Fate - A Horror Story Death in and of itself is altogether a rather natural incident. However, it was the circumstances surrounding the death of the old man that make it not only all the more intriguing, yet also necessitate inspection by other people who may solve its mystery - and the curse laid upon that very house in which it happened. Yes, there has been a curse upon this house and family estate in the back parts of Charleston, South Carolina for many years. Even though many of the finer details of how this curse was put upon this place have been largely forgotten and the rest of them subtly changed from generation to generation by word-of-mouth, the very motive was brought about by slaves in the Civil War era who retaliated against their evil owners by way of ancient rites. Those who were then slaves were very spiritual and were very forthright about not being violent; an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind. They called upon the spirits to bring the wrath of justice upon those who oppressed them. What the curse entailed upon the family of slave-owners and their estate is that not only the entire family but also all succeeding generations would each die a dark and painful death, and their property would curse anyone else who tried to alleviate the mystery of the spirits bound to it. Even recently, in June of 1997, the last surviving member of the fourth generation since the Civil War era has succumbed to the house’s animated plague of death. Over time while living out his days in the house, he slowly began to accept the fate that was prescribed to him because of evils long gone, evils that he did not personally indulge in. Finally, on that fateful evening, the storm was unusually strong and the night let on layers of darkness that seemed devoid of any natural light. He felt a premonition of death, which was like unto the heightened awareness that one may have when in moments of danger or the vicinity of death itself. Silently he yet sat in that old, dusty chair in the study, with his legs crossed, while peering out of the large window, stroking his long gray beard, contemplating what he knew would come in due time that very night. Finally, he reached for the lighter in his pocket and lit the candle on the table next to him. He had decided to leave behind not just the estate, but also his last words. He began to write a letter for whomever would come upon the property and find an old man lying quietly and peacefully in his chair, fated to never speak another word except in the realm of spirits. Yes, he took pen and paper and wrote his last letter. The Even recently, in June of 1997, the last surviving member of the fourth generation since the Civil War era has succumbed to the house’s animated plague of death. Over time while living out his days in the house, he slowly began to accept the fate that was prescribed to him because of evils long gone, evils that he did not personally indulge in. Finally, on that fateful evening, the storm was unusually strong and the night let on layers of darkness that seemed devoid of any natural light. He felt a premonition of death, which was like unto the heightened awareness that one may have when in moments of danger or the vicinity of death itself. Silently he yet sat in that old, dusty chair in the study, with his legs crossed, while peering out of the large window, stroking his long gray beard, contemplating what he knew would come in due time that very night. Finally, he reached for the lighter in his pocket and lit the candle on the table next to him. He had decided to leave behind not just the estate, but also his last words. He began to write a letter for whomever would come upon the property and find an old man lying quietly and peacefully in his chair, fated to never speak another word except in the realm of spirits. Yes, he took pen and paper and wrote his last letter. The paper, like the rest of the house, and even the man himself, was old and worn down and decrepit, from great age and neglect. Also, the language used in the letter was somewhat archaic and difficult to read, yet was rich and descriptive, and drifted off into the dark wonder and mystique of the spiritual curse upon the house and its last, ill-fated inhabitant. Even as he finished his letter and placed the pen back on the table, a fierce backdraft of tormenting wind wooshed the window open. The wind also instantaneously snuffed the candle’s flame, as if to foreshadow the snuffing out of the old man by way of inherited curse. The gray old man was startled, and quickly fixed his glare out the window, even though the wind had just as quickly settled down to a smooth, flowing whisper, that peacefully played at the acquiescent curtains. The pitter-patter of dancing rain continued its frolicking out in the yard, as if in righteous indignation. A false alarm, perhaps? A moment later, an arm of lightning lashed out and struck the ground about 100 feet away from the house. In the ensuing flash and the seemingly immediate crack of thunder, a dark figure that roughly resembled the shape of a man, standing upright, could be seen standing within ten feet of the window. So dark was this figure, silhouetted against the bright flash, that only the outline could be made out. The distinguishing feature, however, was the pair of cold, crimson eyes that shone brightly and gazed down into the soul of the fearless old man staring back. Indeed, Death’s Head had appeared in an instant, and disappeared along with the lightning. In yet another instant, lightning cracked again, this time striking the ancient, gnarled tree about 50 feet away from the house. In the ensuing flash, the old man could be seen sitting perfectly still…with blood slowly creeping from a deep, yet perfectly measured slit across his neck. The rain also continued to pour, as the light continued to fade, as even the large, 250-year old oak continued to burn down… Whether by happenstance or strange twist of fate, the old man’s longtime friend came to visit the next day, only to find him sitting coldly, yet peacefully in his chair. Out of momentary shock, nary a thought came to the mind of this now-troubled friend. In the next moment, with tears in his eyes, he whispered silent prayers, that his dead friend’s soul could find respite, for it had been released from the mortal body tied to the cursed estate. After his solitary mourning, the old friend glanced over to the table upon which his late companion had written many letters. There he noticed the old man’s final letter, which he immediately walked to and read. The old man’s companionship and good will shall not go in vain, thought the old friend. Indeed, could the curse now be lifted, now that the final family member was gone? The old friend left everything as he found it and took his story to the police station. Even as he was telling them of the estate’s supernatural curse, the police were becoming suspicious of his credibility. They quickly dismissed him as an oldfashioned, superstitious old man. Having no luck with the police, he visited the local private detective nearby. For the second time, the old friend told his story and described the nature of the supernatural curse, while hoping that this time he would be believed. The detective promised the old friend that he would give the scene a look-over and determine if it was simply a petty thief who burglarized the house and murdered the old man. He also assured the old friend that the curse, if it even existed, would not take anyone else. The old friend certainly hoped so. He and the detective shook hands and went their separate ways. The old friend suffered a fatal heart attack that evening. Two glowing eyes could be seen outside his window at the very moment of the heart attack… As for the detective, he had decided from the very start that the old friend’s story had been far too outlandish and superstitious to believe. It was thusly that he did not even bother to waste the effort of calling the coroner and the police squad to escort him to the house to investigate. He figured that he would simply give the place a look-over, as he had promised, and decide later if the scene was worth taking the time to even write up the report for. That same night, on his own time, the detective approached the house, with flashlight in hand. He was hoping to “re-create the crime scene”, and determine the order of events that had transpired the night before. Even as he approached the house, a thunderstorm was coming in and growing in strength quite rapidly, which also made the scene rather similar to the way it was the previous night. The detective let himself in. He came upon the “murder scene” almost immediately. From the window peering out into the yard, he observed the burned-down oak, and the angry storm, with its sharp, stinging rain, tempestuous winds, and an occasional flash of lightning off in the distance. As he turned towards the interior of the room, he received the startling sight of the old man lying peacefully in his chair. What further puzzled his usually cold, calculating, factual mind was the fact that there were no marks of struggle anywhere. For such a deep slit in a man’s throat to be so perfectly measured, the murderer would have to have been immensely strong, well trained, and fast. It almost seemed that the murderer could not have been human, the detective thought, or the agonizing pain of receiving such a cut would cause even the most peaceful of men to fight back. To add even more fuel to the fire of his curiousity, he noticed the letter that the old friend had mentioned. The detective took slow steps over to the table and pointed the flashlight towards the letter. He read it word for word, over and over. The letter had actually only helped to confound him even more. The detective then decided that he was becoming overly superstitious. Settling back into the calm resignation that is typical of a detective, he proceeded to carefully study the window. He began to consider that window as a possible entry route for a burglar on such a dark and stormy summer night. He placed his flashlight upon the left arm of the chair where the old man sat peacefully. The flashlight began to go dim and fade out altogether, as the detective had forgotten to replace the batteries. The timing couldn’t have been worse, he thought. Just as soon as he had finished that thought, the lightning struck about 100 feet away from the house. The thunder cracked fiercely, and in the instant of the lightning’s flash, he caught a glimpse of an outline of a man out in the yard, silhouetted against the lightning. A pair of cold, crimson eyes shone brightly and gazed down into the soul of the detective. Once again, Death’s Head had appeared, and disappeared along with the lightning. Also with the lightning went the cool bravado of the detective. All of the detective’s fear welled up within his throat, his entire body became tense, and he knew that he had just taken his last breath. The lightning quickly lashed out again, this time 50 feet away from the house. In that instant the detective could be seen lying on the floor, with blood slowly creeping from a deep, yet perfectly measured slit across his neck. The curse had claimed its final victim… “June 8, 1997 To any man that may find me here in my final respite: ‘Tis in this gothic gateway to dark death that I sit and await my final moments, and my deliverer unto the fate of that which is Beyond. Yes, it is an ancient, inherited curse laid upon the house’s very foundation. This house is cursed from the basement to the chimney’s tip, and remains so until the end of time because of bloody evils which I did not personally commit. Even upon the family lineage has the curse been placed. It has finally been handed down to me, like unto a form of spiritual collateral issue. I yet carry those stains, those century-old aftereffects of evil oppression, inherited by way of my bloodline. Every man shall meet his fate as it is given to him, and it is this that I do finally accept. I shall, however, continue my spiritual longsuffering, and try my hand at peace in those greater realms of the soul. However, I pray that ye gentle yet unfortunate visitor would not meet the same fate as I, but that ye would leave as you came and seek out your own fate. I beseech you to tarry here no longer than needs be, in order that the anomalous spirits that rule this accursed gateway to the realm of darkest death wouldst still allow you to yet walk away with your breath and life. Take only your memory of this place with you, and pray that my soul would find the eternal requiem that it has been so longing for, outside of this cursed body and this wretched estate. And now, I, for what I know shall be my last moments on this plane of existence, shall go into death with an open mind. I await he who has conquered in death and written in blood.”
Copyright © 2006 Owen Johnston |