), a green floodlight will shine brightly on a door on the far wall of the bar. The bar will be bathed in green, and not just from the floodlight. Little luminescent spheres will gently drift through the room, and the barkeep will no longer be there...nor any other unassuming patron inside before.

There's no danger by this point...consider it a safe point. If you didn't finish the absinthe, you don't have to, but you might need the alcohol. Either way, take the spoon and put it in the keyhole of the green-lit portal's doorknob. It will fit perfectly, and reach the end of the keyhole with a resounding click.

Inside is a small elevator, with the most beautiful woman any mortal eyes can imagine, bathed in the green glow in just such an angle that the light refracts beyond her into the shape of wings.

The Green Fairy herself will ask you, "Going up?”, and considering all the trouble you went through, it would only make sense to say yes.

Now, you have one more hurdle to clear. She will ask you, as you cross the line from the bar to the compartment, "How would you compare Beauchamp's surrealism to that of, say, René Magritte?" For your reply, you must say, "I've come to see more than art tonight."

If you don't, the green floodlight will blow out, the doors will slam shut, and the elevator will plummet through a seemingly infinite blackness before a red light grows brighter as the elevator nears the very depths of Hell.

Now, if your elevator begins to go up, the green light will also fade, but in its place will be the cool glow of the moon. But, before you even recognize it, the elevator will reach the top of its...well, let's call it a shaft to not get too intricate.

Now, I'm not as sure about this as the rest, but I've heard that, if the Green Fairy kisses you on the cheek as she leaves the elevator, you will always be blessed with a creative inspiration: a permanent, ever-changing muse. You can't ask her, you can't kiss her; she has to do it of her own volition. If not...well, nothing, but no reason to do it anyway and anger the woman who is responsible for keeping the Beauchamp paintings safe for so many years.

You will enter, from the elevator, a turn-of-the-century parlor, with a large poster of Henri Beauchamp on the left side of the opposite wall; on the right is a door.

Taking the time to read the poster is a fairly good idea, as it explains the very significance of Monsieur Beauchamp. You see, he was a struggling surrealist in the 1920's, always making art to try to be free of all premeditation, and managed to do so. You see, after one night in a tiny, dingy one-story bar in Paris, he began to paint...patterns.

First it was geometric patterns. Then complete fractals. Then images that would be in the newspaper the next day. Then next week. Then from fifty years ago. One hundred years in the future, two hundred years in the past...

Then, on his last night of life, he kidnapped three young girls from their homes at night, murdered them, and painted his finest masterpieces in reds and yellows with the blood and bile of virgins.

He committed suicide immediately after painting exactly 13 of these.

These are behind the door.

The first six, from the left, show, from left to right: the genesis of the universe, the only true visage of God as viewable to the eyes of man, the true image of Jesus Christ, the sprawling clouds of Heaven, every Pope from the first to faces not yet recognizable, and a portrait of Jesus' appearance in his Second Coming.

The other six, on the right, show, from right to left: the cataclysm of the universe, the only true visage of Satan as viewable to the eyes of man, the true image of Judas, the sprawling flames of Hell, every human-embodied demon from the first to faces not yet recognizable, and a portrait of the Antichrist in his Second Coming.

Now, six and six makes twelve. But what of the thirteenth?

This thirteenth painting is turned around on its wall pin, the image facing the wall. The space around it is roped up at a very wide diameter, and under the flipped image is a sign, in three languages. The top is in the scriptures of the Seraphim, the bottom in the runes of the highest demonic orders, and in the middle, in Roman letters.

DO

NOT

TOUCH

Now, like the kiss, I can't say this part with as much certainty, but all the same...I heard that, somehow, as he died, Beauchamp flayed his skin, his organs, his very soul, into some sort of collage. How he took his dead body and created such a horrific masterpiece, I could never say, nor would I ever dare to.

So...if you make it, maybe you can flip the canvas over and tell me sometime? You can tell me about it over a drink.

[greetingsfromthebottomofthewell]

JVK1166Z.ESP

[source] [triggers]

i must admit there is a weakness in me for well-done stories about video games

Some people might recall some momentary buzz caused a couple of years ago by a particularly odd Morrowind mod. The file name was jvk1166z.esp. It was never posted on any of the larger Elder Scrolls communities, usually just smaller boards and role-playing groups. I know in a few cases rather than being posted, it was sent via PM or email to a 'chosen few.' It was only up for a few days, to the best of my knowledge.

It caused a buzz because it was a virus, or seemed to be. If you tried to load the game with the mod active, it would hang at the initial load screen for a full hour and then crash to the desktop. If you let it get that far, your install of Morrowind, along with any save files you had, would become completely corrupted. Nobody could figure out what the mod was trying to do, since it couldn't be opened in the Construction Set. Eventually, warnings were distributed not to use it if you found it, and things died down.

About a year later, in a mod board I used to frequent, someone popped up with the mod again. He said he was PMed by a lurker who deleted his account immediately after sending. He also said that the person advised him to try playing the mod through DOSbox. For some reason, this worked... sort of. The game was a bit laggy, and you couldn't get into Options, Load Game, the console, or really anything else, other than the game itself. The QuickSave and QuickLoad hotbuttons worked, but that was it. And the QuickSave file seemed to be just part of the game file, so you couldn't get at it anymore. Some speculated that the changed game used an older graphics renderer, making DOSbox necessary, but it didn't LOOK any different.

This part I can speak about from personal experience. When you start a new game in JVK (as the board came to call it), once you left the starting bit in the Census Office and came into the game proper, the first thing you notice is that the 'prophecy has been severed' box pops up. This is because every single NPC having to do with the main quest is dead, with the sole exception of Yagrum Bagarn, the last of the Dwemer. Their corpses never despawn, so you can go check on all of them. In effect, you begin in a world that is doomed to start with.

The second thing you notice is that you're losing health. It's only a bit, but it keeps happening, a little bit at a time. The longer you stay in one place, the quicker it seems to occur. If you let this health loss kill you, you'll find the cause: a figure we came to call the Assassin, because he seems to wear a retextured version of the Dark Brotherhood armor from Tribunal, even though the expansions don't work in JVK. It's all black, completely untextured, like he's just a hole in space. The way he moves... he gave me quite a start, the first time I saw him scuttling around my dead body. He crawls inhumanly on his hands and feet, his arms and legs splayed out like a spider. You'd usually only see him after death, crawling around and over your body just before the reload box popped up. Occasionally, you could catch a glimpse of him darting around a corner or crawling on a wall or ceiling. It made the game very difficult to play at night!

Other than that, the only noticeable difference is that at night, at random intervals, every NPC in the game will go outside for a few minutes. During this time, the only thing they will say when hailed is, "Watch the sky." Once they return to their normal behavior they act like normal, though.

After a while, a player on the board discovered a new NPC named Tieras, a male Dunmer in the temple at Ghostgate. Two things are notable about this NPC: first is his robe, a unique article of clothing that was lovingly rendered with twinkling stars all across it, looking like a torn-off chunk of the night sky. The second is that all of his dialogue, in addition to showing up in the dialogue box, is voiced. You can skip it if you wish, but it all sounds like it's in the default male Dunmer voice. Some people said that they thought the voice was "slightly" different, but it was a very, very good imitation.

I won't go into the details, but the questline he sends you on has to do with a dungeon referred to simply as 'The Citadel.' Up until this point, the quests were all of a fairly generic 'discover the secrets of the ancients' bent. The entrance to this dungeon is on a small island far to the west of Morrowind proper. I eventually discovered that if you used a Scroll of Icarian Flight at the westernmost point on the main landmass and jump directly west, you'd end up almost exactly at the island.

Even though the dungeon is called The Citadel, it goes straight down. It dwarfs any other dungeon, both in size and difficulty. From a natural cave area you'll proceed down into an ancestral tomb looking area, then a Daedric ruin area, and then a Dwemer ruin area. I made it down to the Dwemer Ruins before I quit. The creatures here were strong enough that a level 20 character would have to take care, and since you can't use the console in JVK, level 20 took a while to get to. Since QuickSave and QuickLoad are your only options, it's all too easy to get yourself into an impossible situation too. I did, and I just didn't have the energy to start over.

Now what I'm telling you is based on what those few who went further reported. Past the Dwemer Ruins you find yourself in a level like the Dwemer Ruins, but darker. Rather than the usual bronze, all the surfaces, including those of the creatures, are black. The sounds of machinery are loud here, and grow louder still, randomly. There's also steam or fog everywhere, limiting your vision to about ten in-game feet or so. If you can make it through all this, you will reach a hall that those who found it called it the Portrait Room.

Like the fire in torches or other effects from early 3D games, this room has picture frames that always face directly at you, no matter how you look at them. The images in the frames were always randomly chosen images from your My Pictures folder. On the board, the ones who got there had some fun posting screenshots of the Portrait Room with various pictures in the frames (Usually porn, of course).

At the end of the hall was a locked door. After admitting defeat and returning to Tieras, everyone just found him saying, "Watch the sky," in his gravelly voice. What's more, nobody else in the game would say ANYTHING. There was just a completely blank dialogue box with no options at all. They wouldn't even rattle off the usual canned audible greetings. The only exception was at night; whenever they'd go out for a few minutes, they'd still repeat it. "Watch the sky." At this point, one of the players - a friend of mine from the board - noticed (and the few others who got this far agreed) that the night sky was no longer the usual night sky of Tamriel; it had changed to a depiction of a real night sky. And it moved.

From this point on, everything is based on what this one person reported. Eventually, he got himself kicked from the board, but I kept in contact with him for as long as he responded. According to him, based on the constellations and planets, the sky started around February 2005. If you died, loaded, or went back into the Citadel, it would start over. When the usual day sky graphics took over, the movement would be suspended until the stars appeared again. In the space of a single night, everything would move about two months worth. Since the timescale of JVK was more or less that of the standard game, that meant that a bit less than an hour was equal to a 24-hour period.

He became convinced that the door would open based on some kind of celestial event. Of course, waiting for that meant leaving the game running. Of course, THAT meant that the game couldn't be left unattended, thanks to our old friend, the Assassin. My friend decided he'd hang out for a whole day, just to see if anything happened. That would be about a year's worth of movement. Here's the post he made at the end of this experiment:

"I loaded in Seyda neen, where it all starts. It wasn't too bad, just had to check in now and then to move around and heal to make sure I wasn't dying. But check it out! 24 hours exactly in, and the Assassin learned a new trick! HE SCREAMS!!!! I was reading and all of a sudden, this crazy loud shriek just about makes me crap myself. It's like something out of a horror movie! I look up, and there he is, just crouched down right in front of me. Of course, the second I moved my character, he ran off. When I went back down to the Portrait Room, the door was still locked. Damn it, damn it, damn it!"

A bit later, he came to the decision that he needed to wait three days - three years. The PM advising us to try DOSbox showed up in February of 2008 was his reasoning, anyway.

"After the first shriek, the Assassin stops hitting you out of nowhere. Now he'll shriek, and if you don't move for a few seconds after that he hits you. I think whoever made the mod was trying to help. At night, I've got my headphones on and I was just kind of dozing off...when he wakes me up with a shriek; I jiggle the mouse, and I'm good!"

That post was two days in, from his laptop. Once it was over...

"FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK! FUUUUUUUUUCK! So FUCKING done. So, I wait, the three days, right, and right after the FUCKING Assassin made me jiggle the mouse, he shrieks again. So, I look, and everyone in town is outside. They're all saying, "Watch the sky." I don't see anything, though. But then the game starts getting dark... like REALLY dark. I turn up the brightness all the way on my monitor, and I can still barely see. I can see other people in the game, little figures running around in the distance, just running back and forth. If I try to get close, they run off. Now, I was trying to sleep, so the lights are off, and this is kind of creepy.

I don't want to get up to turn on my light because I don't want to miss anything, but NOTHING fucking happens. Eventually I go back to The Citadel... it's still dark, and I gotta swim, and the whole time I can see all these guys swimming all around me, just barely there. I make it to the Citadel, and its normal light inside, and I get worried. Sure enough, the Portrait Door is STILL FUCKING CLOSED. I go outside and it's ALL STARTING OVER. So that's it. I'm fucking going to bed, and I'm fucking done. The end."

After that, two things happen. First, another of the people who got to the Portrait Room claimed that the Assassin was showing up in his regular Morrowind game. (Quick explanation. If you reinstalled Morrowind to a different folder, you could have a normal Morrowind install along with JVK.) He himself chalked it up to an overactive imagination at first, but he reported a couple of really big scares with the black figure crawling right at him, or seeing it waiting for him just around a corner before scuttling off. Another of those who reached the Portrait Room started a regular Morrowind game, but never saw him for sure; it was just a couple of 'maybes', late at night, and always at a distance.

The second is that my friend started getting really abusive and short-tempered on the board, though he stopped talking about JVK entirely. It got so bad that he was soon kicked off. I didn't hear anything from him for a couple of weeks after that, so I sent him an email. This was part of his reply:

"I know I shouldn't, but with classes out I've got some time, so I started JVK up again. It's almost 2011... and I think I've got the sleep madness! But stuff is happening! It's still dark... once it gets dark, it never gets any lighter. It stays like that. The people moved a few months ago... everyone in Seyda neen just went to that little bandit cave and moved in. They killed the bandits inside, and now they're just standing around inside. They don't say anything anymore; they don't do anything when you click on them. I quicksaved and killed one, and he just stood there until he died without fighting back!

And it's like that everywhere. You have to walk, since the quick travel people are all in caves now, too, but all the cities and towns are just deserted; all the people are in caves and tombs. Everyone in Vivec is down in the sewers. I'm going to Ghostgate next... I want to see if Tieras is still there. I'll tell you what he says when I get there!"

I replied and said I wanted to see what he said too, and waited a day. When I didn't get a reply, I mailed him again, and a couple of hours later he sent back:

"Sorry, I totally forgot. So it's 2014 now... since it's always night, the stars are always moving. The whole screen is dark, but you can still see the brightest stars moving around. Tieras was gone... everyone in Ghostgate was gone. I don't know where they went. They're not in any of the nearby caves. But there's new stuff... people still don't say anything, but their eyes are bleeding. it's so dark that even with a light spell you have to get right up against them to see, but there they are, little dark streaks coming down from their eyes. I think I gotta be getting close. I know this is stupid, and there's no way the pay off is going to be worth it, but I just want to be able to say I stuck it out!"

I got that one during the day. Later that night, I got a follow-up email:

"Some of the planets aren't moving right. It's pissing me off... if this keeps up, I won't be able to keep track anymore. It's almost 2015 now, I think. Fuck. You know, I just now noticed that there aren't any monsters anymore, either. I'm completely alone outside now. The main quest people's' bodies are still lying around, though. I went to check on them.

I don't need headphones anymore, so I just leave them off. When he shrieks, it's like he's screaming right into my ear. I think I even kind of anticipate it. He's around a lot more now, a lot closer. He's different from the other people who started showing up, remember? They keep running around, just where I can barely see them. I have to admit, it's kind of creepy at night. Sometimes, when I go to the bathroom or whatever, I swear I can see something out of the corner of my eye. I'm keeping all the lights on now."

I sent him a letter, jokingly telling him to get some real sleep, and left it at that. Two mornings later, I found this in my email. It was the last thing I got from him. After this, he stopped responding completely:

"I just got up from a fucked up dream, I think. The Assassin shrieked at me, and when I opened my eyes, he was right there, crouching over me. His arms and legs were longer, more like a spider's. I tried to push him away, but when I touched him my hands just went inside and I couldn't get them loose again, like he was made of tar or something.

Then I woke up, I thought. he was gone, but when I looked at the monitor I wasn't where I was. I was in the Corprusarium, with Yagrum. For once, the light was okay, and I could see him all bloated on those mechanical spider legs. I sat down at the computer and he started talking to me. Not in a box, but really talking to me, in Tieras' voice. He knew things about me. He told me things that I never told anyone, some things I totally forgot about. He told me that almost nobody had made it this far, and that the door would open up soon. I just had to hang on a little while longer. He said I'd know when it was time. He said I might be the first one to see what was inside.

And then I woke up for real, but I was at the computer. I still wasn't where I was. I'm swimming out to The Citadel Island. And I can hear this tapping. It's at my window. It's over on the left, so I'm sending you this, because I left my laptop by my bed, to the right. Just a little *taptaptaptap*... like he's knocking his finger against the glass. I might still be dreaming now."

So, I guess that's the end of the story. I know there's a few other stories floating around about the mod, but this is the only I know as true, as far as it goes. I deleted my JVK copy of the game pretty much right after I gave up, but I'd like to get the mod again, if anyone still has a copy of the file. I'd like to see some of this for myself.

[greetingsfromthebottomofthewell]

KILLSWITCH

[source] [triggers]

it wasn’t as if we had anything better.

In the spring 1989 the Karvina Corporation released a curious game, whose dissemination among American students that fall was swift and furious, though its popularity was ultimately short-lived.

The game was “Killswitch.”

On the surface it was a variant on the mystery or horror survival game, a precursor to the Myst and Silent Hill franchises. The narrative showed the complexity for which Karvina was known, though the graphics were monochrome, vague grey and white shapes against a black background.

Slow MIDI versions of Czech folksongs play throughout. Players could choose between two avatars: an invisible demon named Ghast or a visible human woman, Porto. Play as Ghast was considerably more difficult due to his total invisibility, and players were highly liable to restart the game as Porto after the first level, in which it was impossible to gauge jumps or aim.

However, Ghast was clearly the more powerful character–he had fire-breath and a coal-steam attack, but as it was above the skill level of most players to keep track of where a fire-breathing, poison-dispensing invisible imp was on their screens once the fire and steam had run out, Porto became more or less the default.

Porto’s singular ability was seemingly random growth–she expanded and contracted in size throughout the game. A Kansas engineering grad claimed to have figured out the pattern involved, but for reasons which will become obvious, his work was lost.

Porto awakens in the dark with wounds in her elbows, confused. Seeking a way out, she ascends through the levels of a coal mine in which it is slowly revealed she was once an employee, investigating its collapse and beset on all sides by demons similar to Ghast, as well as dead foremen, coal-golems, and demonic inspectors from the Sovatik corporation, whose boxy bodies were clothed in red, the only color in the game.

The environment, though primitive, becomes genuinely uncanny as play progresses. There are no “bosses” in any real sense–Porto must simply move physically through tunnels to reach subsequent levels while her size varies wildly through inter-level spaces.

The story that emerges through Porto’s discovery of magnetic tapes, files, mutilated factory workers who were once her friends, and deciphering an impressively complex code inscribed on a series of iron axes players must collect (This portion of the game was almost laughably complex, and defeated many players until “Porto881″ posted the cipher to a Columbia BBS. Attempts to contact this player have been unsuccessful, and the username is no longer in use on any known service.) is that the foremen, under pressure to increase coal production, began to falsify reports of malfunctions and worker malfeasance in order to excuse low output, which incited a Sovatik inspection.

Officials were dispatched, one for each miner, and an extraordinary story of torture unfolds, with fuzzy and indistinct graphics of red-coated men standing over workers, inserting small knives into their joints whenever production slowed. (Admittedly, this is not a very subtle critique of Soviet-era industrial tactics, and as the town of Karvina itself was devastated by the departure of the coal industry, more than one thesis has interpreted Killswitch as a political screed.)

After solving the axe-code, Porto finds and assembles a tape recorder, on which a male voice tells her that the fires of the earth had risen up in their defense and flowed into the hearts of the decrepit, pre-revolution equipment they used and wakened them to avenge the workers.

It is generally assumed that the “fires of the earth” are demons like Ghast, coal-fumes and gassy bodies inhabiting the old machines. The machines themselves are so “big” that the graphics elect to only show two or three gear-teeth or a conveyor belt rather than the entire apparatus. The machines drove the inspectors mad, and they disappeared into caverns with their knives (only to emerge to plague Porto, of course).

The workers were often crushed and mangled in the onslaught of machines, who were neither graceful nor discriminating. Porto herself was knocked into a deep chasm by a grief-stricken engine, and her fluctuating size, if it is real and not imagined, is implied to be the result of poisonous fumes inhaled there.

What follows is the most cryptic and intuitive part of the game. There is no logical reason to proceed in the “correct” way, and again it was Porto881 who came to the rescue of the fledgling Killswitch community. In the chamber behind the tape recorder is a great furnace where coal was once rendered into coke.

There are no clues as to what she is intended to do in this room. Players attempted nearly everything, from immolating herself to continuing to process coal as if the machines had never risen up. Porto881 hit upon the solution, and posted it to the Columbia boards.

If Porto ingests the raw coke, she will find her body under control,and can go on to fight her way out of the final levels of the mine, which are impassable in her giant state, clutching the tape containing this extraordinary story. However, as she crawls through the final tunnel to emerge aboveground, the screen goes suddenly white.

Killswitch, by design, deletes itself upon player completion of the game. It is not recoverable by any means, all trace of it is removed from the user’s computer. The game cannot be copied. For all intents and purposes it exists only for those playing it, and then ceases to be entirely. One cannot replay it, unlocking further secrets or narrative pathways, one cannot allow another to play it, and perhaps most importantly, it is impossible to experience the game all the way to the end as both Porto and Ghast.

Predictably, player outcry was enormous. Several routes to solve the problem were pursued, with no real efficacy. The first and most common was to simply buy more copies of the game, but Karvina Corp. released only 5,000 copies and refused to press further editions. The following is an excerpt from their May 1990 press release:

Killswitch was designed to be a unique playing experience: like reality, it is unrepeatable, unretrievable,and illogical. One might even say ineffable. Death is final; death is complete. The fates of Porto and her beloved Ghast are as unknowable as our own. It is the desire of the Karvina Corporation that this be so, and we ask our customers to respect that desire. Rest assured Karvina will continue to provide the highest quality of games to the West, and that Killswitch is merely one among our many wonders.

This did not have the intended effect. The word “beloved” piqued the interest of committed, even obsessive players, as Ghast is not present in any portion of Porto’s narrative. A rush to find the remaining copies of the game ensued, with the intent of playing as Ghast and discovering the meaning of Karvina’s cryptic word.

The most popular theory was that Ghast would at some point become the fumes inhaled by Porto, changing her size and beginning her adventure. Some thought this was wishful thinking, that if only Ghast’s early levels were passable one would somehow be able to play as both simultaneously.

However, by this time no further copies appeared to be available in retail outlets. Players who had not yet completed the game attempted Ghast’s levels frequently, but the difficulty of actually playing this enigmatic avatar persisted, and no player has ever claimed to have finished the game as Ghast. One by one, the lure of Porto’s lost, unearthly world drew them back to her, and one by one, they were compelled towards the finality of the vast white screen.

To find any copy usable today is an almost unfathomably rare occurance; a still shrink-wrapped copy was sold at auction in 2005 for $733,000 to Yamamoto Ryuichi of Tokyo. It is entirely possible that Yamamoto’s is the last remaining copy of the game.

Knowing this, Yamamoto had intended to open his play to all enthusiasts, filming and uploading his progress. However, to date, the only film which has surfaced is a one minute and forty five second clip of a haggard Yamamoto at his computer, the avatar-choice screen visible over his right shoulder.

Yamamoto is crying.

[greetingsfromthebottomofthewell]

and with that, the stories resume. thank you all for humoring me :)

[greetingsfromthebottomofthewell]

LOVE DISEASE - MADACO

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[greetingsfromthebottomofthewell]

THE PURPLE FOREST - INTRO-P

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[greetingsfromthebottomofthewell]

IN A RAINY TOWN, BALLOONS DANCE WITH DEVILS - HACHI

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[greetingsfromthebottomofthewell]

LOLOLOL - BABUCHAN

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[greetingsfromthebottomofthewell]

THE TAILOR SHOP ON ENBIZAKA - MOTHY

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[greetingsfromthebottomofthewell]

MOONLIT BEAR - MOTHY

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[greetingsfromthebottomofthewell]

GREETINGS FROM THE BOTTOM OF THE WELL - MACHIGERITA-P

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[greetingsfromthebottomofthewell]

DARK WOODS CIRCUS - MACHIGERITA-P

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[greetingsfromthebottomofthewell]

as of this exact moment there are 9 songs left in the queue, meaning this’ll be what i’m posting for about a week plus, but i am queueing more stories as we speak.