It seems, nowadays, that Ichor Falls is a town stricken by plague. Certainly the atmosphere — the thick fog, the ever-barren trees — these things lend themselves well to horror stories. But now, with the unexplained deaths… the local stations would have you believe it’s the act of some sociopath, that the police are “breaking the case wide open.” It’s far from the truth. If you asked me, I’d say it was The Locksmith, but most Ichor Falls residents are too young to know of that horrible event — I myself am too young, in case you thought that was the wind-up to some fanciful tale. But I’ve always been fascinated by this town’s history — morbid curiosity, I guess — and have taken a look at some rather ancient correspondence tucked away in the town hall archives.

Here’s the history lesson.

(continue reading…)

I stood in the driveway as I watched my client, Arthur Acton, walk towards me in a smart business suit. The man said he wanted to live in one of the town’s more rustic residences, not in any of the new developments. He chose this as the first house he wanted to visit; it has been on my roster for as long as I’ve shown houses in this town. I tried to steer him towards others, but he was adamant about the place.

“People don’t usually ask to see this house, Mr. Acton. They don’t like the fact that the entire family died just after the Ethylor summer from brain cancer.”

“Then it would be very beneficial to you if I take this place off your hands,” Mr. Acton said as he put his hands into his pockets and smiled. Even though I knew he was right, I still wasn’t comfortable with the idea of someone living here.

“All righty,” I said as I fumbled with my key ring until I found the correct one. The door unlocked with a barely audible click and the door drifted inwards. The mist that clung to the town hadn’t been kind to this house over the years. The faded wallpaper was peeling in more places than not, and from the sounds of the scratching in the walls, a nest of rats had taken up residence. Even the floorboards seemed to be warped from the moisture. I’d lost countless parties at this point — I was sure he was going to walk out on me, but I turned to see him practically beaming.

(continue reading…)

My cat was the first to notice.

I mean, of course I’ve heard that animals are more sensitive to things of this nature. But I was never entirely sure. Until Muffin started acting up.

It was semi-normal in the beginning. Muffin would run around the house at random, like cats do. And there were times where she would stop, like dead stop, and stare at corners of the room. Usually the top, up where the roof and the walls meet. I never thought much of it, assuming she was staring at a bug or a cobweb or something.

The house was a bit larger than I needed, since it was just Muffin and I, but the price was unbeatable. Ichor Falls wasn’t my first choice for a new home, but I wanted to be out of the way so that I could focus on my work. I was redrafting my screenplay to seal a contract with a major motion picture company and I couldn’t afford to be disturbed. Really, I only used two or three rooms and it was a five-bedroom affair, so there was a lot of empty space left over.

I had set up furniture in all of the rooms, since I wanted the place to be hospitable in case I ever had company. I spent most of my personal time in my chosen bedroom, the living room, or the den, which I had set up with my computer equipment and turned into a workspace.

It was there that I first encountered it.

(continue reading…)

It had been unusually cold. Not that it had mattered much, there had been enough clothing provided to keep warm and the marching – the endless marching was something you got accustomed to rather quickly – did its part in staving off the frigid air.

Still, it was unusual.

All this marching meant you had time to reflect on all the little things, moments and nuances in life that otherwise would have been drowned out by all the noise that accompanied any modern existence.

Looking back, not seeing what went on would have been a better option.

After three eerily cold nights and chilly days – despite the sun shining bright from a clear and uncluttered sky – there was no denying that something was wrong. Besides the strangely cold weather there was a creeping sensation that someone, or something, was following in our tracks.

At the dawn of the fourth day things took a turn for the worse.

It was as if the very friends you had traveled with for so long, people you knew and trusted, were consumed by the shadows as soon as you didn’t look straight at them. It was especially disturbing when you saw them in the corner of your eye. When you saw what became of them.

They would flutter in and out of existence, like a candle desperately trying to stay lit despite there being no wick left to fuel the flame, fear and agony all too well visible in their eyes.

Watching their presence shift between the known, conscious world and something otherworldly and surreal begins to claw away at your sanity.

“What happens to them when I turn my back? Where do they go, what do they become?”

It has been a long time since that fourth day, since that turn for the worse. Days became months, years, decades.

You grow used to always having someone watch you, no matter what you do — and having to watch others in return. We sleep in shifts, with at least two awake at any given time. Work is impossible. It is an impractical, exhausting existence.

Those of us that could not handle the uncertainty, those that willingly disappeared from out of sight, have not come back to share what fate has befallen them. We never expected them to.

I am growing old, and tired, but not as old and tired as my friends.

I am unsure as to the best course of action — to make sure I do not face whatever unholy evil that exists in that gap between the corporeal and the unseen by taking matters in my own hands… or wait for the others to fade and see what, if anything, awaits me.

As for now, I wait.