Tag: strange

“Popobawa”

A story by Creepy Pastor on .

On the secluded Tanzanian island of Pemba, nestled in the tranquil waters of the Indian Ocean, lurks a malevolent entity known as the popobawa. This sinister creature possesses the ability to shapeshift, morphing from a menacing bat to a humanoid form, instilling fear in the hearts of those who dare to cross its path. While it typically prowls under the cover of night, some unfortunate souls claim to have encountered it even in the harsh light of day.

The popobawa, aptly named “bat-wing” in Swahili, shows no mercy in its selection of victims. However, in the chilling accounts that circulate among the island’s inhabitants, a disturbing pattern emerges – the spirit is said to target men for heinous acts of sexual assault. Its attacks are indiscriminate, leaving a trail of terror and trauma in their wake.

Originating in the tumultuous aftermath of political upheaval, the legend of the popobawa has gained momentum over the past few decades. In the wake of a tragic assassination that plunged the nation into chaos, tales of the malevolent entity began to spread like wildfire, woven into the fabric of local folklore.

The aftermath of a popobawa attack plunges the community into a state of panic and hysteria. In a desperate bid to ward off the creature’s advances, some resort to extreme measures, such as staying awake in groups or smearing themselves with pig’s oil, clinging to the hope that such rituals will offer protection from its malevolent influence.

Among those who have fallen victim to the popobawa’s sinister grasp is Mjaka Hamad, a humble peasant farmer whose harrowing encounter left him scarred both physically and mentally. Recounting his ordeal, he describes the crushing weight of the creature’s presence, a chilling reminder of the ever-present threat that looms over the island.

As the legend of the popobawa continues to cast its shadow over the island of Pemba, its terrifying legacy serves as a stark reminder of the darkness that lurks within the human psyche and the enduring power of fear.

“La Pisadeira”

A story by Creepy Pastor on .

In the heart of Brazil, beneath the velvety cloak of night, wanders a spectral entity known only as La Pisadeira. A figure of dread, she navigates the rooftops with an otherworldly grace, her form tall and gaunt, her eyes burning like fiery embers against the darkness.

With her elongated frame and unnaturally long yellow nails, La Pisadeira is a sight to behold, though one best avoided. She haunts the rooftops, her presence an ominous shadow over the tranquil homes below, where families gather for their evening repast.

Peering through windows with an intensity that sends chills down the spine, La Pisadeira observes the unsuspecting families as they dine. Her eerie vigilance knows no bounds, as she watches them with a hunger that transcends the physical.

The legend of La Pisadeira is as old as the land itself, whispered in hushed tones by those who dare to speak her name. Some say she was once mortal, cursed to roam the night in search of souls to devour. Others believe her to be a guardian of the shadows, a spectral sentinel warning of unseen dangers.

But regardless of her origins, one thing remains certain: the presence of La Pisadeira is enough to make even the bravest soul tremble with fear. For in the darkness of the Brazilian night, her silent vigil continues, a haunting reminder of the mysteries that lurk just beyond the edge of perception.

“The Thing in the Trap”

A story by Creepy Pastor on .

In a bustling metropolis, where the clang of machinery and the hum of technology drowned out the whispers of the night, lived a man named Henry. Henry was an inventor, a man of curious mind and restless spirit, who spent his days toiling away in his workshop, tinkering with gadgets and contraptions of his own design.

One evening, as Henry rummaged through his collection of odds and ends, he stumbled upon an old mousetrap buried beneath a pile of forgotten projects. It was a peculiar contraption, unlike any he had ever seen before. Made of sleek plastic and adorned with blinking lights, it seemed to pulsate with an otherworldly energy.

Intrigued by the trap’s unusual design, Henry set to work unraveling its mysteries. Hours turned into days as he pored over schematics and diagrams, determined to unlock the secrets hidden within its mechanical heart.

And then, one fateful night, as the moon hung low in the sky and shadows danced across the walls of his workshop, Henry made a discovery that would haunt him for the rest of his days.

For nestled within the confines of the trap, trapped in its plastic jaws, was a creature unlike any he had ever seen before. It was a mouse, or so it appeared at first glance, but upon closer inspection, Henry recoiled in horror.

For this was no ordinary mouse. Its body was small and furry, yes, but its head…its head was unmistakably human, with eyes that gleamed with a profound intelligence and a mouth that twisted into a grotesque parody of a smile.

Shaken to his core, Henry stumbled backward, his mind reeling with disbelief. How could such a thing exist? What dark sorcery had brought this abomination into being?

Desperate for answers, Henry delved deeper into the trap’s origins, tracing its lineage back to a shadowy corporation known only as BioTech Innovations. But the more he uncovered, the more he realized that some secrets were never meant to be unearthed.

As he delved deeper into the corporation’s murky dealings, Henry soon found himself ensnared in a web of deceit and treachery. He uncovered a sinister plot to blur the lines between man and machine, to create life where none should exist.

And at the heart of it all was the mouse with the human head, a twisted creation born from the darkest recesses of the human imagination.

Haunted by the knowledge of what he had uncovered, Henry knew that he could not keep the truth hidden forever. But as he prepared to blow the whistle on BioTech Innovations and expose their heinous crimes to the world, he found himself plagued by doubts.

For in a world where science and morality collided with ever-increasing force, who could say what was right and what was wrong? And what horrors lurked in the darkness, waiting to be unleashed upon an unsuspecting world?

As the weight of his discovery bore down upon him, Henry found himself standing at a crossroads, torn between the desire for justice and the fear of what lay beyond the threshold of human understanding.

And as the shadows closed in around him, he knew that whatever choice he made, the consequences would be dire. For some secrets were better left buried in the depths of the unknown, where they could do no harm to those who dared to seek them out.

But for Henry, it was already too late. The trap had been sprung…and there was no escaping the horrors that lay within.

“Whisper in the Woods”

A story by Creepy Pastor on .

Amidst the serene backdrop of Willowbrook, a tranquil English suburb, resided Emma. Fresh from a divorce, she sought solace in the peaceful embrace of her quaint cottage. However, a sense of unease stirred within her upon the arrival of her new neighbour, Alex. Alex was a figure shrouded in mystery, with an androgynous allure that seemed to defy conventional understanding. His movements through the dimly lit streets of Willowbrook possessed an eerie grace, casting shadows that danced around him like spectres in the night.

From the moment Alex arrived, Emma felt an inexplicable unease settle over her, a weight that hung heavy in the air and refused to dissipate. She found herself drawn to observe him from behind the veil of her curtains, unable to shake the gnawing sense of curiosity that consumed her thoughts.

As the passage of time blurred into a relentless stream of uncertainty, Emma’s fascination with Alex only deepened. One fateful evening, driven by a potent mixture of apprehension and intrigue, she resolved to follow him as he disappeared into the nearby woods.

The forest whispered secrets as Emma ventured deeper into its embrace, her senses tingling with a heightened awareness of the unknown. The air crackled with an otherworldly energy, tendrils of mist coiling around her ankles like ghostly fingers as she pressed forward.

At last, Emma stumbled upon a clearing bathed in an ethereal glow, the pulsating light casting eerie shadows that danced across the forest floor. And there, at the heart of the clearing, stood Alex, surrounded by a congregation of beings whose forms flickered and wavered like apparitions in the night.

Transfixed by the surreal scene unfolding before her, Emma’s breath caught in her throat as she beheld the truth that lay hidden beneath the veil of shadows. Alex, her enigmatic neighbour, was no mere mortal – he was an emissary from beyond the stars, a harbinger of forces beyond human comprehension.

A primal fear gripped Emma’s heart as she watched Alex raise a hand towards the heavens, his features contorting and warping into something wholly alien. It was a revelation that shattered the fragile illusion of normalcy she had clung to, plunging her into a maelstrom of existential dread.

As the weight of her newfound knowledge bore down upon her, Emma turned to flee, her mind awash with a cacophony of terror and disbelief. But before she could escape the clutches of the forest, a cold hand seized her shoulder, halting her in her tracks.

With a start, Emma spun around to find herself face to face with Alex, his eyes ablaze with an otherworldly light that pierced the darkness of the night. In a voice that echoed with the resonance of distant galaxies, he spoke words that sent shivers down her spine.

“You were right to suspect, Emma,” he intoned, his voice a chilling whisper that seemed to reverberate through the very fabric of reality. “But now that you know our secret, you can never return to the realm of ignorance from whence you came.”

Trapped in a world teetering on the precipice of the unknown, Emma found herself ensnared in a web of cosmic intrigue that defied rational explanation. With each passing moment, she delved deeper into the labyrinthine mysteries of the universe, grappling with truths that threatened to unravel the very fabric of her existence.

But amidst the chaos and uncertainty that surrounded her, Emma discovered a flicker of hope – a glimmer of resilience that burned bright within the recesses of her soul. With newfound determination, she embraced the daunting challenge that lay before her, steeling herself for the trials and tribulations that awaited on the path ahead.

As the shadows of the unknown stretched ever onward, Emma took her first tentative steps into the abyss, her spirit unbroken and her resolve unwavering. For in the heart of darkness, she found the strength to confront her deepest fears and emerge victorious, a beacon of light in a world consumed by shadows.

And so, as the echoes of the unknown faded into the ether, Emma embarked on a journey that would forever alter the course of her destiny. With the stars as her guide and the mysteries of the cosmos as her compass, she ventured forth into the great unknown, ready to embrace whatever horrors and wonders awaited her on the horizon.

“Jack the Ripper”

A story by Creepy Pastor on .

In the dimly lit streets of London’s East End, during the autumn of 1888, a series of chilling murders sent shockwaves through Victorian society. The perpetrator, known only as Jack the Ripper, stalked the impoverished alleys of Whitechapel, leaving behind a trail of terror and mystery that continues to captivate the imaginations of people worldwide over a century later.

The reign of Jack the Ripper was brief, lasting only a matter of months, yet the impact of his crimes transcended time and space, shaping the course of history and leaving an indelible mark on popular culture. To this day, the identity of Jack the Ripper remains one of the greatest unsolved mysteries in criminal history, fueling endless speculation and countless theories.

At the heart of the fascination with Jack the Ripper lies the allure of the unknown. The shadowy figure, cloaked in darkness, embodies the epitome of evil, haunting the collective consciousness with his gruesome deeds. The sensationalized media coverage of the time transformed Jack the Ripper from a mere criminal into a mythical figure, perpetuating his infamy and ensuring his place in the annals of history.

The Whitechapel murders, as they came to be known, were a grim reflection of the social and economic disparities of Victorian London. In the labyrinthine streets of the East End, poverty and despair were rife, creating fertile ground for crime and violence to flourish. Against this backdrop of urban decay, Jack the Ripper emerged as a symbol of the city’s darkest fears, preying upon the most vulnerable members of society with impunity.

The legend of Jack the Ripper has endured for over a century, captivating the minds of historians, criminologists, and amateur sleuths alike. Countless books, films, and television shows have sought to unravel the mystery of his identity, each offering its own interpretation of the enigmatic killer. Yet, despite decades of investigation and speculation, the true identity of Jack the Ripper remains elusive, shrouded in the mists of time.

The enduring fascination with Jack the Ripper speaks to our enduring fascination with the darker aspects of human nature. In an age of unprecedented technological advancement and societal progress, the story of Jack the Ripper serves as a chilling reminder of the depths of human depravity and the fragility of civilization itself. It is a story that resonates across time and space, reminding us that, beneath the veneer of civilization, lies a darkness that lurks within us all.

As we continue to grapple with the legacy of Jack the Ripper, it is essential to remember the victims of his heinous crimes. In the midst of the speculation and sensationalism, it is all too easy to lose sight of the human cost of these tragedies. Each victim had a name, a family, and a story, and their memory deserves to be honored and respected.

In conclusion, the legacy of Jack the Ripper is a testament to the enduring power of myth and mystery in shaping our understanding of the past. As we continue to delve into the shadowy world of Victorian London, we are reminded of the fragility of human existence and the eternal struggle between good and evil. The story of Jack the Ripper may never be fully resolved, but its impact on our collective consciousness will continue to reverberate for generations to come.

“Gnomes”

A story by Creepy Pastor on .

In the folklore of England, Northern Europe, and even Ireland, gnomes, also known as goblins or imps, are mischievous creatures known for their playful antics and tricks. These diminutive beings are often depicted as small and somewhat unpleasant-looking, with a penchant for teasing and frightening both people and animals alike.

In Scandinavian folklore, gnomes possess the ability to make themselves invisible, allowing them to evade detection as they engage in their mischievous activities. They are notorious for nipping and pinching unsuspecting individuals in the darkness and delight in playing tricks on the townsfolk.

Despite their penchant for mischief, gnomes are not entirely malevolent creatures. They may take up residence in stables, barns, or the depths of the forest, where they guard hidden treasures stolen or gathered from unsuspecting travelers. In some cases, gnomes may even bestow gifts upon well-behaved children, although they take great pleasure in tricking those who misbehave.

According to European folklore, gnomes possess magical abilities, with some legends suggesting they have control over the elements of fire and water. In medieval illustrations, gnomes are often depicted as elderly figures clad in cloaks with long beards, adding to their mystical and enigmatic aura.

Overall, gnomes occupy a curious space in folklore, simultaneously embodying mischief and magic, with their tales continuing to captivate the imagination of storytellers and folklore enthusiasts alike.

“Three Blind Mice”

A story by Creepy Pastor on .

The nursery rhyme “Three Blind Mice” has a deeper, more somber origin than its cheerful melody suggests. Its roots trace back to a tumultuous period in English history, intertwining politics and religion in a tale of persecution and resistance.

Originally penned during the early 19th century, the rhyme is believed to echo the reign of Queen Mary I, notoriously remembered as “Bloody Mary.” Mary’s fervent Catholicism clashed with the Protestant sentiments that had gained ground during the reigns of her predecessors. In her quest to restore Catholicism to England, Mary ordered the execution of numerous Protestant leaders deemed heretics.

The three blind mice of the rhyme are thought to symbolize three prominent figures of the English Reformation: Hugh Latimer, Nicholas Radley, and Thomas Cranmer. These bishops faced a grim fate at the hands of Mary’s regime, enduring the flames of the stake for their beliefs. The metaphorical blindness attributed to them may reflect their refusal to abandon their Protestant convictions, even in the face of persecution.

The haunting line “They all ran after the farmer’s wife, who cut off their tails with a carving knife” evokes the harrowing imagery of Mary’s crackdown on Protestant dissent. The farmer’s wife serves as a chilling representation of Mary herself or her agents, wielding the power to silence opposition with brutal force.

While the rhyme has evolved over time into a lighthearted children’s ditty, its origins harken back to a period of religious strife and political oppression in England’s past. It serves as a poignant reminder of the sacrifices made by those who dared to challenge the status quo in pursuit of religious freedom.

“Lizzie Borden” Axe Murders

A story by Creepy Pastor on .

In the annals of American crime, few cases are as infamous and enigmatic as that of Lizzie Borden. Born on July 19, 1860, in Fall River, Massachusetts, Lizzie Andrew Borden became etched into history for her alleged role in the brutal axe murders of her father, Andrew Borden, and stepmother, Abby Borden, on the morning of August 4, 1892.

The Borden family resided in a modest yet prominent Victorian home at 92 Second Street. Despite their affluence, tension reportedly simmered beneath the surface of the seemingly respectable household. Lizzie’s relationship with her father, in particular, was rumored to be strained, exacerbated by financial disputes and familial discord.

On that fateful August morning, the household was irrevocably shattered when Andrew and Abby Borden were discovered brutally slain within the confines of their home. Andrew had suffered eleven blows to the head, while Abby’s body was found lifeless in an upstairs bedroom, bearing nearly twenty axe wounds.

Suspicion swiftly turned to Lizzie Borden, fueled by circumstantial evidence, including her purported lack of an alibi and conflicting testimonies. Furthermore, Lizzie’s demeanor during the subsequent investigation raised eyebrows, with her apparent calmness and composed demeanor viewed by many as incongruous with the enormity of the crime.

The sensational trial that followed captivated the nation, drawing widespread media attention and sparking fervent debate over Lizzie’s innocence or guilt. Despite the absence of conclusive forensic evidence linking her to the murders, the prosecution painted a damning portrait of Lizzie as a cold and calculating murderess.

However, Lizzie’s defense team mounted a compelling case, emphasizing the absence of a murder weapon and challenging the reliability of witness testimonies. Ultimately, the jury delivered a verdict of not guilty, acquitting Lizzie Borden of the heinous crimes that had captivated the nation’s imagination.

Yet, despite her legal exoneration, Lizzie Borden remained forever entwined with the macabre legacy of the murders. The enduring mystery surrounding the case continues to fascinate and perplex historians and true crime enthusiasts alike, ensuring that the name Lizzie Borden endures as a haunting symbol of unresolved intrigue and speculation.

“The Grave” by Orville R. Emerson

A story by Creepy Pastor on .

THE END of this story was first brought to my attention when Fromwiller returned from his trip to Mount Kemmel, with a very strange tale indeed and one extremely hard to believe.

But I believed it enough to go back to the Mount with “From” to see if we could discover anything more. And after digging for awhile at the place where “From’s” story began, we made our way into an old dugout that had been caved in, or at least where all the entrances had been filled with dirt, and there we found, written on German correspondence paper, a terrible story.

We found the story on Christmas day, 1918, while making the trip in the colonel’s machine from Watou, in Flanders, where our regiment was stationed. Of course, you have heard of Mount Kemmel in Flanders: more than once it figured in newspaper reports as it changed hands during some of the fiercest fighting of the war. And when the Germans were finally driven from this point of vantage, in October, 1918, a retreat was started which did not end until it became a race to see who could get into Germany first.

The advance was so fast that the victorious British and French forces had no time to bury their dead, and, terrible as it may seem to those who have not seen it, in December of that year one could see the rotting corpses of the unburied dead scattered here and there over the top of Mount Kemmel. It was a place of ghastly sights and sickening odors. And it was there that we found this tale.

With the chaplain’s help, we translated the story, which follows:

“FOR two weeks I have been buried alive! For two weeks I have not seen daylight, nor heard the sound of another person’s voice. Unless I can find something to do, besides this everlasting digging, I shall go mad. So I shall write. As long as my candles last, I will pass part of the time each day in setting down on paper my experiences.

“Not that I need to do this in order to remember them. God knows that when I get out the first thing I shall do will be to try to forget them! But if I should not get out!…

“I am an Ober-lieutenant in the Imperial German Army. Two weeks ago my regiment was holding Mount Kemmel in Flanders. We were surrounded on three sides and subjected to a terrific artillery fire, but on account of the commanding position we were ordered to hold the Mount to the last man. Our engineers, however, had made things very comfortable. Numerous deep dugouts had been constructed, and in them we were comparatively safe from shell-fire.

“Many of these had been connected by passageways so that there was a regular little underground city, and the majority of the garrison never left the protection of the dugouts. But even under these conditions our casualties were heavy. Lookouts had to be maintained above ground, and once in a while a direct hit by one of the huge railway guns would even destroy some of the dugouts.

[48]

“A little over two weeks ago—I can’t be sure, because I have lost track of the exact number of days—the usual shelling was increased a hundred fold. With about twenty others, I was sleeping in one of the shallower dugouts. The tremendous increase in shelling awakened me with a start, and my first impulse was to go at once into a deeper dugout, which was connected to the one I was in by an underground passageway.

“It was a smaller dugout, built a few feet lower than the one I was in. It had been used as a sort of a storeroom and no one was supposed to sleep there. But it seemed safer to me, and, alone, I crept into it. A thousand times since I have wished I had taken another man with me. But my chances for doing it were soon gone.

“I had hardly entered the smaller dugout when there was a tremendous explosion behind me. The ground shook as if a mine had exploded below us. Whether that was indeed the case, or whether some extra large caliber explosive shell had struck the dugout behind me, I never knew.

“After the shock of the explosion had passed I went back to the passageway. When about half-way along it, I found the timbers above had fallen, allowing the earth to settle, and my way was effectually blocked.

“So I returned to the dugout and waited alone through several hours of terrific shelling. The only other entrance to the dugout I was in was the main entrance from the trench above, and all those who had been above ground had gone into dugouts long before this. So I could not expect anyone to enter while the shelling continued; and when it ceased there would surely be an attack.

“As I did not want to be killed by a grenade thrown down the entrance; I remained awake in order to rush out at the first signs of cessation of the bombardment and join what comrades there might be left on the hill.

“After about six hours of the heavy bombardment, all sound above ground seemed to cease. Five minutes went by, then ten; surely the attack was coming. I rushed to the stairway leading out to the air. I took a couple of strides up the stairs. There was a blinding flash and a deafening explosion.

“I felt myself falling. Then darkness swallowed everything.”

“HOW long I lay unconscious in the dugout I never knew.

“But after what seemed like a long time, I practically grew conscious of a dull ache in my left arm. I could not move it. I opened my eyes and found only darkness. I felt pain and a stiffness all over my body.

“Slowly I rose, struck a match, found a candle and lit it and looked at my watch. It had stopped. I did not know how long I had remained there unconscious. All noise of bombardment had ceased. I stood and listened for some time, but could hear no sound of any kind.

“My gaze fell on the stairway entrance. I started in alarm. The end of the dugout, where the entrance was, was half filled with dirt.

“I went over and looked closer. The entrance was completely filled with dirt at the bottom, and no light of any kind could be seen from above. I went to the passageway to the other dugout, although I remembered it had caved in. I examined the fallen timbers closely. Between two of them I could feel a slight movement of air. Here was an opening to the outside world.

“I tried to move the timbers, as well as I could with one arm, only to precipitate a small avalanche of dirt which filled the crack. Quickly I dug at the dirt until again I could feel the movement of air. This might be the only place where I could obtain fresh air.

“I was convinced that it would take some little work to open up either of the passageways, and I began to feel hungry. Luckily, there was a good supply of canned foods and hard bread, for the officers had kept their rations stored in this dugout. I also found a keg of water and about a dozen bottles of wine, which I discovered to be very good. After I had relieved my appetite and finished one of the bottles of wine, I[49] felt sleepy and, although my left arm pained me considerably, I soon dropped off to sleep.

“The time I have allowed myself for writing is up, so I will stop for today. After I have performed my daily task of digging tomorrow, I shall again write. Already my mind feels easier. Surely help will come soon. At any rate, within two more weeks I shall have liberated myself. Already I am half way up the stairs. And my rations will last that long. I have divided them so they will.”

“YESTERDAY I did not feel like writing after I finished my digging. My arm pained me considerably. I guess I used it too much.

“But today I was more careful with it, and it feels better. And I am worried again. Twice today big piles of earth caved in, where the timbers above were loose, and each time as much dirt fell into the passageway as I can remove in a day. Two days more before I can count on getting out by myself.

“The rations will have to be stretched out some more. The daily amount is already pretty small. But I shall go on with my account.

“From the time I became conscious I started my watch, and since then I have kept track of the days. On the second day I took stock of the food, water, wood, matches, candles, etc., and found a plentiful supply for two weeks at least. At that time I did not look forward to a stay of more than a few days in my prison.

“Either the enemy or ourselves will occupy the hill I told myself, because it is such an important position. And whoever now holds the hill will be compelled to dig in deeply in order to hold it.

“So to my mind it was only a matter of a few days until either the entrance or the passageway would be cleared, and my only doubts were as to whether it would be friends or enemies that would discover me. My arm felt better, although I could not use it much, and so I spent the day in reading an old newspaper which I found among the food supplies, and in waiting for help to come. What fool I was! If I had only worked from the start, I would be just that many days nearer deliverance.

“On the third day I was annoyed by water, which began dripping from the roof and seeping in at the sides of the dugout. I cursed that muddy water, then, as I have often cursed such dugout nuisances before, but it may be that I shall yet bless that water and it shall save my life.

“But it certainly made things uncomfortable; so I spent the day in moving my bunk, food and water supplies, candles, etc., up into the passageway. For a space of about ten feet it was unobstructed, and, being slightly higher than the dugout, was dryer and more comfortable. Besides, the air was much better here, as I had found that practically all my supply of fresh air came in through the crack between the timbers, and I thought maybe the rats wouldn’t bother me so much at night. Again I spent the balance of the day simply in waiting for help.

“It was not until well into the fourth day that I really began to feel uneasy. It suddenly became impressed on my consciousness that I had not heard the sound of a gun, or felt the earth shake from the force of a concussion, since the fatal shell that had filled the entrance. What was the meaning of the silence? Why did I hear no sounds of fighting? It was as still as the grave.

“What a horrible death to die! Buried Alive! A panic of fear swept over me. But my will and reason reasserted itself. In time, I should be able to dig myself out by my own efforts. It would take time but it could be done.

“So, although I could not use my left arm as yet, I spent the rest of that day and all of the two following days in digging dirt from the entrance and carrying it back into the far corner of the dugout.

“On the seventh day after regaining consciousness I was tired and stiff from my unwanted exertions of the three previous days. I could see by this time that it was a matter of weeks—two or three, at least—before I could hope to[50] liberate myself. I might be rescued at an earlier date, but, without outside aid, it would take probably three more weeks of labor before I could dig my way out.

“Already dirt had caved in from the top, where the timbers had sprung apart, and I could repair the damage to the roof of the stairway only in a crude way with one arm. But my left arm was much better. With a day’s rest, I would be able to use it pretty well. Besides, I must conserve my energy. So I spent the seventh day in rest and prayer for my speedy release from a living grave.

“I also reapportioned my food on the basis of three more weeks. It made the daily portions pretty small, especially as the digging was strenuous work. There was a large supply of candles, so that I had plenty of light for my work. But the supply of water bothered me. Almost half of the small keg was gone in the first week. I decided to drink only once a day.

“The following six days were all days of feverish labor, light eating and even lighter drinking. But, despite all my efforts, only a quarter of the keg was left at the end of two weeks. And the horror of the situation grew on me. My imagination would not be quiet. I would picture to myself the agonies to come, when I would have even less food and water than at present. My mind would run on and on—to death by starvation—to the finding of my emaciated body by those who would eventually open up the dugout—even to their attempts to reconstruct the story of my end.

“And, adding to my physical discomfort, were the swarming vermin infesting the dugout and my person. A month had gone by since I had had a bath, and I could not now spare a drop of water even to wash my face. The rats had become so bold that I had to leave a candle burning all night in order to protect myself in my sleep.

“Partly to relieve my mind, I started to write this tale of my experiences. It did act as a relief at first, but now, as I read it over, the growing terror of this awful place grips me. I would cease writing, but some impulse urges me to write each day.”

“THREE weeks have passed since I was buried in this living tomb.

“Today I drank the last drop of water in the keg. There is a pool of stagnant water on the dugout floor—dirty, slimy and alive with vermin—always standing there, fed by drippings from the roof. As yet I cannot bring myself to touch it.

“Today I divided up my food supply for another week. God knows the portions were already small enough! But there have been so many cave-ins recently that I can never finish clearing the entrance in another week.

“Sometimes I feel that I shall never clear it. But I must! I can never bear to die here. I must will myself to escape, and I shall escape!

“Did not the captain often say that the will to win was half the victory? I shall rest no more. Every waking hour must be spent in removing the treacherous dirt.

“Even my writing must cease.”

“OH, GOD! I am afraid, afraid!

“I must write to relieve my mind. Last night I went to sleep at nine by my watch. At twelve I woke to find myself in the dark, frantically digging with my bare hands at the hard sides of the dugout. After some trouble I found a candle and lit it.

“The whole dugout was upset. My food supplies were lying in the mud. The box of candles had been spilled. My finger nails were broken and bloody from clawing at the ground.

“The realization dawned upon me that I had been out of my head. And then came the fear—dark, raging fear—fear of insanity. I have been drinking the stagnant water from the floor for days. I do not know how many.

“I have only about one meal left, but I must save it.”

“IHAD a meal today. For three days I have been without food.

“But today I caught one of the rats that infest the place. He was a big[51] one, too. Gave me a bad bite, but I killed him. I feel lots better today. Have had some bad dreams lately, but they don’t bother me now.

“That rat was tough, though. Think I’ll finish this digging and go back to my regiment in a day or two.”

“HEAVEN have mercy! I must be out of my head half the time now.

“I have absolutely no recollection of having written that last entry. And I feel feverish and weak.

“If I had my strength, I think I could finish clearing the entrance in a day or two. But I can only work a short time at a stretch.

“I am beginning to give up hope.”

“WILD spells come on me oftener now. I awake tired out from exertions, which I cannot remember.

“Bones of rats, picked clean, are scattered about, yet I do not remember eating them. In my lucid moments I don’t seem to be able to catch them, for they are too wary and I am too weak.

“I get some relief by chewing the candles, but I dare not eat them all. I am afraid of the dark, I am afraid of the rats, but worst of all is the hideous fear of myself.

“My mind is breaking down. I must escape soon, or I will be little better than a wild animal. Oh, God, send help! I am going mad!”

“Terror, desperation, despair—is this the end?”

“FOR a long time I have been resting.

“I have had a brilliant idea. Rest brings back strength. The longer a person rests the stronger they should get. I have been resting a long time now. Weeks or months, I don’t know which. So I must be very strong. I feel strong. My fever has left me. So listen! There is only a little dirt left in the entrance way. I am going out and crawl through it. Just like a mole. Right out into the sunlight. I feel much stronger than a mole. So this is the end of my little tale. A sad tale, but one with a happy ending. Sunlight! A very happy ending.”

AND that was the end of the manuscript. There only remains to tell Fromwiller’s tale.

At first, I didn’t believe it. But now I do. I put it down, though, just as Fromwiller told it to me, and you can take it or leave it as you choose.

“Soon after we were billeted at Watou,” said Fromwiller, “I decided to go out and see Mount Kemmel. I had heard that things were rather gruesome out there, but I was really not prepared for the conditions that I found. I had seen unburied dead around Roulers and in the Argonne, but it had been almost two months since the fighting on Mount Kemmel and there were still many unburied dead. But there was another thing that I had never seen, and that was the buried living!

“As I came up to the highest point of the Mount, I was attracted by a movement of loose dirt on the edge of a huge shell hole. The dirt seemed to be falling in to a common center, as if the dirt below was being removed. As I watched, suddenly I was horrified to see a long, skinny human arm emerge from the ground.

“It disappeared, drawing back some of the earth with it. There was a movement of dirt over a larger area, and the arm reappeared, together with a man’s head and shoulders. He pulled himself up out of the very ground, as it seemed, shook the dirt from his body like a huge, gaunt dog, and stood erect. I never want to see such another creature!

“Hardly a strip of clothing was visible, and, what little there was, was so torn and dirty that it was impossible to tell what kind it had been. The skin was drawn tightly over the bones, and there was a vacant stare in the protruding eyes. It looked like a corpse that had lain in the grave a long time.

“This apparition looked directly at me, and yet did not appear to see me. He looked as if the light bothered him. I spoke, and a look of fear came over his face. He seemed filled with terror.

[52]

“I stepped toward him, shaking loose a piece of barbed wire which had caught in my puttees. Quick as a flash, he turned and started to run from me.

“For a second I was too astonished to move. Then I started to follow him. In a straight line he ran, looking neither to the right or left. Directly ahead of him was a deep and wide trench. He was running straight toward it. Suddenly it dawned on me that he did not see it.

“I called out, but it seemed to terrify him all the more, and with one last lunge he stepped into the trench and fell. I heard his body strike the other side of the trench and fell with a splash into the water at the bottom.

“I followed and looked down into the trench. There he lay, with his head bent back in such a position that I was sure his neck was broken. He was half in and half out of the water, and as I looked at him I could scarcely believe what I had seen. Surely he looked as if he had been dead as long as some of the other corpses, scattered over the hillside. I turned and left him as he was.

“Buried while living, I left him unburied when dead.”

“The Damned Thing” by Ambrose Bierce

A story by Creepy Pastor on .

I

By THE light of a tallow candle, which had been placed on one end of a rough table, a man was reading something written in a book. It was an old account book, greatly worn; and the writing was not, apparently, very legible, for the man sometimes held the page close to the flame of the candle to get a stronger light upon it. The shadow of the book would then throw into obscurity a half of the room, darkening a number of faces and figures; for besides the reader, eight other men were present. Seven of them sat against the rough log walls, silent and motionless, and, the room being small, not very far from the table. By extending an arm any one of them could have touched the eighth man, who lay on the table, face upward, partly covered by a sheet, his arms at his sides. He was dead.

The man with the book was not reading aloud, and no one spoke; all seemed to be waiting for something to occur; the dead man only was without expectation. From the blank darkness outside came in, through the aperture that served for a window, all the ever unfamiliar noises of night in the wilderness—the long, nameless note of a distant coyote; the stilly pulsing thrill of tireless insects in trees; strange cries of night birds, so different from those of the birds of day; the drone of great blundering beetles, and all that mysterious chorus of small sounds that seem always to have been but half heard when they have suddenly ceased, as if conscious of an indiscretion. But nothing of all this was noted in that company; its members were not overmuch addicted to idle interest in matters of no practical importance; that was obvious in every line of their rugged faces—obvious even in the dim light of the single candle. They were evidently men of the vicinity—farmers and woodmen.

The person reading was a trifle different; one would have said of him that he was of the world, worldly, albeit there was that in his attire which attested a certain fellowship with the organisms of his environment. His coat would hardly have passed muster in San Francisco: his footgear was not of urban origin, and the hat that lay by him on the floor (he was the only one uncovered) was such that if one had considered it as an article of mere personal adornment he would have missed its meaning. In countenance the man was rather prepossessing, with just a hint of sternness; though that he may have assumed or cultivated, as appropriate to one in authority. For he was a coroner. It was by virtue of his office that he had possession of the book in which he was reading; it had been found among the dead man’s effects—in his cabin, where the inquest was now taking place.

When the coroner had finished reading he put the book into his breast pocket. At that moment the door was pushed open and a young man entered. He, clearly, was not of mountain birth and breeding: he was clad as those who dwell in cities. His clothing was dusty, however, as from travel. He had, in fact, been riding hard to attend the inquest.

The coroner nodded; no one else greeted him.

“We have waited for you,” said the coroner. “It is necessary to have done with this business to-night.”

The young man smiled. “I am sorry to have kept you,” he said. “I went away, not to evade your summons, but to post to my newspaper an account of what I suppose I am called back to relate.”

The coroner smiled.

“The account that you posted to your newspaper,” he said, “differs probably from that which you will give here under oath.”

“That,” replied the other, rather hotly and with a visible flush, “is as you choose. I used manifold paper and have a copy of what I sent. It was not written as news, for it is incredible, but as fiction. It may go as a part of my testimony under oath.”

“But you say it is incredible.”

“That is nothing to you, sir, if I also swear that it is true.”

The coroner was apparently not greatly affected by the young man’s manifest resentment. He was silent for some moments, his eyes upon the floor. The men about the sides of the cabin talked in whispers, but seldom withdrew their gaze from the face of the corpse. Presently the coroner lifted his eyes and said: “We will resume the inquest.”

The men removed their hats. The witness was sworn.

“What is your name?” the coroner asked.

“William Harker.”

“Age?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“You knew the deceased, Hugh Morgan?”

“Yes.”

“You were with him when he died?”

“Near him.”

“How did that happen—your presence, I mean?”

“I was visiting him at this place to shoot and fish. A part of my purpose, however, was to study him, and his odd, solitary way of life. He seemed a good model for a character in fiction. I sometimes write stories.”

“I sometimes read them.”

“Thank you.”

“Stories in general—not yours.”

Some of the jurors laughed. Against a sombre background humor shows high lights. Soldiers in the intervals of battle laugh easily, and a jest in the death chamber conquers by surprise.

“Relate the circumstances of this man’s death,” said the coroner. “You may use any notes or memoranda that you please.”

The witness understood. Pulling a manuscript from his breast pocket he held it near the candle, and turning the leaves until he found the passage that he wanted, began to read.

II

“…The sun had hardly risen when we left the house. We were looking for quail, each with a shotgun, but we had only one dog. Morgan said that our best ground was beyond a certain ridge that he pointed out, and we crossed it by a trail through the chaparral. On the other side was comparatively level ground, thickly covered with wild oats. As we emerged from the chaparral, Morgan was but a few yards in advance. Suddenly, we heard, at a little distance to our right, and partly in front, a noise as of some animal thrashing about in the bushes, which we could see were violently agitated.

“‘We’ve started a deer,’ said. ‘I wish we had brought a rifle.’

“Morgan, who had stopped and was intently watching the agitated chaparral, said nothing, but had cocked both barrels of his gun, and was holding it in readiness to aim. I thought him a trifle excited, which surprised me, for he had a reputation for exceptional coolness, even in moments of sudden and imminent peril.

“‘O, come!’ I said. ‘You are not going to fill up a deer with quail-shot, are you?’

“Still he did not reply; but, catching a sight of his face as he turned it slightly toward me, I was struck by the pallor of it. Then I understood that we had serious business on hand, and my first conjecture was that we had ‘jumped’ a grizzly. I advanced to Morgan’s side, cocking my piece as I moved.

“The bushes were now quiet, and the sounds had ceased, but Morgan was as attentive to the place as before.

“‘What is it? What the devil is it?’ I asked.

“‘That Damned Thing!’ he replied, without turning his head. His voice was husky and unnatural. He trembled visibly.

“I was about to speak further, when I observed the wild oats near the place of the disturbance moving in the most inexplicable way. I can hardly describe it. It seemed as if stirred by a streak of wind, which not only bent it, but pressed it down—crushed it so that it did not rise, and this movement was slowly prolonging itself directly toward us.

“Nothing that I had ever seen had affected me so strangely as this unfamiliar and unaccountable phenomenon, yet I am unable to recall any sense of fear. I remember—and tell it here because, singularly enough, I recollected it then—that once, in looking carelessly out of an open window, I momentarily mistook a small tree close at hand for one of a group of larger trees at a little distance away. It looked the same size as the others, but, being more distinctly and sharply defined in mass and detail, seemed out of harmony with them. It was a mere falsification of the law of aerial perspective, but it startled, almost terrified me. We so rely upon the orderly operation of familiar natural laws that any seeming suspension of them is noted as a menace to our safety, a warning of unthinkable calamity. So now the apparently causeless movement of the herbage, and the slow, undeviating approach of the line of disturbance were distinctly disquieting. My companion appeared actually frightened, and I could hardly credit my senses when I saw him suddenly throw his gun to his shoulders and fire both barrels at the agitated grass! Before the smoke of the discharge had cleared away I heard a loud savage cry—a scream like that of a wild animal—and, flinging his gun upon the ground, Morgan sprang away and ran swiftly from the spot. At the same instant I was thrown violently to the ground by the impact of something unseen in the smoke—some soft, heavy substance that seemed thrown against me with great force.

“Before I could get upon my feet and recover my gun, which seemed to have been struck from my hands, I heard Morgan crying out as if in mortal agony, and mingling with his cries were such hoarse savage sounds as one hears from fighting dogs. Inexpressibly terrified, I struggled to my feet and looked in the direction of Morgan’s retreat; and may heaven in mercy spare me from another sight like that! At a distance of less than thirty yards was my friend, down upon one knee, his head thrown back at a frightful angle, hatless, his long hair in disorder and his whole body in violent movement from side to side, backward and forward. His right arm was lifted and seemed to lack the hand—at least, I could see none. The other arm was invisible. At times, as my memory now reports this extraordinary scene, I could discern but a part of his body; it was as if he had been partly blotted out—I can not otherwise express it—then a shifting of his position would bring it all into view again.

“All this must have occurred within a few seconds, yet in that time Morgan assumed all the postures of a determined wrestler vanquished by superior weight and strength. I saw nothing but him, and him not always distinctly. During the entire incident his shouts and curses were heard, as if through an enveloping uproar of such sounds of rage and fury as I had never heard from the throat of man or brute!

“For a moment only I stood irresolute, then, throwing down my gun, I ran forward to my friend’s assistance. I had a vague belief that he was suffering from a fit or some form of convulsion. Before I could reach his side he was down and quiet. All sounds had ceased, but, with a feeling of such terror as even these awful events had not inspired, I now saw the same mysterious movement of the wild oats prolonging itself from the trampled area about the prostrate man toward the edge of a wood. It was only when it had reached the wood that I was able to withdraw my eyes and look at my companion. He was dead.”

III

The coroner rose from his seat and stood beside the dead man. Lifting an edge of the sheet he pulled it away, exposing the entire body, altogether naked and showing in the candle light a clay-like yellow. It had, however, broad maculations of bluish-black, obviously caused by extravasated blood from contusions. The chest and sides looked as if they had been beaten with a bludgeon. There were dreadful lacerations; the skin was torn in strips and shreds.

The coroner moved round to the end of the table and undid a silk handkerchief, which had been passed under the chin and knotted on the top of the head. When the handkerchief was drawn away it exposed what had been the throat. Some of the jurors who had risen to get a better view repented their curiosity, and turned away their faces. Witness Harker went to the open window and leaned out across the sill, faint and sick. Dropping the handkerchief upon the dead man’s neck, the coroner stepped to an angle of the room, and from a pile of clothing produced one garment after another, each of which he held up a moment for inspection. All were torn, and stiff with blood. The jurors did not make a closer inspection. They seemed rather uninterested. They had, in truth, seen all this before; the only thing that was new to them being Harker’s testimony.

“Gentlemen,” the coroner said, “we have no more evidence, I think. Your duty has been already explained to you; if there is nothing you wish to ask you may go outside and consider your verdict.”

The foreman rose—a tall, bearded man of sixty, coarsely clad.

“I should like to ask one question, Mr. Coroner,” he said. “What asylum did this yer last witness escape from?”

“Mr. Harker,” said the coroner, gravely and tranquilly, “from what asylum did you last escape?”

Harker flushed crimson again, but said nothing, and the seven jurors rose and solemnly filed out of the cabin.

“If you have done insulting me, sir,” said Harker, as soon as he and the officer were left alone with the dead man, “I suppose I am at liberty to go?”

“Yes.”

Harker started to leave, but paused, with his hand on the door latch. The habit of his profession was strong in him—stronger than his sense of personal dignity. He turned about and said:

“The book that you have there—I recognize it as Morgan’s diary. You seemed greatly interested in it; you read in it while I was testifying. May I see it? The public would like—”

“The book will cut no figure in this matter,” replied the official, slipping it into his coat pocket; “all the entries in it were made before the writer’s death.”

As Harker passed out of the house the jury reentered and stood about the table on which the now covered corpse showed under the sheet with sharp definition. The foreman seated himself near the candle, produced from his breast pocket a pencil and scrap of paper, and wrote rather laboriously the following verdict, which with various degrees of effort all signed:

“We, the jury, do find that the remains come to their death at the hands of a mountain lion, but some of us thinks, all the same, they had fits.”

IV

In the diary of the late Hugh Morgan are certain interesting entries having, possibly, a scientific value as suggestions. At the inquest upon his body the book was not put in evidence; possibly the coroner thought it not worth while to confuse the jury. The date of the first of the entries mentioned can not be ascertained; the upper part of the leaf is torn away; the part of the entry remaining is as follows:

“… would run in a half circle, keeping his head turned always toward the centre and again he would stand still, barking furiously. At last he ran away into the brush as fast as he could go. I thought at first that he had gone mad, but on returning to the house found no other alteration in his manner than what was obviously due to fear of punishment.

“Can a dog see with his nose? Do odors impress some olfactory centre with images of the thing emitting them? . . .

“Sept 2.—Looking at the stars last night as they rose above the crest of the ridge east of the house, I observed them successively disappear—from left to right. Each was eclipsed but an instant, and only a few at the same time, but along the entire length of the ridge all that were within a degree or two of the crest were blotted out. It was as if something had passed along between me and them; but I could not see it, and the stars were not thick enough to define its outline. Ugh! I don’t like this. . . .”

Several weeks’ entries are missing, three leaves being torn from the book.

“Sept. 27.—It has been about here again—I find evidences of its presence every day. I watched again all of last night in the same cover, gun in hand, double-charged with buckshot. In the morning the fresh footprints were there, as before. Yet I would have sworn that I did not sleep—indeed, I hardly sleep at all. It is terrible, insupportable! If these amazing experiences are real I shall go mad; if they are fanciful I am mad already.

“Oct. 3.—I shall not go—it shall not drive me away. No, this is my house, my land. God hates a coward….

“Oct. 5.—I can stand it no longer; I have invited Harker to pass a few weeks with me—he has a level head. I can judge from his manner if he thinks me mad.

“Oct. 7.—I have the solution of the problem; it came to me last night—suddenly, as by revelation. How simple—how terribly simple!

“There are sounds that we can not hear. At either end of the scale are notes that stir no chord of that imperfect instrument, the human ear. They are too high or too grave. I have observed a flock of blackbirds occupying an entire treetop—the tops of several trees—and all in full song. Suddenly—in a moment—at absolutely the same instant—all spring into the air and fly away. How? They could not all see one another—whole treetops intervened. At no point could a leader have been visible to all. There must have been a signal of warning or command, high and shrill above the din, but by me unheard. I have observed, too, the same simultaneous flight when all were silent, among not only blackbirds, but other birds—quail, for example, widely separated by bushes—even on opposite sides of a hill.

“It is known to seamen that a school of whales basking or sporting on the surface of the ocean, miles apart, with the convexity of the earth between them, will sometimes dive at the same instant—all gone out of sight in a moment. The signal has been sounded—too grave for the ear of the sailor at the masthead and his comrades on the deck—who nevertheless feel its vibrations in the ship as the stones of a cathedral are stirred by the bass of the organ.

“As with sounds, so with colors. At each end of the solar spectrum the chemist can detect the presence of what are known as ‘actinic’ rays. They represent colors—integral colors in the composition of light—which we are unable to discern. The human eye is an imperfect instrument; its range is but a few octaves of the real ‘chromatic scale’ I am not mad; there are colors that we can not see.

“And, God help me! the Damned Thing is of such a color!”