 ads heard during the podcast that are not in my voice are placed by third-party agencies outside of my control and should not imply an endorsement by Weird Darkness or myself. Stories and content in Weird Darkness can be disturbing for some listeners and is intended for mature audiences only. Parental discretion is strongly advised. Welcome Weirdos, I'm Terran Marlar and this is Weird Darkness. Here you'll find stories of the paranormal, supernatural, legends, lore, crime, conspiracy, mysterious, macabre, unsolved and unexplained. If you're new here, welcome to the show and if you're already a member of this Weirdo family, please take a moment and invite someone else to listen. Recommending Weird Darkness to others helps make it possible for me to keep doing the show and while you're listening be sure to check out WeirdDarkness.com where you can find me on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Miwi and more. Coming up in this episode, it's Creepy Pasta Thursday and I have two tales to share with you. Later I'll have a classic horror story by M.R. James called simply a school story. But first, for those of you who can't sink your teeth into enough vampire stories, I have the Creepy Pasta by Ryan Peacock called East Gate. Now, fold your doors, lock your windows, turn off your lights and come with me into the Weird Darkness. Nobody believes in vampires, they're just myths, old folk tales that have been bastardized by cinema, pulp horror and cheap romance, done to death until they are nothing but a cliche. Holy children are afraid of them, which is a far cry from the fear they once caused. A fear so great that villages of men who would be considered reasonable would defile a grave and mutilate its inhabitant. I'm not going to pretend as if I don't understand it. I would have scoffed at the notion too. I never once saw myself haunting them and even then I would have imagined something far more dramatic, a special kit full of stakes, silver bullets and other tools to kill the undead, not a beat up Chevy, a photograph of a woman and countless restless nights in a motel. The part of my brain that was still somewhat sane was amused by the mundane reality of vampire hunting. But, sane or not, every day I would drive in search of the dead. Her name was Harriet Hartman. She was an unassuming woman in her middle age, brown hair tied back into a bun, coke bottle glasses and laugh lines around her smile. She looked more like a librarian than a vampire, but I think that's why she was such an effective killer. Over the weeks I'd spent tracking her, I determined a pattern. She fed roughly once a week and she liked couples. She'd approached the woman in a public space and spend a few days with them, befriending them. Then she'd take them away, usually to a motel and soon after the man would follow. Both would then disappear and Harriet would deposit the keys to her room and vanish before daybreak. Most of the time it was a boyfriend and girlfriend but sometimes it was a father and a daughter, two co-workers, a sister and a brother. Always though a man and a woman, save for the occasions when she couldn't get her hands on the man, then she'd only take the woman and vanish into the night. Just like she took my little girl and my Pauline, she'd almost taken my son James. The disappearances weren't well documented but when I started putting the pieces together, the picture became clearer. On the rare occasions where they did find bodies, they were dismembered and drained of blood but she stayed in the county. I would have thought there would have been more of an investigation but there wasn't. That's why I had to do it. That's why I was the only one who could. Through my weeks of study, I realized something. Harriet always traveled and she seemed to hit just about every town save for one. A little ocean side hamlet called Eastgate. There were no murders there, no sign of Harriet but every town she hit was no less than five hours away and the closer they were, the more frequent the attacks. So that was where I looked. If I was wrong and it wasn't her home then I had nothing to lose but if I was right, I could stop her once and for all. I could avenge my little girl. Eastgate wasn't easy to find. It was barely a blip on most maps and when I got there I could see why. Too many houses were boarded up. The local McDonald's was only recognizable by the lighter space on the wall where the sign had once been. No customers inside. Nothing in the parking lot but weeds peeking through the cracks in the pavement. I was surprised honestly. A town like that should have been lively and booming in Lightspring. It had a perfect location right by the shore. When I parked my car at the motel and stepped out I could hear the distant cries of gulls and the lazy crash at the ocean but instead this place was dead. Stepping into the motel office I was greeted by a sleepy looking woman watching a movie on an old TV. Judging by the lines in her face she was somewhere between 17 and 71. It was hard to tell for sure. Good afternoon I booked a room for Terry McKinnon. The woman paused her movie and didn't bother confirming my reservation. The motel was empty. She grabbed the key nearest to her. We charged up front, she said, plus $50 retainer fee, keeps the rooms looking nice. I paid without complaint. If Harriet was here it was more than worth it. As she printed out the receipt I took out the photograph I had of her, a picture taken at a bar by a friend of some of her victims. In it you could clearly see a stoic faced couple and behind them Harriet. She watched them from the bar through her Coke bottle glasses. At a glance it would be easy to ignore her but I was convinced she was staring at them, sizing them up. By any chance would you happen to have seen this woman around before, would you? The woman behind the counter paused and leaned in towards the picture. Can't remember, she replied. I don't think I have. I didn't get the impression that she was lying. The motel room was cleaner than I had anticipated. I'd expected a dingy mess but the beds were soft, the carpets were vacuumed, the rooms smelled nice. Care had obviously been put into maintaining this place. I took some time to get situated. I checked the news for anything that might indicate Harriet had struck again. It found some unidentified body parts a few towns over but from the sound of it those weren't fresh. I knew those parts would be forgotten quickly. That murder would never be solved. Someone else had just lost a child and the world didn't care. Say lovey. When I'd started my investigation I'd initially pegged Harriet as some sort of serial killer. She fit the bill all right. It wasn't until I managed to catch up to her a little over a week ago that I learned any different. We were staying in the same motel and I saw her leaving as I checked in. I watched her closely, right up until she led another innocent girl into that room, just like she had done with my Pauline. I was going to try and catch her in the act. I convinced myself I was going to save that girl so I took some extreme measures. I'd already bought a gun and I kept it in my pocket as I threw a chair through the window of her room and then barged in like a madman. I found her with her teeth in that girl's neck. Harriet tossed her aside and then rose to confront me. Blood ran down the neck of her victim but there was none on her lips. As she stood I could see her fangs in the moonlight and in my shock I fired at her. The bullets hit her in the chest but she barely even flinched. Fangs bared she fell upon me, seizing me by the throat. Her eyes studied me in the instant before she smiled. It appears I have a stalker, she said calmly. Desperate for help I looked over at the girl she'd brought in with her. She sat on the bed, a hand pressed to the wound in her neck, but she didn't run for help. She just stared at me, just an observer to our drama as it played out before her. You look familiar. Have we met? Harriet asked. You took my daughter. My reply made her recoil more than any of my bullets had. Ah, did I now? Was it pawl-de-ing by any chance? She was a good girl. I almost hit her for saying her name but my fear of her stayed in my hand. Very good father. Looking to avenge her like that she was a very lucky girl. Just like that Harriet tossed me aside like I was nothing. Just for that I'll let you leave this time. Go home. Following me isn't going to get you anywhere. I should have listened to her. She took the girl and walked over me. She was in her car and gone long before anyone came to investigate the noise and by then I was gone too. I took a walk on the beach to clear my head. The stink of the ocean didn't bother me. On the contrary, it helped me clear my mind and set up a plan of attack. If Harriet was here, someone had to have seen her. I brought up a map of the town on my phone and picked out all the locations that might help me. Hubs for the community, bars, restaurants, the local grocery store, all the perfect places to look. There wasn't much in Eastgate so I couldn't imagine it would take me that long to get through everything. That little walk helped me to get a lay in the land. Eastgate had a small, mean drag leading down to the empty beach. On the south side of town was a sea wall with a dock and marina. There were a few houses out that way but nothing much. To the north the houses were a bit nicer. It wasn't quite a suburb but it almost passed as one. The stores there were all local businesses. Eastgate was too small to support anything larger like a Walmart or a Target. The few deviations were a small school and a halfway house beside a bus station. Strangely enough I never saw a single bus pass while I was in Eastgate. I had a lunch at a little diner by the marina. Fish that was over-battered and chips that were mushy and bland. I flashed the picture to the owner who frowned and shook his head. Can't say I've seen her around. He admitted. At least I don't think I have. I thanked him and paid my bill as he disappeared out back, reaching into his pocket for his cell phone as he did. I got the impression that my patronage had been more of a bother to him than a boon. With my stomach uncomfortably full of grease I started to walk back to the main drag. I planned out my next move. Maybe I'd try the grocery store next or a bar. I'd take the time to cover a few more places that day and then try the rest the next day. If I got nothing by then, it'd be time for a new plan. Hitting towards downtown I passed my motel and paused as I saw a familiar red Lamborghini Aventador parked out front, right beside my car. I stopped and stared at it for a few moments and as I did, I saw a man get out. 29 years old, James was a reflection of everything I could have been. Handsome, successful, smart, great athlete. I was proud of him, no matter what. I left our company in his hands a few months back. He had grown into the role quickly. That Lambo even suited him better than it ever suited me. James strode towards me, tall and confident looking around at the empty scenery around us. What are you doing here, dad? He asked, voice stern as if he were the father and I were the child. Enjoying my retirement, I replied. He didn't buy that for a second. You're wasting your time out here. You're not going to find Pauline. No, but who knows, maybe I'll run into something else. James brow creased. How many times do I have to tell you to leave it to the police? Should I? I asked, because they've done a really stellar job so far, haven't they? I'm taking you home. The statement was curt and demanding, leaving no room for negotiation. Clearly he didn't know who he was talking to. The heck you are. I brushed past him, heading towards town again. Ever persistent, that boy of mine followed me. You can't just keep chasing your dad. What if he ended up dead? Then I'm sure it'll be a lovely funeral, I replied. I need a drink. Are you coming or not? James sighed in disapproval, but kept stride with me. Look, if you're mad at me, I get it. She called me to that motel room and I blew her off, but you told me yourself she was probably already dead whether or not she made that call. I know, I replied. I don't blame you, James. I blame that monster that took her. Just because we didn't find the body doesn't mean- I know, I said, more sharply than I intended, and James stopped in his tracks, unsure of how to respond to me. Just give me a few days to look around, all right? That's all I ask, I said to him. Can you do that for me? He nodded slowly. Yeah, okay dad, but afterwards you come home. Stop chasing the killer because if you don't sooner or later you're going to run into her and you're going to get hurt. Now it was my turn to nod, but I didn't say anything. I just kept walking towards the bar, leaving James behind. The town bar was called Shelby's Place. Dim, red lights and country music gave the place a homey feel. The bartender was a muscular bald man with a heavy beard. I ordered a gin and tonic before showing him the picture. In the low light, he took a few moments to look before he shook his head. As he did, the doors to the bar opened and a woman walked in. She was young and dark-skinned. Her eyes held a knowing look to them. There was something about the way she moved. Methodical and seductive like the ocean itself. She sat a few seats away from me and the bartender was on her immediately. I'll have the usual, Gary. Wordlessly, he fixed her a drink and after a moment's thought, I changed seats to sit beside her. Put it on my tab, I said. Her eyebrows rose, but she didn't protest. Thanks, stranger. To what do I owe the pleasure? Her tone was flirtatious. I thought you might answer a question for me, that's all, I replied. Her smile widened. Oh, then the answer is, yes, I'm single. I caught myself blushing just a little bit. I'm sorry, that wasn't exactly it. I'm looking for someone, actually. I took out the picture again. See anyone you recognize? She looked down at the picture and followed my finger to Harriet's face. Nothing could hide the recognition in her eyes, but she didn't answer immediately. I've seen her around, she finally said and looked back up at me. What's your business? I wanted to ask her some questions, I replied, that's all. It was a lie, but I didn't much care for that. The woman propped her head up with her hand. That's all, huh? She asked. Well, I'll give you a pass, since you're obviously new here. You're one of those boys out by the motel, right? I caught you having an argument with that fellow with the fancy red car a little while ago. That's my son, James, I admitted. We're just looking into the disappearance of my daughter. I was told that that woman might know something. So you're not cops then? The woman asked. I'm just a concerned father. The woman nodded thoughtfully as the bartender brought her her drink. A rum and coke. She took a sip. I can check and see if she's around. Harriet goes out of town a business every few days. Do you know what kind of business? I asked. House calls, the woman replied. I'm sorry, I don't think I caught your name. Right, sorry. I'm Terry McKinnon. Well, nice to meet you, Terry. You can call me Clarice. Anyhow, maybe if she's in town I can introduce you later. After all, you seem nice enough, and Harriet is a sweetheart. She wouldn't hurt a fly. I highly doubted that. I'd appreciate it, I said. Just let me know when. Stick around your motel. I'll come knocking. Clarice replied and raised her glass to me. Thanks for the drink, Terry. James' car was still out front of the motel when I got back. The sun was starting to go down and bathed the otherwise empty parking lot in a golden glow. Walking past the Lambo, I found myself thinking about how small it looked. How'd I ever enjoy driving that thing? Seeing it beside the used sedan I'd bought a while back, I realized I actually preferred the sedan. Staring into the empty driver's seat of that cramped, angular car, I caught myself resenting it a little bit. All my life it had been my dream car. Each and every success had brought me closer and closer to it. It made so many sacrifices just for that dream of success. My ex-wife, Megan, had called me a workaholic. I told her I was only doing it to provide for my family, but that was a lie. I did it for me. I did it for the money, and those sacrifices always seemed so small. I missed a few weekends, and I didn't see my family often. When I was home, I was tired and irritable. Pauline had taken the divorce especially hard. She and James had lived with her mother for the first few years. The only reason they ever came back to me was because Megan had passed away. I trusted James to raise her right. He was the older child, and thus the more responsible one. I had my work to worry about, always my work. Now these years later here I was staring at my beloved Lambo and hating it. I called James to join me for dinner that night, but he didn't answer his phone. I could only imagine he was avoiding me. So I ordered takeout from the pizza place in town and waited for Clarice. She came for me around eight that evening, knocking on my door. Good evening, Terry, she said softly. Sorry to keep you waiting. She walked in without an invitation. I stopped by the halfway house and asked about Harriet. They told me that she was going to get back in tonight. I know she is a bit of a night owl, so I thought it might not hurt to swing by and talk to her. Are you sure she'll be okay with that? I asked. Yeah, they gave me her number and I checked in with her. She said she'd be up for a while if you wanted to swing by. I studied Clarice for a few moments. It had occurred to me that she was working with Harriet, but it seemed almost too paranoid. I don't see why not then, I replied. Clarice tipped me a winning smile before leaning against my door. Alrighty then, I'm guessing you've never been to the halfway house before, have you? I can show you the way. Give me a minute. I need to freshen up a bit first. I lied about that and shoot her out of the room. I didn't need long. I changed my shirt, put on some deodorant, but that wasn't why I had chased her off. I pocketed the gun and hit a wooden stake I had fashioned a while back in my belt. If I had a shot, I wasn't going to waste it. Clarice was waiting patiently when I stepped out of the room to join her. We made small talk as we walked down to the beach towards the halfway house. The housing question didn't look much different than any of the other suburban houses by the beach. It was large, but well maintained with a wrap around porch that looked homey. As we drew closer, I could see a figure sitting in a chair on that porch. I could see the slight burn of a cigarette. Harriet sat patiently waiting for me like we had all the time in the world. Hey, Mrs. H! Clarice said playfully as we drew nearer. Harriet exhaled smoke and smiled. Good to see you again, Clarice. Is that the man you mentioned? Yep, this is Harry. Harriet's eyes rested on me, knowingly. Well, thank you for bringing him along. Head on inside. Patricia had a birthday last night. There's some cake still left over. Help yourself. Terry, would you like to have a seat? She offered me a spot beside her, as Clarice proudly stepped into the house again. I stood in the sand for a while, watching the bookish vampire as she smoked her cigarette. No sound except for the gulls and the waves. After a few tense moments, she spoke. I can't imagine what you think of me, Terry. She sighed. I assume you have some means to kill me on hand, correct? Correct, I replied. The slightest smile crossed her lips. Well, I should have seen this coming. You're the first person to follow me home. It was bound to happen eventually. You can't just go around murdering innocent people, I replied. Do you think no one would notice? It would be naïve at me to say yes. I'd hoped what I paid the local law enforcement might keep anyone from digging too deep, but you are made of sterner stuff, it seems. She chuckled. From what Pauline told me, you were the last person I expected to see showing up at my door, but I suppose I shouldn't be surprised after our encounter at the motel when I heard someone showing up in town asking about me. I had my suspicions. I hope you don't mind that I sent Clarice to collect you, but dragging this out would not have benefited either of us. I took the stake from my coat, and Harriet's eyes focused on it, but she didn't move. She inhaled on her cigarette. If you're going to kill me, would you mind if I asked you a question first? She asked. I paused before nodding my head and dreaded the moment when she pounced when it was either her or me, and I'd have to drive my stake through her heart, but she didn't move. How did I choose my victims? You chose couples. One man, one woman, I replied. She shook her head. No, no, no. Often, yes, it was a man and a woman, but what did every pair have in common? To that, I had no answer. Harriet sat patiently to my silence. I suppose by tracking me here you've become a monster hunter, haven't you? She finally asked. It might interest you to know that I'm something of a monster hunter myself. People call for help all the time, so I visit them, I assess the situation, and if need be, I deal with the problem. Abuse is like the tide. It waxes and wanes. It drowns those caught in it. One sad truth about humanity is that people don't change, Terry. Some do, you did, but not all, not the worst of them. Some people only destroy. They take, they hurt, they rape. I didn't choose to become what I am today, but they chose to commit their sins. What are you talking about? I asked. I'm talking about my victims. The bodies they found scattered along the roadways. Yes, that was me, but those were the monsters. Abusers, rapists, no better than animals. And what about the women? I asked. You expect me to believe that they're fine? Why take them then? For safety, Harriet replied. If a body turns up, they're usually the first suspect. I've seen good people suffer from my crimes. That is not what I want. So instead, I take them with me. I help them heal, and when the time comes, start again. And they let you feed on them? I asked. Some do. Some have nothing left, and they ask to become like me, like Pauline. My heart stopped in my chest. You're lying. Am I? Harriet tilted her head to the side and stood up from her seat. You can come out now. On her command, the door to the house opened. I stared in silent awe as she stepped out onto the porch. My little girl, my Pauline, alive, unharmed. She was there, right there in front of me. I dropped the stake. Eyes fixated on her. My feet compelled me forwards. I stumbled over my own two feet as I dumbly ran to her, snatching her up into my arms and hugging her close. The tears streamed down my cheeks as I felt my Pauline's arms slowly wrap around me in turn. I thought I'd lost you, I gasped. I thought you were dead. And sorry, dad, I couldn't stay. Pauline said softly. Her face pressed against my shoulder. I had to leave. I didn't think you'd care. Those words broke my heart, but I understood why she said them. Never in my life had I been a good father to her. It had been one disappointment after the next. I knew why she had felt that way, and I hated myself for it. I'm sorry, I whispered, running my fingers through her hair. I am so sorry. Harriet turned away, looking out over the crashing waves and allowing us our privacy. Who hurt her? I finally asked. Harriet looked back at me. Her smile was gone. Isn't it obvious? She said. It was. Harriet sighed, and as my hug broke with my daughter, I caught a look of shame on Pauline's face. I'm sorry, she said. I didn't think you'd believe me if I... I cupped her cheeks, silencing her. I'm the one who owes you an apology, I replied. I should have known. There had to have been signs. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she bowed her head into me, and again I looked over to Harriet. Where's James? Inside, she replied. We weren't sure if it would be better to wait for you or do it before. I didn't want this to end in violence. It won't, I assured her. I... I assume you're going to kill him. Yes. No lies, no tricks, straight to the point. The truth hurt. It was like a knife in my heart, but now I held my daughter trembling in my arms. I stood here because of what James had done, because of what I had allowed. All right. It was the only thing I had to say. I stood on the beach with Pauline at my side as Clarice and two others dragged James out. I recognized one of the girls as the one I'd seen Harriet feeding on. Dad! James' voice was cracked with fear. What the hell is going on? His eyes settled on Pauline and widened. How? I know what you did. I replied calmly. The look on James' face confirmed it. No, no, whatever she told you, it's a lie. I didn't touch her. I would never... She's my sister. I swear to God, I'd never... He struggled and fought against the women. Harriet watched quietly from the balcony, and Pauline left my side to approach him. Dad! Dad! Come on, you gotta believe me. Dad! Dad! I just stood there and stared as Pauline loomed over him. One of the other girls jerked James' head back. He cried and struggled. He fought. He begged. But he did not escape her teeth. Last night I parked the Lambo on the edge of the harbour. I put it in neutral and I pushed it into the harbour. James' suicide letter is in his room. What he did was unforgivable. But through my neglect, I enabled it, and so I share the blame. Tomorrow I will leave East Gate alone, or perhaps somewhere in the distance. I may find my absolution. Up next, it's a horror classic, an old school creepypasta if you will, by M.R. James called a school story, When Weird Darkness Returns. Are you a member of the Darkness Syndicate? The Darkness Syndicate is a private membership where you receive commercial-free episodes of the Weird Darkness podcast and radio show. Behind the scenes, video updates about future projects and events I'm working on. You can share your own opinions on ideas to help me decide upon Weird Darkness contests and events. You can hear audiobooks I'm narrating before even the publishers or authors get to hear them. You also receive bonus audio of other projects I'm working on outside of Weird Darkness. You get all of these benefits and more, starting at only $5 per month. Join the Weird Darkness Syndicate at WeirdDarkness.com slash syndicate. That's WeirdDarkness.com slash syndicate. Two men in a smoking room were talking of their private school days. At our school, said A., we had a ghost's foot mark on the staircase. Was it like, oh, very unconvincing, just the shape of the shoe with a square toe, if I remember right? The staircase was a stone one. I never heard any story about the thing that that seems odd when you come to think of it. But why didn't somebody invent one, I wonder? You never can tell with the little boys. They have a mythology of their own. There's a subject for you, by the way, the folklore of private schools. As the crop is rather scanty, though, I imagine, few to investigate the cycle of ghost stories, for instance, which the boys at the private schools tell each other, they'd all turn out to be highly compressed versions of stories out of books. Nowadays, the Strand and Pearson's and so on would be extensively drawn upon. No doubt, they weren't born or thought of in by time. Let's see, I wonder if I can remember the staple ones that I was told. First, there was the house with a room in which a series of people insisted on passing a night, and each one of them in the morning was found kneeling in a corner, and it was just time to say, I've seen it, and then died. Wasn't that the house in Berkeley Square? I daresay it was. Then there was the man who heard a noise in the passage at night, opened his door, and saw somebody crawling towards him on all fours with his eye hanging out on his cheek. There was besides, let me think, oh yes, the room where a man was found dead in bed with a horseshoe mark on his forehead, and the floor under the bed was covered with marks of horseshoes also. I don't know why. Also, there was the lady who, unlocking her bedroom door in a strange house, heard a thin voice among the bed curtains say, now we're shut for the night. None of those had any explanation or sequel. I wonder if they go on still, those stories. Likely enough, with additions from the magazines, as I said, you never heard, did you, of a real ghost at a private school? I thought not. Nobody has that ever I came across. From the way in which you said that, I gather that you have? I really don't know, but this is what is in my mind. It happened at my private school thirty odd years ago, and I haven't any explanation for it. The school, I mean, was near London. It was established in a large and very old house, a great white building with very fine grounds about it. There were large cedars in the garden, as there are in so many of the older gardens in the Tames Valley and ancient elms in the three or four fields which we used for our games. I think probably it was quite an attractive place, but boys seldom allow that their schools possess any tolerable features. I came to the school in September, soon after the year 1870, and among the boys who arrived on the same day, was one whom I took to, a Highland boy whom I will call McLeod. I needn't spend time in describing him. The main thing is that I got to know him very well. He was not an exceptional boy in any way, not particularly good at books or games, but he suited me. The school was a large one. There must have been from 120 to 130 boys there as a rule, and so a considerable staff of masters was required, and there were rather frequent changes among them. One term, perhaps it was my third or fourth, a new master made his appearance. His name was Samson. He was a tallish, stoutish, pale, black-bearded man. I think we liked him. He traveled a good deal and had stories which amused us on our school walks, so there was some competition among us to get within earshot of him. I remember too, dear me, I have hardly thought of it since then. He had a charm on his watch chain that attracted my attention one day, and he let me examine it. It was, I now suppose, a gold Byzantine coin. There was an effigy of some absurd emperor on one side. The other side had been worn practically smooth, and he had cut on it rather barbarously at his own initials, GWS, and a date, 24 July 1865. Yes, I can see it now. We told me he had picked it up in Constantinople. It was about the size of a Florent, perhaps rather smaller. Well, the first odd thing that happened was this. Samson was doing Latin grammar with us, one of his favorite methods, perhaps it is rather a good one, was to make us construct sentences out of our own heads to illustrate the rules he was trying to make us learn. Of course, that is a thing which gives a silly boy a chance of being impertinent. There are lots of school stories in which that happens, or anyhow there might be, but Samson was too good a disciplarian for us to think of trying that on with him. Now, on this occasion he was telling us how to express remembering in Latin, and he ordered us each to make a sentence bringing in the verb mimini. I remember. Well, most of us made up some ordinary sentence such as I remember my father, or he remembers his book, or something equally uninteresting, and I dare say a good many put down Mimino, Librum beyond, and so forth. But the boy I mentioned, McLeod, was evidently thinking of something more elaborate than that. The rest of us wanted to have our sentences passed and get on to something else, so some kicked him under the desk, and I, who was next to him, I poked him and whispered to him to look sharp. But he didn't seem to attend. I looked at his paper and saw he'd put down nothing at all, so I jogged him again harder than before and upgraded him sharply for keeping us all waiting. I did have some effect. He started and seemed to wake up, and then very quickly he scribbled out a couple of lines on his paper and showed up with the rest. Well, as it was the last, or nearly the last, to come in, and as Sampson had a good deal to say to the boys who had written Miminescubus Pathidae Mayo and the rest of it, it turned out the clock struck twelve before he had gotten to McLeod, and McLeod had to wait afterwards to have his sentence corrected. There was nothing much going on outside when I got out, so I waited for him to come. He came very slowly when he did arrive, and I guessed there had been some sort of trouble. Well, I said, what'd you get? Oh, I don't know, said McLeod, nothing much, but I think Sampson's rather sick with me. Why, did you show him up some rot? No fear, he said. It was all right, as far as I could see. It was like this. Memento. That's right enough for a remember, and it takes a genitive. Memento Pucce inter quator taxos. What silly rot, I said. What made you shove that down? What does it mean? That's the funny part, said McLeod. I'm not sure what it does mean, but all I know is it just came into my head and I cork it down. I know what I think it means, because just before I wrote it down, I had sort of a picture of it in my head. I believe it means remember the well among the four. What are those dark sort of trees that have red berries on them? Mountain ashes, I suppose, you mean? I never heard of them, said McLeod, but I'll tell you, use. Well, what did Sampson say? Well, he was jolly odd about it. When he read it, he got up and went to the mantelpiece and stopped quite a long time without saying anything, with his back to me. And then he said without turning around and rather quiet, what do you suppose that means? I told him what I thought, only I couldn't remember the name of the silly tree, and then he wanted to know why I put it down, and I had to say something or other. And after that he left off talking about it and asked me how long I'd been here, and where my other people lived, and things like that. And then I came away, but he wasn't looking a bit well. I remember any more that was said by either of us about that. On the next day, McLeod took to his bed with a chill or something of the kind, and it was a week or more before he was in school again. And as much as a month went by without anything happening that was noticeable, whether or not Mr. Sampson was really startled, as McLeod had thought, he didn't show it. I'm pretty sure, of course, now that there was something very curious in his past history, but I'm not going to pretend that we boys were sharp enough to guess any such thing. There was one other incident of the same kind as the last, which I told you. Several times, since that day, we had to make up examples in school to illustrate different rules, but there had never been any row except when we did them wrong. At last, there came a day when we were going through those dismal things which people call conditional sentences, and we were told to make a conditional sentence, expressing a future consequence. We did it, right or wrong, and showed up our bits of paper, and Sampson began looking through them. All at once, he got up, made some sort of noise in his throat, and rushed out by a door that was just by his desk. We sat there for a minute or two, and then I suppose it was incorrect, but we went up, and I and one or two others, to look at the papers on his desk. Of course, I thought someone must have put down some nonsense or other, and Sampson had gone off to report him. All the same, I noticed that he hadn't taken any of the papers with him when he ran out. Well, the top paper on the desk was written in red ink, which no one used, and it wasn't in anyone's hand, it was in the class. They all looked at it, McLeod and all, and took their dying oaths, that it wasn't theirs. Then I thought of counting the bits of paper, and of this I made quite certain that there were 17 bits of paper on the desk, 16 boys in the form. I bagged the extra paper and kept it, and I believe I have it now, and now you'll want to know what was written on it. It was simple enough and harmless enough, I should have said. Which means, I suppose, if you don't come to me, I'll come to you. Can't you show me the paper? Interrupted the listener. Yes, I could, but there's another odd thing about it. That same afternoon I took it out of my locker, and I know for certain it was the same bit, for I made a finger mark on it, and no single trace of writing of any kind was there on it. I kept it, as I said, and since that time I've tried various experiments to see whether sympathetic ink had been used, but absolutely without result. So much for that. After about half an hour, Samson looked in again, said he felt very unwell and told us we might go. He came rather gingerly to his desk and gave just one look at the uppermost paper, and I suppose he thought he must have been dreaming. Anyhow, he asked no questions. That day was a half-holiday, and next day Samson was in school again much as usual. That night, the third and last incident in my story happened. We, McCloud and I, slept in a dormitory at right angles to the main building. Samson slept in the main building on the first floor. There was a very bright full moon. At an hour, which I can't tell exactly, but sometime between one and two, I was woken by somebody shaking me. It was McCloud, and a nice state of mind he seemed to be in. Come, he said, come! There's a burglar getting in through Samson's window. As soon as I could speak, I said, well, why not call out and wake everybody up? No, no, he said, I'm not sure who it is. Don't make a row. Come and look. Naturally, I came and looked, and naturally there was no one there. I was cross enough, and I should have called McCloud plenty of names only. I couldn't tell why. It seemed to me that there was something wrong, something that made me very glad I wasn't alone to face it. We were still at the window, looking out, and as soon as I could, I asked him what he had heard or seen. I didn't hear anything at all, he said, but about five minutes before I woke you, I found myself looking out this window here, and there was a man sitting or kneeling on Samson's window sill and looking in, and I thought he was beckoning. What sort of man? McCloud wriggled, and he said, I don't know, but I could tell you one thing. He was beastly thin, and he looked as if he was wet all over, and he said, looking around and whispering as if he hardly liked to hear himself, I'm not at all sure that he was alive. We went on talking and whispers some time longer and eventually crept back to bed. No one else in the room woke or stirred the whole time. I believe we did sleep a bit afterwards, but we were very cheap next day, and next day Mr. Samson was gone, not to be found, and I believe no trace of him has ever come to light since. And thinking it over, one of the oddest things about it all seemed to me the fact that neither McCloud nor I ever mentioned what we had seen to any third person whatsoever. Of course, no questions were asked on the subject, and if there had been, I'm inclined to believe that we could not have made any answer. We seemed unable to speak about it. That is my story, said the narrator. The only approach to a ghost story connected with a school that I know, but still I think an approach to such a thing. The sequel to this may perhaps be reckoned highly conventional, but a sequel there is, and so it must be produced. There had been more than one listener to the story, and in the latter part of that same year, or of the next, one such listener was staying at a country house in Ireland. One evening his host was turning over a drawer full of odds and ends in the smoking room. Suddenly he put his hand upon a little box. Now he said, you know about old things, tell me what that is. My friend opened the little box and found in it a thin gold chain with an object attached to it. He glanced at the object and then took off his spectacles to examine it more narrowly. What's the history of this, he asked? Odd enough was the answer. You know the you, think it, in the shrubbery? Well, a year or two back we were cleaning out the old well that used to be in the clearing here, and what do you suppose we found? Is it possible you found a body, said the visitor, with an odd feeling of nervousness? We did that, but what's more, in every sense of the word we found two. Good heavens, two! Was there anything to show how they got there? Was this thing found with them? It was. Amongst the rags of the clothes that were on one of the bodies, a bad business, whatever the story of it may have been, one body had the arms tight around the other. They must have been there 30 years or more long enough before we came to this place. You may judge we filled the well up fast enough. Do you make anything of what's cut on that gold coin you have there? I think I can, said my friend, holding it to the light, but he read it without much difficulty. It seems to be GWS 24th July 1865. 1. Stories on Creepypasta episodes are works of fiction, and links to the stories or the others can be found in the show notes. Eastgate was written by Ryan Peacock, and a school story was by M.R. James. Weird Darkness is a production of Marlar House Productions. And now that we're coming out of the dark, I'll leave you with a little light. Deuteronomy 7 verse 21. Speaking to the Israelites about their enemies, Moses said, Do not be terrified by them, for the Lord your God who is among you is a great and awesome God. And a final thought. Our greatest glory is not in never failing, but in rising every time we fall. Confucius. I'm Darren Marlar. Thanks for joining me in the Weird Darkness. Hey, Weirdos. You've got a murder shift. Our next Weirdo Watch Party is Saturday, March 2nd. We'll kill you. Be with wild dogs, boy. This couldn't be done by a human bird. We'll be spending two hours with Hexen Arcane, sisters Morgan and Celeste Parker, these sexy sirens, these gorgeous ghouls, will be presenting 1972's Moon of the Wolf, starring David Janssen, Barbara Rush and Bradford Dillman. What did you find when you examined Ellie? Just that she was murdered. Dogs didn't do it. Like I said. After several locals are viciously murdered, a Louisiana sheriff starts to suspect he might be dealing with a werewolf. He's saying Lou Garou. Come on. How can you go wrong with a werewolf flick? Am I right? Werewolf. He's saying werewolf. Our Weirdo Watch Party is always free to watch online, so grab your popcorn, candy and soda and jump into the fun and even get involved in a live chat as we watch the movie. It's Moon of the Wolf on Saturday, March 2nd, hosted by Hexen Arcane. The show begins at 10pm Eastern, 9pm Central, 8pm Mountain and 7pm Pacific. You can watch a trailer for the film and watch horror hosts and schlocky B movies any time, day or night on the Weirdo Watch Party page at WeirdDarkness.com. Hope to see you March 2nd. Do you have that horrible habit of comparing yourself to others? Not just the way somebody looks, but maybe comparing your life to those who have better jobs or more fame or better pay checks or happier families or whatever. You're not alone. I do it too. But we're doing ourselves a disservice when we compare ourselves to others. In fact, doing so is holding us back from what could truly be a great life. That's the message in this week's Church of the Undead. Listen to it now by visiting WeirdDarkness.com slash Church. That's WeirdDarkness.com slash Church.