Haunting of Swanson Peak

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“No,” he yells tripping over his own two feet in haste trying escape from the woman. Suddenly he was alone and world was normal. He gets up and heads for his car, being damned before he lets this place rob him of his sanity, making it down stairs gripping the front door handle and pulling on it. But it won’t budge, not even an inch. He tries again, harder with the door handles squeaking from the strain of his grip. He had tools to pry it open, but they were outside. Next he tries a window in the foyer, no good. He grabs a chair and tosses it through the window shattering it. He goes to step out but the window was back together despite the shards of glass that were crunching under foot. The chair was clearly visible outside. Behind him was a hooded figure that he just couldn’t place like there was a hole in his mind. Images were flashing like torrential flood of memories from ages he couldn’t possibly had lived through.

“Your being a very rude house guest,” the voice crackles.

“This is my house,” he yells back. His brown eyes were transfixing on the hooded figure with anger. “I don’t know who or what you are, but I won’t let you take me.”

“That is where you’re wrong. This is not your house. The grounds keeper knew it before you did. I let him put house up for sale. You’re my guest.”

“Who are you,” he screams grabbing the hood and pulling it back. The sight causes him to become light headed and fall over. There were no words that he could think to say, just making silent desperate cries. The woman was underneath the hood. Her voice crackled like roaring fire and from within her robes, a shadow grew across the hall eventually swallowing up the house which began to shake like thunderstorm had moved in. “I have chosen you,” she bellows “I allowed you to exist in my world.”


He didn’t know how he found the strength to run but he did, locking himself in the office. He had no signal out here; he had to call for help or find a weapon. There was the sound of tapping behind him. His typewriter was on his desk, unpacked, and was typing the same lines over and over on its own accord:

The world will be taken,

The world will be forsaken.

The floors creek as something approach. Now the door shakes as something tries to open the lock door. All the while the typewrite keep repeating:

The world will be taken,

The world will be forsaken.

He suddenly feels sick, like he was losing a battle with his stomach and he can’t keep his eyes open. Darkness over takes him and the last thing he sees is the floor rushing up to meet him head on.

He shoots awake all too aware what has happened and that it wasn’t a dream. After grabbing the paper, he sees if he can get to his car. The woman is gone. As he gets in his car he realize his escape was to easy, but didn’t matter. Even if she was letting him go, he was going pass up the chance. He locks the door and speeds off down the winding path into the forest only to stop down road. He has a realization about shades of grey, critizing people for running from spirits and things that go pump in the night, as a man, in his heart, he was scientist first and foremost.

He got out of his car in the driveway and swung the door open. “Show yourself,” he yells. There is a sudden sense of dread and a cold chill fills the air ...

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