Blackwater Springs

Prolouge

April 15, 1904

Charles.

The whisper by his ear made Charles Stevens sit bolt upright in bed. His wife, Amanda, lay beside him, making small, content noises in her sleep. No one else was in the house. Their son had fallen asleep hours ago. Besides, the nursery was down the hall. The curtains lay flat against the open window, without a breeze to stir them. Charles didn't know why Amanda wanted the window open. The night air felt more like August than April, and Charles was sweating. But just like when Amanda begged to have the bedroom that faced the barn and adjoining pasture, Charles never could say no to his young wife.

A loud clap of thunder shook the panes of the windows and startled Charles. Seconds later, a strike of lightening lit up the night. Charles turned the knob on the bedside lamp, hoping that the electricity hadn't gone out. His hopes were futile; the storm had knocked the power out. It would be days before the power company got around to fixing it, too. One of the disadvantages of living in rural Kentucky, he thought, was that electricity was a relatively new concept. But at least Amanda was happy.

Charles thought of getting out of bed to check on the horses, but decided against it. They had plenty of water, and had just been fed; they would be fine until morning. He settled back into bed and had just begun to drift off when he heard his name again. For a moment, he thought he was in the world between sleep and consciousness, and that his mind had conjured up the sound. He listened, straining to hear past his wife's rhythmic breathing and the sounds of the storm.

Chaaaarles.

There, he heard it again. He wasn't dreaming. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, half expecting something under it to grab his ankles. But nothing touched him. He stood, still listening. The house was silent, still, but he had the feeling that someone, something, was watching him. He shook it off. I've gotta quit reading those horror novels, he told himself, the ancient hardwood floor creaking under his weight as he made his way to the bedroom door.

Chaaaaarles.

It was an eerie voice, unlike one he'd ever heard. I have to be dreaming. He thought of pinching himself to make sure, then laughed. Of course he was. He didn't walk around hearing people call his name in a creepy voice on a regular basis.

Chaaarles.

He was about to give up, go back to bed, when he heard the voice again. It was clearer now, with an urgent undertone, and seemed to be right outside his bedroom door. Should he open the door? Or go back to bed and pull the covers over his head like a child? He debated for a few moments, then took a deep breath and opened the door.

There was nothing there.

He sighed, relieved, and felt his way back to the nightstand for a candle. Someone was in his home and he intended to find out who and why. After all, he had a family to protect.

    The candle didn't offer much light, but it was better than nothing. He stepped into the cooler hallway and was met with a disgusting smell. He wrinkled his nose. It smelled like, well, like death. Images of rotting flesh crept into his mind, and he moved the candle from side to side, flame flickering, looking for the source. Nothing. Amanda was an excellent housekeeper, despite how young she was. There was no reason for the smell.

Yet it was there. Charles couldn't dream this up. The candle's flame wavered as his hand shook.

Chaaaarles.

The voice was right in front of him now. He could feel every hair on his body stand on end; every fiber of his being screamed at him to go back to bed and stay there until morning. Curiosity, mixed with sheer terror, rooted him to the spot, and fueled him to hold the shaking candle right in front of him, hoping to catch a glimpse of who -what, his mind offered- was in his home.

Charles could see the stair railing a few feet in front of him. But that was all he could see. A black mist hung in the air, blocking the stairs and the remainder of the hallway from sight. It was opaque, Charles noted, but also seemed to shimmer in the flickering light. Too late, Charles realized that it wasn't shimmering; it was moving, and fast. He stumbled backwards, trying to put some distance between himself and the black cloud. It was no use. Charles' foot caught in the braided rug, and he stumbled backward. The candle went flying. Shit, he thought, I'm gonna burn the goddamned house down. Thee candle landed flame-first, though, and extinguished the light. Charles felt the mist advance on him. His legs tingled, then went numb. He screamed as the blackness crept up his body, swallowing him.  Within seconds, it enveloped him, leaving nothing of Charles Stevens save for his cries echoing in the old farmhouse.