If I were to describe myself in one word, it would have to be, stuff. I love to collect things, and while I wouldn’t go as far as to say I’m a hoarder, I could see how anyone coming over to my place might assume that.
While I do a lot of business on ebay and Amazon, my Forte is good old physical auctions. Believe it or not, still a thing, chances are you have a couple in your city or town.
I buy, I sell, I keep more than I should, and while I can honestly say between transportation and packaging things for shipping, I’m making around minimum wage, the odd nice find here and there makes the 16 hour days worth it.
Sometimes.
My house is a bungalow, two floors no basement, and while you won’t find any dust or cobwebs, you’d be hard pressed to come across much free counter or floor space.
I have no particular type of thing I like to hold on to, just items that catch my interest, old pieces of history or pop culture that stand out a little, or have a charming backstory. Which brings me to an important part of my life, recalls.
One of the unforeseen hazards of dealing in objects that are decades old, are the safety standards of the past. Sometimes things are obvious, science sets with gunpowder and white phosphorus, lead tankards, asbestos stuffed toys, and the like.
But others, you might not think about. Radioactive paint is a thing, certain types of plastic are nasty carcinogens after a few years, and even if you never intend on eating it, various types of canned food have health hazards that’d have you living in the hospital for a few months, just to name a few.
Which is why people like myself have contact lists for when one of us finds an old recall. Once the statute of limitations runs out companies have little need to reach out to folks, so, like usual, a community effort is needed.
My cell rings, it’s an fairly old Nokia brick. I’m not some quirky technophobe, I have a brand new Samsung for personal use, but when I’m hauling cabinets and ancient sowing machines, I prefer something that can take a beating, and be replaced without cost.
“Hello, Oxford Jones collectibles and junk removal. “ I say, it’s 9pm, and while technically business hours are over, I’ve gotten later requests to haul crap.
There is no immediate answer, but I hear a lot of background noise. It’s distorted, garbled and chaotic, I assume I’ve been ass dialed.
“Anyone? “ I say, getting ready to disconnect.
“Hello Mr. Jones this is a courtesy call from M-Tec holdings in regards to a product you may have recently came into possession of. “ The voice is level, professional, and sounds female.
I chuckle, “Sorry, but that doesn’t really narrow it down with me, you’re going to have to be a bit more specific. “ I say, good naturedly.
I find it odd that I’m getting a call directly from a company, but it’s actually happened before. Usually just when the statute of limitations is running out, and they do a blitz to tie up any loose crates of lead lined shrek glasses, or intestine destroying butter substitute.
“The object in question would be a 1960’s era iron, frayed cord near the base, and slight maroon tint to the metal. “ The voice says.
I do remember the iron, picked it up for next to nothing, and was meaning to replace the cord and shop it around to a few interested parties.
“Right, right, so what kind of hazard are we talking? “ I ask, rummaging through a closet trying to find the offending houseware.
“Mr. Jones, are you still in possession of the object?” the voice says, annoyed.
I pull it out, and place it on the table, trying to think of what danger it could pose.
“Yep, sitting on the living room table right now. So, what should I be worried about? “ as I talk I swear I hear a growl in the background of the phone call. But the quality is bad enough as it is, it could have just as easily been a chair being dragged.
“We will need you to complete a series of disposal instructions, starting with a few questions, do you understand Mr. Jones? “ The voice says, ignoring my question.
All of this seems off, her tone, her requests, the time, even the age of the product. If this thing has anything wrong with it, no lawyer on earth is going to try and sue 60 years after it’s production.
“Wait a second, what do you mean, disposal instructions? “ I say, somewhat standoffish.
“Exactly what the words I have chosen would indicate. Instructions for the items disposal.
Do you understand what is required Mr. Jones? “ There’s an edge to the woman’s voice.
“I understand you haven’t told me one thing about this iron, and that you feel the need to talk down to me.
I don’t know what your deal is, but if you expect me to foot the bill for this thing’s destruction, not going to happen…” my rant begins to gain steam as the voice cuts me off, there is real anger in it, the professional tone barely masking the rage.
“You’re being uncooperative Oxford, and M-Tec requires cooperation. “
I hang up the phone before I tell the lady off, assuming scam, prank, or simple idiocy. Within minutes it begins to ring again, same number.
I turn off the ringer and let the woman on the other end waste her time. I sit down in an old recliner, and reach for my remote and my blood runs cold.
If this had been my personal phone, I could think of a million technological ways someone could have pulled this off. But, the brick, there is no real way to hack into it. It’s two steps off of a rotary phone for fuck sake.
“Mr. Jones, pick up the phone, this is a time sensitive issue. “ My phone is on, projecting the woman’s voice. Her tone is unlevel as she continues, “ This is your first warning in regards to being uncooperative, further incidents will lead to, corrective measures. “
The way she says this, half condescending, half giddy, chills me to the bone.
I pick up the phone and pull out my Swiss army knife, unscrewing the back, thinking to remove the battery, and call the police on my personal phone.
“Oxford,” the voice growls, I swear I hear snapping Jaws for a second, “ Once you take out that battery and we keep talking, you are going to begin to panic, which will make these tasks all the more difficult.
Work with me, if you need more incentive… “
A quick sharp tapping on the glass of my front door. At first I tell myself It must be a branch, or an errant piece of trash in an updraft, but it begins to get louder, more rapid, until I hear a pane give way with an almost musical shattering.
“Stop! “ I scream, the door is blocked by a small wall, but I eye the area wide eyed as my heart starts racing.
Whatever is going on, whoever is on the other end of the phone has someone here. I don’t buy this implied spooky crap, but just because someone is lying doesn’t mean they aren’t dangerous.
Some kind of rustling at the front door, or maybe not. Maybe it’s just my overworked brain trying to make sense of the rapidly devolving situation.
“I’ll take that as you accepting the current situation we find ourselves in.
Answer the following questions truthfully to the best of your knowledge.
Do you meet people in your dreams? “ The voice is calming now, though the question confuses me.
“I don’t think so? “ I reply.
“Do you remember 1934?” The voice says, immediately.
“No, I wasn’t born. “ I say, the short, angry sigh I get as a response makes me look to the doorway.
“Do you check your doors? “ comes the next bizarre question.
“Sometimes, I mean, a lot I guess. “ I sputter.
“Last question, where is he? “ There is something to this last question, I feel strange, lightheaded, and for a half second I see it.
“Upstairs. “ I say, breathlessly.
A tall, dark from, shrouded in shadow, barely tethered to reality. I don’t know who, he, is, but I know where he is.
The room gets cold, there’s a sense of weight in the air, a dusty scent that reminds me of funeral homes and old cars wafts through the dining area. The iron seems to have a pull, some kind of aura to it. I hear whispers, many high pitched and wailing, and one, deep dark growl periodically drowning them out.
I shake my head and try to focus as the voice begins to talk again.
“You saw him? “ The voice says, it’s tone smug.
“Yeah, I did, what was that? “ I say, shaking my head, trying to clear out the disconnected feeling that is permeating my thoughts.
“That was the danger. What we need to determine is how… potent it may still be.
I assume you have salt, and some form of hard liquor? “ I can barely hear the voice, whatever is going on in the background of where she is has reached a fevered pitch. A digitized, garbled din that sounds like the world’s largest barfight, or maybe the world’s smallest war.
“Salt, I think so, but I don’t really drink… Why the hell would I need booze?” I’m rummaging through my kitchen, the ancient box of salt, fairly new in comparison to my collection of junk, is clumpy, but after a few wacks on the table it begins to flow freely.
Jars and bottles hit the ground as I scramble to find some kind of booze.
Things are changing, I can’t quite put my finger on it, but shadows seem, deeper, I feel a sense of being watched, and throughout my home I hear slight rattling and clinking, as if my collection of knick knacks and half finished projects has developed a severe case of anxiety.
“Alcohol has been used in every religious practice since the animus Gods. Stupid questions risk your safety Mr. Jones. “ I hear from the brick as I pull something out of the back of my freezer that might do the trick.
It’s old, but sealed, I don’t know much about Rye, nor anything about how it may have been manufactured for a tie in for the film Strange Brew, but I don’t think I have any other options.
“The bottle of Rye will do. “ the voice says, I freeze.
Even as my home begins to twist and warp into a nightmare, this statement chills my blood. She is watching me somehow.
“Pour the salt over the iron. “ She says, pointedly. There is a smirk in her tone.
As I slowly walk to the dining room table pipes begin to shriek and rattle in an infernal chorus.
I begin to follow her directions, and I’m enthralled by what I see. In the middle of this nightmare, it’s a singular point of strange beauty.
The white powder never touches the iron, a centimeter or two away, it falls to one side or the other. Gravity has nothing to do with this phenomenon, the grains falling randomly, and forming an unnatural, spider web like Mandela pattern.
I don’t remember doing so but I put the phone down, the voice is saying something, but it seems far away.
The salt squirms and contracts on the table, with a smell of sulphur and burning slag, it begins smoking and turns a deep angry red. It burns a symbol into the table, a smoking, reeking brand.
Then I see him, not in my mind, not as some flash of insight from beyond, but looming in the staircase, feet from me.
I’ve never seen a ghost, and, in fact, I’ve never been one to believe in them. But the dark, shadow laden from in front of me, couldn’t be anything else.
It’s presence extends beyond it’s form, I can feel it’s will, it’s anger from where I stand. Things around it start to change, text becomes eldritch writing on rows of books, mirrors blacken and crack, military rations, their seals rated for nuclear war, bulge and spill their contents.
I’ll call it man shaped, the shadows around it, cloak like, drawing in the light around them. But the worst part was it’s eyes.
At first I think they are just blue, but as I’m drawn into those scowling windows to a soul I don’t want to see, I notice it.
They aren’t blue, they are like small windows, behind which is a blue sky, broken only by white whisps of cloud.
It glides soundlessly, and stands inches in front of me, the voice is screaming, but I can’t hear, I’m in the presence of something old, powerful and nefarious.
It places a hand on my face, I feel a cold sting, smell copper and loam, and then I see it.
The spirit doesn’t talk, it gives me it’s story in a confusing, crashing brutal flash of violent imagery and overwhelming emotion.
I see a desert, a town, isolated and backward. A mortician, a feud, and a night of brutal violence that left one man on the run and a half dozen families missing children.
I see the mortician living a life of horror and debauchery. Leaving a trail of the innocent littering locations from the gold rush to the fields of world war 1.
I see dark things, eaters of souls and joy take notice of the man, and when nature finally ran it’s course, and his shrivelled black soul finally made the trip to the thereafter, they gave him a second life, armed with the power to enact his dark will.
The spirit picked a week in October, before all hallows eve to wreak havoc, culminating in a worldwide spree on the night itself. Flitting from country to country on the winds of the void, taking lives by the hundred, but spreading it out enough, only those looking for these kinds of things noticed.
It took 40 years, but groups of those that shine lights in the darkness found the ghost. They couldn’t manage to destroy the creature, it had amassed too much favor with the things beyond. But they were able to trap it.
I come to, shivering hard enough I Spit out pieces of tooth and blood. I wipe sweat from my face and my hand is stained a rusty crimson, twin tear tracks of blood streaming thinly from my eyes.
My mind still isn’t quite my own, but I have enough sense to grab the bottle. I hold it in front of me like a talisman.
I feel the mortician trying to worm his way into my mind, the voice is screaming as I fruitlessly try and ward it off with the bottle.
“Drink it! “ I hear through the din of children’s voices and growling rage.
It feels like something is trying to stop me, my muscles strain as I break the yellowed plastic seal. Liquor hits the ground as my hand shakes, the booze sizzles like fat on an overheated pan.
I manage to take a gulp of the liquid, it’s fouled by age, and burns like poison, but as I feel it’s rotten burn in my stomach, the image of the mortician starts to fade and dissolve.
Not enough that I don’t feel it in the home, nor did the Rotgut have any effect on the house itself, but I at least feel in control of my own actions.
As I hear the voice, I realise that at this moment, that still might be a relative term.
“Mr. Jones! Are you able to reply? “ she screams.
“Yeah” I say, picking up the brick, “That thing, it’s getting in my head. “
“And unfortunately that will continue to get worse until the situation is resolved.
We’ll be guiding you through a series of steps in order to disrupt the medium the entity resides in. Done correctly, this will neutralize it as a hazard. “ The more I listen to the voice, the more I pick up on odd little quirks in tone and cadence. Like she isn’t quite fluent, but emulating speech extremely well.
“Why couldn’t they have done this 40 years ago? “ I snap, the far, and the sense of impending doom from every angle, more than I can take.
There is long silence as shadows spread out like infected veins and begin to turn into black cracks.
At first the voice starts to giggle, it’s high energy, and caries a sick sense of amusement to it. She calms herself down before speaking.
“Because, Mr. Jones, they wanted to survive, they cared about the effect it would have on the surrounding people.
Neither of those are things I give a shit about, Mr. Jones. My directive is simple, attempt to dispose of the hazard.
I want you to survive insofar as I need someone to tell me if things worked. But still, chances are, you will not come out the other end of this.
That being said, you’ve now put yourself in Mortician’s crosshairs. If it has it’s way, death will be no where near the end of your suffering. “
I see someone out of the corner of my eye, beginning to walk behind me. I turn to watch and I realise, the person I’m seeing, is me.
Whether illusion, hallucination, or something more esoteric, something that looks and moves exactly like me, walks through the dining room, into the shadowed pit of the living room, and as if to rub in it’s reality, sits down and turns on the television.
“Ignore it. Things are in motion you have no understanding of Mr. Jones. “ the voice begins, “ We need to bring the spirit out of the ether. Draw a bath, bring a candle. “
I’m past the point of questioning find a long tapered red candle, and sprint upstairs to my bathroom.
I notice that as I get away from the dining room, the gloom and horror infesting the house seems to let up, as if the iron is ground zero of a slow paranormal detonation.
I hear the scraping, whispering chorus from the first floor, but take a moment to breathe, the atmosphere in the bathroom feels less contaminated, less, toxic.
“Turn the lights off, get in, run the bath, and set the phone nearby. You could disrobe, but I wouldn’t suggest it. “ The voice says.
I do as asked, the water comes out freezing, regardless of my efforts otherwise, the rushing of the water turns into an almost soothing background noise.
“Some things, men are not meant to know Mr. Jones. So much so that the universe will twist and bend to try and strip them of their knowledge. “ as the voice starts I can hear a harsh chanting, I focus on her speech, but it feels like those rhythmic words are telling secrets, “ The true nature of reality, the soul, the things that call themselves Gods, just a passing mote of understanding, just one ancient syllable in a dead tongue, is all it takes. “
The water starts to feel like it has a current, I reach out to the side of the tub and feel nothing but air.
The chanting from the phone almost drowns out the voice, the room is pitch black, and suddenly feels cavernous, the sound of the voice, and the chorus of the Damned behind her the only tether I have to Euclidean reality.
“Do you understand Mr. Jones, can you parse the song? “ She screams.
The chanting echoes like cannon fire, I think I’ve already failed, but for a brief moment, I hear it. A word I refuse to print here, a single word that made things much too clear.
“Light the candle! “ the voice demands, and I act.
As I reach out I don’t feel the cold edge of the tub, or even the fabric toilet seat cover, but I do feel the candle, and lighter, seemingly floating in a void.
My wet hands make the knock off light struggle, the damp flint barely able to make a spark. But it does, and in the pitiful light of the flame, then then light of the candle, I see a sea of faces. Young, sad, mutilated faces.
“Drop it in the water. “ She says, and as if I had a choice, I obey.
The candle sinks, it’s flame staying alight as it begins to fall.
I watch it, a tiny pinprick of light, drifting well past where the tub should end, it sinks for what look like hundreds of feet, as the cold and sense of immensity make me shudder uncontrollably.
It rises from the depths, eyes sky blue, motes of white passing through them, it seems to draw the water and shadow up into itself as it rises from the empty tub, held aloft by some force I wish I didn’t know about.
“You need to leave the bathroom Mr Jones. “ The voice says.
The spirit in front of me is no longer half real, it’s ethereal form wrapped in dripping, smoking ichor. It grins, teeth too numerous and torn from it’s victims.
I feel a burden lift from my mind, but the level of control the spirit has over the home is nearly complete.
Without a movement it makes the lights intense enough to scald my eyes. I try to look at it, to see some opening to sprint by, but the blinding glare does nothing but give me a blurred outline.
A cold, bone clawed hand grabs my chin, I hear the spirits true voice for the first time, it’s a horrid, rotten gurgle, full of malice and pity.
“You’re a pawn in their game Oxford. “ As the mortician talks, I can see dark, whispy tendrils start to pull themselves out of cracks in the wall. I squint to try and make out some avenue of escape, but the overworked lights beat my eyes hard enough to sting.
“They don’t want me gone, or stopped, just neutered, so I pose no threat to them. They are not of the void or of this world Oxford. They want this world. “ As the Mortician ends his sentence, I run, grabbing the phone, he doesn’t try to stop me, the only thing to follow me down the hallway is mocking laughter and taunts, “There is no where to run Oxford. “
I stop half way down the stairs, judging by the twisted state of the first floor, he’s likely right.
Walls have doors that were never there before, old oak things rattling and shaking. Objects fall and hover at random, grinning, child-like faces crowd the windows. Scenes of violence and murder paid out in flickering snippets, like memories desperately trying to be real.
“Go to the living room, take the same path you saw yourself take earlier. “ The voice says.
“You told me not to watch that earlier. “ I say, voice shaking, heart threatening to give out.
“And now I’m hoping you ignored me. This isn’t some paint by numbers summoning Mr. Jones, it’s a fluid situation. “ She chides.
I look back and see the mortician slowly sauntering toward me, the walls and floor behind him rotting and corrupting in his wake.
I walk, trying to force myself to keep the casual pace I remember from earlier.
Hovering images of children plead with me for safety or threaten my soul. Tendrils or hands grasp from open cupboards or cracks in the wall, more and more by the second.
The livingroom is dark and has a sense of subtle dread at odds with the horror carnival the rest of the home is turning into. On the end table beside the old recliner I see two objects, a remote, and an old straight razor.
The mortician and all of the symptoms of his haunting slowly follow me. He’s right, I have no where to run, so they have all the time in the world.
As I turn on the television I hear the last words I would hear from the voice, “You’ll know what to do. “.
What it displayed as an image so complex and alien it drove a spike of pain from my eyes to the middle of my brain.
But something about that image, gives the ghost and his horde pause. I feel a thin smile creep onto my face.
I close my eyes trying to drive out the pain, but as I do, I can feel something, and I can hear the mortician begin to move forward again.
It’s not the image, it’s me seeing the image, I realise. I open my eyes, determined to stare into the screen until this is over. But physically, it’s not possible.
Try as I might, instinct shuts my eyes after a few seconds.
But, unfortunately, the voice was right, I do know what I need to do.
It wasn’t quick, or done with any kind of precision, but I scream like a lunatic as I slice away my eyelids. Tossing the dead meat aside like an unwanted garnish.
The image took my sight, burned itself into my eyes, leaving me blind and wondering if all this was for nothing.
“You’ll live long enough to see how much of a mistake this was Oxford. “ the Mortician said before leaving.
All this was a few months ago, and call me a coward, but I was happy to leave well enough alone. I heard nothing more from The voice, or the Mortician, and have enough on my plate learning to live life without the use of my eyes.
But yesterday, two men came my home. One was in his early forties, bit of a sinister vibe to him. The other, young, had the demeanor of an actor, maybe a YouTuber. Richard and Matteo.
They told me they needed my help, that they were unraveling the twisted shit behind what mutilated me, and for that matter, them.
I want retribution, but I don’t know if going off tilting at windmills makes any sense at this point.
So please, let me know down below what you guys are thinking. Do you know anything about these guys? This kind of paranormal activity? Who M-Tec is?
Any help would be appreciated.