In the small, quiet town of Willowbrook, a chilling narrative had woven its way into the fabric of everyday life. Unbeknownst to many, Emma, a strong-willed woman, returned to her childhood home, determined to face her fears. With her son, Ethan, by her side, they encountered unexplainable phenomena that defied reason.
Shadows danced, and eerie whispers echoed through the dimly lit corridors. But their resolve remained unbroken. Courage and resilience intertwined with the age-old legends, for they were determined to rewrite the ending of their family's terrifying tale. But, first, to understand what happened in the present, we need to understand the past.
The year was 1817, and farmer John Bell was about to do something he would regret for the rest of his life. Standing outside his mansion in rural Tennessee, Bell took a deep breath of the hot, summer air.
He looked at his girlfriend, Kate. Her beautiful red hair shone like copper in the dappled light of the sun, while her brown eyes watched him, concerned at why he wanted to talk so urgently. “Kate…” John began.
John gazed into Kate's eyes, feeling the weight of his confession. "It's not about you, Kate. It's me. I've changed, and I can't give you what you deserve anymore. I don't want to hold you back." Tears welled up in Kate's eyes, her voice quivering as she whispered, "But I still love you, John."
A heavy silence hung between them as John's heart ached. The memories of their first dance, the laughter, and the whispered promises seemed distant. He reached out to hold her hand one last time, a bittersweet farewell in the place where their love story had begun, now destined to be just a memory.
John watched the glimmer, almost reptilian, flicker in Kate's eyes before dissipating. His gut churned. He hoped he wouldn't regret this. John gave Kate his speech—how they weren't right for each other, how there was friction with his family, how John was expected to marry someone of a higher social status.
"Alright, John," she said, her voice surprisingly composed, though her eyes betrayed the hurt. "That's alright then." The finality of her response left John with a mix of relief and sorrow. As he walked away from their fairground meeting place, he couldn't shake the feeling that he had just made a grave mistake, leaving behind a love that may have been worth fighting for.
A day later, John got the news. A local courier ran to his house at four in the morning to tell him that Kate Batts was dead. John got dressed quickly and headed to the constabulary. It was as he'd feared. "No one blames you, Johnny," the constable, John's cousin, J.P. Richardson, said. "If it wasn't this, it would have been something else."
John's heart sank. The weight of his decision had settled into a deep pit of remorse. He couldn't shake the feeling that his choice had triggered a chain of events leading to this tragic outcome. He was overwhelmed by the guilt that gnawed at his soul, a reminder of the love he had lost and the price he had paid for his family's expectations.
Guilt plagued John Bell like a specter. A few months passed, and he still felt a gnawing sense of responsibility for what happened to Kate. The thought of her standing atop the old well, looking down at it before making her final decision, woke him up every night.
But that wasn’t the only thing haunting John Bell. He had begun to feel something out in the woods, watching and waiting. He felt it as clear as his father had when he was fighting the tribes for his land.
“They would come out of the trees,” John’s father told him, “Painted, screaming…such an awful sound like you never heard.” He often talked about Tennessee as though it were a mystical land, and he always drank while telling these tales, punctuating each sentence with a gulp.
He looked at John once with his good eye, the one that hadn’t been hit by a flint arrow. He told him that, when it was his time, he’d hear the screaming again. And no one would be able to stop that because its just how it is.
One week after Kate's death, John went on a hunt. He stared at his reflection in the black-and-gold mirror in his house, noting that he'd lost weight. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he was a few days past a shave, stubble forming on his jawline. He was starting to get jowls now, too. The image staring back at him felt like a stranger.
Hoisting his Deringer over his shoulder, John went out to the woods, a place he and Kate had explored together on countless occasions. The air was heavy with the scent of pines and the distant echoes of birds. The hunt became more than a quest for game; it was a way to find solace in nature and come to terms with the heart-wrenching loss that had shattered his world.
As he approached the treeline, John squared his shoulders. "This is my land," he thought, drawing strength from the familiarity of his surroundings. The treeline imposed upon him, dark and intimidating, glaring down at him. There was something ominous in this forest, but John Bell wasn't a man to trifle with.
It wasn't long before he saw it. A shadowy figure darted among the trees, just out of clear view. John's heart quickened, and he followed cautiously, the memory of Kate haunting his thoughts as he ventured deeper into the woods, determined to confront whatever it was that lurked there.
John let out an embarrassing scream before immediately chiding himself. It was a squash carved with a face, likely some All Hallow’s decoration that had been left in the woods by rowdy teenagers. The squash leered at John as he laughed at his own jumpiness.
You’re losing it, Johnny. He kept walking until he reached a clearing. There, he saw a buck. His heart thumped with excitement as he raised his Deringer, narrowing in on the shot. This meat would feed him for weeks.
The deer looked straight at him. John could barely describe the expression he saw on its face. There was a reptilian intelligence in its eyes, something ancient, something that had been in the woods—his woods—for a long, long time. The connection between man and beast transcended the ordinary; he felt as though the deer held a piece of the forest's wisdom. "Go on then," a voice said behind him. "Kill it."
Startled, John turned to see a tall, enigmatic figure shrouded in shadows. His heart raced as he recognized the voice, a voice that seemed strangely familiar, yet ethereal and out of place in the quiet of the woods. He was faced with a decision that would alter the course of his life, caught between the mysterious and the mundane, the past and the present.
John jumped a foot in the air, whipping around to see what had spoken to him. When he saw it, his mind felt as though it was crumbling. The voice came from a creature with the body of a dog and the head of a rabbit. Its bloodshot eyes looked at him.
The creature said, “Alright then, John, kill it, shoot it in its—” Bang. John fired at the creature, which scampered off with a horrible, bow-legged run. He then ran for his house, feeling, the whole time, as though something were on his heels.
When he burst through the treeline, he saw, in one of the windows upstairs, a dark figure. It was pressed against the glass, banging its head against the window. Even from far away, John could hear the figure making noises like a snarling dog.
But then, a flicker of recognition crossed his mind. He holstered the rifle and ran through the door to his home, ascending the creaking stairs, the eerie noises growing louder. Each step seemed to echo with the weight of the unknown, driving him toward the top floor, where the sinister figure awaited.
He'd seen the figure in his bedroom, and he could hear it now as he ran up the stairs. The cacophony of sounds intensified, a nightmarish blend of snarling dog and grunting pig, creating an eerie symphony that echoed through the house. He heard the repeated cracks as it assailed the window, like a relentless force seeking entry.
John thundered up the stairs, his heart in his throat, throwing the door to his room open. But there was nothing there. His bedroom, once a place of comfort, now felt empty and cold. The shattered window bore witness to the earlier struggle, but the dark figure had vanished.
The window was cracked, but, otherwise, the room was undisturbed. Heart thumping wildly, John Bell felt something behind him. Something angry, something hostile. The presence was hot on his back, eyes glaring at him. It hated him.
Turning around would be a death sentence, but he was powerless to stop his own body. He pivoted, his eyes meeting the malevolent gaze of the presence. The last thing he saw was a flash of copper, a glimpse of a sinister figure, before a searing pain tore through him.
The year was 1967. Kon Tum, Vietnam was not known for temperate weather, and, as James Richardson stood outside his mother’s home in Tennessee, he thought that, though this Southern heat was oppressive, he was glad the air wasn’t as humid as it had been in ‘Nam.
He’d take American heat any day. Fresh from Dak To and missing an arm, Richardson had no choice but to return home to his mother. And that he thought is a good option to be with her mother when he needed her the most.
The Tennessee estate was built in the Antebellum style, and it had been deeded to his family by a man named John Bell in the early 1800s. The home was gorgeous, painted yellow and white with three floors and a wraparound porch.
James couldn’t stand being there. He had to bite the bullet, so he walked into the home, arranging his face into a smile. His family greeted him with happiness and relief. They even did a good job not staring at his stump of an arm.
Laying in his childhood bed, staring at the ceiling, James thought about what this meant for him. He thought of his future as a massive stretch of time, one from which he couldn't get away. He'd have to find a girl, have kids, work a job, retire, die.
James Richardson was only nineteen years old, but the war had aged him in ways he couldn't fully grasp. The innocence of youth had been sacrificed on the altar of experience, leaving him to navigate the uncertain path ahead, where the scars of war would forever be etched into his soul.
“Thank you for your service,” a voice told James as he was shopping in Cross Plains’ Grocery. The town of Cross Plains was a small one, and it only took a few days before everyone knew that little Jimmy Richardson was home from the war, minus one arm.
Turning around, James saw a young woman. He’d gone to high school with her. She was very pretty, with blonde hair, bright blue eyes like his own, and a cornflower-blue dress. And he just kept looking at her without a thought.
“Thanks,” James said, “I mean, you’re welcome. Sorry, people usually spit at us, so I’m not used to thank-you.” She laughed awkwardly. Marie, that was her name. He remembered now. The two made small talk as they walked up and down the aisles.
And James eventually worked up the courage to ask her on a date that Friday. He’d pick her up at seven, and they’d go see The X From Outer Space. One year later, James and Marie were married with a baby on the way. Ain't it the happiest news?
Two years. That was how long Jimmy Richardson was happy. Two years after James came home from the mud of Dak To, he awoke to a knocking sound in his house. The sound didn’t wake Marie up, but James hadn’t been a heavy sleeper since before the War.
He stood up, heart pounding. Who’s in my house? He picked up his prized baseball bat and headed downstairs to where he’d heard the knocking. He was scared and curious, constantly shouting "who's there?" as he stepped downwards carefully.
It was just the screen door. Someone had left it open, perhaps Marie, and the door was banging against the frame over and over. James made a mental note to remind Marie to make sure to close it when she came in.
He shut the door and turned around. Standing there, in the gloom of the kitchen, was a tall, dark figure. It looked like a woman wearing a heavy, long dress. The woman’s face was obscured by a black veil. James froze, bat in hand.
The apparition took a step towards James, who felt his hands and feet go numb as he stared into two white, glowing orbs that he assumed were eyes. The eyes held him hostage, making James question the ripping of his reality.
The woman seemed to grow in the gloom, stretching until her head almost touched the ceiling. She reached out her arms as though about to wrap James in a hug. Her body engulfed the kitchen in darkness.
James felt his body unfreeze, and he stepped towards the woman, swinging his bat at her with a scream. He heard a few grunts and a snarl, but his bat swung through the air, hitting only a metal toaster with a loud clang.
The lights came on. “What the hell is going on?” Marie asked. She looked dazed and scared. James opened his mouth, but no words came out. Upstairs, their baby daughter began to cry. And she could not understand what was going on in there?
James didn’t sleep well after that. He saw the woman’s eyes everywhere, snow-white and glowing. He saw them in the mirror, in the metal door handles of his car…everywhere. At night, he heard grunts and squeals.
He told Marie nothing. Until, one day, his daughter awoke, screaming in her sleep. She had marks on her as though she’d been poked by a pin. That was when he knew that his idyllic, fresh start at life was careening towards an abrupt end.
Things went on like that for a month. Marie was concerned, sure that the house was not the subject of a haunting, but of a repeat intruder. James had taken a position with the sheriff’s office after the War, and Marie swore it was a vengeful arrestee who kept sneaking in at night.
Locks on the doors, exterior lights, and other security measures didn’t help. James stopped sleeping more than an hour a night. And it definitely affected his health both mental and physical. He was so worried.
He felt his psyche begin to fray. Though the woman had chosen to leave his daughter and wife alone, she focused all of her energy on him. It was as though she could sense darkness in James, things he’d done in the War…those things fueled her.
The doctors said he had PTSD, prescribing him 714s. James flushed them down the toilet. He had no use for things that would warp his mind and make him dependent. Finally, he decided to confront the woman head-on. They’d meet again, back in the dark as they were the first time.
2 A.M. and James was in the kitchen, waiting. The woman refused to appear, even though James was a prime target. The light outside the house had gone out, and the kitchen was totally dark. James faced the blackness, waiting to see her gaze.
He put his head down for a second, and that was when he felt her. She was behind him, eyes boring into his back. A hand curled over his shoulder, though he dared not look. He was mostly scared and too frightened to say anything.
"Who are you and what do you want?" James repeated the question over and over, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and curiosity. The crisp, cold October air streamed into the kitchen as the hand tightened on his shoulder painfully, the grip like an icy vice.
James stared into her eyes, the whites becoming all he could see in the dimly lit room. She answered in a whisper that sent shivers down his spine, "I am a messenger, James. I've come with a warning, and your life will never be the same." The air grew heavier with a foreboding presence, leaving James to wonder what mysterious forces had invaded his world.
"Alright, Jimmy, alright then. Go on then. Alright, James." That mantra repeated in James' head, a soothing, soft voice that felt like before he ever went to 'Nam, before he lost an arm, before he had to dream about Dak To every single night when he was asleep, before he got to watch his family and friends look at him like a monster, before he saw Agent Orange come out of those C-123s.
Then, like a sudden jolt, reality snapped back. "Wait, what am I doing?" James asked himself, shaking his head to clear the haunting memories. He couldn't escape the past, but he could choose how he faced the present.
In his right back pocket was a lighter, and, in his left hand, he was holding a gas can. He looked around, bewildered, taking in the dimly lit, dusty basement covered in cobwebs. His knees and hands were black, as though he had been kneeling in the muck, and his disheveled appearance added to his disorientation.
He glanced outside, realizing the sky was already beginning to turn gray. He had been down there for hours, lost in the disturbing trance that had overtaken him. The realization struck like a bolt of lightning, and Jimmy dropped the gas can in horror.
“It’s just for a few days, Marie, maybe a week, tops.” James stuffed her suitcases in the Country Sedan and slammed the trunk. His wife looked at him as though he lost his mind. “James, what’s really going on?” “I told you,” he said, trying to keep his patience.
He gave Betsy a big kiss on the cheek, whispering in her ear that he loved her. She smelled of baby powder, and he felt tears well up in his eyes as he said goodbye. “It’s just for a few days.” It was not something he wanted but he had to do it.
That was what James had told Marie was in the house. He said he'd found it in the basement and needed to get rid of it. She knew he was lying, but she hadn't questioned him, sensing something far more unsettling at play. The night had left them both shaken, and the ominous presence in their home had cast a pall over their lives.
The next morning, as the sun rose, James resolved that he would call a priest. He couldn't dismiss the strange events that had unfolded, nor the darkness that had taken hold of him. With a newfound determination, he turned and walked back into his house, his plan to confront the malevolent force within.
This is my land, James thought to himself. It was his house. His property. He walked back into his home, daring anyone or anything to test him. He was going to get rid of this spirit once and for all, whoever she was.
His mother had passed away shortly after he returned home. He had no one to ask about this apparition, but it didn’t matter. She was the enemy in his sights. That was all he needed to know.
As dusk fell, James kept the lights on. He had a feeling the woman, whoever she was, only came in darkness. She used the black of night to reach her full form. She'd only dissipated that first night because Marie had turned on the kitchen light.
All James had to do was keep her at bay until the priest came. It was a solid plan until, around ten at night, the lights went out with a dull click. Panic welled up within him as the darkness enveloped the house. He fumbled for a flashlight, casting its feeble beam around the room, searching for any sign of the malevolent presence that he knew lurked just beyond the reach of the light.
Barking. James was crouched by his bedroom window, trying to soak in as much bright moonlight as he could. This witch could cut the lights off, but she couldn't get rid of the moon. While in the moonlight, James heard a barking noise from his yard. It was a sound he couldn't place, like no animal he'd ever heard before.
With trepidation, he peered out into the yard, scanning the shadows. What he saw struck him with such fear, he felt as though his heart was about to stop. Emerging from the darkness was a pack of spectral, luminous hounds, their eyes piercing through the night, teeth gleaming like moonlight.
It was a dog, but not any dog—this one was part dog, part…rabbit? James couldn’t believe what he saw in the moonlight. The creature, which was barking near the treeline, had the body of a large, black dog and the head of a hare.
The barks looked grotesque coming from the hare’s mouth, and all James could think about was how wrong it looked. It was an abomination, it was against nature. As vomit burned in the back of his throat, James heard his wife screaming.
James’ legs were moving before his brain caught up. He was downstairs, calling for his wife before his brain even questioned the voice. Marie was supposed to be miles away at her parents’. That wasn’t her. Knock, knock, knock.
The sound came from under the floorboards. At that moment, all of the drawers in the kitchen flew open with a bang. James heard the barking growing louder, and he went to run into the yard. He almost made it.
Anyone watching the house would've seen James Paul Richardson, Vietnam veteran, sheriff's deputy, father, and husband, fall to his knees on his front porch. His eyes went white as he looked above him, a cloud obscuring the moon, shrouding the scene in an eerie darkness.
A few hours later, James got up, his demeanor eerily calm. He walked back into the house with a determined yet haunted expression. The house, once a refuge, a symbol of family, and the repository of his darkest secrets, was consumed by fire, its once-illuminated windows now glowing with an unholy light. James had made a choice, one that would forever alter the course of his existence, leaving only ashes and embers in his wake.
“You know what I hate about horror books and movies and stuff?” Betsy Richardson looked over at her teenage son, who was buried in a Goosebumps book. Ghost in the Mirror was the title, and the cover featured a ghostly hand reaching out of a swirling, glowing mirror.
Betsy chuckled, saying, “What’s that?” “It’s always so predictable, you know?” he said. “The house is haunted, everybody get out before it’s too late, things going bump in the night. All that stuff.”
Betsy nodded. The year was 2000, she was thirty-two, and she’d been a single mother since she was seventeen years old. Her son, Allen, was a clever kid—too clever, as he knew more about what a loser his father was than Betsy would’ve liked.
The two were on their way to Cross Plains, Tennessee, population 1,600. They’d packed up all their belongings and headed to the rural area for one reason and one reason only. Their house. That was their option to be safe.
Betsy’s mother, Marie, had just passed away, leaving Betsy a home in Cross Plains and a sizable estate. Her father, James, had been in the military, and his pension money had collected over the years to comprise a decent inheritance.
Though James had died when Betsy was a baby, his money had been used to fix up her family’s centuries-old house. And for that, Betsy felt nothing but gratitude. It was something that made her really happy to even think about.
And a little sadness, as she wished she’d known her father better. She knew he’d perished in an accidental home fire, but her mother had never really wanted to talk about what happened. Maybe the town would have more answers for her about her family.
Goodbye New York City, goodbye crime, goodbye eviction notice on her door. Hello, rural Tennessee. She looked at her son in the backseat, buried in his book, and felt a rush of love for him. This would be a new start.
The house was massive, and the renovations had gone well. This wasn’t Betsy’s first time seeing the home, but it was Allen’s. He was amazed at the three-story mansion, which had been repainted a sunny yellow color.
The interior was kept historically accurate, with dark, hardwood floors, expansive leaded windows, and a winding, gleaming staircase. Betsy took a deep breath when she walked in, smelling wood, country air, and a not-unpleasant new paint smell.
Suitcases had to be unpacked, a realtor had to come and do the final walkthrough, and there were a few other bits and bobs that took all week to hectically sort. Still, it was hers and her son’s. They were living in a paid-off mansion.
Betsy couldn’t believe her luck. She’d heard about the house before, but she never thought it would be anything other than a burnt-out, abandoned husk. After a few days of getting settled, she and Allen set out to explore the town.
They toured the grocery store, Allen’s future school, and the park before arriving at the local diner. It was definitely a small town, as Betsy and Allen got more than a few strange looks when they sat down in the cherry-red booth.
The waitress, Sally, was an old woman with an appetite for conversation, and she wasted no time introducing herself. When Betsy said her name, Sally’s expression slipped slightly, but, polite Southern lady she was, she recovered quickly.
“Welcome back,” Sally said, “I knew your parents. They were lovely people.” Betsy and Allen ordered burgers, fries, and Cokes, with Betsy reminding her son that this was going to be their last unhealthy meal for a while.
She had groceries now, so their takeout days were over. Allen laughed. Staring at her son in the booth, Betsy marveled at how much he looked like her father. Pictures she’d seen of him, anyway.
A month passed, and then Allen started school. He managed to fit in pretty quickly, something Betsy was thankful for. He was more well-liked than she had been in school, as she struggled to fit in in their small town.
She and her mother left Tennessee after her dad died, but small towns were small towns everywhere. One fall morning, as Betsy was drinking her coffee and staring out the kitchen window, she saw something odd.
It was a deer. That, in and of itself, wouldn't have been odd, but the deer was staring right at Betsy, almost as if it knew her. Its eyes were intelligent, more intelligent than any deer Betsy had ever seen. She watched in awe as it moved, not in the usual cautious way of wildlife, but with an almost deliberate, confident saunter.
"What the…" Betsy said in a hushed tone, her voice trailing off in disbelief. The encounter felt surreal, like something out of a dream. The deer took one final look at her, its gaze unwavering, before turning on its heel and walking back into the forest.
It was that incident that was on Betsy’s mind when, a few days later, Allen asked her if he could explore the woods with his friends. Allen had always been a well-behaved kid, prone to attitude here and there, but, for the most part, responsible.
Some maternal instinct flickered in Betsy as she looked at her son. Logic, or what she thought was logic, won out. “Okay,” she said, “But don’t go too far. And be careful.” And she hoped he would follow her advice.
It didn’t take long before Betsy regretted her decision. Allen and his friends, Tim and Rob, went into the woods almost every day after that. At first, all was well. But, then, Allen began to become withdrawn.
Tim and Rob quit hanging out with him, and he spent hours in the woods alone every day. Betsy chalked it up to being a teenager at first, but then… One night changed that.
She can’t know, Allen thought. I can’t tell her. When he and his friends had first gone into the woods, everything was fun. They’d found cool rocks, built a tree fort, and read comic books out there. Until one day, Allen went in alone, and he saw something he didn’t even think was possible.
A dog with the head of a rabbit. And, not only that, but it had spoken to him. It told him things, showed him things, made him realize what was hiding behind the thin fabric of reality. And it blew his bubble of what he thought reality was.
Allen thought no one would believe him, and he couldn't stay away. Allen had already seen what it got up to in the woods over the centuries with its bizarre companions—a colossal, monstrous bird so immense it blocked out the sun, a deer with reptilian eyes, and more.
Some of what it did in the woods was playful, involving tricks on unsuspecting people and running amok, eliciting laughter. As the creature beckoned, Allen's curiosity and fear drew him deeper into a world of inexplicable phenomena and malevolent forces, with no turning back from the dark secrets concealed within the woods.
He’d told Tim and Rob to get lost weeks ago, and it was just him and the creature now. It wouldn’t tell him its name, so Allen settled on “it.” It needed a favor one crisp morning in October.
It had showed him an old squash carving, like something from Halloween in the 1800s. The two had taken turns wearing the squash as a mask and chasing each other around. But, then, his pal got serious. The rabbit-dog had a friend, and the friend needed help.
When it explained to Allen who the friend was and what it needed, Allen wanted to say no. But, the more it spoke, the easier Allen became to convince. He was just a kid, after all. The plan was working well and Allen was almost convinced.
That night, he returned home, saying little to his mother as he took his dinner to his room. She’d become worried about him, worried about what he was doing in the woods, worried about why he’d shut down. She couldn’t know.
That night, after Allen had stormed into his room with his dinner, Betsy sat down at the table and began to cry. Things had been going so well, but it was as though her son had changed before her eyes.
Where was her Allen? Betsy sat up and steeled herself. That was it. No more woods. No more weird behavior. Allen was her son, and she’d get him back. They’d be happy again. These are all she could think of at that moment.
“You’re done eating dinner in your room, you hear me?” Betsy said through Allen’s door. “No more woods, either. I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately, but it ends tonight. I’m worried about you.” Her voice cracked during the last sentence.
There was no response. Until 2 A.M. rolled around, and Allen got out of bed. Betsy heard him walk down the stairs, and she followed, footsteps soft in the night. It was so quiet she could hear the clock tick tock all around her.
Allen turned off the nightlights as he went downstairs, plunging the old mansion into darkness. The creaking of the wooden stairs echoed through the silence, and Betsy's heart raced as she followed him, feeling an eerie presence in the shadows. She couldn't fathom why he'd prefer such obscurity in the dimly lit house.
He moved ahead, seemingly oblivious to her presence, as if he was in a trance, guided by an unseen force. Betsy's senses were on edge, an unsettling feeling of impending dread enveloping her, making her question the nature of the journey they were about to embark on within the enigmatic mansion.
"That was what the oven clock read." Betsy watched her son walk into the kitchen. She frowned, her maternal instincts ready to spring into action if he expressed a desire to venture into the woods at such a late hour. Her concern deepened as she observed this unusual behavior. "It's alright," he called softly out the door, his tone strangely calm and reassuring.
Betsy's mind raced with questions, and she couldn't help but wonder what her son was responding to and why he was offering reassurance in the quiet of the night. It was a mysterious encounter that left her with an uncanny sense of foreboding, a feeling that something unusual was transpiring just beyond the threshold of their home.
It was odd to hear that phrase, which sounded so antiquated, come out of her teenage son's mouth. Betsy exchanged a puzzled glance with Allen, who simply stepped aside, a solemn expression etched on his face. Betsy gasped. The figure that emerged was a spectral woman, shrouded in an ethereal glow, her appearance both haunting and mesmerizing.
"Who are you?" Betsy finally managed to ask, her voice quivering with a mix of curiosity and fear. The spectral woman regarded her with a mysterious smile. "I am the guardian of the woods," she replied, her voice as ancient as the trees themselves. "And your son, Allen, has been chosen to fulfill a destiny that has been foretold for generations."
Living in New York City, Betsy had seen some things. But nothing could’ve prepared her for what she saw here. It was a woman’s figure, dressed in a long, black gown with a veil. She was more shadow than person, save for two glowing eyes.
Thousands of years old, those eyes had to be. They looked alien, as though they’d come from somewhere and landed here, in Betsy’s home, just to— And then, as suddenly as she appeared, she was gone.
"What the hell was that?" Betsy screamed. She ran down the rest of the stairs, snapping on the kitchen light. The sudden illumination cast an eerie glow on the scene, dispelling the shadows. "Who was that?" Allen looked at her, his face appearing unusually detached in the yellow light of the kitchen. "Huh?"
"I just saw that thing come through the door," Betsy said, her voice trembling. "Who was she? What have you been doing in the woods?" Allen's silence was deafening. His gaze remained fixed on the floor, and a heavy, unspoken truth hung in the air.
Allen did something then that chilled Betsy to her core. He gave her a contemptuous look—God, he looked so much like his father then, not hers—and walked up the stairs silently. The utter disregard in his expression cut deeper than any words could.
It began the next night. The ominous events that had unfolded in the house were only the beginning, and Betsy couldn't escape the feeling that they were on the precipice of a descent into a world of darkness and mystery, with Allen at the center of it all.
Knock, knock, knock. When Betsy heard the knocking, her heart sank, the sound echoing ominously in the silence of the night. The visitation of that mysterious woman had left an indelible mark of dread. She ran to her window, desperately seeking solace in the moonlight, convinced that the glowing, ivory light would somehow dispel her terror.
As she gazed out toward the treeline, she hoped for a moment of respite. Instead, she was met with the unsettling sight of a deer. Its eyes, dark and beady, stared directly at her from the shadows. It wasn't the tranquil sight of a forest creature she expected; rather, it was an eerie presence that seemed to bear witness to the enigmatic forces closing in around her.
She thought about her dad, the memories of him flooding her thoughts, the grief and confusion of his passing. But, in that moment, reality thudded into place. She knew then that her father's death wasn't the full story. "This is my land," the thought came into her mind unbidden, and Betsy felt a deep connection to her ancestral roots. The realization stirred a sense of belonging and determination.
Her ancestors had faced this malevolent force, and now it was her turn to confront it. With newfound strength and an unwavering resolve, she stood up, turned on her heel, and headed down to the kitchen, ready to face whatever horrors lay ahead, determined to break the cycle that had tormented her family for generations.
The second she stepped out of her bedroom, it was upon her. The figure was no longer masked. It looked at her, and its face was that of a beautiful woman with copper hair and brown eyes. Though lovely, there was something wrong.
Something alien, something giving the woman an expression of reptilian intelligence. The woman clasped two strong, icy cold hands on either side of Betsy’s face. She stared into Betsy’s eyes, causing them to go white.
Allen awoke, heart seizing in terror. He’d been having horrible dreams, dreams of painted faces screaming in the trees, dreams of a long fall down a deep, dark tunnel. But, when he opened his eyes, he felt more like himself than he had in weeks.
He was soaked in vile-smelling sweat, as though his body was oozing out built-up toxic sludge. With a surge of bile in throat, he remembered his “friend” from the woods, and realized that his mother was right. And that she was in danger.
Allen ran into the hallway. In the doorway to his mom’s bedroom, he saw a massive, ghostly figure lifting his mom off the ground, her feet dangling. The dark figure gazed into his mother’s eyes, locking her in an embrace.
“Mom! Get away from my mom!” Allen said. He charged, pushing his mom out of the ghost’s embrace. He looked at it, locking his eyes onto its glowing orbs. It stared back. It was like a nightmare but real.
Two figures, dressed in old clothes. One was a man who looked a little like Allen. The other was a beautiful, redheaded woman. The two embraced, and the woman walked away. Her face was white, expression unhappy.
The scene changed, and Allen saw the woman standing at the lip of a well—a well the rabbit-dog had shown him in the forest—and felt her step into the blackness. But something caught her before she landed.
Something warm and dark and friendly, something that made friends with the forest, soaked itself into the roots of the trees, turned the animals into its pets. It was so loving and comforting, the presence that cradled Kate Batts as she fell.
Allen wanted to join it, wanted to fall too. He knew it would catch him. He stepped onto the lip of the well. Two white eyes glowed back at him from the blackness. But, before he could jump into its arms, his world went up in flames.
When Betsy hit the ground, she was briefly unconscious, the impact disorienting her. As her vision cleared, she was met with a horrifying sight. The figure had her son in its sinister grip, his body suspended above the floor, his face contorted in terror. Betsy's heart seized with paralyzing terror; this was her son, and without him, she had nothing.
Drawing upon every ounce of strength and determination, Betsy shakily got to her feet. The creature seemed momentarily distracted, its strange noises resonating through the room. Betsy knew she had to act quickly, to save her son from the clutches of this malevolent force.
She thundered down the wooden steps to the basement, taking them two at a time. She threw open the tool chest she’d brought from home, a gift from her brother “just in case.” Betsy grabbed a can of lighter fluid and a box of matches.
The figure had made a mistake. She’d shown her where she came from, and, as a result, Betsy knew one thing about her. She didn’t like the light. And so Betsy planned on to doing exactly what she didn't like.
The thing still had her son in its grips when Betsy made it back up the stairs, panting. It was murmuring to her son. Allen lifted his leg, almost as though he were stepping onto something. The creature lifted him higher.
“Haunted house, my ass!” Betsy squirted the black figure with lighter fluid, lit a match, and threw it. As it burst into flames, Betsy grabbed her son, tackling him and putting out errant flames that had formed on his pajama sleeves.
They watched it burn. The thing let out an awful, ear-piercing screaming noise, and Betsy could hear other harrowing cries emanating from the depths of the forest. Flames danced with malevolence, licking at the trees, igniting a hellish blaze in the woods.
Amidst the chaos, the malevolent entity attempted to extinguish itself, its form twisting and writhing, howling in agony as its fiery eyes flickered. With a single strong arm, it reached out and enveloped the malevolent figure, a haunting display of spectral intervention, bringing an end to the nightmare that had tormented her family for generations.
The spectral figure held the malevolent entity tightly in its grip, its bright blue eye winking at Betsy, as if to assure her that everything would be alright. "I think she's gone," Allen muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. Betsy nodded and stood up wearily. When she looked outside, a horrifying sight met her gaze— the forest was burning, consumed by flames.
Sirens wailed in the distance, a cacophony that filled the air, echoing the urgency of the situation. She and Allen watched in a trance-like state as the trees were consumed by the roaring inferno, the cleansing flames of destruction that would, perhaps, bring an end to the malevolent forces that had haunted their family for generations.
Though Betsy and Allen had considered leaving the house, they ended up choosing to stay. This was their land, and they weren’t leaving. Allen returned back to school the next week, restarting his friendships and getting his grades back up.
Betsy spent her mornings staring at the burnt-out forest, thinking that, despite the husks, it was beautiful in its own way. The thin, burnt out trees had no leaves to block the sun, so they always let the light in.