A storm of dust followed an old 1983 Dodge Aries as it sped down a country road. Potholes threatened to knock the vehicle's tires loose, and a coat of grime was quickly covering its rusted white paint. The trip was recorded in near-silence by a camcorder placed on the dashboard, the only audible sound coming from the car itself. The air was thick with tension, and the hands that gripped the steering wheel were white-knuckled and rigid. After some time, the anxious driver flicked on his turn signal and pulled into the driveway of an old farmstead; one that had been abandoned for generations. The man behind the wheel got a much better view of the estate as the road shifted downhill, his paranoia steadily growing as he drove through the rotted remains of a white fence gate, coming closer and closer to the end of the path. Then, at long last, with a deep, fearful breath, he brought his car to a stop and put it in park, taking a few more moments to enjoy the safety within. He then picked up his camera and retrieved a black backpack from the passenger seat before exiting the vehicle, leaving the keys in the ignition and shutting the door behind him. The wind did little to help with his already messy, short black hair, and his dull green eyes grew increasingly uneasy with each passing second. His raggedy jeans and brown hiking shoes failed to retain much warmth, but fortunately, the dark gray Carhartt sweatshirt he wore did a much better job of protecting him from the elements. Crouching down to the ground, he began speaking to the camera as he went through his bag; "The date is September 19th, 2007. My name is CR, on site of the Matheson family farm, continuing my investigation in Charlie's disappearance. Let's see what we can turn up…"
He continued rummaging through his backpack, checking to make sure he had everything he needed. "Ok, I have my water bottles, survival knife, first aid kit, extra batteries, and… shit, I forgot the damn flashlight!" he berated himself, furious that he'd forgotten to bring something so vital. "I shouldn't have even come out here this late," Carl mused, nervously glancing upwards. Fiery orange and hazy red cascaded across the heavens like spilled paint on a canvas, accompanying the eventide glow over the desolate landscape. It was early autumn, meaning the air was crisp and the trees were turning various shades of red, yellow, and orange. "Not much I can do about it now," he grumbled, sheathing the knife and looping it through his belt before putting on the backpack; "I just wish I could've afforded a camera with night vision." After surveying the area for a few minutes to get his bearings, he decided to investigate the farmhouse before trying to get at anything else, and as expected, the place was in complete disarray. A rugged cobblestone wall that nearly came up to Carl's chest worked in tandem with an old wooden fence to create an enclosed pathway to the front door, but neither of the barriers were in the best condition. A fallen tree blocked off the path's actual entrance, but another one had been made by a huge hole in the western section of the wall. The rest of the structure was crumbling as well, and the battered fence barely managed to keep the path separate from the backyard anymore. Every window on the weathered, stone brick house was boarded up, and the grass was so unkempt that even the few blades that stuck up through the path's sunbaked dirt practically came up to his waist… and that was just the exterior.
An eerie creak rang out as the front door slowly swung open, revealing ruined furniture, peeling green wallpaper, and layers of dirt and dust coating everything. The only source of light was the dim rays of sunlight shining through the open door and the gaps in the boarded windows, and as Carl's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he grew surprised at just how well the building's structural integrity had held up after all these years. Despite how trashed the interior was, there wasn't so much as a single collapsed wall or caved-in ceiling… not even a board had fallen from a window. The investigator started to feel uneasy as a strong gust of wind blew across the landscape, rustling the trees and making the house creak and crack, but he wasn't going to chicken out just yet. He had a job to do, and he intended to see it through to the end. Now that his eyes had finally adjusted to the darkness, he inspected the room, immediately noticing that the doorway to the right was also boarded up, making straight ahead the only way to go. The only furniture left in the room was a weathered old dresser and a small wooden table with a tattered sheet of paper placed on it, which was yellowed with age and barely legible;
Rose,
We're going into the cellar tonight for
another game of Hide and Seek! Father
won't return from his errand to Red Deer
until the morning and Norm says he found
a lantern so he can take us there after dark
if we all meet by the chapel after tonight's
dinner. I know you hate the rancid smell of
petrol down there, but it'll be fun!
I promise!
~Maggie
P.S. Don't tell Patty. She'll tell on us.
"Awesome, the first lead I find points me toward a cellar of all places… Seriously, why is there always a cellar? Nothing good ever happens in those things," Carl complained, a hint of nervousness in his voice. "Then again, the chapel might be worth checking out too, and those don't exactly have a great reputation either, given the context." Wanting to gather any evidence or clues that he came across, he slipped the letter into his backpack and headed deeper into the house, entering a small bathroom and exiting into a short hallway before coming upon a dead end; a room about as large as the first that held ruined furniture, another boarded up door, and a stone fireplace filled with ash that was spilling out onto the wooden floor. The room appeared to contain nothing more until further inspection revealed an open hatch in the ceiling on the end of the room opposite the boarded door. Carl could just barely make out what appeared to be a charcoal drawing of a tree scratched onto the wall above, but nothing else. "Well, it looks like there's nothing left to see in here except for the attic… I'll have to find a way up there later," he mumbled, retracing his steps and leaving the house. After taking one last look around the exterior, he decided to investigate a nearby barn, as it was the only other area he could really get to, courtesy of the barbed wire fences spanning the property. As he made his way over, he caught a glimpse of two massive silos peeking out over the top of the structure from a short distance away.
If the farmhouse was the ghost of its former self than the barn was a worm-eaten corpse. Decayed boards and corroded metal littered the ground, threatening to drive a nail or spike through a foot with one misplaced step. Century-old equipment was scattered about, some of it half buried in the dirt. The only remaining equipment even remotely intact consisted of several wooden barrels, the remains of a horse-drawn wagon, and some sort of wooden lift that was stocked with crates and hooked up to a pulley system. Carl was amazed that the barn was even standing, and could hardly shake the thought of the whole thing collapsing on him with the slightest gust of wind. At least half of the structure had rotted away or been destroyed by the elements, and all that remained was a wooden skeleton just barely holding itself together. It seemed as if every other board in the building had vanished without a trace, and entire sections of wall were missing near the ceiling, leaving plenty of open space for sunlight to shine through. To make matters worse, the building's only exit, the one that led to the other side of the fence, was blocked by the lift. However, before Carl even had the chance to get frustrated, he took a closer look at the lift's pulley system and saw that it was connected to a rusted chain that snaked up to the ceiling and ran through the rafters into another room. He noticed an empty doorframe below the chain's terminus and stepped through into a small, disheveled side-room with a staircase leading up to a second floor. Most notably, however, was a cluster of broken junk near the back of the room that just happened to contain a circular wooden table with an aged piece of paper placed on top of it. Carl made his way over to the paper and discovered it to be the artwork of a seemingly disturbed child. A tall stick man with long arms and a black tie stood inside of a burning barn alongside several other clearly distraught stick figures, and on the bottom right corner of the paper was the signature; Charlie.
"I have no idea what this drawing is supposed to represent, but I think it goes without saying that it's really creepy… Hell, I should probably hold on to this since it helps support my theory of this place having something to do with Charlie's disappearance," Carl narrated, proceeding to store the paper in his backpack. With nothing left to see downstairs, he ascended the staircase and observed the loft it had brought him to. Other than a crate and a couple of barrels, the only things that stood out were a hand-crank that the chain was being fed through and a concerningly large amount of flammable liquid containers, consisting of gasoline, bleach, kerosene, and lighter fluid. To say that it looked suspicious was an understatement once that drawing of the flaming barn was taken into account. Now with a million different theories running through his head, Carl made his way over to the crank and gripped the handle with both hands, turning it with all of his might to make the lift ascend. After a painstakingly long amount of time spent fighting against its weight, a sharp click rang out as the lift locked into place, finally leaving the exhausted man with a proper exit. Panting heavily and wiping sweat from his brow, he stumbled down the stairs and made his way under the lift and out the door just in time. The immense weight of the lift and its cargo proved to be too much for the corroded chain, causing it to snap and drop 150+ pounds of equipment right behind the man who'd lifted it. "Fucking hell!" Carl shouted, jumping from the loud crash. His stomach churned when he turned around and saw what nearly killed him. "That was way too damn close… definitely shouldn't have trusted something that old," he gasped, physically shaking from his brush with death. He regained his composure after several minutes, only to realize with despair that he was trapped. The barbed wire fences that ran through the homestead separated the property into several different sections, and unfortunately for him, he was stuck in one with no direct exit. Even more unfortunate was the fact that the fences were severely rusted, which meant that he couldn't simply suffer being sliced up in order to escape due to the high likelihood of contracting tetanus. He had no choice but to look for another way out.
Directly ahead were the silos that he'd seen before, only now he could see that a small barn was built around the two of them as well. An old generator that looked like it'd seen better days sat in the grass next to an empty doorframe, and the barbed wire fence brushed up against both ends of the building, effectively using it to help seal off several different sections of land. As Carl neared the barn, he noticed a yellowed sheet of paper stapled to the outside wall;
REMINDER
All wheat and barley
should be stored in a
sub-terrain cellar for
cold storage.
~Wheat can be stored up to nine months
pending moisture.
~Dry grain should be taken to the
cellar immediately for winter storage.
~Cooling the grain ensures insects remain
dormant and minimizes mold grow.
Upon reading the sign, he came to the realization that the building was actually a granary, which explained the silos. Still desiring to gather evidence, no matter how insignificant it appeared to be, he ripped the paper off of the boards and stuffed it in his backpack. He decided to take a look inside the granary despite the fact that it was pitch black inside, and it was then that he remembered what Maggie's letter had mentioned; the cellar was stocked with gasoline. If he could get that generator running, it would make getting through the granary much easier. It wouldn't be easy getting the petrol from the cellar, but it was the only option he had other than feeling his way through the building. With his mind made up, he went to take a closer look inside the barn before leaving, which is when a low growl filled his ears; a warning to back off. Carl immediately stepped back out into the open and the growls ceased. "Stupid-ass animals must've made themselves at home," he grumbled; "Maybe getting those lights on will scare them off." Growing more frustrated by the minute, he made his way toward an old tool shed, one that appeared to act as a gate between his section of the farm and an overgrown crop field. Little did he know, the creature lurking within the granary wasn't an animal. A malformed, primitive humanoid peered out at him through a gap in the boards as he left the scene, waiting for him to enter the field before beginning its silent pursuit.
The shed contained nothing of interest, only broken shelves, discarded tools, and rusty chains dangling from the ceiling. Carl passed through it without incident, ending up at the beginning of a rugged dirt path that wound its way through the field. The wheat and barley had grown so wild over the years that the plants towered over the man standing in their midst, and even the invasive weeds participated in obscuring his vision to the point where he could only see the sky, the distant mountains, and a handful of landmarks. Far to the left and beyond the fence an old wooden windmill sat atop a hill, still creaking and turning in the wind, shrouded in the shadows cast by the setting sun. A ways to the right, the top of a small building peaked out over the thick vegetation and a strange monument stood tall on a hill nearby. Before Carl could do so much as wonder what the two structures were, the sound of rustling weeds hit his ears. He unsheathed his knife and spun around, but found nothing. "Must have been a rabbit or something," he said, doing his best to swallow his fear. He was regretting coming to this place now more than ever, knowing full well that a sound like that had come from something much bigger than a rabbit. He forced his legs to move forward, clutching his knife with white knuckles and eventually reaching a crossroads. A tall wooden post stood at the center of the intersection, adorned by three arrow-shaped signs nailed to the side of it. Each one pointed in a different direction, and all three were labeled with faded white paint. The one pointing toward Carl simply read; 'Granary', while the one pointing in the direction of the building and monument read; 'Chapel'. However, it was the title of 'Cellar' on the third sign that gave him chills.
"Nope… not yet," he mumbled, taking the path to the chapel. Further ahead, the trail broadened at the base of a small incline, parting the tangled mass of weeds and revealing a spiked metal gate. It was remarkably sturdy, and in a fairly decent condition considering how old it was. The trail ran under the gate and through an old boneyard, diverging near the base of a small hill and leading up to its peak, where the monument Carl had seen earlier stood ominously; a tall tombstone with a triangular tip pointed at the heavens, the stone it was carved from faded and cracked with age. The original path led to an eerie chapel that loomed over the graveyard, its age showcased by the state of disrepair it had fallen into. The entire area was choked full of weeds, most of which were dead or dying. The only sign of healthy plant life was a lone willow tree to the left of the chapel, and even that looked ancient. Ignoring the goosebumps forming on his arms, he approached the gate but groaned in frustration when he noticed the rusted padlock sealing it shut. Like the gate it was chained to, the padlock appeared to be remarkably sturdy, and was extremely unlikely to be broken or forced open. Not wanting to impale himself trying to scale the blockade, he finally accepted the fact that he had no choice but to enter the cellar. The farm was creepy enough on its own, but the idea of wandering blindly through a cramped, underground maze filled his heart with dread.
After a last-ditch, unsuccessful attempt to pry the lock open with his knife, he backtracked to the signpost and took the last path. "Well, even if I don't find the gate key in this deathtrap, at least I can pick up some gas," Carl narrated. Truth be told, he hoped to god that the key wasn't hidden away somewhere in the cellar. He wanted to get in and out of that place as fast as possible, and searching for a key in the dark would prevent him from doing so. Best-case scenario, the key was somewhere in the granary or the area beyond it… That idea alone may have been the one thing that kept him motivated to enter the subterranean nightmare. The glare from the setting sun shone in his eyes as he reached the end of the path, passing through a wooden gate that separated the field from a grassy stretch of land. The old windmill was much closer now, and unlike before, its rotting boards and rusted nails could be seen clearly. Its remaining blades rotated slowly in the wind, rattling like they were one strong gust away from falling off. However, the structural integrity of some random windmill was hardly a concern to Carl, who was growing more nervous by the second as he hiked up the area's gradual incline. Finally, he reached the wide-open cellar door and gazed into the labyrinth below, his heart pounding in his chest. Gripping his knife tighter than ever before, he took slow, shaky steps down the creaky stairs.
By the time he reached the final step, the foul aroma of mildew was already making it difficult to breathe. The damp cellar reeked of decay, and the entire place was flooded with murky heel-deep water. The floor, ceiling and most of the walls were made of concrete, but some had been constructed with cobblestone. Rust and scum crept down the walls, and black mold grew on the wooden support beams. The place was eerily silent except for the sound of dripping water echoing throughout the dark passages. A sense of impending doom filled Carl as he stared into the abyss ahead; it was like nothing he'd ever felt before, and he hoped dearly that he'd never feel it again. He was alone in the dark, and not even the evening sun could help him now… but then he saw it; fastened to the western wall was a breaker panel, bronze in color and sporting minimal rust. "I guess it's worth a shot," he said, walking over to the object, cold water beginning to soak into his shoes. "Please don't electrocute me," he whimpered, then flicked the power switch. With a low hum, the cellar sprang to life for the first time in over a century. Gradually, the light bulbs hanging from the ceiling began to activate, their dim, milky white glow struggling to illuminate the cramped halls, flickering at irregular intervals. Sometimes they'd stay on for only a moment, other times for quite a while. One minute the nervous investigator would be able to see clearly, and the next he'd be engulfed in darkness, fearful that they'd turned off for good. "It's better than nothing," he muttered, happy that he wouldn't have to feel his way through the darkness. The cold, musty air hadn't exactly helped his nerves to begin with, but now there was the constant threat of being stranded in the dark to pick away at his bravery. Slowly, he made his way deeper into the cellar, listening to the hum of the breaker grow faint.
Carl crept through the narrow halls, doing his best to ignore the eerie sights and sounds from all around him. He stuck close to the eastern wall, as you would in any maze, in order to keep his bearings. Every step that he took echoed across the maze and the constant buzzing and flickering of the lights struck at his nerves with every passing second. He moved when the lights turned on and froze when they flickered off, terrified of what he might see when they came back on. It made the job take longer than he would've liked, but that was much more preferable than staggering around in the dark. After turning a couple of corners, he reached a crossroads; The path ahead led to another turn, but a hallway that branched off to the left led deeper into the darkness. It took him about two seconds to make a decision, and keeping to the right proved to be more beneficial than expected. He stumbled across a small side-room that branched off to the right of the original hallway just before turning the corner, and ducked into it hoping to find some fuel. The flickering lights were quickly becoming more of an annoyance than a source of anxiety, as they consistently halted his progress every fifteen seconds or so, but he soldiered on nonetheless. Unfortunately, the room contained nothing more than barrels, woven baskets, and rotting shelves. "Of course there's nothing here, why would it be easy…" he mumbled. That's when his search was interrupted by a haunting sound, one that sent chills down his spine and made his skin crawl; a child's giggle.
"Oh fuck this, I'll take my chances with the barbed wire," Carl gasped, taking off toward the hallway. As he neared the doorframe, the lights flickered off and a wave of terror surged through him as he caught a glimpse of a dark, twisted figure running through the hall; headed in the direction he'd come from. He let out a horrified gasp and backed against the wall, brandishing his knife as his eyes involuntarily began to water. All of the stories he'd heard about this place were true, and his stomach churned when he finally registered the fact that something was hunting him. "I've gotta be the biggest fucking dipshit on this goddamn planet for coming here," he snarled. The last thing he wanted at that moment was to venture deeper into the maze, but since that thing was lurking in the direction he'd come from, backtracking wasn't an option. Cautiously, he exited the room, resuming his trek through the darkness with his knife held in front of him, ready to strike. "I really should've brought a gun," he whispered, "Hindsight's a bitch." Timing his steps with the unreliable lights, Carl continued making his way through the twisting and winding corridors. It was in the next room that he came across, one filled to the brim with rotting shelves, that he found what he was looking for; a slim, red gas canister, placed beside a barrel. Thankfully, it was tall enough to hold a decent amount of fuel, while still being light enough to carry more than one canister in a hand. He was extremely thankful for that, as he was well aware that one canister wouldn't be enough to power the generator for very long. After a few moments of finicking with it, he managed to pick up the canister in the same hand that held his camcorder and continued down the path. It was just before he turned the next corner when the second giggle hit his ears and sent another row of goosebumps down his arms. The lights were beginning to flicker more and more, signifying that they wouldn't last much longer. Finally, he reached the next corner and took the turn, but froze when he caught sight of the abomination standing at the end of the hall.
The wraith stood motionless in the shadows with its head crooked to the side… watching… waiting. Its pale skin was tinted a sickening shade of light blue and was stretched so tight over the remaining muscle that the creature was nearly skeletal. Its rib cage, femur, and several other bones were clearly visible under its malnourished physique, and its bloated stomach looked as though it was ready to burst. A tattered loincloth, or perhaps the shreds of a bathing suit, hung around its waist, but it wore no other clothing. The creature's arms bent at odd angles, and its bony fingers looked as if they were made for tearing flesh. Its thick, mangy, black hair hung down over its twisted face, and its eyes had been violently gouged out, leaving only dark, gaping sockets. Its lower mandible was completely missing, leaving an old, nasty wound to take its place, and rotting teeth adorned a lipless upper jaw. The thing might have been human once, but that time was long ago, and this creature was long dead… or perhaps undead was a better word for it. Whoever this person had once been was gone, and all that remained was the decaying husk of what once was. Each breath it took sounded agonized, and the putrid smell of dried blood and rotting flesh it gave off mingled with the damp, musty air of the cellar.
Carl stood frozen, paralyzed with fear as he locked eyes with the monster. Whatever he'd imagined about this place, whatever stories he'd heard, the truth was so much worse. "Stay back," he pleaded, shaking violently as he brandished his knife at the beast. It gave no response, standing motionless as it studied the intruding investigator. Carl's quivering quickly became so violent that he lost his grip on the knife, and to his horror, the weapon fell from his hand and hit the floor with a loud clang. It was then that his worst fears came to fruition as the lights flickered off again, leaving him blinded. What only lasted for a few agonizing moments felt like hours of pure terror. He wanted to scream… to call out for help… but he knew no help would come, and his cries would undoubtedly bring the creature's wrath down on him. So he stood there in silence, holding his breath and straining to hear any unfriendly noises. Then, to both his relief and horror, the lights flickered back on and the creature was gone… but so was his knife. "Son of a bitch…" he gasped, taking deep, ragged breaths to steady himself. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't afford to think about what just went down… not until he escaped from this hellhole. Reluctant, but determined, Carl crept down the hall to where the monster had stood only moments ago, discovering another side-room nearby. A grin spread across his face when he caught sight of the gas canister set beside a rotting shelf, but when he entered the room to claim his prize, he noticed something interesting; a worn leather-bound book resting on the bottom shelf;
Granny Richter's
Big Book of Stories
Volume 1
The golden inscription on the book's cover was chipped and faded but still legible. Remembering why he'd come to the godforsaken farmstead in the first place, Carl snatched the book off of the shelf and crammed it into his backpack without so much as glancing at its contents. Now without a weapon, he used his empty hand to carry both canisters, more thankful than ever for their slim proportions. It was when he turned to leave the room that he noticed the crude illustrations of a child drawn near the base of the western wall. The artwork had been sketched using different colors of chalk and consisted of several stick figures, the sun, and a few random scribbles. Despite the fear he was currently experiencing, an overwhelming sense of sadness washed over Carl the more he stared at the drawings. The thought of a child wasting away in this terrible place was bad enough on its own, but the addition of a malevolent zombie hunting them through the maze made it all the more horrifying. He prayed that he wouldn't find human remains anywhere in the cellar, for that would surely be his breaking point. Once his thoughts were finally gathered, he hesitantly made his way back into the hallway. Fortunately, no ambush awaited him, but every now and then he'd catch a glimpse of the gaunt figure watching from the shadows. It was eerie how it simply stood there and observed his movements, its raspy breathing mingling with the sound of dripping water. Eerier still was how it would appear and disappear with the flickering of the lights, making it impossible to tell when and where it would show up next.
Following his own rule and keeping to the right, Carl weaved his way through the labyrinth, eventually stumbling across a third side-room. Unlike the others, this one contained nothing of importance; only baskets, a chair, and more shelves… or so it seemed at first glance. When he turned to look in the direction opposite the shelves, his gaze fell upon a strange symbol taking up most of the concrete wall; two intersecting eyes in the shape of a cross made with chipping white paint. "What the hell is that?" he wondered aloud, making sure to get the symbol on camera. He approached the painting and ran his fingers over it, but not a single flake fell from the wall, much to his surprise. Even when he tried scratching some of the ancient material off, it resisted his efforts. "Huh… weird…" he whispered, intrigued by the anomaly before him. It was then that an all too familiar giggle raised the hairs on the back of his neck, reminding him of the situation he was in. Carl immediately attempted to leave the room, only to shrink back from the doorway as the twisted creature ran by… headed in the same direction he was going. He realized with horror that his stalker was intentionally blocking his path; meaning to drive him back into the depths of the maze like it was some kind of demented game of hide-and-seek. To turn back now would certainly mean death, as he'd either get lost or endlessly run into the same situation until the creature grew tired of him and ended the game. The terrified investigator mustered all of the courage he had left and continued down his original path, fully expecting his next step to be his last… but that never happened. As he made his way through the final expanse of hallways, the creature never made another appearance. Not even its breathing was audible anymore, which worried him that his adversary was closing in for the kill. However, before his fears had the chance to come true, he turned the final corner and at long last spotted daylight. Without a moment's hesitation, he raced up the old wooden steps and slammed the cellar door shut before collapsing in the grass, thankful to be alive. Unfortunately, it wasn't long before a new discovery interrupted his attempts of avoiding a nervous breakdown; No longer did a beautiful sunset reign dominant, for an eerie mixture of light purple and deep blue stained the heavens with a disturbing aura. The mountains far off in the distance no longer glimmered golden-red in the evening sun but instead loomed dark and ominous against the horizon. "How long was I down there?" Carl wondered, concerned by the sudden change in scenery.
The fact that he was still in danger wasn't lost on him, and after making sure the cellar door was latched he rushed over to the one he'd originally entered and sealed it, hoping to trap his undead stalker within. Afterward, he wasted no time in beginning the trek back to the granary, but realized that something was amiss as he passed by the gate; a low sound hit his ears, one similar to the buzzing of cicadas, but much more… artificial. The sound steadily increased in volume, drowning out all others and rendering one of his most vital senses useless. Carl's heart pounded as he realized that his efforts in sealing the cellar had been in vain, and upon reaching the crossroads, he caught sight of a patch of weeds rustling as something within them rapidly approached his position. This proved to be his breaking point, and without hesitation, he ran down the granary path like a madman, miraculously managing to avoid stumbling on the stringy roots sticking out of the dirt. The makeshift cicada song grew louder and louder with each passing second, and it was taking every ounce of willpower that he had to not drop to the ground and cover his ears. He took a moment to peer over his shoulder and search for the unseen assailant, and when he saw the thick net of crops beginning to part just behind him, he charged forward faster than he ever had before. Then, the mass of crops and weeds finally opened up to reveal a familiar old shed, and he bolted through the open doorframe and hid behind a decrepit wall, standing as still as a statue as the earsplitting buzzing finally subsided.
After waiting for a few minutes, Carl succeeded in catching his breath and took a cautious look back at the field. His blood ran cold when he saw the mangled face of the cellar ghoul glowering at him from within the mess of weeds… but that was all it did. It made no attempt to pursue, threaten, or even respond to his presence. No… this was a warning; one final chance to leave its home and never return. The creature evidently came to the conclusion that the intruder recognized its warning and slunk back into the thick vegetation, disappearing from sight. The man in question let out the breath he didn't even realize he was holding and exited the shed, heading toward the granary while keeping an eye on the field in case the beast changed its mind. On the way back, he finally registered that the knife his grandfather had given him for his birthday was lost forever, and mentally scolded himself for letting his nerves get the better of him. Suddenly, he stopped in his tracks, glancing from the empty sheath on his belt to the rusted barbed wire fence. His face contorted into an exasperated expression as he finally overcame the mental blockade that prevented him from leaving the farm long ago; "Why didn't you just cut the damn wire, Carl? Intellectual of the motherfucking decade right here," he cursed, his face physically growing hot the more he thought about it. "Stupid goddamn bullshit…" he ranted, throwing his gear to the ground in front of the granary and pacing in the grass, taking deep breaths to calm himself. "Don't be stupid… there's nothing you can do about it now anyway. Losing your head in a place like this is going to get you killed," he told himself. That was another thing; the mortal danger he was in didn't seem to be bothering him nearly as much as it should've been. Perhaps it was a combination of shock, survival instinct, and an adrenaline rush, but something was keeping him from dwelling on the dire circumstances of the situation. Once he'd sufficiently calmed down, Carl realized that he couldn't leave the farm even if he was able to… not without finding answers. He remembered the promise he'd made to Charles Matheson Sr. like it was yesterday; "I'll find out what happened to your son no matter what it takes," he'd said, "I'll make sure you can rest easy someday." He may have made that promise to a fresh mound of dirt and a tombstone, but it was one he intended to keep nonetheless. With a newfound determination, the stubborn investigator reclaimed his gear and approached the granary. "Me and my damn mouth..." he muttered, emptying the contents of the gas canisters into the generator's fuel intake.
Praying that his efforts hadn't been in vain, Carl flipped the generator's switch and held his breath. With a low metallic whir, the ancient machine sprang to life, vibrating and rumbling where it sat. The lights within the building slowly activated, and much to his excitement, they stayed on. There was no flickering or long stretches of darkness like he'd experienced in the cellar, but a constant dim glow to offer a sense of security. Then, the sound of feet hitting stone rang out as the building's inhabitant fled the scene. Of course, Carl knew by now that the only 'animal' living in the granary had been the cellar ghoul, but that raised the question of how it'd managed to get back inside from the field. Almost immediately, his question was answered by the sound of barbed wire rattling, bringing him to the conclusion that the creature either couldn't feel pain or simply chose to ignore it. Eager to finish this investigation from hell and go home, he entered the granary at long last, immediately noticing the constant creaking that the ancient structure emitted. The passage was slim and choked full of barrels, forcing him to take extra time to weave through the obstacles. When he finally turned the corner he came upon a more open area where both silos stood partially enveloped within the granary. It was hard to tell if they'd been constructed with the intent of making movement around them easier, or if they were simply so deteriorated that a passage had opened up directly through the center of the structures. Dim evening light shone in through their cracked tops, but it wasn't nearly enough to light up the place as efficiently as the generator. Even if the light had been bright enough to do the generator's job, only the silo standing at the direct center of the granary would've stood any chance of being beneficial. The other silo stood half embedded in the leftmost side of the building and showcased a familiar symbol.
Drawn in charcoal on the concrete floor and illuminated by a dim beam of sunlight was the same suited, faceless stick figure that Carl had seen previously on Charlie's drawing of the flaming barn. He made a mental note of this peculiar stick figure, as this was the second time the thing had made an appearance during the investigation. After a brief moment of contemplating its meaning, he weaved his way through the rest of the granary, only stopping to take a look at another clue; Balanced atop two barrels was an aged drawing of a family picnic on the farm, undoubtedly portraying Charlie and his parents on one of their retreats. The only thing the depiction was missing was the boy's signature, as well as the suited man. Carl didn't give much thought to the drawing and stuck it in his backpack as he stepped out of the granary and into the grassy, uneven area beyond. There wasn't much to be seen in the fenced-off yard; only a handful of trees, one of which held a battered old treehouse, a decaying wooden cart with a barrel placed beside it, a rundown shed barely taller than the average man, and the scorched remains of a small barn. Carl's breath caught in his throat as he realized that those burned remains were likely the result of the fire depicted in Charlie's drawing, and he hoped that he wouldn't have to sift through charred bones to find the gate key. He decided to check the barn last since it'd be the biggest place to inspect, and made his way toward the old cart. His search of the decaying scrap yielded no results, and the treehouse was a dead end as well. His next destination was the shed, which surprisingly held something other than rusted tools and empty containers; an old black and white family portrait. Carl blew the dust off of the picture and scanned over the faces featured on it, amazed that the thing was still intact. Everybody in the picture was dressed formally and appeared to be standing outside of a church, and at the bottom of the portrait was a list of their names. In the back row stood a woman and two men; Georgia, Franklin, and James Matheson. The middle row was taken up by two more women, the second of whom appeared to be on the border of elderly; Elizabeth and Frieda Matheson, and beside them stood a young man named Clarence Matheson. Then there was the bottom row, which was entirely made up of kids; the only two teenagers were a pair of girls named Maggie and Rose Matheson, and the others consisted of a girl and a boy no older than eleven; Patricia and Walter Matheson. However, three other people stood in that picture alongside the Mathesons… three that caused a great deal of concern. In the middle row, beside the three Mathesons, stood a middle-aged woman and her husband; Ada and Henry Hayes. What's more was the presence of a boy in the bottom row named Norman Hayes, who was clearly the child of Ada and Henry. "Holy shit… I know that name," Carl stammered, and indeed he did, for Hayes was the maiden name of Beth, the mother of Kate Milens.
Now, Hayes wasn't exactly an uncommon surname, so Carl wouldn't have given it a second thought had it not been for one tiny detail; Kate had mentioned several years ago that her family originated from Alberta, and that they moved to the United States in the early 1900s. This led him to believe that the three standing in the picture were at the very least distant ancestors of Kate's, and maybe even direct ancestors. As he processed this revelation, he scanned over the picture once more to verify what he was seeing but discovered something in the process that he'd somehow missed before. Standing inside the church and barely visible through the window was an abnormally tall man wearing a suit and tie. Oddly enough, the man wasn't listed below with all of the others, and the poor quality of the photograph made it look like he didn't have a face. At first, Carl shrugged it off, correctly guessing that the man wasn't intended to be in the picture. As for his facelessness, surely it was only a trick of the light. "Wait… hold on a minute," he mumbled, a new idea popping into his head. It seemed a little too coincidental that Charlie had been randomly drawing pictures of a tall faceless man in a suit when there was one who appeared in a picture of his ancestors that was taken nearly a century before his disappearance. "Maybe Charlie found this picture and started to draw the guy… or maybe something more than meets the eye is going on around here…" Carl pondered. Normally he would belittle himself for coming up with such an outlandish theory, but after what he'd seen in the cellar, he wasn't going to argue against the possibility of something supernatural taking place. He almost could've laughed at how quickly he'd come to accept the paranormal as real, but the dire circumstances took most of the comedy out of the situation. Growing increasingly uneasy, he folded the picture up and stuck it in his pocket, deciding to mention it to Kate when he got the chance.
He was beginning to lose hope of ever finding the gate key and knew full well that he'd have no choice but to risk mutilating himself trying to climb the spiked gate if it didn't turn up in the wreckage of the barn. Even if he managed to find the thing, he'd still have to make his way back through the field in order to get the gate open, and considering that it was now openly hostile territory, he wasn't looking forward to it very much. Dreading what was yet to come, he made his way over to the rubble, finding that the structure's only remnants were scorched portions of the building's frame; Several burned boards stuck out of the ground and a handful of plywood panels and wood scraps lay in the dirt, but there was nothing more. The ashes from the fire had blown away long ago, leaving behind only the cold hard ground. Carl took a few steps forward before his shoe collided with something hard, sending it skittering across a panel. He grew nauseous instantaneously, all but convinced that he'd just disturbed human remains. Fortunately, he was able to let out a sigh of relief when he finally worked up the courage to gaze downward, finding that the object he'd just kicked was an old ornate key. The artifact was larger than he'd expected it to be and had a fair amount of weight to it when he picked it up. Its original black color had faded into a dark gray, and its bow consisted of three rings roughly in the shape of a triangle. Aside from some minor discoloration, the key was in such a remarkably good condition that Carl found himself admiring its craftsmanship, amazed at the lack of wear-and-tear. Snapping back to his senses, he stuffed the key into his pocket and nervously headed back toward the granary, glancing out across the field as he walked. That monster was probably watching him at this very moment, daring him to try something. That idea alone made him want to abandon the entire investigation and retreat to safety, but he'd come too far to back down now.
It killed him to backtrack when the chapel was just on the other side of the fence, but it was either face the monster or take on the barbs, and as crazy as it sounded, the monster only had half the chance of ripping him apart that the wire did. It was when he made it halfway through the granary that a new feeling hit him; he felt dizzy, almost as if he'd stood up too fast and all the blood was rushing to his head. He groaned and stumbled backward, catching himself on a decaying board as his double vision returned to normal. "This day just keeps getting better and better," he commented after coming to his senses. That's when he noticed something strange; aside from the occasional hooting of owls and the chirping of crickets, everything was dead silent. There was no wind, no movement… nothing. It was as if the entire world was standing still in anticipation of the final act of this escapade. The air had become unnaturally cold to the point that Carl could see his own breath, and he actually resorted to pulling his sweatshirt's hood over his head to retain some warmth. What's more is that the dim light bulbs within the granary seemed to take on a deep blue hue, and doused the interior of the building in the sickly color. However, he was greeted with his biggest shock yet as he exited the building; "What in the hell…" he stammered, looking up at the sky in awe. Gone was the protective evening light he'd witnessed only moments before, and in its place reigned the dead of night. A quarter moon shone down on the farm, casting an eerie glow on the landscape as a light fog set in. The navy blue sky was speckled with bright stars, and the distant mountains had been reduced to ominous silhouettes. "This… this doesn't make any sense…" Carl shivered, glancing at his wristwatch; "A few minutes ago it was only dusk, so how the hell is it past midnight now?" Fearful and confused, he reminded himself that he was still in danger and made his way toward the field, talking to himself as he walked. "Nothing about this place is right," he said, still eyeing the sky; "It's not natural… none of it is." Then, a strange thought entered the investigator's mind; "It almost feels like I've been sent forward in time… Hell, that makes more sense than most of the shit I've seen today… and maybe that's why I got so lightheaded out of nowhere in the granary," he narrated, approaching the tool shed. "I can worry about whatever's going on with the time later… things are about to get serious," he said as he made his way through the shack, ending up at the base of the trail.
"You've got one shot at this… don't screw it up or you're a dead man," he coached himself. Then, after taking a few deep breaths to steady himself, he took off sprinting down the path. Almost immediately the artificial cicada song began again, this time accompanied by a sound that could only be described as a deep, distorted clicking. Dark clouds moved in to cover the moon as a deep blue haze enveloped the field, creeping through the weeds and blotting out the sky, effectively striking terror into Carl's heart. It was then that he saw the undead abomination charging at him head-on from further down the path, the remaining bits of its rotting mouth twisted into a silent snarl. His eyes widened at the sight, and without thinking he instinctively ducked into the weeds for cover, hoping that they would help conceal him from the creature. He did his best to keep the chapel gate in sight as he crashed through the overgrown mess of crops, but the sheer height of the vegetation was making it difficult to see anything. The furious monster was hot on his heels, and the earsplitting ambiance grew louder and louder as it gained on him. The blue haze thickened with every step he took, making it impossible for Carl to see more than a few feet in front of himself. He could barely breathe or see through the suffocating mist, as it burned his lungs and stung his eyes, and he could feel himself growing fatigued from carving his way through the wall of crops. He realized with horror that he was beginning to slow down as the sound of the monster crashing through weeds just behind him grew louder and louder. Plants whipped him in the face, stringy roots threatened to trip him up, and the noises ringing in his ears grew louder and louder until he could bear it no longer.
Then, just as he thought he was done for, the mist lifted, the noises ceased, and the monster retreated back into the field. Wheezing and gasping for air, Carl wiped his watering eyes with his sleeve before looking around, confused as to what saved his life. Perhaps the only pleasant surprise he'd receive that night was the fact that somehow, miraculously, he'd made it to the cemetery gate. Wasting no time, he jammed the key into the lock and turned it, letting the chains and padlock fall to the ground as the ancient latch released its hold. The gate let out an eerie creak as it slid open, gliding across the ground like fog rolling in over a lake; followed by something that sounded like a long, drawn out, unearthly wail, as if a tortured spirit was releasing an anguished cry. The hairs on the back of Carl's neck stood on end and goosebumps ran down his arms as the haunting sound chilled him to the bone, creating a sensation of being watched by unseen eyes. He quickly looked over his shoulder to make sure there was no movement in the field… but there was nothing; not even the owls or crickets dared to make a sound anymore. Everything was silent… everything was still… it was as if the entire world was holding its breath, and not even the return of the moonlight could offer sanctuary any more. Growing more paranoid by the second, he attempted to close the gate back up, but it was embedded deep into the dirt and wouldn't budge. He bit his lip as the realization that he'd have to remain out in the open hit him, and decided to check out the graveyard quickly before investigating the chapel. Despite the unsettling atmosphere of the situation, Carl could only feel saddened by the sight of some of the tombstones. Among the dead were a few names he recognized from the family portrait, several of whom had died young;
Maggie Matheson: 1890-1905
Elizabeth Matheson: 1868-1905
Clarence Matheson: 1866-1901
James Matheson: 1854-1903
Henry Hayes: 1824-1902
Norman Hayes: 1894-1905
Rose Matheson: 1891-1905
Georgia Matheson: 1870-1900
Ada Hayes: 1872-1905
"What the hell happened between 1900 and 1905 that killed all of these people?" he asked, fearful that he already knew the answer. The majority of the people from the picture were buried beside one another, but no matter how hard he looked, Carl was unable to locate the graves of Patricia, Franklin, and Walter Matheson. He even checked a batch of older graves in an overgrown area a little ways away, the oldest of which dated back to 1812, but even that effort yielded no results. "Well, considering that a few members of the Hayes and Matheson families are still around, I think it's safe to assume that at least a few people escaped whatever went down here… hopefully, these guys just got lucky," Carl narrated. "Wait, is that…" he began, noticing something out of the corner of his eye. After only a moment of hesitation, he approached the weeping willow that grew near the chapel, something disturbing having piqued his interest. "Oh, Jesus Christ, what is wrong with this place?" he whined. The investigator's concern was completely justified, for set in the grass beneath the tree was a wide circle of large, round stones. Even after all of these years, the earth inside of the circle remained blackened as if some dark ritual had burned away all of the life within it. Feeling lightheaded, he turned away from the ritual circle and headed back toward the graveyard, doing his best to focus on something else. Thankfully, he caught sight of that familiar, triangular tombstone he'd seen earlier and made a beeline for it, wanting to get as far away from the willow tree as possible. Once he approached the grave, however, he had to get a much closer look at it than he would've liked in order to read the eroded inscription;
Frieda Matheson
1820-1905
May you be blessed for eternity
"Now what did you do to earn yourself a spot all the way up here and away from everybody else?" Carl asked, kneeling to get a better look at the writing. Alas, the headstone provided no further clues, and so he left it behind without incident and finally approached the chapel, dimly taking note of the eroded siding and rickety wooden stairs as he entered the dark building. Collapsed, decaying pews faced a raised section of floor on the opposite side of the room where a podium and two more pews still stood, and the building's peeling gray wallpaper was accompanied by a grimy tile floor. Disappointingly, the building didn't contain very much aside from that. However, that disappointment soon turned to horror when he caught sight of a yellowed sheet of paper placed on a wooden table and read over it, finally understanding the dark truth of the Matheson Farm;
I seek only salvation for myself and my family from
that demon sent to torment my life. I brought the
devil's wrath upon my family. I did this, I went
searching for this demon. I brought him into our
lives. I invoked his arrival. How could I have been so
blind as to manifest such evil? Why could I not let old
legends die? I alone should bear this burden! Why must
my grandchildren suffer for my imprudence? They
will never come home. That archfiend has them now.
We all must bear this burden. We must all repent for
our ignorance, and rid this world of this demon for
good. None ever shall confront this evil ever again! It
dies with us!
May the fire cleanse our souls and burn our sins,
~Frieda Matheson
Quietly, Carl folded up the paper and stuffed it in his pocket, processing this new information. It was now obvious to him why Frieda was buried so far away from all of the other graves; She was the one who brought on the downfall of the farm… she was the one who infected the Hayes and Matheson families with this plague. It was Frieda who'd locked herself in that barn with her family and burned it to the ground, believing that their deaths would banish whatever demon she'd conjured… but she was wrong, horribly wrong. Finally, he knew what tragedy befell this godforsaken place, and why all of those graves were marked with the year of 1905… the people here had been burned alive, both metaphorically and literally, and they all burned together. It was while he was staring off into space mulling over everything he'd learned that a sudden change in atmosphere rocked his world; the air became even more frigid than before and an ominous shadow engulfed the entire room. An overwhelming sense of dread quickly grew in the pit of his stomach, and the feeling of being watched returned to him as if something sinister had just entered the room. Suddenly the chapel door slammed shut behind him, and he let out a yelp before whirling around, only to freeze in horror at the sight he was greeted with.
Blocking the chapel door was the tall man from Charlie's drawings; his suit as black as night, his tie as red as blood, and his clammy skin as pale as a corpse. Standing completely motionless, the demon towered over him, its head nearly reaching the ceiling and its unnaturally long arms hanging stiffly at its sides. The horrible, featureless face it featured showed no emotion, but despite not having any eyes, its head was angled downward to gaze upon the quivering intruder. For some reason that Carl couldn't explain, the longer he was in close proximity to the creature, the more it felt like his brain was going to crawl out of his skull. Blood steadily trickled from his nose and ears as his breathing became ragged, his lungs struggling to function properly. He dropped to his knees as an intense wave of nausea overtook him, black blotches obscuring his blurred vision as a high-pitched frequency rang in his ears. His very blood ran cold, and his eyes involuntarily watered as he fought to stay conscious through the intense pain. Gritting his teeth and squinting through the tears, he dropped his camcorder and clutched the sides of his head, letting out a painful groan. Then, the demon slowly crouched down to his level and looked him in the eyes, an even more intense wave of pain shooting through his head as a deep, powerful voice entered his mind; "You are where you do not belong." Carl could no longer think, no longer feel anything other than total agony, and it was the demon's mental invasion that finished the job. He dropped down on all fours and retched up a combination of bile and blood, continuing for several minutes until he could vomit no more. He prayed for anything to make it stop, to ease his suffering, but when he finally managed to reopen his eyes he was surprised to see that the tall man was long gone, having seemingly vanished into thin air as abruptly as it arrived. Trembling violently and drenched in a cold sweat, Carl fought through the pain and retrieved his camera, making his way to the door… only to find it locked. He grunted an obscenity and turned back toward the pews, avoiding the spilled contents of his stomach as he made his way to the door near the podium… but that one was locked too. Letting out a sigh of defeat, he wiped the drying blood and tears from his face and slumped down on one of the more stable pews, cradling his head in his hands. The nosebleed had stopped entirely, as well as everything other than the migraine, which was receding at a much slower pace than he would've liked. Unfortunately, he could only drink a little bit of the water he'd brought and take some of the aspirin in his first aid kit to try remedying his wounds, as none of them required bandages or gauze. Thousands of questions had sprung up in his mind over the course of the last several minutes, one of the most prominent being the mystery of how the demon had simply vanished into thin air. Had it not been for the fact that he felt like he'd been hit by a truck, he would've considered writing the whole thing off as a hallucination… that is if the camera hadn't picked up the entire exchange as well.
"How the hell am I still alive?" he pondered, coming to terms with the fact that the faceless demon was clearly responsible for the destruction of the farm and two entire bloodlines. From the initial conjuring to Charlie's disappearance, that thing was at the epicenter of it all. Then, he remembered a crucial piece of the puzzle; "What does that zombie thing have to do with any of this?" he wondered. At first, he'd thought that the savage being was the source of the homestead's dark legacy, but the appearance of the suited man had blown that theory clear out of the water; "So what the hell is it doing here then?" Eventually, he was able to come up with two theories; First was the idea that the ghoul might be some sort of underling to the tall man, brought here to act as a guard dog and protect the demon's territory. Maybe it even sounded an alarm after he'd managed to evade it for the third time and enter the graveyard, which would explain why the demon only bothered to show up at that point in time… but not why it decided to leave right away. He had a second guess though, and that was the simple idea that more than one supernatural being had moved onto the property over time and claimed sections of it as their own. It made sense that the site of such a terrible tragedy would attract dark forces, but Carl prayed that it wasn't true. The night had been enough of a trainwreck without having to deal with even more monsters. What was next if his second guess was actually correct? A wendigo? A poltergeist maybe? "Don't be ridiculous, those things don't exi…" but before he could finish that thought, he caught himself. Just a few short hours ago he would've thought it ridiculous to consider what he'd just been through within the realm of possibility, so now he didn't know what to believe in. "I need to quit thinking so much and get the fuck out of here," he concluded, returning his items to his backpack and shakily standing up. He may not have found out what happened to Charlie, but he'd unearthed enough Matheson history to last him a lifetime. He could leave this place satisfied that he'd given it his all, but a dark thought lingered in the back of his mind as he got up to search for another exit; "I might've just brought this curse down on myself too…" He hoped dearly that this would be the last he saw of both the cellar ghoul and the faceless man, but he couldn't ignore the possibility that his trespassing wouldn't be forgiven so easily. As he combed over the room yet again, he noticed a small wooden table standing beside the raised flooring, an old picture frame containing the portrait of a little boy placed atop it. The boy was dressed in formal attire and sitting on a leather chair, and the frame itself was engraved near the bottom;
Walter Matheson
May the angels guide you home
Trying not to think of what use a demon might have for an innocent child, Carl collected the picture as more evidence. He honestly didn't even know why he was still making an effort to investigate the place… perhaps it was just for a sense of completion. Either way, it wasn't going to help him leave his threadbare prison. Both of the chapel's doors were still locked and the windows were all boarded shut, leaving him with no way out. It was on his final attempt at finding an exit when he literally stumbled over a new development; near the front of the room was a small pile of old, worn down toys consisting of a baby doll and five segments of a toy train. "May as well take these things too," he muttered, beginning to scoop the artifacts into his backpack. However, unbeknownst to him was the cellar creature peering into the building through a gap in the boarded windows, a burning rage taking over as it watched him steal the only things that brought the beast comfort in this terrible place. Just as he was putting his backpack back on, a ghastly shriek sounded off from just outside of the chapel. Heavy footsteps thudded closer and closer until the back door burst open with a loud splintering crack as the gaunt figure entered the building. It stood perched in the doorway, scanning the room from left to right before finally fixating its gaze on its prey. When the two finally locked eyes, the creature's expression twisted into a snarl, and its raspy voice hissed directly to Carl; "Youuuuuuuuu dieeeeee nowwwwwwww…"
The man in question barely had time to react before the abomination charged at him, roaring at the top of its decaying lungs in a blind fury. He instinctively whipped around and ran into the narrow hall on the western side of the chapel, ascending the stairs at the end and running past the podium with the monster hot on his heels. He jumped off of the raised floor, having made a full loop through the building, and bolted out of the open door, slamming it shut behind him. Fortunately for him, he'd slammed it so hard that it actually jammed in place, trapping the ghoul inside. The furious cries and shrieks of the creature were deafening, but yet… almost heartbreaking in a way. However, Carl had no time to feel sympathy for the man-turned-monster, for mixed in with the creature's desperate wails was the sound of old wood splintering as it ruthlessly pounded its fists against the door. Not wishing to test his luck any further, he wasted no time getting as far away from the building as possible and bolted down the dirt path leading back to the farmhouse, the screeching of the monster growing quieter the more distance he put between himself and the chapel. The farmhouse was close, very close, and Carl nearly shed tears of joy when he realized that he only had to make his way through one more small obstacle before finally being granted freedom from the hellhole he'd forced himself to visit. Unfortunately, things weren't going to go as smoothly as he would've liked. Just as he ran through the house's back door, the chapel's exploded off of its hinges and allowed the beast to continue its pursuit.
As the incessant screaming grew louder and louder, Carl realized that the only thing he could do now was hide and ducked into the darkest corner of the room he could find. He sat there crouched behind an overturned desk as still as a statue, as silent as a mouse, praying that his cover would last long enough to grant him an escape route. However, something happened that he hadn't anticipated… nothing at all. Just as the creature was finally closing in on the house, its shrieks were abruptly silenced and all was calm. Carl wasn't a fool though, he'd come too far to be lured in by such an obvious trap, and so he stayed hidden for what felt like hours, hardly daring to breathe, as he knew that even the slightest sound could betray him. Eventually, the sheer lack of activity finally piqued his curiosity, and he cautiously peeked out from behind his hiding spot and let out a sigh of relief; the monster was gone. He almost laughed aloud at the fact that his assailant had been fooled by one of the oldest tricks in the book, and smiled from ear to ear at the thought of the nightmare being over within a matter of minutes. There was only one setback; the door ahead was the same one that previously blocked his progress when he'd first investigated the room with the fireplace, and it was the only way out. "I'll break the fucker down if I have to," he proclaimed but stopped in his tracks when he remembered the trap door he'd seen in the room on the other side of the door. "I suppose a little more exploring wouldn't hurt now that I'm out of the line of fire," he sighed and approached the staircase leading to the second floor. However, whatever his expectations had been while making his way up to the attic, what he found clearly surpassed them.
Dim rays of moonlight shone through the gaps in the shattered, semi-boarded windows, barely managing to illuminate the cryptic scene; Ruined sofas, tables, chairs, desks, and bookshelves littered the room, some of which were so decayed that it was nearly impossible to tell what they were anymore. Containers of flammable chemicals like the ones in the barn's loft were piled up in a few of the corners, and heaps of old books were stacked atop the desks and tables, scattered across the floor, and clumsily crammed onto the few bookshelves that were still intact. Plastered on the stone brick walls and strewn about the grimy wooden floor were ancient sheets of paper and parchment featuring nonsensical ramblings and scribbles, only a few of which had intelligible phrases such as "You" or "Come Home Now" written on them. Accompanying the papers on the walls were huge sketches of trees, circles, exes, and crosses all made with the same black paint that was splattered near the bottom left corner of the western wall in a way that almost made it look like a pair of wings. However, the eeriest of the illustrations was a white, crossed-out depiction of the faceless man painted on the eastern wall just above a rotting couch, the phrase; "Abandon All Hope, For Death Is Only The Beginning" scrawled beneath it. For once, Carl felt no fear or apprehension toward the situation in front of him… only curiosity. As he was still processing what exactly was going on with his surroundings, he noticed something peculiar; resting on a busted chair near the staircase was a yellowed page that had been torn from a book. Dominating the page was an illustration of a strange, twisted beast lurking behind a nervous woman who was sitting in a stool beneath a window. Below the picture was a word that he recognized from one of the German classes he'd taken; "Verzweiflung". It meant 'despair', and judging from the context of the drawing, the lady in it had a pretty good reason to be feeling that particular emotion. He decided to take the page with him and pocketed it before searching the rest of the room. After several minutes of digging through the stacks of books and papers, he managed to pinpoint three sources of information, two of them consisting of journal entries torn from their books and placed on desks. Unfortunately, despite his efforts to locate the full journals, they were nowhere to be found. "This is just gonna have to be good enough," Carl decided, beginning to read through them. Both entries consisted of a set of two pages barely held together by aged stitching, the first of which was a diary entry accompanied by a gloomy sketch of the faceless man standing outside of the chapel;
Dearest Diary,
Patricia still has yet to come
home…
Mother insists she ran off to
search for wildflowers again…
But I know that's not true.
It was that man, that thing grandmother keeps rambling on
about.
I do not think she's mad.
I have seen the man myself, he
watches us as we play.
Patty went to him, I just know it!
If only mother would listen!
I wonder when she'll come home…
~Rose
The second entry began with the ending of another and led into an update from a few days later. This set had no cryptic pictures to go with the writing, but that didn't make it any less unnerving;
but it's more or less the same as it's
always been. Maybe tomorrow.
~Maggie June 2nd, 1905
Father is making us pray again tonight…
It'll do no good. It's bothersome if
anything. And I'd bet anything Patty
and Walt ran away from this miserable
old place, and I don't blame them one bit.
Grandmother and Rose insist on some
batty tale that a strange man took them
away. Am I the only one keeping their
wits around here? Maybe I should run
away too.
~Maggie June 9th, 1905
"Well, that explains why I couldn't find those kids' graves… that demon took them," he mused, "But that still doesn't explain what happened to Franklin… maybe he was one of the lucky ones." Despite the answers the two journal entries provided, the most useful piece of information he found was the third document; an aged letter all the way from Germany that made Carl realize he'd been carrying around one of the most vital pieces of the puzzle ever since he found it in the cellar;
Dearest Frieda,
Though my heart still pains for your missing children, I fear
for your health my sweet sister. You mustn't worry your mind
with those twisted tales of our youth. You know as well as I they
were merely tales to keep us all in good behaviour. If only
mother knew what those silly legends would do to you. Though I
have no recollection of the one you mention. Was it from one of
mother's books you took with you?
I wish I were with you now, in your time of need, rather than
whittling my days away alone. I wish you well, an ocean away,
may my thoughts and prayers reach you.
~Franziska
After reading that, Carl immediately took off his backpack and stuffed the newfound documents inside. He then retrieved Granny Richter's Big Book of Stories: Volume 1 and began flipping through the pages; "Bergmönch... Nachzehrer… Feldgeister… Walrider… Lindworm…" he read aloud before exclaiming; "Wait, this is it!"
Der Großmann
Below the page's title was a detailed depiction of the faceless, suited man, and below that was an entire passage of German folklore on the creature. Deeply intrigued, Carl skimmed through the page, making a mental note to look it over in greater detail once he was safe in his own home. According to the book, Der Großmann was an ancient being said to lurk within the Black Forest in SouthWest Germany. The creature was known for stalking disobedient children, particularly those who'd run away from home and into the forest. Once Der Großmann had the child in his sights, he would pursue them relentlessly until they were captured, never to be seen or heard from again. It wasn't known what happened to the children after they were abducted, but whatever it was, it surely wasn't anything pleasant. It was after skimming through the entry on Der Großmann one more time and returning the book to his backpack that Carl remembered the summoning circle under the willow tree. He couldn't even begin to understand why Frieda tried to summon the thing, regardless of whether she believed it to be real or only desired to disprove the story. Perhaps the answer to his question was as simple as the fact that the woman had been too naive to foresee the consequences of her actions, but there was no way of knowing for sure now. He let out a sigh and stood up, putting his backpack back on and picking his camera up off of the table he'd set it on. "I can try to figure this all out later when I get home, I've dicked around this place for far too long as it is," he announced. Fully content with the discoveries his efforts had awarded him with, he was preparing to leave when he noticed one last clue. Near the bottom of the southern wall, just to the right of the table he'd found Franziska's letter on, was a set of childish drawings just like the ones he'd seen in the cellar. He approached the sketches curiously, making sure to get them on film, and it was then that he froze on the spot. His eyes widened in surprise as the final pieces of the puzzle came together at long last, for written in dried blood at the center of the drawings was the artist's signature; Charlie.
A wave of shock hit Carl like a cement truck as the truth finally dawned on him. He'd expected a lot of different outcomes from this investigation, but never something this horrible. That ghoul… the wretched monstrosity that had been pursuing him for this entire time was all that remained of the boy he'd been searching for; Charlie Matheson Jr. He could see the resemblance very clearly now if he thought about it hard enough, but something was horribly wrong, even more so than the fact that the boy had been transformed into a deranged, undead guard dog by Der Großmann; Charlie went missing when he was only six years old, and that monster looked like it was at least twelve or thirteen when it died. However, it was when he glanced back across the room and read between the lines of the writing on the wall that he realized the horrible truth; "Abandon All Hope, For Death Is Only The Beginning" wasn't just an ominous quote plastered on the wall by a senile old woman, it was what was happening to Charlie. The boy wasn't really dead, and perhaps he never had been. No, he was trapped somewhere between life and death, aging far more slowly than he should've been… doomed to suffer for eternity as a slave to the one who'd taken him away so long ago; Der Großmann. Carl felt sick to his stomach; to think that the thing he'd been calling a monster this entire time was just another victim of something far worse was like a punch right to the guts. Where he once felt nothing more than fear and hatred toward the twisted entity, he now felt only sympathy. Charlie was no longer in control of his own actions, he'd been reduced to a mindless drone with the sole purpose of serving as a tool to an outside administrator… a human 'proxy', so to speak. Suddenly, a terrible thought popped into his head; "If this bastard went after Charlie than maybe it's thinking of going after Kate too!" His theory made perfect sense; Charlie was the last of the Matheson family and Der Großmann had gone after him and quite possibly his father as well, effectively snuffing out their bloodline. As far as he knew, Kate and her mother were the last of the Hayes bloodline so it would only make sense for the demon to target them next. "I need to get out of here and warn them right fucking now, this thing could decide to come after them at any moment," he exclaimed, making his way over to the open trapdoor he'd seen from the first floor. After peering down into the room to make sure the coast was clear, he quietly lowered himself in to avoid attracting any unwanted attention.
However, he only had a few moments of calm before the previously barricaded door burst open, an enraged roar filling the room. The door had been hit so hard that it was knocked clean off of its hinges, with one of the boards coming loose and smashing into Carl's forehead. He staggered back into the wall, struggling to remain conscious and wincing in pain as warm blood dripped down his face. Through blurred vision, he saw the horrific figure of Charlie Matheson Jr. coming through the doorway with the intent to kill. Utilizing the last of his strength, Carl got back on his feet and bolted through the house as fast as he could, constantly stumbling and tripping as he struggled with the double vision that was quickly taking over. The furious screaming filled his ears as he weaved his way through the house with Charlie close behind, finally managing to make it out the door and into the cold night air. He ran faster than he'd ever run before, and much to his delight was managing to outpace his assailant, but his erratic movements caused him to trip over a loose brick and drop his camcorder, which rolled ahead and came to a stop upright. "Shit!" he yelled, knowing full well that to stop and pick it up would mean certain death. So he kept running, and as the battered camera was slowly overcome with audio and visual distortions, it managed to pick up the ending of the debacle; Carl ran by the camera without slowing down, and only a few seconds later did Charlie pass by as well. A few tense moments passed before the sound of a car starting up mixed in with Charlie's animalistic roars, and it all ended with Carl speeding out of the driveway and down the road, narrowly escaping his would-be murderer and vowing to never return to that place again despite half of his evidence having been lost there. Just as static finally overcame the still-running camcorder, it managed to pick up a few more seconds of action; footsteps approached from behind the device, which was then picked up by unseen hands. Before the perpetrator could be revealed, the camera finally succumbed to the abuse it'd been through and shut off, never to work again.
What followed later that night was a trip to the hospital for some stitches in his forehead, a tense drive home shortly afterward, several hours of berating himself for losing the most valuable piece of evidence he had, reassuring himself that he'd still gathered enough physical proof to make the people he wanted to protect believe him, before finally drinking himself to sleep to block out the trauma he'd just been through. When Carl awoke the next morning with the worst hangover he'd ever had, as well as a nasty concussion, the last thing he'd expected to find was a cardboard box at his doorstep containing his camcorder. At first, he'd thought he was hallucinating it, but once he realized that it was in fact really there, he figured that something this miraculous was too good to be true and guessed that the thing must've been damaged beyond repair. He thought himself proven right when the camera wouldn't turn on even after being charged, but when he took out the tape, stuck it in a spare camcorder, and played back the recording, he was ecstatic to discover that all of the footage was still there from beginning to end. Grinning like a madman, Carl took a moment to look over the box it came in for a second time, finding a folded up note wedged under the bottom flaps. The note was short, sweet, and to the point, but it let him know exactly how the mysterious stranger who'd retrieved his belongings for him felt about the situation by simply stating; "Now do what you know you have to do." ~F. He hadn't the slightest clue who this 'F' character was, but he was eternally grateful for their efforts. If his mysterious ally wanted him to warn Kate and Beth about the storm headed their way, then he'd be more than happy to oblige.