Tuesday, Oct.29th 8:10pm
Dear reader I would advise you to turn away, shield your eyes from the trials that lay ahead for dear John Jackson, at age 21 he began his addiction to death. As one would call it a project in disrepair, he called it genius. As he killed, he lusted for the death of life, his addiction would continue until he was old, frail, and very much long gone. Born in 1820, he grew and progressed very much like a regular boy, well other than the fact that he watched his mother suffer the cold grip of death, a day after she passed they had found it was only the common flu, but it was to late......
The year was 1846, young John had developed a knack for the murder of children, for they were frail and he was strong. He had saved enough from being a messenger boy for 6 years to by his own humble abode. A place to finally put his addiction to rest. He bought the old Pact house, two stories of broken boards, cracked windows, and the constant scurry of rats. But what he saw was a place to fix after a lifetime of destruction. After two weeks he had finally repaired most parts of the house, but had never even gone into the basement, it didn't matter anyway, for all the basement was was stone bricks and broken equipment. 'Twas the third moon when he finally slept a deep slumber upon the second floor master bedroom. Twilight had finally peaked over with the moon black as the night itself. The only light came faintly from the tiny stars flickering from behind the foggy sky. The only noise was the light slow patter of water dripping from the leaking roof. As the scurry of rats and mice awoke him, he rose to confront his pitch black and otherwise silent environment. As he reached to the old wooden table to the left of his bed for his matches to light the brass lantern beside them, but his hand met some thing cold and slippery.He slowly gripped the strange object as soon as he did a piercing hiss erupted from the mouth of the black serpent he had grasped in his hand as it did he launched the creature from his grip and slung it into the cobblestone fireplace, upon impact the creature had died, leaving a venomous bite in John's thick, but young and frail hand. This man was strong, but the venom was stronger. He had to get to a tourniquet fast, he ripped a piece of the bed spread and made a makeshift tourniquet to apply pressure and slow the circulation, the cottonmouth venom was slowly creeping in on him, after years of running through the woods of his father's land he had learned one or two things about venom, to weaken the venom he had to get to the kitchen in hope of the materials he needed. As soon as he rose a long hard creak of his door hinges opening caught his attention, John shouted, "show yourself!, I am in enough danger already, what is it you seek, be you man or beast!, show yourself I say!, NOW!", he could feel eyes watching him, but they felt all too evil to be man and all too cunning to be creature. He stumbled around in the darkness for his matches as he bumped the box off the small oak table onto the cold boards,"Ah! At last the key to my sight in this infernal darkness", he thought to himself. As he reached down to grasp this small treasure, a loud thump shattered the silenced around him. He looked up and in the corner of his eye he saw what seemed to be a shadow of a tall dark figure. He blinked to make sure what seemed to be a grotesquely shaped man standing in his door way was real and sure enough as he opened his eyes, it was gone. "It's just and old house", he muttered to himself as he struggled through the pain of standing upwards. He struck the match across the headboard of his bed, thus lighting it upon streaking. As he lit this lantern he took a look around, a blur smudged his vision as he cringed in pain he muttered to himself,"ah, the venom needs to be diminished, I've got to get to the kitchen.". He slowly, but steadily stumbled to the door leading to the stairs. As he leaned against the door pain shot up his arm, thus making him shudder, "that wasn't good", he thought silently. A small scurrying made him flinch and handle the lantern into the direction the sound had seemed to come from. Nothing was there. A chill rose upon John as he slowly stumbled down the stairs fearing at the sound of every creak and moan the stairs screamed at him through their hard, cold exterior. As he reached the bottom, a wave of relief fell upon him like when he used to jump into the creeks behind his mother and father's house as a child. When he entered the kitchen no time could be wasted he searched and searched the cabinets as fast as he could, as he had no feeling in his arm anymore. Finally he found the echinacea, as he drank the remainder of the bottle dry a loud slam echoed throughout the house. John reached the stairs just in time to see that the basement door, once boarded up to keep the rats out, was wide open and his door closed. John shouted once more in vain,"Who's there!, What do you want of me?!, Why do you taunt of me fair devil?, for what have I done!,". Once more a loud moan of the stairs came from their hard boards. This time beckoning him down to the cellar, luring him with silent pleas, and gifts of solitude. As he descended unto the cellar the door slammed behind him with a loud crash. The darkness shrouded all, but the tiny flicker of his lamp, but as all things must.... It too died. He blew upon the cinders trying vainly to reanimate the remains of his only companion, but alas it was too late. The flame was gone and with fire, the light was gone as well. As he threw the lantern against the cobblestone wall, the shatter of glass echoed throughout the cellar walls. Imitating every sound he made the walls mocked him, John shouted,"fiery demon!, what is it you seek?!, my life!?, my house!?," with a snarling grin the crooked man gave a grisly smile and said,"your soul".
Written and edited by,
Gunner Barenklau
