It’s Halloween! Which is spooky. So I wrote a scary story, somewhat in the style of HP Lovecraft. But not racist. I also recorded myself reading it. So if you’re into that sort of thing, here’s the link.
Reader, if you have picked up these worn, crumbling pages, I must warn you. You were not meant to stumble upon this missive. It is not for anyone’s eyes other than my own. I beg you to put this down. The events I write about took place decades ago, yet their memory still tortures me. It is only through the care and ministrations of my good wife Georgia that I am able to even think of it again. I do not wish for anyone to experience this story as it may haunt your every waking moment, as it has mine. So, I beg you once again. Forget that you have ever seen this and walk away.
Dearest Regards,
Augustus Finch
My story begins in October, which at that point was my favorite month. My wife and I owned a lovely cottage in the Scottish countryside. I had inherited it, and quite a bit of money, from my favorite uncle. I had been somewhat of an adopted son to him, he having never married, and he had given everything to me in his will. We traveled to the cottage for a short vacation as we often did during that time of year. My uncle, having somewhat of a dark sense of humor had named the place “Death’s Rest,” and decorated it with fantastic statues of bats, skeletons, and mythical creatures. Georgia, my dearest wife, did not approve and quickly set about re-naming, and re-decorating the place. She had settled on “Lamb’s Peak,” and had completed the decorations by the time of our trip. All except for the detached servant’s house that I had convinced her to let remain the same as my uncle had made it up. In those days I too shared a predilection for the disturbing and otherworldly, something that had bonded me so closely to my uncle. Nowadays that fascination has been cut away from me cleanly, and I want nothing to do with such base horrors.
We arrived to the cottage rather early. Mist still clung to the gardens around the place, and we could barely see our feet. Soon however, the sun came out and we were able to join a picnic out on the green lawn, staring at the late-blooming flowers, eating cold salt pork sandwiches, and enjoying each other’s company. We were planning on soon heading back into the cottage when the ealdorman of the nearby village hailed us from the road. He invited us to their Samhain celebrations the following day. We gladly accepted as I remembered what fun I had at those festivities on previous trips with my uncle.
As I look back on it now, I wish we had never accepted his offer. I still do not know if he was at fault, and so I cannot bear him too much ill will, but I ponder that moment often now. It’s presence haunts me. He was known to me from my visits to my uncle, but on this day he looked different. More stretched. As if someone had made his face out of wax and left it in the sun too long. But I did not think about it too long. It had been a while since I had seen the man, and perhaps I was just delirious from the wonderful country air. I did not want to presume. To be rude. It is a folly of human nature, to fear being rude at all costs. And now my body and psyche must bear the scars of that folly. If only I had been braver in the face of societal demands, I might not be the wreck of a human that I am today.
My wife and I soon decided to retire to the cottage. The day was coming to an end and we were both in need of sleep, our journey there having been a long one. Before I took to bed however a curious compulsion came over me. I wanted to, no I needed to visit the servant’s quarters. The very same quarters that I had forbade my wife from re-decorating. I had already changed into my nightdress, but there was nothing that would stop me from going out and exploring that small, cramped space. My wife, bless her heart, tried to stop me, but I told her to remain in bed. I put on my mud boots, lit one of the new gas lamps we had brought, and stomped along the path that led to what was left of Death’s Rest.
The fog had come back and obscured the stone-line path to the outbuilding, but thanks to years of travel was able to find my way there. As I walked I noticed a faint rotting smell hovering in the air. It was not enough to make one wretch, but it was unpleasant. I wanted to turn around, but whatever was forcing me to make this nighttime visit did not let up. It went away soon enough however, and I hurried on, hoping to pass whatever had made that foul stench. I reached for the doorknob, fashioned in the shape of a goat’s head, and turned it. The hinges yelled after years of rest and rust. That sound shook my down to my bones, but I pressed forward, compelled by some awful force. I felt as if I was on a track and could only move forward, propelled faster and faster toward a certain doom.
I entered into the building. At first I could see nothing. The room was so dark that even the light from my lantern could not brighten the room more than a few inches in front of me. The darkness had a sucking quality, destroying all light within. I was rooted to the spot, I could not move a muscle. The same force that bade me enter what was left of Satan’s Rest, made me stand, defenseless against whatever horror lingered in that house. While I stood there, I started seeing horrible visions. I must believe that they were visions, that I had somehow left reality and gone to another horrible dimension. Because if what I saw was real, then this world was not created by God or his angels, but by the Devil himself.
Finally, the horrors came to an end. They had not harmed me physically, but my spirit and my psyche were shaken. Not yet destroyed, but heavily shaken. The destruction would come soon. I felt the compulsion lift from me and I turned around and ran not wanting to spend another second alone. I ran back to the house where my lovely wife was sleeping. Not wishing to disturb her, but not being able to go back to sleep I poured myself several glasses of scotch I paced around our cottage until the first rays of light came up and I could convince myself that everything that had happened the night before he been the result of a hard day of travel.
I told my wife nothing of what had happened, and she went about her morning blissfully unaware of the night’s terrors. My wife made breakfast but despite a powerful hunger, everything tasted to me of ash. I could not eat a single thing and only pushed the food around my plate, we headed into the village to witness their Samhain celebrations. Perhaps I, thought, I would find suitable food in the village.
Dear reader, I must not lie to you. It is at this point that my tale turns truly harrowing. I must insist that you quit now. I have not been entirely honest with you. I am writing this as I lay on my deathbed. I have not told anyone this story before, not even my beloved Georgia. I write this in some ways to try and repent for what I did on that day. I do not know if I will find it, but I must ask for it, before I die. I am not a good person.
We soon reached the village and were greeted by the simple folk there as if we were one of their own. They fed us food and gave us drink, for which I was glad. I could partake of their repasts, and my growing hunger was curbed but not sated. None of it tasted of ash, but of honey, and salt, and of roasted meats. I had never tasted rations so fine in my life. I wanted more. My sweet wife was playing a game with some local children so I excused myself. The ealdorman had told me that there was more of the food in one of the local houses’ kitchens and I should avail myself of it. It was then, when I walked into that kitchen that I truly lost my senses. Hung from the rafters of the kitchen were bodies. Human bodies, as if pigs at the butchers. Rooted at the door, for that strange compulsion had come over me again and I could not leave, I saw three women butcher and prepare the flesh and blood of the bodies into treats for the Samhain holiday. I stood there and I realized that the compulsion was no longer on me. But I did not leave. I did not want to leave. I was still hungry. My hunger needed to be satisfied. So, I feasted. The women fed me, and kept feeding me. Their faces and their bodies contorted into bird shapes as they did, becoming more and more grotesque.
It was only the sound of my beautiful wife’s voice that saved me. Hearing her call my name snapped me out of my feast. I realized what I had done. The horrors that I committed. I quickly wiped the blood off of me and left that charnel house. I was overcome with grief and madness and I do not remember how or when we left. Only that we did.
My story ends here. I hope you may forgive me for what I have done. I wish it had never happened. If you are reading this, I am sorry. To know that such horror exists in the world is enough to make any person mad. Since that day I have not been able to sleep, or eat with any regularity. I crave that flesh again, even though I know that it is immoral. That it is evil. But I yearn for its taste. My good Georgia has sacrificed herself to save me from my compulsions. She daily lets me drink of her blood. On my worst days, when I am in the throes of my addiction she cuts off one of her toes or fingers for me to gorge upon. She is a most devoted wife.
Thanks for reading! If you liked it, please tell your friends. Or better yet, subscribe (free or paid) to the newsletter! I only publish these once (very rarely twice) a week. So, it’s like a nice little treat to start your Monday morning.