A year has passed since "The Black Rebellion" and the remaining Black Knights have vanished into the shadows, their leader and figurehead, Zero, executed by the Britannian Empire. Area 11 is once more squirming under the Emperor's oppressive heel as the Britannian armies concentrate their attacks on the European front.
But for the Britannians living in Area 11, life is back to normal. On one such normal day, a Britannian student, skipping his classes in the Ashford Academy, sneaks out to gamble on his chess play. But unknown to this young man, several forces are eying him from the shadows, for soon, he will experience a shocking encounter with his own obscured past, and the masked rebel mastermind Zero will return.
Lelouch, an exiled Imperial Prince of Britannia posing as a student, finds himself in the heart of the ongoing conflict for the island nation. Through a chance meeting with a mysterious girl named C.C., Lelouch gains his Geass, the power of the king. Now endowed with absolute dominance over any person, Lelouch may finally realize his goal of bringing down Britannia from within!
On August 10th of the year 2010 the Holy Empire of Britannia began a campaign of conquest, its sights set on Japan. Operations were completed in one month thanks to Britannia's deployment of new mobile humanoid armor vehicles dubbed Knightmare Frames. Japan's rights and identity were stripped away, the once proud nation now referred to as Area 11. Its citizens, Elevens, are forced to scratch out a living while the Britannian aristocracy lives comfortably within their settlements. Pockets of resistance appear throughout Area 11, working towards independence for Japan.
Events in After Story take place immediately after the first season, following Tomoya's final semester of high school. After declaring his love to Nagisa, they begin to have a close relationship. Their life together will be faced with unexpected challenges, as the truth behind the illusionary world and the city's legend come to light.
Okazaki Tomoya is a delinquent who finds life dull and believes he'll never amount to anything. Along with his friend Sunohara, he skips school and plans to waste his high school days away.
One day while walking to school, Tomoya passes a young girl muttering quietly to herself. Without warning she exclaims "Anpan!" (a popular Japanese food) which catches Tomoya's attention. He soon discovers the girl's name is Furukawa Nagisa and that she exclaims things she likes in order to motivate herself. Nagisa claims they are now friends, but Tomoya walks away passing the encounter off as nothing.
However, Tomoya finds he is noticing Nagisa more and more around school. Eventually he concedes and befriends her. Tomoya learns Nagisa has been held back a year due to a severe illness and that her dream is to revive the school's drama club. Claiming he has nothing better to do, he decides to help her achieve this goal along with the help of four other girls.
As Tomoya spends more time with the girls, he learns more about them and their problems. As he attempts to help each girl overcome her respective obstacle, he begins to realise life isn't as dull as he once thought.
Otonashi awakens only to learn he is dead. A rifle-toting girl named Yuri explains that they are in the afterlife, and Otonashi realizes the only thing he can remember about himself is his name. Yuri tells him that she leads the Shinda Sekai Sensen (Afterlife Battlefront) and wages war against a girl named Tenshi. Unable to believe Yuri's claims that Tenshi is evil, Otonashi attempts to speak with her, but the encounter doesn't go as he intended.
Otonashi decides to join the SSS and battle Tenshi, but he finds himself oddly drawn to her. While trying to regain his memories and understand Tenshi, he gradually unravels the mysteries of the afterlife.
WhatsApp for Android phone function has been integrated.!!
The mobile WhatsApp Messenger is as already announced receive voice services and now the phone function is reflected in the current app version for Android for the first time under the name "WhatsApp call".
Starting with version 2.11.240, the new function that allows to find it is currently already have the people submenu in the group chat. So you're in a group chat can, tapping her a participant and "Call Contact" select, then runs a WhatsApp call over the data network. The call function in normal chat still starts just a normal call over the mobile network.
If you want to try out the new function times must (as mentioned frequently) either wait for the update via Google Play, or takes an app like "WhatsApp 2Date" ( Download ) to help meeting the WhatsApp server automatically on new official APK versions checks for and downloads and installs if necessary. For more impatient user a great solution.
I'm due to the integration of the telephony function currently believe that it will not be long before WhatsApp or Facebook to launch the new "WhatsApp calls" officially announced.
Last year, WhatsApp had announced that it soon plans to roll out voice calling feature for its users. In December, a few screenshots of the feature had leaked.
According to WhatsApp CEO Jan Koum, the delay in rolling out voice calling feature was due to technical hurdles that developers were facing. He had said that the service had been delayed till Q1 2015, speaking at an industry conference in October.
The voice calling feature will bring WhatsApp in direct clash with apps like WeChat, Viber and Line that already allow users to make calls and send messages. WhatsApp is the biggest instant messaging app in the world, with 700 million active users in January 2015.
The
calling feature is included in WhatsApp's new build (2.11.508) which is
only available on WhatsApp's website at the time of filing this story.
So users will need to download the .apk file and side-load the app until
it arrives on the Play Store.
However, even after installing
the new version, voice calling will not be activated for all users.
Users will only be able to get the voice calling feature if someone who
has it enabled calls them through WhatsApp similar to an invite system. Sources added that the person who sent them the invite has
confirmed that it works on all Android phones (and not just Android 5.0
phones) and in other countries (not just India).
WhatsApp has not announced the rollout of the feature yet. Perhaps, it's still testing the feature with select users.!!
I remember the day you were born. I was waiting to meet you. your
innocent closed eyes were like two strong tiny hands clenching my heart.
Fetching me towards you, inch by inch. I couldn't go away that day. I
waited beside your mom. my heart was beating fast. I was thinking, "
there you come. there you come". I was waiting to meet you. Then I saw
your tiny little head. Your hair was wet.
You were starting a brand new journey to this earth. It was such a
struggle to pull you out from your mother's womb. Your mom was trying to
push you with each deep breath and you were gaining your new life with
each struggle. At last the Doc pulled you out. I touched your body.
Every part of your body was so soft and young and so nice. I was so
happy to see you. You were wet with goo and blood. Still you were
looking so beautiful. Your eyes were closed and your lips were shut.
Your eyes were telling a lot of things about this pitiful earth on that
day. Though still your eyes were closed. That tiny but deep disturbance
on your forehead. Like that of a king when something is not right. You
were imperial. I fell in love with you.
Then I licked you with
my long black tongue. Feeling my rough tongue slithering around your
body, you couldn't take that anymore.You screamed for the first time.
Your first cry. everyone was happy hearing you crying. I was happy too.
You were good. In a salty way of course. That flavor of blood on your
body was awesome. I still can remember that taste. You opened your eyes.
I looked at you with my watery mouth, drooling all over your face. My
dark eyes could see you through. You saw me and started crying again.
The nurse sent you to your mom. You thought, you were saved from me. How
Naive of you. After that day I have never left you out of my sight.
I sniffed you, licked you when you were not awake. You woke up with a
jerk and started crying. Your mom came only to make you feel better for
such a short time.
You started to grow up like I wanted you to.
Remember, when you were 7 and none was there with you? You heard a deep
voice coming under your bed. You were so coward even not to leave your
fingers outside your bed. You slept but I was under your bed all the
night. I'm still around. Examining every small steps you take, every
time you move your head. Don't believe me? Don't you feel that sudden
itchy sensation on your body. I'm touching you right now. You are so
beautiful. I'm surely in love with you.
You call me Boogeyman!?
No...No...No.... I'm not Boogeyman. I'm far beyond that. I live with
you. I feed upon your soul. I feed upon your energy. I'll keep sucking
you until your hair grow white. Your limbs go weak. People will start
calling you old. And then one day you will become so weak that even your
heart wouldn't have the energy to bit.
Death you say? That's
some farfetched shit. People don't die. They just go weak. So weak that
even moving a finger would be impossible. Then my time will come. I'll
start licking you. You're body will get wet again like the first time
you were born. But this time with my saliva. My stinky flesh eating
saliva. hahaha I'm so excited.
Your relatives are great that
they will pack you in a nice coffin and leave you 6 feet under ground.
No matter how much you try you wouldn't get the energy to say the word
"help". you're grave will be my dining room. personal dining place I
say. hahaha. There's one problem though, my body is too big to fit in a
mere 6 feet grave but I'll try to manage. Crawling on your chest would
help me to fit in, I believe. What do you say? Don't worry. You won't
get bored. I'm a multidoer. I'll eat and talk with you till I suck out
your brain from your dry skull. Umm....I'm sooo excited. Getting
goosebumps all over my slimy body. I can't wait to make you old. You're
so beautiful.
Once you read this chain letter you cannot get out. Finish reading this until it is done!
Hi, I am Teddy. I am 7 years old. I have no eyes and blood all over my
face. I am dead. If you don’t send this to at least 12 people I will
come to your house at midnight and I’ll hide under your bed. When you’re
asleep, I’ll kill you.
Don’t believe me?
Case 1: Patty Buckles got this chain e-mail. She didn’t believe in
chain letters. Well, foolish Patty. She was sleeping when her TV started
flickering on and off. Now she’s not with us anymore. Ha ha Patty, Ha
ha! You don’t want to be like Patty, do you?
Case 2: George M.
Simon hated chain e-mails, but he didn’t want to die that night. He
sent it to 4 people. Not good enough George. Now, George is in a coma.
we don’t know if he’ll ever wake up. Ha ha George, Ha ha! Now, do you
want to be like George?
Case 3: Valarie Tyler got this chain
e-mail. Just another chain letter, or so she thought. Only had 7 people
to send to. Well, that night when she was having a shower she saw a
bloody figure in the mirror. She got the biggest fright of her life.
Valarie is scarred for life.
Case 4: Derek Minse was a smart
person. He sent it to 12 people. Later that day, he found a $100 bill on
the ground. He was promoted to head manager at his job and his
girlfriend agreed to marry him. Now, he and his wife are living happily
ever after. They have two beautiful children.
Send this to at least 12 people or you’ll face the consequences.
0 people – You will die tonight! 1-6 people – you will be injured! 7-11 people – you will get the biggest fright of your life! 12 and over – you are safe and will have good fortune!
Do What Teddy Says!!!! Hurry, you must send to 12 people before midnight.
* Look! This is what we do. Introducing you with these types of things.
Please don't embarrass yourself by commenting such things like you
don't believe this or you don't believe that. It's your own decision.
Just don't ruin the fun of others. May be he Is right under your bed.
Sleep well, Readers.
Susan and Ned were driving through a wooded empty section of highway.
Lightning flashed, thunder roared, the sky went dark in the torrential
downpour. “We’d better stop,” s aid Susan. Ned nodded his head
in agreement. He stepped on the brake, and suddenly the car started to
slide on the slick pavement. They plunged off the road and slid to a
halt at the bottom of an incline.
Pale and shaking, Ned quickly turned to check if Susan was all right.
When s he nodded, Ned relaxed and looked through the rain soaked
windows. “I’m going to see how bad it is,” he told Susan, and when
out into the storm. She saw his blurry figure in the headlight, walking
around the front of the car. A moment later, he jumped in beside her,
soaking wet. “The car’s not badly damaged, but we’re wheel-deep in mud,” he said. “I’m going to have to go for help.”
Susan swallowed nervously. There would be no quick rescue here. He
told her to turn off the headlights and lock the doors until he
returned. Axe Murder Hollow. Although Ned hadn’t said the name
aloud, they both knew what he had been thinking when he told her to lock
the car. This was the place where a man had once taken an axe and
hacked his wife to death in a jealous rage over an alleged affair.
Supposedly, the axe-wielding spirit of the husband continued to haunt
this section of the road. Outside the car, Susan heard a shriek, a
loud thump, and a strange gurgling noise. Butshe couldn’t see anything
in the darkness. Frightened, she shrank down into her seat. She sat
in silence for a while, and then she noticed another sound. Bump. Bump.
Bump. It was a soft sound,like something being blown by the wind.
Suddenly, the car was illuminated by a bright light. An official
sounding voice told her toget out of the car. Ned must have found a
police officer. Susan unlocked the door and stepped out of the car. As
her eyes adjusted to the bright light, she saw it. Hanging by his
feet from the tree next to the car was the dead body of Ned. His bloody
throat had been cut so deeply that he was nearly decapitated. The wind
swung his corpse back and forth so that it thumped against the tree.
Bump.Bump. Bump. Susan screamed and ran toward the voice and the
light. As she drew close, she realized the light was not coming from a
flashlight. Standing there was the glowing figure of a man with a smile
on his face and a large, solid, and definitely real axe in his hands.
She backed away from the glowing figure until she bumped into the car.
“Playing around when my back was turned,” the ghost whispered,
stroking the sharp blade of the axe with his fingers.“You’ve been very
naughty.” The last thing she saw was the glint of the axe blade in the eerie, incandescent light.
This may be the only case where an alleged spiritual possession led to a formal legal judgment of murder.
On February 13, 1936, the body of local resident Giuseppe “Pepe”
Veraldi was found under the Morandi bridge in the city of Catanzaro,
Italy. The body was in bad shape and had obviously fallen from the
bridge above. The cause of death was determined to be severe damage to
the head. Due to the injuries and
the lack of any evidence of foul play, the police decided it was a
suicide and stopped any further investigation. Pepe’s family protested
that there was no reason for him to have killed himself, but the police
did not re-open the case. The death was the talk of the town for several months, but it eventually faded from public gossip. It wasn’t until three years later that Pepe’s death would return to the forefront of attention.
One morning in January of 1939, Maria Talarico, a teenaged girl of the
city, was walking across the same bridge, as she had done many times
before. About halfway across she suddenly stopped, walked over to the
side from which Pepe had allegedly jumped,and mysteriously fainted.
Several people were nearby and promptly arranged for Maria to be carted
home. Once in her own home, she awakened and initially seemed to be
herself until she spoke. Instead of her usual voice, she spoke in a
rasping male voice and told those present that she was Pepe Veraldi, and
demanded to speak to his mother. After the shock had worn off somewhat,
one of the neighbors ran off to fetch Mrs. Veraldi. During the wait,
“Pepe” asked for wine and cigarettes and playing cards — proposing that
he and some of the men have a game until his mother arrived. Needless to
say, this was not in any way similar to Maria’s normal behavior.
Eventually Pepe’s mother showed up and he quickly told her (via Maria)
that he had been murdered but did not name the culprit(s). As this
information began to sink in with those gathered at the Talarico home,
Maria quickly got up and ran outside to the exact place under the bridge
where Pepe’s corpse had fallen. Those from Maria’s household followed
her, and when Pepe’s mother arrived she ordered her son’s spirit to
leave Maria. Apparently it did, as Maria instantly “woke up” but
remembered nothing of the past since she had initially fainted on the
bridge. Most likely Pepe’s mother went to the police with this
information, but without names, there was nothing they could do. And
they might have found the whole story too difficult to believe. The
story would have ended there had it not been for a letter Pepe’s mother
received nine years after Maria’s apparent possession. The letter was
from one of Pepe’s former friends who was living in Argentina. He
confessed to killing Pepe in an argument over a woman. Three other men
helped him commit the crime, he said, and he named them — something
Pepe’s ghost had not done. Pepe’s mother now had something concrete
to prove that her son had not killed himself. She took the letter to the
police. One of the accomplices had died, but the other two were
investigated, arrested, tried, convicted, and jailed.
There's this place called Swanson Field. I haven't been up there for a
while. Well, more than a while, probably years. I drive past it all the
time, but this time for some reason or another, I stopped. I remember
back when I was a kid, people always said the field was haunted, though
personally I don't believe in ghosts, but it's got enough people spooked
to catch my attention.
The weird thing is, it's just a
field. No abandoned house or strange structures or anything. As I look
around all I can see is the damp swampiness of the field. The only
reason I really remember it is that when I was kid we would go there
every halloween night. It's funny that I'm only remembering this right
now.
All the kids in school would work on masks the day
before Halloween. We used to call it Mischief day. Making the mask and
getting ready for the walk through swanson field the next day. I would
always work hard on my mask making it look really cool. The teachers
would always put this sort of strange diamond thing on the forhead of
the mask. that always ruined the look of my mask. The star thing made it
look, well, lame.
We never went trick-or-treating, we
always just went with our parents to Swanson Field then walked through
it. But we were never allowed to talk about the field, let alone even
walk through it other than Halloween night. My parents and the other
kids parents never looked down at us when we were walking no matter how
much we made a fool of our selfs or pestered them. We never made eye
contact, and there was a rule that we could not take our masks off until
our parents said we could.
There were also these people
that moved out in the woods instead of inside the field. I could never
recognize them from my town. When I saw them, they were people but they
didn't move like people, they moved like deer. It was a sort of swooping
up and down into the shadows of the trees, but they walked on two legs.
They had great costumes, they almost looked real. The costumes were
completely black with mouths on the back, the front, the top, and sides
of the head. the reason I could tell see the mouths were that they were
more of a grey-ish hue, instead of black, like the rest of the body.
It's funny, I could never remember how the night ever ended. I always
woke up in my bed, and the last thing I could remember was taking off
the mask or leaving the field. I probably just fell asleep and my
parents brought me home.
Then, then nobody ever brought
it up again. Grownups would get mad if you talked about the ghosts of
kids in the field, hell I even remember a kid being sent to the
dentention for drawing the little diamond thing on the forheads of the
mask. I remember feeling annoyed about that if they hated the thing so
much why did they make us wear it, always ruining my mask.
Before Chrismas break the teacher would tell us a story about Swanson
Field. They would tell it when the sun was setting really, really,
early. The story was that people could hear the voices of kids in the
field. I never really new why they did it, but nobody ever asked. It was
a few days before Christmas so I had no reason to think about that. The
teacher always said that Swanson Field was a special place, but you
should never go there alone. And this is the first time I have been back
on this field for almost 12 years. It's strange, I mean, I don't hear
anything. Do you?
The Haunting Case of WW II Ghost Planes It's not hard to find reports of World War II ghost planes. Unfortunately, it's quite hard to find documented sources of these ghostly tales. The fact is, they're all pretty much folk tales. They take many forms, but there are two basic types. First, you have post-war stories about people encountering planes from the past. Typically, you'll have a young couple out for a country stroll in the 1960s, 70s or 80s. They hear an odd sound and turn around to see a prop-driven vintage warplane cruising along at low altitude,or perhaps an entire flight of them. Some of these stories are heavily embellished (the plane disappears into thin air, the sighting was a harbinger of a tragic plane crash that happened shortly thereafter, the ghostly pilots waved sadly to the witnesses as they passed). Stories might incorporate speculation about "time slips." The second type is more interesting. These are ghost plane sightings that happened during the war. In its most common form, the story revolves around a flight of planes thatleft for a dangerous mission. Later, all the planes return and are accounted for except one. Everyone watches the sky, hoping they made it out alive, but no plane appears on the horizon. Then, hours later, the drone of radial engines sounds in the distance. A plane is spotted. Could it be their missing comrades? But, no they would have run out of fuel hours ago. Still, there it is, heavily damaged, limping along toward the air field. It makes a ragged landing and fellow airmen rush to the scene. Inside the plane they find…nothing. Not a soul. Nota corpse. And the fuel tanks are bone dry. There are variations – sometimes the crew is on board, but dead. Sometimes the plane is so badly damaged there's no physical way it could have flown. There's a story that a U.S. plane appeared over the California coast hours after the Pearl Harbor attack, smoking and sputtering. Witnesses could see a pilot on board, but when the plane crashed, the wreckage was empty.
Story no 2
WORLD
WAR II WAS A PERIOD OF DRAMATIC CHANGE ACROSS THE GLOBE. BUT ALONG WITH
ALL THE POLITICAL MACHINATIONS AND MILITARY STRATEGIES, SOME SERIOUSLY
BIZARRE STUFF HAPPENED. A few months after Pearl Harbor, America was
pretty on-edge, especially along the west coast. Everyone was scanning
the sky and sea in fear of another Japanese attack. A Japanese submarine
had shelled the Ellwood oilfield near Santa
Barbara in February of 1942. Later that month, the mounting tension
exploded into full-blown hysteria. An AWOL weather balloon triggered the
initial panic. After that, flares were fired into the night sky, either
to illuminate potential threats or signal danger. People saw the flares
as more attackers, and a barrage of anti-aircraft fire soon filled the
night. The activity continued for several nights. In the end, the
only casualties from the whole affair were three heart attack victims
and three dead due to friendly fire. No Japanese aircraft were found,
and the Japanese later denied having anything in the air near L.A. at
the time. That's the official story, at least. There were claims of a
cover-up and a bunch of wild theories. The incident was five years
prior to the Kenneth Arnold flying saucer report that sparked the U.S.
UFO craze, but this is sometimes retroactively described as one of the
first major UFO sightings. Newspapers at the time thought the whole
thing was orchestrated to drum up support for the war effort by inducing
panic. Tight-lipped military reports did little to alleviate concerns –
a full public investigation wasn't performed until 40 years later.
I'll
try to explain a myth from Bangladesh. I read a story about this and
from that time it really made me curious. Generally it came from
Calcutta and southwestern part of Bangladesh. Native people call it
'Nishir Daak'. in english, we can call this 'The Call of Night'. This is
a ritual where rich people when
terribly ill, give a lot of money to the local priest to arrange a
deadly ritual to save themselves. We know that nothing is impossible but
we should always keep in mind that nothing comes for free. To save a
man by this ritual, a healthy man must be sacrificed.
Things needed: 1. a green coconut 2. a black towel 3. full moon at sky 4.a priest.
Methods:
in this ritual a priest needs to fast for 7 days. he can eat nothing
but dead fetuses. as collecting them to eat is hard so most of the time
the priests fast for 7 days by only drinking water. When time comes he
starts his journey to another village carrying a bag where there's a
black towel and a green coconut. After reaching another village he waits
for midnight. after midnight he cut the coconut and by holding it with
his left hand, he starts calling the names of people living in the
houses nearby. He calls by each name for two times. Whenever a person
replies him,his soul gets stolen and the priest covers the coconut with
that dark cloth so that the soul can't escape from the coconut shell.
The priest keeps calling till the sun rises and tries to collect as many
souls as possible. After the sun rise he comes back to that ill person
and gives away the coconut water to him to drink. After drinking the
water that ill person will start to get well day by day and the
condition of the victims will get worse day by day. And later one day
when the victims die that ill person will also be recovered fully.
* This might be the reason why people in village do not reply to a call
untill they heard it for at least three times. Next time in a full
moon night stay alert or you might be the next victim. Still, it's not
so bad. Giving away your own life for someone else's is a noble act.
November 10, 1975 the bulk freighter Edmund Fitzgerald sank in Lake
Superior with all hands. This page is dedicated to the memory of the 29
men lost that night and the families they left behind.
The Fitzgerald cleared Superior, Wisconsin, on her last trip on
November 9, 1975, with a cargo of 26,116 tons of taconite pellets
consigned to Detroit. Traveling down Lake Superior in company with
ARTHUR M. ANDERSON of the United States Steel Corporation's Great Lakes
Fleet, she encountered heavy weather and in the early evening of
November 10th, suddenly foundered approximately 17 miles from the
entrance to Whitefish Bay (47º North Latitude, 85º 7' West Longitude)
Captain McSorley of the "FITZ" had indicated he was having difficulty
and was taking on water. She was listing to port and had two of three
ballast pumps working. She had lost her radar and damage was noted to
ballast tank vent pipes and he was overheard on the radio saying, "don't
allow nobody (sic) on deck." McSorley said it was the worst storm he
had ever seen. All 29 officers and crew, including a Great Lakes
Maritime Academy cadet, went down with the ship, which lies broken in
two sections in 530 feet of water.
Surveyed by the U.S. Coast
Guard in 1976 using the U.S. Navy CURV III system, the wreckage
consisted of an upright bow section, approximately 275 feet long and an
inverted stern section, about 253 feet long, and a debris field
comprised of the rest of the hull in between. Both sections lie within
170 feet of each other.
The EDMUND FITZGERALD was removed from documentation January, 1976.
The National Transportation Safety Board unanimously voted on March 23,
1978 to reject the U. S. Coast Guard's official report supporting the
theory of faulty hatches. Later the N.T.S.B. revised its verdict and
reached a majority vote to agree that the sinking was caused by taking
on water through one or more hatch covers damaged by the impact of heavy
seas over her deck.
This is contrary to the Lake Carriers
Association's contention that her foundering was caused by flooding
through bottom and ballast tank damage resulting from bottoming on the
Six Fathom Shoal between Caribou and Michipicoten Islands.
The
U.S. Coast Guard, report on August 2, 1977 cited faulty hatch covers,
lack of water tight cargo hold bulkheads and damage caused from an
undetermined source.
The name 'Jack the
Ripper' has become the most infamous in the annals of murder. Yet, the
amazing fact is that his identity remains unproven today. In the years
1888-1891 the name was regarded with terror by the residents of London's
East End, and was known the world over. So shrouded in myth and mystery
is this story that the facts are hard to identify at this remove in
time. And it was the officers of Scotland Yard to whom the task of
apprehending the fearsome killer was entrusted.
They may have
failed, but they failed honourably, having made every effort and inquiry
in their power to free London of the unknown terror. Sir Neville Macnaghten
Over the years the mystery has deepened to the degree that the truth is
almost totally obscured. Innumerable press stories, pamphlets, books,
plays, films, and even musicals have dramatised and distorted the facts
to such a degree that the fiction is publicly accepted more than the
reality.
Suspects
Suffice to say genuine suspects are far
fewer than the prolific authors of the genre would have us believe. In
fact, to reduce them to only those with a genuine claim having been
nominated by contemporary police officers, we are left with a mere four.
They are:
Kosminski, a poor Polish Jewish resident in Whitechapel; Montague John Druitt, a 31 year old barrister and school teacher who committed suicide in December 1888;
Michael Ostrog, a Russian-born multi-pseudonymous thief and
confidence trickster, believed to be 55 years old in 1888, and detained
in asylums on several occasions; Dr Francis J. Tumblety, 56
Years old, an American 'quack' doctor, who was arrested in November 1888
for offences of gross indecency, and fled the country later the same
month, having obtained bail at a very high price.
The first three
of these suspects were nominated by Sir Melville Macnaghten, who joined
the Metropolitan Police as Assistant Chief Constable, second in command
of the Criminal Investigation Deptment (C.I.D.) at Scotland Yard in
June 1889. They were named in a report dated 23 February 1894, although
there is no evidence of contemporary police suspicion against the three
at the time of the murders. Indeed, Macnaghten's report contains several
odd factual errors.
Kosminski was certainly favoured by the
head of the C.I.D. Dr. Robert Anderson, and the officer in charge of the
case, Chief Inspector Donald Swanson. Druitt appears to have been
Macnaghten's preferred candidate, whilst the fact that Ostrog was
arrested and incarcerated before the report was compiled leaves the
historian puzzling why he was included as a viable suspect in the first
place.
The fourth suspect, Tumblety, was stated to have been
"amongst the suspects" at the time of the murders and "to my mind a very
likely one," by the ex-head of the Special Branch at Scotland Yard in
1888, ex-Detective Chief lspector John George Littlechild. He confided
his thoughts in a letter dated 23 September, 1913, to the criminological
journalist and author George R Sims.
For a list of viable suspects they have not inspired any uniform confidence in the minds of those well-versed in the case.
Indeed, arguments can be made against all of them being the culprit,
and no hard evidence exists against any of them. What is obvious is the
fact that the police were at no stage in a position to prove a case
against anyone, and it is highly unlikely a positive case will ever be
proved. If the police were in this position in 1888-1891, then what hope
for the enthusiastic modern investigator?
To clear the confusion
for the new student of the case we have to return to factual basics.
Just who was 'Jack the Ripper,' and what were the 'Whitechapel murders'?
What has to be understood is the fact that the 'Ripper' murders and the
'Whitechapel murders' are not the same thing, although the latter does
include the 'Ripper' murders. So to set the scene, the list of the
eleven Whitechapel murders, (all of which at some stage have been looked
upon as 'Ripper' murders), was as follows:
Throat cutting
attended the murders of Nichols, Chapman, Stride, Eddowes, Kelly,
McKenzie and Coles. In all except the cases of Stride and Mylett there
was abdominal mutilation. In the case of Chapman the uterus was taken
away by the killer.
I... I don't... don't know where I am. There's so much light...
Am I dead?
My whole body is hurting... I guess that means I'm not dead yet. At least not entirely.
Everything is becoming clearer now. But that damned light is getting to me.
I think I'm in a hospital. I'm getting up, or rather trying to. My neck aches no matter how slowly I move it.
"Please stay on your back. You've been through a lot recently," a nurse says to me.
I look down to my arms and legs. They're covered in bruises, scars and
cuts. Necrosis (gangrene) is even on my toes. But how did this happen?!
"What is your name?" She asks me. I tell her my name, wondering how the hell I remember it but not what happened.
My lower body is feeling like it's on fire. They had better act fast if they want to heal me.
"What happened to me?" I ask her.
"You were almost hit by a semi. In the midst of evading it, you fell
over a stump and were scratched by several tree branches that were
laying there. The driver was a psychopath who had just been on a killing
streak in the neighborhood. He stopped the vehicle and went to finish
you off personally due to the lane not being big enough to turn his
truck around. After a hard fight you were able to kill him," she says to
me, as though it were nothing important.
"Impossible!" I shout back, hurting my lungs in the process. "What proof do you have?!"
"Your own testimony, sir. We arrived on the scene shortly after your
fight and asked you what had happened. You responded with everything I
told you," she says.
"If that's so, then why do I have
gangrene?!" The stench from my battered body is unbearable, nauseating
me already. This day just keeps getting worse every minute.
"Calm
down, sir. You were laying in the snow afterwards. It was winter when
it happened, and your feet began to suffer from necrosis," she explains.
"Now I need you to lie still. We're going to preform surgery on you."
I look around my room. The door is shut tightly and only the lights
above keep the room from descending into blackness. It's growing hard to
breathe every second I'm not operated on.
The nurse is taking out some kind of device to perform surgery on me. She's moving towards my legs.
"Wait! You need anesthetics, right? Get some for me now, I'll be in great pain if you don't! Are you mad?!"
She giggles at that, saying- "We're in Hell, of course it's going to be painful!"
My story takes place in a town you’ve probably never
heard of in south-eastern rural Kentucky. It’s a small town with its
people sparsely peppering the mountainsides to and fro. It’s the type of
town where it isn’t exactly unusual to find neighbors bartering for
goods with livestock, living off what the land provides, and making do
with what they’ve got. It is here that my father was raised. It is here
that my father raised his family.
My father was a proud man;
short, barely 5’7”, but stout. He was many things – a mountaineer,
carpenter, a survivor, a hunter…but mostly, he was proud. He instilled
in me all the virtues that I believe in today. He’s the type of man that
would give you the last dollar to his name. The type that would go
hungry to make sure his children were fed, and there were times that he
did. I suppose I should clarify that I grew up in poverty. No doubt
there were those that were worse off than me, but times were hard
nonetheless. My father worked intermittently, mostly in construction.
There were few homes within the community that my father did not at
least help with. He built our house from the ground up, dug out the
basement, and leveled the land with little more than a shovel, wheel
barrel, and the helping hands of my uncle and two older brothers. Our
house sat on a hillside, in a leveled alcove; the yard stretched on for
what seemed like forever, ending at a fresh mountain brook where the
woodland lied beyond.
He spent a lot of time in those woods –
hiking trails, digging ginseng, hunting, and otherwise passing time. The
mountains provided our family with many necessities. Our water was
pumped from a mine near the mountain’s peak. Our food consisted mainly
of game and livestock. My mother is a wonderful cook. She had a fondness
for chicken – which we raised. My father, on the other hand, preferred
game. No stranger to the culinary arts, my father was adept at preparing
a variety of dishes. All of which he tracked and killed himself. Long
before the sun would rise, my father would grab his light and head out.
He would follow the mountain stream before turning off onto one of the
many mine roads that littered the terrain. One such road ran by an old
graveyard long since forgotten by the rest of the world. Some headstones
there dated back to the onset of the 19th century.
I recall one
night my father decided to go spotting. For those of you unfamiliar,
spotting is a common practice amongst Appalachian hunters (perhaps
amongst hunters in general, but I do not hunt so I am not sure). The
hunter will set out before sunrise, taking a light and little else. The
hunter will then proceed to shine the light, much like a spotlight, in
hopes of catching a glimpse of an animal’s eyes. You see, the eyes of an
animal are luminous; and in complete darkness when the light passes
over them they will shine. This is a method of establishing good hunting
venues. On this particular night, my father broke tradition and decided
to take his shotgun with him on his spotting expedition. This decision,
I would later learn, saved his life.
It was a warm spring night.
I was always a night owl, so when my father stirred, I was still awake
and playing my Super Nintendo. It was not a school night, so I was
greeted with his ever present smile. “Hey big man,” he chimed. “You’re
up late.”
“I want to beat Mario,” I told him, my eyes leaving the
screen long enough to see him tying his boots. He didn’t reply, he just
smiled and rubbed my head as he passed me on his way to the gun
cabinet. From it, he removed his customary 12 gauge shotgun, some
rounds, and a miner’s light. The light, I recall, strapped to his
forehead and attached to a rather large battery that he hung at his
waist. He then made his way to the couch and sat next to me. He casually
lifted the TV remote and waited. When I finished the level he smiled.
“Pause it. I need to check the forecast,” he told me. I obliged and he
changed the channel. He watched as the forecaster rambled on about the
weather and seemed content. “Not giving rain for today. That’s good.” He
turned to me and smiled again. “Okay. You can go back to your game. I’m
going out. I’ll be back in a while, tell your mother I’ll bring home
supper. Tonight, we’re going to have rabbit.” He kissed my forehead and
stood. I smiled at him as he rounded the hallway corner to our front
door. I listened to the door shut and to the clunk of his boots as he
made his way off the porch, down the steps and through the yard. His
steps faded in the distance. From this point on, I cannot vouch for the
validity of my tale, but I can tale you that the man who returned was
not the man that left. Make no mistake, my father did return; but he was
a changed man. He never spoke much of that night until after I had
started college. This is his story.
Like most other nights, he
headed up the mountain via a trail that ran alongside the brook. The air
was still and warm and the moon and stars shone bright. There were no
clouds, and the forecast was clear. The sound of cicadas and crickets
filled the air. He made his way along the trail intermittently shining
his light on either side of the stream. He walked along the stream until
he reached a fork in the path. To his left was his customary turn off,
further up that trail was an old slate dump. Above it was a derelict
coal shoot. He shined his light along that trail and contemplated. He
had been talking with his hunting buddies and they had mentioned a sweet
spot near the graveyard. A warren of rabbits had apparently taken
residence near the abandoned cemetery, and they had all had good fortune
when hunting there. My father thought on it for a moment before turning
to the right. The right trail lead on up the mountain to the mine where
we drew our water. It passed by the cemetery where the rabbits were
said to reside. He continued to follow the stream until making his way
to the cemetery.
Upon his arrival, he skimmed his light back and
forth across the plots. If there was a warren here, the rabbits were
definitely not being very active tonight. He trudged amongst the plots
until finally deciding to move on. He walked back to the trail and
stopped. He could go back along the stream trail and to the slate dump –
at the very least, he thought, he could cover grounds he was used to
hunting. Instead, he decided to follow the trail further. He had been
walking for a little more than fifteen minutes when he noticed a strange
phenomenon. The light from the moon and stars was completely gone.
Clouds covered the sky and in the distance somewhere there was flash of
lightning. He counted the seconds to the thunder. The sky roared a
moment then fell silent. There was no rain. He silently observed his
surroundings, shining his light on either side of the trail. He paused
for a moment longer, and then trudged on. As he walked he noticed
something else. Very faint, and very rhythmically his footsteps were
echoing. This was unusual. If you’ve ever been in a wooded mountain, one
thing you’ll notice is that the mountains are excellent listeners and
seldom repeat what they’re told. It was then the silence consumed him.
The cicadas, the crickets, the owls – they were all hushed. My father
stopped and shined his light around him. He saw nothing and after a
moment he continued along the trail.
The echo was silent for a
moment then started up again. With every crunch of my father’s feet, he
could hear a crunch simultaneously hit the trail behind him. Someone, or
something, was following him. Deliberately and furtively stalking him.
He stopped again, and so did his echo. He shined the light around him
again, in all directions. Down the trail, into the trees, and even into
the air. Nothing. There was absolutely nothing there. He carefully
observed his surroundings. It was then he noticed another trail, not
three feet from him on the other side of the brush. Silently, he began
devising a plan. He decided that he would begin walking again, and when
the echo recommenced he’d take another step…but he’d stop. If it was his
mind playing tricks then the echo would stop too. He turned up the
trail and continued along his way. Within moments the echo re-emerged.
He waited until he was confident it the time was right, and he
stepped…and stopped mid step. His foot was barely an inch from the
ground.
*CRUNCH*
The sound resonated through his being and
sent shivers down his spine. He spun around and shined the light again
only to be greeted by darkness. He turned back up the trail and
quickened his pace. This time the strides did not mimic his own. They
were faster and louder. It dawned on my father at this point that he had
pissed it off, whatever it was. He loaded his shotgun as another plan
developed in his mind. He decided to step through the brush to the trail
on the other side. There he would wait for It to pass him, and he would
turn the tides. Without hesitation he cut off his light and stepped
across the brush and waited in darkness. The sound of Its strides
continued up the trail before stopping what sounded like mere feet away.
Then It crossed through the brush, coming to a halt beside him. His
stomach sank and he fumbled for his light. He could feel eyes burning
into his skin, boring holes into his brain. The light came on with a
sudden flash…nothing. There was absolutely nothing there. He shined the
light all around him. There was no sign of anything passing through the
brush, no sign of anything walking along the trail. My father, an expert
hunter, could find no trace of the thing that was stalking him. He
shined his light further up the trail and saw something. A building…the
old coal shoot that was just above the slate dump. He bolted for it. He
could hear Its strides coming up fast behind him. He turned into the
coal shoot and dove in. The shoot collapsed around him, sending him
pouring down onto slate and rock. He quickly made his way to his feet
and shined his light towards the shoot, shotgun in firing position. He
could hear It moving fast up the trail. He heard It hit the coal shoot.
The shoot thundered and trembled under Its weight, but my father
couldn’t see anything. He blindly fired, pumped, and fired again and
again. The boom of his shotgun echoed throughout the valley…the sound
matched by a roar that made the hair on his neck stand. The shoot was
silent for a moment. Then he heard Its strides bolt in the opposite
direction. It made its way up the mountain towards the mine. He listened
for a long time. Silence.
He got home around noon. He was beaten
up pretty badly from his fall. He never said a word. My mother
attempted to console him, and he silently looked at her. His eyes filled
with dread and his ever present smile gone. Not long after that he and
my mom separated. The court ordered that the house be turned over to me
upon my 21st birthday. I returned home to find him sitting on the porch,
shotgun beside him. He had long since erected a security fence around
the property. He told me his tale and he told me that he continued to
hear It. When he walked to his mother’s or when he trimmed the hedges
and mowed the lawn. He could hear It following him. Ever presently, It
stalked him. Hunted him.
After my father passed, I left the house
empty. It didn’t feel right taking it when he had built it from the
ground up. But then I met the woman who would become my wife. We married
after I graduated college, and now she’s pregnant with my son. I
brought my family back here, to raise them where I was raised.
But I write this now because I am afraid. Each night I do a quick sweep
of the property. I check the house and then I check the yard…and each
night I can hear my footsteps echoing beyond the fence.
A year has passed since "The Black Rebellion" and the remaining Black Knights have vanished into the shadows, their leader and figurehead, Zero, executed by the Britannian Empire. Area 11 is once more squirming under the Emperor's oppressive heel as the Britannian armies concentrate their attacks on the European front.
But for the Britannians living in Area 11, life is back to normal. On one such normal day, a Britannian student, skipping his classes in the Ashford Academy, sneaks out to gamble on his chess play. But unknown to this young man, several forces are eying him from the shadows, for soon, he will experience a shocking encounter with his own obscured past, and the masked rebel mastermind Zero will return.
Lelouch, an exiled Imperial Prince of Britannia posing as a student, finds himself in the heart of the ongoing conflict for the island nation. Through a chance meeting with a mysterious girl named C.C., Lelouch gains his Geass, the power of the king. Now endowed with absolute dominance over any person, Lelouch may finally realize his goal of bringing down Britannia from within!
On August 10th of the year 2010 the Holy Empire of Britannia began a campaign of conquest, its sights set on Japan. Operations were completed in one month thanks to Britannia's deployment of new mobile humanoid armor vehicles dubbed Knightmare Frames. Japan's rights and identity were stripped away, the once proud nation now referred to as Area 11. Its citizens, Elevens, are forced to scratch out a living while the Britannian aristocracy lives comfortably within their settlements. Pockets of resistance appear throughout Area 11, working towards independence for Japan.
Events in After Story take place immediately after the first season, following Tomoya's final semester of high school. After declaring his love to Nagisa, they begin to have a close relationship. Their life together will be faced with unexpected challenges, as the truth behind the illusionary world and the city's legend come to light.
Okazaki Tomoya is a delinquent who finds life dull and believes he'll never amount to anything. Along with his friend Sunohara, he skips school and plans to waste his high school days away.
One day while walking to school, Tomoya passes a young girl muttering quietly to herself. Without warning she exclaims "Anpan!" (a popular Japanese food) which catches Tomoya's attention. He soon discovers the girl's name is Furukawa Nagisa and that she exclaims things she likes in order to motivate herself. Nagisa claims they are now friends, but Tomoya walks away passing the encounter off as nothing.
However, Tomoya finds he is noticing Nagisa more and more around school. Eventually he concedes and befriends her. Tomoya learns Nagisa has been held back a year due to a severe illness and that her dream is to revive the school's drama club. Claiming he has nothing better to do, he decides to help her achieve this goal along with the help of four other girls.
As Tomoya spends more time with the girls, he learns more about them and their problems. As he attempts to help each girl overcome her respective obstacle, he begins to realise life isn't as dull as he once thought.
Otonashi awakens only to learn he is dead. A rifle-toting girl named Yuri explains that they are in the afterlife, and Otonashi realizes the only thing he can remember about himself is his name. Yuri tells him that she leads the Shinda Sekai Sensen (Afterlife Battlefront) and wages war against a girl named Tenshi. Unable to believe Yuri's claims that Tenshi is evil, Otonashi attempts to speak with her, but the encounter doesn't go as he intended.
Otonashi decides to join the SSS and battle Tenshi, but he finds himself oddly drawn to her. While trying to regain his memories and understand Tenshi, he gradually unravels the mysteries of the afterlife.
WhatsApp for Android phone function has been integrated.!!
The mobile WhatsApp Messenger is as already announced receive voice services and now the phone function is reflected in the current app version for Android for the first time under the name "WhatsApp call".
Starting with version 2.11.240, the new function that allows to find it is currently already have the people submenu in the group chat. So you're in a group chat can, tapping her a participant and "Call Contact" select, then runs a WhatsApp call over the data network. The call function in normal chat still starts just a normal call over the mobile network.
If you want to try out the new function times must (as mentioned frequently) either wait for the update via Google Play, or takes an app like "WhatsApp 2Date" ( Download ) to help meeting the WhatsApp server automatically on new official APK versions checks for and downloads and installs if necessary. For more impatient user a great solution.
I'm due to the integration of the telephony function currently believe that it will not be long before WhatsApp or Facebook to launch the new "WhatsApp calls" officially announced.
Last year, WhatsApp had announced that it soon plans to roll out voice calling feature for its users. In December, a few screenshots of the feature had leaked.
According to WhatsApp CEO Jan Koum, the delay in rolling out voice calling feature was due to technical hurdles that developers were facing. He had said that the service had been delayed till Q1 2015, speaking at an industry conference in October.
The voice calling feature will bring WhatsApp in direct clash with apps like WeChat, Viber and Line that already allow users to make calls and send messages. WhatsApp is the biggest instant messaging app in the world, with 700 million active users in January 2015.
The
calling feature is included in WhatsApp's new build (2.11.508) which is
only available on WhatsApp's website at the time of filing this story.
So users will need to download the .apk file and side-load the app until
it arrives on the Play Store.
However, even after installing
the new version, voice calling will not be activated for all users.
Users will only be able to get the voice calling feature if someone who
has it enabled calls them through WhatsApp similar to an invite system. Sources added that the person who sent them the invite has
confirmed that it works on all Android phones (and not just Android 5.0
phones) and in other countries (not just India).
WhatsApp has not announced the rollout of the feature yet. Perhaps, it's still testing the feature with select users.!!
I remember the day you were born. I was waiting to meet you. your
innocent closed eyes were like two strong tiny hands clenching my heart.
Fetching me towards you, inch by inch. I couldn't go away that day. I
waited beside your mom. my heart was beating fast. I was thinking, "
there you come. there you come". I was waiting to meet you. Then I saw
your tiny little head. Your hair was wet.
You were starting a brand new journey to this earth. It was such a
struggle to pull you out from your mother's womb. Your mom was trying to
push you with each deep breath and you were gaining your new life with
each struggle. At last the Doc pulled you out. I touched your body.
Every part of your body was so soft and young and so nice. I was so
happy to see you. You were wet with goo and blood. Still you were
looking so beautiful. Your eyes were closed and your lips were shut.
Your eyes were telling a lot of things about this pitiful earth on that
day. Though still your eyes were closed. That tiny but deep disturbance
on your forehead. Like that of a king when something is not right. You
were imperial. I fell in love with you.
Then I licked you with
my long black tongue. Feeling my rough tongue slithering around your
body, you couldn't take that anymore.You screamed for the first time.
Your first cry. everyone was happy hearing you crying. I was happy too.
You were good. In a salty way of course. That flavor of blood on your
body was awesome. I still can remember that taste. You opened your eyes.
I looked at you with my watery mouth, drooling all over your face. My
dark eyes could see you through. You saw me and started crying again.
The nurse sent you to your mom. You thought, you were saved from me. How
Naive of you. After that day I have never left you out of my sight.
I sniffed you, licked you when you were not awake. You woke up with a
jerk and started crying. Your mom came only to make you feel better for
such a short time.
You started to grow up like I wanted you to.
Remember, when you were 7 and none was there with you? You heard a deep
voice coming under your bed. You were so coward even not to leave your
fingers outside your bed. You slept but I was under your bed all the
night. I'm still around. Examining every small steps you take, every
time you move your head. Don't believe me? Don't you feel that sudden
itchy sensation on your body. I'm touching you right now. You are so
beautiful. I'm surely in love with you.
You call me Boogeyman!?
No...No...No.... I'm not Boogeyman. I'm far beyond that. I live with
you. I feed upon your soul. I feed upon your energy. I'll keep sucking
you until your hair grow white. Your limbs go weak. People will start
calling you old. And then one day you will become so weak that even your
heart wouldn't have the energy to bit.
Death you say? That's
some farfetched shit. People don't die. They just go weak. So weak that
even moving a finger would be impossible. Then my time will come. I'll
start licking you. You're body will get wet again like the first time
you were born. But this time with my saliva. My stinky flesh eating
saliva. hahaha I'm so excited.
Your relatives are great that
they will pack you in a nice coffin and leave you 6 feet under ground.
No matter how much you try you wouldn't get the energy to say the word
"help". you're grave will be my dining room. personal dining place I
say. hahaha. There's one problem though, my body is too big to fit in a
mere 6 feet grave but I'll try to manage. Crawling on your chest would
help me to fit in, I believe. What do you say? Don't worry. You won't
get bored. I'm a multidoer. I'll eat and talk with you till I suck out
your brain from your dry skull. Umm....I'm sooo excited. Getting
goosebumps all over my slimy body. I can't wait to make you old. You're
so beautiful.
Once you read this chain letter you cannot get out. Finish reading this until it is done!
Hi, I am Teddy. I am 7 years old. I have no eyes and blood all over my
face. I am dead. If you don’t send this to at least 12 people I will
come to your house at midnight and I’ll hide under your bed. When you’re
asleep, I’ll kill you.
Don’t believe me?
Case 1: Patty Buckles got this chain e-mail. She didn’t believe in
chain letters. Well, foolish Patty. She was sleeping when her TV started
flickering on and off. Now she’s not with us anymore. Ha ha Patty, Ha
ha! You don’t want to be like Patty, do you?
Case 2: George M.
Simon hated chain e-mails, but he didn’t want to die that night. He
sent it to 4 people. Not good enough George. Now, George is in a coma.
we don’t know if he’ll ever wake up. Ha ha George, Ha ha! Now, do you
want to be like George?
Case 3: Valarie Tyler got this chain
e-mail. Just another chain letter, or so she thought. Only had 7 people
to send to. Well, that night when she was having a shower she saw a
bloody figure in the mirror. She got the biggest fright of her life.
Valarie is scarred for life.
Case 4: Derek Minse was a smart
person. He sent it to 12 people. Later that day, he found a $100 bill on
the ground. He was promoted to head manager at his job and his
girlfriend agreed to marry him. Now, he and his wife are living happily
ever after. They have two beautiful children.
Send this to at least 12 people or you’ll face the consequences.
0 people – You will die tonight! 1-6 people – you will be injured! 7-11 people – you will get the biggest fright of your life! 12 and over – you are safe and will have good fortune!
Do What Teddy Says!!!! Hurry, you must send to 12 people before midnight.
* Look! This is what we do. Introducing you with these types of things.
Please don't embarrass yourself by commenting such things like you
don't believe this or you don't believe that. It's your own decision.
Just don't ruin the fun of others. May be he Is right under your bed.
Sleep well, Readers.
Susan and Ned were driving through a wooded empty section of highway.
Lightning flashed, thunder roared, the sky went dark in the torrential
downpour. “We’d better stop,” s aid Susan. Ned nodded his head
in agreement. He stepped on the brake, and suddenly the car started to
slide on the slick pavement. They plunged off the road and slid to a
halt at the bottom of an incline.
Pale and shaking, Ned quickly turned to check if Susan was all right.
When s he nodded, Ned relaxed and looked through the rain soaked
windows. “I’m going to see how bad it is,” he told Susan, and when
out into the storm. She saw his blurry figure in the headlight, walking
around the front of the car. A moment later, he jumped in beside her,
soaking wet. “The car’s not badly damaged, but we’re wheel-deep in mud,” he said. “I’m going to have to go for help.”
Susan swallowed nervously. There would be no quick rescue here. He
told her to turn off the headlights and lock the doors until he
returned. Axe Murder Hollow. Although Ned hadn’t said the name
aloud, they both knew what he had been thinking when he told her to lock
the car. This was the place where a man had once taken an axe and
hacked his wife to death in a jealous rage over an alleged affair.
Supposedly, the axe-wielding spirit of the husband continued to haunt
this section of the road. Outside the car, Susan heard a shriek, a
loud thump, and a strange gurgling noise. Butshe couldn’t see anything
in the darkness. Frightened, she shrank down into her seat. She sat
in silence for a while, and then she noticed another sound. Bump. Bump.
Bump. It was a soft sound,like something being blown by the wind.
Suddenly, the car was illuminated by a bright light. An official
sounding voice told her toget out of the car. Ned must have found a
police officer. Susan unlocked the door and stepped out of the car. As
her eyes adjusted to the bright light, she saw it. Hanging by his
feet from the tree next to the car was the dead body of Ned. His bloody
throat had been cut so deeply that he was nearly decapitated. The wind
swung his corpse back and forth so that it thumped against the tree.
Bump.Bump. Bump. Susan screamed and ran toward the voice and the
light. As she drew close, she realized the light was not coming from a
flashlight. Standing there was the glowing figure of a man with a smile
on his face and a large, solid, and definitely real axe in his hands.
She backed away from the glowing figure until she bumped into the car.
“Playing around when my back was turned,” the ghost whispered,
stroking the sharp blade of the axe with his fingers.“You’ve been very
naughty.” The last thing she saw was the glint of the axe blade in the eerie, incandescent light.
This may be the only case where an alleged spiritual possession led to a formal legal judgment of murder.
On February 13, 1936, the body of local resident Giuseppe “Pepe”
Veraldi was found under the Morandi bridge in the city of Catanzaro,
Italy. The body was in bad shape and had obviously fallen from the
bridge above. The cause of death was determined to be severe damage to
the head. Due to the injuries and
the lack of any evidence of foul play, the police decided it was a
suicide and stopped any further investigation. Pepe’s family protested
that there was no reason for him to have killed himself, but the police
did not re-open the case. The death was the talk of the town for several months, but it eventually faded from public gossip. It wasn’t until three years later that Pepe’s death would return to the forefront of attention.
One morning in January of 1939, Maria Talarico, a teenaged girl of the
city, was walking across the same bridge, as she had done many times
before. About halfway across she suddenly stopped, walked over to the
side from which Pepe had allegedly jumped,and mysteriously fainted.
Several people were nearby and promptly arranged for Maria to be carted
home. Once in her own home, she awakened and initially seemed to be
herself until she spoke. Instead of her usual voice, she spoke in a
rasping male voice and told those present that she was Pepe Veraldi, and
demanded to speak to his mother. After the shock had worn off somewhat,
one of the neighbors ran off to fetch Mrs. Veraldi. During the wait,
“Pepe” asked for wine and cigarettes and playing cards — proposing that
he and some of the men have a game until his mother arrived. Needless to
say, this was not in any way similar to Maria’s normal behavior.
Eventually Pepe’s mother showed up and he quickly told her (via Maria)
that he had been murdered but did not name the culprit(s). As this
information began to sink in with those gathered at the Talarico home,
Maria quickly got up and ran outside to the exact place under the bridge
where Pepe’s corpse had fallen. Those from Maria’s household followed
her, and when Pepe’s mother arrived she ordered her son’s spirit to
leave Maria. Apparently it did, as Maria instantly “woke up” but
remembered nothing of the past since she had initially fainted on the
bridge. Most likely Pepe’s mother went to the police with this
information, but without names, there was nothing they could do. And
they might have found the whole story too difficult to believe. The
story would have ended there had it not been for a letter Pepe’s mother
received nine years after Maria’s apparent possession. The letter was
from one of Pepe’s former friends who was living in Argentina. He
confessed to killing Pepe in an argument over a woman. Three other men
helped him commit the crime, he said, and he named them — something
Pepe’s ghost had not done. Pepe’s mother now had something concrete
to prove that her son had not killed himself. She took the letter to the
police. One of the accomplices had died, but the other two were
investigated, arrested, tried, convicted, and jailed.
There's this place called Swanson Field. I haven't been up there for a
while. Well, more than a while, probably years. I drive past it all the
time, but this time for some reason or another, I stopped. I remember
back when I was a kid, people always said the field was haunted, though
personally I don't believe in ghosts, but it's got enough people spooked
to catch my attention.
The weird thing is, it's just a
field. No abandoned house or strange structures or anything. As I look
around all I can see is the damp swampiness of the field. The only
reason I really remember it is that when I was kid we would go there
every halloween night. It's funny that I'm only remembering this right
now.
All the kids in school would work on masks the day
before Halloween. We used to call it Mischief day. Making the mask and
getting ready for the walk through swanson field the next day. I would
always work hard on my mask making it look really cool. The teachers
would always put this sort of strange diamond thing on the forhead of
the mask. that always ruined the look of my mask. The star thing made it
look, well, lame.
We never went trick-or-treating, we
always just went with our parents to Swanson Field then walked through
it. But we were never allowed to talk about the field, let alone even
walk through it other than Halloween night. My parents and the other
kids parents never looked down at us when we were walking no matter how
much we made a fool of our selfs or pestered them. We never made eye
contact, and there was a rule that we could not take our masks off until
our parents said we could.
There were also these people
that moved out in the woods instead of inside the field. I could never
recognize them from my town. When I saw them, they were people but they
didn't move like people, they moved like deer. It was a sort of swooping
up and down into the shadows of the trees, but they walked on two legs.
They had great costumes, they almost looked real. The costumes were
completely black with mouths on the back, the front, the top, and sides
of the head. the reason I could tell see the mouths were that they were
more of a grey-ish hue, instead of black, like the rest of the body.
It's funny, I could never remember how the night ever ended. I always
woke up in my bed, and the last thing I could remember was taking off
the mask or leaving the field. I probably just fell asleep and my
parents brought me home.
Then, then nobody ever brought
it up again. Grownups would get mad if you talked about the ghosts of
kids in the field, hell I even remember a kid being sent to the
dentention for drawing the little diamond thing on the forheads of the
mask. I remember feeling annoyed about that if they hated the thing so
much why did they make us wear it, always ruining my mask.
Before Chrismas break the teacher would tell us a story about Swanson
Field. They would tell it when the sun was setting really, really,
early. The story was that people could hear the voices of kids in the
field. I never really new why they did it, but nobody ever asked. It was
a few days before Christmas so I had no reason to think about that. The
teacher always said that Swanson Field was a special place, but you
should never go there alone. And this is the first time I have been back
on this field for almost 12 years. It's strange, I mean, I don't hear
anything. Do you?
The Haunting Case of WW II Ghost Planes It's not hard to find reports of World War II ghost planes. Unfortunately, it's quite hard to find documented sources of these ghostly tales. The fact is, they're all pretty much folk tales. They take many forms, but there are two basic types. First, you have post-war stories about people encountering planes from the past. Typically, you'll have a young couple out for a country stroll in the 1960s, 70s or 80s. They hear an odd sound and turn around to see a prop-driven vintage warplane cruising along at low altitude,or perhaps an entire flight of them. Some of these stories are heavily embellished (the plane disappears into thin air, the sighting was a harbinger of a tragic plane crash that happened shortly thereafter, the ghostly pilots waved sadly to the witnesses as they passed). Stories might incorporate speculation about "time slips." The second type is more interesting. These are ghost plane sightings that happened during the war. In its most common form, the story revolves around a flight of planes thatleft for a dangerous mission. Later, all the planes return and are accounted for except one. Everyone watches the sky, hoping they made it out alive, but no plane appears on the horizon. Then, hours later, the drone of radial engines sounds in the distance. A plane is spotted. Could it be their missing comrades? But, no they would have run out of fuel hours ago. Still, there it is, heavily damaged, limping along toward the air field. It makes a ragged landing and fellow airmen rush to the scene. Inside the plane they find…nothing. Not a soul. Nota corpse. And the fuel tanks are bone dry. There are variations – sometimes the crew is on board, but dead. Sometimes the plane is so badly damaged there's no physical way it could have flown. There's a story that a U.S. plane appeared over the California coast hours after the Pearl Harbor attack, smoking and sputtering. Witnesses could see a pilot on board, but when the plane crashed, the wreckage was empty.
Story no 2
WORLD
WAR II WAS A PERIOD OF DRAMATIC CHANGE ACROSS THE GLOBE. BUT ALONG WITH
ALL THE POLITICAL MACHINATIONS AND MILITARY STRATEGIES, SOME SERIOUSLY
BIZARRE STUFF HAPPENED. A few months after Pearl Harbor, America was
pretty on-edge, especially along the west coast. Everyone was scanning
the sky and sea in fear of another Japanese attack. A Japanese submarine
had shelled the Ellwood oilfield near Santa
Barbara in February of 1942. Later that month, the mounting tension
exploded into full-blown hysteria. An AWOL weather balloon triggered the
initial panic. After that, flares were fired into the night sky, either
to illuminate potential threats or signal danger. People saw the flares
as more attackers, and a barrage of anti-aircraft fire soon filled the
night. The activity continued for several nights. In the end, the
only casualties from the whole affair were three heart attack victims
and three dead due to friendly fire. No Japanese aircraft were found,
and the Japanese later denied having anything in the air near L.A. at
the time. That's the official story, at least. There were claims of a
cover-up and a bunch of wild theories. The incident was five years
prior to the Kenneth Arnold flying saucer report that sparked the U.S.
UFO craze, but this is sometimes retroactively described as one of the
first major UFO sightings. Newspapers at the time thought the whole
thing was orchestrated to drum up support for the war effort by inducing
panic. Tight-lipped military reports did little to alleviate concerns –
a full public investigation wasn't performed until 40 years later.
I'll
try to explain a myth from Bangladesh. I read a story about this and
from that time it really made me curious. Generally it came from
Calcutta and southwestern part of Bangladesh. Native people call it
'Nishir Daak'. in english, we can call this 'The Call of Night'. This is
a ritual where rich people when
terribly ill, give a lot of money to the local priest to arrange a
deadly ritual to save themselves. We know that nothing is impossible but
we should always keep in mind that nothing comes for free. To save a
man by this ritual, a healthy man must be sacrificed.
Things needed: 1. a green coconut 2. a black towel 3. full moon at sky 4.a priest.
Methods:
in this ritual a priest needs to fast for 7 days. he can eat nothing
but dead fetuses. as collecting them to eat is hard so most of the time
the priests fast for 7 days by only drinking water. When time comes he
starts his journey to another village carrying a bag where there's a
black towel and a green coconut. After reaching another village he waits
for midnight. after midnight he cut the coconut and by holding it with
his left hand, he starts calling the names of people living in the
houses nearby. He calls by each name for two times. Whenever a person
replies him,his soul gets stolen and the priest covers the coconut with
that dark cloth so that the soul can't escape from the coconut shell.
The priest keeps calling till the sun rises and tries to collect as many
souls as possible. After the sun rise he comes back to that ill person
and gives away the coconut water to him to drink. After drinking the
water that ill person will start to get well day by day and the
condition of the victims will get worse day by day. And later one day
when the victims die that ill person will also be recovered fully.
* This might be the reason why people in village do not reply to a call
untill they heard it for at least three times. Next time in a full
moon night stay alert or you might be the next victim. Still, it's not
so bad. Giving away your own life for someone else's is a noble act.
November 10, 1975 the bulk freighter Edmund Fitzgerald sank in Lake
Superior with all hands. This page is dedicated to the memory of the 29
men lost that night and the families they left behind.
The Fitzgerald cleared Superior, Wisconsin, on her last trip on
November 9, 1975, with a cargo of 26,116 tons of taconite pellets
consigned to Detroit. Traveling down Lake Superior in company with
ARTHUR M. ANDERSON of the United States Steel Corporation's Great Lakes
Fleet, she encountered heavy weather and in the early evening of
November 10th, suddenly foundered approximately 17 miles from the
entrance to Whitefish Bay (47º North Latitude, 85º 7' West Longitude)
Captain McSorley of the "FITZ" had indicated he was having difficulty
and was taking on water. She was listing to port and had two of three
ballast pumps working. She had lost her radar and damage was noted to
ballast tank vent pipes and he was overheard on the radio saying, "don't
allow nobody (sic) on deck." McSorley said it was the worst storm he
had ever seen. All 29 officers and crew, including a Great Lakes
Maritime Academy cadet, went down with the ship, which lies broken in
two sections in 530 feet of water.
Surveyed by the U.S. Coast
Guard in 1976 using the U.S. Navy CURV III system, the wreckage
consisted of an upright bow section, approximately 275 feet long and an
inverted stern section, about 253 feet long, and a debris field
comprised of the rest of the hull in between. Both sections lie within
170 feet of each other.
The EDMUND FITZGERALD was removed from documentation January, 1976.
The National Transportation Safety Board unanimously voted on March 23,
1978 to reject the U. S. Coast Guard's official report supporting the
theory of faulty hatches. Later the N.T.S.B. revised its verdict and
reached a majority vote to agree that the sinking was caused by taking
on water through one or more hatch covers damaged by the impact of heavy
seas over her deck.
This is contrary to the Lake Carriers
Association's contention that her foundering was caused by flooding
through bottom and ballast tank damage resulting from bottoming on the
Six Fathom Shoal between Caribou and Michipicoten Islands.
The
U.S. Coast Guard, report on August 2, 1977 cited faulty hatch covers,
lack of water tight cargo hold bulkheads and damage caused from an
undetermined source.
The name 'Jack the
Ripper' has become the most infamous in the annals of murder. Yet, the
amazing fact is that his identity remains unproven today. In the years
1888-1891 the name was regarded with terror by the residents of London's
East End, and was known the world over. So shrouded in myth and mystery
is this story that the facts are hard to identify at this remove in
time. And it was the officers of Scotland Yard to whom the task of
apprehending the fearsome killer was entrusted.
They may have
failed, but they failed honourably, having made every effort and inquiry
in their power to free London of the unknown terror. Sir Neville Macnaghten
Over the years the mystery has deepened to the degree that the truth is
almost totally obscured. Innumerable press stories, pamphlets, books,
plays, films, and even musicals have dramatised and distorted the facts
to such a degree that the fiction is publicly accepted more than the
reality.
Suspects
Suffice to say genuine suspects are far
fewer than the prolific authors of the genre would have us believe. In
fact, to reduce them to only those with a genuine claim having been
nominated by contemporary police officers, we are left with a mere four.
They are:
Kosminski, a poor Polish Jewish resident in Whitechapel; Montague John Druitt, a 31 year old barrister and school teacher who committed suicide in December 1888;
Michael Ostrog, a Russian-born multi-pseudonymous thief and
confidence trickster, believed to be 55 years old in 1888, and detained
in asylums on several occasions; Dr Francis J. Tumblety, 56
Years old, an American 'quack' doctor, who was arrested in November 1888
for offences of gross indecency, and fled the country later the same
month, having obtained bail at a very high price.
The first three
of these suspects were nominated by Sir Melville Macnaghten, who joined
the Metropolitan Police as Assistant Chief Constable, second in command
of the Criminal Investigation Deptment (C.I.D.) at Scotland Yard in
June 1889. They were named in a report dated 23 February 1894, although
there is no evidence of contemporary police suspicion against the three
at the time of the murders. Indeed, Macnaghten's report contains several
odd factual errors.
Kosminski was certainly favoured by the
head of the C.I.D. Dr. Robert Anderson, and the officer in charge of the
case, Chief Inspector Donald Swanson. Druitt appears to have been
Macnaghten's preferred candidate, whilst the fact that Ostrog was
arrested and incarcerated before the report was compiled leaves the
historian puzzling why he was included as a viable suspect in the first
place.
The fourth suspect, Tumblety, was stated to have been
"amongst the suspects" at the time of the murders and "to my mind a very
likely one," by the ex-head of the Special Branch at Scotland Yard in
1888, ex-Detective Chief lspector John George Littlechild. He confided
his thoughts in a letter dated 23 September, 1913, to the criminological
journalist and author George R Sims.
For a list of viable suspects they have not inspired any uniform confidence in the minds of those well-versed in the case.
Indeed, arguments can be made against all of them being the culprit,
and no hard evidence exists against any of them. What is obvious is the
fact that the police were at no stage in a position to prove a case
against anyone, and it is highly unlikely a positive case will ever be
proved. If the police were in this position in 1888-1891, then what hope
for the enthusiastic modern investigator?
To clear the confusion
for the new student of the case we have to return to factual basics.
Just who was 'Jack the Ripper,' and what were the 'Whitechapel murders'?
What has to be understood is the fact that the 'Ripper' murders and the
'Whitechapel murders' are not the same thing, although the latter does
include the 'Ripper' murders. So to set the scene, the list of the
eleven Whitechapel murders, (all of which at some stage have been looked
upon as 'Ripper' murders), was as follows:
Throat cutting
attended the murders of Nichols, Chapman, Stride, Eddowes, Kelly,
McKenzie and Coles. In all except the cases of Stride and Mylett there
was abdominal mutilation. In the case of Chapman the uterus was taken
away by the killer.
I... I don't... don't know where I am. There's so much light...
Am I dead?
My whole body is hurting... I guess that means I'm not dead yet. At least not entirely.
Everything is becoming clearer now. But that damned light is getting to me.
I think I'm in a hospital. I'm getting up, or rather trying to. My neck aches no matter how slowly I move it.
"Please stay on your back. You've been through a lot recently," a nurse says to me.
I look down to my arms and legs. They're covered in bruises, scars and
cuts. Necrosis (gangrene) is even on my toes. But how did this happen?!
"What is your name?" She asks me. I tell her my name, wondering how the hell I remember it but not what happened.
My lower body is feeling like it's on fire. They had better act fast if they want to heal me.
"What happened to me?" I ask her.
"You were almost hit by a semi. In the midst of evading it, you fell
over a stump and were scratched by several tree branches that were
laying there. The driver was a psychopath who had just been on a killing
streak in the neighborhood. He stopped the vehicle and went to finish
you off personally due to the lane not being big enough to turn his
truck around. After a hard fight you were able to kill him," she says to
me, as though it were nothing important.
"Impossible!" I shout back, hurting my lungs in the process. "What proof do you have?!"
"Your own testimony, sir. We arrived on the scene shortly after your
fight and asked you what had happened. You responded with everything I
told you," she says.
"If that's so, then why do I have
gangrene?!" The stench from my battered body is unbearable, nauseating
me already. This day just keeps getting worse every minute.
"Calm
down, sir. You were laying in the snow afterwards. It was winter when
it happened, and your feet began to suffer from necrosis," she explains.
"Now I need you to lie still. We're going to preform surgery on you."
I look around my room. The door is shut tightly and only the lights
above keep the room from descending into blackness. It's growing hard to
breathe every second I'm not operated on.
The nurse is taking out some kind of device to perform surgery on me. She's moving towards my legs.
"Wait! You need anesthetics, right? Get some for me now, I'll be in great pain if you don't! Are you mad?!"
She giggles at that, saying- "We're in Hell, of course it's going to be painful!"
My story takes place in a town you’ve probably never
heard of in south-eastern rural Kentucky. It’s a small town with its
people sparsely peppering the mountainsides to and fro. It’s the type of
town where it isn’t exactly unusual to find neighbors bartering for
goods with livestock, living off what the land provides, and making do
with what they’ve got. It is here that my father was raised. It is here
that my father raised his family.
My father was a proud man;
short, barely 5’7”, but stout. He was many things – a mountaineer,
carpenter, a survivor, a hunter…but mostly, he was proud. He instilled
in me all the virtues that I believe in today. He’s the type of man that
would give you the last dollar to his name. The type that would go
hungry to make sure his children were fed, and there were times that he
did. I suppose I should clarify that I grew up in poverty. No doubt
there were those that were worse off than me, but times were hard
nonetheless. My father worked intermittently, mostly in construction.
There were few homes within the community that my father did not at
least help with. He built our house from the ground up, dug out the
basement, and leveled the land with little more than a shovel, wheel
barrel, and the helping hands of my uncle and two older brothers. Our
house sat on a hillside, in a leveled alcove; the yard stretched on for
what seemed like forever, ending at a fresh mountain brook where the
woodland lied beyond.
He spent a lot of time in those woods –
hiking trails, digging ginseng, hunting, and otherwise passing time. The
mountains provided our family with many necessities. Our water was
pumped from a mine near the mountain’s peak. Our food consisted mainly
of game and livestock. My mother is a wonderful cook. She had a fondness
for chicken – which we raised. My father, on the other hand, preferred
game. No stranger to the culinary arts, my father was adept at preparing
a variety of dishes. All of which he tracked and killed himself. Long
before the sun would rise, my father would grab his light and head out.
He would follow the mountain stream before turning off onto one of the
many mine roads that littered the terrain. One such road ran by an old
graveyard long since forgotten by the rest of the world. Some headstones
there dated back to the onset of the 19th century.
I recall one
night my father decided to go spotting. For those of you unfamiliar,
spotting is a common practice amongst Appalachian hunters (perhaps
amongst hunters in general, but I do not hunt so I am not sure). The
hunter will set out before sunrise, taking a light and little else. The
hunter will then proceed to shine the light, much like a spotlight, in
hopes of catching a glimpse of an animal’s eyes. You see, the eyes of an
animal are luminous; and in complete darkness when the light passes
over them they will shine. This is a method of establishing good hunting
venues. On this particular night, my father broke tradition and decided
to take his shotgun with him on his spotting expedition. This decision,
I would later learn, saved his life.
It was a warm spring night.
I was always a night owl, so when my father stirred, I was still awake
and playing my Super Nintendo. It was not a school night, so I was
greeted with his ever present smile. “Hey big man,” he chimed. “You’re
up late.”
“I want to beat Mario,” I told him, my eyes leaving the
screen long enough to see him tying his boots. He didn’t reply, he just
smiled and rubbed my head as he passed me on his way to the gun
cabinet. From it, he removed his customary 12 gauge shotgun, some
rounds, and a miner’s light. The light, I recall, strapped to his
forehead and attached to a rather large battery that he hung at his
waist. He then made his way to the couch and sat next to me. He casually
lifted the TV remote and waited. When I finished the level he smiled.
“Pause it. I need to check the forecast,” he told me. I obliged and he
changed the channel. He watched as the forecaster rambled on about the
weather and seemed content. “Not giving rain for today. That’s good.” He
turned to me and smiled again. “Okay. You can go back to your game. I’m
going out. I’ll be back in a while, tell your mother I’ll bring home
supper. Tonight, we’re going to have rabbit.” He kissed my forehead and
stood. I smiled at him as he rounded the hallway corner to our front
door. I listened to the door shut and to the clunk of his boots as he
made his way off the porch, down the steps and through the yard. His
steps faded in the distance. From this point on, I cannot vouch for the
validity of my tale, but I can tale you that the man who returned was
not the man that left. Make no mistake, my father did return; but he was
a changed man. He never spoke much of that night until after I had
started college. This is his story.
Like most other nights, he
headed up the mountain via a trail that ran alongside the brook. The air
was still and warm and the moon and stars shone bright. There were no
clouds, and the forecast was clear. The sound of cicadas and crickets
filled the air. He made his way along the trail intermittently shining
his light on either side of the stream. He walked along the stream until
he reached a fork in the path. To his left was his customary turn off,
further up that trail was an old slate dump. Above it was a derelict
coal shoot. He shined his light along that trail and contemplated. He
had been talking with his hunting buddies and they had mentioned a sweet
spot near the graveyard. A warren of rabbits had apparently taken
residence near the abandoned cemetery, and they had all had good fortune
when hunting there. My father thought on it for a moment before turning
to the right. The right trail lead on up the mountain to the mine where
we drew our water. It passed by the cemetery where the rabbits were
said to reside. He continued to follow the stream until making his way
to the cemetery.
Upon his arrival, he skimmed his light back and
forth across the plots. If there was a warren here, the rabbits were
definitely not being very active tonight. He trudged amongst the plots
until finally deciding to move on. He walked back to the trail and
stopped. He could go back along the stream trail and to the slate dump –
at the very least, he thought, he could cover grounds he was used to
hunting. Instead, he decided to follow the trail further. He had been
walking for a little more than fifteen minutes when he noticed a strange
phenomenon. The light from the moon and stars was completely gone.
Clouds covered the sky and in the distance somewhere there was flash of
lightning. He counted the seconds to the thunder. The sky roared a
moment then fell silent. There was no rain. He silently observed his
surroundings, shining his light on either side of the trail. He paused
for a moment longer, and then trudged on. As he walked he noticed
something else. Very faint, and very rhythmically his footsteps were
echoing. This was unusual. If you’ve ever been in a wooded mountain, one
thing you’ll notice is that the mountains are excellent listeners and
seldom repeat what they’re told. It was then the silence consumed him.
The cicadas, the crickets, the owls – they were all hushed. My father
stopped and shined his light around him. He saw nothing and after a
moment he continued along the trail.
The echo was silent for a
moment then started up again. With every crunch of my father’s feet, he
could hear a crunch simultaneously hit the trail behind him. Someone, or
something, was following him. Deliberately and furtively stalking him.
He stopped again, and so did his echo. He shined the light around him
again, in all directions. Down the trail, into the trees, and even into
the air. Nothing. There was absolutely nothing there. He carefully
observed his surroundings. It was then he noticed another trail, not
three feet from him on the other side of the brush. Silently, he began
devising a plan. He decided that he would begin walking again, and when
the echo recommenced he’d take another step…but he’d stop. If it was his
mind playing tricks then the echo would stop too. He turned up the
trail and continued along his way. Within moments the echo re-emerged.
He waited until he was confident it the time was right, and he
stepped…and stopped mid step. His foot was barely an inch from the
ground.
*CRUNCH*
The sound resonated through his being and
sent shivers down his spine. He spun around and shined the light again
only to be greeted by darkness. He turned back up the trail and
quickened his pace. This time the strides did not mimic his own. They
were faster and louder. It dawned on my father at this point that he had
pissed it off, whatever it was. He loaded his shotgun as another plan
developed in his mind. He decided to step through the brush to the trail
on the other side. There he would wait for It to pass him, and he would
turn the tides. Without hesitation he cut off his light and stepped
across the brush and waited in darkness. The sound of Its strides
continued up the trail before stopping what sounded like mere feet away.
Then It crossed through the brush, coming to a halt beside him. His
stomach sank and he fumbled for his light. He could feel eyes burning
into his skin, boring holes into his brain. The light came on with a
sudden flash…nothing. There was absolutely nothing there. He shined the
light all around him. There was no sign of anything passing through the
brush, no sign of anything walking along the trail. My father, an expert
hunter, could find no trace of the thing that was stalking him. He
shined his light further up the trail and saw something. A building…the
old coal shoot that was just above the slate dump. He bolted for it. He
could hear Its strides coming up fast behind him. He turned into the
coal shoot and dove in. The shoot collapsed around him, sending him
pouring down onto slate and rock. He quickly made his way to his feet
and shined his light towards the shoot, shotgun in firing position. He
could hear It moving fast up the trail. He heard It hit the coal shoot.
The shoot thundered and trembled under Its weight, but my father
couldn’t see anything. He blindly fired, pumped, and fired again and
again. The boom of his shotgun echoed throughout the valley…the sound
matched by a roar that made the hair on his neck stand. The shoot was
silent for a moment. Then he heard Its strides bolt in the opposite
direction. It made its way up the mountain towards the mine. He listened
for a long time. Silence.
He got home around noon. He was beaten
up pretty badly from his fall. He never said a word. My mother
attempted to console him, and he silently looked at her. His eyes filled
with dread and his ever present smile gone. Not long after that he and
my mom separated. The court ordered that the house be turned over to me
upon my 21st birthday. I returned home to find him sitting on the porch,
shotgun beside him. He had long since erected a security fence around
the property. He told me his tale and he told me that he continued to
hear It. When he walked to his mother’s or when he trimmed the hedges
and mowed the lawn. He could hear It following him. Ever presently, It
stalked him. Hunted him.
After my father passed, I left the house
empty. It didn’t feel right taking it when he had built it from the
ground up. But then I met the woman who would become my wife. We married
after I graduated college, and now she’s pregnant with my son. I
brought my family back here, to raise them where I was raised.
But I write this now because I am afraid. Each night I do a quick sweep
of the property. I check the house and then I check the yard…and each
night I can hear my footsteps echoing beyond the fence.
But for the Britannians living in Area 11, life is back to normal. On one such normal day, a Britannian student, skipping his classes in the Ashford Academy, sneaks out to gamble on his chess play. But unknown to this young man, several forces are eying him from the shadows, for soon, he will experience a shocking encounter with his own obscured past, and the masked rebel mastermind Zero will return.
