RIP
Another short story, this time about an haunting with a difference
24th of February, 1860. This date is firmly etched in my memory. What I experienced that day has lived with me ever since. Not a day has passed where I haven't felt the confusion, fear and sheer desperation that descended on me on that fateful Thursday. For thirty years I have endured replays of torturous images when I least expect them. Tormenting cries echo round my head like the savage pangs of an eternal migraine, and all accompanied by the nauseating musty stench of what I can only call rotting flesh and decay.
Come tomorrow, this has been my desolate and lonely existence for three terrible decades. I have long since rescinded all hope of escaping the merciless grip of whatever evil power has locked me forever in this ghastly prison. My last desperate hope is to reach out to the world from which I was plucked and pray for the knowledge that will exorcise these demons that have condemned and shackled me for so long without hope of reprieve.
My tale is harrowing, so I will try to be brief. I have no desire to inflict my unbearable misery on the unsuspecting soul who should bear witness to my dire plea for compassion and merciful salvation.
I sit here now, poised with pen in hand eager to scribe yet I am compelled to pause, for once again an impenetrable darkness is enveloping the room and a dozen voices surround me, their inaudible chatter drones in my ears. A dozen voices speak all at once, yet not one can I single out to ease my frustration, and hear what they say.
Prepare now, as I do, for my experience assures me that the images are about to manifest. The sickening smell of sulfur assaults my senses, and a bone chilling coldness rises about my legs.
This terror is so familiar, it has attacked me with fearful regularity, yet still my being is rigid with panic. I beg for your company to offer me some comfort.
Its occurrence will be short, though I promise most sincerely; its haunting consequence will plague your sanity for years to come.
Like so many times before, I reach out my hand. My heart yearns for a supporting friend. Alas though, I am alone in this nightmare that has ensnared me.
But wait ...! What is this that manifests before me? It is not the fearsome demon that has appeared thus far."
What madness is this? Has my mind finally succumbed to the continuous torment? The image is formed ... and my father stands before me.
How can this be? My father died some fifteen years passed.
Still he stands there, his hand out-stretched. Beckoning me; towards him. His face is shallow, translucent as is common in ghosts.
The expression he wears causes me no fear. A smile lights his features, and fills my heart with childhood memories of the times I spent happily nestled in his lap, enjoying his fanciful stories and sharing his laughter.
The dozen voices have diminished, but one remains. A woman's gentle words urge me to accept my dear father's beckoning.
"Take his hand," she calls, "Take his hand, he means you no harm. He has come to collect you and end your suffering.
Tempted as I am, my instincts scream out for me to resist. Discarnate spirits are resourceful and cunning, they seek to trick gullible mortals into their world to feed and relish on their desirable earth bound energy.
As I look at my father, his hand outstretched and beckoning and listen intently to the woman's compassionate narration, the realization hits me; I hear no spirits, for the spirits are me!"
The realm above me where my father resides and the realm below, where lives the gifted medium have combined to save me from my long-lived denial.
24th February 1860 ... the day that I died.
Shed no tears for my poor lost soul, for now I have been redeemed and my wandering is ended.
Be of good cheer my friend, as I welcome my father's gesturing hand, and go to my rest, in peace and contentment with my family and friends.
I bid you farewell and thank you for lending me a compassionate ear.
THE END?
Come tomorrow, this has been my desolate and lonely existence for three terrible decades. I have long since rescinded all hope of escaping the merciless grip of whatever evil power has locked me forever in this ghastly prison. My last desperate hope is to reach out to the world from which I was plucked and pray for the knowledge that will exorcise these demons that have condemned and shackled me for so long without hope of reprieve.
My tale is harrowing, so I will try to be brief. I have no desire to inflict my unbearable misery on the unsuspecting soul who should bear witness to my dire plea for compassion and merciful salvation.
I sit here now, poised with pen in hand eager to scribe yet I am compelled to pause, for once again an impenetrable darkness is enveloping the room and a dozen voices surround me, their inaudible chatter drones in my ears. A dozen voices speak all at once, yet not one can I single out to ease my frustration, and hear what they say.
Prepare now, as I do, for my experience assures me that the images are about to manifest. The sickening smell of sulfur assaults my senses, and a bone chilling coldness rises about my legs.
This terror is so familiar, it has attacked me with fearful regularity, yet still my being is rigid with panic. I beg for your company to offer me some comfort.
Its occurrence will be short, though I promise most sincerely; its haunting consequence will plague your sanity for years to come.
Like so many times before, I reach out my hand. My heart yearns for a supporting friend. Alas though, I am alone in this nightmare that has ensnared me.
But wait ...! What is this that manifests before me? It is not the fearsome demon that has appeared thus far."
What madness is this? Has my mind finally succumbed to the continuous torment? The image is formed ... and my father stands before me.
How can this be? My father died some fifteen years passed.
Still he stands there, his hand out-stretched. Beckoning me; towards him. His face is shallow, translucent as is common in ghosts.
The expression he wears causes me no fear. A smile lights his features, and fills my heart with childhood memories of the times I spent happily nestled in his lap, enjoying his fanciful stories and sharing his laughter.
The dozen voices have diminished, but one remains. A woman's gentle words urge me to accept my dear father's beckoning.
"Take his hand," she calls, "Take his hand, he means you no harm. He has come to collect you and end your suffering.
Tempted as I am, my instincts scream out for me to resist. Discarnate spirits are resourceful and cunning, they seek to trick gullible mortals into their world to feed and relish on their desirable earth bound energy.
As I look at my father, his hand outstretched and beckoning and listen intently to the woman's compassionate narration, the realization hits me; I hear no spirits, for the spirits are me!"
The realm above me where my father resides and the realm below, where lives the gifted medium have combined to save me from my long-lived denial.
24th February 1860 ... the day that I died.
Shed no tears for my poor lost soul, for now I have been redeemed and my wandering is ended.
Be of good cheer my friend, as I welcome my father's gesturing hand, and go to my rest, in peace and contentment with my family and friends.
I bid you farewell and thank you for lending me a compassionate ear.
THE END?
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