After enduring the harrowing strange events and consulting a therapist, I want to note a simple message: this story is not just a reflection on my fruitless attempts at finding what was gnawing at my mind ever since I first encountered it, nor is it permission to replicate my attempts. No, far from that. Take what I have written as a warning, a cautionary tale of sorts. A warning against the unrelenting drive of the thrill of finding what is unknown to us in the moment and such a feeling many cling dearly to. I can only hope and pray that whoever it was in that large dilapidated, wooden box remains contained for the longest time.
It was years ago when I first encountered the site. By years, possibly a decade or so, and many details are fresh in my mind as if it happened mere hours ago. I have encountered restless nights and even severe paranoia when I went out near the woods, even a few feet besides the trees leading into their dense innards. When I finally got help from a professional, he decided to have me write my story to help cope and after I have written my ventures, I typed it all out, and now I have this story.
After I had completed all my education, I had a degree in government. I am a man of adventure, I love to hunt and even hike up the trails of various peaks. As such, I find myself often wandering the vast outdoors just to think or to enjoy the day as is. My small bungalow is not far from a heavily wooded trail of which I often venture into to hunt, hike or stroll. On one day, around noon or so, I entered the woods once more for a lazy stroll. It was here where I deviated from one of my more usual paths, seeking adventure. It was here, after a while of walking where I found a peculiar sight: a small, sunken clearing.
It was like the softest crater had hit the center of this area, clearing the trees around it within a small radius. The ground, covered in dry, brown leaves, made the area all the more strange. The strongest part was the house. It was not a lavish house, to say the least. At least from the outside, it was old, the birch wood used to lazily hold it together was decaying, mixed with green moss. Some windows were boarded up, some were still inhabited by glass that sported a few cracks along the corners. The house itself was not a small shack but rather a surprisingly “large” house. It was no mansion but it was as tall as a two story condo, maybe a bit less, and as wide as a standard suburban home. Its length was negligible, but I went around the side to peek into the window.
The inside, from what I can see, was dark and depressing as if what was a happy home turned into the site of a storm. Cracked photo frames were on the ground, a decrepit living room was a venue for a torn up couch, antenna TV and dusty tables and furniture. I went to the other side for a better view. From the opposite side, I found what seems to be a spool of thread strewn about on the floor, resting by the first step of a staircase, leading up to the top. If I could travel back, I would give myself a mean slap, to knock sense into my adventure-plagued skull. Had I been more sensible, and less like a naive child running around carelessly in the fields, pretending they were the next frontiersman, I may have spared my sanity. But no, I had to find out what was inside.
The inside was just like what I had seen from peering through from the windows. Three doors were found on the ground floor. One of which was the only one I could open and it led to no more than an old bedroom. This bedroom was nowhere near those abandoned bedrooms in haunted houses or horror films. This was no haunted house, I was sure, for this felt like an abandoned shack at best. The bedroom was small and compact, with an old bed donning a sapphire-blue bedsheet sitting to my left. The bed proved the room’s small nature as it seemed like an average bed, yet it can touch from one end of the wall to the other. A white drawer with a criminal amount of dust and even a few bugs lay idle to my right. There was no window along the light pink walls, whose paint was beginning to chip away. The door made an ominous creaking sound and it startled me when I accidentally bumped it further backwards when I was traversing the small bedroom, making my heart stop for a moment. There was nothing else in the bedroom, nothing on the bed, next to it, or under it. The drawer was empty in two of its three compartments, for its third one contained a blank piece of scrap paper. I closed the door and tried opening the other two doors.
One opened ever so slightly but was stopped by some barricade and I couldn’t get a good look in the room. The other door was locked, not even a centimeter would it budge. I went outside and towards the back to see if I could peek in. The windows for both rooms were boarded up with a couple layers of wood. Even then, I can still peek through small gaps in the barricade and as some light reflected off of a cracked marble top and the black, dirty rim of a stove burner. It was a small kitchen, but I could not see any more due to the darkness and the window for the other room was completely boarded up, some gaps were filled with tape and it was even darker in that room to see anything clearly. I went back inside and mustered up enough will to travel up the stairs.
The flight of stairs was on the right side of the room, when you enter the house, across from the bedroom and adjacent to the unknown room. I climbed the eight steps and reached the second and top floor of the house. There was nothing else but a narrow hallway of dust, old and broken items along the floor ranging from glassware, wooden trinkets and plastics, converted in a layer of dust and cobwebs along a splintery wooden floor with loose nails. It looked as if breathing near the floor could be enough to set off a shark creaking noise. On both sides of the hall were five rooms in total, all shut. A light bulb hangs loosely in the center of the hall, the light switch was not a switch but rather a decrepit panel of tangled wires. I was about to continue on but then I heard it: a footstep. I went behind a piece of wall near the hallway.
I looked down and luckily no one else had entered so I must’ve been in the hallway for yet another step occurred and it was definitely in that direction. The step itself was scarier than the notion of someone being alive in this den. It was a heavy step, as if someone had fallen off a platform and onto their foot. The next step was lighter but just as powerful as the first. I peeked into the hallways and the farthest door to my right, which was shut, was opened, slightly. It opened more and more until it stopped and whoever was back there closed it again but before letting out a subtle, raspy sigh. It was the sigh, or maybe even a random noise, made by whoever inhabits the house that sent chills up my spine. It was that sigh that made me think it was the worst I’ll hear. The last sound heard was deeper, like a deep, sharp cough that was sudden when the scene just began to quiet down. By the time I was even beginning to process what occurred, I was halfway down the stairs and once I had made it outside, I decided to head back home.
Once home, I continued to theorize on what I had witnessed. The house alone gave me chills and creeps but the encounter upstairs was worse. I contacted friends and told them what happened but they told me to try and forget about it and some even talked to me as if I had gone mad. To take my mind off the ordeal, I resumed going to church. After a month or two of mass and socializing with fellow churchgoers, the thought of that event still crept into my mind, in fact it was like it had never left. My dreams turned to horrific ones as the unholy venture swept through my thoughts like a plague. I could no longer bear the idea of that sound made. After those months of foolishly thinking I could just sleep the pain away, and unsuccessfully trying to use church as a way to get my mind off of the occurrence, I decided to go back. I went out and bought a pump action shotgun, just in case my old hunting rifle wouldn’t suffice. As I look back, the few friends were right, I truly have gone mad. I reassured myself it was to “conquer my fear” but it was a lie and it was no more than a fruitless attempt to remedy my restless questioning. The lies I told myself were as lethal as the gun I was gripping.
I don’t know what, but when I gathered enough courage to go back to the house, I was almost a different man. No more a sheepish explorer but rather a man full of malice ready to find whoever lived there and blow someone’s brains out if necessary. I opened the door, this time new items were on the floor. A syringe with a broken body, unknown fluid near it. Upstairs there was another, intact syringe with a drip of blood on the needle. I knew now that it was addicts that lived here. I was already fuming, perhaps with unjust anger but also with frustration knowing that this damned house has been haunting me for months. A faint groan was heard, around the same area as the door which had caused me to run out in a panic. The door once more opened slightly, and stopped. I do not know what was going through my head to warrant this reaction, but I know my instant regret as soon as I roared to the unknown resident:
“Look, I came here because I was a little curious as to why a random house was here! But whatever noises you made, made me fear you and I cannot continue living until I found out who or what in God’s name you are! Show yourself!”
The scene went quiet, almost as if I had gone deaf. What felt like hours of silence was broken in a sudden and horrific way as a thud was heard and the man let out an agonizing scream. Coupled with his deep and raspy voice, it was as if an aging giant was being stretched limb from limb. A truly horrific noise filled the air with dread as I heard footsteps. Not one at a time after a couple of seconds, but one after the other almost instantly. They were almost powerful taps as they coupled with the sharp creaks of the wooden floor. I panicked and fired a shot, hoping the narrowness of the hallway will make sure at least one pellet will puncture or scrape the figure, whose shadow was now cast across the other wall and bled over the corner.
The figure walked stiffly and was hunched painfully but after I had fired my shotgun, it had stopped, crouching down a bit. I knew I had hit its leg. It made a painful groan, almost making a noise akin to someone gurgling liquid. He limped and his shadow followed him back. I peeked ever so slightly as to not expose my head. He hadn’t gone back into the room but rather stayed afar, as if waiting for me to expose myself as if the coast was clear. On the ground, although it was dark, I could make out drops and even a semi-footprint of red. I had surely hit his leg or foot. I decided to make a run downstairs but when I made a single step, I heard another step from the hall. I stepped back, and it stepped back, too.
It then started to make a sharp, painful cough as if it were coughing up materials from its body. I peeked once more and then I could only see the figure’s deformed left arm, as if it had been through a brutal fight. It then started banging on the wall with a piece of metal and I heard it walk slowly towards me. I decided to make haste and so I loaded and fired the shotgun once more as I stepped back. I fired until I had to load in more shells, all while screams came from the man. I’m sure I hadn’t hit anything vital, for it would’ve been surely dead, but I believe the shock came from more wounds and the fright of a loud gunshot. I was downstairs and ran out the door, slamming it behind me. As I ran back down the trail, I was relieved no one had followed me.
The experience I faced was dreadful and caused me many restless nights as I struggled to find adequate sleep with the constant nightmares I had to endure every single night. I endured severe paranoia, unjustly fearing it would find my house even though I knew full well, deep down, it was contained within that wooden box of a house. I hadn’t called the cops for obvious reasons. What was I going to say? That I trespassed in a house, then barged back in with a loaded gun and wounded the resident there? It was here where my sense came back and I realized the tragic predicament I got myself in. After several restless nights, I decided to finally seek a therapist.
After numerous appointments, he decided that I should try writing about my experience, as a way to deal with it. I feel only slightly better but that one dreadful noise will still devour my thoughts like a carnivorous lion. I wrote this story in my journal, then I typed it out on my computer. Only now, after all this, can I finally feel a mundane, uninspiring feeling of freedom. I would now like to apologize for not providing a satisfying explanation but what I can believe is that it was the house of an old drug den. But then why would it be in the woods in the suburbs and not in a large downtown area? I was sure the man I encountered was human for he bled red blood like us, but he was no doubt abused by the drugs as evident by the syringes. Whatever I encountered, whether it was true or exaggerated by my mind, I can only pray I never encounter it again.
I can do nothing.
Nothing, but sit and pray.