The Final Words of Jennifer Eclberg: Part Two

I found myself standing in front of a overgrown church. I was wearing a dress made of cotton, that was reminiscent of colonial times. As I looked around I could see I was alone. I was confused as to where I was. I heard the rustling of bushes behind me, and as I spun around I could see two red orbs crouched amongst the underbrush. I was frozen. I saw it draw closer. I willed my legs to run away, but I couldn’t. It moved out of the bushes revealing its self as a massive dog. It must have stood at least as tall as a human at the shoulder. I could see its massive yellow teeth glisten with spittle in the moonlight. Finally I found the ability to run as a wave of terror over took me. I sprinted into the cemetery, slamming the wrought iron gate behind me and sprinting through the solemn rows of graves. I tripped over a root, tearing my dress and bloodying my knee as I plummeted to the ground. I frantically searched for the pursuing beast, but it appeared to have disappeared. I stood and for some reason headed deeper into the graveyard. I approached a mausoleum. Suddenly I saw the beast step out from the behind the columned tomb. It turned to me with those burning eyes. Moving faster than I could blink, it pounced.

It was then, that I woke up. My scream waking my sleeping partner. She was concerned but I told her that it was simply a nightmare and to go back to sleep. I stepped into the bathroom for a glass of water.

When I looked at myself in the mirror, I noticed something on my neck. Upon closer inspection I saw what could only be described by as bite marks from a massive dog. Horrified at the sight the drinking glass slipped from my grip and shattered on the floor. Alina burst into the bathroom, a softball bat in her hand. When she saw that I was alone, she relaxed. She asked what happened. I proceeded to show her the bite mark on my neck. But she claimed that there was nothing there. I insisted, tracing the teeth marks with my finger, but she only gave me a concerned look.

She led me back to bed, insisting that there were no marks on my neck. But I could feel them. I was bewildered on how someone as detail-oriented as my wife couldn’t see the marks! 

I didn’t get another minute of sleep that night. I sat upright in my bed staring out the window. I’m not sure if it was for the lack of sleep, but I saw something moving in the yard. I stalked to the window and peered through the glass into the street. I spotted movement on the other side of the road. As I squinted to make it out, I thought that it was simply a trick of the light, until a pair of searing red orbs appeared. I opened my mouth to scream but no sound could be heard. I watched it stalk between the trees trunks. Pacing. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth! I wished I could tear my eyes away, but I stared at it in dumfounded horror. 

As the sun began to rise the visage of the beast seemed to fade as night gave way to dawn, and dawn gave way to morning. Alina was concerned. Saying that I needed rest, that I had been pushing myself too hard at work. She had me call in sick and ordered me to stay in bed and sleep. I gave her a kiss goodbye and promised that I would get some rest. 

But as she pulled out of the driveway, I did return to bed. But instead of sleeping I opened my laptop and searched the internet for stories in the area about a giant black dog. I came across a webpage dedicated to North Carolina’s legends and ghost stories. There, I found the story of “The Demon Dog of Valle Crucis.” There was an drawing of a dog with burning eyes in front of the church I saw in my dream. 

I studied the page, as if I was studying for a test. Taking in every detail. How the morning mists seem to linger, and how the town had a bizarre silence, even on the nicest summer days. I continued to read, finding the story about the two young men, who were driving along Highway 194 around midnight, when a black shape leapt out into the road. They swerved and as they looked to see what they had nearly ran into; and thats when they saw it. A massive black dog with scorching red eyes, bristling fur and shining yellow teeth. They looked to each other and one asked the other if he saw the beast. The man simply replied, “No, and neither do you.” They sped off down the country road at breakneck speeds around hairpin turns. When they looked into the rearview mirrors they saw the beast not only in pursuit, but keeping pace with the car. It was not until they crossed the bridge where the two rivers that ran through the valley met at a perpendicular angle, when the beast gave up the chase, as if stopped by some sort of invisible barrier. 

My eyes had grown wide. My hands were shaking. I had seen the beast, outside my window; but I lived in Rosewood, Asigee County. Boone and Valle Crucis were two counties over. I slammed the computer shut and slid it away from me, as if it had transformed into some foul creature, like an opossum or a snake. My heart was in my throat. I drew the sheets up around me, like a young child, fearing the monsters that lived under the bed or in the closet. 

The Final Words of Jennifer Eclberg: Part One

I am writing this so that no one else may tread down the dark path as I have. As my driver’s license will state I am Jennifer Eclberg; born 1983 on the seventh of May. I am former head psychiatrist at Saint Christina Memorial Hospital in Rosewood, North Carolina.  I am married to Alina McGregor, who works at the Asigee County Library in downtown Rosewood.

This all began about a month ago, when a patient was transferred to our psych ward from Canton, a small town outside of Asheville. When he arrived, he was wheeled in, strapped into a straight jacket and muzzle; with an escort of six officers of the law. The man had deep pools for eyes and long, thin, ashen hair. He gave me the impression of having thick Cherokee heritage. 

His medical forms named him as Waya Thomas. A man of forty-seven, born on January 26^th at the Cherokee Indian Hospital. As I flipped through his brimming file, I found records of his state of mental instability. He had been charged with the murder of nine young girls, claiming that they were sacrifices to some sort of ancient forgotten god. Surprisingly, he did not plead insanity. 

He was imprisoned in the Cherokee County Jail, where every full moon he could be heard imitating a wolf. Initiating in barks, grunts, howls and yelps. The guards feared Thomas, and often refused to go near his cell at night, saying, “Something wasn’t right about him.” After he escaped from his cell one night, killed a guard with an improvised shiv and had, “painted his face with the slain guard’s blood, in the fashion of a Native Warrior”, the warden requested that Thomas be seen by a state psychiatrist. 

The psychiatrist that over saw the testing, was Dr. Howard Axler from Duke Regional Hospital in Durham. He was well respected in the profession, but had succumbed to fits of madness and eventually killed himself by slitting his wrists. As I read over the notes and reports of Dr. Axler, I noticed a distinct decline in his mental state. His usual neat straight penmanship slowly became a messy scrawl. 

The final diagnosis was that Waya Thomas suffered from delusions, hallucinations, Schizophrenia, and Anti-Social Personality Disorder. He was then moved from the Cherokee County Jail to the Canton Asylum, where he was treated for his diagnosis. His reason for arrival at Saint Christina’s was that the Canton Asylum was being closed and it’s patients were being moved into the new, Rosewood Hospital for the Criminally Insane. He was to stay with us at Saint Christina’s for two weeks while the construction of the hospital was completed.

After reading his file and having his prescriptions filled, I developed an interest in talking with Mr. Thomas. I had him brought into my office. He had been released from the straight jacket, though the muzzle remained. His hands and legs were bound by thick chains, and he was escorted by two armed officers. He stood stiffly in the doorway, looking at me with those black animalistic eyes. I asked him to sit in one of the chairs in front of my desk, and dismissed the officers, so that I may have talked to him as a patient, not a prisoner. He sat and stared at me. It felt as though his eyes saw through me, and a shiver swept across my back. His greying hair hung over his face, obscuring his features. 

I gave him a smile, but his face remained as still as a statue. I asked him what his name was. He responded in his deep voice, saying that he was the hand of, a name that I can only inscribe as Ah’wi-se’hi. When I asked him what or who Ah’wi-se’hi was. I saw his lips part in a shallow grin, to display a set of teeth that were distinctly non-human; and now in reflection I realize that the teeth had a canine appearance to them. 

He told me that Ah’wi-se’hi was an ancient Cherokee god, who had long been forgotten by the tribe. I asked how he had learned about the deity, if it had been indeed forgotten. He said that there was an old church off Highway 194. 

He explained that the church was haunted, and students of the nearby college would often dare each other to spend a night in the eldritch ruin, but of course they abandoned the dare during the night, running screaming from the crumbling stone walls and back to the safety of their cars. One night he was dared to complete the task, wanting to express a crush, he accepted. I was amazed at the coherency of his telling of the story. I was enraptured as he continued. 

He said that he went to the church that night, explaining that the full moon was massive, and hung low in the sky. He recalled the cold wind and the howl of a lone wolf echoing through the valley. He had gathered firewood and build a small campfire behind the alabaster alter. He prayed to his ancestors that he would have the strength to last the night. 

He recalled waking in the middle of the night to the sounds of scuffling, whimpering and snorting, coming from inside the chapel. He had grabbed his flashlight and flashed it around his surroundings. 

He stopped his retelling and looked at me with those black eyes. My breath had caught in my throat. I felt like a Brownie Scout sitting at a campfire as the troop leader told us ghost stories. I urged him to go on. He looked around the room, as if expecting microphones to be hidden in the ceiling or my bookcase.

He told me that is when he saw it. A great black hound, snuffling in the corner near the entrance. It turned to look at him as he shone the light on it. He said it’s eyes glowed red. He recalled that the glowing eyes seemed to burn with an unnatural fire, as if the fires of Hell burned in the beast’s skull. Then the dog disappeared into the floor. He stalked over to the spot and found a trap door to a cellar. He pulled the hatch open and slipped down into the blackness. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

He said that in the cellar he found a tunnel, that led deep into the earth. As he followed it, he could make out tribal symbols and paintings on the hewn stone walls. Intrigued he pressed on and found a cathedral-like cavern. He said that is where he met Ah’wi-se’hi. He said that he met a nude man, who’s skin was like silver light, wearing nothing but a wolf pelt across his shoulder. The man welcomed him, saying that Mr. Thomas was to be his hand, and would help him grow powerful once again, but feeding him the blood of virgins. Now the Cherokee word Mr. Thomas used appears to have fled my memory. 

Mr. Thomas then said the nude man laid his hand upon Mr. Thomas’s chest, and he woke up in the chapel of the church, just as the sun was peaking over the ridge. When he had searched for the door to the cellar, he could not find it.

I had now heard enough. The man was obviously delusional, and I called for the officers to return the man to his room. As they entered, he stood in a flash and lunged towards my desk and gnashed his teeth at me, making the vocalizations of a rabid dog. As the officers dragged him away, he shouted, “You will be the final drink of Ah’wi-se’hi! You will be the final drink of Ah’wi-se’hi!”

Simply writing off the shouting as the ravings of a mad man, I pushed the obviously crafted to be disturbing story to the back of my mind. It wasn’t until that night that my thoughts fell on the black dog with burning eyes.

806 Wheatwood Road

There is a house in Rosewood. It is located at 806 Wheatwood Road. Now Wheatwood Road is located in West Rosewood. It connects with Tecumseh Ave; a major roadway that runs through the city.

806 Wheatwood is an old decrepit building, though it’s glass window panes seem to be regularly cleaned. The walls are covered with cracked and pealing white paint. A rusted wind chime whose bells must have disappeared many years ago, hangs above a burgundy door. The roof is made of slate and numerous shingles are missing.

I pass by 806 Wheatwood every day as I head to the cafe located at 800A Wheatwood. I’ve never truly looked at it. My eyes tending to glaze over, focused on fueling my caffeine addiction.

I’m not sure what it was that captured my attention on Tuesday, January 27^th but I stopped to look at the place. It was a cold day and a light dusting of snow clung to the grass. As I looked at the aging building I could have sworn that I saw one of the curtains move. As if someone brushed them as they passed by the window. Odd, the house was supposed to be abandoned.

For some bizarre reason I decided to investigate. I stepped up to the door and tried the brass knob. To my surprise and amazement the door swung open. As I stepped inside I could see that the house was completely empty. The only light was that which streamed in through the gaps in the drapery.  The floorboards creaked below my feet as I stepped into the living room; or at least the room that I would have designated as the living room.

There was a fireplace built from grey bricks. I gouged a line into the dust that had collected on the mantle piece. I wiped it on my jacket.

Next I moved into the kitchen. The floor was tiled, cracked, and faded. The sink was coated with a brown film and the refrigerator door hung ajar. The stove was blackened and what I can guess was mold occupied the corner.

From the kitchen I found my way into a bedroom. The bar that held up the stained curtains had fell from the wall and lay crumpled underneath the window. There was a trunk of dark-stained wood in the corner. As I opened it, dust flew into the air causing me to cough. My sputtering halted as the dust settled.

Inside I found various framed photographs. They were relics of a time long passed. They depicted stern faces of people long dead. I set them aside and continued my search of the trunk. 

Wrapped in a silk cloth, I found a human skull, sans jaw. I looked into the cavities that had once held eyes. Something about being in this crumbling house, holding a jawless skill felt oddly poetic; Shakespearian if you would.

Underneath the skull was a tome bound in black leather. Its pages were not paper, but instead canvas. The calligraphy was gothic in style, though I could not make out the words, nor did I recognize the language. I thumbed through the pages, admiring the beautifully illuminated artwork. There were diagrams and charts; renderings of strange plants and unknown beasts, and detailed drawings of human anatomy.

I heard a creak behind me, and as I turned to look I saw a figure of anthropoid outline, standing in the doorway. It must have stood at at least eight feet tall. It  appeared as a black mass, void of color. It was if light simply did not exist in that space.

The tome fell to the floor with a thud. I let out a scream. A scream that was muffled, as if my ears were at the bottom of a lake. I blinked and it appeared in the room, it’s head brushing the ceiling. I threw my hands up as if to push it away, but my hands passed through it. It grabbed my throat with its shadowy tendrils. I felt myself being lifted off the floor. My vision began to fade. I was falling… falling… falling….

The Chucking Mice of Morton Place

My story begins when I moved into the house at 3 Morton Place, Rosewood, North Carolina. It was a small house that gave off the feeling of warmth, comfort, and homeliness.  It was built in 1923 or so I was told by the realtor. It was a single floor with the living spa
ce connecting to the bedroom and kitchen. The kitchen connected to a room that I planed to use as an office, and to the mud room which connected to the bathroom and the rear porch. The house had a cellar, which was accessible from the backyard.

It was after the first week I had begun to notice them. Late one night I was awoken by what sounded like laughter. Nervous that someone had broken into my home, I found the oaken walking stick that leaned in the corner next to my door or stepped into the living room. I could hear the laughter more clearly now. It was coming from the kitchen. I peered inside and flipped on the lights. Sitting the center of the round table I ate my meals at was a grey mouse. Strangely, the giggling had stopped when I made the discovery.
He sat on his haunches, standing erect. Having grown up on a farm with a father who kept rats as pets, the sight of the rodent did not make me squeal and recoil. He rubbed his front paws together, like a villain plotting a hero’s demise. I scooped him up and set him outside.
Over the course of the next month I began to see more and more mice; scurrying about the wood floor, skittering through holes in the walls. Every now and again I would hear the disembodied laughter.
Not wanting to hire an exterminator, I adopted a tomcat from the local shelter. He was an orange tabby with emerald eyes and he took to hunting the mice rather quickly; making a game of hunting them, and leaving their torn corpses in front my door as some sort of morbid offering. The tom helped with the problem, and I saw less and less of the rodents.
But one day the tabby disappeared. I searched the neighborhood and called for him with no avail. Slowly the rats returned and I began to set out traps baited with cheese. Every morning I found each and every one with a mouse who’s neck had been broken by the iron arm.
The laughter continued, and were joined by whispers. I searched and searched for the source, thinking that a radio must be on, or someone was playing a prank on me and had hid a walkie talkie somewhere. But no matter how hard I searched, I found nothing.

One dreary afternoon, I found myself in the cellar moving boxes, when I found a pile of bones. They were small, to big to be a rat. I inspected them curiously, and that’s when I saw it. A tuft of orange fur. Standing in horror, I felt someone watching me. A pair of rats sat atop a shelf. Looking down at me with their beady black eyes. Their noses twitched. They began to laugh, quietly at first. Their eyes glistened. I pinched myself, certain that this was a dream. A dream. But I did not wake from a slumber as I had expected. I sprinted from the cellar and to my car, refusing to look back. I squealed out of the driveway, never to return.

Even to this day, I still wonder… What sinister things the mice had to laugh about. But what man would be able to decipher their high-pitched language. Who knows the business of the chuckling mice of Morton Place?

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This story was inspired by a strange wrought iron mouse statue that Snowflake told me about, that appeared outside her mother's work. She said it appeared a few months ago, and no one knows where it came from. I jokingly said, "Maybe it serves some eldritch purpose". She mentioned that sometimes when the wind would blow it looked like the statue was laughing, and I came up with a line, "Who knows the business of chuckling mice?"

The house it's self is based on my friends place. But I promise he doesn't have a mice problem.