Welcome To Blackthorn: Visit If You Dare
In a perfect world, the kind that those fools living under the veil of Utopia, never having seen the reality masked in the light of censorship by those who don’t want the world to see beyond the reality they create, we are led to believe that the wars and tortures and evils of the corporeal being are the true horrors of with which we live, and true it is that these things, the crazed murderers, the mad scientists, the creators of weapons of mass destruction, the slaughters are indeed a kind of evil to send our minds into the chaos of fear. All these things are, for the most part, for the most people, just words on a page in a book, or newspaper, magazine or radio and video news broadcasts washed and cleansed before our ears and eyes can consume them and deliver them to are brains, pasteurized and fictionalized into a world of the darkest mayhem that exists outside our Utopias, seldom and/or never to touch us.
But the real horrors are the ones that touch only a few, those who can see beyond the censorship, beyond the veil, into that place we call the supernatural, the paranormal and the depths of fear. But in truth these and other horrifying elements are as real as the censored reality, merely an alteration seen by those who are capable of adjusting their mind to view juxtaposed images of reality, both or the many unscathed by the censorship of, “It doesn’t really exist.”
I lingered before my laptop, at a small round table, gazing out the window of my room in the Blackthorn B&B, out over the dimly misted sun lit street of the ghostly remains of Blackthorn Hollows, wondering if the thrill of horrors that befell this quiet over grown hamlet would ever leave my mind or if the icy chill would melt from my veins. At that moment I thought not, but too, I lent my focus to getting the story down before it faded, and my internal censor washed it clean of its reality.
My name is Zak Vancura. Beware of messengers in the storm who tell you tales of darkness and beg of you to venture out to unmask an evil devouring the souls and spirits of…
There was a rain drizzling from the dark clouds of the mid-spring sky, lingering longer than usual over Twin Bluffs Harbour. The memory of the murders that shook the foundations of our town was still vibrating faintly in the back ground of our collective minds.
Monday morning. I sat at my desk typing out a story to go with the photos of the Twin Bluffs Harbour Maple Festival. It was a delight to be writing something light and airy after weeks of those dark times of winter. Yet something inside of me had been awakened and though as tragic and even horrifying as the fall from innocence had been I found the whole adventure exhilarating and a part of me longed for more, though maybe not with the wraithish aftermath we had endured, and in part still did.
After a dozen paragraphs, all bright and cheery, congratulating the organizers on their success and the tappers for their delicious offerings I found myself in need of lunch, my stomach grumbling like it hadn’t been fed in days, even after a big breakfast.
I wriggled into my parka and shoved my feet into my wellies and lifted my big black umbrella from its hook and finally ventured out into the rainy cold, a shiver searching down my spine. It seemed, just as I closed the door a huge bolt of lightning struck across the sky, simultaneously with a crack of thunder that seemed to shake the whole town in a way that could have been mistaken as a small earth quake. When I looked around I saw others who had ventured out into the weather, glancing around anxiously, up and down the street and at each other, then in a burst of relief they all gathered in a laugh, myself included.
I decided our nerves were still a little on edge. I turned left at the bottom of the steps descending from the walk way from my office door only because it put the wind and rain at my back and made my way to The Harbour View Restaurant to find something to fill that hollow in my stomach that felt like hunger.
The feeling was still there, and it had been all day. The thing is, I should know better. This hollow feeling has happened before, not long ago and many times over my life as a reporter, the feeling when something I have seen or heard or maybe read that warns me that there is a story looming on the horizon of the near future, and the feeling is never wrong and not always good, or bad. I never know until I get there. But on this occasion as I wolfed down a hungry man’s lunch and filled in the spaces with sweets and was still hungry I realized as the coffee washed it all down I was being warned once again.
Of course, most people who don’t get these premies, don’t believe in them and so I keep it to myself and just follow the lead. It happened to be a cold wet stormy day this time, but it can come on those wonderful, bright sunny days of summer too.
After paying my bill I headed back to the office, walking into the wind now, blocking the rain with my umbrella like a warriors shield against a foe and watching the lightning flash across a dark gray sky. I wasn’t surprised when I climbed the steps to my office door to find someone pushed into the corner out of the wind and rain hidden under a dark purple hooded rain coat, waiting for me. The cowling hung down over her eyes and a scarf covered her chin leaving only pale thin lips showing. It seemed almost natural to find her there.
She said: ... To Be Continued Next week.