This is the private journal of Noem Eagan, of the best-selling "Eagan Proves..." series of nonfiction works. Though the author enjoys a productive work relationship with Benjamin-Sycamore Publishing, LLC this journal should at no point be considered property of said publisher regardless of associations between these writings and titles currently housed with said publisher.
The contents of this journal must be considered the author's intellectual property and shall not be used for public OR private viewing. If this journal has come into your possession and you cannot locate the author for return of said, then this item is to be immediately destroyed in its entirety.
Failure to follow these directions as laid out will result in the full measure of legal recourse available to Noem Eagan, June Eagan, or the legal representatives thereof.
Further reading of these writings and any attempts at decoding encrypted content will be considered invasion of privacy and will be prosecuted.
At the behest of Benjamin-Sycamore Publishing, heretofore referred to as “Sycamore”, I have begun work on my next series of “Eagan Proves…” books. With sales of “Eagan Proves There Are Ghosts All Around Us” and “Eagan Proves There’s Something In The Water” reaching record heights in their genre, Sycamore is relieved to hear that I’ve finally narrowed in on a new topic for future installments.
In light of reader demand, I have seen no option other than to continue. For the briefest span of a week or two, I considered retirement. However, as Sycamore noted, it’s all about the fans. I do not wish to disappoint the millions who have come to anticipate the regular release of my work.
So it has come to pass that I have taken up residence in Wilmington, North Carolina within the fabled “Pest House”.
As with all claims of supernatural occurrences, I find myself mostly consumed with separating fact from fiction. Perhaps the best way to handle this within my journal is with a numbered list. In the process of refining concepts and keeping track of my thoughts over these many years, I have become quite fond of lists.
1.) Many “pest houses” in history were employed for the purpose of isolating infected persons from the greater populace.
2.) Pest houses were typically sheds that could be locked from the outside.
3.) Many perished, untreated, within these makeshift execution chambers.
1.) The notorious “Pest House” of Wilmington, an actual home which was seized by local officials for the purpose of isolating the sick or dying as they arrived to port.
2.) Pest House is haunted.
It is my hope that the history attached to this location correct. Furthermore, any appearance of apparitions or other such indicators of a haunting would be much appreciated.
Incident #001: The Digested Guest
Four days into my residence at Pest House, I was visited by one Harper Cree, an agent working on behalf of Sycamore. Upon first inspection, I figured him to be a local homeless man. I deduced that he had previously taken up residence in the house, and was concerned that I had taken over his “turf”. This was largely due to poor manner of dress and the ravages of what I assume to be either age or hard living.
Careful to instruct him on the proper method of moving across the rotting floor boards, I escorted Mr. Cree to the living room where we spoke at length. He was disappointed to hear that I had not yet experienced any unexplained phenomena within the Pest House. I assured him that I had only been there a matter of days and often these things simply take time. Furthermore, he complained about the lack of communication between Sycamore and me. I did not know this to be the case, as I’d not received any attempt at contact.
Mr. Cree noted that cell phone reception seemed to be lacking, and, perhaps a bit excitedly, supposed that this may be because of the house itself. I assured him that this was most likely not the case, though he remained positive about the “anomaly”.
As evening fell and out discussions of minutia continued, Mr. Cree noted the state of the building and pondered its rate of decay. He seemed convinced that the house should have been in poorer condition than it was, though I noted that to my senses it was more than poor enough.
We were seated on pair of simple wooden chairs left in the house by previous residents from an unknown era. Other than this, the room contained a sofa in rather good (yet curiously musty) condition set before a large oriental rug of pale pink and white. Several aging tables and lamps provided little in the way of function, but seemed to give the decrepit place a more lived-in and thus “normal” feel.
I moved to retire to my room, a simple upstairs bedroom containing a sleeping bag, pillow, and my writing accoutrements. As I did so, Mr. Cree inquired about nights within the Pest House and inquired about my comfort during said periods of darkness. At my behest, Mr. Cree agreed to stay for a single night before returning to the hotel Sycamore had provided. He mentioned that Pest House was a sight better than the room he had been given, though I doubt the validity of this statement and presume it was made in jest.
Declining to join me on the second floor due to a desired proximity to the front door, “just in case”, Mr. Cree reclined on the odiferous sofa upon which I had draped a freshly laundered blanket.
Satisfied that Mr. Cree was made to feel at home, I returned to my room. After making several notes and once again trying to contact Sycamore, I allowed myself to drift off to sleep within Pest House for the fourth night.
I was not stirred from sleep at any point, and enjoyed quite a restful night. When I awoke in the morning, I made note of any dreams I could recall within Journal 2 and set about beginning day five of my stay within this structure.
Upon descending the creaking and uneven stairs, I immediately noticed a caustic, foul odor which had not previously been present. Moving to the living room, I believed I had found the source of said aroma.
Mr. Cree was not to be found, though in his place upon the sofa remained a dark crimson stain both the width and length of Mr. Cree himself. Bits of errata including slick shreds of clothing, a wallet with corroded leather, and a set of car keys also lingered here.
Cautious, yet intrigued, I held my glasses as if the right lens were that of a magnifying glass and inspecting the curious offal. Within the fibers of the blanket, itself porous and seemingly eaten away, I discovered several teeth and assorted bone fragments. I remain convinced that these had previously resided within the amicable Mr. Cree.
Following the crimson stain, which I noted to be congealing blood, I discovered that it marred not only the above surface of the sofa, but also the front portion of said and the floorboards just beneath. A trail of the red ooze lead to the middle of the room.
The marring of the floor appeared as if some great snail had effortlessly glided across the splintered surface after doing some grim, unspeakable deed to my guest.
There, at the end of the trail, was the oriental rug. Its well-worn surface was no longer pink and white, but was instead a vibrant red and luscious peach. I approached it with no small measure of caution, as I had approached the grisly reminders of Mr. Cree’s existence.
Carefully turning over one corner of the rug, then the next, I found an ample amount of blood sticking to the floor beneath. Furthermore, though the oriental rug appeared normal, though aged, upon its usually visible surface… beneath it appeared to be not a rug at all, but a rather a great, perfectly rectangular swath of stomach lining. At its center, a sphincter-like orifice baring the slightest hint of glistening yellowed fangs.
Having no interest in spending the rest of my stay with such a thing free to roam about, I gathered the now shiftless, inert fiend into a tight roll. I placed it vertically against the back wall of a hallway closet and shut it in tight, along with the linens from the sofa and the cushion covers. For good measure, I propped one of the wooden chairs against the knob of the closet door. I figured that from then on, I would no longer need the second chair since I did not intend to host any additional guests.
What continues to perplex me in relation to this abnormal event is that a reasonably large man such as Mr. Cree could be reduced… perhaps liquefied… and stored within the object. A human body contained within a completely flat surface the neither bulged nor visibly grew in size makes the mind race. It’s possible that some unknown force may have actually displaced the stew of human juices, perhaps converted it to some unknown form of matter… but still this puzzle vexes me now as it did then.
To calm my nerves a bit and to return my thoughts to more pressing research, I readied myself for day five by preparing a hearty breakfast of sausage and eggs.
When I am finally back in touch with Sycamore, I will have to remember not to mention Mr. Cree’s arrival and – more vital – the methods of his departure.