THE CAVE I am 31 years old now, but I can remember that day in the woods some 19 years ago like it was yesterday. My best friend at the time, Paul, and I were out exploring some woods near his grandmother’s farm in rural SE Missouri in the United States. Not being too far from the Ozark mountain range, the terrain is hilly and well covered with thick, tall green trees. That area of Missouri, and all the way up to Kansas City, is well known for having hundreds, if not thousands, of limestone caves. We were a few miles east of the farm, on god only knows whose land, when we discovered a dilapidated old shack, not more than 15 feet by 20 feet in size. Only 3 of the 4 walls remained, and the roof was caved in along the side of the missing wall. You could still go through the front door and walk a few feet into the structure, but that was about it. Being curious 12 year olds, we did just that. From all indications it looked like an old shanty or shack built by some wanderer or recluse. It was very crudely built, with uneven log sizes and dried mud or clay as mortar. There was evidence of a fireplace and we could even a see the headrest of a mostly hidden handmade bed in the corner, the rest obscured by the roof that had collapsed forming a wall-like barrier blocking any further exploration. We rummaged around where we could and noticed a lot of twigs and rocks laying around the mostly dirt floor. No one had lived there for quite some time as it had been exposed to the elements for years. We left the little shack and decided to head back to his grandmother’s farm for lunch. As we rounded the back of the shack, we were stunned to see strange markings carved into the wood on the back wall. Most were weathered beyond recognition, but you could still make out some. They were blocky and were made up of a lot of connected lines and geometric, yet asymmetrical shapes. There were also strange markings that to us looked like ancient Sanskrit writing, but not quite. I can't remember any specifics so it’s pointless to try and draw anything that resembled what we saw for use as an example. To further the mystery, not more than 20 feet from the back wall of the shack was a large decrepit wood platform that seemed to be covering a large hole. We walked over to it and bent down to examine it more closely. There were similar markings all over the platform. They were weather worn and hard to make out. I poked around the edges of the platform and could feel air escaping. “I bet this is covering an entrance to a cave.” I said. “Let’s just see about that,” Paul said. He got up and found a large rock that was strewn about with others around the hole. He lifted it over his head and thrust it down on the platform. Not even likely to withstand a punch with a bare fist, the rotted wood splintered into pieces and revealed what we had assumed. After we cleared away more of the wood, we could tell it was an entrance to a fairly large cave. Timidly, we both stuck our heads into the cave to see how deep it was and were pleasantly surprised to see that the initial slope into darkness was shallow and walkable. We'd have to duck, but we could manage to explore this cave without much hassle. Excited about the prospect of exploring our “own” little cave we decided to rush back to the farm and get flashlights, a little rope and grab lunch while we were there. We ran as much as we could and got back to the farm in just under an hour. The sun was directly overhead and the late summer sun was hot. On the way there, we decided not to be wholly truthful about why we were grabbing flashlights and rope, if we were even caught doing so, because as far as parents goes, Paul’s were conservative. Enough so not to allow cave exploring without supervision, and they weren't likely to drag themselves all the way out there for our benefit. We quickly ate lunch and were lucky enough to get all of our needed supplies in one of the out buildings completely unnoticed. We grabbed two flashlights, roughly a 100-foot loop of rope, and a canteen of water and headed out back towards the cave. Paul and I wandered a bit trying to relocate the shack and the cave entrance, as it wasn't near any telling landmarks. After zigzagging a bit, we finally crested a small hill and found the shack and nearby cave entrance. This time, however it had a more disquieting look to it. I couldn't put my finger on it at the time, but things just didn't look right … or smell right and even worse, feel right. Despite that initial wave of uneasiness, Paul and I were too determined to let silly circumstances get in the way of another adventure. We stopped a minute to examine the strange markings on the on the back wall and remained mystified as to what they were or what they meant. Since Paul has explored a few more caves in the area than me, he opted to go in first to light the way. We tied the rope to a dead tree trunk a few feet away from the entrance and dropped the rest of the length into the hole. Paul lowered himself to the edge and dangled his feet into the hole. He pointed the flashlight down, confirmed it was more of a downward slope than an immediate hole, and then slid slowly into the darkness. Standing over the hole and peering in after him I waited for his comment that it was safe to follow. After 30 seconds or so, I was greeted instead with a brief shout of terror from Paul, followed promptly with a gasp of relief. “What happened?” I shouted. “Well, I thought the hill was going to last for awhile and all of a sudden it ends with a steep drop off…but luckily the drop is only 3 or 4 feet.” He answered. “It’s safe to come on down now, just go slow and watch for the drop.” Not exactly comforted, I obliged and grabbed the rope and began my own descent into darkness. I found the drop off and lowered myself slowly. Once standing I could look up about 30 feet at the small hole that we entered through, or look forward through a cave tunnel that resembled a vein in a coal mine except that it was littered with stalagmites and stalactites. It was about 5 feet high and 8 feet across. It was damp inside but there was no standing water. That meant it went on further and deeper than what we could initially see. We carefully walked through the obstacle course of cave formations and entered deeper into the cave. The tunnel ran steadily down hill, deeper into the dark abyss. As we clamored down deeper into the earth, I was stunned by the total lack of evidence of bug and animal presence. Even in small caves, you'll find animal droppings and spider webs. But this cave was totally devoid of life. Another strange thing we noticed as we delved deeper and deeper was the temperature. It was not getting cooler like one would expect. Even a few feet underground, temperatures in caves can drop to as low as 50 to 60 degrees. The temperature in this cave was still just as warm, if not warmer than outside on the surface. The air was also stagnant and stale. It was as if you had to breath twice as deep to get the same amount of air you would normally. All in all, these things didn't add up as we explored, they are just things we noticed and talked about later after our experience. We continued on downwards through this long shaft that resembled a spiral staircase without the stairs until it narrowed considerably and began to drop steeper. It was still nothing that required rope or safety equipment, but now it required more direct attention. At this point we were roughly 150 to 180 feet underground, nothing to sneeze at as far as caves go and we wondered why there wasn't more evidence of other cave explorers. “Surely this cave was worthy of exploration,” I thought to myself. We continued spiraling downward until we had long lost site of the opening to the cave. After 15 minutes or so of steady descent, Paul and I finally reached the bottom of the spiraling tunnel as it simply came to an end. It would have been the end of the expedition if not for the small opening near the floor. It was a scant 18 inches high and just a foot or two across, but it was just big enough for Paul to lie down on his stomach and stick his flashlight and head through. “Cool!” he said excitedly. “It’s another chamber. I think we can fit through this hole. Let me try.” With that, he shimmied and squirmed, but eventually managed to work his way through the hole. Knowing I was a hair thinner than Paul, I knew I wouldn't have much trouble. After a little squirming and shimmying myself, I was through. I brushed myself off as I stood fully erect and looked around with my flashlight. The chamber had an eerie feel to it, but nothing seemed odd or out of the ordinary at first. The ceiling was at least 30 feet high and the room itself was probably 35-40 feet in diameter. The rock in here was relatively smooth as the floor was also clear of stalagmites. One would guess this room was hollowed out by a swell in ground water, but had remained dry since the water had receded. We searched around the walls with our flashlights until I suggested we turn them off to see how dark it really was (a fun thing to do deep in caves since there is no other dark that can compare). I turned my flashlight off first, then a few seconds later Paul turned his off as well. You could imagine our shock when we could still see each other faces in what should have been complete and utter darkness. There was no discernable light source, but an overall reddish luminance to the room that was unnoticeable with our artificially lit flashlights. The walls seemed to glow and pulse a deeper and brighter red with each passing moment, almost as if we were waking them up from a long slumber. We turned our lights back on and began to search the room for clues as to why the walls were glowing. Off in one corner, my flashlight made a grisly discovery. I discovered what appeared like small chunks of bone and tattered clothing surrounded by a nearly shattered and broken skull. Just a few feet away, there was another skull, this one neatly sliced in two, and again scattered next to smaller chunks of bone. In this pile, I could see what looked like a lacy hem of a girl or woman’s skirt. Paul had also noticed what I was staring at and looked on in equal disbelief. Just as I started to approach the remains for closer inspection, I heard a sound to chilled me to the bone. I distinctly heard a girl’s voice whisper in my ear, “Get out!” and then an even more desperate, “Run!” Completely freaked, I turned to Paul who had obviously heard it too, and we began to inch our way closer to the room’s exit. Then the floor of the chamber began to tremble and a very faint humming drone began to resonate through the chamber. Being completely terrified already, we didn't want to stick around to find out what the hell was about to happen. I took off back towards the entrance and Paul quickly followed suit. The ground was shaking so badly, I was afraid there was an earthquake or that the chamber was going to collapse down upon us. I was the first to make it to the chamber’s exit, which seemed little more than a mole hole now and start squirming and squeezing through. Paul was yelling for me to hurry and I obliged, skinning my knees and elbows as I forced my way through. Once I was back into the tunnel I turned around to help Paul. He was almost frantic, trying to squeeze through. If I didn't know better, I would have thought that hole was shrinking right before my eyes. Paul struggled and struggled and I dropped my flashlight to help pull him through with both hands. Paul screamed in what I thought was agony from me tugging too hard, but he looked up at me with complete terror in his eyes. “Something is touching my legs! Something is touching my legs! Pull harder!” He screamed. With all my strength I yanked him once more, and with that last tug he finally squeezed through. As I saw his feet come through the hole I noticed with the light from my dropped flashlight what resembled a hand releasing its grip on Paul’s calf - a hand without really being a hand. It had the rough shape of an oversized hand … or paw… with no discernable fingers or shape. It was almost like a shadow, transparent, yet with a solid shape. That was all I saw of it because the second Paul was up and running, I turned and ran as well, leaving my flashlight there near the hole. Since Paul still had his light, I yelled at him to wait for me and he slowed just enough so that I could follow his footsteps. All the while, the droning noise hum grew louder and louder. The glow from the room below began to illuminate the tunnel from behind us as a sick smell of rotting meat and bile began to overtake us. It was so strong it stung our noses. We scrambled up and up, running as fast as we could. The spiraling effect of the tunnel was disorienting and the fear was starting to take it effects on us. If Paul wasn't tripping on something or banging his head, then I was, and the escape to the surface seemed to take forever. We had made enough turns and climbed enough that light from below should have been left far behind, but instead it seemed to be getting closer… and brighter, lighting the tunnel below in a sickly blood-red light. We finally reached the long, straighter tunnel that led to the eventual ledge and slope to the cave’s exit. Paul and I were able to finally pick up speed and put some distance between us and the light from below, almost, but not quite outrunning the overpowering stench. However, the droning sound still continued to grow louder and even higher pitched, like a teakettle approaching the boiling point. Paul and I reached the ledge and slope at the same time and were shocked and horrified to see nothing but darkness. We had only been in the cave for about 30 minutes total, meaning it was still mid-afternoon outside. Paul aimed his flashlight up at the where the hole was and what we saw chilled us to the bone. Our rope was gone and the hole was covered with the same plank wood that had covered it previously. Paul and I both jumped up to the slope and began to drag ourselves upwards towards the exit. It wasn't so steep that we couldn't traverse it, but for every two feet you gained, you slid back down a foot, so it was slow going. The light from below was again beginning to encroach on us and the droning was louder and higher- pitched still. We finally reached the exit and began to explore options on how to get out. We pushed and pushed on the wood covering, but there seemed to be an enormous amount of weight on it. We started screaming for help, pounding on the makeshift trap door. The light below seemed to be just around the last corner from the straightaway tunnel and finally it turned, rushing upwards towards us, flickering with a blinding speed and intensity. Just as we needed to cover our eyes from the brightness we screamed at the top of our lungs. Instantly, the light faded to darkness… like it fell from the ceiling down to the floor as a wave of water would. The droning hum stopped and the stench faded as well. The only sound that could be heard was our own heavy breathing. “What in … the hell was … that?” I panted out, trying to catch my breath that was lost to fear. “I don't know, but let’s get out of here.” Paul answered as he began probing the edges of the cave exit for a hole or something we could use as a starting point. Feeling momentarily relieved, we both started pounding on the trapdoor once again. Then without warning or notice we heard a horrible crash below us followed by a sound that gives me nightmares to this day. A horrible, almost demonic gurgling sound came storming up the tunnel. Paul’s flashlight immediately went dead and we were thrust into complete and total darkness. The gurgling grew closer and closer and now we were too scared to even scream. I remember pressing myself against the rock wall and remaining there, frozen in fear, reduced to no other capacity than to just listen. I could not speak. I could not move. I could not see. All I could do is listen as the gurgling began to transform into more of a primal scream as it flew up the tunnel towards us like a freight train going 200 miles per hour. The air grew searing hot and a putrid wind swirled around us. My hair stood up on end and as the scream seemed to pierce my body. It was as if a young girl let out a tortured scream directly in my ear. I was about to pass out from either fear or stress when we felt something semi-solid surge past us, exploding through the trapdoor like an invisible missile. Shards of wood rained down us as sunlight flooded in and exposed Paul and I to each other’s mortified faces. Almost reading each other’s minds, we shot through the exit… me first, then Paul. We quickly stood up and brushed ourselves off, not knowing whether to run or collapse, we just stared at each other waiting for the other to make a move. Just then, a shoddily dressed man came around the corner from the front of the shack. His hair was long and unkempt and he had deep lines crisscrossing his face. Despite our initial reaction to run in fear, there was something about the man that made us stay, something non- threatening and almost peaceful. As he approached us slowly, we heard the screaming entity quickly returning as if it had simply burst through the exit, completed a small loop around the woods and was returning to finish us off. We could hear trees snapping in the distance, as that thing was bulldozing anything in its path. Again, strangely frozen in fear, Paul and I stood nearly frozen, powerless to stop the thing rushing towards us and powerless to move. The old man stopped his approach towards us and his concerned face transformed into one of steeled determination. He raised his arms into the air as if he was reaching for the clouds and began sternly chanting some language I did not recognize or understand. The howling scream crested the hill and we could finally see a dark shape, almost like a black cloud of soot without just enough form to be called solid. It flew down the hill, toppling the small trees that stood between it and the old man like match sticks. The haggard old man blocked the entity’s path towards us and chanted those strange words again. This time, they seem to echo and reverberate through the woods like a howl of a wolf. The creature slowed, and as if it had legs, seemed to take a step back. Then a light again began to emanate from the entrance to the cave. But it was not the sickly blood red light that was there previously, but a white light, almost too bright to look at directly. The creature appeared to struggle against it, but fruitlessly, and it was literally dragged back down the hole, letting loose a deafening scream in protest. The light seemed to envelope the creature as it reached its grasp. The screaming wail was silenced and the light retreated back down deep into the cave with its prisoner as quickly as it appeared. Stunned with disbelief and shock, Paul and I just stared at the old man. He walked over to the hole and with a wave of his hand, the broken covering was once again made whole. The markings that we had seen earlier gradually reappeared and looked freshly carved into the wood. Once he felt his task completed, the old man again took notice of us and asked if we were okay. Paul and I both looked at our bodies as if we were checking for any number of untold wounds. Outside of skinned knees and elbows, we were both just dirty and dripping with sweat, so we merely nodded. “You two nearly met your end there,” said the old man. “Who… I mean … What was that?” Paul stammered. “It was evil … cruel and eternal. You could call it a demon or you could call it the devil.” He paused for a second and then continued. “It is both … and it is neither,” said the old man as his voice trailed off. “What’s important is that it didn't get to … feed … again. It grows much more powerful if it gets to feed.” With that, the man drew a sad look on his face and stepped back towards the shack. He crossed in front of us and walked to the rear wall facing the cave entrance. He chanted a few more lines of that strange language and the marks on that wall seemed to disappear and reappear again, only looking freshened and newly carven. He then walked around the shed and out of view. Paul and I again glanced at each other and for the first time, seemed to have full use of our bodies back. Full of questions, we raced around the half-collapsed shed to get some more answers. We were more than stunned to discover nothing but emptiness. Only a few seconds behind him, there was no way he could have walked out of view and he certainly wasn't inside the shack either. We called out to him, ran clear around the shed, even ran up the hill to see if he had tried to run away. No sign of him anywhere. No footprints and no sounds. It was like he had disappeared into thin air. Now thoroughly baffled and confused, we re-entered the shed to verify he wasn't hiding in there and this time we even pushed our way through the collapsed part of the roof. Behind the sunken barrier we found what we were looking for. A dilapidated and almost completely decomposed corpse of a man wearing identical clothes to the old man who had helped us just a few minutes before. He was holding an old black and white photograph in a dingy and broken frame. Paul slid it from under the man’s hand and held it up to the light. It appeared to be a much younger version of him, along with what appeared to be his wife and a daughter. They were standing in front of a nice farmhouse and looked genuinely happy together. Paul gently slipped the photo back under his hand. Then, I noticed something else near the foot of the so-called bed he was lying in. I bent over and brushed off the dust and could tell it was a book. I opened it up and flipped through the pages. It was a journal or diary of some kind. “I'll bet we'll find some answers here,” I said as I slipped it under my arm. “Let’s get out of here.” “I couldn't agree more,” Paul said. And with that we pushed our way back out of the shed and made a beeline for his grandmother’s farm, which seemed an eternity away. We hardly spoke on the entire trip back there, each of us reflecting on what had happened and reevaluating many of the thing we had previously believed and held true and how those ideas had been shattered by what we just experienced. When we got there we quickly cleaned ourselves up with the garden hose out in the backyard and went inside. Paul and I each drank several glasses of water after noticing neither one of us had returned with the canteen. To this day I have no idea what happened to it or the rope! They simply must have been lost in the struggle somewhere. Once we felt refreshed and comparatively safe, we took the old tattered journal up to the spare bedroom and began to pour over the pages. Most of the stuff we read concerning the cave and what was down there we didn't understand at the time. Most of the pages were littered with discombobulated thoughts and gibberish, and his handwriting was difficult to read. It wasn't until revisiting the journal several times over the years later that I was finally able to make some kind of sense of what had happened around that cave. From what I could tell, the man, his wife and daughter moved into the area and built a nice house while farming the land they owned. This dates back to the late 1890s. Then one day, the daughter went out exploring the woods with a friend who lived near by. This was a regular occurrence because according to her father, she was rather adventurous and was always traipsing out in the woods in one direction or the other. After spraining her knee in a fall and having to be found after she couldn't make her way home, her mother and father always made her go with someone else. Anyway, her and her friend went out one fall day, and neither of them was ever seen again. The man and his wife, along with the friend’s family, searched the woods that night and all the next day. The local sheriff and his deputies, along with other concerned families from around the area joined the search as well. Despite all those people’s efforts, the girl and her friend were never found. Two weeks or so later, refusing to give up, the man and his wife were still canvassing the woods around their property. During the search, the man and his wife discovered the entrance to a cave that no one knew existed. Fearing their daughter made the same discovery, they decided to enter and look around. The journal then describes a horrifying scene. Just a few feet into the cave, the mother apparently found a ribbon that their daughter frequently wore in her hair. It was covered with dried blood. Distraught and overcome with grief, the mother began running down deeper into the cave. The man, slowed by a limp from a recent ankle sprain of his own, was unable to convince her to wait for him or come back later with help. He begged her to return, but she just ignored him and ran down the same dark tunnel that Paul and I explored, yelling for her daughter. Knowing his ankle would prevent him from delving too far into the cave, he decided to remain near the entrance and wait to hear his wife beckon him or return with whatever she found. He would never see his wife alive again. He could hear her screaming out their daughter’s name, Emily, over and over again, despite the fact it was getting fainter and fainter as she descended further into the cave. Then, without any prior indication something was wrong, he heard his wife let out a blood-curdling scream. Closing his eyes in sadness and despair, thinking his wife had just discovered their daughter’s body he yelled out to her, but never received a response. What he got instead was a taste of what Paul and I endured. He described a very similar event to the one we experienced, starting with the earthquake-like tremors deep in the cave, except from his perspective from near the entrance, it was much more subdued. He yelled down to his wife for her to return, fearing a cave-in as we did, but again, he heard no answer. Then he described hearing a high-pitch wail coming up the tunnel, an inhuman sound he knew couldn't be human. Fearing it was some kind of wild animal; he pulled himself out of the cave and scuttled quickly over the nearby hill, crouching behind a stump to see if anything exited the cave from a hidden perspective. He heard the wail growing louder and louder and described seeing a sickly red light emanating from the cave, and as it faded, a black shape shot out of the cave like a cannonball. The shape shot up in the air at least 50 feet and then glided back down to earth, holding something in its appendages. It was the one-armed torso of his wife. He recognized the torn, bloodstained blue dress that draped off of it. The man described the horror of seeing this as being all most too much to bear, but something beyond his control forced him to look on. The shadow creature continued to feed on his wife’s body, slashing it into pieces, as it seemed to swim in the blood. It was if the creature needed blood instead of meat. The man also described the creature becoming more “solid” as it writhed in the blood, consuming what it could. Realizing that this creature had just murdered his wife, and recently his daughter and her friend, he quietly turned and slinked down the backside of the hill and broke into a dead run back to his homestead, ignoring his swollen and sore ankle. Enraged with anger and grief, the man burst into his house and grabbed his shotgun. He stuffed as many shells as he could into his jacket and loaded the gun. Bent on revenge, he began the long run back to the where he left the creature, still devouring the remains of his wife. When he finally arrived back at his hidden vantage point he could tell the creature was no longer around. He carefully inched down the hill towards the grisly scene just outside the cave’s entrance. Blood stained the grass and leaves, his wife’s tattered dress was shredded into unrecognizable threads. There were small pieces of entrails and flesh scattered about, but nothing big enough to be recognizable as human. Overcome with grief, he fell to his knees and began to sob uncontrollably. He stayed there for several minutes, just running his fingers through the blood-red material, occasionally finding something recognizable like a hair from her missing head stuck to a piece of tattered fabric. Images of his wife and daughter flooded his mind and again he became enraged with a primal anger. He stood up, raised his gun into the air and yelled out to the beast for it to come for him. He yelled down into the cave, he yelled up into the air, he yelled at the top of his lungs for it to come. It didn't take long for it to answer his call. Screaming over the hill behind him tore the creature, now almost entirely solid. He described it as a thick-skinned, black beast, trailed by a wispy, dark mist that seemed to roll off it like steam rolls off campfire doused with water. It eyes burned a deep red and pierced his glaze like two hot pokers. The beast plunged towards him, it arms extended with giant scythe-like appendages ready to slice him in half. He calmly leveled his shotgun and waited until the last second, when he could feel the beast’s hot breath on his face until he pulled the trigger. The creature’s upper body exploded into a cloud of black dust. The creature’s lower body, separated from the upper half continued on, slamming into the man and pinning him to the ground, knocking the wind out of him. It writhed and convulsed on top of him as he struggled beneath its weight. Slowly, it too turned into weightless black dust, falling off of the man in chunks of dried ash. He was eventually able to stand up and brush himself off. As he gathered his breath back and looked around, he felt a strong breeze materialize out of nowhere. It wasn't so much a wind blowing him in the face, as it was a force of suction behind him, pulling the air around and past him. He braced himself against a small tree and watched as the dusty remains of the creature gathered once again into a faint shadow and dragged itself back into the hole. He shot at it right before it left his sight, but his shot simply blew through the dust cloud and struck the cave entrance’s wall instead. It was no longer solid, just a dark cloud as he explained it. The man ran to the entrance and looked down into the darkness, and he heard a faint wail and then silence. With that, he turned and limped home. According to the journal, he then visited the family of his daughter’s friend and tried to explain what happened. Saddened by the news that their child was likely dead as well, the friend’s mother and father returned to the site with him. They saw the blood and tattered remains of his wife. The friends’ father, referred to as William, kept insisting that it must have been a bear of some kind, and that the event that followed was merely a figment of the man’s enraged grief. Unable to convince him otherwise, he did get him to help cover the cave’s entrance with logs and dead tree branches that they collected. They piled it deep enough over the hole to prevent anything from getting in or out until a more permanent structure could be built. Details followed about the funerals, about building a solid and permanent covering to the cave entrance hole, about how no one would believe him about the shadow creature. Everyone in the county thought he had lost his mind upon seeing the death of his wife, and he drew more and more withdrawn from his surrounding townsfolk until he was essentially a recluse. However, he remained determined to find out what it was down in that cave. He searched through the town’s library, through medieval reference books, to the bible, to even mythology books. Nothing was ever found to describe what he had seen and experienced. It wasn't until one winter day, some months later, when he heard a knock at the door that he got his answer. His journal explains that a local Native American, whose parents had stayed behind when their Arapaho tribe was forced out of the land on onto a reservation in Oklahoma, had heard of his story. He claimed to know the origin of such a creature; that it was an old tale passed down through his tribe, which had lived on the surrounding land for thousands of years. They referred to it as a Gros’lor (at least that is how it was pronounced according the man). It was a “soul eater”, a creature of untold origin and power that hibernated for decades and came out to feed on people or their “souls”… only to return to a long slumber shortly after terrorizing nearby humans and animals. His tribe’s Shamans had long held incantations and spells that kept the soul eater in check, limiting its power and forcing it to remain dormant for hundreds of years. Unfortunately, the removal of the Arapaho tribe and its power against the beast allowed for it’s awakening by the man’s daughter and her friend as they entered its lair. With that knowledge in hand, the man collected his things and left for Oklahoma to hopefully talk with someone who still knew what to do to contain the creature. His journal describes very little about the trip and what he discovered in Oklahoma, but he referred to an Arapaho reservation and a shaman named Hache-hi who was able to recount the tale and knew the spells that had been passed down from his grandfather. Apparently, these incantations bound the person to the creature in a way that it, even after death the two would struggle against one another. The spirit of the spell-giver would even remain after death to contain the beast as long as the line of living shamans kept up with the frequent spells and incantations needed to keep the spirit alive and on this plane of existence. Without maintenance, the spirit would eventually fade and cross over to the next plane, and nothing would remain to contain the soul eater. Knowing his family was gone and no one in town believed his story he decided to build a small one-room house, letting his original house fall into ruin. He built it out near the hole in order to perform the ritual on a regular basis, and to prevent anyone from trying to enter the cave again. He basically decided to dedicate the rest of his life from protecting the area from any further attacks from the creature. Since no one would be following his watch after his death, he had hoped that carving the symbols that translated into the spell on the cave’s covering platform and again on the wall of his house that faced the hole would keep his spirit around after his death, as well as the creature contained in its lair. Apparently it had worked. Although Paul and I had destroyed the covering to the cave and the incantations engraved into it, there was enough power left for the man to return to our plane of existence long enough to contain the creature once again. After his “battle” the markings returned fresh and renewed, giving his spirit a recharge in the battle of containing the beast. After reading his journal and understanding what had happened, Paul and I felt safe to return to the area and explore a little more. We found two unmarked gravestones on what must have been the site of his original home about a mile past the cave. Only a few blocks of foundation brick remained. The shack and new cave covering, however, remained intact for all the years we occasionally revisited the site. We never told anyone about our experience. Who would believe us? Many questions go unanswered till this day. Where did that thing come from? Is it a natural creature of earth, a demon, an alien, or some other ancient creature? Are there any more of them out there, still living its cycle of feeding and hibernating? Who or what recovered the hole while we were in the cave? Was it the spell trying to contain the beast or was it some other force trying to keep us in there for the creature to feed on? Why didn't the beast kill us while it had us trapped instead of breaking through the barrier and coming back for us then? Maybe it wasn't strong enough yet … who knows. All I know is that there are things on this earth still left for us to discover and understand. The paranormal exists, for good and for evil. Most importantly, I know I'm lucky to be alive and I thank that old man each day I continue on due to his eternal vigilance. THE BURNING BED The bed in which the story revolves no longer exists. I burnt it in an open field behind my house some 6 years ago. I burnt the mattress, the box springs and the wooden four-post frame. I burnt them all to ashes. Doing so rid me of the nightmare I endured for several days, and I can only hope that the nightmarish curse tied to that bed burnt along with it. The story begins one week after Christmas in 1996. I had been given quite a bit of money that year from friends and family in lieu of gifts since everyone knew I needed new furniture and household items for my new house. I had left most of my previous furniture belongings behind with my ex-wife so she could continue her life relatively undisturbed after I moved out. One thing I desperately needed was a new bed. The cheap inflatable mattress that I was using just wasn’t going to cut it as a permanent fixture. My mother called me just after Christmas and told me about an estate sale that was taking place just outside of town. Knowing you can occasionally find a good deal at these overblown garage sales, I decided to go. Once I got there, I made a quick survey of the house and the items for sale. Most things were older and a little worn, but I have to admit I was captivated by the bed in the master bedroom. It was an oversized four-post bed with a deep, dark cherry wood finish. The finish looked virtually brand new and the mattress and bedspring looked to be in excellent condition. The price was almost too low to believe, but I figured the surviving family wanted to just get rid of it, and didn’t care about the price. I paid the person running the sale and got some help loading it into my truck. I got it home and had a neighbor help me move it up to my bedroom. It only took 30 minutes or so to rebuild it and dress it with some new sheets and a comforter. Once it was completely made, I lied down on it for a brief minute or two and could feel just how comfortable it was. I couldn’t wait to sleep an entire night on a REAL bed so I could retire the inflatable mattress once and for all. That night I stayed up rather late watching some goofball movie on TV, and by the time I finally made it to my new bed I was exhausted. I crashed immediately; falling to sleep almost the second my head hit the pillow. My sleep, however, would not be restful. I rarely remember my dreams, be them dreams or nightmares, but I remember having a very vivid nightmare that night. I dreamt that I was lying in bed myself and that I was surrounded by flame – the heat was actually searing the flesh from my bones. It was a very short, but very intense dream … almost too realistic for comfort. It was enough to rouse me from my sleep, and I had to get out of bed to drink a glass of water and gather my thoughts. Luckily, the rest of my sleep that night was uneventful. The next three or four nights passed without much trouble. My sleep wasn’t exactly sound, but there were no nightmares that I remembered. That all changed on the fifth night. I had another nightmare that night, but this time it followed me into reality. Again, I dreamt of being on my bed surrounded by fire, only this time I didn’t feel like I was alone. I could have sworn I heard the cries of a small child next to me. I turned my head to see what was making the sound, but nothing was there. It was at that moment that I woke up. I thrust my eyes open, caught my breath and wiped the sweat from my forehead. I tried to calm down by reminding myself it was only a dream, but as my eyes slowly focused on the dark room, I could sense a shape next to my bed. I quickly diverted my eyes in that direction. There, standing next to me was a young boy. He appeared horribly scarred, with blackened, almost charred skin blotched with blood vessels right beneath the surface. It looked as if he had been dead for quite some time. I remember looking into his eyes and seeing nothing but black, as if his eyes, his cornea and pupils had all been removed and replaced with a black onyx stone. There was no reflection, no refraction of light, just two black holes looking at me. He moved closer, so close in fact, that the heat from his breath warmed my cheek. I stared at him, frozen in fear and morbid curiosity. His mouth moved as if he was whispering something, but I could not make out what it was. Although he had no discernable pupils to dictate where he was looking, I could sense his attention moved from me to some point above. It was then that I felt a shadow appear over me. I looked up and fear once again shot through me like ice. Floating above me was an inverted torso and head of a black haired woman. She was leaning over the head of my bed, bent at the waist, examining me from her perspective. However, the head of my bed was up against the wall, so she couldn’t have been “entirely” there. She was literally leaning out of the wall. Her eyes were like the boys, devoid of all life and completely black. Her skin was charred and blackened as well with a long dead look upon her complexion. She lowered her head to mere inches above mine, and even though our faces were inverted from one another I could sense the malice in her face. I felt the boy’s hand grasp my arm either in fear or anger, but whatever the case, it hurt. I then noticed the woman’s eyes grow even bigger as they briefly flickered with an orange flame and then her lips began to move. The sound I heard next didn’t exactly come out of her mouth, more so it seemed to emanate from the very air around the room – like an echo. It was not human sound, but more like the voice of a thousand tortured souls chanting some strange language in a chorus. Even though I could not recognize any of the words, they seem to carry echoes of anguish and torture deep into my very soul. It was very loud and horrifying to say the least. I winced in pain and closed my eyes, tighter than I’ve ever closed them before. Suddenly, the chanting dissipated and was replaced by utter silence. I very slowly regained the courage to open my eyes. The woman was gone, as was the boy. My left arm that the boy had grabbed was throbbing in pain, so I lifted it my eyes to more closely examine it. It was then that I felt a heavy and uncomfortable weight press on my stomach. I thrust my head up and looked down the length of my body to see a small shape, hidden under the covers, resting directly on my stomach. Driven by curiosity or some other unexplainable force, I took my left arm and began to lift the sheets to expose whatever was underneath. As the little ambient light that existed crept in, I could see my bare chest. Nothing there. I raised the sheets a few more inches so I could see the top part of my stomach. Nothing there. I finally gathered the nerve and fully lifted the covers, exposing the small lump. Two small eyes stared back at me. It was the ghostly form of the small boy, lying on top of me as if seeking the protection of being hidden under the sheets. I could actual feel his body trembling from what seemed like fear by the look on his face. I felt a strange sensation of intense heat emanating from his body. Completely freaked out, I spun myself sideways, shaking the weight off my stomach and then threw myself sideways out of the bed. I hit the wood floor hard, bruising my hip in the process. I scrambled to my feet as I awkwardly backed out of the room, turned and ran down the hall and into the kitchen. Nothing, or I should say, no one followed. After catching my breath and letting my heart rate return to normal, I went through the house and turned on almost every light. I spent the rest of the night, sleepless, pacing through the house trying to find an explanation for what I had experienced. I never returned to the bedroom that night. The next day was a Saturday and I remember not knowing what to do. Should I tell someone about what I had experienced? Would they believe it? Did I believe it? Was it another dream? I’ve heard of waking dreams, but this was all too real for it to have been a dream. Besides, when you dream, you feel a shift in consciousness when you wake up, and I’ve never been fooled in thinking a dream was reality before. What happened was not a dream. Of that, I was certain. I spent most of that next morning thinking. Once the sun arose, I finally got the nerve to quickly reexamine my bedroom. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but I felt like I had to call someone and ask some questions to put my mind at ease. I had bought the house through a friend of mine who worked as a realtor in the area. I called my friend and explained that some weird things have been happening around the house and asked if he knew about anything strange in the house’s history. He assured me the previous owners were the original owners and had lived there since the home was built some 20 years ago. He jokingly added that he was pretty sure the subdivision in which I lived wasn’t built on any ancient Indian burial grounds, and that I should be safe from any poltergeists and the like. When I didn’t laugh at his joke, he paused for a moment and asked if I was okay. I assured him that I was but that I might call him later on if I needed to talk. He agreed and we hung up. I continued to dwell on the situation throughout the early morning and then it hit me. I had stayed in the house for nearly a month, without incident, and the only thing that had changed in the last week or so was the bed. With that revelation in hand, I decided to examine the bed more closely. Under casual inspection, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The finish seemed new and the wood was unscratched and smooth. However, unless the bed was brand new when I bought it, which I doubt it was since it came from an estate sale, someone had recently refinished it. I had some old varnish removal in the basement, so I decided to test it. I searched for a hard to see spot on the frame and decided to investigate. After applying some varnish removal and scrubbing off several coats, I could tell that whoever varnished it had put on several layers in order to emulate a new wood shine. Once I got to bare wood, I ran my finger over it and noticed that it felt freshly sanded. Some of the latent dust was even present in the deepest layers of the varnish. What did this mean?, I wondered. Whoever had this bed before me had completely stripped off the original varnish, sanded the entire wood structure, and then put on twice as much varnish than one would regularly need to cover it up. I figured whatever secret this bed contained was going to be impossible to find with just a visual examination. That is, until I looked under the bed. The wood under there felt rough and unfinished, so I decided to give it a closer look. I took my flashlight and lay on my back, scooting my head just under the frame of the bed, looking up at what looked like slightly charred wood. I didn’t notice this when I moved the bed and found this extremely disturbing to say the least. The wood looked like it had been exposed to fire, obviously not long enough to burn through or cause extensive damage, but long enough to heat the exterior surface and force what sap remained in the wood to bubble up on the surface. The color was even blackened a bit, which was something else that I strangely didn’t notice during the moving and setup process. I rubbed the sticky sap with my finger and smelled the charred odor as lay there trying to remember if I even saw this side of the frame when moving the bed when I heard something creak in the frame. It sounded like someone or something had just moved about on the mattress above. Fear once again washed over me like a wave. I lay motionless, afraid to even breath after what I experienced the night before. After nearly 30 seconds or so (which seemed like an hour to me), I finally gathered the nerve to sit up. I hadn’t heard any additional noise and figured it might have been my overactive imagination. I started scooting back out from under the bed and as soon as my eyes cleared the darkness, they were treated to a grisly site. It was the small boy. Lying on the bed, on his stomach with his head leaning over the edge as if to greet me as I slid out from under the bed. I froze and looked up at him in terror. Suddenly, his eyes grew large and he twitched as if he had been startled. He then began to struggle as if someone had grabbed him and started pulling him back towards the center of the mattress. He looked down at me with fear on his dead face and I heard a pathetic voice echo through the room, “Don’t let her burn me, please, don’t let her burr…” and then he disappeared over the edge of the bed. I rolled away from the bed with a speed I didn’t know I possessed and backed up against the far wall of my bedroom. I scooted my body up the wall in attempt to stand up … without taking my eyes off the bed. Again my eyes looked on with disbelief. There was no one there. The bed was empty. Only silence and sunlight rested upon it. Not once taking my eyes off the bed, I backed out of the room and ran downstairs. I threw on some fresh clothes from my laundry room and left the house in search of answers. I drove out to the estate where I purchased the bed, ready to go ballistic on anyone who would hear my rant, not once even thinking how ludicrous my story would sound. I pulled up into the driveway and noticed a young couple moving things out of the house and into a moving van. I got out of my car and approached them, still shaking a bit from last night and this morning’s trauma. “I want to talk to someone who knows who lived here,” I said. “I know who lived here. It was my father,” the young woman said. “This is my husband … we are just finishing up the last bit of moving so we can close the sale on the house. What can I help you with?” I nodded hello towards the man with her, who simply nodded back and went into the house for another load. I turned back towards the woman and spoke, “I bought a bed from the estate sale here. It was the one in the master suite. And … something is … wrong with it.” I decided tact and vague information was best at this point. The woman searched her memory for a moment and finally spoke, “Well, that was the one thing in the house I wasn’t familiar with when we went though pricing everything. I assumed my father bought some time in the last few weeks before he died. I hadn’t ever seen it before … but … he was an avid collector of antiques and woodwork. He especially loved fixing up and restoring old pieces.” I thought for a moment and said, “The bed appears to have been recently sanded and refinished, so that would make sense. Do you have any idea where your father could have bought the bed?” “I’d have to look through his checkbook and credit card receipts, but I may be able to find something. Can I ask what’s wrong with the bed?” She said. “It’s … hard to explain,” I stammered out, “But knowing the history of the bed and who originally owned it would help immensely.” The woman simply nodded her head and said that her father’s papers were still inside the house. She invited me in, so I obliged. She started going through some random papers and receipts and I found a nearby wall to lean against as the chairs had all been removed. As she rummaged around, my curiosity got the best of me. After mulling it over for a moment or two, I finally got the courage to ask, “If you don’t mind me asking … how did your father die?” The woman stopped her search, took a second to gather her composure and told me that her father had died of a heart attack. “He was only 57 years old, but I guess he had slightly high blood pressure, especially after he and my mother split. I swear … he didn’t eat anything but fast food and junk! Anyway, I was the one who found him. He hadn’t gone to work for two days and they were worried since he didn’t call. His secretary called me to go check on him and since I hadn’t called and checked on him for a week or so myself, I left work and rushed over.” The woman then had to choke back a few tears, but she continued, “I found him on the floor in the bedroom. He had been trying to crawl out of the bedroom to the hallway where there was a phone, but he didn’t make it.” Finally a tear came down her cheek as she finished her story, “What really broke my heart … was the look on his face. It was sheer terror. I think he knew he was going to die and it scared him. I’m just so sad that he died alone and that I wasn’t there with him. Maybe if I was there he wouldn’t have been so scared in his final moments.” Her story made me think. Maybe his fear wasn’t driven by his heart attack alone, but maybe it was his fear that caused the heart attack. My thoughts lingered back to the bed as I thanked the woman for her candidness. She nodded and began to again look for information on the bed. I considered telling the woman of my experience, but decided against it. It may have relieved her guilt, but then again, she may have thought I was nuts. After about 6-7 minutes of hunting around, she found something. It was a hand-written receipt from an antique shop called Old Treasures, which was located another 20 miles outside of town. The receipt read: 4-post bed, condition – poor, $75. “Hmm, he bought this just two weeks before he died. It may have been his last woodworking project. In fact, it must be the last thing he completed refurbishing because there was no other new project left unfinished in his work shed out back,” the woman said. “I wonder how many nights he slept on it,” I unintentionally spoke out loud. “Why?” The woman asked. “Well, let’s just say I think the bed has some … issues,” I answered. “Issues? Like what?” The woman replied, obviously confused. “Well,” I stammered as I tapped my finger on the receipt. “I need to do some research, but that bed may have contributed to your father’s death.” “What?! How?” The woman asked, now thoroughly thrown for a loop. “I can’t explain yet, but give me your number and I’ll let you know what I find out,” I said. She reluctantly obliged and I grabbed the number and proceeded out of the house, leaving her with a bewildered look on her face. I got to my car and sped out of the driveway and towards the antique shop listed on he receipt. I got there in record time. It was an old building, desperately in need of a paint job. The big sign above the door said: Old Treasures Antique Shop – Your Gateway to the Past I entered the gray building and the door tripped some loud chimes that echoed through the cavernous building littered with dusty furniture, armoires and nightstands. An old man, easily in his seventies, came strolling out of the backroom with a half eaten sandwich in one hand and a newspaper in the other. He approached me and laid the paper down on a nearby dresser, extending that hand to shake mine. “The name is Phillips, John Phillips. What can I help you with?” The old man said as he took a bite of his sandwich. I pulled out the receipt I took from the house and showed it to him. “An older gentleman, late fifties bought this bed a few weeks ago from you. Do you remember the sale?” I asked. The old man swallowed his bite and said, “Let me see,” as he scratched his stubbly chin with his fingers. “It was a four post bed … in poor condition.” He said out loud as he read the receipt. “Oh yes! I’ve only had one item like that go out in the last few months. It was the one we got from the house that had the fire. In fact, the bed itself took quite a bit of fire damage, but it was still in solid shape. The man who bought it said he was going to sand and refinish it. Said it would fit his new mattress and box springs just fine.” “You said the bed came from a house that had a fire,” I said, excited to be on the right track. “Yes … sad story that was,” the old man explained. “Appears a woman and her young child died in a house fire. The police and fire department guys around here didn’t want to talk much about it, but it appears the mother went crazy … probably on drugs or worshipping the devil, or god only knows what. But late one night, she took her young son while he was sleeping, poured gasoline on him and then on her and lit a match. Their screams woke up neighbors and they called the fire department. The station is just a block down the street, so the fire didn’t spread very far past their bodies before they put it out. Damn shame, it was.” “Where exactly were they when they burned?” I asked, fearing the answer. “Right there on that there bed,” the old man answered, pointing down at the receipt. “They burned right there on that bed. But, like I said, the fire didn’t spread past their bodies. It burned the mattress, but left the wood frame in pretty good shape. I picked it up a week or so after they cleared the house. Just beat the trash men if I remember right.” I just stared at him in disbelief. “You took the bed that that woman burned herself and her kid on? And sold it?” I said, still in shock. “Well, yeah … no reason to let perfectly good wood go to waste. Heck, with a good sanding and a new finish, I’m sure that bed is mighty fine looking now. Besides, the new owner of the house where it took place is a family friend of mine. He’s not had any problems with the house and gave me permission to take the bed away and sell it.” “Did you tell the guy who bought that bed the story behind it?” I asked. “No, he didn’t ask and I certainly wouldn’t volunteer to tell such a grisly tale … would you?” He answered incredulously. “ No, I guess not.” I had to reply. “What do you think caused that woman to do something so crazy?” I asked the man. “Who knows … like I said before, drugs or something,” he answered. “Firemen said they found all kinds of weird symbols painted on the floor around the bed and either she was into witchcraft, or was worshipping the Devil … or maybe she was just plain nuts.” Enraged, I drew very close to the old man, looked him square in the eye and told him that the man that bought the bed from him was now dead. “He died of a freak heart attack. His daughter found him just a few feet away from that bed, his face frozen in fear,” I explained. “Not knowing any better, she put the bed up for sale at the estate sell-off and I was the imbecile who bought it!” My voice was now trembling with anger and the old man tried walking backwards away from me, but I matched each of his steps with one of mine. “Now that bed is in MY house and I’m having visions of that little boy and his sadistic mother! His spirit, his ghost, his … whatever … begged me this morning not to let her burn him again! Last night, he even grabbed my arm in fear ... LOOK!” I said as I pulled up my sleeve to reveal five small, red finger marks on my arm. I thrust it up just inches from his face so he could see the marks the apparition had given me. The old man looked at my arm, then at me, then back to my arm and shook his head in disbelief. “I think it’s time for you to leave,” he said. “I can’t help you.” “What’s the matter?” I asked. “I figured you wouldn’t believe me … that you’d think I was crazy … but you don’t, do you? You believe me. You believe me, don’t you!?” I said forcibly as he increased his pace in an attempt to back away from me. I could tell that he had fear and guilt in his eyes as he backed away. I stopped my pursuit and let him retreat. “Go away, “ he said. “I don’t want to hear another word about that bed. You just go home and get rid of it, throw it away, burn it to ash, just get rid of it!” With that, he turned and went into the back office and slammed the door. I stood there dumbfounded for a moment or two and thought to myself. “This guy must have seen something too, while the bed was here in his shop, but the damn fool was either too stupid or greedy, and he let that poor man buy it anyway.” Knowing I wasn’t going to get any more out of him, and realizing now what had to be done, I left the store and got back into my car. All the way home I played the old man’s story over and over in my head, then I put it together with what the daughter of the original buyer had told me. Whether it was witchcraft, some kind of devilry or just the tragedy of the situation that had bound those two spirits to that bed, they must be released. That poor little boy had to relive that terror over and over and over again. The bed was cursed and it must be destroyed. I now had a single purpose and I drove home with reckless abandon, hoping to get there before dark. While on the road, I called my best friend who had sold me the house. I relayed as much of the story as I dare to him, and asked him to suspend disbelief just long enough to help me move that bed out of the house so I could get rid of it. Obviously, he didn’t know what to make of my request, but he was a good friend and promised he’d meet me at my house in time to help. Just forty minutes later, I was pulling into my driveway and he was there waiting for me. Unfortunately, it was already dark. We hardly spoke until we had gotten inside. I was merely explaining the route I wanted to take through the house with the pieces, once we disassembled the bed, when we heard a scratching noise through the ceiling above our heads. “What’s that?” Eric said. “I don’t know,” I replied as my face washed white with fear. Obviously noticing my expression, Eric asks what room was above us at the time. “My bedroom …,” I answered flatly. “Where the bed is.” My friend, Eric, just looked up at the ceiling, listening to the weird scratching noises and looked calmly back at me, gulped with fear and said, “Let’s get this over with.” “I couldn’t agree more,” I replied and up the stairs we went. Despite all the strange things running through my head about what could be causing the noises, I remained calm until the point where my hand was on the doorknob of my bedroom’s door. As soon as my hand touched the knob, the noise stopped. I glanced at Eric and he just nervously looked back at me and nodded, assuring me that he was ready for whatever lie beyond the door. I turned the knob and slowly arced the door open to reveal a sight my wildest imagination could not have prepared me for. The bed had been pulled … or pushed … into the middle of the room and looked just how it must have after the fire it originally endured. The mattress had nearly been burnt though and each of the posts were charred on the sides facing the inside area of the bed. The awful smell of burnt hair and flesh wafted lightly through the air. As we stepped into the room, I noticed strange, white chalk drawings on the floor and walls around the bed. There were no recognizable symbols, but there were several drawings and strange looking letters, all written in a diagonal fashion, top to bottom - left to right. Of course Eric looked at me accusingly, as if to ask if I had left it this way or myself or staged it in any way. All it took was a look from me to ensure that certainly wasn’t the case. My face was washed white with fear just as much as his was! Eric and I cautiously approached the bed since there appeared to be no further “activity” going on at the moment. “How do you want to do this?” He asked. “Let’s just take it apart and take the pieces out individually,” I answered. With that, we both grabbed hold of separate posts on the bed and began to search for the best way to take it apart. I bent down to look under the bed, searching for the connection pieces that held the frame together. After releasing the wing nuts and release pins under the frame, I stood back up to get out from under the bed. Eric stood on one side of the bed and I stood on the other. We both grabbed onto a post at the foot of the bed and began to pull the rear panel away. We hadn’t backed it away more than an inch when a lump began to form under the tattered and mostly burnt sheets. The stench of burnt flesh grew even stronger causing us to freeze in both disbelief and terror as the lump grew higher and higher. It began to take the form of a human head and shoulders as it lifted above the burnt mattress. The holes in the mostly charred sheet exposed nothing but blackness, even as the lump finished forming into what looked like slender adult form sitting on its knees. Eric and I just stared at the motionless entity under the sheet, fearing to even breath, until I finally snapped. I don’t know if it was anger, stupidity or just the fact that I had reached my absolute limit of tolerance with the entire situation, but I did something rather drastic at that point. “Get the #### out of my house!” I screamed as I thrust my hand forward to yank the sheet off the ghostly entity. It was a move that I will regret until my dying day. As my hand touched the sheet, I could see long black hair drifting out of a large hole burnt through the fabric. It was the same hair worn by the ghastly woman who appeared to me the night before. As I grasped enough of the sheet to pull it off with my fingers an arm shot out from under the sheet and it’s black, charred hand grasped my forearm with amazing strength. A gravelly voice emanated from the sheet, chanting that same strange language that I didn’t recognize, almost laughing as it recited the words. Again, the voice didn’t seem singularly human, but more a chorus of many voices. Tortured, demonic voices. As I struggled to remove myself from its grasp, it squeezed even harder and began to grow very hot. Stunned by the change in temperature, I looked down at the charred hand and stared in horror as it burst into flame. I screamed in pain as the fire burned into my flesh. Eric, previously frozen in fear, finally acted upon the situation and flung his entire weight into me, yanking my arm out of the fiery grasp and causing us to both fall to the floor. He stood up first and grabbed a plank from the under support of the bed that had fallen free in the struggle. He squared his feet and lifted the plank behind his head like a baseball bat, and he swung it around with all his might. Right before he should have made contact, the sheet fell flat to the bed causing him to strike nothing but air. A sinister giggle echoed through the room, and he cursed in anger. He proceeded to whack the fallen sheet with the board a several times, out of either spite or rage. As I looked on, I finally regained my composure and stood up next to him, clutching my burnt arm in pain. Ignoring that pain, a second wave of anger poured over me, and I bent over and grabbed the bottom side rail of the bed, lifting it with every ounce of my remaining strength. When my legs were again straight, I finished thrusting my arms up over my head, causing the bed to capsize and completely fall apart. The mattress and box springs separated and fell apart, while the side rails and bottom supports clanked to the ground. The headboard then fell backwards and struck the wall a few feet away, leaving scrape marks in the paint as it slid down the wall. At this point, I couldn’t have cared less about that. I grabbed one corner of the headboard and Eric followed suit by grabbing the post and corner in the back. We quickly carried it out of the bedroom without even speaking. We went down the hall and turned through the living room and out the back patio door. We continued to drag it away from the house until we were a good 50-75 yards away in the vast open field behind my house. We dumped it there, and then continued this process, without incident, until all the pieces of the accursed bed were outside in the cold evening air. On the last trip from the house I grabbed a can of gasoline from the garage and carried it out to the pile of wood and fabric that was once my bed. Eric just stood and watched as I soaked all the pieces with the fluid. I took a step back from the pile and lit a small piece of rail with a lighter. It quickly ignited and within a few seconds, the entire pile was virtually a bonfire. I stepped backwards from the heat to stand side-by- side with Eric as we watched the flames engulf the pile of refuse. Although the wind was blowing pretty good that evening, and whistling through the trees, we could both swear that we heard the cries of a small child coming from the fire. It was often followed by a somewhat maniacal laugh that would overpower and drown out the cries. Eric and I listened intently, and even though we were still wracked with fear, we stood our ground and made sure no part of that bed remained once the fire was done with it. Eventually the unearthly noises faded as the fire consumed its prey. After an hour or so, nothing was left but ash and smoldering coals. I felt a weight that I hadn’t even noticed before lift off of my shoulders, as well as my heart. It was like the sun coming out after a week’s absence. As I stood there, watching the ashes smolder, I felt the hair stand up on my neck and arms and felt a small hand grab mine. Strangely without fear, a sense of calmness swept over me, and I looked down to see the small boy who had visited me the night before. This time however, he looked just how he must have in life. He was a handsome boy, with dark hair and bright eyes. He looked up at me and smiled, and in turn I smiled back down at him. He opened his mouth to speak, but as he did I felt his hand grow lighter in weight and his whole body seemed to fade into translucency. Right before he disappeared completely his lips formed words and I heard a whisper in the wind say, “thank you.” Days passed, then weeks. Things returned to normal. The markings on the floor in my bedroom were strangely absent when I returned that night, but it took awhile for me to regain the courage to sleep in my bedroom. It wasn’t until I had bought a brand new bed from a local furniture store that I was able to complete a sound night’s sleep in that room. I knew that the bed was gone and the curse with it, but the memories of the events were so vivid and terrifying that it was still difficult. I eventually called the woman whom I met at the estate sale, and even though I was worried she wouldn’t believe me, I told her everything. I told her my story as well as the history of the bed. I explained my concerns that her father might have fallen prey to the fear that bed created. Needless to say she didn’t know how to take it, but she thanked me for doing the research and was certainly glad that I had burned the bed. I asked her if she thought I was crazy. She paused and said with a flat monotone voice, “No. I believe you. In fact I found some markings that match what you explained on the floor out in my father’s work shed. I was thoroughly confused by them and thought some kids must have broken in and put them there after he died, but I was never sure.” She lightened up a bit and continued, “I wish he could have realized what he was getting himself into, or that his heart could have taken the stress. I still miss him terribly.” With that she thanked me and I gave her my number and offered to answer any further questions she might have. We hung up and I have never heard from her since. My life now is perfect. I have met someone new and am considering getting remarried; the bed is an ancient memory – a nightmare from the past that I have finally moved past. Although the bed is destroyed, whatever force created that evil or worked its will through that woman and the bed is still out there, waiting for a chance to resurface. For that, I always take a second look around before I turn out the lights at night and I ALWAYS check the sheets before I get into bed. This is not real, only a representation of what I'm explaining in a key part of the story. Contact me here: jsgibbs@natsem.com Submitted From: Jeff Gibbs, KA, USA