Dead childrens playgroun.., p.5
Dead Children's Playground, page 5
As we watched in horrified silence, a sudden, piercing sound cut through the storm—a child’s voice, high-pitched and desperate, calling out from the darkness.
“Help me…”
My blood ran cold. The voice was faint, almost drowned out by the wind and rain, but it was clear enough to send a shiver down my spine. “Did you hear that?” I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth.
Joshua nodded, his eyes wide with fear. “It sounded like a kid…out there in this storm. But that’s impossible, right? He’s trying to lure us out. Nobody move.”
Before anyone could respond, a strange sensation washed over me, something I hadn’t felt in a long time—a pull, a compulsion to write.
“I must write. I’m getting something!”
My hand trembled as I reached for my notebook, the pen seeming to move on its own as I opened it to a blank page.
“What’s happening?” Cassidy asked, her voice laced with concern as she watched me.
“I don’t know,” I whispered, my hand already moving across the page, the pen scratching out words in a language I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t English, and it wasn’t anything I could consciously comprehend, but the words flowed through me as if channeled from somewhere else—somewhere dark and ancient.
Jericho glanced at the writing, his expression darkening. “That’s not good, Macie. Whatever you’re channeling…be careful.”
I couldn’t stop, even if I wanted to. The words spilled out in a frantic, desperate rush, filling the page with symbols and glyphs that seemed to pulse with an ominous energy. My heart pounded in my chest, and I felt a cold sweat break out on my forehead.
The child’s voice echoed again, this time closer, more insistent. “Help me…”
The shadowy figure on the FLIR camera was almost at the edge of the trees now, its form blending with the darkness in a way that made my skin crawl. The storm raged on, but all I could focus on was the voice and the writing, both pulling me deeper into a place I didn’t want to go.
Just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, Cassidy’s phone rang, the shrill sound cutting through the tension like a knife. I jumped, the pen slipping from my fingers as she fumbled to answer it.
“Midas?” she asked, her voice shaky. “I’ve got you on speaker. Go ahead.”
“Hey guys,” he said, his tone calm but urgent. “We’re at the Harris house. Sierra and I have learned some things. You need to meet us here as soon as possible. You’re not safe in that playground.”
I glanced at Jericho, who was still watching the shadowy figure on the FLIR camera. “Yeah, we kind of figured that. Midas, there’s something out here. It’s close.”
“I know,” he replied, his voice grim. “That’s why you need to leave—now. Whatever you’ve found there, it’s connected to what we’re dealing with here. Just get out of there and meet us. We’ll figure this out together.”
Cassidy nodded, even though Midas couldn’t see her. “We’re on our way.” She hung up, her hands still shaking as she relayed the message to the others. “You heard him. Midas says we need to go to the Harris house. Now.”
Jericho finally lowered the FLIR camera, his face pale but resolute. “Then let’s go. Whatever’s out there…we’re not ready to face it alone.”
We didn’t need any more convincing. As Joshua started the SUV and pulled away from the playground, I couldn’t help but look back, my eyes searching the darkness for any sign of the shadowy figure.
But all I saw was the storm, the rain falling in sheets, obscuring everything in a shroud of impenetrable darkness.
And somewhere in that darkness, I knew the Tall Man was watching us, waiting for his next move.
We didn’t have long to wait.
Chapter Five–Mickey
Huntsville, 1902
The moon hung high in the night sky, casting long, eerie shadows over the streets of Huntsville. The town was quiet, save for the occasional creak of a wooden shutter in the breeze.
Inside a modest house on the outskirts of town, seven-year-old Mickey sat on the edge of the rickety couch, his small body trembling with fear.
It had been days since that dreadful afternoon in Dead Children’s Playground. Days since Tonya had vanished into the fog, and Cherry had been found dead in her bed, her small body twisted and broken.
Mickey had seen things—terrible, unexplainable things—but no one believed him. Not the investigating officers, and certainly not his father. If his mother was alive, she would have believed him. She would have believed every word, but she was gone. She’d been gone for quite a long time. So long, Mickey could barely remember what she looked like, and his father had taken down her portrait. Mickey tried to sneak a peek at the portrait occasionally, but he always got caught and always got in trouble.
"Mickey, enough of these lies," his father, Arthur, had said earlier that evening, his voice a low growl as he paced the living room. "There’s no such thing as a Tall Man. You’re just scared and confused, boy. A girl is dead! Where is Tonya? I demand that you tell me!"
But Mickey wasn’t confused. He had seen the Tall Man with his own eyes—seen him lurking at the edge of the playground, his white, featureless face smiling that horrible, twisted smile. And now, every time he closed his eyes, Mickey saw him again, felt his cold presence creeping closer.
“Go to your room and stay there. You’ll have to be punished.” Mickey’s father slung back the remnants of his whiskey and began tugging at his belt. Mickey knew what was coming for him. His father was a cruel man, even on the best of days. This was not a best day or even a good one.
Mickey’s friends were dead. He was sure that Tonya was dead too. Mickey raced upstairs, tears in his young eyes, a prayer on his lips. He prayed that it was just a few slaps, not a drunken beating.
The door to his room creaked open, and Mickey flinched, his wide eyes snapping to the figure standing in the doorway. It was his father as promised, belt in hand, his face twisted with anger.
"I warned you, Mickey," Arthur said, his voice dangerously low. "I warned you to stop lying. But you just had to keep on, didn’t you? Your mother was a liar too. She said she wouldn’t leave me but she’s gone. Gone and left you behind. She could have at least taken you with her.”
“She’s dead, Pa! I’m sorry!” Mickey’s heart pounded in his chest as he scrambled back on the bed, his small hands clutching the worn blanket. "But it’s true, Pa! I swear! The Tall Man was there! He took Tonya, and he hurt Cherry! I saw him! He’s a monster!"
Arthur’s eyes darkened, and he took a step closer, the belt dangling ominously from his hand. "Enough!" he bellowed. "You’re going to learn what happens to liars in this house!"
“I’m not lying, Pa. I swear I saw him! He’s a monster with long arms and legs.”
Tears welled up in Mickey’s eyes as he pressed himself against the headboard, his body shaking with fear. But as Arthur loomed closer, something caught Mickey’s eye—something in the shadows behind his father.
The Tall Man.
He stood there, impossibly tall and thin, his black suit blending into the darkness, his featureless white face glowing faintly in the dim light. How had he gotten in here?
His smile, wide and malevolent, stretched impossibly across his face, and his long, bony fingers twitched at his sides as if eager to reach out and grab Mickey.
Mickey’s breath caught in his throat, his eyes widening in terror. "Pa…he’s here…he’s right behind you!" he screamed, his voice high-pitched and frantic.
Arthur froze, his hand tightening around the belt as he turned slowly to look behind him. The moment his eyes landed on the Tall Man; all the color drained from his face. He let out a strangled gasp, his body going rigid with fear.
The belt slipped from his fingers, falling to the floor with a soft thud. Arthur staggered back, clutching his chest, his breath coming in short, labored gasps.
"No…no, it can’t be…"
But it was. The Tall Man took a step closer, his twisted smile growing wider, more terrifying. Arthur’s knees buckled, and he collapsed to the floor, his hand still gripping his chest as his breath wheezed out in ragged gasps.
"Pa!" Mickey cried, his voice breaking with fear and confusion. He wanted to help his father, to reach out and save him, but he was frozen with terror, his eyes locked on the Tall Man.
Arthur’s breath hitched, his body convulsing as he tried to fight the grip of the heart attack that was overtaking him. But his eyes never left the Tall Man, never left that horrifying smile. His mouth opened in a silent scream as his heart gave out, his body going limp on the floor. His son had been right all along. His poor boy. He’d never been good to him. He knew that now. He stared up into the horrible white face with the oversized smile.
That would be the last thing he saw.
Mickey stared in horror, unable to move, unable to breathe. His father was dead—gone, just like Tonya, just like Cherry. And the Tall Man was still there, still smiling, still watching and waiting.
And then, as if in slow motion, The Tall Man began to move toward him, his long legs crossing the distance between them with terrifying speed. His hands were outstretched, and Mickey could see the bloody candy in his hands.
“I saved you some, Mick-kee!”
Mickey’s paralysis broke, and he let out a scream that tore through the silence of the night. His scream made the Tall Man flutter. Mickey’s small feet pounded on the wooden floor as he raced out of the room, out of the house, and into the night.
The Tall Man followed, his footsteps silent and relentless, his smile never wavering.
Mickey’s heart pounded in his chest as he tore through the darkened streets, the wind whipping at his tear-streaked face. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he had to get away—away from the house, away from the town, away from the Tall Man.
But no matter how fast he ran, Mickey could feel him, could sense him getting closer. The night seemed to close in around him, the shadows stretching out like claws, trying to pull him back.
His breath came in ragged gasps, his legs burning with the effort of running. He could hear the Tall Man’s laughter—low and sinister, echoing in the darkness, mocking him.
Mickey’s mind raced with panic, with desperation, but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. And then, just as Mickey thought he couldn’t run any farther, the ground gave way beneath him. He stumbled, his foot catching on something unseen, and he fell, tumbling into the cold, wet earth.
Somehow, some way, he had fallen into an open grave. How had he gotten here?
The world spun around him as he tried to climb up. He needed to try to keep running, but it was too late.
The Tall Man was there, standing over him, his shadow stretching long and dark over the boy’s trembling form.
Mickey screamed again, but the sound was swallowed by the night, by the darkness that surrounded him. The Tall Man’s smile grew wider, his bony hand reaching down, closing the distance between them.
He leaped into the grave with the terrified boy, his hands open still. The bloody candy fell to the ground as he reached for Mickey’s neck.
And then everything went black.
Chapter Six–Macie
The Harris house was an old, creaky structure, steeped in history and shadows. As I sat in the dimly lit kitchen, the weight of the day’s events pressed down on me like a suffocating blanket.
The rain hadn’t let up yet but at least the monstrous lightning had ended although thunder continued to rumble in the distance.
The room smelled of aged wood and the faint scent of something metallic—perhaps the lingering fear and despair that had soaked into the walls over the years. The team was in the living room, interviewing the Harris family, but my mind was elsewhere, focused on the strange, unsettling words I had written earlier.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that something dark and terrible was lurking just beyond the edges of my consciousness.
What I was experiencing was hard to explain, if anyone bothered to ask. It was times like this that I really missed my sister, Jocelyn. We got one another, there was never any need to explain myself to her.
The familiar sadness from missing her returned but I had to push it to the side and focus on what’s next.
The automatic writing I had channeled in the SUV wasn’t just random gibberish—it felt like a message, a warning from something or someone long gone. But the words made no sense to me, a twisted tangle of unfamiliar letters and symbols that had poured out of me like a fever dream. I stared at the words again. I began spelling the words out but they still made no sense to me.
Jericho sat across from me at the worn dining table, his face illuminated by the pale glow of the tablet in front of him. He was focused, his brow furrowed as he scanned the notes I had taken of the writing.
"We need to figure out what these words means," he said quietly, his voice low and serious. "This could be a clue, something that ties everything together."
I nodded, though my hands trembled slightly as I opened my own tablet, pulling up the images of the pages I had filled with the mysterious script. The writing was jagged, almost violent in its intensity, as if whatever had guided my hand was in a frenzy.
It wasn’t English—of that I was certain. But what was it? Not French.
The room around us seemed to grow darker, the corners filling with shadows that danced just out of sight, as if they were alive. My skin prickled with the awareness that we were not alone in this house, that the spirits we were dealing with were far from at peace.
"It’s not Latin, or any of the other usual languages we come across," Jericho murmured, his eyes scanning the text with a mix of frustration and determination. "There’s something about it though…like I’ve seen it before."
I nodded again, more out of habit than understanding. My mind was racing, trying to make sense of the nonsensical. Then, as the translation software began to spit out the results, a chill ran down my spine. The words…they were starting to make sense.
"It’s German," I whispered, more to myself than to Jericho. "The writing…it’s in German."
Jericho looked up, his eyes narrowing. "German? Are you sure?"
I nodded, the eerie realization settling in my bones like ice. "Yes! I’m sure. The words are fragmented, but it’s definitely German. I don’t speak it, but some of these words…they’re warnings, Jericho. Warnings about something dark. Something evil."
He leaned closer, peering at the translation on my screen. "What kind of warnings?"
I hesitated, my fingers trembling over the tablet. "It’s hard to say. But from what I can make out…there’s something about a ‘shadow’…and ‘children.’ And…‘him.’ We need better translation software."
Jericho’s face paled, and he sat back, his gaze turning to the darkened windows. The storm outside had subsided, but the air in the house was thick with a tension that made it hard to breathe.
"The Tall Man," he muttered, more to himself than to me. “This message is from him.”
I swallowed hard, the dread coiling in my stomach like a snake. "No way. The writing…it’s a warning about him. About what he’s done…what he’s going to do. Or what he wants to do."
The words hung in the air between us, heavy and foreboding. The German phrases on the screen seemed to pulse with a life of their own, as if they were a living, breathing entity, trying to communicate with us through the veil of time and death.
"We need to tell Midas," Jericho said finally, his voice steady but tinged with fear. "Whatever this is…it’s more than just a ghost. It’s something far more dangerous."
I nodded my throat too tight to speak. The shadows in the room seemed to grow darker, thicker, as if they were closing in around us, listening to our every word. The house creaked and groaned, the old wood settling, or perhaps something else moving within the walls.
As I stared at the German words on the screen, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were unraveling a mystery far more sinister than we had ever imagined. The Tall Man was out there, watching us, waiting for his moment. And the warnings in the automatic writing were just the beginning.
But what terrified me most was the realization that the shadows in the room—the darkness that seemed to cling to every corner—were not just a figment of my imagination.
They were real.
And they were getting closer.
The shadows in the room felt like they were pressing in on me, suffocating and alive. The realization that the automatic writing was in German—and possibly a warning from the Tall Man or about him—had shaken me to my core. But there was something else gnawing at me, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. The energy in the house felt charged, thick with a tension that made it hard to breathe.
I knew I had to try again, to see if I could reach whatever was trying to communicate with us. I pushed aside my fear and retrieved my notebook, flipping to a fresh page.
Jericho watched me with a mixture of concern and curiosity as I took a deep breath and let the pen hover over the paper.
“Are you sure about this?” he asked, his voice low, almost hesitant. “You’ve already channeled some pretty dark stuff. Maybe we should wait until we’re better prepared.”
I shook my head, trying to steady my racing heart. “I have to do this, Jericho. There’s something…someone…trying to reach us. And we need to know what they want.”
He nodded reluctantly, his eyes never leaving me as I closed my eyes and let my mind go blank, opening myself up to whatever might come through. Almost immediately, I felt the familiar pull, the sensation of something guiding my hand as the pen began to move across the page. I didn’t have time to argue with my part time boyfriend.
This time, the writing came faster, more frantic. The words spilled out in a torrent, jagged and harsh, as if whoever—or whatever—was behind them was desperate to communicate. The energy around me crackled, and I could feel the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.
When I finally stopped, my hand trembling, I opened my eyes and looked down at the page. The words were scrawled in a messy, almost illegible script, but the message was clear enough to send a chill down my spine.
