It isn't Satan. It isn't monsters. It isn't the government. It isn't a serial killer. It isn't aliens. It isn't demons. It isn't nuclear. It isn't solar storms.

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It isn't Satan. It isn't monsters. It isn't the government. It isn't a serial killer. It isn't aliens. It isn't demons. It isn't nuclear. It isn't solar storms.

Mensagem por Storyteller em Sex 03 Out 2014, 19:20

Doorbells are not inherently scary. The doorbell rings; the door is answered. Of course, what's on the other side of the door can change the interaction significantly.
I'm a house painter by trade. Generally, I work by myself or with Joe, a middle-aged, silent type. He's a nice guy, a talented painter, and a devout Christian. It's funny to think his faith actually has little to do with what happened that day.
It was a Wednesday afternoon. The entire day was spent hanging drywall, completely covering the ceilings of two bedrooms. If you've ever covered a ceiling in drywall, we can swap stories of shoulder pain and screw shards in our fingers later.
Two women lived in the house, with its cracking walls, dusty everything, and strange ability to cast shadows in a room facing direct sunlight. Somewhat elderly women. Sisters, I think; I wasn't too sure. Kind women, but they had a tendency to walk completely in sync with one another. It was like, if you've ever seen the movie Don't Look Now, it reminded me of the old women in that. Man, that was a pretty good movie; it used suspense effectively, but after a while the lack of anything happening became a bit mundane.
Oh, sorry, I'm rambling. I daydream when I work, so documenting the day brings out the talker in me. But, anyway, the women had left for several hours. No idea where they went, but judging by the empty Lorezapam bottles and compulsive conversations about death on the news, I'd say nowhere important. Just getting away from the loneliness and depression that is the Philadelphia suburbs for a while.
So, it was myself, Joe, and a dying radio set to the oldies. The radio would turn to static whenever I walked by. Only me, which I found odd. I joked in my head about possibly being a demon. These are the things one thinks about while screwgunning a 400th spiral into gypsum. Spiral Into Gypsum would actually be a decent band name, honestly. There I go, rambling again. The stories never stop aboard this train of thought...
The doorbell rang.
Joe called from the other room, “Hey, Dave, mind grabbing that? My hands are full.”
“Should we really be answering the door with the homeowners gone?”
“Well...no, I suppose whoever it is can always come back.” Silence. “Come help me dry fit this.”
I sigh, knowing soon I'll be holding my arms above my head for a lot longer than I'd want.
One hour passes, and the women haven't come home. We've exhausted our drywall surplus upstairs, so Joe charges me to run downstairs to grab another sheet myself. Maneuvering a cumbersome piece of Sheetrock is not something I'm excited about, but the sooner we finish, the sooner I can kill all the ice cream in my freezer. Since I'm basically a child. Fuckin' sue me.
Charging down the stairs, I stop. The front door is covered by a thin curtain, obscuring the window in it somewhat, but the sunlight pouring through outlines a silhouette on the other side of the door. I cock an eyebrow, as if anybody can see my confusion. Whoever happened to be standing there was completely still, so I decided to assume it was one of the women on their porch admiring the bland street corner. It's funny how we instantly rationalize what we don't understand. It isn't so much that we make sense of the world, but we invent our own reality where nothing bad can happen.
My hand gripped the tarnished handle and turned, pulling the door and revealing a man in a black suit. He was wearing a bowler hat and looked vaguely similar to an elderly Sinatra. His voice, however, was not from The Chairman: deep and giving the sensation of a bitter taste in my mouth.
“Hello friend, I started to think you would never answer the door.”
It was at this point I should've closed the door in his face, but frankly I don't think it would've changed the events of the day that followed.
“I...didn't know you were there this whole time. You a friend of Maureen's?” He had to know the homeowners somehow, right? Right. Breathe and remember: rationalize.
“No, I'm just here to deliver an envelope to a...Joe Hause? Is that what that says?” The man pulled some reading glasses from his pocket. “Yes, Joe Hause. Do you happen to be Joe?”
“No, I'm not Joe, but I could take this to him if you'd like. He's right upstairs...”
“I can't allow you to touch this envelope, but if you would allow me to come in, I'd be more than happy to deliver the envelope and be on my way.”
I heard steps behind me. I was wondering when Joe would get impatient.
“Dave, where's the drywa- who's that?”
“I'm not important, but this envelope is for Joe Hause. Would you be Joe Hause?” The old man was exceedingly pleasant, cracking a smile without a hint of malice.
“I am...” Joe approached the man as one would approach a leper. He snatched the off-white envelope, opening it at arms length. “If this is anthrax, I'm making sure you die with me, old man.” Joe was also a conspiracy theorist.
The man just grinned. “It's nothing of the sort, but I appreciate the humor.”
Joe removed a single piece of paper from the envelope, reading it aloud, brutally grimacing.
“It isn't solar storms. It isn't demons. It isn't nuclear.” Pause. “Then what the fuck is it?”
“I just deliver the messages.” The old man gave a stiff wave before collapsing on the ground. He was dead.
The police arrived promptly, pulling up in a storm of light and sound. They took statements from each of us, surveyed the area; the homeowners came back, obviously horrified an old man died on their porch. This was made more bizarre by the women asserting that they had never before seen the unfortunate visitor.
The old man was a complete stranger to everyone, apparently. He had nothing in his pockets. No tags on his clothing. No fingerprints. His teeth were dentures with no label or serial number branded onto them. The cops fidgeted for a while, taking pictures, shooting their guns at each other in a weird take on a water gun fight, punching stray animals. We all joined in, and it was a great time. I'm kidding, but the officers really didn't know what to do, so naturally they told us to call them if anything else happened. They were gone.
Maureen's supposed sister had gone upstairs to lie down. Joe, myself, and Maureen made awkward small talk, having no stake in this old man and wanting to banish the ordeal from memory. Joe made no mention of the envelope to the police or to the sisters.
Eventually, we all decided the best course of action was for Joe and I to go ahead and continue working. I wish we left.
I was working in the front bedroom, so I pushed the door open, not remembering having closed it, but telling myself I'm forgetful sometimes. There was Maureen's sister Diana, lying dead on the floor, eyes wide, chest and stomach sliced open revealing a bloodless cavity. Her arm was propped up with a wooden board, forcing it to point directly at the ceiling. One of the pieces of drywall had a new arrangement of nails. The black heads all gathered in a pentagram; it appeared to be bleeding, red fluid dripping from the old nail holes.
I guess I should mention the rest of the room. Diana wasn't the only dead body. One of the police officers and two people I had never seen before all lay dead and empty, pointing up to the ceiling. The furniture, which only consisted of a bed and a desk, were covered in sheets. Joe's tools, two different-sized pliers, a drywall saw, a drill, and a painter's putty knife sat neatly on top of the desk. The bed was covered in envelopes.
It may have been a gut reaction to the scene, but Joe ran frantically to the envelopes, tearing each one open like a spoiled kid on Christmas: “it isn't Satan. It isn't monsters. It isn't demons. It isn't a serial killer. It isn't aliens.” The envelopes all contained variations of the trope, gradually turning Joe's tone from urgent to pleading.
He collapsed into tears. My heart was racing, but until you've seen something atrocious, you don't know how you would react. Maureen vomited before passing out on the floor. I stood still, sweating, wringing my hands. The vice grip in my chest signaled a panic attack. What do I do now? What did this?
Then Joe opened the last envelope. This one was completely black, buried beneath the others. Unlike the previous letters, this was opened with care. The vigor was gone.
Joe stood still for a while before turning to look out the window. Where I was situated at the door, I couldn't see what he was looking at, but I didn't need to see it.
“GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE NOW.” Joe turned to me in a frenzy, running towards the door as I heard shattering glass. I glanced back as I flew down the stairs only to see Joe clawing at the hardwood floor, nails tearing off into cascading blood. He was being dragged by a scabbed hand with long, yellowing nails. I didn't see what the hand belonged to, but it didn't matter. I thought of going back to save Maureen, but as I plowed through the front door, her body exploded from the window above me. The sound of bones cracking and ripping accompanied the unnatural bounce of the corpse.
“Run little rabbit. It's hunting season.” Monotonous tone. Sour taste in my mouth. The taste of garbage and hate. Not my own hate.
I threw open my car door, remembering suddenly that my battery had been temperamental lately.
One turn of the key. Grinding sounds.
Two turns of the key. Grinding sounds.
Three turns of the key. No sounds.
I looked up at the second floor window, feeling eyes on me. Being parked across the street, the view of the window was clear enough to make out an abnormally large head, given that appearance by a mass of matted, straw-like black hair. The hair obscured all facial features except the scarred, dirty cheeks and jaw, adorned with...well, it wasn't a smile...the mouth was open displaying gritted, caramel teeth, but the expression didn't indicate any emotions.
Four turns. The windowgazer slithered from the window, limbs being used in the wrong way to exit onto the overhang above the front door.
Five turns. The windowgazer reached a scabbed hand onto the drainpipe, attempting to slide down the pipe upside-down. The nails and brackets on the tube tore flesh from the thing, dripping blood onto the pavement in a sinister shower.
Six turns. The thing lay still on the ground for several seconds before wildly flailing its bony body parts, the whole time seemingly training that eyeless gaze on me. Mouth still open. Teeth still gritted. Blood still leaking from fresh wounds.
Seven turns. Lucky seven, the car came to life, turning the corner, and I was gone...right into traffic.
“Fuck...fuck, fuck, fuck.” Cars in front, cars behind. I glanced behind me, expecting to see the beast wandering towards the main road. Instead I saw Maureen and Diana pull their car around the block.
My phone buzzed. It was Joe. “He...hello?”
“Where the fuck are you, man?”
“I...you...you're okay?”
“What the fuck are you talking about? You ran to your car in a panic. I'm concerned for YOU...”
I pulled the car to the side of the road, staring at my hands for no reason other than that they existed. The phone was still on; Joe asked if I was there, but I couldn't bring myself to answer. Was it really Joe? I decided to ask him one thing.
“What did it say in the last envelope?”
Static for a second, then a sour taste in my mouth. I knew I wasn't going back to that house.
“It's curiosity.”
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Spooky Entity

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