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Perpetual Haunting

The funny thing about old buildings is that they don’t just hoard the grime and stains or even the little trinkets people leave when they move on.  They also leave behind the memories of all that has happened.  Sometimes, what happens is so bad that the dead linger—clinging to what happened to them, reliving their final moments in a loop.  And sometimes, the very clever ones become aware of their surroundings again. Coming to their senses, they look on, confused and angry at the strangers in their homes. Watching the strangers live and go about their lives. As the years go by, the dead watch helplessly as the living start ripping up the old carpets and knocking down its walls. As the years and decades come and go, the dead become more unstable and angry.  They would try desperately to strike at the people or scare them off. But the dead are nothing more than a stain of energy on the place. 

 

Most people do not think too much about the stains on their shirts; they just toss them in the laundry to be washed.  But should the stained shirt fall out of the basket and get kicked under the mashing machine by some careless person?  Who's to say the organic matter embedded in the stain begins to rot and fester?  The miniscule amount in the right environment can grow and spread over time. The rotting becomes moldy, and what if that mold is black mold?  Like the mold, the specters seep into the lives of the living, polluting them, twisting them.  Slowly, the lovely little family becomes broken. The brave father becomes a drug addict, or the mother runs off.  The people's lives slowly get destroyed, and all that pain and suffering helps the stain to grow. When people say a haunted house, this is what they mean.  Pain and horror layered on top of one another till it's so powerful that it can manifest in the world of the living.   This happens more often than you would want to know.  If you truly knew how the past usually destroys the future, I don't think you would sleep again.      

 

I am sorry, dear reader, I am rambling, but you see, it's my way.  Let me introduce myself, my name is Jebediah, and I can see the dead. I am sure you are skeptical, but just hear me out.  Like I said I can see the dead, and I believe it because I am not living or dead, just a poor fool who zigged when he should have Zagged.  The occult had been my profession, and I did make a few coppers along the way.  And please don't confuse what I am saying to mean that I was one of those evangelist preachers. My seances were real, and we did commune with the dead. I had grown a small group of followers during the early days of the Spiritualist movement. At our peak, we had 200 members and an ever-increasing notoriety.  Not to brag, but we accomplished things I couldn't explain. But we could never duplicate it, so we could never give proper evidence of our claims.  

 

With our nominal success, we let our human weakness get the better of us as we all let the fame go to our heads.  In my arrogance, I let my star pupil open his own chapter.  He was the better showman, I must admit.  And his chapter quickly eclipsed mine.  As his fame and fortune grew, so did his claims.  I did try to counsel him not to let all that glitters blind him to the true cause, but he would not listen. The sounds of his Huberous drowned all else from his mind.  

 

But after Sir Arthur Conan Doyle proclaimed the legitimacy of what we could do, the spiritualist movement soared to new heights. But it all came crashing down with the help of that Charlatan Houdini.  That bastard! He thought us fools and made it a hobby to “debunk” our movement. One leader after another took on the Houdini challenge, and to my utter disappointment, they were proven frauds.  I couldn't believe it, for I was not a fraud. My claims were valid, and I knew my old pupil, lost as he was, was also no fraud. 

 

When my pupil was finally challenged, I was excited that it was finally our turn.  And we would humiliate those naysayers.  Shamefully, I let my desires overcome my rational, and I conveniently overlooked that one little recurring problem.  We couldn't duplicate the finding during seances. I swear to all of you that when we conjured a ghost on those rare times, we did so sincerely.  But even after years, it only worked one out of five times. 

 

I was present on the night everything went wrong.  The seance commenced, and I couldn't believe it.  My Pupil conjured spectres. Real ones! Not just the ectoplasm coming out off the mouths of the mediums. But real, dare I say, ghosts. I was jealous but still beamed with pride.  Even Houdini looked impressed.  But the funny thing about true geniuses is that sometimes if you have a sharp mind and strong observational skills, you can see the switch go on in their minds.  At that moment, they have an understanding or have figured out the solution.  No one but me saw it, I am sure.  But I happened to gaze over at Houdini, and his back stiffened just a little, and a strange look on his face flickered for a blink of an eye.   I hoped it was a good thing, but my heart dropped anyway.  I swear to you, I didn't know what Houdini had figured out, but I knew he no longer was captivated by what he saw. He let the show reach its conclusion before shattering my world.  

 

My star pupil beamed as he stared out into the audience.  Pride filled his eyes until he turned his attention to Houdini. Beaming with zeal, waiting for what Houdini would say. To Houdini's credit, he was stern but not cruel, as he destroyed my pupil and our movement.  Houdini broke down the con, and my heart broke a little more with his every word.  By the time he had exposed the musician behind the walls, the copper wires connected to picture frames, he went for the kill.  But as he did so, our eyes met, and I saw that understanding strike him again.  I'm sure only I noticed the hesitation as his grand flourishing movement faded, and he somberly walked over to the seance table and upended it.  The ghosts had been a projection. A light shone through a hole in the floor up into the crystal ball that had been at the center of the table .  That was the moment my heart truly ripped in two.  Everything I had worked for was destroyed, and my star pupil was a fraud.      I collapsed, and I don't remember anything till waking up on Houdini's coach. Houdini's couch of all the people!  

 

With some effort, I could right myself, and as if I had wrong a bell, his maid came out of the kitchen. She smiled and handed me a tray of steaming food, two aspirin, and a decanter of wine.  Setting it down, she kindly smiled and gave me a letter before leaving me to my thoughts.  I stared at the closed letter for a long while, not noticing the food had gone cold.  With trembling hands, I opened the letter. 

 

    Dear Jebediah, I believe you to be an honest man and was unaware of the fraud that was being committed, and I could almost feel your despair as you realized the truth. I am genuinely sorry for the pain this has caused you. Please help yourself with some food and wine and rest before you go. I would say these words to you in person, but I must attend to business out of town.  

 

    Sincerely 

 

        Houdini. 

 

 

From then on, it was a blur of emotions as everything I had built was destroyed.  The shaming of my pupil brought the movement to its knees.  And I was ostracized and ridiculed.  My followers, all but 12, moved on.  Many lied about me to save their reputations.  I took to the drink to soothe me,  as my possessions were confiscated once my savings had been depleted.  Madness threatened to seep in, for it just was not fair! I was the real thing; I didn't lie.  So, I became vengeance-filled and desperate.  And as you all know, that's the downfall in many stories. I became a lowly literary trope.  Nonetheless, I couldn't stop, so I crossed the line I swore I would never cross.  

 

For those like myself who were indeed in the inner circle of the spiritualist, we knew secrets that others did not. We all swore to secrecy on a blood oath not to do a couple of things. The first is not to share these perilous secrets.  The Second was never to write the information down, and, finally, never go to Morningside Manor.  Morningside Manor terrified me, and I had no trouble keeping my word till now.  We knew that if you did a seance there, you would be guaranteed to get results, but you would also never leave to tell what happened.  

 

In the early days, we had investigated. But every time, the next morning after, the practitioners were found dead, horribly mutilated.  Some had been skinned and torn apart; others would have strange sigils carved into them.  So we abandoned the research and vowed to forget our sins there. 

 

But I was too far gone when I made the decision.  I knew the dangers, but my last 12 followers did not.  I took them down to the cellar, and the 13 of us began, and things started to happen immediately.  What usually took time was instantaneous.  Long after that night, I would realize why.  We didn't need to call beyond the void; the Horrors were already here.  Horrifying shapes materialized in the shadows, moving with frightening speed as they circled us. Suddenly, an arm the color of pitch reached into the circle of candlelight, snatching its first victim. The screams and the sounds of wet gore are still fresh in my mind.  The shadows didn't make a sound but gave off a vibration just below the audible range.  One by one, my friend died horribly, screaming till their vocal cords tore and they could scream no more.  

 

As all my followers had been taken and it was my turn, the shadows surrounded me.  A creaking like the sound of a creaking board, if the sound had been distorted to a more sinister level, was all I could hear. The ghostly pitch-black hand slowly reached out of the shadows and then violently forced its way into my chest. With a cold, burning pain, I screamed out.  Then everything went dark, and I awoke on the floor caked in mud. I managed to light a candle with my shaking hands.  Still confused and disoriented, I wondered why the mud was red and why the cellar's dirt floor was muddy to begin with.  Quickly, I realized the mud was red due to the loss of blood from my dead followers. I am not ashamed to admit I screamed and ran out of the basement.  The front door was open, and I could see the sunlight shining through.  I ran through the great hall, desperate to reach the sun's warmth as if the manor door would close upon me. Traping me with the dead and evil that lurks here.

 

But this is not what the youth of today call a horror movie.  And so I made it out, crashing to my knees, crying and screaming.  Dear readers, I knowingly took my followers to a dangerous place and did not warn them. I also left the manor grounds and never looked back.  To my knowledge, their bodies are still splayed out in a mutilated form of a pentagram.  Despise me if you wish, but know I have paid for my sins.  

 

For it didn't take long to understand I didn’t survive that night.  For the first few days, I didn't notice or realize that not all the people I saw in the streets and shops were living.  But once I saw it, I couldn't unsee it. The Dead are all around us. Some do meaningless tasks in repetition.  Others frightened me with their aggression.  They knew they were dead, and they were angry.   I would study them from afar as they attacked people; their claws and fists would go through their intended victim as if the person were vapor.   

 

After a while, I let my guard down and stopped to watch one only a few yards from me. As I watched like a voyeur, one of the angry ones stopped and slowly turned towards me.  Then, the others noticed me, and in unison, they came after me.  I stood my ground, believing I was safe, till the first one took hold of me, burning my skin with its Icy grip. Then the others got me laughing menacingly.  I am not sure how, but I got free and ran. 

 

For days or weeks, I am not sure, but I didn't stop moving for fear the dead would spot me again. Finally, exhaustion won me over, and I collapsed.  Resing up for a few days, I realized I had not slept or eaten since that night. But if cut, I would bleed out, and I could feel pain. Like seeing the ghost, once I realized I wasn't breathing, it was all I could think about.  I didn't need the air, but my mind wouldn't let go of its nature.  

 

Over the next century, I have learned to keep myself safe and have even found a way to battle the more dangerous specters.  So, as I said, I am not dead, and I am not alive. I don't know what the future holds for me, but I have a warning for you.  They are all around you.  If you feel a cold spot as you walk down the twists and turns of a building's hallways, or you can almost hear a strange creek or vibration, you are a sensitive and in danger.  Stay clear of the shadows and walk directly under the lights. 

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