Darkwood Falls Paranormal Investigators Book One: The Dead Truth

Chapter One

Darkwood Falls Paranormal Investigators

Book One: The Dead Truth

Novel/Series Copyright 2019

By: Mallory C. Schmidt (M.C. Schmidt)

All rights reserved.  I own this story and all of its characters.  Please do not copy.

"It is hopelessness, even more than pain, that crushes the soul." -William Styron, Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness.

     I was nine years old when I saw the ghost in the basement.  I didn't know she was a ghost at the time, I just knew I didn't want to be in the same room as the lady with the bloody neck.

     There are specific pieces of that memory that flash through my mind.  The blood flowing from the pale lady's throat stands out to me the most.  I remember how red the blood looked in contrast to the white gown it was dripping on, and how sticky it looked in her dark hair.   She reached out to me, her mouth moving as if she were trying to speak, but no sound came out.  Of course, she couldn't talk when her vocal cords were severed.

     Seeing something like that is like being punched in the face.  It comes out of nowhere, and you don't know how to react at first.  You freeze and the pain is delayed a moment until your brain registers what happened.  That's when you finally decide to take action, and whether it's to run or fight is up to you. 

     As a terrified nine-year-old, I chose to run.   I remember dropping my Sweet Valley Kids book on the dusty floor, then bolting up the stairs, my legs feeling like they weighed twice as much as they usually did.  My foot caught on one of the steps and one of my white Keds went flying off.  I smacked my chin on a step, and scraped my arms and legs, but I immediately pulled myself up.  Adrenaline kept me from feeling any pain in the moment.  When I reached the basement door, I started beating on it with my fists.  I screamed.  I cried.  I begged for help.

     I know you're wondering why I didn't just open the door by turning the damn knob.  I already knew I wouldn't have any luck there.  The door was locked.  I hadn't locked it.  I knew bloody-neck-lady hadn't locked it either. 

     I was twenty-six years old when I stood in my cousin's apartment living room soaking wet from the January rain, and clutching a duffel bag full of clothes.  I didn't believe in ghosts.  I didn't believe I saw what I saw when I was nine.  I didn't believe in anything.

     "Rum or tequila?"  Those were the first words my cousin, Brandon Nelson, said to me that night.

     "Rum," I said, dropping the wet duffel bag on the floor.

     Brandon disappeared into the kitchen.  I took off my drenched coat, tossed it on the couch, then dumped my weary body beside it.  Pushing my wet hair out of my eyes, I gazed around at my cousin's apartment. If I were to drop in on anyone else unexpectedly, they would have a few standard messes around the house.  I might find some clothes on the floor, random dishes laying about, or at the very least, a speck of dust or a crumb.  It made me think of that line from Dr. Seuss' How the Grinch Stole Christmas: "And the one speck of food that he left in the house was a crumb that was even too small for a mouse."  Brandon's apartment was where mice came to starve.  Not only that, but it smelled strongly of Febreze and lemon pledge.  It was making my eyes water.

     Other than the size of crumbs, Brandon had little else in common with the Grinch.  For example: he was not green.  He was also not likely to have a heart three sizes too small.  It was actually quite the opposite.  He was one of the sweetest people I knew.