Cusick Hollow

3

Present Day

"No, this can't be happening," I scream as I yank on the front door. It still doesn't open.

I kick and punch and throw things at the door. All to no avail. I have tried every blasted door and window that I could find. They are sealed shut.

I am trapped.

Memories from my dream the night before flashed through my mind. The panic is real and all-consuming.

I grab a lamp off the nearest table and throw it into the window.

NOTHING HAPPENS!

The lamp doesn't break.

The window doesn't shatter.

I lean my back against the wall and slide down until my butt hits the floor. Exhausted mentally and physically, tears of frustration threatened to spill from my eyes, but I batted them away.

Tears are a waste of suffering. That voice from my nightmare fills my head.

I WILL NOT CRY!

I grab the bag I left by the door. Turning it over and letting the contents spill out on the floor.

I came prepared, at least. I grab the salt and draw a circle around myself. "Let's hope this works, as well as my pendant did."

According to all my research, ghosts are not supposed to be able to cross a salt line. I pray I am right.

My eyes land on Katherine's journal. It fell out with all the other things in my bag. I haven't had a chance to read it yet. Maybe there is something in it that will help me get out of here. I grab up the worn book as I look around the room nervously. I don't know what I am looking for, but I am relieved when there doesn't seem to be any ghost hovering in the corner.

Confident I am alone, I carefully open the journal so as not to tear any of the pages.

This Journal belongs to

Katherine Clark.

May 6, 1908

It watches.

The house watches everything I do.

Phantom hands touch me intimately while I lay in bed. I know they do not belong to Roger because I enjoy their touches. They are sensual, whereas Roger is all thumbs.

They do not frighten me but feel me with peace. At first, I believed  I had gone mad, but over time, I came to realize that my imagination was quite real.

May 17, 1908

The whispers want sin, the worst kind. The things it asks me to do. I can not, for I would burn in hell for such crimes. But still, it hounds me till I think I will go mad. No peace. It's always there in my ear. I fear I will give in if only to get relief.

Suppose I could confine in someone, a friend, my husband. Perhaps my maid, a young girl not much older than me. Could I trust her?

June 28, 1908

I have washed my hands a hundred times, but I still see the blood. Still feel the sin.

She didn't deserve to die like that. The things he did to her only the devil himself is capable of such evil. I  watched from the corner in horror. But I did nothing to stop it.

I watch as he strung her up from the ceiling like a piece of meat.

I watched as he bled her.

I watched as he drank her blood.

I watched as her soul left her body. Even then, he didn't stop his assault. He only seemed to enjoy himself more.

She was my friend, my confidant. But the whispers wouldn't stop until it got want it wanted.

June 30, 1908

It was quiet at last.

No one seems to suspect anything. Everyone believes my lie about a young man who swept her off her feet, how they must have run off together. Roger could care less about the servants. He just shrugged and told the cook to find a replacement.

Let this be the end of it.