A Horror Story

                I have been told many times that the best way to get over something terrifying is to just talk about it. I usually blow that off as people just wanting gossip to share, or noisy people who need to know everything. So whenever something remotely scary would happen, I would keep it to myself. All those times almost being hit in traffic, all the encounters with wild animals late at night, all those times when you feel like someone is watching you? I bottled those up. I can’t bottle this up. I have to tell someone, to hear someone tell me it was a dream, or for someone to let me know that I am not insane. Please bear with me; I’m not used to telling stories.

               

                I had just moved into this small city. I hesitate to use the term city, as it would be a town where I’m from, but the locals call it a city, so a city it will be. I was a religious man, still am really, and had moved into the city to be a youth pastor at one of the local churches. The head pastor was a real “fire and brimstone” type, but he was generally nice and accepting of most. To get to the church I could drive for ten minutes, or I could cut across an abandoned park and walk there in five. Whenever I mentioned the park to the locals they would shiver and tell me to avoid it. Not wanting to upset the people around me, I drove to the church every time I had to be there.

                I slept through my alarm one day, and didn’t have time to drive. I decided to cut through the park this one time and just not tell any of the locals unless they asked.

                The entrance to the park was rusted shut and the paint was peeling, the uncut grass was tickling the bottom of the bar, and I could see some fallen trees further in. Other than that, it seemed fine. I hopped over the gate and made my way in. A cruel breeze came out of nowhere and a shiver rocked my whole body. I hunched my shoulders and began to walk. Another five steps and the skies got darker, like they were clouding over. I quickly glanced up to see if it was going to rain, but all I could see was a clear sky with muted colours. Smoke or a haze, I thought. I continued in.

                The first fallen tree blocked the entire path, with bush on one end and bush on the other. I silently cursed my luck and tried to pick the thinner of the bushes to walk through. Carefully pushing the branches out of my way, I made my way around the tree.

                Until my foot got caught.

                I tried to shake it loose, but to no avail. I looked down to see what I was trapped on and how I could dislodge my foot and I screamed. I could’ve swore a grey and decaying hand was grasping tight my ankle. I screamed and jumped at the same time—the jump finally dislodging my foot, and I fell backwards, landing on the other side of the tree.

                Visibly shaken, I crawled towards the bush, knowing in my heart that horror movies, other than ones about exorcism, were all fake. I had to know what I saw. Looking at the bush, all I could see were grey branches.

                “Okay,” I said aloud, “I just got my foot tangled in those branches. That’s all I saw.” I got to my feet, brushed the dust off, and turned to continue on my way.

                As I walked I could hear a rustling in the brush along the path. It’s just the wind, I told myself. I stopped when I noticed I could no longer feel the breeze, but the rustling continued.

                “Just some dumb squirrels playing,” I said to hear my own voice. Hearing something out loud always gives it more credence.

                The second tree was much smaller, and I was able to step over it. As I was bringing my right leg over the tree, I heard childlike laughter in the distance. I froze. My eyes darted to and fro trying to find the source but it sounded like it was coming from everywhere. From the corner of my eye, I could see something, but whenever I would focus, it would disappear.

                Two hands pressed into my back and I could feel breath on my neck. The laughter came from right beside my ear. The hands pushed and I tumbled to the ground, face first. I scrambled over to confront whoever pushed me only to face empty air. I could still hear the laughter as though the person was right beside me. I could hear rustling in the brush, twigs snapping, and that childish laughter. It was coming from everywhere.

                I got to my feet and ran. I hurdled the barricade on the other side, and doubled over, gasping for air. The sky was brighter, the air was warmer. I looked back at the park behind me, and for a moment I saw the form of a young boy waving at me before disappearing.

                After the service I got a ride home. When asked about my car, I lied and told the driver that I had been dropped off by a friend who goes to another church. After my morning, I didn’t think God would care about such a little lie.

                I spent the week researching in the library. By the Thursday I had found that a child had led one of his friends to the park and murdered her before killing himself. Apparently he thought by sacrificing something pure he would gain powers. Due to the tragic and horrible nature of the crime, the community had decided to close the park. Later news articles spoke of laughter and flashes of light coming the park, and still later articles spoke of exorcists and ghost hunters coming to cleanse the area.

                Nothing had worked. The story became taboo, and townspeople wouldn’t speak of what happened in the park. Soon newcomers were just warned to stay away and were never given a reason.

                That night I stood on my deck facing the park. I wasn’t focusing on anything in particular, just facing it. I was ready for bed, but I still had my crucifix on—some part of me was vainly hoping it would protect me from whatever evil resided so close to me. Inside my house lay open bibles, and crosses upon my walls. Anything remotely religious I could find was in the open, as though it could act as a ward.

                I turned to go back in when I heard the laughter again. I spun around and in the distance I could see a pair of pale eyes watching me. I could’ve sworn it smiled at me.

                I ran inside, slammed the door, and sunk to the floor. Out of my mouth tumbled prayers in every language I knew.

                The air grew still and silent, then there was a knock.

                Somehow I didn’t scream. I did start to cry however. Moments later there came a second knock. I could feel the vibrations just above my head—about the height a child would knock. I stifled another scream. Following the third knock, I could hear the laughter.

                Coming from above me. Where my bedroom was.

                Now I screamed.

                I grabbed the closest bible, and ran into the park.

                At the first fallen tree I stopped and began to recite scripture, screaming it out in Greek and Latin.

                I felt things tracing lines on my back. At first they didn’t hurt, and then moments later they would explode in pain. Red dots would appear in my vision and I struggled to stand and speak.

                Looking back now, I think I was just making it mad.

                Suddenly the tracing on my back stopped, and I felt a tap on my shoulders. My breath caught in my throat, and I got cold.

                I turned slowly and looked down. Standing there was the form of a boy who looked around seven. He had dark hair that flopped lazily over his forehead, he was wearing ripped jeans, and an old polo shirt, his skin was grey and patchy, and his eyes—dear God, his eyes! were swirling white and grey. Held lightly in his hand was a knife coated and dripping with blood. He, it, smiled and whispered, like a child trying to scare another, “boo.”

                I fainted.

                The next morning I woke up in pain. My chest was burnt, radiating outwards from the crucifix still around my neck. The bible I had brought with me was a pile of ash.

                I moved the next day, leaving the majority of my possessions behind. To this day I don’t take my crucifix off.

                In my time as a youth pastor I encountered many things. Things that I couldn’t have explained outside of the church: miracles, second chances, demonic possession. All those things I faced head on. I have faced, before and since, both metaphorical and literal demons, and nothing terrifies me as much as that night. To this day, the sound of children laughing is enough to make me break down.

                You may scoff at my tale, you may think me crazy, you may use it to scare others, but I had to tell it. For my sake I had to tell it. So maybe one day I won’t hear the laughter every time I close my eyes. So maybe one day I can see my own reflection again instead of his.