char *(null)="
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From netcom.com!brianbet Thu Oct 6 01:12:58 1994
Xref: netcom.com alt.folklore.ghost-stories:7457
Newsgroups: alt.folklore.ghost-stories
Path: netcom.com!brianbet
From: brianbet@netcom.com (Brian Bethel)
Subject: Another Tale o' Terror
Message-ID:
Organization: Netcom Online Communications Services (408-241-9760 login: guest)
Date: Thu, 6 Oct 1994 07:20:39 GMT
Lines: 228
Hi guys! Good e'en (or morning, or afternoon or Dead of Night or
whatever)! Time for more Tales to Scare the Hell Outta Ya, brought to you
by Hostess Twinkies: proof there is a malevolent power in the universe. :)
Geez ... I guess the last thing I posted was my TV experience.
Long time ago, that -- couple of months, actually. I keep meaning to post
more here, but work and other unpleasant prospects prevent me from
expounding too greatly on my favorite subject.
Well, without further ado, sit back and enter the theater of mind.
The curtain's about to go up once more.
Warning: this post is LONG. You may want to download it and read
it off-line, if you have the capability. Or you may not. :)
++++++++++++
Those of you who've read my posts from the beginning know that I
am a journalist. The Journalism Building of Angelo State University, where
I went to school until I graduated in December, was haunted by a young
girl who had been murdered there in the 1970s. This was all related in my
very first post to alt.folklore.ghost-stories. If there's enough interest,
I may repost that original story. It is also archived at ftp.netcom.com in
Obiwan's official a.f.g-s archive.
Here's all the information you'll need for background, even if you
haven't seen the original post:
A) About 1976, there was a young girl who was killed in the ASU
Journalism Building by an ROTC cadet. The gentlemen used a pair of
scissors. As far as we can tell, she spurned his advances and he lost it.
Boy, did THIS guy need a Diet Coke or something.
B) The young man dragged her to what was then a classroom at the
end of the hallway, by an elevator. This room, No. 200, is now the Angelo
State University Housing Office.
C) Ever since then, creepy things happen at night in the ASU
journalism Building. The elevator next to the Housing Office opens and
closes on its own. The upper hallway is much colder than the lower.
Footsteps are heard reverberating through the hall, voices are heard
arguing in the same area, and even shadowy figures are glimpsed from time
to time.
As may be imagined, this is not fun, especially when you're the
managing editor of your college newspaper and your offices are located on
that floor and connect directly to that hallway.
D) In case you're wondering, all that follows is accurate, as far
as I can remember. I describe the atmosphere and events exactly as I
remember them. This isn't a fabrication, I saw it and heard it all.
++++++++
I had just finished participating in some ungodly trivia contest
with two good friends of mine, Chad and Rachel. We had won, and had gone
over to Chad's apartment, celebrating our victory by cooking a steaming
batch of Mexican food. Sated, we sat down and eventually the discussion
turned to the metaphysical.
Now, Chad had experienced the Journalism Building's ghostly
manifestations firsthand, largely because we let him use some of our
computers to type his psychology papers. Rachel was a reporter for the Ram
Page -- our campus newspaper. So, we all three spe nt many a late night
there, and had experienced some of its ghostly phenomena ourselves.
For some time, I had wanted to do something about her (for some
reason I never say or write her name). It felt wrong to not try and help
her.
I mentioned this fact to Chad and Rachel, and they all agreed that
something should perhaps be done. Chad and I wanted to wait, but Rachel's
prodding eventually swayed us to make a late night visit to the newspaper
offices.
We walked to the newspaper, which was on the other side of the
campus. We sat outside the building, waiting and gaining strength to go
inside.
Now, it must be mentioned that I believe quite firmly in strange
things. So, I've learned a few things on my own to help me deal with them.
Chad and Rachel were no different. We spent the time outside preparing
ourselves for whatever was going to happen in our own ways. I cleared
myself as best I could and then set up what I can best describe as a
mental wall, a sort of defense against creatures of the night.
This was also, by the way, an effective technique to use against
professors, themselves unnatural and unearthly entities.
I produced the key to the front door of the Journalism Building,
and then held the door as my friends as I went inside.
There was no one else in the building. It was very late in the
evening -- around 1 a.m. That was when most of the haunting activity
began, so we'd arrived just in time.
We walked into the foyer of the building, a place I had once seen
a physical manifestation of our unfortunate spirit (detailed in post no. 2
of this series). For some inexplicable reason, Rachel walked over to the
door to the administration offices to the left, instead of proceeding
upstairs as Chad and I had anticipated. She stopped, closed her eyes and
stood silent for quite some time.
She began to cry. I wanted to offer a comforting hand, but she
motioned for us to kneel in the corner of foyer where she was standing.
Not quite understanding why, Chad and I complied.
I cleared my mind, but couldn't focus. There seemed to be some
sort of insect buzzing around my head. No, I hadn't watched the Amityville
Horror recently. I don't remember what kind of critter it was, but it was
distracting as hell. I mentioned it later to both parties, but no one
seemed to remember such a thing flitting about overhead. It was quite
large, whatever it was.
Well, while I was watching whatever it was flit around, Chad
suddenly began to sputter and then to choke. My attention immediately
focused on him, and I placed my hand on his shoulder. For what seemed like
an eternity, Chad refused to breathe. There seemed to be some sort of a
darkish haze about him, but I may have been imagining that.
Rachel held Chad, and I contemplated dragging him into the main
lobby, next to the stairwell, thinking the location might be the problem.
We stood him up, and walked him toward the main hall, and as we approached
the stairway, he coughed loudly and air once again entered his lungs.
Later, we would find out Chad had an interesting premonition
during the meditation period outside. We had both recently received
crystals as a present from some mutual friends who were moving away, and
were carrying them with us. I don't really go for the crystal bit, and
neither did Chad, but they were at least interesting to look at and we
could scare people with them.
"This is a mystic power crystal. Forged by Atlanteans. Really. Just
$19.95. Hey, come back!" ;)
It should be obvious that I'm deliberately adding this stuff in.
The reason is simple -- it makes this easier to write. The events of that
night were terrible -- nerve-wracking, soul-crunching stuff. I have to be
sarcastic to not go into paroxysms of fear remembering it.
Anyway, Chad later mentioned that he felt some strange impulse to
put the crystal in his mouth (they were rather small) just before entering
the area. Would this have helped? Would the traditionally "purifying"
element of quartz have allowed him to breat he in the face of whatever
Lurker in the Dark that sought to steal his breath?
Who knows? I'm not THAT psychic. :)
Anyway, we went upstairs and stood next to the housing office. The
hall was dark -- it was Thursday, and the week's newspaper had already hit
the shelves. So, we were truly alone -- well, you know what I mean. :)
We walked to the center of the hall, kneeled on the floor, and
listened. I could literally hear the sound of my own heart beating, the
silence was so complete.
I heard things that night, far away but distinctive. Footsteps, a
shattered sob. But the most terrible were the things I felt. Loss, fear,
loneliness, bitter hate and pain all flowed through me as I opened myself
to the Hall, feeling the patterns of it, trying to listen to ... I suppose
her.
I had actually seen her once. That was in a previous post.
Somehow, all I was feeling was even more horrible than that.
Finally, we'd had enough. A look at any one of us would have shown
the same characteristics -- an ashen white face, eyes drawn wide in fear.
We decided to quit the place, escaping out into the open night.
We did not even voice this decision. We all stood up at the same
time, and proceeded to begin making our way down the stairs. I was nervous
about having Chad pass through the foyer again, but didn't see much way
around it.
I had silently decided we couldn't help her, that her obvious
bitterness and unearthly state were beyond my grasp of how to help. I even
made a silent vow to avoid the subject. Yes, friends and neighbors, I was
SCARED.
We rounded the stairs, the red light of a Coke machine casting a
crimson glow below. Then, suddenly, I noticed something on the stairwell.
I couldn't tell what it was at first, but something small and
orange was lying on one of the stairs. It hadn't been there when we passed
by the first time -- I have a strong habit of watching my feet while
mounting stairs, and had walked right through the area where this
mysterious bauble now rested.
I pointed to the thing, and then cautiously walked over to it.
There on the ground was a heart-shaped Valentine's Day candy, seeming as
if it had been deliberately placed.
I picked it up and showed it to my friends. They gasped.
In crimson letters on the surface of the confection was written,
"I'm yours." Not by a ghostly hand, mind, but it may as well have been.
A later conference revealed we were all pretty much thinking the
same thing. A message from her? A semi-threatening plea? A tasty treat
with no supernatural overtones?
I doubt the last one.
I graduated from ASU without ever really facing up to such things
again. Someday, I must return and somehow finish the task before me. I
hope I can find the strength then. San Angelo is no longer my home, but a
very significant portion of me was left there that night, trapped in the
cold dark.
I feel I won't be whole again until things are set right. Any
advice would be appreciated. This is one of those really rare times --
believe it or not -- when I truly am at a loss for words.
+++++++
Yikes. Well, after all of that, here's more! :) This really isn't
a ghost story proper, but it's kind of amusing. It also illustrates a
point.
When I was about four years old, I was certain there was a vampire
living in my closet. I don't know why I decided this, but I knew he was
there, slavering away, licking his massive canines, ready to pounce on me
some night.
It was a traditional vampire, of course. I was certain he wore a
big red cape, a tux, and a medallion. He had a Slavic accent. After all,
what else would a vampire look and sound like, right? I watched TV.
At least, until the events of my previous post, anyway. :)
Well, one day I'd had enough. Here was this creature of the damned
slavering away in my closet, night after night after night. He didn't even
have the decency to do the job he was sent to do.
I decided I was going to kill the vampire that evening. As bedtime
approached, I began to make plans.
Night came, and I was shuffled off to bed. I fought sleep,
listening for dad's snoring to indicate my parents had gone to bed.
I slipped out of my bedcovers and retrieved my chosen weapon, a
particularly vicious stick horse.
I threw open the closet door and gazed into the darkness. I could
see nothing in the ebony portal yawning before me, but I knew he was
there, standing motionless. He thought he'd fool me.
I smiled a grim smile and raised the stick horse above my head,
preparing to bring it crashing down onto the head of the undead minion
lurking in the dark.
I had not yet seen a real vampire movie, only some sort of a
cartoon that featured a Dracula-like fellow, a Frankenstein-like fellow,
and some other assorted ghoulies. Otherwise, I would have probably
sharpened the stick of the wooden horse or something.
By the way, if anyone can remember what that damned cartoon show
was (about 1974 or 1975), let me know. I hold it directly responsible for
warping me. That and Land of the Lost.
Anyway, I brought the stick horse down, and then SOMETHING GRABBED
HOLD. I pulled with all of my might, but I couldn't free it from the
Thing's grasp.
Certain this was the last heroic act of my young life, I began to
scream. This of course roused Mom and Dad.
The light switch was flipped, and I was momentarily blinded. I
still tugged with all of my might though, and began screaming aloud.
"THE VAMPIRE'S GOT ME!" I pleaded, praying my parents could combat
the supernatural better than I.
Suddenly my vision cleared, and I saw my antagonist full in front
of me. There before me, malevolent in its aspect, was a coat hook, the
head of the stick horse wedged into it in such a manner that would have
made my pulling in vain.
The vampire never returned. :)
Sometimes, when I think of all of the real (at least, I think they
were real) supernatural experiences I've been a part of, I think back on
that night. I helps me remember that when dealing with the Unknown, you
have to discount everything "normal" first.
Then if it's still there, ya got problems. ;)
--
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::"To see a world in a Grain of Sand :::: brianbet@netcom.com ::
:: And Heaven in a Wild Flower, :::: S E E K E R * O F * W I S D O M ::
:: Hold Infinity in the palm of your :::: S E A R C H E R * O F * T R U T H::
:: Hand, and eternity in an hour." ::::S P I N N E R * O F * S T O R I E S::
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