I’ve been compiling this journal for a few days now and have been noticing - something going on in my house. At first, I thought it was nothing but age-old creaking. Then I started to hear what sounded like footsteps. The first time it lasted all of two seconds. Then it happened again and again, a few days apart.
Last night I heard it again.
The sound was coming from the main floor. I stood in the hallway, trying to judge what room it was in. After a few seconds, the sound changed. It went from a metal scraping on wood sound to a rapid pattering of bare feet. I know the sound of bare feet in my own house. I had my nephews here over the summer, and they never wore shoes. I don’t like shoes in the house. The slippers are fine, but the shoes have piss on the soles. If you’ve ever been in a public restroom, you know what I’m talking about.
The pattering sounded like a couple of kids. I almost turned around and went back to bed, thinking my sister and her kids had snuck in for the night. They do that when in the area, and it’s too late to call me. I called out her name, then the names of my nephews. No response.
The pattering started up the staircase, coming straight at me. I flicked the light switch, and nothing happened. Just darkness. Fuck.
My mind went to my phone. I quickly activated the flashlight and shone it on the corner of the hall that went to the stairs.
The pattering kept coming. Little kid steps, moving fast. The steps came to the top of the stairs and turned away from me, heading to the room at the opposite end. I didn’t see anything moving until the bedroom door flew open.
I want to preface this next part with the Big Bang Theory character, Sheldon. He consistently reminded everyone that he wasn’t crazy because his mother had him tested. I am the same way. I don’t think I’m crazy, but that might be the crazy in me trying to cover its tracks.
I walked down to the room, the phone held out in front of me, and was almost to the door when it slammed shut in my face. I let out a shambling squawk and stepped back before regaining my nerve. I grabbed the door handle and threw it open with more force than necessary, banging a hole in the plaster of the wall. The room was empty.
My rational mind took over and quickly determined that the door slammed because the window was open. A breeze was coming in, which seemed strong enough to slam the door. I tried the light switch and was blinded by the brightness. The room was empty. I quickly shone my light out the window to catch whoever was in the room but saw nothing.
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I was able to go back to bed after a glass of wine and a late-night call to my sister. I wanted to be sure she wasn’t in the area just fucking with me. She knows about the weirdness I’ve been experiencing, and I wouldn’t put it past her.
This morning everything seemed fine. The house was nice and peaceful. I spent an hour transcribing from the journal and then took a walk to clear my head. My local coffee shop did the job marvelously, and I feel much better.
Here’s what I transcribed today.
June 1st, 1856
I write this in the throes of a fever. I’ve not felt this ill in my life. Mr. Foster is equally in the throes of a malaise. I pray Gregor returns soon. We’ve moved Foster into my tent as there’s adequate room for two. Between us, we’ve managed to stay hydrated. I’ve stepped out of the tent a few times and am in shock at the amount of snow. It seems to have fallen throughout the night and continues at this moment.
The events of last night are hazy. I have found speaking to be painful, and the sound of my voice is like metal tearing into my ears. I fear I’ve ruptured something. A bloody fluid continues to drain from my left ear.
I will update again once I am feeling stronger. I’ve no strength left. Gregor needs to arrive today, or I fear the worst for us all and this doomed excursion.
Until then,
Cpt. Grady White
June 1st, 1856
I’ve slept for hours today. It is approximately 18:00 hours, and I have been woken by a sharp cracking sound just beyond the tent door. Foster is awake as well. I wanted to document this as it is not a hallucination. Foster looked out the door and swears he saw a small man covered in furs and course hair sitting at our now-dead campfire. I bolted to the door to confirm but found the campsite to be empty. There were, however, small prints in the snow. I couldn’t make out what had made them, as I am no tracker, and they were of an unusual shape.
What had caused the cracking sound? I’m afraid to find out. My rush to the tent door has left me feeling queasy and lightheaded. I must return to slumber, though I am doing so armed with my pistol. Foster is doing the same.
It is nightmarishly cold here.
Until then,
Cpt. Grady White
The cracking, snapping sound is back. I am confident it is the sound of snapping tree branches above the camp. The trees are overburdened with snow. Foster exited the tent and started a fire. I smell meat cooking and am anticipating another fine meal, though I am in no shape to enjoy it.
Foster has reported that he heard a distant shouting in the wind. He couldn’t identify its origin and decided against pursuit. I agree that we must stay in camp until we are well enough to take on the challenging snow.
I do feel slightly better than earlier in the day. My ear has stopped draining. I awoke a few hours ago in a pool of my own sweat, marking the breaking of my fever. When we are recuperated, I am suggesting we return to Fort Collins.
Until tomorrow,
Cpt. Grady White