Haunting of Swanson Peak

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strange goings ons

He was tired, struggling past his exhaustion. The hallway spirals off into eternity. He swears his eyes were playing tricks on him. He felt like he had been walking for hours. Tomorrow he would make a map if he couldn’t find one. He finally found a random room with a bed and fell into it. The door swings close with eerie squeak but he doesn’t pay attention to it.

The sounds of bird chirping awaken him. The sun light scorches his eyes and he feels the heat against his bare skin, as well the itching of grass. “The shit,” he says looking around. He was lying in rolling green fields in the middle of a forest. It must have been half past noon because sun was almost at the highest point. “That is the last time I stay up late,” he says to himself and stands up. There was no way he got that far from his house. He sees a path leading what he guesses was south. The path leads him back to his house and he was lucky he didn’t lock himself out.

He grabs a piece of paper and set off down the corridors. This was never going to happen again.

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Someone had been using his typewriter. They had written ‘he heard knocking but there was no one around.’ He hears knocking but not coming from the front door or from down stairs for that matter. It sounds like it was coming from upstairs. The knocking was sporadic, coming and going. There was rhythm to it. One tap … pause … two taps, repeats. Furthest along the second floor was a figure drape in black robes with a hood. It looks like grim reaper.

“You can’t be here,” he says suddenly feeling like a dream. His voice echoes throughout the hall as the room was becoming blurry

“Do you even know where here is,” the figure asks with a deep voice crackling like fire.

“Here is,” he trails off unable to remember. His mind was straining itself trying to come up with an answer. He suddenly realizes he had gone upstairs. But he couldn’t remember why. The last thing he remembers was the typewriter. He rushes down stairs to find something new written on the typewriter: ‘Do you even know where here is?’ His eyes are fixated on the paper. He had only been here a couple of days and he already felt like he was succumbing to madness. But his was rational mind, so rational reasons must behind his failings. “Damn it, explain,” he screams. The expression across his feature paints his confusion. He takes a deep breath and says in his head calm down. He pulls out his cellphone. A large message was flashing: no signal

“Damn it,” he throws the cellphone across the room. He searches the office for a telephone, but luckily finds one quickly. He picks up his phone and get out a pencil and a piece of paper scribbling down the grounds keeper’s phone number.

“What are those books in the library?”

“What do you mean?”

“Those damn accursed weird books with the hieroglyphics.” He screams into the receiver.

He hears, “I don’t follow.” Did the grounds keeper really not know? If the man really didn’t know, he was probably sounding like a stark raving mad asshole.

In frustration and wanting to avoid further embarrassment he tells him, “Never mind.” He hangs up the phone. He set off into the library. The room looks undisturbed since he had last been in there, the book still laid on the floor. What he saw when he picks it up causes him to drop it again. The book, Moby Dick, was in normal font. “No,” he screams “I’m not crazy. There is no way this happening.” He accusatively points at the book. It dawns on him that the typewriter would say something. In his mind he was disappointed with himself, you’re really accusing a typewriter?


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