13 Jun If Animals Could Talk

Posted at 11:00h in Strange and Unexplained by CreepypastaStories.com 0 Comments

📅 Published on June 13, 2022

“If Animals Could Talk”

Written by Dale Thompson
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

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🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available

⏰ ESTIMATED READING TIME — 18 minutes

Rating: 10.00/10. From 1 vote.

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When we moved into the house, we called it our home. We were clueless as to what forces were living with us.

It became apparent rather quickly we were not alone. All of the events I am sharing, I do with reluctance. I am not interested in making matters worse. After much contemplation, I have decided it is necessary I make a record of events occurring within the house. We are unable to call this house our home any longer. Unequivocally, this house belongs to someone else, and they have convinced us clearly, they want it back.

The unknown. Are we able to understand the strongest emotion: fear? Not long after taking up residence, we realized through a series of unforgettable events we had evoked something not of this world. Metaphorically, a fire had been kindled and allowed to burn.

This is not a ghost tale. I am going to share with you a haunting.

The patterned brick house from the Blymire Estate was a Victorian-era, beautifully designed, three-story house with character and personality. Its high-pitched roofs, ornate gable trim and bay windows were only part of the appeal. It even had two cylindrical octagon turrets and a roof tower. My wife Cheryl was delighted with the wraparound porch and the number of stained-glass pieces. Our two children, Adrian and Isabella, fell in love with the dormer windows which, from their vantage point, could see the entire property. Because the house boasted a fireplace in practically every room, I could already feel the coziness we would feel once winter came and we had the fires burning.

Strange and unexplainable things began to occur two weeks into our move. Suspicious sounds could be heard in unoccupied rooms. I would stop whatever I was doing at that moment and investigate these noises. We did not know it at the time, but whatever was generating these noises was just warming up. Instinctively I wanted to protect my family, but we agreed if a ghost existed in the house seeking attention, it must be a friendly one, because at this time we only heard scrapes, footsteps, inaudibly quiet whispers and the occasional door slam. My wife Cheryl was a skeptic from the very beginning and would explain away these remarkable phenomena by saying, “There is a perfectly good explanation as to why this happened.” Yet, her explanations of these happenings were only conjecture without solid proof.

It seemed the majority of these recurring events were experienced by Isabella. I did some reading on such disturbances to learn some people have more energy than others. It is as if they radiate a brighter spiritual aura; they tend to draw the unexplained to themselves. Not all things haunted manifest. Sometimes the peculiar instances are caused by certain stimulation, or the one person exuding such an unseen expression could generate a beacon to the unseen world. The explanation made sense. I am unable to explain with verbosity any pseudo-scientific elements that would suggest these were natural occurrences.

Some rooms notoriously appeared to have more activity than others. Isabella’s bedroom was the hot spot. Against her better judgment, as my wife put it, I set up cameras in Isabella’s room, hoping to produce evidence of a ghost or apparition to convince my wife to get on board with our probe of the mysterious foreboding. I had an infallible resolve to get answers in any fashion I desired, regardless of how inexplicable it may be.

A month after moving in and one week into my recording Isabella’s room, we all heard a commotion upstairs. We had finished dinner and were about to clear the table, but instead, we abandoned the chores and made our way to the staircase. Practically vaulting upstairs, we found ourselves in Isabella’s room and to our shock and dismay the entire room was in disarray. It looked like an FBI crime scene photo where a robbery had occurred. Thank God all of our family was accounted for, because in a mess such as this one would not be surprised to find a corpse. But gratefully no one had been murdered except my two cameras, which were both completely destroyed. I was able to salvage the SD cards and fed the information into my MAC Computer. We sat around the screen as a family and took a look at what had happened inside Isabella’s room. At first, all looked calm and normal; nothing was moving at all. Within seconds, the closet door swung open, and something transparent yet outlined in a silver lamination bolted from the closet space and into her room. The shape was badger-like. It was low to the ground but leaped high onto the bed. It spun madly in circles ripping the sheets from the bed and shredding them to pieces. The cupboard and shelves were toppled

and torn up, with drawers yanked out, all the contents shredded and strewn around the room. From there, in lightning speed, it ran around, clawing the walls of the room, leaving deep scratches. Once the race around the walls ended, it rammed each camera with its head and then proceeded to bounce and jump crazily up and down on each one. It did not exit by the closet from where it came. Instead, it lunged forward at the wall and was gone. It was immediately after this Cheryl said, “We have a problem.” I agreed but had no immediate solutions. So far, no one had been hurt by these inscrutable occurrences, but then this last manifestation showed clearly that the entity or entities could inflict harm if provoked.

The following day I phoned the realtor and explained we had a real problem at the house and needed for him to come and see us right away. Absurdly, we were not uptight about this uncanny situation. Matter of fact, instead of being afraid, we wanted to get to the root cause and shut it down. The realtor arrived the following day to discuss our complaint. At first, he was completely dismissive and disinclined to discuss such matters as paranormal activities. We soon changed his mind when we revealed the video footage we had recovered from the smashed cameras. This is when he became quite somber and requested a glass of water. Once he gathered himself and settled his nerves, he said he had some explaining to do.

“I was honest with you about the house, but I should have been forthcoming about the history behind it. Please, if you will allow me, there are some matters you need to know since you have made contact. The house has been in disarray but saved from ruin and disfavor. It has gone through many vicissitudes.” The salesman swallowed hard as beads of sweat formed on his brow. As he, spoke of the history and expatiated on the mystery unsolved, he would wipe his brow several times. He explained, “In the 17^th and 18^th centuries, there were people of Dutch origin who immigrated to the United States from Germany and Switzerland. They settled in south-central Pennsylvania. They came to practice their religious freedoms, which William Penn, a nobleman at the time, offered them. They brought with them faith healing and folk magic. The guidebook to this religion, called Pow-Wow, was written by John George Hohman and was called Long Lost Friend. It dealt with arts and remedies and man and animals. The book outlined techniques, practices, charms and cures, sometimes talismans for blessings. These practices were done in the name of God and Jesus Christ but leaned heavily upon superstition and magic. These would be used to heal burns and stop bleedings or physical illness. These practices were not limited to man but, at the time, were also practiced on livestock or pets as well. The pow-wow sounds like witchcraft; however, the enemy of pow-wow was witchcraft itself, and protective charms were created to protect people from spells and incantations which might result in a curse. Those who lived in this cultural environment were soon dismissed by Christianity, and most succumbed to more modern forms of worship, abandoning this Dutch pow-wow practice. Yet a small devout minority remained, some of whom lived right here in this house. In their devotions, these practitioners who believed they were mediators between God and man often produced charms through recital of religious papers, making extensive use of religious symbols and prayers to ward off evil. As I see it, you have re-awakened something in this house that had been charmed away by someone who understood these old practices. I believe because this entity has shown itself to you, you desperately need protection. The only protection I can give you is a copy of Hohman’s book.” The real estate agent dug into his leather satchel and brought out a copy of Long Lost Friend. He handed it to me. I opened the book to the preface and read what was written: ‘Call upon me in the day of trouble, I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me. Psalm 50:15.’

The real estate agent added one more instruction before he quickly gathered his briefcase and left. “If any man who knowingly neglects using this book in saving the eye or the leg, or any other limb of his fellow-man, is guilty of the loss of such limb, and thus commits sin, by which he may forfeit to himself all hope of salvation…listen, folks, keep the book, use it. You have awakened something that may not want you to stay here. Feel free to leave at any time, but I am not obligated to return any monies paid for the house. I will warn you; this is nothing to take lightly. Obviously, the protective charm has either expired, or you inadvertently broke it, which means whatever lurks in the recesses of these walls is no longer contained.“

Needless to say, the four of us were left stunned by these revelations. I secured the book Long Lost Friend in my desk and convened with my family in order to strategize. The first question I posed was, “Is everyone comfortable with staying in the house?” The second question was somewhat the same. “Does anyone want to leave?” I thought if any one of us wanted out, I would pack everyone up and roll on down the road. I wasn’t surprised when we all agreed to stay as we had never been ones to give up easily on anything. We needed a good brainstorming session, so we went to the backyard under the gazebo, and there we talked about our concerns and all of the ‘what-ifs.’ We all loved the house. Other than the poltergeist, it was home. I committed myself to more research. The Internet provided a lot of information concerning families and individuals who had experienced similar hauntings. During the next couple of weeks, I fell headlong into the mysteries of what I found to be the Dutch practice of Braucherei, a vernacular healing system that they practiced centuries ago. The deeper I delved, the more witchy the religion sounded to me. I found the materials to be eerie at best. Pow-wowers treated a wide variety of diseases as divergent as arthritis, asthma, bleeding, bone afflictions, cataracts, cysts, gall stones, insomnia, sinus issues, and even warts. I was no expert, but I determined that some magic was good, but some sacraments of evil on the track of evolution were committed to darkness. Their practices with animal bones were very disturbing. They believed animal bones were imbued with pure and natural energy attuned to the natural flow of the cosmos.

What we had undergone could unnerve the most solid soul, yet my family seemed to thrive disproportionately on the macabre. Because of their incredulity, they did not adhere to psychological convalescence. My son, who was uncannily mature at times, did make mention I was becoming quite loquacious and questioned me almost accusatorily of incessantly leering at him.

“I am not sure what you mean, Adrian. I think we all might be overreacting. Maybe much ado about nothing.” I tried to assure him I was not acting out of character, but I was lying to him and to myself. I convinced myself our continuity could not be broken by ancient spells or cryptical charms, mainly because I thought our moral consciousness would sustain us.

At first, we did not hold much credence to the ways of the elder world but wholeheartedly sought a solution. The sooner this fright had panned out, and we had solid answers, the sooner we could retire to a restful rustication. We were not a family of quivering neurotics with unwholesome attitudes, filled to the brim with venom. In our minds, these spooky phantoms could take their obscene interferences elsewhere.

Over the course of the following week, there were other strange, unexplainable instances where we were shocked and mystified. It was as if some primordial threat had attached itself to us and would not let go.

The sense of latent mystery was ever present. On the other hand, I was moved by a sense of ecstasy and emotion. The more I studied this religious practice, the more I felt like a part of it. It is difficult to explain. It was as if I was being released from exile and catapulted into imputations of a phantasmagoria. I was impelled by the notion of absolute freedom. So deeply was I embedded in the absurd that I found myself contemplating morbid and forbidden phenomena, insidiously contrived in my head. Dialects of strange tongues ministered to my soul, and I withdrew from family, work and basic normal life. I could not extinguish the flames scorching my mind. Searing heat and despair began to change my rationale. Cognitively, I wanted to kill. Kill them all! Butcher them like livestock.

I could pretend, make-believe, I was in my right mind, I was sane, but it was the insanity speaking. The awful atrocities I imagined; the reoccurring debaucheries were overwhelming. My demons were embedded, and they worked quickly so no one would notice. I was a stone effigy to my own grave. I was deserting my family in a peculiar sense of oppression so articulated that no one could decipher my motivations. I became paranoid. My expressions were suspect because of my furtive timorous jittering. In my repositories of equivocal secrets, the last remaining vestiges of my inflamed imagination lingered. I recognized these dubious arts; this cryptic religion was consuming my identity.

It was during one of many unexplained episodes – of which I am ashamed – a dull, hopeless hue slightly blurred my eyes. I found myself in an unrecognizable part of the house. I have no memory of how I achieved this discovery, but there I was in this dimly lit catacomb of the unknown. A pruritic eruption of inflammation assiduously ate away at my arms and neck. I ferociously scratched at the itching until my arms were bleeding. I found no relief. It was as if I were being eaten alive by microscopic mites.

I turned the corner and stopped in my tracks, for the sight I saw was not of this world. It was a beast, hideous, without true anatomical delineating features; I can only try to describe what I saw, an animal or, may I say, ‘an anomaly,’ with a vast keloid face that shined bright red. Its tumoral neck was thick and powerful, with long strands of light-colored hair protruding from the tumors. This beast had a lizard-type tail with radicular, oozing cysts. Its papular skin was spotted with lesions, covered with a sheen as if it had overproducing eccrine glands. It had halted my advance, and I was faced with a beast so heinous my description is only a partial idea of what I saw. It groaned agitatedly, low moans of the grinding of intrathoracic spasms. I believed I could outrun the beast, for it moved decrepitly slowly as though it were racked with sarcoid arthritic pain. It stood immutable like a guard at the gates of hell.

Pervasive fear summoned me. In alarming fascination, the presence of my consciousness and will attempted to brush away the cobwebs for clarity. However, the stories of blood and secret languages exclusive of men chimed in my head with suppressed fear in vague suggestions. I turned in a different direction and stumbled quickly away. I did not know where I was running to, but I understood the danger, prudence was imperative. I managed to find access to the house, but from where I emerged, I cannot recall. I believe I snapped out of the affixation in my walk-in bedroom closet. I was practically anesthetized. I will not easily forget the monstrous creep which cooled the blood in my veins.

I thought about sending the family away for their own safety. In my clouded mind, I did not know what I may be capable of. I struggled with an intolerable uncertainty and had sunk into the depths of depravity no man should discover of himself. I bridled every thought so as not to dwell on the savagery and viciousness of my thinking. I knew I must gain control, because unleashed, I was not sure if I would become a wild beast, without conscience, barbaric, acting instinctually. An animal knows nothing of immorality, decadence, callowness or criminality. I knew I could not be allowed to turn. An evolutionary atavism was causing a re-emergence of my origin, regressing ancestrally to a primitive human condition.

Where was my firm determination to stay focused? I needed avid concentration. Either way, my immediate decision would be momentous. I had lost my ability for strong erudition, and other constant stirrings dismantled the natural, replacing them with morbid longing. In this unbearable, permeating challenge, I literally struggled against murdering my family. They had no clue what was brewing inside my head. I read more and more about charms, prayers, wishes, incantations, all the while acting like the doting father and loving husband. I was immersed in this atavistic superstition to my own detriment. I was beginning to not recognize myself and believed it to be an over-active imagination. But the acts of violence in my head caused me to feel as though I no longer belonged. I was trespassing in my own home. I was no more than a lonely tourist, powerless. Living in my skin caused me restlessness and nervous speculation. At night I would wander the house. I returned to the hidden catacombs, which I determined were beneath my house. In this serpentine world, I was being compelled toward something supernatural. Strange associations dragged me along, pushing back my reasonings. I found bunches of what I assumed were horse hair and rotted calf bindings. The entire place held an unholy rapport and unutterable horror.

There the dreaded animal stood again as if beckoning to me. A cold prickle pinched the nape of my neck, and as if lava was flowing from my cranium, a melting heat cascaded down my spine in a slow burn. I became fatigued, frightened, unsure. I groped in a panic for the wall to steady myself, for my knees were trying to collapse on me. I slid down the wall, unbalanced, putting distance between the unexplained thing luring me, and myself. I remember stumbling, falling and landing hard. I had crashed down on a malodorous pile of something loose of varying shapes and sizes. I touched something hairy, no doubt a fresh, rotting carcass. I winced, drew back in a defensive posture while on my knees. “Good Lord,” I thought. My unknown antagonist had driven me into a lofty echoing corridor of moldering bones and septic decay! Again, I wrenched violently back, scrambling like a whipped pup, still unstable but clearly aware of my dire situation. I was faced with a volition that oppressed me. Do I sacrifice myself to the animal I am becoming, or can I defeat it and return to who I was before all of this was thrust upon my family?

Once again, I freed myself from this nightmare and eventually came to. I was in a fetal position in the bedroom closet. My wife was pushing on my shoulders attempting to rouse me. She walked me to the bed where I sat and gathered myself. I was all out of sorts but meditative. I finally broke down as she comforted me, and wept for a good 10 minutes. Cheryl was confused, unable to understand the great burden I had been forced to bear. I described to her the horrors I had experienced in the unknown part of the house, and how this devilish entity had warped my thinking. I mentioned the pile of bones, carcasses, fangs, feathers, claws and shells I had fallen onto. At first, she challenged my explanation as a very bad dream, but I disputed that and confessed my more sinister thoughts of harming her and the kids.

“That is crazy talk,” Cheryl said defiantly and standing directly in front of me now.

“Cheryl, listen to me,” I pleaded. “I would never hurt you or the kids. I have been receiving, telepathically or some other way, I don’t know, a sort of ancestral communication. The thoughts come like messages speaking of sacred spaces and how they want to guide me further toward a spirit world.”

Speaking to my wife openly about what I had been experiencing was good therapy for my psyche. In protracting from this serious foul mental engagement I had been entangled in, I believed I was more like myself. I no longer had the sensation of being smuggled away from my family by unseen forces. As convoluted as it sounded, Cheryl was determined to find out the truth behind my disassociation and the disorder of mind that I had been experiencing.

My son and daughter joined us for a family meeting, and with us all coming together again, my mind was slowly being restored.

The thoughts of murder were dismissed. Whatever diabolical, transparent force had temporarily twisted my reason had subsided. Eschewing the voices in my head was only a matter of influence and time. I made my resolve nothing would feast on me again.

A couple of weeks later everything seemed to be back to normal. The weekend had come, and we had planned a family barbecue. Cheryl and Isabella were in the kitchen prepping the food, and Adrian was hanging a poster of his favorite baseball player on his wall, which he had ordered online.

I heard Adrian in distress. His voice cracked, wavered with a tincture of dread and deliberately expressed panic. I heard a shocking commotion. I was unable to understand what he yelled out but reacted instantly and catapulted in frantic speed up the steps, not remembering touching a single step to his bedroom.

I failed to immediately ascertain the enormity of what I was seeing as I entered the room. Adrian was unostentatiously rambling while holding the poster in his hand. It seemed he had accidentally knocked a hole in the wall, and the hole grew in size until it revealed a wall of what appeared to be exposed animal parts, limbs, taxidermized, some raw bones as well. Part of the wall remained, and the wallpaper had been torn, revealing words. I carefully approached the wall, and in order to get a better look, I pulled back the wallpaper.

“When we take our last breath,

The drums beat the steps

No secret is ever really kept

When you march to the rhythm of death When the howls of the dead praise thee Even gangrenous corpses believe

Ever after, is that what it was before

Wandering the tombs of the never more.”

I thought, “What kind of infernal sorcery is this?” Some singular and terrible event was happening. This forbidden lore was not finished with us. In this nebulous pageantry, the gleaming bones were crying out to us. But what were they saying? The paradox and arcana were intertwined like an alien force in our home. The presence had not been abated. The heap of bones was easy to pull away from the wall. One at a time, it revealed a darkened passage. By this time Cheryl and Isabella had arrived. They were not impressed with what they saw. I shined a light into the darkened passage and saw yellow stains of fetid unpleasantries, which produced a mephitic vapor. I could not begin to imagine what this even meant. The debate on whether this passage should be explored or not was a 50/50 split. Adrian, who had found a unique, naturally-formed spiral cane in the wall and was now fumbling with it, and I wanted to enter it while Cheryl and Isabella were against it. I cannot blame them. Fear is fear; however, it is described. This gave the occasion to be afraid. Fear causes apprehension and mistrust. It is virulently infectious. If suddenly I am afraid, it isn’t long before others with me will become afraid. If I unexpectedly begin to run, you can bet others will run, too, without knowing the initial cause.

An internal vibration, like hot and cold air, was making me shiver. I had an acute bout of anxiety come over me like a suffocation. I lost sight of my family. I seemed to be between worlds, disconnected, and darkness was closing in. I had no recollection of stepping into the passage but I couldn’t say I had not either. I called out my son’s name, my daughter’s name and lastly, my wife, but dead silence. I could not controvert or deny what had happened. Was this an episode of psychosis, some sort of mental aberration? I was environed, touched by thoughts, my mind whirled, my will stiffened and my emotions began to unthread. I found myself doing a repeat of earlier times, groping my way down a passage into the grimy façade of the unknown. Everything was oblique. Nothing supported my disputed, vacant mind. I believed I had fallen, but oddly enough, I didn’t care. The ethereal was before me now and behind me. I was encircled.

I stumbled upon another writing. I shined my flashlight and read what was written.

“Saw the Bones, carve the figurines

Calm the nerves, the ears that ring

Gather the twisted faces, they need to see the abyss

None of you know better than I

We all get one last wish.

I have seen the dark, emblazoned pitch of insanity

I have cradled in its corners, the horror inside of me

I know its name…”

The writing seemed unfinished and convinced me that whoever scribed this on the passage wall was interrupted. I would have gone back the way I came, but I did not know where I had come from.

In this place, I found nothing grand; all was as if a stagnant pall of sadness was draped darkly over it.

Disordered, disquieted, down in damnable disdain, I began to think this was for the best. If I were here, my family was safe from any irrational abomination I might do. I was no longer reliable, stalwart; I was despicable me, doomed to exist outside of my family so I could not infect them with my condition or bring harm to them.

Inexplicably, I swore I heard someone call out. It was faint, but maybe I was being rescued. I recognized the voice calling. It was Adrian calling out, “Dad!” We found one another relatively quickly, and he said he thought he knew the way out. He had no memory either of how he came into the passage, but he still held the spiral cane he had found from the wall of bones in his bedroom. I followed him until we reached more writing on the wall, but this time the writing had been framed with what appeared to be human bones. It read, “

Spill the blood of mortals, cast their bones aside

Like fires eternal, where the worm never dies

Sacrifice the beast, cut the flesh from his frame

Brand us today criminals, tuck the raw pieces away

Read the inscriptions on the walls, gather among strange beliefs,

Strangled by the throat ‘til dead, in blessed unhallow infinity.”

It was signed John Blymire.

It made little to no sense to either of us, so we carried on exploring with particular assiduity when we heard the voices of Cheryl and Isabella. “Oh, dear Lord, don’t let them be lost in this infernal maze,” I thought. To my delight, my wife and daughter met us, but I also was fearful for them.

They were in possession of a book. “We have to show you this,” my wife said, opening up the pages and putting it under the light.

“The cane Adrian found is a powerful tool called a ‘throw stick.’ According to this book, The Holy Blessing, and Spiritual Shield Vigil: ‘Combining a diverse assortment of verbal benedictions, prayers, gestures, and the use of everyday objects, as well as celestial and calendar observances, the rituals in this book are used not only for healing of the body, but also for protection from physical and spiritual harm. They are for assistance in times of need,’” my wife said.

“Look at this.” Cheryl pointed at some text. “The proper placement of a broom by the front door will protect from malicious people and spirits.”

“There is a prayer in the back of the book as well,” Isabella pointed out.

I took the book and out of instinct had everyone form a circle, one hand touching one another and the other hand on the throw stick. I held the book the best I could while performing this made-up ritual. I read from the pages of the book, “Today we rise and tend to the day which we have received, in thy name, Father, Son, Holy Ghost. Protect our body and soul, our flesh and our life. We pray now for your divine protection in the hour of death.”

The cane turned red hot, and we let it go. It landed between us at our feet, a fire roaring perpendicularly, almost singeing our hair. It blinded us momentarily, and we had no idea what was happening until we found ourselves, confounded, back in Adrian’s bedroom, unharmed. The wall was perfectly sealed back as if it had never collapsed. The cane rested in the corner without any burn residue.

“Is everyone alright?” I asked, looking the family over for any injuries. Everyone was intact. Without hesitation, we took a unanimous vote. In agreement, we opted to pack up our belongings, and thus we sold the house shortly after. I am still not sure what any of it meant if any reason even did exist. If animals could talk…