Linda Kennedy, owner of Indy-Pen-Dance, wrote the second installment of our collective ghost story. Missed the first? Check it out here. Below, I’ve posted Gini’s last paragraph, along with Linda’s continuation.
Aside from being thoroughly creeped out and vaguely grateful to be alive, I’d hoped to be able to put this story in a closet and throw away the key. For years that’s what I’ve done. The house has been empty for some time and the mysterious deaths have stopped. Then just recently I heard that someone from out of town had bought the place and is living there. And weird things started happening again. The owner has become reclusive and some bizarre manikins suddenly appeared on the property. Neighbors report having terrifying nightmares and the most recent death was in that area â€“ by strangulation. I think the haint has returned…
… but why return now, to that house and why would bizarre manikins suddenly appear on the property? There has to be someone around that knows what happened, years ago, that would have brought the haint to Ferny Creek and why that particular house became the target of the haint’s violent hauntings.
As I pondered this turn of events an intense fear began to overcome me and made my heart race, the sound of my own pulse thundered in my ears and sweat poured from me like a rain shower. I had not felt fear like this since I woke in â€œthatâ€ house with a stranger’s hands around my neck. The fear was so distressing and overwhelming that I wanted nothing more than to escape the memories and terror that consumed me. I ran to the bathroom, wretching into the toilet for what seemed like hours. Spent, but feeling better, I went to the sink to brush my teeth and wash my face. As I turned on the water, I noticed something in the mirror. Pulling back my long dark hair, I saw it … the distinct outline of long, slender fingers around the base of my throat.
That was the last thing I remembered when I came to several hours later, the dark encompassing me as I struggled to sit up. My head was throbbing and something wet dripped down my face.
I reached for the light switch and stood up to check my head, looking in the mirror I saw that I had a gash that ran from just over my left eye to my hairline. I had hit the sink when I blacked out, and the blood dried on the white marble confirmed my suspicion. I cleaned up my wound, bandaged it and cleaned up the sink â€“ all without looking back into the antique mirror that I had placed above the sink a couple of years ago. I had to think, why this was happening and why did my life suddenly feel so full of evil and impending doom? Should I spend the night alone at home, as I always did or would it be safer to call a friend to sit with me? I knew that I would feel better having someone around, so I called the one person I knew would understand. Carmen, she and her family had lived in â€œthatâ€ house and knew what had happened the night I was snowed in.
Carmen made the thirty minute drive to my house in just under twenty minutes and when she came into the foyer and saw me in the light her face went completely ashen. Carmen grabbed my hand and led me to my favorite sofa, a supreme example of a late 18th century Louis XVI hand carved Giltwood Canape with delightful classically styled carvings and legs that were clearly spiral turned and given feet of fig-leaves. The workmanship on this piece truly stunning, I received it as a gift from my parents when I bought my first home. It wasn’t a family piece, rather something they had purchased at an auction near where I live. We sat and Carmen insisted I tell her everything that had taken place.
After nearly an hour of repeating the horrific details of the last few hours and expressing my believe that the haint had returned and was after me, I leaned back into the back of my settee totally exhausted but at the same time, strangely liberated. I knew that Carmen would not think me psychotic and would stay so that I could sleep. Surprisingly, my dear friend reached over to my sofa table and picked up my leather bound journal and favorite fountain pen, a Pregnant Parker whose Mother-of-Pearl body and gold trimmed glistened atop the deep mahogany table top. She ordered me to just start drawing, anything I could remember about tonight or the night in her home. I sat for a few moments and then put my pen to paper, the smooth extra fine nib danced across the paper as if powered by the hand of days long past … deep wine colored ink creating images that I did not recognize. When I finished, I handed the journal to Carmen and waited for a response. It only took a moment of Carmen glancing at the pages I handed her before she …
Before she what? Find out in a few days, when we post the next installment!