Spooky short stories from the Technician’s staff

WANDERLUST AND THE FAMILIAR FOREST

Nicky Vaught

Deputy Features Editor

The following is based on a true account. Names of people and places have been changed.

*

Sitting alone in a two-man tent he’d borrowed and never returned, Mark took another drag from his tightly rolled joint. From outside, he could hear footsteps, the jingling of keys and a dog’s breathing.

A cop? This deep into the woods?

A southern, effeminate man’s voice ushered the dog along. “Come on, maybe this person.” The man tapped at the tent door.

Mark hid the mostly smoked joint in his hands and unzipped the door, for once not impeded the double zippers.

“Hey,” the man said, keeping a tight leash on an Argentinian mas tiff. “Have you seen the waterfalls?”

There were no waterfalls in the woods, so Mark just assumed the man was confused. He told him he hadn’t seen them, but good luck.

“Well,” the man said as he started away from Mark’s tent, “you ought to check them out.”

* *

Five seasons passed of Mark and his friends retreating into the woods for their variety of young-adult she nanigans.

One shenanigan involved smok ing weed out of a gas mask atop a fallen tree, its upturned roots cov ered in dry dirt, forming a wall just over 10 feet.

Another shenanigan saw Mark and three friends wandering deeper into the woods than their lazy, apa thetic curiosity had ever led them.

After about an hour of walking through the woods, Tyler, who had been leading most of the way, had to stop. He’d run into a wire, which went from tree to tree, not wrapped around, but running through them. Endlessly it seemed.

The boys went under and carried on.

Soon, they came to a cabin. Scat tered about the cabin were children’s shoes. Only left shoes, though. Like maybe the cabin had been home to some bad dancer children.

Inside the cabin, jars sat on shelves. There were only a few shelves, each with two jars—three at most. A sort of black, viscous something filled each jar.

One of the guys, Sam, took a jar from its shelf. He didn’t expect to get the sticky dust feeling off his fingers for a few days.

“I think it’s guts,” he said. “Let’s find out.”

He led everyone just outside the door, where a rock lay smooth as a desk in the dirt. An exaggeratedly forceful throw sent glass only a few feet from where the jar hit the stone.

A clump of reddish-brown, brown something sat on the stone like a dead jellyfish washed up on the beach.

Though no experts, the boys iden tified the clump as, in fact, an organ. Probably a small liver. Congealing red goo and clear yellowish fluid seeped out from the organ. Light est under shattered glass and dark est in the crevices of the rocks, the red-wash slowly dripping over the rock couldn’t have been anything but blood.

They decided to keep walking, just to get away from the cabin.

“Let’s just go back to your car,” Mark said to Tyler in a way that the others might hear and agree.

But Sam and Tyler, and the fourth boy, Jeremy, wanted to keep explor ing. So they did.

They came again to the wire they had earlier ducked under. Instead of passing the chest-high metal string to the other side—their side—the boys followed it. Tyler held it with his right hand limply. He led his friends until the wire in his hand ended in a tree.

About a backyard’s length away, the other end of the metal border ended in a tree as well. The wire brought the boys to a house. Only a few trees separated them from the backyard.

* * *

A mastiff slept in the grass.

The boys cautiously walked into the yard, noting the airplane liquor bottles dangling from some of the more proximal trees by metal string.

Trees and a fence surrounded the yard, ensuring no neighbors or passersby could see its gardens or the porch connected to the house backdoor.

The dog had apparently been chewing on a shoe, as a child’s left shoe lay in the grass half-torn apart.

Mark had seen the dog before.

“Hey, what’s this mean? Is this the street we’re on?” Tyler asked. He was calling attention to a small plaque in the center of a stone in the center of the yard.

Engraved in the faux-gold plaque: WELCOME TO WATERFALL AVE.

“Hello,” a southern, effeminate man’s voice said from the porch through a screen door. “Welcome.”

THE MOUNTAIN AIR HAS A PAST

Taylor Quinn

Staff Writer

1890. Somewhere in North Caro lina.

Her killer knew her every thought and feeling — she controlled her. She somehow knew how she thought and where she would be and all of her weaknesses. She had to deal with this person her whole entire life — day in and day out being tortured by this unforgiving soul. She tried to escape, multiple times, but every attempt amounted to another fail ure. She knew she had to get away but everything she tried did not grant her any distance. She longed for separation; she couldn’t take the mental obstruction this person had caused.

She could feel the cold, crisp air grace her body and enter her pores as she stood atop the mountain. Her killer stood there too. She watched the sun set into disappearance –the beauty of the colors bringing tears to her stinging eyes. At that moment she experienced second thoughts about escaping her killer — her life wasn’t too bad when she really thought about it. As of now she was enjoying the beauty of nature with her killer, she was actually feeling joy with her.

Just as those warm thoughts crossed her mind and coaxed a faint smile upon her lips, her killer uttered two definite words: “It’s time.” She was fearful, but yet she knew whatever happened would be for the best. Her killer thought long and hard about her decision but decided to continue with her previ ously thought-out plan.

She stood at the edge of the moun tain, waiting, reflecting on her life and feeling the force her killer was putting on her to keep edging for ward. She kept inching toward the edge, the rocks now falling into the abyss — her eyes darted to the bot tom of where she would soon lay — and her calm thoughts quickly turned to panicked ones as she real ized that once she left the mountain her casualty was a certainty.

Her heart was beating uncontrol lably — her body now matched the fear. She started to shake. Because of her tremors she lost her balance, she felt herself falling forward and let out a shriek marked with des peration. Her killer sensed her fear and tried to save her but — she was too late.

The girl tumbled down the edge of the mountain thinking of what she had done between the blurred lines of her conscious and uncon scious state. For a second she hated her killer for forcing her to jump, but her hate was soon replaced by darkness. Silence. Nothingness. She died instantly. Her killer didn’t even get to enjoy her death. Her killer couldn’t peer down from the top of the mountain in triumph or gain the satisfaction she longed for from what she had just done. Be cause her killer died, tumbled down the mountain with her — her killer was within her.

Present day.

Since her death, hundreds more had occurred starting from atop that same mountain. Her once sui cidal spirit coaxing those contem plating the same up the mountain to end their lives. Her bitterness drives her, she lost control so she makes sure she has full control of her next victim’s dim future. The police re ports say “Accidental death” but both the killer and the victim truly know the truth.

So, if you feel the soft coaxing of the mountain air telling you to edge forward, say hi to her on your way down — because once she’s touched you, you have no choice other than  to jump.

MEREDITH

Brittany Bynum-Farmer

Staff Writer

My heart was in my throat.  It was 1 a.m.

I felt paralyzed as I leaned against my bedroom door and peaked through the crack to see a dark figure standing in the middle of the living room. Someone had broken in through my window, shattering glass everywhere on my living-room floor.

I lived on the top floor of Hillsborough Apartments.  I was afraid to move, to speak, to yell. I heard him rambling through my computer drawers looking for something furiously.   He had to have had the wrong place.

Then my phone rang. “Why me?” I thought. 

I jumped over my bed to my nightstand to shut it off.  I crawled silently under my bed. Complete silence.  I wasn’t sure if the burglar had left or not. The silence was killing me.  I laid beneath my bed waiting silently.

Suddenly, I heard the door creep open.  Now my heart was in my stomach and tears rolled down my face.  He was near my closet and swung back the clothes hangers.  He grumbled some words, and then silence entered the room once more.

The next thing I knew, he reached underneath the bed for my arm and I bit his hand as he grabbed me. I heard him scream in anguish, and I moved myself from under the bed.  I ran quickly out of my room like a bat out of a cave.  He grabbed me by the waist and pushed me to the ground before I could make a clear escape. I fell hard on my face and bruised my forehead. The floor felt so cold against my skin. 

He grabbed me by my feet and started dragging me through my apartment to the balcony.  I screamed and squirmed wildly enough to hit the tall lamp.  It crashed loudly and sound pierced through the air. It landed on my carpet and began a small fire.

The man hit me in my side, and I cried out helplessly.  I thought this was it.  The fire started to grow.  He was caught off guard, and I kicked him hard at his ankles.  I was able to get up and limp quickly out of my room clutching my side.  I decided to run out of my apartment.  My goal was just getting out of the apartment.

I darted down the hallways and I noticed the lights were out.  I was limping down a dark hallway trying to find the door to the stairs.  I was terrified that the man was coming behind me.  I tried to keep myself together, but I had to stop to catch my breath.   I was at the end of the steps and the door slung wide open, and there he was.  I let out a loud cry.  I couldn’t understand why nobody could hear me or try to help me. 

I pushed myself to run down the steps as fast as I could.  Then the fire alarm began to sound off.  I kept running down the steps to get away from the burglar. 

Then he said, “Wait! I have something for you.”  Those words stopped me dead in my tracks.  “Who was this man and what did he want?” I thought.  I turned around to get a glimpse of his face.

It was my childhood best friend, Jones.  We used to call him Tar Heel because he loved playing in the dirt when we were younger and he would anger my parents caused he tracked mud all through our house.  He was sent away in high school to a mental hospital because he murdered his little sister, Caroline.  My parents said he had a split personality disorder that caused him to see things and people from a different perspective.  “Why are you doing this, Jones?” I asked.

“I’m only here to help you, Meredith.”

“Get away from me!” said Meredith. “How did you get here?” I asked.

“I escaped to come get you. It’s time for you to get help.” said Jones as he walked closer to me.  The pain in my side was starting to take a toll on me. I blacked out.

“Meredith, your lawyer is here.” said Officer Wolf.

Meredith was taken from her jail cell and into a court room with her lawyer for the murder of Caroline. Meredith had suffered from a dissociative identification disorder.  The story told was the one she gave to her lawyer to explain what had happened.  She was the one who murdered Caroline after viciously beating her and pushing her down the stairs. Meredith even wrote a goodbye letter to Caroline and left it in her drawer sealed with a kiss and signed with drops of blood.  Jones was Meredith’s split personality.  She was very jealous of her sister because Meredith was a tomboy and often felt isolated from others.  Caroline was the pretty, preppy girl who excelled in school, sports, and clubs. Whether or not Meredith was convicted, you decide.