Reads: 165  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 2

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
Patricia tells us her haunted experience...

This short story is Copyright

Submitted: November 12, 2011

A A A | A A A

Submitted: November 12, 2011





On the 29th of October and precisely one hour before midnight, in a small village, infamous for daemonic apparitions, all hell broke loose. On this gloomy and misty night Deadwood was swept with ghostly sweeping shadows as never before. Dark ugly haunting demons scared village folk to death, traumatising and disturbing the inhabitants. The attack was short and swift; the police uncovered lifeless bodies but most of the villagers survived the burning houses and gaping holes in roofs.

Acrid smoke is everywhere; my mother is holding me tightly in her arms running for the safety of our car. Father is starting the car, streams of tears run from their sorrowful eyes. I wake up drenched in cold perspiration; I was but an infant on that horrible night.

I had turned eighteen years old, my parents had left this world and I had a strong desire to return to Deadwood, something I could not understand was calling me back to the village. On a particular night I had a flashback on the events of that horrific October night. I woke up and my window was open and the cold of night filled my room. An acrid smell filled the room, a stench my sensors recognised but I could not tell what it was. I then suddenly recognised the sour smell of ghosts. I looked from my open window and saw the swirling forms of six ghosts staring at me. I was frightened and felt faint, the grey ghosts were gradually coming closer to me, my body shook like a dry leaf in the autumn winds, my teeth chattered in the grey cold and a freezing whipping sensation crawled up my spine. The six unwanted visitors flew into my room and I collapsed in a haze of obscurity.

In my fainted condition I imagined that I was dead, but my heart was beating very fast. I was alive, I was in Deadwood; the village was deserted. I struggled to my feet, my body was weak and with slow and weak movements I brushed the grey dust of my soiled clothes. I walked down the single street, strewn with abandoned creaky houses; I ignored the deserted homes, but by instinct I entered a cottage, this was where I was born. The windows were smashed; ash covered the interior, the unpleasant sharp smell of burnt remains troubled my visit, but I pressed on. Unexplainably I walked directly to my bedroom. On an old and charred wardrobe an aged photograph of my parents holding me in their arms survived the devastation of abandonment. I rifled the creaky draws and uncovered photographs of me when I was a baby. One of the photographs startled me, my eyes were fixed in a sharp and bright stare, I examined it closely, my pupils were formed in the images of spooky ghosts. Was it really me or was I a ghost? The nightmares, the flashbacks, the ‘DWG’ scar on my left wrist, was this my mark, DEADWOOD GHOST, the visions of the five people similar to me, with the same scar, are we all ghosts?

I abandoned the house and ran to the square. Five people were standing in a circle; they heard my running footsteps and turned to face me. I was taken aback: all of them had had black circles around their eyes, their mouths opened in awe. In a trembling frightened voice one of the congregated five said that I was the sixth.

“The sixth of what? I asked confused and shocked.

“You must be Patricia, right?” said the same person.

I nodded in confirmation.

“You are one of the six haunted babies that escaped 29/10’s horrid night.” She paused and looked at me as if I knew something. “You will help us defeat the ghosts. Get rid of them for good.” She turned away and left.

I smelt the ghosts coming. I looked behind me and saw the six grey forms approaching me. In disbelief I gasped at them with wide open eyes.

“Patricia!” beckoned the ghost in the front.

“You, you… you can speak?” I stammered.

“Patricia, you understand us.” said the ghost and they all came closer to me.

I was terrified and shocked breathing heavily; even though I was intimidated, I remember thinking… I may be haunted but certainly not insane.

“We will burn down Deadwood village!” growled one of the other ghosts.

“What… why? I still don’t understand why I can understand you.” I enquired perplexed turning towards the other five people I regularly saw in my weird visions.

“You are haunted, you have abilities that normal people don’t have!” screeched one of the ghosts.

“You have powers!” growled the ghost that stood in the middle, the one that wanted to set Deadwood village on fire.

“Oh, oh, but…,” I was trembling with fright, “why do you want to burn Deadwood village. Why did you attack and terrorise the villagers eighteen years ago. Why?” I questioned sobbing; tears ran freely down my cheeks. I closed my eyes and a mystically in my vision I saw a sign saying “Welcome to Dellwood” and not “Deadwood”. In the mystery of the vision people were being treated badly and punished for no reason, a bizarre and illogical conviction to please the affluent class. The vision was scary, I saw privileged people beating the poor and condemning the poor souls to slavery.

“We want revenge!” shouted the group of ghosts and the vision disappeared.

“Wait! No, no!” I shouted with my eyes closed. The vision did not reappear. I opened my eyes and mysteriously I was holding hands in the circle of haunted people. We were all whispering strange words, words I had never heard before. I was saying aloud “kataro, bromiastop, ghostarep, and savanatanos”. A strange string of words. The scars on our wrists started glowing. The light was bright and our arms defied gravity. I felt uneasy. Trees were bending in all directions, angry winds howled an eerie sound, my veins and arteries swelled and a sour odour prevailed. Uncountable ghosts appeared from everywhere and as I felt weaker they disappeared into thin air. Suddenly a cool refreshing breeze cleared the eerie surroundings, the light, the sour smells and the ghosts disappeared. Could Deadwood be called Dellwood again? My blood ran through my veins and arteries with new vigour, with fresh clean life. I no longer was haunted. The six haunted babies had grown up, we are free at last, or are we?


© Copyright 2018 Kimberly Derrington. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments: