Today, 208 years ago, Edgar Allan Poe was born. In his honor, I want to post one of his poems that I recently used part of in my own story.
With the snows of the lolling lily.
In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven.
Today, 208 years ago, Edgar Allan Poe was born. In his honor, I want to post one of his poems that I recently used part of in my own story.
With the snows of the lolling lily.
In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven.
Writing has always been a way for me to organize my thoughts. However, for the past couple years it has been a luxury I simply couldn’t afford. Yet here I sit, alone, far from home and all I want to do is write about what has happened to my life because I fear this may be the very last chance I will ever get to tell my story. My name is John Lawrence. As of writing this I just recently turned twenty years old. I have been homeless now for four years now.
When I was seventeen my parents kicked me out of my home and onto the streets. They could not understand me, they called me “sinful” and disowned me. I would later learn that they told others I ran away from home so they could avoid any consequences of their abandonment. In a way I did, I left town on a bus with what little money I had on me. That first night I slept at a bus station for what could only be a few hours. My mind and body racing from the confrontation.
My life slowly became one of survival. I used to think about the future, but now it is only a matter of making it one day at a time. I had no phone, no contacts. I was on my own. Shelters helped at first. I met people there, people who showed me how to survive. Where to find food and when, where to find shelter, how to beg. There was no longer any room for pride. I saw the best and worst of people. I met men that would give all they have, or give away as much food as they could spare. I’ve seen people who would attack other homeless while filming it on a phone, laughing. I saw a man give up and take his own life. I do not have enough paper to write everything I saw from the outside of humanity’s society. To many, I became invisible.
After I turned eighteen things only became harder for me. I was no longer a priority for shelters and I slept on the streets more than ever before. Begging became harder as well. The more I withered and became dirty the less people would spare anything to me, despite the even greater need. That is when I met Frank. Frank was “Frank,” no last name, claiming he had no family that would share one with him. He taught me the art of train hopping. The east was too cold, but he claimed the west was more welcoming, warmer, and easier to survive all around. While he was certainly exaggerating I agreed to travel with him.
Frank was an interesting man. He spoke of the great American tradition of train hopping like a Knight speaking of his family’s deeds. He taught “Never say you don’t want to die, but rather say you want to live.” However he never lived the words himself. He had done things to survive that he was not proud of and you could see the toll that it had taken on the man. He drank himself stupid when he could find alcohol. As such, we were not always together, but we always agreed to meet up before hopping a train to the next town.
Life seemed to move on the same way for some time. We would hop on a train and split up at the next town. We looked for food, shelter, money and Frank looked for his “medication.” Frank was not entirely wrong, things were a little more easy going out west. We never stayed in one place for too long, a week or so at most. We arranged places and times to meet ahead of time in case we were chased off or ran into trouble. I felt like I was some sort of secret agent. Infiltrating each town undercover. It was exciting in a way, it at least kept my mind off other troubles.
In small towns and good weather it was safer to sleep in wooded areas away from people. We were in a small wooded area just outside town that night. Frank had already set up a makeshift campsite by the time I arrived. The sun was already down and I was afraid I would have to find a place to sleep without him until I nearly tripped over his camp. The camp was nothing but a small clearing on flat ground. A fire was a bad idea but a couple of old worn sleeping bags on top of some cardboard felt like heaven. Frank used an old metal flashlight when needed. I set down my worn old backpack and we talked for a while and shared a bit of food, until a stray dog startled us. A mutt with a bit of pit bull in him. Begging for food, I threw a bit of old jerky his way and he just grabbed it and ran off. Frank shook his head but did not say anything.
When I awoke in the middle of the night my entire world changed. A large black coyote had wandered into camp. I tried to jump out of my sleeping bag to scare it off but the moment I started to move it locked eyes with me. I was paralyzed. No noise would escape my mouth while Frank slept on the ground unaware of the danger. Then the animal started to change right before me. It began to walk on two legs as it took the shape of a man. He/it wore a mask made out of the tanned face of a coyote, not unlike the coyote he just changed shape from. The mask was missing the coyote’s lower jaw and exposed his emotionless mouth. He looked out the eyes of the coyote skin scanning the surroundings.
It stalked closer to Frank, slowly, like an animal closing in for the kill. I tried to jump to my feet but the moment I started to move it locked eyes with me again. All strength suddenly left me and I was paralyzed. Helpless only to watch what came next. With one swift motion he put his hand over Frank’s eyes. I watched in morbid anticipation for what would happen. After long seconds of nothing Frank started to convulse in pain. Blood dripped out of his nose before all movement stopped. The Coyote man then removed his hand to reveal Frank’s lifeless eyes. His body laid still on the ground.
I was his next target. My heart raced, my face turned white in terror. He stalked towards me with a grin. His eyes seemed to glow inside the mask. I struggled in vain as he put a hand over my eyes like he did with Frank. My world turned black. I could feel my mind, my consciousness being pulled away. It felt as if I was falling into a void of blackness. Then I saw something, a face in the darkness. A mass of blackness that I struggle to describe. It seemed to grin as I was pulled towards in.
Suddenly I was snapped back to reality with the sounds of barking. The dog from before. It came back and was barking and growling fiercely, surprising both me and my attacker. With the sudden realization I could move, I slapped my attacker’s hand away and threw my weight on him as I got to my feet. As he fell backwards I ran. I turned my mind off and let instinct take over running faster than I ever had before. I collapsed under a bridge some distance away, completely exhausted.
I dreamed of dark things that night. Looking out the eyes of a wolf mask I saw human bones harvested out of red flesh. Then I saw a scene that seemed ages ago of a native American dancing and singing to something in a fire. The scene transformed into another setting of an old stone room filled with markings made with blood as a European man spoke Latin. Again I saw the same blackness as before. I saw the face again, made of black smoke and clearly grinning. The scene changed once again. This time I was standing in front of a fireplace in what appeared to be the middle of nowhere. Across from the fire sat the man with a coyote face. However this time it was no mask, but a part of his body. He spoke to me in a deep voice, his words echoing as he did. “You have been traveling a place you have not been meant to visit,” he said as he motioned for me to take a seat. I stood and asked back “What are you?” He smiled, “I am many things: Mage, Warlock, Alchemist, Witch, Skinwalker. I appropriate spells of power from many cultures as it matters not the origin of the spell but rather if my master will empower it. Many such cultures have reached him before, intentional or not.”
I was a bit shocked at his honesty before he told me, “A better question is who are you?” Before I could reply he answered his own question. “A blundered sacrifice, whose soul has been stretched between another world and the world you consider your own. Your soul will rip if such a situation remains.” With a grand wave of his hand I was flung backwards, falling until I awoke in a shock under the bridge I spent the night.
I was cold, wet, and dirty. Everything I owned was back where it all happened. I decided to go back, not just for the supplies but also for my own sanity. What I found shocked me. The dog, the one that saved my own life, was chewing on the corpse of my old friend. He growled at me as I approached, but after a loud scream from me he relented his meal. Only a bloody mess lay where my friend once did. I grabbed my belongings and Frank’s flashlight. I wanted to call the police or anyone and tell them what happened and where the Frank’s remains were. I searched for a payphone before I had to give up. I threw up in an alleyway. I felt weak and tired. The world was spinning.
I dreamed again of the man in the coyote face. He sat again at a campfire, chewing on raw meat. He looked at me, the meat vanishing. “The laws of this world are different from the one you’re used too. You have two fates ahead of you boy. You do nothing and let your soul be ripped apart, you will find your body will quickly follow; or you let me complete my spell and give your soul to my master. I assure you this fate will be less painful. If you wish to give yourself up, or perhaps simply seek revenge before you die, find me in the center of the fire break in the very woods we first met at the witching hour.”
I awoke weak and groggy. I could feel something was wrong with me. My instincts told me that the Coyote Man was telling me the truth. I would die soon if nothing was changed. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a wad of dollar bills and some change. All the money I had, gained from begging. I found a pharmacy/convenience type store. I bought a handful of candy, a pen and a notepad. While sucking on sugary sweets I started to write this journal. Like a warrior of old meditating before battle, this was my way to mentally prepare. I had to face him again.
I made my way to the firebreak early, while the sun was still up. I did not know what to expect, would he kill me without saying a word? Or would he sit and talk to me like in my dreams? I felt a strong pull on my mind and my eyes began to haze before I was forced to take a seat on the ground. Once again I saw old worshipers of the face in the dark. A man in primitive clothing yelled at the darkness before being swallowed by it. Then I saw another world, a world full of sand and a dark blue sky that kept the land in an eternal twilight. It felt alien and cold. Was this where the face lives? Where my soul is being forced?
I awoke to see the tanned coyote mask staring down on me. He was already over top of me bending down to meet my face near his, stars rested in the sky. I was out for some time. I could not move, all I could do was look into the eyes of my foe standing over me. His brown eyes looking out of the mask reminded me that he was human. In my dreams he seemed more than a man, but in reality he was just that, powerful but human. I summoned all my will to move, I tried to will every cell in my body to fight and win. I did not want to die, I wanted to live. As if to answer my will to fight I saw in my mind the dark figure grinning at me. With that I was free. What I could see of the face under the coyote skin changed to shock. Before he could understand why I could move I felt around the ground for a weapon finding the heavy metal flashlight I swung it like a club at my would be hunter. With a thud I hit him aside the head and he fell sideways. My hands stung with the impact and my blood rushed with adrenaline. I did not hesitate and found my way to my feet and hit him again. This time, knocking off his mask, I could see the face of a man. He screamed at me angrily as he tried to attack back. One last time, I hit him in the head with the flashlight. This time he went limp.
He lay dead on the ground, blood pooling under his head. I had won, but not wholly by my own power. That thing he called master let me win. I watched as the puddle of blood grew. I could feel myself getting weaker once again. At first I felt content to die having defeated the one that started all this. However my mind turned to panic. I did not want to die. Once again I started to lose consciousness. I was afraid I would not wake back up this time. Before my eyes closed I frantically looked around for something, anything to aid me but it was pointless.
For a moment everything was black but then knowledge filled my head. I saw visions of a spell. A magic to reunite my body and soul. My eyes opened with a jolt of new energy and I started working. Taking the blood of the man who tried to destroy my soul I created symbols in the dirt. Old symbols, of which I did not know the true meaning of. I only needed to add my own blood and the spell was complete. As soon as I finished my vision faded once more but only for a moment. In that moment the world around me had changed. I was in the land of sand and a dark blue sky just like my visions. However this was far more real. There was a lack of wind that gave the world an odd sensation. In my immediate position I saw my belongings, this journal, and the corpse of the man I killed. My spell had worked, my soul and body were reunited, however it seems my body traveled to where my soul was being pulled and not the other way around.
I sat for a long time in this world. There are no stars or sun to mark the time. Soon I will travel on and look for a way to survive. This may be the world where the master whose magic allowed all of this lives, but I’ve run out of fear and am still pushed to live. I still remember the words of my friend. “Never say you don’t want to die, but rather say you want to live.” Am leaving these last few pages of the journal here. Perhaps as a message for any who enters this world in the same place I did, or perhaps I just feel the need to move on. They may even find a way back before I do.
///Check out this story and others at http://more-creepypastas.wikia.com/wiki/Not_Your_Average_Creepypastas_Wikia
They say my family is cursed. That the children of house Amseli are fated to die young. A curse put on us because of a vile ancestor who was said to study alchemy or made a deal with Satan. My grandfather was said to have moved us to New England to escape our fate. I never truly believed such things. Coincidence becomes curses to the superstitious, after all my own father died when he was sixty-six years old. While not olden, he was no young man either. What was undisputed however was that there is very little left of my clan. A mix of deaths and a lack of children meant that there was few who could carry on the name. I did my part by marrying young and having a child ten springs past, young Walter. He was the pride of my life and his mother Olivia my joy, but a number of events recently have made me reconsider my stance on curses.
Britain and it’s war against Napoleon have spilled over to New England. American Sailors have begun to be imprisoned as they crossed the Atlantic. The situation meant I had little time to spend at home with my family. While traveling to trade meetings and seeing to the concerns of ship captains my mind longed to see my wife and son. That is why when I first saw the visage of my son that I blamed it on my own longing. While speaking to a captain at some shabby looking docks I saw the boy, chasing away birds without a care in the world. The young lad turned and looked me in the eyes. He more than just resembled my son, but looked exactly like him. I inadvertently called out his name but instead of responding, he turned and ran into a crowd of sailors. I gathered my senses, knowing that I was many miles from home and that could not have been my son. Longing for home even more I hurried my work along.
I returned home to find my son already wasting away with consumption. His death was slow, I put all I owned on his recovery. Doctor’s saw him weekly and nurses changed his bloody rags daily. His once lively room filled with toys and clean sheets had become dark filled with a terrible smell. Family and friends prayed daily for the boy but it was to no avail. I could no longer recognize my own son when he passed away his body barely skin and bone. We gave the boy a quick Christan burial for fear of further spread of the disease. My life soon turned into one of despair. I was filled with immeasurable grief. I understood many children die of disease, that many lower class family had many children in hopes a few may live to adulthood. But Walter was my child, my heir. Olivia was stronger than I. She grieved, yet managed to wake and do the daily work the household needed. I stopped working entirely, I could no longer bring myself to leave the home. Locking myself away for long hours in the study.
I remembered the little boy I saw not long before my son’s death. The uncanny resemblance. I know the folklore of the doppelgänger. An ill omen of death or tragedy. I could not help but wonder if my sighting of the creature truly an omen. “Was it a messenger of ill tidings or a cause?” Such thoughts filled my mind. I slowly began to withdraw further and further from the outside world. At first outsiders left me alone, giving me space to grieve. Soon however they left me alone for I was an eccentric. I cared not however, I did not care if what remained of my family name became mud. I spent a year studying the unknown. Gathering books of folklore, alchemy, and other knowledge deemed unchristian. I barely spoke to Olivia over the course of the year. Her housework grows as we had to let servants go. I could feel her growing resentment of me but I refused to change course.
As the anniversary of my son’s death neared I found something. A ritual to see my son again. It was part of a darkened unnamed tome sent to me by a cousin. She believed the tome had been apart of the family long since we moved to this country. I waited till the witching hour on the night of the anniversary of my son’s death. Walking out of sight of my home and neighbors, I spilled the blood of a cat that hunted mice around the home and called upon forces that should not be named. I felt my heart race as fires burned and I spoke words I barely know the meaning of. Then the world seemed silent as I finished. Before me stood a little boy sharing the image of my Walter when he was last healthy. I cried tears of joy and shame. I know that this was not my little boy, only his image, yet seeing it made me feel happy. I had summoned my son’s doppelgänger for the hope of seeing him once more.
The doppelgänger did not acknowledge me at first. It made no effort to speak. As I stood crying for what seemed like ages it finally turned to me in with my son’s face. It frowned at me before its shape started to change. Starting with it’s eyes it soon took the shape of my Olivia. It started to cry as it walked off into the wilderness. I stood motionless as it walked off. I found myself unable to chase after it as realization hit me. Olivia would soon die as well. I quickly ran home but as I approached I saw a glow in sky. My home was burning. Firegangs had already started to arrive to put out the flame but argued over which gang would put it out, only the winner would receive payment. My neighbors had to hold me back from rushing into the flame myself. It was some time before the flame had finally stopped that they found what remained of my wife. The fire had started in my study where I left a candle lit and quickly spread with the aid of dusty old books. My wife was trapped in the bedroom before the smoke suffocated her. In every sense I had caused her death.
The brick home managed to stay standing. Perpetual insurance spared me some cost but the damage was great. I now stay at a nearby Inn seemingly unsure what to do with myself. However I need not fear for my future. One night I saw myself having a drink at a lonely corner of the inn. I fear I have not long left to live myself. I have written a Will, I will leave what is left of Insurance money to the medical schools looking to cure consumption. The land will be divided up to what little remains of my family name with a warning. I feared that my family is indeed cursed, and I acting just like some long ancestor that started the curse had only renewed it. I can only wish any related by this cursed blood or married into it, better luck then I.
August 20 1937
To whom it may concern, my name is Frank Roberts. If you are reading this note then I am likely dead. If my plan succeeds then this note has been found among my possessions at my family estate. Perhaps it is selfish of me to write this note, In which I will ask you not to look for me. Know that despite its selfish nature I simply don’t want to die without anyone knowing why.
It started when I returned home for my mothers funeral. She had recently fallen off the balcony on the second floor of my childhood home. It was ruled an accident by the authorities however distasteful rumors spread of suicide. I was studying abroad at the time, rushing home at the news. Father had shut himself away, he barely spoke and barely ate. I grow worried but I was also mourning the loss of my mother, so I left him to mourn in his own way. We lived in some comfort, my family making its money off of the fish trade had survived the current depression. A meekly built police officer handed me a box of my mother’s belongings. The objects she had on her the day she had died. Inside the box I found the item that would cause the calamity I would soon face.
A green soapstone. No bigger than my thumb. Shaped like a teardrop with a little hole at the end with a string big enough to fit around the neck running through it. I was Immediately fascinated by the object, perhaps the first clue to its unusual nature. This stone my mother wore at the time of her death. I felt an urge to learn more about it. I spoke to an old family friend, Chester Singleton. Chester had been the groundskeeper of the family estate since before I was born and grow close to the family in all those years. The stone was new he said. It seems my father bought the object off of one of his fishermen who astonishingly fished it up from the sea.
My curiosity settled I returned to my room to try and rest. That is when I dreamed, I dreamed not of the stress or the loss of my mother but of the amulet. I held it in my hand feeling the smoothness of the object in my palm. Then the soapstone latched to my palm digging into my flesh. Panicking I tried to rip it off but it was to no avail, I could feel it sucking my energy away. I could feel the flow of my blood change course and flow towards the amulet in my hand. I awoke in a sweat, quickly i studied my hand and was relieved to see the amulet was not there. My relief was short as I noticed blood, I had cut myself somehow in my sleep. To my horror the blood staining my bed all moved towards the amulet. I throw the object into a tin box and rushed off into the night to speak to my father.
I bursted into my fathers room without hesitation. My father sat in the corner chair by a fire. He looked pale, his skin looking closer to his white hair and beard. He only gave me a sad glance his eyes red and puffy. I hesitated to speak, but composed myself and opened the small tin box showing the necklace to him. His gaze became fixated on it. He then reached into his pocket to pull out an old pocket knife and before I even had time to step back took the knife to his hand causing a bleeding gash across his palm. He spoke softly to me and said “It’s hungry” before getting up and walking towards me. My father then opened his bleeding palm over the green soapstone raining his blood down upon it. To my horror the blood was soaked up by the stone ,like a sponge with water, vanishing without even a stain. Upon closer inspection my father’s hands and arm were covered with such scars.
Before I could say another word I felt a sharp cut across my abdomen. My father wielding the knife had slashed me right to left along my chest, cutting past my shirt and hitting flesh. Tears filled his eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you, I didn’t want to hurt your mother.” My eyes grow wide as adrenaline starts to pump into my bloodstream. “It’s in my head, it wants me to feed it. She understood, she heard it too.” He spoke again. As the realization my father had killed my mother my vision started to blur. Images of gushing blood rushed into my mind. Crimson red blood, there needed to be blood. I make a fist and start to swing at my father. I was much younger and stronger then him, the first blow to his face was enough to make him drop his knife and fall to the ground in pain. I did not stop swinging my fists, blow after blow.
The violence only stopped when I saw the blood. The thick red liquid filled the room. My knuckles were worn down, possibly broken. I watched as my own blood mixed with my fathers. My father…a mess on the floor. His face was destroyed, he could’ve been mistaken for something inhuman. But it was my father, I killed my father. The sin of patricide, the man who raised me gone. The green soapstone sat on the floor in the middle of a puddle of blood. I did not even realized I dropped it. It was feeding off my fathers blood. Soaking it up like a cloth. I did not know what it did with the blood, what sort of ritual it was meant for but I know in my heart that I should not let if feed no more.
So I write this letter, the stone is once again secured in a tin box. My father’s body lies in his room, the blood the stone did not take soaks into the wooden floor. I wish to give him a proper burial but I fear time is short. I will take this stone back to where it came, the sea. I will borrow one of the boats my father owns….owned. I plan to sail as far out into the sea as I can. I have no wish to return, I will go into the water with the stone. I can not afford a suicide that allows more blood to be spilled. I can only beg of you if the stone finds its way to land once more to throw it back, do not be lured by the unknown you find.