Cusick Hollow

4

I close the journal. It seems Albert was right. The things in this journal will haunt me, and I should have kept driving.

My need to know the truth. To see and feel it with my own eyes and hands may be what gets me killed—murdered by a ghost in an authentic haunted house. Befitting end, I suppose. Find what you love and let it kill you.

I, however, prefer to live. To prove there are ghosts and spirits, and some can even harm you.

I gather and stuff all my belongings, along with Katherin's journal, back in my bag. I stare at the salt line trying to gather my courage to leave the safety of the circle.

You don't know if it even works. I tell myself.

I timidly step one foot over the line. When nothing sinister comes at me, I follow with my other foot. I pause, my body ready to retreat back to safety.

Nothing. No whispers or phantom touches. I released the breath I was holding. Steering clear of the stairs, I head into the dining room. A long table that could seat at least twenty people occupied most of the space. A chandelier hovers over the center. Ostentatiously inviting the eyes upward. A sign of wealth and power. I wonder how many server girls stood gazing at the crystals in this room. Mesmerized by the people who lived here. I wonder if they counted themselves lucky to be employed by the Clarks? At what point did they realize something was very wrong with this house?

There was a small room adjacent to the dining area, with walls adorned with old yellow wallpaper. The top layer of paper was peeling off. Upon closer examination, a wooden door caught my eye, which seemed to lead to a cellar. However, the smell emanating from the depths of the stairs was putrid, and I had no desire to venture down there. Promptly shutting the door, I continued my exploration.

As I followed the hall, it curved into a more humble area of the house. I assumed these were the servant's quarters due to the small rooms with basic furnishings. However, one room caught my attention with its bright yellow quilt and matching pillow. A photo of two sisters with long blonde hair and bright blue eyes sat atop the nightstand. The room felt cozy and inviting, so I decided to claim it as my own until I could find a way out. I placed my bag on the floor and sat on the bed, the springs creaking under my weight. Exhausted from all that had happened, I decided to rest briefly. Before doing so, I took precautions by laying a salt line across the threshold and locking the door. I even pushed the nightstand in front of the door, though I knew it likely wouldn't stop anything from coming in. It simply made me feel more secure.

I fell asleep and was suddenly jolted awake by someone crying. For a moment, I was convinced that it was me, but on checking, I found my face to be dry. The sobbing abruptly transformed into laughter that reverberated throughout the room before giving way to tears again. I sensed a presence in the room, and I couldn't shake off the feeling that it was the same girl who appeared in the photo. The experience left me feeling unnerved, and I found myself burying my head under the pillow in a bid to escape the inky darkness that was gradually enveloping me.

The weeping and laughter finally came to an end. I wanted to leave the room but knew what waited for me if I did. There was no way I was going back to sleep, so I turned on the lamp and pulled out Katherine's Journal.

July 4, 1908

Roger decided to have a Fourth of July party. He invited all of his friends. The cook hired several new servers for the occasion. Life continued as usual—no whispers to haunt me, no visitors in the dead of night. I had peace once again.

The fireworks were beautiful, and the company was lively until I saw her. A new servant young and so like the last. He had a type, and they could have been made from the same mold. I spent the rest of the night on edge. I knew he would come again. He would come for her.