Carcass In The Train Station[]
Train Station, 1303, Christine Fury Boulevard.
The grinding, scrapping, gnawing, squelching noises of rust, mold, dirt, and rot from the tainted portal connected to the demented dimension he resides in, during the time he's not roaming my home in his attempt to drive me insane. The sound, bounces, echoes, and vibrates throughout rooms, halls, and any vacant space sound waves can access in the large 105-year-old train station, while he slowly, harshly, stiffly, and joltingly drags his rotten, stinking, decayed, rigor-affected, bloated human-shaped carcass out of the solid constructed decades-old wall. From behind the 4 inches thick locked wooden door of the semi-cramped storage room across the hall from my bedroom. Horrific stench of spoiled and maggot-infested meat, the smell of which leaks through the air vents and gaps of doors, wafting around hallways and rooms, becoming fainter the further away you move from the source. Worsened by the stuffy, dry heat, humidity, and warmth of a hot summer's night. This combination of stuffy, dry humidity makes the noise more gruesome sounding, and the stench smells more putrid.
I'm stretched out starfish style in the middle of my soft double bed, half-covered with pillows to cushion my bad left leg. While I stared out of the window with darkened and sunken eyes, thick and heavy with countless nights of broken sleep wishing for sleep. As I watched the moon brighten in the darkening blue sky and turn inky black. Following the various constellations form in the sky as the stars come out to shine one by one. Like little tea candles floating on the night ocean, creating different and pretty patterns as the waves ripple towards the land. My Dad was the one who taught me the constellations. Many a night year-round was spent star-gazing in the back garden. Even on school nights, as much as it would drive my Mum up the wall. Not just because of school the next day. She didn't want me to miss out on much-needed sleep. For a child, it's a much-needed necessity. Dad and I often heard lectures on necessary sleep and rest. Sleep deprivation from broken sleep is worse than no sleep.
When the brain is repeatedly pulled out of deep sleep and dream state, it affects mental and physical health. Without a break the mind struggles to tell apart the differences between reality and non-reality. The body is unable to recuperate from daily life. I regularly suffer muscle pain and spasms. The visual distortion become completely minding bending. For example; if there's a cup sitting on the table directly in front of you, the visual distortion can make it appear that the cup is on the other side of the room. When you attempted to pick it up, your arm and hand appears to be elongating and stretching across the room before your eyes to pick up the cup. I never thought that I would miss dreaming so much.
Only in my sweetest blissful dreams do I truly see their faces, the faces of my Mum and Dad as if they were standing before me. I curled up on my knees, with the right side of my face half-buried in my pillow. Like when I was a child, during the few nights I was a little restless, Mum would gently stroke my back until I fell asleep. The memories that once brought me so much love, happiness, and joy to my heart and soul alone. Now they haunt my memory of my waking hours. My skin is paled and tightened with the fear and pain they bring. I lay here exhausted, emptied of the future life with my parents I dreamed about and hoped to have. Wishing, no, I was begging for sleep. All I could think of was how I needed to sleep.
I need to sleep.
I need to sleep.
I need to sleep.
Sitting up on my knees, I faced upwards. Begging any higher power who can hear me. Begging for sleep.
I only want to sleep.
I only want to sleep, please.
I only want to sleep.
"I want to sleep. Please! [Sobbing] All I *hic* want sleeeeep. [Sobbing heavily] Pleas...*hic* e... let me slee...*hic* ep," placing my forehead on the mattress. I put my hands on my head as if I were protecting myself from something. "I just want... *hic* sleep," voice trailing in and out and hiccupped. That happens every time I become upset.
"Shut the fuck up, asshole. Some of us have work in the morning..., Jackass!" bellowed out from the motel next door by what I can only assume to be a drunken hippo who had recently learned to speak English. After making its way to the motel, after taking a wrong turn upon falling out of the bar.
It hadn't quite registered that I was shouting, let alone that anyone in the motel could hear me. These are double glazing windows, solid 4-inch thick wooden doors, walls made of large durable bricks, and covered in concrete walls, built in the days when buildings were built to last through the future decades. Sound doesn't penetrate or even travel too greatly through the walls. Sound can echo within the building, but as for sound traveling outside of the building has yo particularly loud to be heard outside. So I must have yelled from the bottom of my lungs to be heard. Mr. Grumpy isn't much of a pleasant man, his head swollen with non-existent power, to say the very least. He walks around like a pompous, self-entitled Brigadier surveying his property and territory. Not sure if he was actually in the Army or not. He behaves as if he was. He's plump, may be of average height or a little taller (The average height for a man is 5'9"), and a middle-aged man, hair greyed mixed in with dark brown, and in the style of a crew cut growing out, his face slightly withered with time. Time has most definitely not been kind to him.
I've had a few run-ins with him. I've also caught him 2 or 3 times climbing over the seven-foot wall or in my back garden. For a man who has a somewhat aged physique, he somehow managed to climb a 7-foot-high brick wall with some ease. He has this weirdly peculiar fascination with trains, train stations, old buildings, and abandoned buildings. On multiple occasions, he's bosted how he knows the owner of the motel and train station to other residents at the motel and me. Not that I have. He finds problems where there aren't any. He's only happy when he's complaining. He'll probably complain about my one and only outbursts. If I had to describe him in 2 words, it would have to be a miserable narcissist'. Not sure how he knows there's one owner of the train station and motel. Maybe the reception staff mentioned it. Or one of the cleaners. Not that it matters now, but it would put the shit up him if he found out I'm the owner of both buildings. Especially after all the gip, he's coursed other motel residents and me. Receiving complaint letters about residents, the staff, and myself, that he has sent to my post office PO Box.
Picking up my metallic silver touch screen mobile from the dark brown wooden gothic hexagon-shaped bedside table. Squinting my eyes the moment the light from my phone reached my eyes. Closing my eyes momentarily, giving my eyes time to adjust to the light. The time read 10:51 pm. It can take a couple of hours to fall asleep. I may only get four to five hours of broken sleep a night. That's with my prescription medication. Using my mobile as a torch to see what I was doing. I squeezed my arm behind the bedside table, switching the plug on the wall before turning on the lamp. I never liked leaving the socket switched on when not in use. I placed my mobile back on the table.
Turning around, and sitting upright with my back facing the headboard. Leaning forward, I removed the thin white T-shirt I was wearing and used it in place of tissue to dry my face and blow my nose. Balling my T-shirt up and threw it at the washing basket, but missed by two or three feet to the left. Tense and clumsily turning in place. Stretching my right leg over the side of my bed. My right knee creaks and aches with movement. One hand gripping the edge of the bed, the other hand flat on the table. Rocking back and forth to gain enough momentum to stand up, I braced myself to stand up on one leg. Pulling myself up and balancing after a few seconds of wobble. Six feet pounded past outside my bedroom door as three heavy-set adult shadow people ran down the hallway, followed by four smaller feet moments later. It drew my attention in the direction of my bedroom door. As I half turned my upper body, I lost my balance and fell backward onto my bed. I landed harshly on my bad left leg, lending a sharp pain from my leg up through my back and into both arms. Laying back and letting the pain pass by is the preferred option. Trying to move or tensing up makes it worse. Thinking back on it now, I inherited the train station and motel back in April 2012. I moved into the station shortly after.
For a little over three years, I've lived here. I should be used to this by now. Then again, who can get used to such a thing? I mean, a person shape shadow that consists of a pitch-black mass. Who or what creates such a thing, let alone come up with the idea of such a thing? Some days I hear strange things, voices, in particular. These voices can't be possible. The voices of my parents. Voices that sound familiar. Voices of people from my past and present. Some have since long passed on, but not all are conversation that I do not remember. Conversations made without a source to be found. Not one that I can't locate anyway. It's like some timey wimey wave of wibbly-wobbly stuff. I'm not sure if it's the shadow people trying to mock me or if my timey wimey wibbly wobbly wave thingy assumption is correct. Or past and future echo occurring in the present if you want to be technical about it. Personally, I prefer my description.
The only time I hear the shadows scampering is when the carcass is either loose or almost loose from the wall, Shadow people are negative and hostile entities. So hearing them running in fear means the thing they are hiding from is more dangerous than they are. He was a depraved bastard in life, I'm not surprised he's one in death, but that's a long and complicated story for some other time. I've tried many ways of getting rid of these horrid beings. I've burned sage in every room and had the building blessings by different Priests and Vicars.
In the Catholic Bible (I'm not sure how or if it's written in the Protestant and Christian Bibles.) During the 10th plague of the First Born Son in ancient Egypt. To protect their children, the Israelites painted Lamb blood over their doorways. So the Angel Of Death would pass over their homes. The thought occurred to me after reading this passage. As much as I hate that I've done this, let alone speak it, as a lamb has died for its meat and blood. The decision I made wasn't my proudest moment, but I found that marking above the bedroom and bathroom doors with the lamb's blood from the butchers. I only had enough to do only so many rooms without diluting with water. Wallpaper is better for covering the marks above the doors. Paint fades and chips away over time. It keeps 'him' out of the bedrooms and bathrooms, at the very least. Unfortunately, the shadow people do find a way in from time to time. I don't know how but they do. Maybe the air vents or maybe they find a crack in the wall. After the first visit from the first Priest, I began reading up on the bible once again. In times of trouble, I fall back on my faith to help keep me strong. Mum and Dad baptized me a Catholic, and I shall die a Catholic.
With the pain fading and I recover the use of my strength. I pulled myself back upright. Regaining my composure, I retrieved my leg brace. The second the leg brace slipped into place, I rushed to the bathroom as quickly as my leg allowed me. Slammed the toilet door open. I barely reached the toilet in time before I pissed myself. I have a wheelchair, but it wasn't in reach. Plus, I prefer to be on my feet. 'Clatter, thud, bang, smash.'
And God Had Spoken To Me In A Visionous Dream, Use Thy Rage And Thy Hate To Cleanse The Land, Driven By Hunger At Their First Feast, They Will Tear And Devour The Flesh Of The Living.
There it is, he's finally pulled himself free, crashing to the floor and anything in his way as well as whatever his blotted corpse catches on the way down. I need to remain in my room from this point to avoid contact with that deceased puss-filled pig. If necessary, I make use of my wheelchair for increased speed. I don't know what he would do if he were ever to catch me. I dare not think of it. Luckily I have not been caught. He responds to light, so I have placed lamps and night lights placed throughout the building to keep him moving around. To stop him from constantly banging on my door, and roaming around the hallway outside my room for extended periods, just in case I do need to leave my room for whatever reason. Plus it's even more irritating to have him next to my room the whole night through. I've always hated that vile song he sings every night. At first, I committed myself to denial. It just couldn't have been him. Up until I heard that song. The lyrics of the song and the tone of voice in which he sang. At that moment, I realized it couldn't have been anyone else. That song haunted me whenever I heard it since the age of ten when Jacob took me in.
I'm not the only one he took in and tormented. Including his own younger brother and sisters. There are eight of us in all. He treated all of us less than dog shit on the bottom of his shoe. Given the minimal food and water to stay alive. Everyone had to be seated at the table by the time dinner was ready, no one could eat before he took his seat at the head of the table, said grace, and began eating. Failure to comply with these rules, you were made to wear a dog collar and eat out of a dog bowl on the floor. Because 'if you eat like an animal, you're treated like an animal' according to Jacob that was. Violating the rules either resulted in the belt five times across the back of the leg or thigh. Or across the back if you're lucky deppending on how pleasant mood he was in. The first night I lived in his home, I accidentally woke him up while I tried to walk quietly and carefully to the bathroom. He made me sleep in the basement for three nights. Who does that to their own flesh and blood brother and sisters, let alone children? To be honest I'm not sure I want to know what made the guy tick. I imagine that not even the most seasoned psychiatrist would want to cover that ground. Living with HIM I've learned one thing. There is no hell because we're already there. The Devil has nothing on the depravity of humanity, and Jacob was amongst the worst. Now that's not an easy spot to fill.
In spite of there being spare rooms ready for human occupation, but I dear not rent them out or allow family and/or friends to stay. Actually a couple of the rooms were rented out in the beginning. Neither lasted more than 3 weeks and I don't blame them for leaving in the slightest. Leaving, finding somewhere else to live, somewhere quiet relax. Sounds like an amazing utopia to me. The mother fucker that consistently shits on my life from the Devils own satanic heard. Is the fact if I ever attempt to put my name down on the housing list, or attempt to buy or rent a house, before the 7 year time period of me taking possession of the train station I will be arrested. Jacob purposely put that in his Last Will and Testament just to fuck with us. The others are bound by the same type of clause for what was left for them in his Will. To get in to it now would be complicated. Short of it is in the event of his death after the youngest turns 21 years old the benefits of the Will kick in, but there's specific requirements and legal bindings of the will that need to be meet. Of which we all need to abide by whether or not we like it. So we deal with it and put up with whatever the requirement is until the time limit is up. He has been missing for 7 years and legally declared dead for 2 years and he's still fucking with out lives. As if the possibility of turning up wasn't bad enough he's still tormenting us from his grave.
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