Campfire Stories, Virginia City

Published

2 years ago

August 21, 2022

Court Court

There is a mineshaft in a place you might know as Virginia City, a little historic town in northern Nevada with haunted bars, hotels filled with blood and cemeteries decorated with skeletons and baby cribs. This mineshaft is not difficult to get into; it is buried beneath a general store. All we had to do was pay the reasonable fee of $10 each and voila, the gate opens and down a shabby, groaning ramp we went. The descent is far lower than the store advertises, which claims a two story descent but is actually 10 story descent. Probably some legal reasons why they don’t list it, who knows. Anyway, the ramp turns into stairs, which are so frail it feels as though they might collapse with each step you take. Minus the measly, vintage light fixtures dangling from the walls, it is an abysmal darkness. It is impossible to avoid walking into cobwebs and there were many times I almost tripped on a loose, rusty nail and fell to my death.

I was with my boyfriend at the time, Brandt. We were both 20, underage in such a boozy town but our fake IDs have worked wonders before so I didn’t doubt they would work now. Growing up, we both loved going up to Virginia City and we wanted to have a little date for our six month anniversary.

The further we went down into the mineshaft, the more I wanted to turn back around. But every time I brought it up, Brandt told me we have to keep going because there was no way we were going to get our money back and he’ll be goddamned if he let $20 go to waste. And I tried to tell him that he could’ve let me pay for half because my parents gave me some extra money for our trip but noooo, he had to be a dumb chivalrous man about it and that lead into an argument about how it’s the 21^st century, you don’t have to let women pay anymore if they don’t want you to and he was like “it’s the principal of the thing” and then we had a fight about principals and, long story short, we didn’t turn back around. That is how long this flight of stairs was; we were able to fight and resolve multiple different arguments.

Anyway, we continued to make the fateful trip down the stairs, and did I mention how much colder it became the further down we went? Mind you, I was in booty shorts and a tank top, so I was fucking shivering just halfway down. Brandt was in jeans and a tank, but he runs cold and would not stop bitching about it. I was really tempted to push him down the stairs because he wouldn’t shut up and I just wanted this dumb mineshaft trip over with. I could be looking at stupid shirts in a general store or using my fake ID in some random bar instead of this. But down we went, and the colder we got, and the more pissed we became at each other.

We stopped holding hands a long time ago, but after a moment of silence Brandt grabbed my hand and held me close, claiming he felt something graze his ankle. I was tempted to squat down and feel if there was something in the space between the slats in the stairs, but I didn’t want to entertain his childish fears because he has a history of crying wolf – I call it “youngest child syndrome” — and I just wanted to get out of there. So, I held his hand and told him it was probably just a cobweb or spider or something, who knows how many were crawling on us. We went down another story — or at least I think it was another story, it became really difficult to tell – when we both heard a faint laughter below us. It was like those stereotypical witch cackles, except this was deeper and lasted much longer. I tried to pretend that it was just our imaginations playing tricks on us, but the laughter just grew louder. Brandt and I looked at the dark outlines of each other’s faces and I could tell he wanted to get the hell out of here, $20 or no, and let me tell you I have never loved that man more than when we both took off running up the stairs.

But up the stairs was the worst thing we could’ve done. We only made it up three steps when a slat broke and our legs fell through it, our bodies slamming against the stairs behind us and breaking those, too. The pieces of wood and nails came tumbling down with us and it was at this moment that I realized I might die because my stupid boyfriend didn’t want to waste $20 at a Virginia City tourist attraction. Brandt hit the ground first and I fell flat on his arm. I heard a crack and we both screamed. For a moment we forgot the creepy cackling because we were in the worst pain of our lives. After a few short seconds we started to calm down a bit, and then the angry screaming started. We fought and talked over each other, my voice louder than I realized it could ever go – though maybe the vast powerful echo of the place helped with my volume. My relationship with Brandt was not a very happy one, suffice to say.

We were so pissed at each other, even though Brandt had no reason to be pissed at me and I had every reason to be pissed at him. We only stopped when we heard a loud door slam from far away. This was when the terror took hold of us again. We cried for help for a few minutes, but that was a lost cause because we were ten stories below ground and the teenager at the front desk of the general store looked like he’d rather be in the cemetery than working at the store. Even worse, our phones were completely out of service.

After a few deep breaths, we helped each other stand and leaned against one another. Getting up was miraculously not as difficult as I expected after falling down the stairs. We must’ve been closer to the bottom than we thought. Hobbling, we followed a faint light, which ended up being where the stairs ended, and there was a small little railroad that lead into a subtly green lit hallway.

We followed.

Brandt and I crept past a curtain and entered a bright room that reeked of dust and death. It took our eyes a moment to register the light when we realized it was completely, wall to ceiling to wall, covered in bones. Most of the bones were disconnected, but there were a few fully clothed skeletons wearing hardhats and dusty pleated trousers with soot all over their faded, ripped shirts. There were clumps of hair next to one skeleton, and the toes of a boney foot were sticking out of the shoe of another. Brandt and I were too stunned to do anything until the cackling started up again. And now we could see who I it was coming from.

In the far corner of the room, next to the door with a sign that read EXIT in bright red, a figure was rocking back and forth in a chair as creaky as the broken stairs far above us. The figure was wearing a construction hat and suspenders, like a miner from the Silver Rush. Brandt and I inched closer to exit, leaning against the wall so we could maintain our distance. The thing in the chair had long white wiry hair. Crooked teeth poked through its thin cheeks from all angles, dried blood crusted on its lips, and the skin on its neck drooped so far down I could’ve sworn it was melting. Its shirt was ripped open, revealing broken and missing bones where the ribs should be. As the thing rocked back and forth in its chair, its laughter changed volume and tone. It tapped its fingers against the arm rests and its toes against the floor, all of which were covered in a slimy sore muscle. Each digit stuck to the wood before lifting into the air, blood and an oozing film sticking to the surface.

My first instinct was to book it as fast as I could, get in my car, and drive Brandt and me to the nearest hospital our sore bodies could find. Yet we weren’t able to pass the laughing body. It wasn’t blocking the exit, we could’ve simply walked past it, but something was holding us back. We stared at the thing in the chair, entranced with its rhythm. I don’t know how much time passed, how long we stared at it, until it suddenly stopped cackling and stood. It walked over and whispered something in my ear, then took a hold of Brandt’s hand and led him away to a different part of the room neither of us noticed before. Brandt disappeared behind a curtain with the figure, and I was left all alone. For a moment, I wasn’t sure which direction to go, what to do.

But you already know what I did.

You know I didn’t go after Brandt. I don’t know what happened to him, and I didn’t waste any more time in this terrifying mine shaft under the general store. My body was cold and my heart was colder. I opened door and you can’t imagine how relieved I was to find a set of stairs that went up into daylight. They looked brand new, at least newer and in better shape than the broken ones. I ran, walked, crawled up them, listening to the heavy door slam behind me as I reached the surface. My phone’s service was restored, but I didn’t know who to call. I just sat on a bench on waited.

A few moments later, Brandt appeared out of thin air and sat next to me without a word. His presence had changed and he smelled terribly. He was quiet and rocked back and forth, wincing in pain with each movement. We were silent, then quietly walked to my car. I drove us to the hospital. I had broken Brandt’s arm when I fell on it and our ankles and backs were sprained, but that was as far as the physical damage went. I dropped him off at his apartment then drove myself home and went to bed. I stared at my ceiling, the darkness suffocating me. I had to turn my nightlight on.

Brand stopped talking to each other after that. We really officially break up, but it was over between us the minute he sat next to me on that bench. I texted and called him a few times; he never responded. I ran into him a few months ago at a summer food truck event. We made eye contact for a minute and he looked sad, exhausted. That was the last time I saw him.

I don’t know what happened to him down there in that mine shaft when I left him. I don’t know where he is now.

Related Topics:campfire stories short story

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Court Court

CourtCourt is a writer, horror enthusiast, and may or may not be your favorite human-eating houseplant.

1 Comment

Jennifer Weigel

August 25, 2022 at 8:18 am

The undertow in these kinds of places runs deep, something to do with the Eldritch horrors lurking there. That was certainly $20 poorly spent…

Reply

Original Creations

Alice – A Haunting Tale of Isolation and Betrayal by Baylee Marion

Published

2 days ago

January 23, 2025

Jim Phoenix

Alice

By Baylee Marion

Empty, breathless, deafening isolation. I was trapped in a single room for as long as I can remember. I was so young but still old enough to know that I shouldn’t have been locked in the attic. I had a mattress on the floor, a toilet, a bathtub, and raggedy stuffed animals that were supposed to provide a sense of comfort.

My days were spent pacing, singing songs I made up to myself, and scratching into the walls. At first, I carved images of myself playing with other children. To imagine how they looked was a challenge, but I was blessed with my own reflection in the glasses of water passed through the slot.

For what purpose my keeper held me was impossible to tell. He spoke to me sometimes, through the small slot only when I was asleep, or so he thought. He would read me stories, tell me about Alice and her tales in Wonderland, and though I didn’t know who she was, I began to believe she was my friend too.

When children grow older, they’re supposed to grow wiser. They are supposed to distinguish what’s real and what isn’t. Eventually, their imagination dulls, and they fall into a rhythm of routine, of work and dining and bonding with their loved ones. At least I know that now, but I hadn’t when I was still alive.

As time passed, I held dearly onto the idea of Alice and eventually, she became real. I wish I could tell you Alice was my friend. I truly believed she was. She began to visit me first at night, maybe formulated by the tales of the strange man. She would stand at the edge of my bed, whispering terrible things.

Eventually, she grew so real she could touch me. Perhaps I manifested her into my reality, or perhaps I was far more ill than I realized. Alice joined me in my songs; she was naturally talented. She could match any song without explaining the words, and her voice would pair a perfect harmony with mine. She would brush my hair, strands falling out in clumps. Apparently, I looked prettier without hair. So Alice brushed and brushed. Eventually, I could see my scalp in my glasses of water.

When I ran out of hair, she told me the dark spots in my skin were the reason I was locked up. She said that if I scraped them out of my skin, then I would be set free. You must understand, as my only friend, I believed every word she said. Friends always told the truth, even if it hurt them, right? So I did as she suggested because I wanted nothing more than to be free.

And to my amazement, she was right! Though my skin stung, my heart heaved with hope that someday I could escape the four walls that composed my world. When the drops of red fell, for the first time in my waking memory, the door opened.

The strange man was no longer faceless. He stood with a big bushy beard and thick eyebrows. His nose was as unremarkable as his hidden mouth. His belly protruded as if he had eaten enough for us both. He reprimanded me for listening to Alice, he urged me that Alice was not real, but she urged me she very much was.

My wounds healed, and Alice explained it wasn’t enough to be set free. I asked what she meant. She told me I wasn’t trapped in the attic at all. No, I was trapped in my body. The hair, the skin, the blood. It was all a cage that kept me from her and from freedom. If I could escape my skin, I would enter the real world, her world, where we could play forever.

I asked her how I could escape my skin when it was all I had ever known. How could I be alive without my body? She told me there were plenty of ways to escape myself. I could bite my tongue in half. I could pry up a sharp piece of floorboard and sink it into my beating heart.

I began to sob because I knew I would never be strong enough to do any of those things. I couldn’t simply strip the suit of skin off and become a ghost like her. The suffering of my misery was a familiar beast, but the thought of biting off my tongue seemed impossible.

But Alice assured me all was well. She said, “I will do it for you.”

I dried my eyes and sniffled. “But how?”

She giggled and replied, “I will switch places with you.”

My mouth hung open in shock. What a good friend she was to suffer the pain I couldn’t. I did not want to face her. The shame that I was sentencing her to the worst fate one could was too much to bear. I was supposed to be her friend. But my suffering was greater than my selflessness.

“Would you?”

She nodded. Lifting my chin under her fingertip, I met her gaze. She stuck out her pinky and gestured to me. I wrapped my pinky around hers, and instantly we switched places. I became a ghost and she became the shell that was me. My eyes could not believe what proceeded. Her hair had begun to grow, strands shining and beautiful, where moments ago I had none. Her skin had healed, no scars remained from the many nights my nails dug into them. In a flash, I became envious of the person she was, the version of me I should have been.

That night when she went to bed, the stranger came to the door to whisper stories. Alice snuck over to the small slot and began to whisper back in a language I have never heard before. The stranger, in a trance, opened the door and set Alice free. She waved goodbye to me as she left, the door wide open for her. I tried to follow her, but the door closed once more. I couldn’t escape. I was left in the attic, a ghost of my old self. I became Alice.

The End

Editorial

Fireside Chat 2025: Apparently I Don’t Exist

Published

4 days ago

January 22, 2025

J.M. Brannyk

Good news to my nonbinary pals – we no longer exist!

“But Brannyk,” you may be thinking, “what am I supposed to do now that I am no longer a real being? How shall I spend my days?”

Unfortunately, the government has not released a handbook for this occasion, so I thought we could brainstorm together.

picture of handbook for the recently deceased from beetlejuice but deceased is crossed out and it's got a sticky note that says "no longer existing as per some jackass" — *I’m sure it’s lost in the mail…*

BECOME A GHOST

There are some benefits to being a ghost, for sure.

No rent or insurance payment. No corporate job, no cleaning cat litter, no AT&T trying to sell you another line after repeatedly telling them that you just want to make sure that your autopayment is on, but they’re all like, ‘Why would you pass up such a bargain on a second line? Are you an idiot? Why wouldn’t you need another phone line?‘ and so you have to tell them, “Because I’M DIVORCED, ASSHOLE, THANKS FOR REMINDING ME OF THAT!”

Ahem. I digress.

Yeah, you may not be able to venture out, much like Adam and Barbara in Beetlejuice. You may need to put up with someone else crashing your place and moving around all of your shit. Or Ryan Reynolds trying to sell you Mint Mobile. Or some toxic couple taking your creepy doll that you spent years on trying to possess.

Or, my absolute biggest pet peeve, when you’re practicing for the ghost speed chair-stacking championship and the normies just don’t appreciate your cool skills.

But the advantages are that you get to stay home, watch tv, stack your chairs and hope whoever buys your house/visits your creepy woods/gentrifies your neighborhood is a cool person, too.

(2 / 5)

It’s a good choice, but has a lot of drawbacks.

BECOME A CREATURE

Look, if you’re not going to exist, go big or go home, I’d say.

monster that's super cool with a SWAG hat, because they got that rizz — *got that drip*...like literally…

Monsters are cool. They play by their own rules. Sometimes they cause havoc. Sometimes they come around and help people. Sometimes they work alone. And other times, they have a lot of friends. Sometimes they just need some affirmation. And sometimes they’re…in high school, apparently?

The cool thing is that they come in all shapes and sizes.

attack of the crab monsters — *Look at that face and tell me they’re not having the time of their life*

The Monolith monsters — *These are literally just rock monsters*

Monstroid cover - it's a weird monster — *You can be…whatever the fuck they are*

Monster in the closet — *….No. I’m not making the joke.*

Monsters are generally misunderstood. Some have their fans. Others are hated.

So basically, just like people, except with more tentacles.

The only downsides are that you might be too big or too “ick” for some people (these can also be pluses), you may have a taste for human flesh (no judgement), or the biggest issue – there are too many choices.

You could get stuck trying to figure out what kind of monster you are. If you’re not into labels, it’s an absolute nightmare. Or if you’re like me, it’ll be like standing in Subway for 15 minutes trying to figure out what toppings and dressings you want while the “sandwich artist” is openly judging you.

(4 / 5)

I like the customization, but it can be a bit too overwhelming.

BECOME A CRYPTID

Hear me out. I know it seems a lot like the monster category, but it’s not quite.

a cryptid monster in the woods with nonbinary flags

Cryptids are weird and mysterious. They keep to themselves. They have people who are fascinated by them and post on Reddit about them. Some have people making documentaries about them.

They’re like monsters’ quieter cousin who reads books in the corner at family gatherings. They collect shiny things they find by the side of the road. Sometimes they’ll steal a peanut butter sandwich or two.

Ever so often, they might scare a human just by existing or by politely asking for their stuff back.

Each one kinda has their own goals and priorities. Their own hangouts and interests. But unlike monsters, they’re not looking to rock any boats-

Beast of Legends has a big ass octopus — *oh, uh…*

Never mind, I stand corrected.

(5 / 5)

I like the freedoms of being a cryptid and also dig the cottage-core vibe I get from them.

CONCLUSION: LET’S BE REAL FOR A SECOND…

I know it’s hard right now. It’s going to be hard. You may not exist to some assholes, but you are real. You have real feelings and thoughts and dreams. You have a real future. You have real decisions. Real actions that affect this world.

You have the real ability to wake up tomorrow and choose to exist. And for whatever reason you choose. Use it. Ghosts and monsters and cryptids are powerful, just like you are, even when you don’t feel like it. They have a place in our human world, just like you do. You make this world interesting and important.

You are part of this world, you are real, and you are not alone.

The horror community is one of acceptance, diversity, creativity and passion. In these times, it needs to be. We need to rely on each other. We need to cultivate and protect each other, as much as we need to protect ourselves.

And it looks like I’ll be coming out of my own cryptid hovel I’ve spent the past few years in to remind you that. My job isn’t done. Not by a longshot. And neither is yours.

You exist to me. Today, tomorrow, and forever.

Be safe out there, friends.

Movies n TV

Thriller Nite, Poem by Jennifer Weigel Plus

Published

6 days ago

January 19, 2025

Jennifer Weigel

So, this is a convoluted post, not going to lie. Because it’s Thriller Nite. And we have to kick it off with a link to Michael Jackson in homage, because he’s the bomb and Vincent Price is the master… (If the following video doesn’t load properly, you can get there from this link.)

The movie monsters always approach so slowly.
Their stiff joints arcing in jerky, erratic movements
While the camera pans to a wide-eyed scream.
It takes forever for them to catch their victims.

Their stiff joints arcing in jerky, erratic movements
As they awkwardly shamble towards their quarry –
It takes forever for them to catch their victims.
And yet no one ever seems to get away.

As they awkwardly shamble towards their quarry –
Scenes shift, plot thickens, minutes tick by endlessly…
And yet no one ever seems to get away.
Seriously, how long does it take to make a break for it?

Scenes shift, plot thickens, minutes tick by endlessly…
While the camera pans to a wide-eyed scream.
Seriously, how long does it take to make a break for it?
The movie monsters always approach so slowly.

Robot Dance found subverted street art altered photography from Jennifer Weigel's Reversals series — Robot Dance from Jennifer Weigel’s Reversals series

So my father used to enjoy telling the story of Thriller Nite and how he’d scare his little sister, my aunt. One time they were watching the old Universal Studios Monsters version of The Mummy, and he pursued her at a snail’s pace down the hallway in Boris Karloff fashion. Both of them had drastically different versions of this tale, but essentially it was a true Thriller Nite moment. And the inspiration for this poem.

For more fun music video mayhem, check out She Wolf here on Haunted MTL. And feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or here on her website.