The Unnameable Horror
There is a nameless thing within our minds that haunts us incessantly, but it has no actual name. It has only the name and description that we attach to its terror. It is embedded in the deepest realm of our subconscious thoughts, and it is a corridor of benightedness that elicits our horripilation. It merely exists in our immarcescible fears, and it is embodied within the core of our soul.
How it derives, I do not know with a certainty. All that I know of its eldritch origin is that it has existed throughout the centuries. I cannot elucidate the reason that it lurks in our minds, except that I must be candid with the sole admission of my words.
What the reader will read next, is an account that bears witness to the evil that dwells in the world of the living and dead. It is a veil of evil that is insidious in nature and persistent in its torment. It is the unnameable horror. It all began in the year 1920, in a remote village in the New England region, called Wickham. The village was located on the west side of the Narragansett Bay, between Providence, the capital, and Newport. It was quaint and traditional.
The people there were described as deeply superstitious and reverential. They were also very reserved with strangers and those who were not from their village. There was a mystery and a secret that the people would not dare divulge to outsiders. I had originally arrived there from New York, where I moved into an old Victorian house that I had rented along the bank of a narrow river with giant water lilies. I had grown weary of the bustle of New York and wanted to escape its toxicity for a period of time. I was a novelist and had sought the comfort of a small town to write my next horror story. My name is Cedric Barr.
The house that I had rented was very intimidating in its outward appearance. Its hoary color, mansard roof, gables, ornate pillars, and façade were evidently noticeable. Its Victorian aesthetic look demonstrated clearly a dark and unsettling ambience of terror. The eldritch glare of the twilight had reflected a desolate despair, and the curtained windows and darkened rooms were indicative of the forlornness of its dull isolation.
I stood before the house, observing the decrepitude of its abandonment and decadence. From what I was told by the person from whom I rented the house, nobody had been living there for decades. It once belonged to a New England family of prominent aristocrats that attempted to sell the house, but no buyer would dare to purchase it.
The bank was not even interested. For some unknown reason to me, the house was doomed and forgotten. I was told that there had been an atrocious murder there in 1885 and that the place had been said to be haunted ever since that year. I was not certain if the man who had rented me the house, Mr. Gillingham, was actually telling me the truth or if he was merely inventive in his wild imagination.
As a writer of horror, I was accustomed to hearing stories of this gruesome nature. This did not dissuade me or distract me from my interest in renting the house. After all, it would only be for a couple of weeks. That was my original intention. The creepy aspect of the house was just perfect for me to explore in the deepest realm of my imagination and creativity.
The fact that it was presumed to be haunted was enough for me to be inspired by this supposed tale of murder that was committed decades ago. When I had entered the interior of the house, I had felt the fenowed planks of the floors creak as I had walked ahead, through the thester shade of gloom. The walls of the house were rubiginous, but the wood inside was worn as well.
I could see its splinters on the ruvid surface. The windows were thick with grime, and the nooks and crannies were covered in the viscosity of cobwebs. There were several rooms displayed, but most of them were boarded up and inhospitable, with the exception of the parlor, the rooms upstairs, and the kitchen.
There was a fireplace near the poised beams and a dinner table at my disposal. It was eerie to see such a house that was once pristine in its appearance and structure, then reduced to a terrible state of neglect. I would have preferred more access to the rooms of the house, but I had acquiesced to the conditions of the house. Whatever was behind those rooms would be left for the inquisitive nature of my heightened curiosity.
I had a story to write, and little would I know at that time that the horror that I would discover afterwards in the house would be more horrendous than any story I could ever have written with a passionate penchant. There was not much of the village I could see in the evening. I had noticed that the house was isolated and was quite a distance from my closest neighbor. The little that I had seen of the village seemed to be ancient in its history.
The colonial influence was present in its appearance. I had seen a lone church along the way. The owner of the house that I had rented had told me that it had replaced the Old Narragansett church that had been built in 1707 by the original settlers of the village.
I was truly fascinated, by the historic events and stories that were linked to the village and the New England area. There was indeed much history in this general vicinity of the country. I had been to the city of Providence on one occasion and had enjoyed my time there. The state of Rhode Island was small in size, but it was full of an enriched history that was appealing and revealing.
The first night at the house, nothing out of the ordinary happened that was memorable. It was not until the following night, as I was sleeping in my bed, that I was awakened by a profound nightmare. The details of the nightmare were vague, to say the least, but I did recall the sequence of the nightmare. In this horrible dream, I saw the actual sequence of the murder that Mr. Gillingham had told me had taken place at the house decades ago. I saw an old man seated on a couch, reading a newspaper in the parlor, when he was struck violently in the head from behind by a ferocious pitchfork.
Instantly, he would drop to the floor in a pool of stammel blood. He would be found stone dead, with over eighty stab wounds on his body. All I could see of the killer or person holding the pitchfork was the face of an enraged woman. I could not discern anything more about the guise of the murderess.
In the morning, I had thought about the bad dream, and what I had seen occurred vividly. The first thing I did was head to the parlor. There I began to picture within my mind the event that had unfolded in my previous nightmare. It was not that difficult to imagine the horrific event that was the murder.
For a moment, it was spine-chilling to have to even imagine such an awful thing. I had no real idea who these individuals were, but to think about the manner in which the murder happened was sufficient for me to ponder the unfathomable consequence.
It was really tragic what had transpired in the house all those years ago, but to think that a killer was a woman was even more disturbing. It was not common in that time period to see any woman, as a cold-blooded killer. The day I had spent writing my novel. I was anticipating that, in the setting of the house and the village, my creative wit would emerge from its dormant state. Oddly enough, the nightmare that I had experienced would eventually become the precursor to the main theme in my novel. I had begun to develop the preliminary stages of my characters, but I was still experimenting in my mind with the determination of the plot.
My readers had expected the best of me, and I did not want to disappoint them one bit. I was successful in my prior novel and wanted to effectuate the same success and recognition. That was the challenge that I had to confront and match with my perspicacity and diligence. I could not afford to waste my time writing cheap and senseless novels, for the sake of my established reputation.
Between hours, I had taken a momentary break, and I had taken a stroll outside near the riverbank, where I could appreciate and situate myself with the surrounding area, I was in. I could distinctively hear the green frogs and the flow of the river's currents.
It was a soothing noise that was different than the bustling noise I was used to hearing. As I was standing at the edge of the river, a strange object was floating in the water towards me. It appeared to be a locket. It had a small picture of a woman, but no name to identify her. It was not until I had looked closely at the picture that I had recognized the woman.
It was the same woman in my nightmare. I did not know her name either. What was a locket of hers doing floating in the river so casually? Who had placed it there? Was it someone that she knew? How long was the locket there? I would have to wait, until the suspense had increased in duration.
When I had returned to the house, I continued writing. As I was seated in my chair, writing upstairs in my room, I heard the stridor of the front door open. I immediately stopped and went down the staircase to see who had supposedly entered the house.
I would not see or find anyone inside the house, yet the door was opened. Someone or something had opened it. Was it the wind, as I had thought? It could not be, since it was not windy at all outside. Despite the light of the sun entering through the windows, the place inside was still dark and gloomy. After a couple of minutes, I dismissed the incident and returned to my writing. As I was writing, the sound of peculiar footsteps climbing the staircase was audible to my ears.
Once again, I got up from my chair to see who was walking up the staircase. Once there at the staircase, I found no one. First the opened door, then the footsteps. What was next? It was also the first time that I had begun to suspect that perhaps the house was haunted in some way, as was suggested by Mr. Gillingham.
This would cause me to investigate more deeply the history of the house and the family that had lived there before, including the woman who was accused of being a murderess. Thus, I spent the rest of the day searching for any pertinent details about her at the archives of the local library in the village. There, I would be able to access the information I was seeking. Once I had reached the place, I was able to find, at least, enough information about the identity of the woman and her family. What it would reveal would be astonishing and useful to me.
However, it would only be a small fraction of the truth that I was missing in its totality. For a small village, the fact that it had a library was remarkable. What I had learned about the woman and her immediate family was that her name was Elizabeth Hampton, and she was the daughter of Elijah Hampton.
He was a well-known merchant who had established a business that involved the distribution of wine to the upper class in the New England region. His wife was a woman by the name of Emma Hampton. According to the records of the family, she had passed away mysteriously in the year 1880. Her death was recorded as "accidental". I thought that was queer, but that was in another time period, when access to autopsies was less available and meticulously performed. Elijah Hampton died in 1885. His death was recorded, as a murder.
As for Elizabeth Hampton, there was no actual mention of her death, only her birth in the year of 1858. Why was her death not recorded in the annals of the family? I had read that she had been sent to an insane asylum. Either she was still alive, or her death was not mentioned deliberately.
I had left the library and walked a bit in the principal area of the center of the village, where I could see the galleries, the antique shops, the passing ships in the harbor, the enchanting waterfront streets, and the beautiful colonial homes. The people of the village were reclusive toward me, and they knew that I was an outsider.
Not all of them were of this attitude, but I had sensed that the older people that were attached to the arcane history of the village, were the ones that were mostly indifferent in their comportment. Were they concealing deep inner secrets that only made them aware of their enigmas?
The village, in its appearance, was an exotic place, nearby a port. To the outside world, it was just a village, but to the local denizens, it was much more than that. I had returned to the house that I had decided to call the Hampton House, where I was staying. The information that I had about the occupants of the house convinced me that they were indeed a significant family in the village.
The question that I had pondered was: what did the locals think about them, and what had transpired at that house back then? I had managed to find an old man that I had spoken to briefly. He was bizarre in his gestures and behavior. He had told me when I mentioned the Hamptons to him that they were known to the community.
It was what he had said to me afterwards in his comments that had concerned me. He had claimed that the old Victorian house was haunted by an evil presence that he would call the Devil's work. I was not certain what this man was trying to convey to me or make me understand.
The notion of the evil that he had described as an imprecation did not seem that far-fetched, considering the history of the house. I would also learn during my investigation of the house back at the library that the house was built over an old Puritan cemetery. The original inhabitants of the area were the Narragansett people. However, the cemetery had been built by one of the families of the original settlers back in the 17th century, by the name of Cornelius Radford.
Therefore, it did not have anything to do, with the indigenous people of the area. Knowing what I had known thereafter, was it possible that this haunting evil had contributed to the madness of Elizabeth Hampton in one form or another?The fact that the house was built over an old Puritan cemetery was fascinating, but alarming at the same time. Who would ever concede to the horrendous thought that history would be smeared, with such blood-curdling tragedies?
It was known throughout the New England region that there were innumerable places or buildings erected over former cemeteries of settlers or Indian burial grounds. This was something that had intrigued me a lot. Who were these people, really? How much of their history was attached to the village and the villagers? What about the notion of witchcraft?
I knew that it was prevalent more in Salem than in another part of the eastern region of the country. I had read about the horror that was the Salem trials and how many people were wrongly accused and sent to their deaths unmercifully. I could only imagine the consequential tragedy of those circumstances, yet the evil that was inside the house was somehow linked to this abominable past.
Although I was curious to know more about the ancient cemetery underneath the house, for the moment, I would have to bide my time. The suspense would intensify. While I was back upstairs in my room writing, I had heard the familiar footsteps. This time, they were coming from one of the adjacent rooms. I rose to investigate and discovered that there were wet footprints marked on the floor. I had followed them all the way down the stairs to the front door.
When I had reached the front door, I could see from afar the image of a lone woman dressed in Victorian clothing, walking towards the river. I had followed her then to the river, but she would vanish as I got there. Had I just had an encounter with a preternatural spirit of some inexplicable nature?
The night was spent wondering, about what was truly occurring at the house. I began to incorporate the elements of the haunting aspect of the house and the occurrences into my novel and story. It was too ironic to fathom—such an incredible coincidence.
The main character was a ghost that I had named Elizabeth after Elizabeth Hampton. I even employed the storyline of the murder of her father, Elijah Hampton. I had merely changed their surnames. I was at the fireplace downstairs, seated in the parlor, when I heard the audible sound of whistling whispers. They were faint at first, then they had billowed. I could not distinguish the actual words that were uttered except that the voice sounded female.
When I looked around, I saw no one. It was definitely, an uneasy moment. Once again, I would have the recurring nightmare, but this time, I would begin to see more of the guise of the killer. In the end, what I saw would awaken me to a deep chill and perspiration. I could see the face of Elizabeth Hampton, carrying the pitchfork in her hand. I had finally seen her face.
There was something else that I had seen but not that clearly, and that was that there was another person in the room at that time. Unfortunately for me, I could not see the countenance of that person. The nightmare was vivid and strong enough that I had to medicate myself with pills I had brought with me, from New York.
The insomnia I had suffered was just as recurring, as the nightmare that was tormenting me consistently. I had feared that I would succumb to funest delusions and soporific lassitude. When I woke up in the morning, I was becoming obsessed with the occurrences happening to me. There had to be a logical explanation for all of this. The thing was that I could not rationalize what was happening in the house.
Only in the sanctuary of my novel could I be in absolute control of the situation. I found comfort there, and in my pills, too. I would have preferred to not have to be dependent on them, but I was realistic and knew that I could not endure more sleepless nights for any longer.
Perhaps it was wiser to have left the house and finished my novel back in New York or somewhere else. There was something that was compelling me to stay. Was it my stubbornness, or was it influenced, by the lurking symptoms of my insanity? Whatever it was, it would transform into my worst foe.
I would have a visitor to the house on that day, but it would be no ordinary visitor. I was not expecting one, and I was surprised when I heard the knock on the door. I was upstairs again, writing. When I had answered the door, no one was standing in front of me. Had I just imagined that I had heard someone knocking on the front door, or was someone pranking me?
Of course, the other option, which was not that unfathomable, was that the spirit of the house had returned. If so, then what did she want? I did not know at that moment. I could only speculate. As I was left dumbfounded, I then heard the tapping of the window in the parlor. I went there, and the window was opened. I had remembered closing the window before, during the night. Who had dared to open it?
Afterwards, I had heard the inimitable footsteps once again, coming directly from the upstairs room I had entered previously. I was extremely nervous, yet at the same time, I was eager to see a glimpse of whatever it was that was haunting the house. Nothing would prepare me for what occurred next.
Once inside the room, I had heard moribund gasps. There was a glass mirror on my right side. I had gradually walked toward the mirror, with the eerie sensation that something dramatic would be discovered. The incident that would happen next would be the turning point of my stay in the house and provide me with the most horrifying encounter I would have there. I had looked into the mirror expecting only to see my face, but instead, I saw the somber face of Elizabeth Hampton. She was staring at me, with a plaintive expression, as if she was trying to warn me about something evil.
I was so shocked and startled by her appearance in the mirror that I did not know what to expect any longer. It did begin to make me ponder, to an extent, whether or not there was a greater evil in the house of which I not aware of its hidden presence. I could not confirm that suspicion nor determine if it was an actual warning that she had conveyed to me in the mirror. I was also beginning to wonder what was behind the boarded-up rooms. Were there some relevant clues that I could have discovered there that were undetected?
Although I did not have permission to enter them, I had made the decision to, at least, open one of them that was downstairs. I had been reluctant to believe in the supernatural, but that would all change subitaneously. I had used a hammer to remove the nails placed over the wood, and what I discovered thereafter was nothing more than an old, abandoned room, with viscous cobwebs, particles of dust and fuliginosity. It had no furniture.
I had no idea whose room I had uncovered, but there was something on the floor that had remained behind. That something was in the form of torn pages from a diary. It was the diary that had belonged to Elizabeth Hampton herself. What could be read and was legible were the words impressed in ink that had told her story. Even though it was only three pages that I was able to read, nonetheless, they were informative for me to understand the gist of the diary. In her words, she described the terrible relationship she had with her father, Elijah Hampton. She had portrayed him, as a cold and cruel father.
I was not sure to what degree that father and daughter relationship had deteriorated. It was evident from the scant pages she offered that the relationship, according to her, was volatile. Was this the reason and cause for his execution or murder?
So many thoughts were arising in the back of my mind as I had ruminated on the disconcerting possibilities. What did this all have to do with the house and the original cemetery? I went back to the library to see if I could glean more facts about the house and the Hampton family. I would discover then that Elizabeth Hampton had in fact died ten years after her murder in Boston in 1895.
She had been released from the asylum but had succumbed to the deadly effects of cancer. There was nothing more of major interest that was pertinent to my investigation. I had noticed that the old villagers were staring more at me, as if to wonder why I was still in the village and what my intentions were. Had they grown weary of my stay?
Wickham was a strange place at that moment for a stranger like me. Was I merely exaggerating and perceiving something that was nothing in its actuality? I had remembered the old villager who I had spoken to that had called the thing that was haunting the house, in his words, the ''Devil's work.'' Could he be correct? This new revelation I would utilize in my novel. I became more fervent in my writing and more unnerved.
The medication had pacified me, but it did not eliminate the mystery, or the growing anxiety in me. It did provide for an exciting story that would have a gruesome twist. The idea that there was something demonic in nature hidden not only in the house but in the minds of the villagers was worrisome. My contact with the village, especially the old villagers, was minimal, to say the least.
They were rather odd people and archaic in their thoughts and beliefs. They had been raised to believe in such things, as witchcraft and evil. To the outside world, this would be seen as a foolish superstition. I could not forget that I was in the center of places and people that were direct descendants of the original settlers of Wickham.
The more time I spent in the village, the more that notion would be reinforced. It seemed impossible it had seemed to me to convince these people to believe otherwise. Upon returning to the Hampton house, I began to make a plot with my own ending. Never would I even imagine, how ironic that ending would be in comparison to the actual ending of the mystery that had bound me to the house, since the beginning. I had written countless chapters already and was writing within a celeritous speed.
The story was very convincing, as was the haunting house. I did not omit the lurid details of the murder, and I had portrayed the villagers as believers in ancient pagan rituals. Little would I know that that would ultimately be the case. The evening would be ominous, but it would pale compared to the events that would unfold during that indelible night. I was upstairs writing, when, beside me, had appeared the ghost of Elizabeth Hampton.
She had startled me, and I was not prepared to see her standing, like a restless specter. Once again, with her gestures, she was attempting to warn me or to take heed of her warning. I had looked, and immediately, I started to talk to her, but she had disappeared, as she had done before. I did not even have a chance to communicate or ask her questions.
All I could do was watch her vanish from the room. Where did she vanish? That was still a lingering doubt I had in me. It had made no sense to me at all. How could she be presumed to be diabolical in nature as a murderess, but then, be so susceptible in her plea? Had the ponderance of guilt been too much for her to bear?
The more that she had appeared, the more I had believed that she was a mere pawn in the horrid events that had occurred in the house, or she had terribly gone insane. It was feasible that she could have been influenced, by some sinister presence that was somehow ineffable in nature. I thought I had sufficient material to inspire me to write my novel, with the main character being Elizabeth Hampton.
There was one thing that was missing, and that would be the ending of my novel. It would be a finality that I would not need to invent falsehoods. Could I unravel the mystery in time, before I had left the house, or it had compelled me to leave on my own accord?
That was a frightening prospect. The most frightening thing above all was the fact that I was in some kind of immediate danger. I had ceased to write for a moment and went downstairs to pace in the parlor a bit. I was trying to devise an ending to my novel that would be utterly riveting. Without me realizing that I would play a central figure, in the actual outcome of the innameable horror.
Anew, I read the torn pages of the diary that had belonged to Elizabeth Hampton, hoping that I would discover more clues to her unsteady relationship, with her authoritarian father. There was nothing I had found to be relevant. It was then that I had begun to ponder in my mind, the fact that the house was built on an old 17th cemetery.
The thought of that was disturbing enough, but what would be more telling would be the reality of what type of evil was buried, underneath in that forsaken cemetery. Why did the villagers despise or not appreciate the Hamptons? Was it something more that went beyond the actual murder? Had there been bad hostility and bad blood, between the Hamptons and the majority of the villagers for a long time?
Whatever it was that had caused the evident repugnance of the villagers, it was sufficient for them to not say anything good about the Hamptons. Was their grudge against them justifiable? The Hamptons were not the perfect or ideal family to be admired, yet they were wealthy, compared to the old villagers that had formed part of the working class of the village. Were the villagers simply envious of their accumulative opulence and status in the village? That I could only cogitate.
I was about to resume my writing, when I heard the sound of weeping, coming from one of the rooms next to mine upstairs. I had intuited that it was perhaps Elizabeth Hampton reappearing. When I had entered the room, I saw the ghostly image of her seated with her elbows over her knees. I did not know what to do, nor why she was weeping in that room all alone.
Slowly, I had walked toward her to comfort her, and I had called on her, but she did not respond. Was I foolish to believe that she would reply? When I had tapped on her shoulder, she would turn around with a ghastly look. Her eyes were completely dilated, but the worst thing was that she had no tongue, for she had sliced her tongue. The image had discomposed me, but I was able to regain my composure and react.
It was too late, she would disappear as usually she would. I would later learn that she had sliced her tongue, during her time in the asylum afterwards, before she was released from the asylum. Her life toward the end was for the most part, a terrible sequence of a never-ending horror that was implacable. Her plangent wailing was a plea of the piacularity of her soul.
The night had befallen, and it would be the hellish nightmare that I would have never wanted to relive. I had been finishing my novel upstairs, when I had heard a sudden commotion coming from downstairs in the parlor. I rose to my feet and headed toward the vicinity of the parlor. I had climbed the staircase to find there standing was Elizabeth Hampton carrying a pitchfork in her hand.
A man that had seemed to be in appearance her father was resting upon a couch, when he was violently struck in the head by his daughter and stabbed numerous times. It was all too surreal, and it was exactly like in my nightmare and in the real episode of the occurrence of the murder on that night that it was committed. There standing behind Elizabeth Hampton was the old man that I had spoken too before. I was lost for words, and unable to think for a couple of minutes.
I had just witnessed the macabre scene of Mr. Hampton's untimely death. I could never see the actual face of the stranger that was with Elizabeth in my dream. The windows and mirrors of the house would deliberately be broken into shards, by a powerful force of an unprecedented magnitude and evil. It was a terror that would drive a person insane. I had screamed at the old man, insisting to know who he really was.
Soon, he would be accompanied by the rest of the old villagers that were witnesses and participants of the old rituals of the pagan witchcraft. They had appeared onto the scene unannouncedly. What did they and the old man want I did not know. They did not utter much, except to tell me to leave the house and never come back. It was a direct warning to be heeded. I was to leave the house in the morning.
I had stood there in awe of what was happening that it took a few minutes before I could react instinctively. From beneath the wooden floor of the parlour rose from the cemetery the dauntless souls of the dead buried. They were the souls of the original settlers that had worshipped a pagan god.
It was enough to discompose me for a moment, until I had told the old villagers that I would indeed depart the house. Before I had left, I wanted to know from them directly, who were they and what was the horrible thing that was in the end haunting the house. The old man bold in his conduct toward me had replied, it had no name.
When I had asked him to clarify his response, he uttered to me that the evil that was haunting the house could not be described in mere words alone. It was more than I could ever comprehend, with my limited human mind. I had asked the old man about the murder, and he had revealed to me that it was indeed the evil of the house that had influenced Elizabeth Hampton to kill her estranged father. She did not kill him on her own volition. It was the madness of the house that had caused her to go insane.
It did seem to be logical, but why was she appearing as a ghost and warning me? Warning me about what? The old man who was tall and lanky in his physiognomy had disclosed to me that Elizabeth Hampton's soul out of guilt had appeared to warn me about the irrepressible evil in the house.
She could not escape the madness, but she did not want me to fall victim to its presence. It was not impossible for me to believe such thing. Within the next minutes, the old man and the others had left the house, in the same manner in which they came. I did not see them depart, but they did somehow. To where to their homes I had assumed.
They were the true keepers of the house and were the pagan descendants of the original settlers of Wickham. Then who was Mr. Gillingham? I would discover that he too was a faithful member of their pagan cult. A cult that I was not aware had even existed or was prevalent in the New England region.
They had trapped the evil in the house and kept it from spreading onto the rest of the village. That was the version that I had to believe. As for my novel, I would have the perfect ending. An ending that I had not suspected would unfold in such a dramatic way.
I had left the house in the morning, as I was instructed to do. I had by that time been succumbing to the early effects of the madness of the house. If I had stayed any longer in duration, I would eventually had yielded to the same fate that poor Elizabeth Hampton had faced.
The medication that I had taken had somehow helped me from escaping briefly the madness. Mr. Gillingham had arrived to pick up the key. He did not say much to me, except to ask me if I had enjoyed my time in the house to which I candidly admitted that I did in some peculiar way. He had expressed a sarcastic grin on his face, as if to acknowledge that he could tell that I had experienced the supernatural realm in person and had enough.
He had even asked me, how was my novel going. I had told him that I had not finished it yet, but it was deeply inspired by my stay in the house. He asked me for a copy once the novel was edited. I had smiled at him and said I would give him one. I knew that the events that had taken place there inside the house would forever be remembered by me and by him.
The last thing I had remembered about the house, before I stepped outside was staring into the depth of the house, and the haunting staircase that had lured me into the evil of its madness. I had shaken Mr. Gillingham's hand and said my goodbyes to him. I got into my vehicle and had left the village of Wickham. Along the way, I saw the distinct faces of the old villagers who had looked at me from afar.
I still did not precisely know everything, about what had occurred back at that house. At best, I could only fathom from the facts that were accrued afterwards. The time that I had spent there was brief, but it was enough for me to not want to experience, such ghastly events again.
I was able to finish and complete the editing process in time for the novel to be published. It would be the best novel I would ever write and the only one that I had ever experienced in my life. As for the title, I had named it, after the inimitable evil that had haunted the house. It was not difficult to choose such an appropriate title, when in reality the inexorable thing that was haunting the house had no name, as the old man had said to me before. It was indistinguishable. It was chthonian and scelestic. I confess to you the reader that the thing that I had confronted in that house, was indeed, an unnameable horror.
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