Unquiet Spirits Who Do Evil

I knew better than to go back to Sleepy Lake, the town I lived in thirty years ago, and where I almost lost my mind, and my life. Spirits from the underworld lived there, and the moment I drove back into town, I knew they still lived there, and they knew I was back. I also knew if I went through with my plan, they would kill me.

I was an upcoming author of stories about the supernatural, the occult, and anything that is odd or of a paranormal nature. The first year I moved to Sleepy Lake, I was awed by the place. It was like a paradise, with birds singing, the sunlight dancing off the lake, and the blue skies above, with just enough breeze in the afternoon to keep things cool. Nobody would ever suspect the evil that ran through the place, and how it could take a life so easily.

My first encounter with the girl I will call Emma, was the night I rented a room in a lodge on the north end of the lake, a lodge that was supposedly evil, but I didn't believe in that sort of thing. I remember I was writing about the history of the town, when suddenly the room grew cold, and I could see my breath. I heard evil laughter, and I knew I was no longer alone. An icy hand touched my shoulder, causing my blood to run as cold as the room, and my heart to pound rapidly in my chest. I heard a young girl cry out, calling for me to help her, and immediately following her cries, I heard a man's voice telling me to get out. The room then returned to a warmer temperature, but it took a while for my pulse to return to normal and my heart rate to slow down. I stayed up all night drinking coffee and delving into the history of the town, the land that the town sat on, and anything else I could find that was relevant to what I had just witnessed.

I found many explanations, from Indian burial grounds to a family who had been buried not too far from where I was staying after they were murdered in their home. All of it was gruesome, and night after night I was plagued with the reappearance of the girl, and the threats from the man who was obviously holding her soul. I began to skip meals, and soon I was thin and tired all the time. I no longer felt the creative urge to write, but only wanted answers to the mystery that visited me nightly. I felt as though I was losing my mind, but couldn't seem to do anything to help myself.

Thank goodness a college friend of mine stopped by to visit, and he barely recognized the skeleton of a figure I had become. I hadn't shaved, and my hair was skirting my shoulders. He talked me into returning to the city with him and going back to work for the newspaper. I did so, but reluctantly, feeling I needed the answers to my questions. My mind never left the place, and after thirty years of writing columns in a newspaper about sporting events, I decided it was time to return to the land of Sleepy Lake, and learn the answers. I knew I wouldn't be able to write about it properly unless I was there, in the midst of it all. So, I quit my job, and back I went, happy about the prospect of finally finishing a book I had been working on for the past thirty years.

I took a small apartment at the opposite end of the lake from where I had been staying when I first saw the girl I call Emma. At first things were going well, and I felt that once again the place was like paradise, but I was being fooled. I started feeling tired and out of breath all the time, so I went to my doctor and found out I had cardiac problems that were getting worse all the time. I began throwing up for no reason, and had horrible pains in my stomach. When I wasn't sleeping, I was sitting and staring out the window. I knew why I felt so horrible, and I knew the thing that was holding Emma would not stop until it killed me. Yet, I had to keep going, knowing that the only way to free the child's soul was to publish the story, even if it took my life.

Every time I tried to publish the book, a door slammed in my face and I couldn't get it done for one reason or another. I had one problem after another with finances, my car falling apart right before Christmas, and of course, my health continuing to deteriorate.

It is early January, and the snow is falling heavily outside, making it impossible to get to town. I can no longer write, as I am too weak, and the doctor said it is only a matter of time for me, and that I don't have more than six months if I am lucky. I know if I could get out of here, that I would begin to recover, but then all this work would be for nothing, so I am lying on the bed, waiting to die, and I hear the phone ring, and my roommate is talking and laughing with the last contact who could publish the book. I know it will go to print now, and I slowly slipped into a coma.