The Many Morbid Tales of Spookinite Valley
The Fear of Deceit
Written by Benjamin Fouché
In life, there are such moments when one envisions himself in a fearful setting. Usually, these thoughts pose no threat of any nature. The worst of which they can do is ignite ominous dreams within the depths of one’s mind. And indeed, it would, at first, appear rather foolish to declare that such thoughts could transpire within our true reality. But on the contrary, imagining oneself in such conditions can indeed lead to a grave peril. Allow me to relate: by invoking such thoughts of horrid fancy, I was once confronted by a very real circumstance.
To begin with, I was walking along a trail near Ghastwood Hummock. The needles that fell from the limbs of the evergreens possessed a pleasant scent. The moss was lush upon the stones and boulders lying in the ravines. And the sound of the crows cawing to one another from unseen areas in the forest eased my spirit.
While I continued to admire the golds and crimsons of the leaves, a peculiar wonder seized my focus: I pondered upon the idea of how unfamiliar and distorted all would seem in the woods during the hours of night, when a waning moon would feebly rule over the darkness. What strange creatures could possibly lurk about, underneath the shadowing trees? What unusual noises would they make? And how would I gain my bearings in an altered environment? For a few moments, this romanticized idea amused me. But not long after these thoughts roused me, the realization of actually being lost in the wilderness during the night evoked visions.
As the attractiveness of the imagined scenes drew far, a more insidious visualization pervaded my mind: loathsome noises rung as I wandered in aghast, and the sensation of an unpleasant presence became heavy. But of course, this was only a simple thought straying. Nonetheless, I could not drift away from these visions. And suddenly, I came upon a clearing in the forest that worsened my ill-daydreams. However, it was what reposed within the portion of land that increased them: a stone house rested in decay. Ivy had crept over the brickwork of the chimney and the porch was slanting. A few of its rotted planks had even fallen in. The part of the roof that overhung the entrance was crooked and on the verge of collapsing.
There was a baleful feeling that stirred in my soul. The forlorn structure stood in existence—silently, remotely, and secretly. But why? One such as myself would never be able to fathom its reason for being constructed in an area too solitary for anyone to dare dwell—even for one who yearned to reside far from civilization. There lingered an unexplainable aspect of the abandoned home that unnerved me.
Yet there was merely no way to articulate the fear. My curiosity ceased, as I then knew I had observed quite enough. I desired nothing more than to flee, but I became afraid at the thought of the door opening. I could not free myself from this trance.
My focus was directed towards the door of the desolate home—perhaps it would open. But none of this it did. And of course, this only intensified the dreaded thoughts. I saw the nocturnal heavens ingest the moon, whose reign had now disintegrated. Preternatural sounds resonated hither and thither while the brush around me transfigured into cloaked phantoms of death. The shadows whirled about here and there, as if rejoicing my fate. How could it have been? My own fear had deceitfully led me there while I pondered upon a dream for too long!
And hitherto being borne into to this unworldly purgatory, I was a fool. During that moment, only doom was bestowed upon me. I knelt before the grim house. The reaper-like specters glided from the shadows in a sorrowful movement. Gradually, they formed a path from where I knelt to the entrance of the structure—and indeed, it was then that hope itself was poisoned when the door slightly opened.
© Spookinite.com - All text, music and photographs by Benjamin A. Fouché | Music: "Tenebrous Echoes" by Morbus Tenebris