The Gravestone of Adelaide

Henry O’Neill was a perfectionist. Every morning, he would make his rounds through White Oak cemetery. He ensured that every hedge was impeccably cut, that there were no dead flowers scattered about, and that every headstone was in pristine condition.

In his 20 years of groundskeeping for White Oak, he developed quite a spectacular memory for names. Not once had he ever confused Richard Wyatt for Wyatt Richards, or made his way to Tanya Michael’s gravestone instead of Tonya Michael’s. 

One afternoon, after finishing his rounds, Henry decided to take a walk on the very outskirts of White Oak cemetery. It was during this very walk that he stumbled upon something that resembled a small bush made of creeping vines and white pennycress.

Intrigued that in all his years he’d never noticed this bush until now, he decided to look closer, realizing that the bush was not a bush at all, but a gravestone obscured by overgrown vegetation. Henry was shocked to know he had been neglecting someone’s resting place for so long. He immediately began pulling weeds up, wondering why this grave was so far from the rest.

Behind the foliage stood a crooked, aged headstone, badly cracked and weathered with just a single name engraved across—Adelaide. Henry knew of an Adele and Adelia—even an Adeline, but the name Adelaide was one not yet introduced to his memory bank.

The sun began to set and Henry decided to retire for the day after spending hours in an attempt to restore the peculiar tombstone. He managed to pull up all the weeds and trim the area around it, but the crack was beyond repair.

The following morning, after his daily rounds, Henry walked along the outskirts of White Oak cemetery to find the gravestone of Adelaide. But something was not the same as before. One of the letters that were so deeply etched into the dark stone had vanished. The last letter of the name was completely gone, as though it had never existed. Sure, the name would still sound the same, even with the missing vowel, but it was unlike Henry to ever misspell a name.

Henry brought this phenomenon to the funeral director’s attention, who laughed at the idea, then checked his books to come to the eerie discovery that no one by the name of Adelaide had ever come to White Oak cemetery. The funeral director was skeptical, and though he knew Henry was not the type for tomfoolery, still asked to be taken to the grave site. So they traveled to the outskirts of the cemetery and just as Henry had said, there lay the crooked headstone.

Henry looked over at the funeral director, surprised to see that his expression was not what he expected. The director didn’t seem shocked to see that there was a grave all alone at the periphery of the churchyard. Sure, the true peculiarity of it all was that a letter had vanished, but the funeral director was not witness to this and Henry chalked the whole incident up to a silly misspelling.

It wasn’t until the next morning that Henry was certain he made no mistake. Another letter was now missing from the stone. The funeral director was in awe, and being a man with a strong curiosity for the great beyond, was eager to know what was to come. He instructed Henry to document the strange events happening at the cemetery. He had hoped that within this evidence, they could unravel the mystery of the vanishing letters. And so day by day, Henry and the funeral director marveled at the odd, crooked stone, photographing the strange phenomenon, and watching as one by one, a letter from dear Adelaide’s name disappeared in reverse until only a blank slate remained. 

Henry was fearful what would happen next, hoping that his name would not be engraved into the mysterious stone the following day. He did not sleep that night and instead found himself nervously examining the photographs, certain that nothing good could come from the grave.

Early the next morning, before the funeral director arrived, Henry decided to walk to the outskirts of White Oak cemetery to see the grave of Adelaide. But to his surprise he could not find the tombstone. He circled the cemetery grounds multiple times, but the mysterious stone had vanished, just as the letters had. Henry knew this was no act of theft or vandalism for the graveyard grounds remained undisturbed. 

He quickly phoned the funeral director who was not pleased to be awoken so early. Henry frantically explained to him that the grave of Adelaide was now gone. He explained how he searched the grounds as thoroughly as he could but to no avail, the stone was nowhere to be found—vanished without a trace. But the funeral director’s response was not what he expected.

“Adelaide?” he questioned.

It took about five minutes within Henry’s frantic explanation to realize the funeral director had no recollection of Adelaide, or the mystifying gravestone—as if the disappearance of the stone also took all thoughts and memories along with it. “But the photographs!” Henry thought to himself, desperately patting down his coat pockets. Henry pulled the polaroids from his jacket, only to reveal that they were nothing more than pictures of an empty plot of grass—that by some twisted, supernatural feat, the gravestone of Adelaide managed to erase those as well.

But Henry was not one to ever forget a name, and every day, after his rounds, wondered if the body of Adelaide had vanished along with the stone—or if it was still buried somewhere in the outskirts of White Oak cemetery.

Space Skate Grand Re-Opening

Fairfield residents lined up to protest outside of the grand re-opening of the Space Skate roller skating rink this morning. The local skating rink on Larch Avenue was shut down earlier this year after 14 children and 2 employees fell into violent fits of terror—some going into convulsive seizures. 
Among the victims, was 18-year old Jacob Mannes who worked at Space Skate for 6 months before its closing. His account of the events that took place were truly terrifying.
"I noticed that a lot of kids were acting strange at first—like one was standing by the rentals just kinda clawing at his jacket, and I remember another one laying on the floor in the fetal position with pizza coming out of his mouth. Then I caught a glimpse of the planets hanging over the skating rink, except they were starting to move, and I knew it wasn’t from the lights. By the time I got on the rink, all those planets were these wrinkled pale faces with big hollow eyes and they were all simultaneously mouthing something, like some sort of crazy demonic ritual. That’s when I started to freak and sat down on the rink. I felt like I was sitting there for hours before they went away, but when I got up to get off the rink, all the children’s faces that I passed by started to warp into those same pale faces, and they were all skating after me. I think I ended up shoving a bunch of them to the ground."
"By then I was trying to leave the building, but couldn’t get past this one game that we have called Fires of Mars. The poster is like this intergalactic hero standing in front of flames, but when I saw it, I kept seeing a child in his place, tied to a stake and burning to death. And I kept on backing away from it, thinking I could go out through the back door exit, but I kept getting closer and closer to this screaming kid. So I ended up getting this massive pitcher of Coke and just throwing it on top of the game but then the kid starting yelling in this really deep voice that he didn’t want to be saved and then that same voice echoed all around me and I swear to God, I felt like I was hearing the void of space calling out to me. I honestly thought I was going to die."
Investigators believe the horrifying bouts of fear were caused by a product sold exclusively by Space Skate called Alien Laser Pops—an alien head shaped lollipop on top of a glowstick instead of the standard lollipop stick.
"My kids usually start chewing right through the glowstick once they finish the lollipop," explained Marsha King, the mother of another victim of the Space Skate incident.
Other witnesses claimed that the glowsticks from the Alien Laser Pops were leaking, as if someone had tampered with them, however, drug screens of all people involved showed no harmful ingested substances.
Space Skate is now under new management and is scheduled to open this afternoon.

It’s been a while since I posted anything. I’m a therapist now, yay! Whitney R.T. (R)(T) :) I’m taking some gen ed classes toward my bachelors degree which is SO REFRESHING. Definitely a change of pace that was much needed.
Also, check out this other blog I’ve been trying to promote. It’s all original horror stories that are pretty damn good. It needs some followers and some people to submit stuff so join! Please!

It’s been a while since I posted anything. I’m a therapist now, yay! Whitney R.T. (R)(T) :) I’m taking some gen ed classes toward my bachelors degree which is SO REFRESHING. Definitely a change of pace that was much needed.

Also, check out this other blog I’ve been trying to promote. It’s all original horror stories that are pretty damn good. It needs some followers and some people to submit stuff so join! Please!

The White Goat

I don’t have too many memories of my childhood home on Foxtrot Lane. Considering my family moved quite often, I’d say it was one of the least memorable homes I had stayed in. Whenever I’d try to think of details from the old house, I’d only ever imagine washed out colors, a yard of dead grass covered in brown leaves, and old kitchen appliances. My mother, on the other hand, loved the house on Foxtrot Lane. She spoke of it frequently, recalling all the wonderful stories of when I was little. She would then finish up with the line, “Ohhh, you were too young to remember. ” And she was somewhat right—I could only ever recall bits and pieces. But even though my memories were somewhat fragmented, they were still always there.
I remember the times we made whirlpools in the above ground pool, or when I’d practice ballet up and down the hallway near the front door, and those tiny yellow plastic chairs I’d sit on while eating macaroni and cheese in the living room. The memories were all still there—just a bit faded. Which is why I was surprised when my mother, going on one of her many story telling tangents, mentioned a portrait of a white goat that hung up in that old house. 
Apparently, I was obsessed with this portrait, “from the moment I laid eyes on it,” she said. She told me how I would spend most of my time sitting in front of that painting, either drawing or writing. Some days I would just stand there for hours on end staring at it, examining the minute details. “There were times you’d even ask if your father and I could get you a pet goat,” she chuckled. “All those little girls your age wanted ponies and horses and all you wanted was that white goat in the painting.”
I couldn’t understand why I had no recollection of this painting whatsoever—a painting in which I supposedly spent a great deal of my time with. There was even a point where I wondered if she was making the whole story up to test my memory. But that thought was quickly extinguished when she pulled out an old family photo album.
"How can you honestly not remember?" she asked while flailing an old polaroid in the air. I grabbed the photo from her hand, examining the face of the little girl, wondering if it was actually me. And without a doubt, it was. I was wearing a small, pink jacket with the hood on, and blankly staring at the camera. And oddly enough, I was standing in front of a painting of a scene of a white goat standing alone in a dark forest. The trees in the distance were slightly arched over, as to form a tunnel leading into the darkened woods. And the goat, well the image of it sent chills down my spine. Its eyes—there were no pupils, just two completely white circles staring directly at the viewer. I looked through the rest of the photo album, and the others were no different from the first.
"W-what happened to it?" I stammered.
"Oh, it’s probably still hanging in that house on Foxtrot Lane," she replied nonchalantly, as though the portrait was no different than a painting of a sunny meadow. "Anyway, it’s late and you should be getting to bed," she said as she grabbed the album out of my hands.
That night, I had terrible dreams, dreams that paralyzed my entire body. I envisioned standing in a dark house, staring up at that damned portrait. My eyes could not shift away, and I felt as though it were now burned into my mind, planting strange and horrible thoughts. I dreamt that I began to follow the white goat into that darkened pathway, so deep into the forest that I could no longer see its ivory coat and could only navigate by the sounds of its hooves rustling the dried leaves. I wanted to turn around so badly, but I was no longer in control of my body when finally, the sensation of cold droplets on my skin woke me up.
I was standing at the edge of the forest, my feet covered in dirt. “Lucy!” I could hear my mother calling from the front porch. “What are you doing?” I had to gather my thoughts before I realized that I had sleepwalked all the way out of the house. I turned around and began running toward the front door as the rain began to pour. “What on earth are you doing?” My mother asked again as I reached the porch, but before I could give her an explanation she continued, “Why did you stop?” I looked at her confused, and without saying another word, she lifted her arm and pointed to the forest. And that’s when I saw it. Two completely white eyes staring at me from deep within the woods.
"Why did you stop walking?" she asked.

Here are more pictures from another weekend at Renfest. One week left until next year! I’ve been avoiding the pirate costume ever since Gasparilla. Especially since everyone always has an amazing pirate costume at the renaissance fair so I’ve been trying to do a gypsy/fortune teller/voodoo priestess/shamaness type thing. It hasn’t really fully come together yet (I’m planning on doing an actual one in the future) but it was just thrown together with things that my friend and I already had so I think it looks pretty decent.