I don’t know why I want to share this old abandoned house story with you right now, but I just feel like it. It’s definitely not because I’ll ever forget about all these events. So, my story is about what helped me to become a professional photographer who I am now. It happened 2 years ago when I’d just finished the high school:
First off, I’m not a writer so I apologize for any grammar mistakes or poor writing and secondly I created a throwaway account because things have got a little weird and I don’t want anything linking back to myself.
So it all started about 3 weeks ago, driving to work and I drove past a pretty normal looking house on Carshalton Road. Normally I wouldn’t notice any specific house but as I was driving a lady in a skirt suit was knocking on the door. Sounds pretty normal but when the door opened I am almost certain I saw her being dragged inside. Now I couldn’t be sure and by midday I had forgotten about it.
”So, how’s it been, Susan?”
”Something of this, something of that, you know life is life.”
”I see, you don’t want to talk about it…”
”It’s not like I don’t want to… Just ask something more specific.”
”What did you do after you left town with Jimmy and where is he? What is he doing?”
How can I start this letter?
My name is Walter Cole. I lived at 25 Maple Avenue, Greenwood town, Maine. I’m not a native American, I moved here from Europe.
Firstly, if you ever read this, go straight to the police. Of course, I know they won’t believe all this right away, but hopefully, they will start an investigation to reveal the truth. Down below, I tried to describe all that has happened to me as well as I could. It’s a horrid and terrible story.
My Grandfather used to tell me stories about the land we live on. People come here every year, to hike, ski, and explore the vast, snow covered mountains, and every year a few of those people are claimed by this land. Grandfather told me that when people die in these mountains, they don’t stay dead. Their bodies are never found, just reported dead after they’ve been missing long enough for the cold to get them. The reason for that, according to the stories, is the Wind Whisperers. Anyone who dies on this mountain turns into a Wind Whisperer, an empty shell walking the land looking for some unfortunate soul to claim in hopes that it brings their soul back.
Here’s the thing… I never thought that I’d ever actually be telling this story. I never had a reason to, you know? I mean, this isn’t one of those things that you tell your friends around the fire where you saw a strange creature in the woods or some shit. No. This is something that you try and bury into the deepest recesses of your memory in an attempt to never think about it again. It’s just… I don’t understand. No matter how hard I try and rationalize what happened to me a few months ago, it just ends up seeming delusional. Especially with what’s been going on the past few days. Even thought it feels surreal, I know that it happened. I know it did.
There are sometimes tales that you can’t believe ever really happened. It was on a nice Saturday afternoon that I heard one such tale.
I’d been tasked by dad to mow the lawn and to clean up the old shack next to our house. It had taken me most of the morning and a good part of the afternoon.
As I finally closed the doors of the shack I noticed our next door neighbor, Mister Kunze, sitting outside on a bench in front of his house. He was reading from what I assumed to be his bible.