The Farmhouse: Part 1

Greetings, readers.

Tonight I have a special treat for you; It's the first out of a trilogy of terror, a verbatim recounting of someone's horrific yet convincing experience with a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, and the horrors he'd discover within.

The story was taken by Penny Arcade's forum user 'siliconeenhanced', who submitted his own experiences with the supernatural unknown in the following thread.

Is the story genuine, or fabricated? It doesn't matter, because it is a delightfully creepy read, and hailed by most of the other forum goers of Penny Arcade. With his permission, I present to you the first part of his story, slightly rewritten but maintaining the same bone-chilling tone of his original submission.

I hope you new readers get a kick out of it the same way we did. Wait until dark, and turn the lights out, here is the first part of 'The Farmhouse'.

I used to go for hikes along the woods, taking only an old Army map, a knife, and my dog Baxter. He used to hunt rabbits, bringing them back alive and kicking, like he didn't know what to do with this fuzzy, twitching thing in his mouth. Occasionally I'd come across him eating one, but that was neither here nor there. Foxes had a thing for him as well, and we'd always see one standing on a ridge or on some rocks, watching us walk past.

It was by following a 'trail, unimproved' that I came across this house. It was a two story farm house abandoned in the middle of nowhere, though there was nothing surprising about that. The common explanation was that some farms would go bust, and trees would regrow along the plowed fields after years of negligence.

Fair enough.

It was the middle of Autumn, so the trees were in a good lather, with falling leaves and everything else looking decidedly poetic. I didn't really notice anything strange until Baxter suddenly jerked my arm, not because he was trying to run off, but because he had frozen in place. He had gotten this look a few times before, once when someone tried to break into my house, and again when another male dog tried to bump chests with him. He continued looking ruffled, which was saying something since he's a rotty/chow mix. I thought maybe he got a whiff of coyote...

But then I saw the house.

Hesitant at first, I moved closer. What paint the house once had faded off ages ago, leaving only warped gray sideboards. Also, it looked like someone wanted to keep something inside. How did I know this? Mainly because the wooden 2X4s were nailed on the outside of the windows and doors. Okay, I thought, they couldn't nail the boards on the inside, because then they would lock themselves in, right?

But why would they do it period?

Something else grabbed my attention; Moving around the walk-around porch roof, I could see where all the boards had been blown out in one second story window, shattered along with parts of the house itself. While the 2X4s were good and rotted, I could still make out some inscriptions someone had carved into them...or perhaps they were clawed in?

I didn't know.

What I did know was that at this point I should have made like the protagonist in an HP Lovecraft story and head for the wood line, or at least come back with a can of gasoline (especially with the events from Seaford still fresh in my mind).

But I was young, and impetuous; Taking matters into my own hands, I threw myself through the front door, and right into a fucking nightmare.

The wooden walls were covered with streaks of brown impressed into the whitewashed wood, which I soon realized was actually blood inked from fingers scratched down to the bone. And perhaps 'whitewashed' was too strong a term; There were traces of white, but someone had taken the time to write hex marks line after line around the house. Laying almost out of my line of sight, I could see what I first assumed was a huge spider resting on the doorway. But as quickly as my brain put things together, I realized that it was actually a severed hand .

Baxter had entered with me, a low growl stirring in his throat, coming up to my side but never taking more steps than I did. He didn't like the hand, and bared his teeth at it with a sharp two tone snarl that was more akin to a wolf.

The hex lines, basically pentacles with each foot interspersed with a cross, ran along the walls and into what I assumed was the kitchen, due to the empty cabinets and an old iron stove. Needless to say, a thick curtain of dust covered everything, but there were corners here and there with less dust. Kneeling down, I investigated one of the footprints, running my finger along the middle; These were human footprints, made with bare feet.

Somewhere in the house, something thumped, and then I heard a giggle. At first I thought my mind was playing tricks, but Baxter lurched as if he heard it too. I didn't like where this was going, but I continued onward, my heart beating noisily.

Perhaps I imagined the next rattle too, coming from behind, but I didn't think I did. Turning around, I could see that the hand from before had slid several feet down the wall, deeper into the room. I could make out the dust trails where it had moved, and shook my head; Someone or something had to have been fucking with me...but again, I was too headstrong, too reckless. I thought about my experience as a paratrooper, and perhaps being under the auspice of St. Michael had something to do with it too- if he could face the Devil down below, then perhaps I could explore the rusted domain of some half-assed ghost, couldn't I?

Perhaps.

But when one of the fingers suddenly twitched, it did not sit well in my stomach. And after hearing something beating around upstairs again, along with Baxter growing more and more anxious by the second, I decided it was time to leave. I grabbed my fear by the throat, and walked out the house and into the threshold.

I don't know if my walking pissed it off, or if my running only inflamed it further, but when I heard the sound of footsteps coming toward me, I took off for the wood line and out into the open fields, thinking for some reason I'd be safer there. Baxter ran beside me, ears blown back and legs pumped into a flat out sprint. The wind kicked up behind me and I could smell the rot in the air; The smell of open sewage on a hot day, or of a wet corpse with a putrefying aroma. The bile rose at the back of my throat, causing me to spit while ducking under trees and leaping over rocks. It was riding the wind though, its footsteps taunting me, my fear heightening the thrill of the chase. How could you outrun the wind?

You couldn't.

So I turned, ripped the medal hanging from my neck, and shoved it into the wind's face. I don't remember what I yelled, to be honest; I suspect it was a cry to St. Michael with all of my faith, because suddenly there was a white explosion in my head, blinding my eyes with light. The only comparison I have to this feeling is when I once got too close to a flash bang, the noise slowly filtering back in along with my vision.

Again, there was the smell of roses and gunpowder on the wind, along with something else. You could smell fire clinging to the wind, like the way it clings to your clothes after sitting near a bonfire. I could hear footsteps stomping into the leaves again, but it was only my dog, looking around curiously, sniffing the air. After a moment he looked off into the distance, wagged his tail, and then began to turn back. I followed him, looking back where he had stared so intently. I saw nothing, but there was a cool breeze bursting from that direction; And the smells, so far apart but seeming so natural, were stronger for a second, and then faded just as quickly. I walked out with my dog and left whatever horror I had wandered into behind me.

When I got back home, my mother asked me which girl I had been with. She said she could smell me from the entrance, smelling good but smelling strong. I told her I wasn't with any girl, but she just said:

"You don't have to lie, but we can pretend if you're too embarrassed to tell your mother. Just ask your 'friend' what perfume she uses, because I'd like a bottle."

A deployment later, I returned to that house with a can of gasoline, the dog, and some handwritten prayers.

What I found after the house burned to the ground was another story altogether.

-Continued Next Week