October 6th

Officer Jameson had seen his fair share of strange things in his career, but nothing quite like the old house on the outskirts of town. The locals whispered about it in hushed tones, claiming that it was haunted by a woman who died there many years ago. Jameson had never been one to believe in ghosts, but as he stepped out of his patrol car and approached the rundown, moss covered house, he couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that crept over him. The door creaked open as he pushed it, and the musty smell of neglect hit him like a wave. You can see the dust when he lit up his flashlight, and he began to make his way through the rooms. Every lightbulb in every room was broken, dark as night. As Jameson was walking through every room, with every step his footsteps echoed on the weakly timbered floors. When he approached the main stairwell, he heard a faint whisper, followed by a small laugh. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

Officer Jameson called out, announcing his presence as a police officer, but no response. Jameson continued to search the house, the flashlight sweeping from wall to wall. Peeling wallpaper, mold on the crown molding, and broken timbers in the floors. When Officer Jameson reached the door that led to the basement, he hesitated. The hairs standing on the back of his neck again, and out of nowhere, felt a cold brush of wind, or what felt like someone's breath coming from behind him. He knew had to go into the dark basement. As he took his first step down, he heard the whisper again. He hesitated, his breath starting to shake. As he was stepping down on each step, he noticed that the steps didn’t creak under his weight. His heart now pounding through his chest, the flashlight shaking in his unsteady hands.

When he got to the bottom of the stairs, and in the basement, silence. Now standing on the concrete floor, officer Jameson, now gaining some control of his breathing, took a step forward. With every step, every time he thinks he sees something out of the corner of his eyes.

“I’m not going crazy!” He says to himself. With his gun out and ready, like someone is going to jump out and scare him. He flashed the light toward the end of the basement, lighting up a long Victorian looking bathtub. Filled with what looks like black water, filled to the rim. Beads of sweat drip from Jameson’s face. A figure forms from the black water, a woman with long black hair. Cold, dead eyes, like she’s been dead for a long time. Hovering over the bathtub, her face is revealed; pale, rotting skin. She reaches out her hand, pointing at Jameson.

“Why?!” The dead woman asked, over and over, until it became screaming. Officer Jameson, overwhelmed by the screams, started screaming himself and shot his gun at the woman, and then…

“Mr. Jameson, wake up!” Officer Jameson, wakes up from what appeared to be a nightmare. Woke up, on the couch, in his straightjacket. He looks around and sees the psychiatrist.

“Mr. Jameson, was it the same nightmare?” The doctor asked in a monotone voice. Asking Jameson what the nightmare was, and he responded,

“Yes. The same one. I killed my wife.” After the response of killing his wife, in his wheelchair, gets wheeled back into his room, humming a tune. A tune that makes him happy, a tune that makes him think of him killing his wife.