By Joshua C.


December 25th 2005 3:37 AM
An e-mail from John Samson to Katherine Shark

Hello Katherine, I don't know why I'm doing this. You broke up with me, you left me. But I need someone to talk to. I've been trying to call you for the last seven ours. There's a good chance that if you checked your cell, you'd probably see that I've called you at least twenty times, but it's important.

I'm in something deep, and I need to talk to someone. I doubt you'll talk to me. I don't blame you. I was a horrible person, but please, at least read this. If you still feel the same about carrying a conversation with me, then I'd completely understand, but I doubt that after my story you'll feel the same.

I woke up yesterday morning, Christmas eve, and did what I've done every day since that fateful day last week when you decided to end our relationship. I drank. I drank a lot. I was totally and utterly wasted. It's why I didn't believe what I saw right away, but later, I was positive.

What I saw was almost indescribable. It moved quickly. It scared the heck out of me to be truthful. Its hard for me to write this down. It's absurd really, at least to write it on paper, to say it out loud, but I know what I saw. It was a ghost.

Now take a minute to laugh, because I know how you are. Always the cynic. It's one of the qualities I loved about you. You wouldn't agree with anything without hard evidence, but you have to believe me.

I was sitting in my apartment. Wait, forget that. I was sitting in my small hole, wasted and depressed. I decided to walk over to my fridge and grab myself another beer, when I heard something. I turned around quickly to see what was behind me, but all I could see was a leg dashing away. I thought all the alcohol was starting to make me see things, so I dismissed it.

Still, it scared the heck out of me, so I quit drinking. I sat in my apartment, watching television and hoping what I saw was just a product of alcohol.

It was not.

At about 10:30, I turned on Letterman. Watched for about thirty minutes when the power went out. I thought nothing of it and decided to grab a flashlight. I pulled one out of the pantry, turned it on, then turned around. What I saw will haunt my sleep from here till the time lungs inflate their last time.

I'm sure it was a ghost, but not what we think of as a ghost. It looked as though it was writhing in pain, but at the same time it seemed like it was free of the pain it was suffering. It's body was large, half of its face was a smile, the other half a frown. It seemed to have short claws on each hand and its eyes were black as the bottom of the ocean.

It stared at me with its black eyes and I screamed. I tried to hit it with my flashlight but it went straight through its body. As that happened, something occurred which I was not prepared for. It screamed and shrieked as if it were in pain. I wondered if sending my flashlight through it hurt it, but now I'm almost positive that it felt pain.

After I screamed I ran, but it followed, even to outside my building. I ran into a field nearby. The grass was incredibly high. As I ran I tripped on something that put a large gash through my leg. I shone my flashlight on it quickly to see a small stone with writing.

Here Lies Samuel Darthsmore
May he forever rot in hell for those killed in his short life.
May he be damned!

I looked at it and then at the monster that had followed me. It also stared at the stone. Like it recognized it, like it knew what it meant. It then all locked together in my mind. That was the monsters grave stone. Its name was Samuel! So I did what I had to, I shined the light at it and that half smiling, half frowning face screamed yet again. I kept the light on it till it fell backwards, seemingly into the grave.

I then, once again ran. I arrived in my apartment and it was hours later.

This is my tale and I need your help. I need you, the only one I trust.

****

He sits at his computer. He, John Samson, stares at the email he's just written. He decides not to send it knowing how insane it sound. She'd never believe him. She'd probably have him committed.

He prepares to hit the delete button when a sound comes from behind. It is that which he thought he destroyed. The ghost. It's pale bony hand reaches out to him and he stares at it. It moves slightly then thrusts forward into him. No blood spills because it phases through his body. His heart then stops and he falls forward onto his computer. His face hitting the keyboard.

He is dead, but his computer reads one thing.

Message Sent

His story will not go untold. Unbelieved maybe, but not untold.

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