All in 31 Days of Spooky Stories
After the Swedish family left the area, Justin Thibeaux stumbled onto the road. Slowly, as he walked further, his bones began to mend together, his skin stitched back across his skeleton. He managed to move his limbs, removing the cracks and scraps his joints made as they learned how to work in unison again.
A large, strong man that towered at 6’3”, Justin was not accustomed to being afraid. But here, in this room, on this day, he felt himself give into the fear that had not claimed him since he was five years old and came face-to-face with a cougar in the hills.
The cabin was little more than a shack. Justin knew this because his father helped rebuild it 20 years ago after a rock slide nearly crushed poor Hannah Moore to death. The old woman was only able to escape by dropping into the dirt hole that served as her cellar.
The cabin was magnificent. Stretching in either direction for what seemed like forever, the hut had beautiful dark wood floors, high ceilings, luxurious rugs heading in every direction, and leather furniture that he would bet his trusty truck cost more than the renovations done to the Westmore Hotel back in town.
Reverend Jeremiah Hamilton Frees, devoid of religious garb, was dressed simply in black slacks held up by dark grey suspenders and a white shirt, which was already stained with sweat from setting up the tent. His long limbs seemed to jut out from his clothing, but no one really noticed. All anyone really noticed was that since Reverend Frees came to Jericho, he had begun to look younger and younger with every passing sermon.
I just don’t want to end up like her, you know? I’m scared of hurting myself, my kid, you, anyone. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life locked up in an institution or prison or god knows what else because I have a natural inclination towards violence.
Over the lawn, lights start coming on in the house. I watch them, one by one, flicker on, then off, then back on again. First the living room, then the family room, the kitchen, the garage, the stairs, David’s room, the bathroom, the attic, and Jenna’s room. These are all the rooms that face the street. And the lights are all on.
The History of Death Rituals in the Western Hemisphere by Dr Jane Rios Domingo, Ph.D.
It didn’t exactly scream “Don’t Read Me” from the title.
I read the whole book, cover to cover. It was for school, so I had to. It was a textbook on the various rituals that preceded and succeeded death, from the dawn of written history to now. It wasn’t a large book, smaller than a Harry Potter novel, but it took me at least a week to get through it the first time.
I’ve been here for hours. I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I want to use the bathroom. I want to scream more than anything, but nothing comes out.
So I stay still, in this chair that has a rivet missing and wobbles to the left. I look everywhere: the security camera in the corner, the dust collecting on the concrete floor, the door that’s banged up enough to make my imagination jump. I even glance at the dark, endless mirror to my right, but just for a second.
Rhea thought for a moment. When they were kids, they had lived in a haunted house. Of course, Sara wouldn’t remember – she was six years younger than Rhea and it was her birth and the subsequent events that caused them to move out of their hometown and into the suburb of the big city they lived in now. No one had ever told Sara about it and Rhea was just grateful that Sara didn’t seem to have any weird aftereffects of the 9 months she lived in the house.