Young Writers Society

Some background

This is not my first account on this site, rather, it is my second. I created this account so that I may start over. My writing abilities have improved a lot since my posts on the other account, and I plan on being much more active on this account.

Part 1 

In the past six months, I’ve experienced things most people only experience in fleeting, powerful nightmares in the comfort of their own beds. I’ve never told this story to anyone, and it’s been quite some time since these events occurred.

It's the summer of 1995. I was 15. I was a typical boy, with typical passions. I had a knack for pulling off audacious pranks, and with the assistance of my friends, I pulled off many daring pranks in those hot summer months. The first school day was a mere three weeks away when my friends and I had an idea for the greatest prank of all time. I lived on a calm, mostly affluent street. My house, the third on the street, was probably the biggest house in town. It was old, having been built in the early 1900s. On the end of the street, there was one house no one had lived in for a long time, at least, as far as recent memory served. It had been built at roughly the same time as my house, but it had stood abandoned for decades. Rumors flew that it was haunted, but I didn’t believe that to be true. The prank was quite simple in execution - we were going to invite several of our high school comrades to the house for a ouji board foray, but with a little spice added. We were going to, using our basic engineering knowledge, simulate a horror movie situation. Ghosts, deaths, terrifying sounds and bumps in the night. We spent several days planning the event, and I was incredibly excited at our ability to formulate such a devious plan.

The day of the prank, a particularly stifling August day, was ordinary. I woke up at 6 AM, I ate breakfast, and I headed to the house. We were perfecting our designs. We had wired speakers throughout the house, and littered lights and fog-machines throughout. The prank hinged on how well we hid these devices, and if I do say so myself, we did very well. My father owned an effects company at the time, so these devices weren’t very hard to get.

My stomach churning in anticipation, I sat on one of the staircases in the house, smiling contently. My friends were outside discussing the metrics of the prank. It was at that point I noticed how very similar this house was to my own, down to the windows and floorboards. A little unnerved, I stepped outside. My friends had left, and I was alone. The house was in terrible shape, that much was obvious. The windows were cracked, the porch sagged dangerously to the right, and it appeared to be a few moments from total collapse. It was about 6 PM at the time, and the sun was still relatively high in the sky, casting an odd glow on the house. From the porch, I could see through the windows into the main part of the house. I didn’t believe in ghosts, but I will tell you, at that moment I felt something about the house. Maybe not ghosts, but something. This isn’t going to be a typical ghost story, in fact, you might wish this story was simply about ghosts. I assure you, everything I say is true. I just want this disclaimer here - if you’ve ever lived in an old house or you currently live in one, you might want to stop reading.

So, 9 PM rolled around, and the people we invited showed up. Just a few football jocks. I walked up the porch, and forced the slightly warped door open.

“Come in,” I said, smiling.

Everyone shuffled in, and my friend, Martin, guided them into the livingroom. It was a beautiful room, down to the antique furniture and the expansive fireplace. I sat down on one of the dusty couches, and everyone followed suit. The ouija board sat in the middle of a large, oak table.

“What the hell is this? You trying to scare us?” one of the football jocks asked, arrogantly.

“Not at all,” Martin replied, evenly.

I smiled, and Martin smiled in return.

I beckoned Martin to place his hand on the board, and we both did so.

“Chant after us, ‘Spirits, I beckon you, descend upon us with your infinite suffering’” I said. I had copied the line from an old book in our basement, and it sounded cool and creepy.

Martin and I repeated the line. Jack and Sam, our other accomplices in this mighty prank, were at the control boards. When we repeated the line for the third time, they were to fire the first sound - a loud bump and a groan.

We finished the line for the third time, and waited. There it came, the loud bump and the groan.

Everyone shuffled around nervously, and Martin was holding back a grin.

“Looks like we woke something up?” I suggested, staring wide-eyed at our victims. I looked around the living room, feigning nervousness. It was at that point I recognized how eerily similar the living room, in both shape and general features, was to my house’s more modernly furnished living room.

Shivering a bit, I said,

“Well, why don’t one of you give it a try?”

Two of the football jocks sat down on opposite sides of the table and repeated the three lines, hesitantly.

Again, the sound came. Fog rolled in.

Martin looked at me, a little nervous. The fog wasn’t supposed to come into later, what were Jack and Sam up to?

“What the hell?” one of the jocks muttered.

“Maybe we should stop, John?” Martin suggested, half-seriously, looking at me.

“Nah, let’s give it another try!” I exclaimed.

Martin and I sat on opposite sides of the table, and repeated the line three times.

The sound roared through the house, and the windows rattled. I didn’t recall the speakers being set that loud. Martin wasn’t smiling anymore.

The fog was coming in droves now, nearly flooding the living room in a suffocating layer of artificial fog.

“What is this stuff?” someone asked, I didn’t catch who exactly.

Martin and I stood, and walked hesitantly to the kitchen pantry, where the control room was. Jack and Sam were gone, as was the control equipment. Maybe they moved? 

Martin glanced at me, clearly nervous.

“What the hell is going on?” he asked.

“Let’s go back to the living room,” I suggested.

We headed back to the living room, where our victims remained. Something wasn’t right, that much was clear. I uttered one of their names, and they all turned to look at us. Their eyes were a pure yellow, as if they were possessed by a twisted angel. They were levitating above the floor, suspended by some unseen force. They were shaking and being thrown about, as if they were being buffeted by endless streams of strong winds. The fog was still moving into the living room at a steady pace, and at this point, I was scared shitless. Intent on finding Sam and Jack, Martin and I ran down the hallway. The basement door was ajar, and it had not been before, so we concluded Sam and Jack were down there. My blood rushing, and my head pounding, we descended down the rickety stairs. I hadn’t been in the basement before, and when I saw it, my jaw dropped. It was a clone of my basement. Every chest, every stack of papers. However, whereas our chests were modern, these were older. The stacks of newspapers we had (from 2002-now) were there, however in this basement, they were from 1903-1906. The old antique mirror we harbored in our basement was the very same, except it wasn’t dusty. It was brand-new, clearly recently bought. The stack of audio equipment one would find in my basement was replaced by a stack of much older audio equipment. A Victrola stood in the corner, where my Dad’s newer record player would be. It snapped on, a record turning slowly, and a chilling sound emitted from the Victrola.

My father’s voice. It was obviously recorded a very long time ago, but his voice was captured amazingly well on the recording.

“It’s cold here. It’s cold here. Why yes, it’s cold here. John, don’t you hear me? I said it’s cold here.”

I stared at the old Victrola, and my heart went cold. Martin was standing, mouth agape, staring at the mirror.

“T-that’s in your basement,” he said.

I nodded. We got the hell out of there.