CreepiNES: The bog witch

[Thlayli]

Time to get the autumn wood in.

Chop.

Chop.

Chop.

The farmer wiped his brow. Never a lack of wood on this farmstead.

Dead, dry wood. Good for burning. He hefted the axe again.

Chop.

Chop.

Chop.

It was a good day for this. Breezy, clear. Harvest done.

Chop.

Chop.

Chop.

Days were getting shorter. Nothing wrong with winter for a farmer though. Plant some winter wheat, and relax with a mug of cider in front of the crackling fire.

He pitied those who dreaded the long nights. For him, resting from his labors by the fire as the snows piled up outside, in the company of his wife and his family with plenty of food and drink to last the winter, it was bliss.

Chop.

Some people spoke of dark terrors in the night, but Torvald scoffed at them.

Chop.

He had carved this homestead out of the forest, chopping down trees the locals said were cursed for his plantings. Hah, cursed.

Chop.

Now look at him. Selling wheat and hops to the miller and the brewer, and prospering for it. Two stories on his home even.

Chop.

Torvald's father came from the cities. Which, he couldn't quite remember. But he'd pounded one lesson into his boy. Superstition is nonsense.

Chop.

Nothing to fear from the woods. Wolves? Drive them off with fire.

Chop.

Bandits? Kill them.

Chop.

Torvald's gun hung over the mantle, a fine weapon, a relic of an earlier time in his life. He rarely used it for hunting, but he cleaned and reassembled the weapon every week.

Monsters?

Chop.

Hah, monsters.

Chop.

Men are monsters enough. Robbing and killing each other, cheating one another like Torvald strongly suspected the miller of doing to the baker.

Chop.

Making war.

Thunk.

Axe hit stump.

Something made a sound in the underbrush to Torvald's back. He whirled, tugging his axe free, fighting back the fear. They won't take me again I won't go back

Two squirrels burst from the undergrowth, gamboling about, chasing each other across the grass and up another tree. They chattered happily as they vanished into the branches.

Torvald let out a sigh. Stupid. Getting jumpy over every little thing. He turned away from the forest, back to his woodpile.

Chop.

Chop.

Chop.

Hah, monsters. Cursed woods. Stupid tales made up by lazy folk to stay indoors when work's to be done.

Chop.

Still.

Chop.

It was good that Torvald's gun hung over the mantle.

Chop.

So close to the forest and all.

Chop.

 

[Angst]

Well typed, folks, well typed. I am really enjoying these stories. My, I'm already feeling the chills down my spine. This is going to be good. Can't help but to be happy this has gained so much interest. It is better for all of us.

When I get to doing the first update, I will tell you all the children's tale of the bog witch. And then the clock will begin ticking; the lunar cycle will begin.

I will figure out when exactly very soon. That will allow new residents to subscribe, as well.

 

[Diamondeye]

Spoiler Jack O'Lannon Part I :

"Listen here, children. Once upon a time, when granpa was a young man, still in school, one of his friends, Jack O'Lannon, disappeared-"
"Did you know Jack O'Lannon, granpa? That Jack O'Lannon?"
"Incredible as it sounds, I did... We went to the same school. Well, back in the day, there was only one school in town, so it's not much of a mystery..."
"How did he disappear?"
"We're getting there, children, we're getting there... You can't rush a spooky story like that..."

"It was my final year of school, Jack was a class or two under me. After school, the older boys would hang out together, and this night we were at Jack's place. His father was a farmer, and his large vegetable yard were right in his back garden... Only a small wooden fence parted it from the woods. The sun had set, so the only light was from the village, and from the O'Lannon home. We kept close to the cottage, seated on some chairs we had dragged outside, a chopping block, and what else..."

"When Jack's parents went to sleep, they yelled at us to go home since they would be putting out the lights. Jack yelled back at them he would show us to the road, but when the lights had been turned off, instead, he looked around at us with a devillish grin. 'Any of you guys cowards?', he asked us."

"Well we were older than him so of course we said no, but it was clear he was up to something. 'Come with me then,' he said, 'something I wanna show you.'
And he began walking into the field. We all stood sort of dumbstruck for a second, but not ten feet away, we couldn't make out his figure in the dark, so we hurried after him."

"He led us all the way to the fence that seperated the farm from the woods. On one of the fencestakes, he had placed a lantern he had cut from one of his father's pumpkins... Carefully, he lifted the top of it, and struck a match, lighting a pair of candles inside it. In its gloomy light, we could see the threatening, gloomy poses of the nearest trees... And when we were all staring out into the darkness, suddenly, a single light was lighted out there, between the trees, in the distance-"

"Now you're not telling the children one of your scary stories right before bedtime, Dad?", it echoed from outside the small room. The old man smiled and whispered to the children, "you'll have to hear the rest another time," before loudly replying, "of course not! Is the tea ready?"

A glimpse of light spilled into the bedroom as granpa opened the door and headed downstairs, closing the door again behind him. In the dark, the children were looking at each other excitedly. None of them would be able to sleep for a while...

 

[Freemanuncg]

Vincent de Vama: is the sole survivor of the oldest and most prominent of the families of Murkvam woods, why the land once all belonged to one of his ancestors and was sold piece by peace making them the wealthiest family in the county.

Vincent has lived alone in the de Vama mansion for ten years since his parents died under suspicious circumstances when he was just a young man. All though Vincent was never officially accused of any wrong doing rumors flew among the townspeople that young Vincent, having just returned from two years at a finishing school, had hastened his inheritance.

Vincent ignored these rumors, why he had been asleep in his bed when the gruesome murder had taken place. In fact he had an alibi, a servant had heard a noise and was with Vincent attempting to wake him from a dream when screams had come from the other wing of the manor.

They could say what they liked in the taverns, being an educated rather aloof sort he did not lower himself to consorting with most of the ‘commoners’ as he called them, preferring to spend his evenings alone in his impressive library reading or writing letters to old friends in far away towns. Yet sometime he was still bothered by that dream, the horror of it and the cold sweat in which he had awoken.

de Vama Manor

Spoiler :

 

[das]

Jack O'

We're not going to get along, my friend. :/

 

[Freemanuncg]

Midnight

Fog covered the village thick as smoke, a dreary night, Vincent closed his the window of his library shivering at the sudden cold, closed the thick purple silk, curtains and sat back down in the winged armchair by the fire. Yawning, he reached out and lifted the leather bound book of old stories and continued to read where he had left off a quaint old story about curious happenings in the area in his great grand fathers day.

Suddenly the rapping came again, as if someone were tapping on the front door instead of ringing the bell. It was after midnight and who would be coming to see Him at this hour? He was simply letting his imagination was running away with him. It was just a tree or an animal in the forest, which crept right up to the sides of his manor house.

He returned to his book, reading by the light of the glowing embers in the hearth, which cast an orange light on the words. He tried to focus on the beautiful script reading the same lines over and over as some nameless fear built within him.

There came the noise again a tapping echoing through the large house, if it were a visitor surely, Jean, the butler would have heard and opened the door.

He slid the silk ribbon in between the pages to mark his place and closed the book, and slowly walked to the door of the library, listening carefully for the sound. Only silence. Finally grasping the handles he flung the double doors open and stared into the darkness of the entrance way. No sign of Jean, nor any visitor.

Had he truly imagined it all?

Gathering his courage he went slowly to the front door of the manor, and when he was about ten feet from it the tapping came louder than before, just in front of him.

Vincent shouted out “Sir or Madam, I beg your forgiveness” and he hurried forward still speaking “But the fact is I was napping, and I wasn’t sure I had heard your knock.”

He opened the door, and his smile vanished, there was no one there… Only darkness.

“Hello!” he called into the darkness “Is anyone there?”

Only the hoot of an owl and the chirp of the crickets answered him.

He stepped outside, inching forward into the darkness. Attempting to make out anything in the pitch black and through the thick fog.

Horrified by his own actions he continued to inch into the darkness as if he couldn’t control his limbs, as he went into the darkness of the trees he saw it. A shape, a shadow really moving in the darkness deeper and darker than the darkness around him.

He had seen it before. But Where?

What was this horror? This couldn’t be real.

The screams echoed through the years.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Vincent awoke in a cold sweat, sunlight streamed through his open window, and he looked down at the leather bound book in his lap placing the red ribbon between the pages and closing the book.

He stood from his armchair and poked the ghost of the long dead fire. Trying to shake the horrible dream from his mind, only a dream, an educated man knew better than to fear a silly dream.

Still the creature in that dream… he Had seen it before and couldn’t remember where…

But again an educated man like himself puts no stock in dreams…

 

[Diamondeye]

We're not going to get along, my friend. :/

It's an old ghost story, and I just thought the name fitted well (Jack O'Lantern anyone?). I didn't notice (consciously) that you had claimed that name, but don't worry, my real character is not going to be called that.

But it would be neat if my Jack returned after a life in the swamps

 

[Ninja Dude]

Phil Warte walked down the hallway to his bedroom, in his hand a small candle holder. The light flickered gently, shadows dancing around the yawning man. Waking up early to milk cows, spending the afternoon wrestling pigs, and closing the day chasing around chickens had taken quite the toll. He lazily shuffled, glancing at his sides.

Two doors.
Two coffins.

Phil winced, shaking his head and looked back towards his bedroom door.
They're dead, get a hold of yourself man.

Reaching out, he felt the cold metal of the doorknob. It calmed him, knowing that in a few moments he could rest easy in his bed, and drift away from it all.

Creeeeeeaaaak

That god awful creaking. That damned creaking. As he opened the door it began, like a million tiny demons laughing at the man's past. He hoped going slower would stop it, but instead it simply turned the laughter into a high pitched scream. Panicking, he slammed the door shut, leaving him outside his room.

They'd never forgive him

Phil slowly sank to the floor, resting his back on his bedroom door. For what seemed like ages he sat there, blank faced, staring at the candlelight. He reflected on it all, remembering every last detail. The screams. The tears. The burials. It was because of him. He couldn't protect them. Would they ever forgive him?

He finally began to rise, shaking off his terrible memories. He even chuckled at his own disturbance by the door.

"Just a door," Phil said to himself. "An old door. A little door-noise never hurt nobody."

He laid his hand on the knob again, turning in painful anticipation. Yet no noise came as he opened the door. He sighed, and continued with his usual routine. After his usual prayers, he got into his bed, and began to drift off.

Creeeaaaaaaaak
Creeeaaaaaaaak

Phil's eyes shot open. He dared not emerge from his covers, but turned so that he could see his doorway. The door was still shut. Phil's mind raced. It could only mean one thing...

Step. Step. Step.

A million times Phil mouthed the word "impossible", yet the footsteps continued to get louder and louder.

Creeeaaaaaaaak

He could hear humming now. Like... like a lullaby. He was in a cold sweat now, and he knew that they knew he was awake. As his breath got louder, he heard a muffled giggle. As his door inched open, the giggling and humming got louder and louder. No longer could the laugh be quieted, and it turned into a full burst of hysterical laughter. The humming turned into a half-sung, half-shouted chant, the actual words impossible to discern. It soon came to the point where Phil couldn't even hear himself think. Finally, he snapped.

"Stop! Please! I'm sorry! Jesus, please stop it!" he shouted, finally leaping from his bed.

Silence. He looked around. His door was shut, and when he peaked his head out of his room the hallway looked fine. He chalked it up to a nightmare. Of course! He had been working so hard on the farm, that his mind must have really been tuckered out, leading to some hallucinations. What he needed was some fresh (non-farm) air.

Cough

Perhaps a little walk to the woods soon?
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Background:
Age: 30
Sex: Male
Occupation: Farmer

 

[SKILORD]

It all started innocently enough.

He was a poor man, poorly dressed. His shoes had holes in them and were cold in the winter. His small shack in the poorest outpost of the town was not safe come new moon. But things could get worse than that, he could have no shack at all and be forced to live on the street or worse, out in the woods.

Which was out of the question, but he knew that he wouldn’t last long on the street. Not with three children and a wife. But tailoring was not in demand, his only skills were useless and he still spent nights and days at his shop trying to sell his shirts, darning people’s socks. Always trying to sell his dirty and ill sown rags to street beggars and other rabble, but the career was not profitable, he could not afford the lease on his house.

Which is how it had started, all of the sudden the landlord had offered an exchange for the rest of the rent.

Which had sickened him, he had caught himself in the mirror dozens of time every day and the look in his eyes, the depravity of a man who would permit these things to happen to his wife.

The landlord had been the first, but not the last, soon he was offering her to a pair of customers a day. He could not even share his own bed with her at night anymore. He slept outdoors of his own volition, he could not stomach to be around the woman anymore.

And what sort of a man permits such a thing? He looks into the mirror and demands answers.

But there are none, only a little money in his pocket, food on the table for his children.

At what cost!

It is a rainy evening, the light drizzle and overcast sky only add to his own depression. Another customer is in his house. His children are hiding in their rooms, he does not know if they can tell what is happening. What their father permits.

Pimp! Bastard! Vicious Greedhead!

But he had to pay the rent, THEY had to pay the rent.

He wanders the street, some of the clothes he sees he recognizes, but only on the lowliest beggars, any beggars with a gimmick, the limp or the false eyes, the wild rants, any of these things would be enough to garnish a beggar more than enough to purchase better clothes.

But even these poor shabby slothful men, he can see the sneers in their eyes, on their lips.

Not even they respect him, why should they?! He is the lowliest of worthless creature, he cannot stand himself and he walks faster through the town.

At his door, at his small shack, he sees a red mark.

He can see it from a ways off, the red mark, he wonders what is there.

He knows the man well, this current customer. The Von Terrison’s had been an old and regal family but many generations of wastrels had squandered the wealth until poor Gilbert had nothing left but pride and a strange devotion to morality.

Which is why the tailor had been surprised when his friend Gilbert, a man who had purchased all of his clothing now from his very shop, had scrambled up the money and asked for a roll. What the hell, he had decided, just another romp, she wasn’t good for much else now.

God he loathed himself.

What hells was he sure to burn in? What horrors yet awaited him in this life? He had forsaken his own wife, he could no longer stand her presence but to get him some small amount of funding. The look of horror on her face every time he told her that another man had arrived.

The pleading, the crying the horror. He had been forced on many occasions to slap her. There was no choice, he had to pay the rent; THEY had to pay the rent.

At the door he can see the red mark. It spells out a word.

PIMP.

And the door was ajar.

He pushed it open, the fresh blood stuck to his hand as the door swung around, creaking into the silent house.

“Children?” he calls out.

No reply.

“Children?” he calls again.

“They aren’t here,” he hears a reply.

“Where are they?” the tailor insists.

“They are buried in the back.”

The room is silent, the man looks around his now blood soaked shack, “But…. Why?”

“The monsters, they can sense this sort of thing. Your wife’s whoring was attracting all the darkness of the wood and I could sense it!”

“Your quite mad…”

Gilbert laughed, walking into the moonlight and a dull sort of glimmer comes off of his dagger, “They will thank me when we are all safe.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

The tailor turns to the door and slips in a slick of fluid on his door. He can smell it, the whole house smells of a butcher’s shop.

“No!” he shouts as he falls on his face.

Gilbert walks up slowly behind the man and digs his dagger into the tailor’s back.

“Yes, my friend, we will all be better off.”

And out of the door, into the many screams and terrors of the slums of Murkvam, Gilbert emerges and wipes his hands into the street, before vanishing into the rain.

 

[Karalysia]

......

 

[Ninja Dude]

That was just kinda my introduction to my guy. Just a little concerned about events that have happened in the past is all

 

[das]

It's an old ghost story, and I just thought the name fitted well (Jack O'Lantern anyone?). I didn't notice (consciously) that you had claimed that name, but don't worry, my real character is not going to be called that.

But it would be neat if my Jack returned after a life in the swamps

Just a funny coincidence, is all. At least the actual surname isn't the same.

wait wait are we doing stories already?

My own reaction, really. I'd probably wait until the update unless inspiration strikes.

 

[Capt_Lightning]

Jonathan Blake was born an orphan. Never knowing his parents, he grew up in an orphanage not so far from the Murkvam woods. He became a fisherman, because fishing had brought him great joy as a small child. And he was quite successful. He grew wealthy, (for a fisherman) and settled down in a village near the creek.

As his children, Robert and George grew, Jonathan thought it would be great for them to become fishermen, as he had been. So, he brought his boys down to the river.

Jonathan and his boys stayed by the river all day. Jonathan teaching his boys the basics of fishing, and they catching a few small fish. As dusk was approaching, Johnathan was ready to go back to his cottage with his family. But just then, Robert hooked a huge fish. Busy packing up the impromptu camp they had made, Jonathan had his back to his two boys. Seeing Robert struggle to bring the fish in, George ran over to help...

"YES!"

Jonathan turned around as he heard his Robert cry out in triumph. He say the fish, flopping around on the ground, and was about to congratulate his son, when he realized that his boys were not along the river any more. He saw a shape running out of the corner of his eye and assumed it must be his sons running home to tell their mother. So he called out, "Great catch son! See you back at home."

About an hour later, after cleaning the fish, Jonathan returned home.

"So did the boys tell you all about the fish they caught?"

"What? They haven't been home, I thought they were with you."

"I thought they ran home ahead of me... Here, take this and make a late supper, I'll go out and find the boys."

Jonathan hurried back towards the creek, calling out the names of his boys. He thought he heard a faint "Dad?" coming from the woods. He sprinted towards the sound of his boys, calling at intervals and hearing the same response getting louder and more hysteric. Jonathan felt like he had been running for hours, growing increasing concerned for his boys, as their responses grew more and more tinged with terror. When he thought that his boys must be just around the bend in the road, the responses stopped. Jonathan stopped cold and called out the names of his boys, growing increasing frightened with each passing moment that there was no response.

At long last, Johnathan heard a very faint moan from just inside the treeline. He rushed toward the sound of his beloved sons and froze. Splattered all along the trees in a very small clearing was fresh blood. Two disfigured bodies lay splayed in the middle of the clearing. Almost vomiting, Jonathan's fears were confirmed as he inched closer. These were indeed his sons... He picked them up and carried them out of the woods blinded by tears. He staggered home, ready to bury his only children.

When he arrived home, he was met with the same grisly scene. His wife, nailed to the front door, skin peeling away. Overcome with grief, Jonathan lost his mind. He tore his wife down from the door and carried her inside along with his children. He doused his family in all the kerosene he had, splashing it along the walls as well. Then he took the few lanterns off the wall and chucked them in at his dead family. Standing outside, watching his family burn, he laughed. The laughter turned manic, and then to tears. Eventually, Johnathan collapsed, crying as the only people he had every loved burned in front of him.

Collapsed on the ground, tears mixed with laughter, John eventually fell unconscious. When he awoke, he had no conscious memory of what had happened. He did not know who he was or why he was lying in front of a smoldering ruin. When he walked down into the nearby village nobody seemed to know who he was either. Eventually he found a name for himself. "John... I like the sound of that..." he thought.

As he wandered through the village, he came upon the creek. Seeing the creek, John screamed. A bloodcurdling scream, and then he ran. He ran as fast and as far away as he could. He didn't know why he was running or why he screamed. He only knew that the creek was terrifying and somehow dangerous. John eventually calmed down and realized that he had nothing. He had no money and no possessions. So he did the only thing he could think of and began to search for a job.

 

[thomas.berubeg]

I'll write a story monday. I promise.

 

[Karalysia]

............

 

[SKILORD]

Well, what do you want, orphans?

 

[bestrfcplayer]

I'll take a crack at this.

My name is Victor Raminski, and this is my story.

It was a night just like any other, well not exactly. I was sitting in my dimly lit room reading one of my most beloved title, "The Raven" by Edger Allen Poe. Then suddenly, I heard something like a screeeeeeeech. I turned around and looked toward the door. Nothing. "What a strange occurrence." I said to my self. Then, I start to here what appeared to be a voice

"Blood, flesh, I need both."

I answered in a stern voice " Who are thou who dareth enter thy room?" But, the only answer that I got was

"Blood, flesh, I need both."

After some time passed, I heard it again, but the voice was closer, and it was even creeper than ever! Then out of nowhere, the ghost showed it's self and.............

 

[Karalysia]

.....................

 

[bestrfcplayer]

This would have been PERFECT if you started this on Halloween on midnight.

 

[Karalysia]

..............