Rabe's Campefire Storys

Dark Fire Series

Wooden Memories


Francis hated Darkness. But he hated Light more.
His World was and is the Forests. The sound of wood crunching under his boots. The screams of the birds. The curses of the squirrels. „Aaaah…“, he sighed as he adjusted his backpack.
Even if his destination was a deserted spot under the tall trees, the woodland path was well maintained. Maybe because nobody who has no sense of adventure got lost here.
He tried his luck with singing, which as expected could only go wrong without playback. Francis would have loved to put on his headphones, but he had to stay alert. And it was a good meditation exercise in endurance.

After fifteen minutes of stomping he stepped on the half-open clearings. The weathered three-storey House once belonged to a large family. Both the family name and the tradition they carried out were forgotten and Legends were separated in their place.

Francis looked tired to the building and than on his watch. He would not visit the House until tomorrow. You didn't have to challenge your luck if you went to a Ghost House at night. „It'll be work to make everything Aberrant safe,“ he thought as he seted the tent up.



Yawning and moaning loudly, Francis stood in front of his tent that he had placed in the middle of a heptagonal star of salt and iron candlesticks in the tips. Waking he watched the House that fortunately had not decided to disappear. After he had made himself a tea, he looked at the plan with the floor plan. In the town's own Library he had found some tarpaulins in the archives of similar buildings, which had apparently been built like pouring companies.
„It's best if I work my way up from the ground floor. I'll see if there is a cellar. It wasn't clear if there was one. probably. “, he was thinking loudly. The unnatural silence that was in the clearing gave the feeling as if one had been isolated from the first of the world.
Twenty minutes preparation he stood with a small bag in front of the house. He breathed deeply before shouting out loud: "I'm not afraid". A quirk that builds on his thesis that Ghosts and the Undead lose some of their power if you were not afraid of them. And what is the best way to do that? By encouraging oneself.
Francis tried to get the front door open with a lock pick, even more to upset the house spirits, was not so clever. He would have liked to use the original key, but of course it was no longer available.
Clicking and creaking, he opened it. He knocks on the wood, before he came in to superstitiously restore his fortune. Like a fog, the darkness embraced him in a short corridor that made it seem longer. With a click-clack his flashlight jumped on and the ray of light ate through the darkness. He ran into the middle of the small entrance area. Francis hesitating. He was a little suspicious. He couldn't say anything concrete. Perhaps the deafening silence. Or the mostly lack of cobwebs. He pulled the air through his nose. No more conspicuous smell. Everything was disturbingly average. He looked at the door.
She was still there.
Although he had heard of living houses from his friends at HOPE, you could smell them literally. Like fly traps for insects, they were irresistible to vertebrates. But the last documented case was years ago.
Whatever the situation, it was worse than the carpet turning out to be a tongue or rotten beams collapsing over his head.
He sneaked away in a very tense way towards the living room. In this room the old furniture stood, dried out, hardly attacked by rain and fauna. In front of the fireplace he made has. It was so positioned that it stood on one of the inner walls. As it should be, photo frames stood on the ledge.
Francis fished out a recorder. Another peculiarity he had become accustomed to since one saved his life, which he found, in which Norman had described exactly what a aberront it was.
"I stand in the living room. Striking: No signs, whether of presence or absence of danger."

[Writer's block, please help…]

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