The Ancestral Specter

"It is a mistake to fancy that horror is associated inextricably with darkness, silence, and solitude."—H.P. Lovecraft

The most horrible nightmare had awakened me during the night, and I soon discovered that the world I had known would change for the worse in its drastic alteration. What would be that discovery, you might ask, with intrinsic curiosity and morbidity? I would soon find that I was no longer alone in the familiar house I had called home since my early childhood.

The year was 1938, and there was another realization that would astonish me: I awoke to find complete strangers living in the house. But I had perceived with my cognition that they were not human in their essence. From beyond the hoary moon, a queer mist had pervaded over the house, and with it, these unknown phantasms entered that would trouble me. I rose to my feet to investigate the matter and the abrupt intruders. What had confused me was that I could not see them clearly, and I could only vaguely hear them speak.

All that I could discern of them were blurry images that were not conspicuous to my watchful eyes. Of these figures, I could only describe them as follows, based on what I could determine of their constitution. There were three children that I noticed and a female figure whom I assumed was their mother. Was this occurrence merely the result of a horrid dream that imposed itself within a sequence of apprehension? Was this a vivid episode of my imagination, or a disturbing hallucination I had concocted unwillingly? Whatever I was experiencing, it was abominable in nature.

It was an experience with no rational conclusion, except that it was existential in its terror and ominous in its reality. I had no specific idea what caused this anomaly, and the only clues that were pertinent and tangible were the presence of these wandering phantoms who had entered the house uninvited.

The night passed, and morning arrived, bringing with it my growing uncertainty and intrigue, which pursued me with a terrible wrath. I thought I had experienced a nightmare, unusual in its substance, but I didn’t know if the ghosts that had appeared before me were actually real at all.

I would soon have the answer to the question that concerned me, as I began to search for them inside the house with extreme caution. At first, I saw and heard little of them, until I was seated in the dining hall, when I saw the blurry images of the children running in the corridor.

I could hear them giggling and laughing out loud with such excitement. Were they laughing at me? I asked myself. If so, what did they want from me? As I approached them in the corridor, they were gone. They disappeared into the secret realm that existed between the dead and the living.

I could only ponder the inexplicable occurrence and speculate on how long they would stay in the house. They were not my guests, yet I was chosen to be their host without my consent. Was there something particular about the house that had brought them here in the first place, something that eluded my awareness?

My home was a Victorian house located on the outskirts of Providence, in the New England region. I had inherited it from a wealthy aunt who had regrettably passed away ten years ago. She had considered me the son she never had. The house had two stories, several chambers upstairs and downstairs, ornate windows, a chandelier, a gallery, a main hall, a dining hall, a parlor, a fireplace, and tapestries that were exceedingly priceless. It had an impressive façade and aspect, with a history tied to its ancestors that surpassed mere legends.

For the remainder of the day, I tried not to be distracted by the spectral intruders. My days were spent inside the house, dealing with a sickening depression that confined me to the sturdy walls, a prisoner of my own guilt. It was a guilt I couldn’t fully explain, because I didn’t even know why it tormented me with such relentless force.

All that was factual to me was the reality that I was once alone in the monotonous house I had called home. Then, I was confronted with the intrusion of ghostly beings, uninvited, who were present in the house. This was too unpredictable and unique to fathom, yet they continued to dwell among me openly. I could hear their distinctive voices and see flashes of them, still blurry, in various places inside the house, while witnessing their actions.

My immediate concern was to observe and calculate what I could do to remove them from the house or make them leave and never return. That was not an easy task, for I sensed that they were not human, as I was.

Simply, they couldn’t be driven out by brute force, because they had no corporeal composition that I was aware of. I tried to communicate with them, but I wasn’t certain they even paid attention to me or could reply in words I could understand. I noticed one peculiar thing that drew their attention: they were drawn to my phonograph, which I often played to distract myself in the parlor.

I could hear them speaking, as I listened attentively. Their spectral images were still blurry to me, and their words were impossible to decipher, leaving me unaware of what they were doing or saying. I had the strange feeling that they were attempting to communicate with me, not just among themselves.

Every morning, I would awaken to the sound of the children playing inside the house and the phonograph playing in the afternoon. It became an eerie routine I grew accustomed to. I still didn’t have a clue as to what had brought them to the house, but I was determined to try to establish communication. I knew that ghosts were common in houses and haunted them with fearless passion.

The one thing that puzzled me since their arrival was that there was no reference or recollection of their connection to the house, nor to the family. I couldn’t correlate any details with my memory. This was indeed odd. Were they just strangers, or were they related to me in some way I had no awareness of? If only I knew their names or could speak to them to find out that important information.

So, I began scribbling notes on a sheet of paper and leaving them in places they usually visited. My messages weren’t lengthy and were directly to the point. I eagerly waited for their replies. At first, there was no reply, and I wondered if my experiment had failed. But I decided to continue writing the notes, hoping the uninvited strangers would respond.

I would often see them gathered in the areas of the house where I expected them to be. One evening, I was in the parlor when one of the family members suddenly appeared before me. The blurry specter resembled a female figure I assumed was the mother. I could sense she wanted to speak to me, but for some reason, she was unable to.

Something was preventing her from completely materializing before me. She had read one of my written notes, which meant she was aware of my presence and of my messages. Unfortunately, I received no reply from her. I began making distinctive noises myself, thinking they would be alerted to my presence in the house. I pondered how I could devise another method to make them aware that they were not alone in the house, as they had thought.

There were times I felt nervous and spooked by their immediate presence. I wasn’t certain whether they were inherently evil or good phantoms. Either way, I wasn’t fully threatened by them nor their actions. It was just their blurry images that alarmed me with sudden consternation. They would appear out of nowhere, unannounced, and I didn’t know if that was an inevitable omen or just an idle threat. They were becoming bolder in their approach toward me, and I noticed this change in their behavior with my keen observation.

The lights in the house were usually on at night, but one night, they weren’t. I noticed candles lit in the dining hall while the rest of the lights were off. Apparently, some kind of event was transpiring with them, but I was unaware of the activity. As they participated in that event, I listened closely and watched their actions. What I didn’t realize at the time was that they were attempting a séance.

They had wanted to speak to a dead person, but who was that individual they sought to contact? I would only learn that when I unraveled the secret they were concealing. If this were true, were they really revenants in their absolute nature, or could they traverse the material realm of the living? They failed to summon any spirit that night.

In the days that followed, I thought of various ways to get their attention at once. I used the electricity of the house to alert them to my presence. I would turn the lights on and off manually so they would know I was near. I also moved furniture like chairs and tables, as well as the curtains in the parlor and the shutters of the windows in the dining hall.

All these measures were precisely calculated in my attempt to communicate with them. In the greater scheme of my plan, I still sought to understand the reason for their unexplained presence in the house. No matter how much pressure I applied to them, they equally imposed upon me the same eerie uncertainty. Deep in my mind, I wondered how I could make them more transparent in their appearances.

I read many books about eldritch spooks, yet none could explicitly tell me how to communicate with them or, even better, how to make them leave the house for good. Eventually, I settled on adjusting to them, hoping they would grow weary of me and the house and depart. Life had not been kind to me in recent years, and I had struggled with bouts of depression and loneliness. Could it be that these wandering ghosts were experiencing the same things I was?

This would imply that they had perhaps come to the house to escape their former lives in a place they no longer wished to reside. Who was I to judge them for that decision? I only wanted to know why they had come to the house in the first place.

The weeks turned into months, and I was forced to dwell with the specters and their intrusive presence. I would not sleep much, nor would they. Was I losing my sanity, or worse, had I already lost it and didn’t even know the horrendous consequences? Then that would mean the ghosts were nothing more than figments of my imagination.

Truly, it was difficult to distinguish what was real from what was surreal, especially when one was as isolated as I was. Why didn’t I go outside to enjoy the abundant wonders of life, as normal people did? Instead, I remained a prisoner of my own house, for reasons unbeknownst to me, except for an intrinsic fear. Fear of what? That was the question left unresolved. The house was my security, the place of the most endearing memories I had.

One day, I awoke to find that the arrangements in the house had been altered. For example, there were new curtains, and many rooms had been repainted a different color than before. Mirrors were hung, and tables replaced. I didn’t know why these sudden changes occurred. There was also an indistinguishable scent of incense that had perfumed the house.

Were these drastic measures I took caused directly by the intruders, or was I simply conjuring these abnormalities? It was becoming evident to me that something supernatural was occurring, though I was unaware of it. What else could logically explain these strange events?

The barrier dividing us had to be broken, but how? If they were ghosts and I was human, then this couldn’t be achieved without both of us entering the secret realm of being through a parallel junction. Who among us was alive, and who was dead?

At times, I thought I was succumbing to an atavistic hysteria. Their lurking presence puzzled me, causing disconcertment. I knew nothing about their origin or why they had come to dwell in the house. This troubled me, and I meditated on the situation that had unfolded so suddenly. What was especially strange were their footsteps, constantly heard inside the house.

How could this transpire if they were supposedly dead? This mystery would be solved when I discovered who they truly were in essence. They remained blurry images to me, appearing and disappearing daily, never quite tangible in description or palpable in substance. Perhaps the key to understanding was the children; they were the most active in the house.

For a whole week, they were gone, and I believed they had finally left, never to return. During their absence, I pondered whether they would come back. It was difficult to understand their real intentions because my communication with them had been unproductive.

I searched the house for any clues that would reveal who they were and where they had gone. Had they left as I hoped, or was their departure simply a brief visit to another place beyond the vicinity? My intuition told me they had been planning something for me, and I needed to prepare for whatever it might be. It was not easy to discern their schemes, but I would try if and when they returned. I was as much a mystery to them as they were to me, but this offered little consolation to my rational mind.

After that week, they returned, much to my dismay. I was in the hall when I heard the front door creak open. I could hear their familiar footsteps and voices as they entered. What I didn’t know at the time was that they had become more determined to communicate with me — or to drive me out of the house. It seemed that either they had to go, or I had to leave.

There was no other option to consider that seemed fair. I thought it was more urgent that I communicate with them, believing that they would finally understand who I was. I couldn’t be sure this would solve the dilemma of our identities, but it was worth attempting.

I began scribbling messages on the walls, hoping to signal my presence loud and clear. But this only caused more suspicion, without providing undeniable proof. They had altered the lighting in the house, and whenever I appeared before them, a bright, refulgent glow would blind me. Though I was still seeing blurry images of them, it seemed I was becoming clearer to them. They could never truly see me in my entirety, but they had more of an advantage than I did.

The children were less cautious when encountering me than the mother. Perhaps this was because they didn’t fully understand who I was or what I represented. I knew that children were aware of superstitions, but they wished to remain in their innocence.

The mother, on the other hand, was more cautious and astute regarding my presence. She was determined to confront me and expose me for who I was. I had no animosity or aversion toward her or her children. All I wanted to know was who they were and why they had come to occupy my house.

I studied every book I could find on ghosts and how to deal with them personally. I tried every possible trick or means of deception, but to no avail. It seemed they were aware of my futile attempts to rid myself of them. This was becoming a fascinating game of wits, and only one of us would be victorious in the end.

I hadn’t reached a point of complete anger, but I was no longer equable. I didn’t loathe them, but I was determined to drive them out, just as they seemed intent on doing with me. This predicament was becoming more desperate for both of us. It felt like a no-win situation, but I couldn’t foresee the outcome.

At the same time, I was dealing with my own insecurities and the forlorn isolation within the house. I began to wonder why I wouldn’t leave and seek a semblance of normalcy that others seemed to have, but that was missing in my life. I started reflecting on the things that were wrong with my life, especially the gaps in my memories, particularly the time before the intruders arrived. Why couldn’t I recall anything? Had I succumbed to madness, or was there something significant I had erased from my mind?

The suspense was mounting, and my anxiety grew with each passing day. I had to discover my haunting past before I had a nervous breakdown. The strange clock in the main hall, which chimed every hour, grated on my nerves with its constant ticking, as though it were observing the house. The children’s laughter and giggles echoed, increasing their mischievous energy.

They were more transparent than the mother, their strepent behavior reminding me of the childhood I once had and cherished. It became clearer by the day that whatever I did would not drive them out of the house instantly. Not even scaring them, as I had done before, was effective. Was it practical to continue believing I could make them leave on my terms, or had they no intention of relinquishing their claim on the house?

I began to consider the possibility that they might be related to me in some way, part of my family. If so, I had never heard a single mention of them. My intuition told me they were somehow connected to me, which both puzzled and intrigued me with urgency. The suspense gnawed at me with each encounter.

Time seemed to bind us together. How could we measure the presence of one another if not through the substance of time itself? I began to wonder what they could perceive about me. Was I just as blurry to them as they were to me? How could I prove this parallel similarity?

The notion of this possibility compelled me to seek a way to explore it. One afternoon, I decided to follow the children to their room. I peered through the keyhole to observe their activities. Something unusual occurred, altering the course of my actions.

For the first time, I saw them clearly, not as blurry images. Surprised and unprepared, I became intensely curious about their behavior.

The children were playing in their room, and what struck me was their clothing. It seemed to belong to a different time, something from an earlier period. I entered the room, and they saw me, gazing at me as though they were aware of my presence.

They spoke to me in overt words. I remained silent, leaving the room stunned by the encounter. I wasn’t sure what to make of it, but I knew they had crossed the boundary between life and death, as I had, in some mutual way.

We shared a common feature: the resemblance of our genuine appearance. The children, from what I observed, carried the genes of my family, though I had no idea about them before this moment. If this was true, they weren’t mere intruders who had invaded the house without purpose. The experience was brief, but it left me eager to understand its meaning.

Their images once again faded into their blurry forms, but I had seen enough to be influenced. Perhaps there was a way to communicate with them, as I had originally planned. When alone, I pondered the strange connection between us.

On one hand, they were a new part of the house’s history, while I belonged to the old. But doubt began to cloud my thoughts. My perception was shifting as I pressed on with my determination to solve the mystery that lingered inside me like a disease, an obsession I couldn’t escape. Too many questions remained, and I sought immediate answers to the perplexing enigma they presented.

Whatever had allowed me to interact with them would be the precursor to what would transpire the following day. The suspense grew as the incidents involving the assumed intruders became increasingly frequent. We were mere shadows to one another before, connected not only by kinship but by a strange, shared reality that seemed to shape our encounters and experiences in the mundane world.

The once indistinct nightmares I had been experiencing were becoming clearer and more comprehensible. I couldn’t predict the outcome of this narrative. However, my intuition and perception were finely tuned to unravel the mystery of the family inhabiting my house.

What had once seemed illogical was now becoming logical. What had once been unfathomable was now within reach. The more time passed, the more I began to feel that they were not inherently malevolent, neither in their nature nor in their actions toward me. Had I mistaken their intentions for malice that had never truly existed, except in the shadows of my own thoughts?

The fact that we were now communicating, in some way, opened a unique intersection between the supernatural and reality. It was unsettling, yet captivating—an experience that stirred my curiosity, despite the fear it invoked.

If I could only enter their state of being, if only I could understand them as they truly were—this would be a rare and extraordinary feat. I had learned the hard way that nothing in life was certain, except the eventual arrival of death.

It was disconcerting to know that death lingered as a shadow without end. It arrived when least expected. I had pondered: had death already come for me without my knowledge, leaving me to dwell in this eerie state?

Alone in my room, I contemplated the disquieting nature of my situation, and I became convinced that the spectral beings inhabiting the house were the true ghosts, not I.

Could it be that all these episodes, from the very beginning, were merely the result of a disturbing illusion or a fevered dream, born of fear and instability in my mind? I lost myself in this contemplation. Indeed, if I were a ghost, surely I would have known it by now. But if they were dead, was their existence some temporary state, akin to the religious notion of purgatory?

This was a lot to ponder with clarity and thought. I was a man of reason and logic, not easily swayed by unproven beliefs. One day, while walking through the corridor, I noticed new portraits hanging in the dining hall. These portraits depicted the family—the children and the mother.

My suspicions about the father remained unanswered. I had no idea if he still existed in the mortal world. It was remarkable to finally see them as they truly were. Until then, I had only seen blurry glimpses of their faces and forms.

Though the images were mere representations, they amazed me to the point of speechlessness. There was a small inscription beneath each portrait, listing their names and birth dates. The names were Philip, Mary, Rose, and Felicia—the mother. Yet, it was not the names that immediately caught my attention, but the birthdates. All of them were born in the late 1920s or early 1930s.

This couldn’t be. The year I knew was 1908. The portraits were dated 1938—twenty years after my last day on Earth, as I had thought. This discovery terrified me, leaving me trembling in disbelief. I desperately wanted to deny it, but until I could prove otherwise, I had to face the possibility that I was part of the spectral world, and not they.

I touched my own flesh—my skin, my bones. My heart beat regularly. My breath was natural. There was nothing to indicate I was dead, or worse, a wretched apparition. I could not bear the thought and had to act to dispel the terrible assumption.

One rainy, damp night, I would finally face my ultimate truth. I was walking down one of the corridors when I heard strange activity in the parlor. At first, the images were blurry, but soon they became clear and audible. What I witnessed was like nothing else before. It captivated both their attention and mine.

A group of people had gathered around a table with a medium, attempting once again to summon a spirit via a séance. Who were they trying to contact? Me. The realization struck me with undeniable force.

Slowly, through the shadows, I emerged from my world into theirs, in the form of my eternal presence. To them, I was little more than a mist—a faint alabaster vapor. They were recording the session, using a device I did not recognize, hoping to elicit words from me that could be relayed to them.

What followed was an experience I would never forget. It was too surreal to accept that I could be the menacing ghost they sought. As they called my name repeatedly, I remained silent, fearful of being discovered. My curiosity grew—why had they called upon me, and how had the medium found me?

They didn’t only call for me. They tried to summon the name of my father, but they failed. He wasn’t buried near the property. This shocking revelation led me to the inescapable conclusion: all these strange occurrences were tied to the house, which bound me to this realm of the preternatural.

The images I had retained in my memory now vividly represented the truth I had not recalled. If I were already dead, how was it I hadn’t realized this cruel fact before? This meant they were not ghosts, as I had once thought. But why couldn’t I see them clearly? The answer likely lay in the very nature of our existences—both theirs and mine.

I longed to tell them I wasn’t dead—I was still alive. My desperation was clear in my eyes as I tried to communicate, but I could only express myself through actions. I moved the table, pulled at the chairs, made the portraits fall, slammed the front door, broke the windows, and tore the curtains. Yet despite everything, my cries fell on deaf ears. I could not cross the boundary between the living and the dead.

The medium was so terrified by the events that she convulsed and collapsed to the floor, unconscious. The séance ended, and I could no longer see them plainly. They had once again become blurry images, indistinguishable from shadows.

I grew increasingly more unsettled. The house—once a place of solitude—had transformed into a cold, barren landscape where each creak of the floorboards or gust of wind felt like the breath of the unknown. The family’s presence, though strange and unnerving, became an odd comfort to me, like a shadowy reflection in the dimly lit corners of my mind. I no longer understood where the boundary between them and myself lay. Were we simply passengers on different trains of existence, each headed toward some unknowable destination?

I was drawn to the attic, that forgotten and dusty place that had become the center of my deepest contemplations. It had once been a storage space—shelves stacked with old trunks and cobwebbed furniture, an asylum for forgotten memories. But now, it felt like something more. As I approached the attic door, I felt the familiar chill on the back of my neck, the sense of eyes watching me from the darkness above. I hesitated, my hand resting on the old wooden doorframe, feeling a pressure in the air that had not been there before.

I opened the door slowly, my feet barely making a sound as I ascended the creaking stairs. The air was thick with the scent of mildew and old books, and the space was suffocatingly silent. But then, I heard it—a faint, almost imperceptible hum, like the soft rustling of paper. It was not the wind, not the house settling. The sound seemed deliberate, as though something—someone—was moving in the darkened corners of the room. My eyes darted across the cluttered attic, searching for the source of the sound, but I saw nothing.

Suddenly, something caught my eye—a strange figure standing in the farthest corner of the room. It was not fully formed, more like a faint silhouette, half-formed in shadows. I froze. My breath caught in my throat. For a moment, the figure appeared to be watching me, its form shifting in and out of focus. My mind screamed for me to turn and flee, but I couldn’t. I was rooted to the spot, caught in the grip of some invisible force.

It was then that I realized—it was me. The figure in the corner was a reflection of myself, distorted and broken, a shadow of the man I had once been. My breath quickened, and panic rose in my chest as I took a step forward. The figure did not move, but its presence filled the room, overwhelming the space with a sense of despair.

"Who are you?" I whispered, though I knew the answer.

The figure did not reply, but the air around it seemed to grow colder, and I could feel a pull—an inescapable force drawing me toward it. I resisted, but the pull grew stronger. With each step I took, the figure became clearer, sharper. It was me, yet it wasn’t. The face that looked back at me was one I didn’t recognize. It was the face of someone lost, someone trapped between two worlds.

I reached out an unsteady hand, and the figure responded. It mirrored my movements, its hand stretching out to meet mine. Just as our fingers were about to touch, a violent gust of wind slammed the attic door shut with a deafening bang, breaking the moment. The figure vanished, and I was left standing alone in the dark, my heart pounding in my chest.

I staggered back, my mind reeling. Was that a premonition of what I had become? Or had I somehow glimpsed the truth of my situation—a truth I was unwilling to accept? I needed answers, and I needed them quickly. But where could I turn? The living family, though perplexing, were as much a mystery as I was, perhaps even more so. And now, my own reflection had become a stranger to me.

I found myself back in the parlor, staring at the portraits of the family. Their names—Philip, Mary, Rose, and Felicia—seemed to mock me now, a cruel reminder of the passage of time. Their births in the late 1920s and early 1930s marked an era I had no memory of, an era that had passed me by while I had been trapped in the grip of death. I had thought I could sense the passage of time, but now I realized that time itself was a veil, a barrier between me and the world I had once known.

As I pondered this, I noticed something else—the portrait of the mother, Felicia. Her eyes, though painted with precision and care, seemed to follow me. It was as though she knew something I didn’t, something I could not understand. I leaned in closer, my gaze fixed on the painting. Suddenly, the room seemed to shift, the walls seeming to grow larger, the shadows deeper. The temperature dropped, and I shivered.

I was no longer alone. In the mirror across the room, I could see the faint outline of a figure standing behind me. I spun around, my heart racing. But there was nothing there—nothing but the empty space I had always known.

Or was it empty?

A strange noise echoed from the hallway, a soft whisper of movement, like footsteps. I hesitated, my mind racing. I knew I wasn’t alone in the house, but this felt different. This was not the same as the subtle, fleeting presence of the family. This felt darker, more sinister.

I stepped cautiously toward the door, my hand on the doorknob. The whispering grew louder, more insistent. I pulled the door open slowly, stepping into the hallway. The house seemed unnaturally still, every shadow cast by the flickering light of the gas lamps adding to the sense of unease.

Then I saw it. A figure standing at the end of the hallway, just beyond the faint glow of the lamps. It was not one of the family. This figure was different—its form was blurry, as though it were made of smoke, shifting and undulating like a living shadow. The figure raised its hand, beckoning me toward it. A cold shiver ran down my spine, and I felt an overwhelming sense of dread, but I couldn’t move. I was drawn to it, as if it had control over me.

Step by step, I walked toward the figure. With each movement, the shadows seemed to grow thicker, darker. The air grew colder, and the whispering intensified, until it became a deafening roar in my ears. My pulse quickened. What was happening? What was this thing? Why was it calling to me?

I was almost there when the figure suddenly vanished, leaving only the empty darkness in its wake. My breath caught in my throat as I stood frozen in place, trying to comprehend what had just happened. The air was thick with tension, as though something terrible was about to unfold.

The whispering stopped. And then, in the silence, a voice—clear and cold—whispered my name.

"Alexander..."

For the first time in what seemed like decades, I stepped outside. There, in the overgrown yard, stood a solitary tombstone—its name: Alexander Archibald. I froze in horror. Time seemed to stretch, eternal, as I was overwhelmed by the realization: I had been dead all along.

On a dreary, rainy day in 1908, I had taken my own life. I had hung myself in my room, driven to despair by guilt and anguish. This was the final chapter of my suffering, the moment I ended my mortal existence.

The family had decided to leave the house the next day, thinking they could never escape me. I was a presence that could not be erased easily. For the sake of the children, the mother made the decision to leave.

Although I had never considered myself an evil force, I understood her decision. It was impossible for them to continue living in the house with the constant awareness of my presence. In the end, I would remain in my solitude, doomed to linger in the darkness of death. I would have to accept the weight of my condition and my eternal punishment.

A harsh punishment that would never cease. I would be forever known as the ancestral specter, trapped in this house of horrors, like a prisoner locked away in an eternal cell. Thus, ends the truth of my account. You, the inquisitive reader, must decide for yourself whether to believe it.

Recommend Write a ReviewReport