Episode Transcript
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Speaker 1 (00:05):
I had always thought that moving to a new city
would be the hardest part of starting over. I was wrong.
The hardest part was the waiting, the endless hours alone
in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by boxes that held pieces
of a life I was trying to rebuild. The apartment
came recommended through a friend of a friend, one of
those too good to be true deals that you don't
(00:27):
question when your savings account is running dry. Third floor
of a converted Victorian in Salem, Massachusetts, complete with original
hardwood floors and windows that rattled when the wind picked up.
The rent was cheap enough that I could afford it
on my freelance writing income, which should have been my
first warning sign. I'd been there exactly three days when
(00:48):
I found the letter. It was Tuesday morning and I
was unpacking kitchen supplies when I heard something slide under
my front door. At first, I thought it might be
a package delivery notice, or maybe a way welcome letter
from the landlord. I set down the box of mismatched
plates i'd been sorting and walked over to investigate. The
envelope was cream colored, thick paper that felt expensive between
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my fingers. My name was written across the front in
careful cursive Emma Richardson, no return address, no postmark. Someone
had hand delivered it. I turned the envelope over and
found it sealed with actual red wax, pressed with some
kind of symbol. I didn't recognize something that looked like
interlocking circles with lines cutting through them. Who used wax
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seals anymore? It felt like something from another century, back
in the kitchen. I slid my finger under the seal
and opened it carefully. Inside was a single sheet of paper,
the same heavy stock as the envelope. The text was
typed old fashioned typewriter font that struck the paper just
slightly unevenly. Dear Emma, Welcome to four forty seven Chestnut Street.
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I hope you'll find your stay here educational. The previous
tenant asked me to pass along some important information that
will help insure your comfort and safety during your residence.
Please observe the following guidelines. One never leave your apartment
between the hours of two a m. And four a M. Two.
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Do not respond to any knocking after midnight, regardless of
what you hear. Three keep all mirrors covered during the
new moon. Four If you hear children playing in the hallway.
Do not open your door. Five. The basement door must
remain locked at all times. These may seem unusual, but
I assure you they are for your own protection. The
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building has a unique history, and these guidelines have kept
previous tenants safe. I trust you'll take this advice seriously. Sincerely,
a friend. I read the letter twice, then a third time,
waiting for the punch line. This had to be some
kind of welcome right. Maybe the previous tenant had a
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weird sense of humor, or perhaps this was some kind
of performance art thing that Salem was known for. The
city did have a reputation for embracing its supernatural history.
I set the letter aside and continued unpacking, but it
nagged at me. The paper felt too expensive for a joke,
and the wax seal seemed like an awful lot of
effort for a simple prank. Plus something about the tone
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felt genuinely serious, almost urgent. That evening, I decided to
ask my downstairs neighbor about it. Missus Chen seemed friendly enough.
She'd introduced herself on my first day with a plate
of homemade cookies and warnings about the quirky heating system.
She'd lived in the building for nearly fifteen years, so
if anyone would know about strange welcome letters, it would
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be her. I knocked on her door around seven, letter
in hand, Emma, dear, how are you settling in. Missus
Chen's face lit up when she saw me, but her
expression shifted when she noticed the paper I was holding.
I'm doing well, Thank you. I was wondering if you
could tell me about this. I held up the letter.
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Someone left it under my door this morning. Missus Chen's
face went pale. She looked both ways down the hallway,
then stepped back and gestured for me to come inside.
Where did you say you found this, she asked, closing
the door behind me. Slipped under my door this morning
around ten. I handed her the letter and watched her
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face as she read it. Her hands were shaking by
the time she finished. Oh honey, oh no, what is it?
Is this some kind of local tradition or something. Missus
Chen sat down heavily in her armchair and gestured for
me to take the couch. Emma, how much did your
landlord tell you about the building's history? Nothing? Really, just
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that it was built in the eighteen nineties and converted
to apartments in the nineteen sixties. My stomach was starting
to not Why The previous tenant in your apartment Marcus Webb.
He lived there for almost two years, which was longer
than most. She folded the letter carefully, avoiding my eyes.
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He moved out very suddenly, about three weeks ago, left
most of his furniture behind. What do you mean longer
than most? Missus Chen was quiet for a long moment,
staring at the letter in her lap. Your apartment has
a high turnover rate. People don't tend to stay long
because of maintenance issues or because of the guidelines, Emma,
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the ones in that letter. She looked up at me finally,
and I could see real fear in her eyes. Marcus
gave me a copy of his own list before he left.
The rules were slightly different, but the message was the same.
I felt cold suddenly, despite the warmth of missus Chen's apartment.
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You're telling me this is real, that I'm supposed to
follow these rules. I'm telling you that the people who
don't follow them tend to leave very quickly. Missus Chen
handed the letter back to me, and Emma, they don't
usually pack when they go. I walked back to my
apartment in a daze, missus Chen's words echoing in my head.
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Once inside, I locked the door and read the letter again.
The guidelines seemed even more ridiculous now that I was
taking them seriously. Don't leave between two am and four am,
don't respond to knocking after midnight. It sounded like the
setup to every urban legend I'd ever heard. But missus
Chen's fear had been real. And something about the letter itself,
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the expensive paper, the wax seal, the formal tone, suggested
this wasn't a joke. I decided to do some research.
If the building had such a high turnover rate, there
had to be some record of it online, rental reviews,
news articles, something. What I found made my blood run cold.
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The Salem Gazette had a brief article from six months
ago mysterious disappearance on Chestnut Street. A tenant named Jennifer
Walsh had vanished from my building, leaving behind all her belongings,
including her purse and car keys. She'd been reported missing
by her sister when she failed to show up for
work for three consecutive days. The police found no signs
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of struggle, no indication she'd planned to leave, I kept searching.
Another article from last year mentioned a noise complaint investigation
at my address that had resulted in police finding an
apartment completely empty despite the lease not being up for
another eight months. The tenant, David Price, had apparently abandoned
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everything and disappeared without notice. Going back further, I found
a pattern. At least one person every year for the
past decade had either disappeared or abandoned my specific apartment
with no explanation. By the time I went to bed,
I'd made a decision joke or not, prank or not.
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I was going to follow the guidelines, at least for
a few days until I could figure out what was
really going on. That first night, I barely slept. Every
creak of the old building made me jump, and I
found myself checking the clock obsessively. Eleven forty seven pm
twelve twenty three am, one fifteen am. I was hyper
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aware that I was approaching the forbidden hours between two
am and four am, and for some reason, that awareness
filled me with dread. At one fifty eight am, I
heard footsteps in the hallway outside my door. They were slow,
deliberate steps, like someone trying to walk quietly, but not
quite succeeding. They stopped directly outside my mind apartment. Then
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came the knocking, Three soft raps, barely audible, then a pause,
then three more. I lay frozen in my bed, remembering
the second guideline, do not respond to any knocking after midnight,
regardless of what you hear. The knocking came again, slightly
louder this time, and then I heard a voice. Emma, Emma,
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are you in there. It was a child's voice, young
and scared. Please I need help. I'm lost. Every instinct
I had screamed at me to get up to open
the door to help whoever was out there. It sounded
like a little girl, maybe eight or nine years old,
and she was crying, Please, lady, I know someone's in there.
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I can see your light under the door, but I
hadn't turned on any lights. I'd been lying in complete darkness.
The knocking became more insistent, and the voice grew more desperate.
My mommy told me to find the lady in apartment six.
If I ever got scared, that's you right, Please open
the door. I lived in apartment six. But how could
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a child know that the temperature in my room began
to drop. I could see my breath misting in the darkness,
and I pulled my blankets tighter around me. The knocking continued,
now accompanied by what sounded like scratching at the door.
I'm so cold out here, the voice whimpered, Please let
me in. I promise I'll be good. It went on
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for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes.
The knocking, the pleading, the sound of small hands scratching
at my door, and through it all, the temperature continued
to drop until I was shivering violently under all my blankets.
Then at exactly two a m. Everything stopped. The hallway
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went completely silent, the temperature began to return to normal.
I waited another hour before I finally worked up the
courage to creep to the door and look through the
peep hole. The hallway was empty. I didn't sleep at
all that night. As soon as the sun came up,
I called in sick to the freelance project I was
working on, and sat in my kitchen staring at the letter.
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The guidelines weren't a joke, they weren't a prank. They
were a warning, and I was going to need them.
I spent the next morning researching everything I could find
about four forty seven Chestnut Street, starting with the most
basic public records. What I discovered made my hands shake
as I typed. The building had been constructed in eighteen
ninety four, during Salem's post maritime boom, when wealthy merchants
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were building grand homes throughout the Chestnut Street district. Originally
designed as a single family Victorian mansion for the Whitmore family,
it had been converted to apartments in nineteen twenty three
after the last Whitmore air died under mysterious circumstances. That
phrase kept appearing in the records. Mysterious circumstances. The Salem
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Gazette Archives, digitized and searchable online, painted a disturbing picture.
In nineteen twenty two, twenty eight year old Margaret Whitmore
had been found dead in what was now my apartment,
then the master bedroom suite. The official cause of death
was listed as heart failure, but the article noted that
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she had been in perfect health and showed no signs
of illness. Her body was discovered by a concerned friend
after Margaret failed to appear for a planned shopping trip.
The friend reported that all the windows in the bedroom
had been covered with heavy blankets, despite it being a
warm June day. I printed the article and stared at
Margaret's photograph. She looked young and vibrant, with dark hair
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pinned in the fashion of the era, and intelligent eyes
that reminded me uncomfortably of my own. The apartment conversion
in nineteen twenty three had created six units, with mine
occupying the former master suite and adjacent sitting room, But
the rental history was what truly chilled me. I found
lease records going back decades, and the pattern missus Chen
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had mentioned became stark and undeniable. Apartment six had been
rented one hundred twenty seven times since nineteen twenty three.
The average tendency lasted exactly four months and twelve days.
I made a spreadsheet because organizing data helped me think.
Name after name, date after date. The same story repeated.
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People would move in with standard one year leases, then
break them early forfeiting their deposits and sometimes leaving personal
belongings behind. The excuses varied job transfers, family emergencies, better
opportunities elsewhere, but the time line never did four months,
always four months. The only exceptions were the disappearances. Seven
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people over the decades had simply vanished, leaving no forwarding address,
no explanation, and in three cases no family or friends
who knew where they had gone. The most recent was
Marcus Webb, whom missus Chen had mentioned before him. In
twenty nineteen, A graduate student named Timothy Chen, no relation
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to my neighbor, had signed a lease in August and
was reported missing in December when he failed to show
up for his winter final exams. I was three days
into my tenancy. The child's voice from that first night
had returned twice more, always after midnight, always pleading to
be let in. I had followed the rules religiously, never responding,
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never opening the door, but the encounters were becoming more elaborate.
The second night, the voice had been accompanied by what
sounded like a child's ball bouncing in the hallway, bounce, bounce, bounce,
in a rhythm that seemed designed to hypnotize. When I
looked through the peep hole, I saw nothing, but I
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could hear the bounce see continue for nearly an hour.
The third night, there had been multiple voices, a whole
group of children whispering and giggling just outside my door.
They knew things they shouldn't know, my full name, my
previous address, the fact that I was from Michigan originally.
One had even mentioned my ex boyfriend David by name,
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asking if he was coming to visit soon. I had
moved to Salem to get away from David. I hadn't
told anyone here about him. That morning, I called missus
Chen and asked if she would meet me for coffee.
We went to a small cafe downtown, away from the building,
and I spread my printed research across our table. You
found it too, she said, simply looking at my spreadsheet
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of tenancy records. How long have you known about this?
Missus Chen stirred her coffee, slowly avoiding my eyes. I
suspected something was wrong within my first year in the building,
that was two thousand and eight. Your apartment had three
different tenants that year, and each one left looking haunted,
not just scared, haunted, like something had gotten inside their
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heads and taken up residents. Why didn't you move because
it's never bothered me. Whatever lives in that building, it
seems focused on Apartment six. The rest of us are
just witnesses. She reached into her purse and pulled out
a Manila folder thick with papers. I've been documenting everything
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for fifteen years, every tenant who's lived above me, every
strange occurrence, every unexplained event. I kept thinking someone official
would need to see it. Eventually, the folder contained copies
of police reports, newspaper clippings, and handwritten notes in missus
Chen's careful script. Missing person reports for the seven disappeared tenants,
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noise complaints from other residents about sounds coming from Apartment
six at all hours, medical reports for three four former
tenants who had been hospitalized for severe anxiety and panic
disorders after moving out. There's something else, missus Chen said,
lowering her voice. I found this slipped under my door
yesterday morning. She handed me a cream colored envelope identical
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to the one I had received. Inside was another list
of rules, but these were different from mine. For the
protection of residence at four forty seven Chestnut Street. One,
Do not attempt to communicate with the entity in apartment
six to two. If you hear crying from above, play
music loudly to mask the sound. Three, avoid the building's
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basement between sunset and sunrise. Four If asked, tell no
one about the building's history five. Should apartment six become vacant,
do not allow children to view the space. These guidelines
have kept our community safe. Please observe them carefully. The
Whitmore Foundation. I had never heard of the Whitmore Foundation,
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but the surname made my blood run cold. Margaret Whitmore,
who had died in my apartment in nineteen twenty two.
Missus Chen who delivered this, I don't know. It appeared
the same way yours did, slipped under the door while
I was sleeping. But Emma, look at the bottom of
the page. I turned the paper over and found a
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handwritten note in different ink. She's getting stronger. The new
tenant is feeding her. Get her out before the four
month mark or we'll have another disappearance. The handwriting was shaky,
as if written by some one very old or very frightened.
That afternoon, I drove to the Salem Public Library and
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requested access to their local history archives. The librarian, a
kind woman named Dorothy, who seemed to know exactly what
I was researching without being told, led me to a
special collection room in the basement, another one from four
forty seven Chestnut. She said, matter of factly, we get
at least two researchers a year asking about that building,
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what apartment six? Her face tightened the Margaret Whitmore room.
I'm sorry, dear, truly sorry. She provided me with boxes
of documents dating back to the building's construction. What I
learned made everything worse. The land where four hundred forty
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seven Chestnut Streets stood had been the sight of a
much older tragedy. In sixteen ninety two, during the witch trials,
a young girl named Mercy Williams had lived in a
small cottage on that exact spot. Mercy had been one
of the afflicted children whose accusations led to the execution
of twenty people, but unlike the other afflicted girls, Mercy
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had tried to recant her testimony. Near the end of
the trials. She was found dead in her cottage three
days before she was scheduled to appear before the court
and withdraw her accusations. She was nine years old. The
official cause of death was recorded as sudden fever, but
several witness statements described her as being in perfect health
just hours before she was found. After Mercy's death, the
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cottage was abandoned and eventually demolished. The land remained empty
for over two centuries until the Whitmores built their mansion
there in eighteen ninety four. Margaret Whitmore, according to family
letters preserved in the archives, had become obsessed with the
property's history. After moving into the master bedroom, she spent
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months researching Mercy Williams, visiting local historians, and attempting to
contact spiritualists. Her letters to a cousin in Boston described
strange dreams where a young girl begged her for help,
pleading to make it right and tell them the truth.
In her final letter, dated just one week before her death,
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Margaret wrote, she comes to me every night now, this child.
She says she never won anyone to die because of
her lies. She says she's been trapped here, growing angry
and hungry, feeding on the guilt and fear of those
who live where she died. I've tried to help her, cousin,
but I fear I've only made things worse. She's no
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longer the innocent child who wanted to recant her testimony.
Two hundred years of anger have changed her into something
else entirely. I don't think she remembers who she was anymore.
She only remembers the rage. Margaret's death had occurred exactly
four months after she moved into the bedroom. I sat
in the library's archives room until closing time, reading letter
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after letter, witness statement after witness statement, until the pattern
became undeniable. Every four months, the entity that had once
been Mercy Williams grew strong enough to either drive a
tenant away or, in seven documented cases, to take them entirely.
And I was now three days into what had his
story been a four month countdown. When I returned to
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the building that evening, missus Chen was waiting in the lobby.
I found someone who can help, she said, without preamble.
His name is Father Michael Castellanos. He's not officially with
the Catholic Church anymore, but he has experience with situations
like yours. What kind of experience the kind that got
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him unofficially exiled from his parish in Boston fifteen years
ago for performing unauthorized exorcisms. We met Father Castellanos the
next morning at a small coffee shop in Marblehead, far
enough from Salem that he felt comfortable talking openly. He
was younger than I had expected, maybe forty five, with
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graying hair, and the intense eyes of someone who had
seen too much. Missus Chen told me about your situation,
he said, sliding into the booth across from me. I've
been tracking the four forty seven Chestnut Street case for
eight years. Now you're the sixteenth person I've tried to help.
What happened to the other fifteen? Eleven moved out within
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two weeks of our meeting. Three disappeared anyway one dot dot,
he paused, staring into his coffee. One didn't make it
out alive. My stomach dropped. What do you mean? Timothy Chen,
the graduate student. He contacted me in October twenty nineteen,
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about six weeks into his tenancy. We tried everything, blessed salt,
holy water, protective symbols, even a formal exorcism. The entity
just grew stronger. It fed off our attempts to fight it.
Father Castallanos opened a leather briefcase and pulled out a
thick file. What you're dealing with isn't a traditional haunting, Emma.
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It's what we call a residual feeder. The spirit of
Mercy Williams has been trapped on that land for over
three centuries, going stronger and more twisted with each passing decade.
Every tenant who experiences fear, every person who flees in terror,
every disappearance, it all feeds her power. Then why are
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you helping me? Because I think I've finally figured out
what she wants. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to
barely above a whisper. She doesn't want to hurt people, Emma.
She wants to tell the truth. She wants to finally
give the testimony she never got to give in sixteen
ninety two. The problem is, after three hundred years of
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anger and feeding on fear, she's lost the ability to
communicate normally. All she can do is replay the trauma
of that cottage, the fear and desperation of a nine
year old girl who knew she was about to die
for trying to do the right thing. So what do
I do? Father Castellanos pulled out a digital recorder, the
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kind used for interviews. You listen to her, really listen,
not to the child's voice that begs to come in.
That's just how she's learned to lure people close. Listen
for what she's really trying to say. He handed me
the recorder and a small leather journal document everything every encounter,
every word, every sound, look for patterns, for messages hidden
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in the chaos, and Emma, Yes, don't let her frighten
you into running. The moment you flee, she wins, she
gets stronger, and the next tenant has even less chance
of surviving their four months. That night, for the first
time since moving in, I didn't follow rule number two.
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When the knocking started at twelve forty seven a m
I walked to the door with Father Castaianos's recorder in
my hand and pressed my ear against the wood. Please,
came the familiar child's voice. I'm so cold out here,
Let me in. I'm listening, I whispered back, what do
you want to tell me? The knocking stopped for a
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long moment. There was only silence. Then, in a voice
barely audible, cracked with centuries of unshed tears, came the reply,
they made me lie. The morning light was pale through
the grimy windows. As Father Michael Castellanos arrived at my apartment.
His eyes carried the weight of countless sleepless nights spent
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wrestling with the unseen. He carried an air of quiet gravity,
the kind a man develops when he spends years wrestling
with the unseen forces that dwell just beneath the veil
of every day life. Every inch of his demeanor suggested
a man who had witnessed horrors few dared to speak of.
The faint scent of incense seemed to cling to his clothes,
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subtle and comforting in the stale air. I nodded in greeting,
feeling simultaneously relieved and exhausted. Fatigue threatened to overwhelm me,
but the promise of knowledge offered a fragile hope. After
three days of escal lating supernatural events, sleepless nights, and
whispered terrors outside my door, I was ready to learn
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whatever I could from him. I clung to the thought
that understanding might be my only weapon against the darkness
lurking behind these walls. The exhaustion settled deep into my bones,
an unshakable reminder of the battles already fought. Emma, he said, softly,
setting his weathered leather satchel on the table. His voice
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was calm, measured, as if he was recounting events that
he had witnessed many times before. What you've experienced is
beyond what most people can imagine. I struggled to grasp
the concept a being that thrived on fear and turmoil
rather than traditional haunting. But you are not alone. The
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idea chilled me to the core, a horror that was
less defined than the typical ghosts of legend. I listened
as he unfolded the truth. The entity haunting of Apartment
six was what he called a residual feeder, a powerful
spirit tangled in centuries of pain, drawing strength from fear
and unrest. It was neither ghost nor demon in the
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traditional sense, but a force that thrived on the emotions
its presence provoked. The analogy he used. Fences gave me
a visual sense of the delicate balance I needed to maintain.
I imagined those fences as fragile lines of light, barely
visible but critical to containing something dark and ancient. The
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rules you've been given, Father Castellanos, explained, are protections. The
objects he revealed seemed relics from a bygone era, Each
humming with a quiet power. They create fences that contained
the entity's influence. I felt the soft weight in my
palms and the faint pulse of sacred energy emanating from them.
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Breaking them weakens those fences and lets it grow stronger.
Each vial of holy water seemed to promise sanctuary, each
pouch a ward against malevolence. One misstep, one broken rule,
and the fences could crumble, unleashing unimaginable horrors. He unpacked
his satchel, revealing a collection of items that seemed out
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of place in my humble apartment. Vials of holy water,
small pouches of blessed herbs, lengths of chalk, salt packets,
and a small wooden box carved with indecipherable symbols. Salt
is your first line of defense, he said, Not the
table salt you use for cooking. Sea salt, blessed and pure.
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Spread it like a barrier at every entrance, every window.
I nodded, thinking back to the cold spots, the scratching
at my door, and the chilling voices that echoed just
beyond reach. This box, he continued, holding up the carved
wooden container is designed to contain the entity should it
attempt to manifest fully. It's a temporary prison until a
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more permanent solution can be found. The hours that followed
were a blur of preparation. Father Castallanos carefully taught me
ancient protective symbols. Sigils meant to confuse and repel, not banish.
I painstakingly drew them above every doorway and window frame,
the chalk feeling gritty and strange between my fingers. We
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spread salt along thresholds, window sills, and even traced circles
around key pieces of furniture, including my bed. I felt
the weight of every grain a physical manifestation of my
determination not to be a victim. Sunlight weakens the entity,
he reminded me, gesturing to the heavy blackout curtains I'd
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been instructed to close at sunset. It's why the windows
must stay covered after dark. He cautioned against keeping iron
or silver anywhere in the apartment, explaining that these metals
could provoke the entity to violent outbursts. Be vigilant, he warned,
It will test your defenses, probing for weaknesses. The moment
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you feel safe is the moment it strikes hardest. That
first night, after the preparations, I sat awake until the
clock neared midnight. The eerie silence settled over the building,
broken only by the occasional creak or distant siren. Around
eleven fifty five, I felt the temperature drop. My breath
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misted in the air as the familiar whispering voices began, soft,
childlike echoing just beyond the walls. The salt lines seemed
to shimmer faintly in the dim light of the candle
Father Castillanos had left me. The knocking began, tentative at first,
then relentless, but this time I didn't flinch. I watched
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the front door's thin shadow creep close to the salt barrier, hesitate,
then retre treat. The night stretched on with manifestations testing
the barriers, lights, flickering, distant laughter, faint sounds of footsteps,
and the unmistakable feeling of something watching. Each morning, I
checked the protective lines, redrew faded symbols, and replenished the salt.
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My hands trembled from fatigue and the ceaseless tension. Sleep
was fragile, broken by nightmares of a small girl's terrified
face and shadowy figures looming beyond my bedroom doorway. Father
Castellanos visited twice more that week, each time reinforcing defensive
practices and introducing new prayers and chants to strengthen the barriers.
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Through it all, I discovered that terror was not just
an enemy, but a weapon. The entity wielded. My own
fear fed it, making each encounter more intense. I forced
myself to breathe deeply, to recite prayers silently, and to
steal my mind. I reminded myself that while the entity
had history and power, I had will and resolve. The
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final night of the week came with a pulse of anticipation.
Father Castallanos stood by the door, ready to help face
whatever might come tomorrow night, he said, quietly, we try
to draw it out. We confronted on your terms. That
means deliberately testing one of the rules, the one about
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not opening the basement door after sunset. But we do
it prepared. My heart raced at the thought, but I
knew it was necessary. Breaking the cycle of terror meant
confronting the source directly. As he left, I closed the
door behind him, slipping the wooden box from its hiding
place and tracing chalk symbols around it. My apartment was
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no longer just a home. It was a battleground. I
settled down with a new found resolve, knowing the fight
ahead would be long, dangerous, and far from certain. But
for the first time time, I felt like I had
a chance. Each day after Father Castellanos's visits felt heavier,
as if the air in the apartment thickened with unseen weight.
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I found myself waking before dawn, staring at the ceiling
as the gray light seeped in, unsure if I was
haunted by the spirit or my own fraying nerves. The
salt lines became my armor. I would trace them with
trembling fingers, feeling every grain slide beneath my skin. I
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kept extra chalk close, redrawing faded symbols every morning. The
motifs had become familiar, so much so that I could
visualize them in the dark. The protective sigils etched indelibly
in my mind. Yet nights were the worst. When the
sun slipped below the horizon and the buildings, creaks and
groans turned sinister, the entity's presence grew more insistent. The
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familiar cold would roll through the rooms, and with it
the w whispered voices, now a chorus of children's laughter,
twisted with sobbing and faint screams. The shadows lengthened unnaturally,
crawling along walls and floors. Sometimes I caught movement in
my peripheral vision, fleeting shapes dissolving as soon as I
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turned my head. The knocking persisted, unpredictable in rhythm and intensity.
Some nights it was gentle taps. Others it pounded with
the force of a desperate plea. I never responded, never
opened my door more than once. I found objects subtly misplaced,
candles knocked over, salt lines broken and scattered. The entity
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was learning testing Emotionally, I was a mess. The fear
wasn't just something outside. It seeped inside, twisting my thoughts,
doubts crept in. Was I capable? Was I strong enough
to see this through? What if the protections were thin?
Veneers about to shatter? Father Castallanos noticed the strain. You're
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carrying this burden alone, he said during a visit. Remember
protect your mind as fiercely as your space. Fear feeds her,
strength starves her. I took his advice to heart. During
the day, I forced myself outside, long walks, beneath the
indifferent sun, small conversations with strangers, loud cafes where I
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could drown out the echoes inside my head. Still, after
a week of escalating pressure, the entity escalated too. One night,
I jolted awake to find every mirror in the apartment
shattered in a symphony of cracks. I hadn't covered them completely,
Father Castaillanos had warned, but the damage was brutal. Another night,
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the temperature plummeted sharply, and a shadow with features like
a grotesquely exaggerated child's face appeared at the edge of
the living room. Didn't speak, merely stared, its black eyes
drilling into me until I forced my voice, loud and clear,
you have no power here. It recoiled with a hiss
and vanished into the walls. The wooden box remained my talisman,
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the last line of defense. I kept it locked away
but ready, occasionally tracing the symbols carved into its sides,
reminding myself that hope was tangible, even if fragile sleep
was a rare visitor. When it did come, it brought
nightmares of dark mazes lined with accusing faces, claustrophobic spaces
where breath was stolen, and the relentless echo of childish
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laughter twisted with malice. Emma my name, My identity felt fragile,
as if I was fracturing at the edges. Being pulled
towards some darkness I couldn't control, and yet I clung
to my resolve, knowing this was a battle I couldn't flee.
Then a new kind of tension crept in. As the
final night approached, Father Castellanos arrived later than usual, his
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face drawn but determined. Tonight, he said, begins the turning point.
We draw the entity out, knowing it will resist, but
you are prepared. He laid down new salt circles, inscribed
fresh symbols, and lit candles that flickered with unnatural hues. Remember,
he said, locking eyes with me, this is your fight.
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It will try to break you with fear, confusion, and pain.
Stand firm. Your strength is the shield. As he left,
I felt the weight of history and destiny settle on
my shoulders. I looked around the apartment, my fortress, my prison,
and for the first time I didn't feel alone. The
battle was about to begin. Days blurred into restless nights,
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time lost meaning. Within the four walls of Apartment six,
I began chronicling every detail in a worn journal, the
patterns and the disturbances, the temperature shifts, the cadence of
the knocking. Each entry was a life line, an anchor
to my sanity. Amidst the stretching shadows, Father Castellanos stressed
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the importance of mental fortitude and routine create rituals. He advised,
your mind must trust your actions. Fear is the entity's ally,
deprive her of that. I poured myself into these rituals,
morning prayers, midday moments of grounding with deep breaths, nightly
preparations in candle light, casting lines of salt with deliberation.
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The apartment, once familiar and comforting, transformed into a battle ground.
The silence that had once been normal was now pregnant
with menace. Each creak of the old building, each whisper
of wind through cracked windows, was fraught with ominous possibility.
Sleep was fractured. I would awaken cold sweats, heart racing,
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convinced I had heard voices or foot steps that vanished
when I searched. Days felt heavier, my limbs sluggish, my
mind fogged. Emma, my name, my identity felt as if
it was slipping like grains of sand through my fingers.
On some evenings, I forced myself onto the grimy fire
escape for fresh air. The night sky wide and indifferent
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above the stars pulsed silently, distant and uncaring. I thought
of Mercy Williams, not just as a spirit, but as
a lost child, trapped in the echo of centuries. Could
I bear this burden more than once? I felt the
entity near, a presence, cold and probing, testing the walls
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I had built around myself. One night I woke to
find a single grain of salt, out of place, on
the floor next to my bed, a cruel invitation, a
reminder that the entity was hunting for cracks in my defenses.
The wooden box, the symbol of hope and finality, remained
locked in my closet, its symbols glowing faintly under the
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moonlight that managed to slip through curtains. Each night, I
spoke quietly to myself, repeating the prayers learned from Father Castillanos.
Some nights the words felt like life lines, others empty echoes.
My thoughts drifted to the basement door, dark, foreboding, a
portal I was forbid to open, yet it had become
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the focus of my fear and hope. As the day
of confrontation neared, the air thick with anticipation, I found
my resolve hardened. I was no longer just a tenant
escaping shadows. I was a guardian, a warrior, standing watch.
This was my home, my fight. The morning of our
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planned confrontation arrived gray and heavy, with storm clouds gathering
over Salem like a supernatural omen. I had barely slept
my mind cycling through Father Castillanos's instructions and the way
of what we were about to attempt. Every detail mattered.
One mistake could mean not just failure, but something far worse.
(42:09):
Father Castillanos arrived at precisely nine o'clock, carrying additional supplies
in a larger canvas bag. His face was drawn but determined,
the expression of a man who had walked this path
before and understood its dangers. The scent of blessed incense
clung to his clothes, mixing with the salt tinged air
(42:30):
of my apartment. Today we end this, he said, simply
setting his bag on the kitchen table beside the protective
symbols I'd redrawn that morning. But Emma, I need you
to understand. What we're about to do is deliberate provocation.
We're going to break rule number five, the one about
the basement door, but we're doing it on our terms,
(42:51):
with preparation and protection. I nodded, though my stomach churned
with nervous energy. What exactly will happen when I open
that door? The entity will manifest fully, not just whispers
or cold spots. Mercy Williams will appear as she truly
is now after three centuries of rage and guilt. She'll
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be desperate to communicate, but also potentially violent. The basement
has been her anchor point, where her spiritual energy is strongest.
He unpacked his supplies methodically, more blessed candles, a silver
crucifix despite his earlier warnings about metals, additional vials of
holy water, and a larger wooden box covered in more
(43:36):
intricate symbols than the first. This one seemed to hum
with contained energy. The silver is for binding, not protection,
he explained, noticing my questioning. Look. Once she manifests, we
use it to anchor her spirit long enough for communication.
The risk is that it will also amplify her power Temporarily.
(43:58):
We spend the morning creating a ritual circle in my
living room, using salt and chalk to draw complex geometric
patterns that seemed to shift and shimmer. When I wasn't
looking directly at them. Father Castillanos positioned the blessed candles
at specific points around the circle, muttering prayers in Latin
as he worked. You'll stand in the center, he instructed.
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The circle will protect you during the initial manifestation, but
once communication begins, you'll need to step outside it. That's
when you'll be most vulnerable. By noon, my apartment had
been transformed into something between a fortress and a seance parlor.
Every surface gleamed with salt lines, every entrance bore protective symbols,
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and the air itself seemed charged with spiritual energy. The
ordinary Tuesday afternoon light filtering through my windows felt surreal
against the backdrop of our supernatural preparations. Remember, Father Castillano said,
as we reviewed the pl one final time. Mercy Williams
isn't evil. She's a child who's been trapped and twisted
(45:06):
by centuries of guilt. She wants to tell her story,
to finally give the testimony she died trying to deliver.
Your job is to listen, to bear witness, and to
help her find peace. As evening approached, the temperature in
the apartment began to drop noticeably, Not the sudden, dramatic
chill of the entity's presence, but a gradual cooling that
(45:27):
seemed to seep from the walls themselves. The building was
preparing responding to our intentions. I ate a light dinner,
though I could barely taste the food. Father Castillanos sat
across from me, occasionally checking his watch and murmuring prayers
under his breath. Neither of us spoke much. There was
(45:47):
nothing left to say that hadn't been said. At eight o'clock,
as the last daylight faded from my windows, we began
the final preparations. Father Castillanos lit the ritual candles in
steae sequence, each flame casting dancing shadows that seemed almost alive.
The protective symbols on my walls began to glow faintly,
(46:09):
responding to the spiritual energy building in the room. It's time,
he said, handing me a small brass key. This opens
the basement door. The building superintendent left it with me
this afternoon. He didn't ask questions, but I could see
the fear in his eyes. He knows what's down there.
(46:30):
I took the key, its metal cold against my palm.
My hands were trembling, but my resolve was firm. After
weeks of living in fear of being haunted by a
desperate spirit who only wanted to be heard, I was
ready to listen. The basement door was located at the
end of the hallway on the first floor, just past
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missus Chen's apartment. Father Castellanos and I made our way
downstairs in silence, the weight of the brass key heavy
in my pocket. The hallway seemed longer than usual, stretching
endlessly before us in the dim light. Missus Chen's door
opened just as we passed, and she emerged carrying a
small bundle of burning sage. Without a word, she nodded
(47:13):
to us both and began walking in the opposite direction,
trailing smoke behind her. Even my neighbor knew what was happening.
To night, the basement door stood before us like a
portal to another world, heavy oak, painted black with iron
hinges that had probably hung there since the building's construction.
A simple dead bolt lock, but somehow it seemed to
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pulse with malevolent energy. Once you turn that key, Father
Castaianos warned, there's no going back. She'll know we're here
and she'll come. I inserted the key into the lock,
feeling resistance, as if the mechanism itself was fighting me. Then,
with a decisive turn, I heard the dead bolt slide
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back with a metallic click that echoed through the hallway
like a gunshot. The temperature plummeted instantly, My breath became
visible in thick clouds, and frost began forming on the
door handle beneath my fingers. From somewhere below came the
sound of footsteps, small light footsteps, like those of a child,
but moving with impossible speed. Emma, the voice drifted up
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from the darkness below, No longer muffled by walls or distance.
It was clear, young, and heart breakingly sad. I have
been waiting so long for some one to open the door.
Father Castaiano stood behind me, one hand on my shoulder,
the other gripping his larger wooden box. Remember the plan,
(48:41):
he whispered, Let her come to you. I pushed the
door open and stepped on to the first wooden stair.
The basement stretched below us, illuminated only by pale moonlight
filtering through grimy windows. But as my eyes adjusted, I
could see something moving in the shadows, A small face.
You're in a white nightgown, translucent, but becoming more solid
(49:03):
with each passing second. Hello, Mercy, I called softly. I'm emma.
I've come to listen to your story. The figure stopped
moving and looked up at me. Even in the dim light,
I could see her face clearly, a nine year old
girl with dark hair and enormous eyes filled with centuries
of sorrow. She was beautiful and terrible, simultaneously innocent and ancient.
(49:29):
You know my name, she said, wonderingly. No one has
spoken my name in so long. I descended the stairs slowly,
Father Castallanos following close behind. The basement was larger than
I had expected, with stone walls and a dirt floor
that smelled of age and decay. But it was the
energy that took my breath away. Waves of emotion so
(49:51):
intense they felt physical washing over me, like breaking waves.
I know your story, I told her. I know about
the witch trial, about the lies you were forced to tell.
I know you tried to recant your testimony. Mercy Williams
smiled for the first time, and the expression transformed her
spectral face. They made me lie, she repeated, but this
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time the words carried weight beyond simple repetition. I was
going to tell the truth. I was going to save them.
Tell me now, I said, stepping into the circle. Father
Castellanos was hastily drawing around us with blessed salt. Tell
me what really happened, the entity. No, the child began
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to speak, and her words filled the basement with a
presence so powerful that dust motes danced in the air
around us. She told me about the fear that had
gripped Salem in sixteen ninety two, about children playing games
that spiraled into deadly accusations. She described the pressure from
adults who used the trials for their own purposes, the
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terror of knowing that telling the truth might mean being
accused herself. As she spoke, mercy became more solid, more real.
Her night gowns stopped flickering, her bare feet touched the
dirt floor, and when she gestured, I could see the
movement clearly. But with increased manifestation came increased power. The
temperature continued dropping until icicles formed on the basement walls,
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and the very air seemed to vibrate with supernatural energy.
I was going to tell them, she said, her voice
growing stronger. I was going to stand before the court
and say that we had lied, that none of the
accused were witches. But they found out the men who
were using us, who were taking land from people they
wanted to destroy. They couldn't let me speak. Father Castellano
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stepped forward with the silver crucifix, holding it between us
and the manifesting spirit. How did they stop you, Mercy poison?
She said, simply in my porridge, three days before I
was supposed to testify. They told every one it was feet,
but I knew. I died knowing that my lies had
killed innocent people, and I would never get the chance
(52:06):
to make it right. The spiritual energy in the basement
reached a crescendo. Objects began moving on their own, old
tools hanging from the walls, Broken furniture scattered in corners.
But it wasn't malevolent destruction. It was the released emotion
of a child who had carried unbearable guilt for over
three centuries. I can make it right now, I told her,
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raising my voice above the supernatural wind that had begun
swirling around us. I can tell your story. I can
make sure people know that Mercy Williams died trying to
save the innocent. The child's spirit looked at me with
hope and desperation mixed in equal measure. Will you, will
you tell them that I wasn't evil, that I tried
to stop it. I promise. The moment I spoke those words,
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something fundamental shifted in the basement. The temperature began to rise,
the supernatural wind calmed, and Mercy Williams smiled with such
radiant joy that the entire space seemed to fill with
warm light. Thank you, she whispered, I can rest now.
But as she began to fade, becoming translucent once again,
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Father Castellano stepped forward with his wooden box. Wait, he called,
You don't have to disappear, Mercy. You can choose to
move on, to find peace beyond this place. The child's
spirit paused, considering his words. How by forgiving yourself, I said,
suddenly understanding what was needed. You were nine years old, Mercy,
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You were terrified and manipulated by adults who should have
protected you. You tried to do the right thing, and
you died for it. You have nothing left to atone for.
Mercy Williams looked at me for a long moment, tears
streaming down her ghostly cheeks. Then she nodded, slowly. I
forgive myself, she said quietly, I forgive the frightened little
(54:01):
girl who told lies to save her own life. The
light that filled the basement at those words was unlike
anything I had ever experienced, warm, golden, and infinitely peaceful.
It seemed to emanate from Mercy herself. As she transformed
from a tortured spirit into something radiant and free. The
centuries of guilt and rage that had bound her to
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this place simply melted away, leaving only the innocent child
she had always been. Tell them my story, she said,
one final time, her voice already echoing from somewhere far away.
Tell them that some of us tried to stop the madness.
And then she was gone, not vanished, but departed. I
could feel the difference immediately. The oppressive spiritual weight that
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had hung over the building since my first night was
completely absent. The basement felt like just a basement again,
old and dusty, but no longer haunted. Father Castallanos and
I stood in the circle of salt, breathing heavily from
the intensity of what we had witnessed. The blessed candles
had burned down to stubbs, and the temperature was returning
to normal. Most importantly, the entity that had terrorized generations
(55:09):
of tenants was finally at peace. Is it over, I asked,
though I already knew the answer. It's over, he confirmed.
Mercy Williams has moved on. She found what she needed
forgiveness and the promise that her story would be told.
We climbed the basement stairs in contemplative silence, securing the
(55:32):
door behind us, but I no longer felt the need
for protective barriers or blessed salt my apartment. When we
returned to it felt like home for the first time
since I had moved in. The next morning, I woke
to bright sunlight streaming through windows I no longer needed
to keep covered. The air was clear and clean, free
(55:54):
of the oppressive atmosphere that had marked Mercy's presence. I
had slept through the night without a single super nan
natural disturbance, no knocking, no whispers, no cold spots. Missus
Chen knocked on my door around nine o'clock, carrying another
plate of homemade cookies and wearing the first genuine smile
I had seen from her. It's finished, she said, simply,
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I can feel it. The building feels light again. I
spent that day writing not freelance work, but Mercy Williams's story.
Everything she had told me in the basement, every detail
of her tragic life and death, every moment of the
witch trials that had destroyed so many innocent lives. It
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would become an article, then a longer piece, than eventually
a book. I would keep my promise to tell her story.
Father Castellanos visited one final time that evening, officially releasing
me from our supernatural partnership. He looked younger somehow, as
if the successful resolution had lifted a weight from his
(56:56):
own shoulders. You did something remarkable, told me, as he
packed away his unused ritual supplies. You gave a tortured
soul the one thing she needed most, someone to listen
without judgment. What will you do now, I asked. There
are other hauntings, other lost spirits who need help, But
this one, this one will always be special. You didn't
(57:20):
just banish an entity, Emma, You helped a child find peace.
As the weeks passed, life and Apartment six settled into
a routine of normal, mundane happiness. I kept the letter,
with its five rules, now meaningless but historically significant, framed
on my kitchen wall. Sometimes visitors would ask about it,
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and I would tell them the beginning of Mercy Williams's story.
The building's turnover rate returned to normal. New tenants moved
in and stayed, no longer driven away by supernatural terror.
Missus Chen became not just a neighbor but a friend,
and we would often discuss the remarkable transformation that had
taken place. I never experienced another supernatural encounter in Apartment six,
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but sometimes on warm summer evenings, when the light slanted
just right through my windows, I would feel a presence,
not frightening, but peaceful, the grateful spirit of a child
who had finally found her voice and told her truth.
Mercy Williams's story was published six months later in the
Salem Gazette, then picked up by historical journals and paranormal researchers.
(58:27):
Her name was added to the official records of the
witch trials, listed among those who had tried to prevent
the tragedy rather than perpetuate it. And in Apartment six
at four forty seven Chestnut Street, I continued to live peacefully,
no longer haunted, but somehow blessed by the experience of
helping a lost soul find its way home. The rules
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no longer applied. The entity was gone, but the memory
of a nine year old girl's courage would stay with
me forever, a reminder that sometimes the most frightening hauntings
are simply souls in desperate need of understanding and forgiveness.
I had always thought that moving to a new city
would be the hardest part of starting over. I was wrong.
The hardest part was the waiting, the endless hours alone
in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by boxes that held pieces
of a life I was trying to rebuild. The apartment
came recommended through a friend of a friend, one of
those too good to be true deals that you don't
(00:27):
question when your savings account is running dry. Third floor
of a converted Victorian in Salem, Massachusetts, complete with original
hardwood floors and windows that rattled when the wind picked up.
The rent was cheap enough that I could afford it
on my freelance writing income, which should have been my
first warning sign. I'd been there exactly three days when
(00:48):
I found the letter. It was Tuesday morning and I
was unpacking kitchen supplies when I heard something slide under
my front door. At first, I thought it might be
a package delivery notice, or maybe a way welcome letter
from the landlord. I set down the box of mismatched
plates i'd been sorting and walked over to investigate. The
envelope was cream colored, thick paper that felt expensive between
(01:11):
my fingers. My name was written across the front in
careful cursive Emma Richardson, no return address, no postmark. Someone
had hand delivered it. I turned the envelope over and
found it sealed with actual red wax, pressed with some
kind of symbol. I didn't recognize something that looked like
interlocking circles with lines cutting through them. Who used wax
(01:34):
seals anymore? It felt like something from another century, back
in the kitchen. I slid my finger under the seal
and opened it carefully. Inside was a single sheet of paper,
the same heavy stock as the envelope. The text was
typed old fashioned typewriter font that struck the paper just
slightly unevenly. Dear Emma, Welcome to four forty seven Chestnut Street.
(02:00):
I hope you'll find your stay here educational. The previous
tenant asked me to pass along some important information that
will help insure your comfort and safety during your residence.
Please observe the following guidelines. One never leave your apartment
between the hours of two a m. And four a M. Two.
(02:20):
Do not respond to any knocking after midnight, regardless of
what you hear. Three keep all mirrors covered during the
new moon. Four If you hear children playing in the hallway.
Do not open your door. Five. The basement door must
remain locked at all times. These may seem unusual, but
I assure you they are for your own protection. The
(02:41):
building has a unique history, and these guidelines have kept
previous tenants safe. I trust you'll take this advice seriously. Sincerely,
a friend. I read the letter twice, then a third time,
waiting for the punch line. This had to be some
kind of welcome right. Maybe the previous tenant had a
(03:02):
weird sense of humor, or perhaps this was some kind
of performance art thing that Salem was known for. The
city did have a reputation for embracing its supernatural history.
I set the letter aside and continued unpacking, but it
nagged at me. The paper felt too expensive for a joke,
and the wax seal seemed like an awful lot of
effort for a simple prank. Plus something about the tone
(03:26):
felt genuinely serious, almost urgent. That evening, I decided to
ask my downstairs neighbor about it. Missus Chen seemed friendly enough.
She'd introduced herself on my first day with a plate
of homemade cookies and warnings about the quirky heating system.
She'd lived in the building for nearly fifteen years, so
if anyone would know about strange welcome letters, it would
(03:49):
be her. I knocked on her door around seven, letter
in hand, Emma, dear, how are you settling in. Missus
Chen's face lit up when she saw me, but her
expression shifted when she noticed the paper I was holding.
I'm doing well, Thank you. I was wondering if you
could tell me about this. I held up the letter.
(04:10):
Someone left it under my door this morning. Missus Chen's
face went pale. She looked both ways down the hallway,
then stepped back and gestured for me to come inside.
Where did you say you found this, she asked, closing
the door behind me. Slipped under my door this morning
around ten. I handed her the letter and watched her
(04:33):
face as she read it. Her hands were shaking by
the time she finished. Oh honey, oh no, what is it?
Is this some kind of local tradition or something. Missus
Chen sat down heavily in her armchair and gestured for
me to take the couch. Emma, how much did your
landlord tell you about the building's history? Nothing? Really, just
(04:58):
that it was built in the eighteen nineties and converted
to apartments in the nineteen sixties. My stomach was starting
to not Why The previous tenant in your apartment Marcus Webb.
He lived there for almost two years, which was longer
than most. She folded the letter carefully, avoiding my eyes.
(05:18):
He moved out very suddenly, about three weeks ago, left
most of his furniture behind. What do you mean longer
than most? Missus Chen was quiet for a long moment,
staring at the letter in her lap. Your apartment has
a high turnover rate. People don't tend to stay long
because of maintenance issues or because of the guidelines, Emma,
(05:41):
the ones in that letter. She looked up at me finally,
and I could see real fear in her eyes. Marcus
gave me a copy of his own list before he left.
The rules were slightly different, but the message was the same.
I felt cold suddenly, despite the warmth of missus Chen's apartment.
(06:03):
You're telling me this is real, that I'm supposed to
follow these rules. I'm telling you that the people who
don't follow them tend to leave very quickly. Missus Chen
handed the letter back to me, and Emma, they don't
usually pack when they go. I walked back to my
apartment in a daze, missus Chen's words echoing in my head.
(06:28):
Once inside, I locked the door and read the letter again.
The guidelines seemed even more ridiculous now that I was
taking them seriously. Don't leave between two am and four am,
don't respond to knocking after midnight. It sounded like the
setup to every urban legend I'd ever heard. But missus
Chen's fear had been real. And something about the letter itself,
(06:52):
the expensive paper, the wax seal, the formal tone, suggested
this wasn't a joke. I decided to do some research.
If the building had such a high turnover rate, there
had to be some record of it online, rental reviews,
news articles, something. What I found made my blood run cold.
(07:12):
The Salem Gazette had a brief article from six months
ago mysterious disappearance on Chestnut Street. A tenant named Jennifer
Walsh had vanished from my building, leaving behind all her belongings,
including her purse and car keys. She'd been reported missing
by her sister when she failed to show up for
work for three consecutive days. The police found no signs
(07:34):
of struggle, no indication she'd planned to leave, I kept searching.
Another article from last year mentioned a noise complaint investigation
at my address that had resulted in police finding an
apartment completely empty despite the lease not being up for
another eight months. The tenant, David Price, had apparently abandoned
(07:54):
everything and disappeared without notice. Going back further, I found
a pattern. At least one person every year for the
past decade had either disappeared or abandoned my specific apartment
with no explanation. By the time I went to bed,
I'd made a decision joke or not, prank or not.
(08:15):
I was going to follow the guidelines, at least for
a few days until I could figure out what was
really going on. That first night, I barely slept. Every
creak of the old building made me jump, and I
found myself checking the clock obsessively. Eleven forty seven pm
twelve twenty three am, one fifteen am. I was hyper
(08:38):
aware that I was approaching the forbidden hours between two
am and four am, and for some reason, that awareness
filled me with dread. At one fifty eight am, I
heard footsteps in the hallway outside my door. They were slow,
deliberate steps, like someone trying to walk quietly, but not
quite succeeding. They stopped directly outside my mind apartment. Then
(09:01):
came the knocking, Three soft raps, barely audible, then a pause,
then three more. I lay frozen in my bed, remembering
the second guideline, do not respond to any knocking after midnight,
regardless of what you hear. The knocking came again, slightly
louder this time, and then I heard a voice. Emma, Emma,
(09:26):
are you in there. It was a child's voice, young
and scared. Please I need help. I'm lost. Every instinct
I had screamed at me to get up to open
the door to help whoever was out there. It sounded
like a little girl, maybe eight or nine years old,
and she was crying, Please, lady, I know someone's in there.
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I can see your light under the door, but I
hadn't turned on any lights. I'd been lying in complete darkness.
The knocking became more insistent, and the voice grew more desperate.
My mommy told me to find the lady in apartment six.
If I ever got scared, that's you right, Please open
the door. I lived in apartment six. But how could
(10:11):
a child know that the temperature in my room began
to drop. I could see my breath misting in the darkness,
and I pulled my blankets tighter around me. The knocking continued,
now accompanied by what sounded like scratching at the door.
I'm so cold out here, the voice whimpered, Please let
me in. I promise I'll be good. It went on
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for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes.
The knocking, the pleading, the sound of small hands scratching
at my door, and through it all, the temperature continued
to drop until I was shivering violently under all my blankets.
Then at exactly two a m. Everything stopped. The hallway
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went completely silent, the temperature began to return to normal.
I waited another hour before I finally worked up the
courage to creep to the door and look through the
peep hole. The hallway was empty. I didn't sleep at
all that night. As soon as the sun came up,
I called in sick to the freelance project I was
working on, and sat in my kitchen staring at the letter.
(11:15):
The guidelines weren't a joke, they weren't a prank. They
were a warning, and I was going to need them.
I spent the next morning researching everything I could find
about four forty seven Chestnut Street, starting with the most
basic public records. What I discovered made my hands shake
as I typed. The building had been constructed in eighteen
ninety four, during Salem's post maritime boom, when wealthy merchants
(11:38):
were building grand homes throughout the Chestnut Street district. Originally
designed as a single family Victorian mansion for the Whitmore family,
it had been converted to apartments in nineteen twenty three
after the last Whitmore air died under mysterious circumstances. That
phrase kept appearing in the records. Mysterious circumstances. The Salem
(12:00):
Gazette Archives, digitized and searchable online, painted a disturbing picture.
In nineteen twenty two, twenty eight year old Margaret Whitmore
had been found dead in what was now my apartment,
then the master bedroom suite. The official cause of death
was listed as heart failure, but the article noted that
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she had been in perfect health and showed no signs
of illness. Her body was discovered by a concerned friend
after Margaret failed to appear for a planned shopping trip.
The friend reported that all the windows in the bedroom
had been covered with heavy blankets, despite it being a
warm June day. I printed the article and stared at
Margaret's photograph. She looked young and vibrant, with dark hair
(12:45):
pinned in the fashion of the era, and intelligent eyes
that reminded me uncomfortably of my own. The apartment conversion
in nineteen twenty three had created six units, with mine
occupying the former master suite and adjacent sitting room, But
the rental history was what truly chilled me. I found
lease records going back decades, and the pattern missus Chen
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had mentioned became stark and undeniable. Apartment six had been
rented one hundred twenty seven times since nineteen twenty three.
The average tendency lasted exactly four months and twelve days.
I made a spreadsheet because organizing data helped me think.
Name after name, date after date. The same story repeated.
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People would move in with standard one year leases, then
break them early forfeiting their deposits and sometimes leaving personal
belongings behind. The excuses varied job transfers, family emergencies, better
opportunities elsewhere, but the time line never did four months,
always four months. The only exceptions were the disappearances. Seven
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people over the decades had simply vanished, leaving no forwarding address,
no explanation, and in three cases no family or friends
who knew where they had gone. The most recent was
Marcus Webb, whom missus Chen had mentioned before him. In
twenty nineteen, A graduate student named Timothy Chen, no relation
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to my neighbor, had signed a lease in August and
was reported missing in December when he failed to show
up for his winter final exams. I was three days
into my tenancy. The child's voice from that first night
had returned twice more, always after midnight, always pleading to
be let in. I had followed the rules religiously, never responding,
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never opening the door, but the encounters were becoming more elaborate.
The second night, the voice had been accompanied by what
sounded like a child's ball bouncing in the hallway, bounce, bounce, bounce,
in a rhythm that seemed designed to hypnotize. When I
looked through the peep hole, I saw nothing, but I
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could hear the bounce see continue for nearly an hour.
The third night, there had been multiple voices, a whole
group of children whispering and giggling just outside my door.
They knew things they shouldn't know, my full name, my
previous address, the fact that I was from Michigan originally.
One had even mentioned my ex boyfriend David by name,
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asking if he was coming to visit soon. I had
moved to Salem to get away from David. I hadn't
told anyone here about him. That morning, I called missus
Chen and asked if she would meet me for coffee.
We went to a small cafe downtown, away from the building,
and I spread my printed research across our table. You
found it too, she said, simply looking at my spreadsheet
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of tenancy records. How long have you known about this?
Missus Chen stirred her coffee, slowly avoiding my eyes. I
suspected something was wrong within my first year in the building,
that was two thousand and eight. Your apartment had three
different tenants that year, and each one left looking haunted,
not just scared, haunted, like something had gotten inside their
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heads and taken up residents. Why didn't you move because
it's never bothered me. Whatever lives in that building, it
seems focused on Apartment six. The rest of us are
just witnesses. She reached into her purse and pulled out
a Manila folder thick with papers. I've been documenting everything
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for fifteen years, every tenant who's lived above me, every
strange occurrence, every unexplained event. I kept thinking someone official
would need to see it. Eventually, the folder contained copies
of police reports, newspaper clippings, and handwritten notes in missus
Chen's careful script. Missing person reports for the seven disappeared tenants,
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noise complaints from other residents about sounds coming from Apartment
six at all hours, medical reports for three four former
tenants who had been hospitalized for severe anxiety and panic
disorders after moving out. There's something else, missus Chen said,
lowering her voice. I found this slipped under my door
yesterday morning. She handed me a cream colored envelope identical
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to the one I had received. Inside was another list
of rules, but these were different from mine. For the
protection of residence at four forty seven Chestnut Street. One,
Do not attempt to communicate with the entity in apartment
six to two. If you hear crying from above, play
music loudly to mask the sound. Three, avoid the building's
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basement between sunset and sunrise. Four If asked, tell no
one about the building's history five. Should apartment six become vacant,
do not allow children to view the space. These guidelines
have kept our community safe. Please observe them carefully. The
Whitmore Foundation. I had never heard of the Whitmore Foundation,
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but the surname made my blood run cold. Margaret Whitmore,
who had died in my apartment in nineteen twenty two.
Missus Chen who delivered this, I don't know. It appeared
the same way yours did, slipped under the door while
I was sleeping. But Emma, look at the bottom of
the page. I turned the paper over and found a
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handwritten note in different ink. She's getting stronger. The new
tenant is feeding her. Get her out before the four
month mark or we'll have another disappearance. The handwriting was shaky,
as if written by some one very old or very frightened.
That afternoon, I drove to the Salem Public Library and
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requested access to their local history archives. The librarian, a
kind woman named Dorothy, who seemed to know exactly what
I was researching without being told, led me to a
special collection room in the basement, another one from four
forty seven Chestnut. She said, matter of factly, we get
at least two researchers a year asking about that building,
(19:05):
what apartment six? Her face tightened the Margaret Whitmore room.
I'm sorry, dear, truly sorry. She provided me with boxes
of documents dating back to the building's construction. What I
learned made everything worse. The land where four hundred forty
(19:27):
seven Chestnut Streets stood had been the sight of a
much older tragedy. In sixteen ninety two, during the witch trials,
a young girl named Mercy Williams had lived in a
small cottage on that exact spot. Mercy had been one
of the afflicted children whose accusations led to the execution
of twenty people, but unlike the other afflicted girls, Mercy
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had tried to recant her testimony. Near the end of
the trials. She was found dead in her cottage three
days before she was scheduled to appear before the court
and withdraw her accusations. She was nine years old. The
official cause of death was recorded as sudden fever, but
several witness statements described her as being in perfect health
just hours before she was found. After Mercy's death, the
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cottage was abandoned and eventually demolished. The land remained empty
for over two centuries until the Whitmores built their mansion
there in eighteen ninety four. Margaret Whitmore, according to family
letters preserved in the archives, had become obsessed with the
property's history. After moving into the master bedroom, she spent
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months researching Mercy Williams, visiting local historians, and attempting to
contact spiritualists. Her letters to a cousin in Boston described
strange dreams where a young girl begged her for help,
pleading to make it right and tell them the truth.
In her final letter, dated just one week before her death,
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Margaret wrote, she comes to me every night now, this child.
She says she never won anyone to die because of
her lies. She says she's been trapped here, growing angry
and hungry, feeding on the guilt and fear of those
who live where she died. I've tried to help her, cousin,
but I fear I've only made things worse. She's no
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longer the innocent child who wanted to recant her testimony.
Two hundred years of anger have changed her into something
else entirely. I don't think she remembers who she was anymore.
She only remembers the rage. Margaret's death had occurred exactly
four months after she moved into the bedroom. I sat
in the library's archives room until closing time, reading letter
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after letter, witness statement after witness statement, until the pattern
became undeniable. Every four months, the entity that had once
been Mercy Williams grew strong enough to either drive a
tenant away or, in seven documented cases, to take them entirely.
And I was now three days into what had his
story been a four month countdown. When I returned to
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the building that evening, missus Chen was waiting in the lobby.
I found someone who can help, she said, without preamble.
His name is Father Michael Castellanos. He's not officially with
the Catholic Church anymore, but he has experience with situations
like yours. What kind of experience the kind that got
(22:25):
him unofficially exiled from his parish in Boston fifteen years
ago for performing unauthorized exorcisms. We met Father Castellanos the
next morning at a small coffee shop in Marblehead, far
enough from Salem that he felt comfortable talking openly. He
was younger than I had expected, maybe forty five, with
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graying hair, and the intense eyes of someone who had
seen too much. Missus Chen told me about your situation,
he said, sliding into the booth across from me. I've
been tracking the four forty seven Chestnut Street case for
eight years. Now you're the sixteenth person I've tried to help.
What happened to the other fifteen? Eleven moved out within
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two weeks of our meeting. Three disappeared anyway one dot dot,
he paused, staring into his coffee. One didn't make it
out alive. My stomach dropped. What do you mean? Timothy Chen,
the graduate student. He contacted me in October twenty nineteen,
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about six weeks into his tenancy. We tried everything, blessed salt,
holy water, protective symbols, even a formal exorcism. The entity
just grew stronger. It fed off our attempts to fight it.
Father Castallanos opened a leather briefcase and pulled out a
thick file. What you're dealing with isn't a traditional haunting, Emma.
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It's what we call a residual feeder. The spirit of
Mercy Williams has been trapped on that land for over
three centuries, going stronger and more twisted with each passing decade.
Every tenant who experiences fear, every person who flees in terror,
every disappearance, it all feeds her power. Then why are
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you helping me? Because I think I've finally figured out
what she wants. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to
barely above a whisper. She doesn't want to hurt people, Emma.
She wants to tell the truth. She wants to finally
give the testimony she never got to give in sixteen
ninety two. The problem is, after three hundred years of
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anger and feeding on fear, she's lost the ability to
communicate normally. All she can do is replay the trauma
of that cottage, the fear and desperation of a nine
year old girl who knew she was about to die
for trying to do the right thing. So what do
I do? Father Castellanos pulled out a digital recorder, the
(24:54):
kind used for interviews. You listen to her, really listen,
not to the child's voice that begs to come in.
That's just how she's learned to lure people close. Listen
for what she's really trying to say. He handed me
the recorder and a small leather journal document everything every encounter,
every word, every sound, look for patterns, for messages hidden
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in the chaos, and Emma, Yes, don't let her frighten
you into running. The moment you flee, she wins, she
gets stronger, and the next tenant has even less chance
of surviving their four months. That night, for the first
time since moving in, I didn't follow rule number two.
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When the knocking started at twelve forty seven a m
I walked to the door with Father Castaianos's recorder in
my hand and pressed my ear against the wood. Please,
came the familiar child's voice. I'm so cold out here,
Let me in. I'm listening, I whispered back, what do
you want to tell me? The knocking stopped for a
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long moment. There was only silence. Then, in a voice
barely audible, cracked with centuries of unshed tears, came the reply,
they made me lie. The morning light was pale through
the grimy windows. As Father Michael Castellanos arrived at my apartment.
His eyes carried the weight of countless sleepless nights spent
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wrestling with the unseen. He carried an air of quiet gravity,
the kind a man develops when he spends years wrestling
with the unseen forces that dwell just beneath the veil
of every day life. Every inch of his demeanor suggested
a man who had witnessed horrors few dared to speak of.
The faint scent of incense seemed to cling to his clothes,
(26:45):
subtle and comforting in the stale air. I nodded in greeting,
feeling simultaneously relieved and exhausted. Fatigue threatened to overwhelm me,
but the promise of knowledge offered a fragile hope. After
three days of escal lating supernatural events, sleepless nights, and
whispered terrors outside my door, I was ready to learn
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whatever I could from him. I clung to the thought
that understanding might be my only weapon against the darkness
lurking behind these walls. The exhaustion settled deep into my bones,
an unshakable reminder of the battles already fought. Emma, he said, softly,
setting his weathered leather satchel on the table. His voice
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was calm, measured, as if he was recounting events that
he had witnessed many times before. What you've experienced is
beyond what most people can imagine. I struggled to grasp
the concept a being that thrived on fear and turmoil
rather than traditional haunting. But you are not alone. The
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idea chilled me to the core, a horror that was
less defined than the typical ghosts of legend. I listened
as he unfolded the truth. The entity haunting of Apartment
six was what he called a residual feeder, a powerful
spirit tangled in centuries of pain, drawing strength from fear
and unrest. It was neither ghost nor demon in the
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traditional sense, but a force that thrived on the emotions
its presence provoked. The analogy he used. Fences gave me
a visual sense of the delicate balance I needed to maintain.
I imagined those fences as fragile lines of light, barely
visible but critical to containing something dark and ancient. The
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rules you've been given, Father Castellanos, explained, are protections. The
objects he revealed seemed relics from a bygone era, Each
humming with a quiet power. They create fences that contained
the entity's influence. I felt the soft weight in my
palms and the faint pulse of sacred energy emanating from them.
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Breaking them weakens those fences and lets it grow stronger.
Each vial of holy water seemed to promise sanctuary, each
pouch a ward against malevolence. One misstep, one broken rule,
and the fences could crumble, unleashing unimaginable horrors. He unpacked
his satchel, revealing a collection of items that seemed out
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of place in my humble apartment. Vials of holy water,
small pouches of blessed herbs, lengths of chalk, salt packets,
and a small wooden box carved with indecipherable symbols. Salt
is your first line of defense, he said, Not the
table salt you use for cooking. Sea salt, blessed and pure.
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Spread it like a barrier at every entrance, every window.
I nodded, thinking back to the cold spots, the scratching
at my door, and the chilling voices that echoed just
beyond reach. This box, he continued, holding up the carved
wooden container is designed to contain the entity should it
attempt to manifest fully. It's a temporary prison until a
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more permanent solution can be found. The hours that followed
were a blur of preparation. Father Castallanos carefully taught me
ancient protective symbols. Sigils meant to confuse and repel, not banish.
I painstakingly drew them above every doorway and window frame,
the chalk feeling gritty and strange between my fingers. We
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spread salt along thresholds, window sills, and even traced circles
around key pieces of furniture, including my bed. I felt
the weight of every grain a physical manifestation of my
determination not to be a victim. Sunlight weakens the entity,
he reminded me, gesturing to the heavy blackout curtains I'd
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been instructed to close at sunset. It's why the windows
must stay covered after dark. He cautioned against keeping iron
or silver anywhere in the apartment, explaining that these metals
could provoke the entity to violent outbursts. Be vigilant, he warned,
It will test your defenses, probing for weaknesses. The moment
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you feel safe is the moment it strikes hardest. That
first night, after the preparations, I sat awake until the
clock neared midnight. The eerie silence settled over the building,
broken only by the occasional creak or distant siren. Around
eleven fifty five, I felt the temperature drop. My breath
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misted in the air as the familiar whispering voices began, soft,
childlike echoing just beyond the walls. The salt lines seemed
to shimmer faintly in the dim light of the candle
Father Castillanos had left me. The knocking began, tentative at first,
then relentless, but this time I didn't flinch. I watched
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the front door's thin shadow creep close to the salt barrier, hesitate,
then retre treat. The night stretched on with manifestations testing
the barriers, lights, flickering, distant laughter, faint sounds of footsteps,
and the unmistakable feeling of something watching. Each morning, I
checked the protective lines, redrew faded symbols, and replenished the salt.
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My hands trembled from fatigue and the ceaseless tension. Sleep
was fragile, broken by nightmares of a small girl's terrified
face and shadowy figures looming beyond my bedroom doorway. Father
Castellanos visited twice more that week, each time reinforcing defensive
practices and introducing new prayers and chants to strengthen the barriers.
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Through it all, I discovered that terror was not just
an enemy, but a weapon. The entity wielded. My own
fear fed it, making each encounter more intense. I forced
myself to breathe deeply, to recite prayers silently, and to
steal my mind. I reminded myself that while the entity
had history and power, I had will and resolve. The
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final night of the week came with a pulse of anticipation.
Father Castallanos stood by the door, ready to help face
whatever might come tomorrow night, he said, quietly, we try
to draw it out. We confronted on your terms. That
means deliberately testing one of the rules, the one about
(33:24):
not opening the basement door after sunset. But we do
it prepared. My heart raced at the thought, but I
knew it was necessary. Breaking the cycle of terror meant
confronting the source directly. As he left, I closed the
door behind him, slipping the wooden box from its hiding
place and tracing chalk symbols around it. My apartment was
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no longer just a home. It was a battleground. I
settled down with a new found resolve, knowing the fight
ahead would be long, dangerous, and far from certain. But
for the first time time, I felt like I had
a chance. Each day after Father Castellanos's visits felt heavier,
as if the air in the apartment thickened with unseen weight.
(34:11):
I found myself waking before dawn, staring at the ceiling
as the gray light seeped in, unsure if I was
haunted by the spirit or my own fraying nerves. The
salt lines became my armor. I would trace them with
trembling fingers, feeling every grain slide beneath my skin. I
(34:31):
kept extra chalk close, redrawing faded symbols every morning. The
motifs had become familiar, so much so that I could
visualize them in the dark. The protective sigils etched indelibly
in my mind. Yet nights were the worst. When the
sun slipped below the horizon and the buildings, creaks and
groans turned sinister, the entity's presence grew more insistent. The
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familiar cold would roll through the rooms, and with it
the w whispered voices, now a chorus of children's laughter,
twisted with sobbing and faint screams. The shadows lengthened unnaturally,
crawling along walls and floors. Sometimes I caught movement in
my peripheral vision, fleeting shapes dissolving as soon as I
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turned my head. The knocking persisted, unpredictable in rhythm and intensity.
Some nights it was gentle taps. Others it pounded with
the force of a desperate plea. I never responded, never
opened my door more than once. I found objects subtly misplaced,
candles knocked over, salt lines broken and scattered. The entity
(35:41):
was learning testing Emotionally, I was a mess. The fear
wasn't just something outside. It seeped inside, twisting my thoughts,
doubts crept in. Was I capable? Was I strong enough
to see this through? What if the protections were thin?
Veneers about to shatter? Father Castallanos noticed the strain. You're
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carrying this burden alone, he said during a visit. Remember
protect your mind as fiercely as your space. Fear feeds her,
strength starves her. I took his advice to heart. During
the day, I forced myself outside, long walks, beneath the
indifferent sun, small conversations with strangers, loud cafes where I
(36:28):
could drown out the echoes inside my head. Still, after
a week of escalating pressure, the entity escalated too. One night,
I jolted awake to find every mirror in the apartment
shattered in a symphony of cracks. I hadn't covered them completely,
Father Castaillanos had warned, but the damage was brutal. Another night,
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the temperature plummeted sharply, and a shadow with features like
a grotesquely exaggerated child's face appeared at the edge of
the living room. Didn't speak, merely stared, its black eyes
drilling into me until I forced my voice, loud and clear,
you have no power here. It recoiled with a hiss
and vanished into the walls. The wooden box remained my talisman,
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the last line of defense. I kept it locked away
but ready, occasionally tracing the symbols carved into its sides,
reminding myself that hope was tangible, even if fragile sleep
was a rare visitor. When it did come, it brought
nightmares of dark mazes lined with accusing faces, claustrophobic spaces
where breath was stolen, and the relentless echo of childish
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laughter twisted with malice. Emma my name, My identity felt fragile,
as if I was fracturing at the edges. Being pulled
towards some darkness I couldn't control, and yet I clung
to my resolve, knowing this was a battle I couldn't flee.
Then a new kind of tension crept in. As the
final night approached, Father Castellanos arrived later than usual, his
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face drawn but determined. Tonight, he said, begins the turning point.
We draw the entity out, knowing it will resist, but
you are prepared. He laid down new salt circles, inscribed
fresh symbols, and lit candles that flickered with unnatural hues. Remember,
he said, locking eyes with me, this is your fight.
(38:25):
It will try to break you with fear, confusion, and pain.
Stand firm. Your strength is the shield. As he left,
I felt the weight of history and destiny settle on
my shoulders. I looked around the apartment, my fortress, my prison,
and for the first time I didn't feel alone. The
battle was about to begin. Days blurred into restless nights,
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time lost meaning. Within the four walls of Apartment six,
I began chronicling every detail in a worn journal, the
patterns and the disturbances, the temperature shifts, the cadence of
the knocking. Each entry was a life line, an anchor
to my sanity. Amidst the stretching shadows, Father Castellanos stressed
(39:11):
the importance of mental fortitude and routine create rituals. He advised,
your mind must trust your actions. Fear is the entity's ally,
deprive her of that. I poured myself into these rituals,
morning prayers, midday moments of grounding with deep breaths, nightly
preparations in candle light, casting lines of salt with deliberation.
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The apartment, once familiar and comforting, transformed into a battle ground.
The silence that had once been normal was now pregnant
with menace. Each creak of the old building, each whisper
of wind through cracked windows, was fraught with ominous possibility.
Sleep was fractured. I would awaken cold sweats, heart racing,
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convinced I had heard voices or foot steps that vanished
when I searched. Days felt heavier, my limbs sluggish, my
mind fogged. Emma, my name, my identity felt as if
it was slipping like grains of sand through my fingers.
On some evenings, I forced myself onto the grimy fire
escape for fresh air. The night sky wide and indifferent
(40:20):
above the stars pulsed silently, distant and uncaring. I thought
of Mercy Williams, not just as a spirit, but as
a lost child, trapped in the echo of centuries. Could
I bear this burden more than once? I felt the
entity near, a presence, cold and probing, testing the walls
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I had built around myself. One night I woke to
find a single grain of salt, out of place, on
the floor next to my bed, a cruel invitation, a
reminder that the entity was hunting for cracks in my defenses.
The wooden box, the symbol of hope and finality, remained
locked in my closet, its symbols glowing faintly under the
(41:02):
moonlight that managed to slip through curtains. Each night, I
spoke quietly to myself, repeating the prayers learned from Father Castillanos.
Some nights the words felt like life lines, others empty echoes.
My thoughts drifted to the basement door, dark, foreboding, a
portal I was forbid to open, yet it had become
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the focus of my fear and hope. As the day
of confrontation neared, the air thick with anticipation, I found
my resolve hardened. I was no longer just a tenant
escaping shadows. I was a guardian, a warrior, standing watch.
This was my home, my fight. The morning of our
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planned confrontation arrived gray and heavy, with storm clouds gathering
over Salem like a supernatural omen. I had barely slept
my mind cycling through Father Castillanos's instructions and the way
of what we were about to attempt. Every detail mattered.
One mistake could mean not just failure, but something far worse.
(42:09):
Father Castillanos arrived at precisely nine o'clock, carrying additional supplies
in a larger canvas bag. His face was drawn but determined,
the expression of a man who had walked this path
before and understood its dangers. The scent of blessed incense
clung to his clothes, mixing with the salt tinged air
(42:30):
of my apartment. Today we end this, he said, simply
setting his bag on the kitchen table beside the protective
symbols I'd redrawn that morning. But Emma, I need you
to understand. What we're about to do is deliberate provocation.
We're going to break rule number five, the one about
the basement door, but we're doing it on our terms,
(42:51):
with preparation and protection. I nodded, though my stomach churned
with nervous energy. What exactly will happen when I open
that door? The entity will manifest fully, not just whispers
or cold spots. Mercy Williams will appear as she truly
is now after three centuries of rage and guilt. She'll
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be desperate to communicate, but also potentially violent. The basement
has been her anchor point, where her spiritual energy is strongest.
He unpacked his supplies methodically, more blessed candles, a silver
crucifix despite his earlier warnings about metals, additional vials of
holy water, and a larger wooden box covered in more
(43:36):
intricate symbols than the first. This one seemed to hum
with contained energy. The silver is for binding, not protection,
he explained, noticing my questioning. Look. Once she manifests, we
use it to anchor her spirit long enough for communication.
The risk is that it will also amplify her power Temporarily.
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We spend the morning creating a ritual circle in my
living room, using salt and chalk to draw complex geometric
patterns that seemed to shift and shimmer. When I wasn't
looking directly at them. Father Castillanos positioned the blessed candles
at specific points around the circle, muttering prayers in Latin
as he worked. You'll stand in the center, he instructed.
(44:22):
The circle will protect you during the initial manifestation, but
once communication begins, you'll need to step outside it. That's
when you'll be most vulnerable. By noon, my apartment had
been transformed into something between a fortress and a seance parlor.
Every surface gleamed with salt lines, every entrance bore protective symbols,
(44:43):
and the air itself seemed charged with spiritual energy. The
ordinary Tuesday afternoon light filtering through my windows felt surreal
against the backdrop of our supernatural preparations. Remember, Father Castillano said,
as we reviewed the pl one final time. Mercy Williams
isn't evil. She's a child who's been trapped and twisted
(45:06):
by centuries of guilt. She wants to tell her story,
to finally give the testimony she died trying to deliver.
Your job is to listen, to bear witness, and to
help her find peace. As evening approached, the temperature in
the apartment began to drop noticeably, Not the sudden, dramatic
chill of the entity's presence, but a gradual cooling that
(45:27):
seemed to seep from the walls themselves. The building was
preparing responding to our intentions. I ate a light dinner,
though I could barely taste the food. Father Castillanos sat
across from me, occasionally checking his watch and murmuring prayers
under his breath. Neither of us spoke much. There was
(45:47):
nothing left to say that hadn't been said. At eight o'clock,
as the last daylight faded from my windows, we began
the final preparations. Father Castillanos lit the ritual candles in
steae sequence, each flame casting dancing shadows that seemed almost alive.
The protective symbols on my walls began to glow faintly,
(46:09):
responding to the spiritual energy building in the room. It's time,
he said, handing me a small brass key. This opens
the basement door. The building superintendent left it with me
this afternoon. He didn't ask questions, but I could see
the fear in his eyes. He knows what's down there.
(46:30):
I took the key, its metal cold against my palm.
My hands were trembling, but my resolve was firm. After
weeks of living in fear of being haunted by a
desperate spirit who only wanted to be heard, I was
ready to listen. The basement door was located at the
end of the hallway on the first floor, just past
(46:51):
missus Chen's apartment. Father Castellanos and I made our way
downstairs in silence, the weight of the brass key heavy
in my pocket. The hallway seemed longer than usual, stretching
endlessly before us in the dim light. Missus Chen's door
opened just as we passed, and she emerged carrying a
small bundle of burning sage. Without a word, she nodded
(47:13):
to us both and began walking in the opposite direction,
trailing smoke behind her. Even my neighbor knew what was happening.
To night, the basement door stood before us like a
portal to another world, heavy oak, painted black with iron
hinges that had probably hung there since the building's construction.
A simple dead bolt lock, but somehow it seemed to
(47:35):
pulse with malevolent energy. Once you turn that key, Father
Castaianos warned, there's no going back. She'll know we're here
and she'll come. I inserted the key into the lock,
feeling resistance, as if the mechanism itself was fighting me. Then,
with a decisive turn, I heard the dead bolt slide
(47:55):
back with a metallic click that echoed through the hallway
like a gunshot. The temperature plummeted instantly, My breath became
visible in thick clouds, and frost began forming on the
door handle beneath my fingers. From somewhere below came the
sound of footsteps, small light footsteps, like those of a child,
but moving with impossible speed. Emma, the voice drifted up
(48:20):
from the darkness below, No longer muffled by walls or distance.
It was clear, young, and heart breakingly sad. I have
been waiting so long for some one to open the door.
Father Castaiano stood behind me, one hand on my shoulder,
the other gripping his larger wooden box. Remember the plan,
(48:41):
he whispered, Let her come to you. I pushed the
door open and stepped on to the first wooden stair.
The basement stretched below us, illuminated only by pale moonlight
filtering through grimy windows. But as my eyes adjusted, I
could see something moving in the shadows, A small face.
You're in a white nightgown, translucent, but becoming more solid
(49:03):
with each passing second. Hello, Mercy, I called softly. I'm emma.
I've come to listen to your story. The figure stopped
moving and looked up at me. Even in the dim light,
I could see her face clearly, a nine year old
girl with dark hair and enormous eyes filled with centuries
of sorrow. She was beautiful and terrible, simultaneously innocent and ancient.
(49:29):
You know my name, she said, wonderingly. No one has
spoken my name in so long. I descended the stairs slowly,
Father Castallanos following close behind. The basement was larger than
I had expected, with stone walls and a dirt floor
that smelled of age and decay. But it was the
energy that took my breath away. Waves of emotion so
(49:51):
intense they felt physical washing over me, like breaking waves.
I know your story, I told her. I know about
the witch trial, about the lies you were forced to tell.
I know you tried to recant your testimony. Mercy Williams
smiled for the first time, and the expression transformed her
spectral face. They made me lie, she repeated, but this
(50:15):
time the words carried weight beyond simple repetition. I was
going to tell the truth. I was going to save them.
Tell me now, I said, stepping into the circle. Father
Castellanos was hastily drawing around us with blessed salt. Tell
me what really happened, the entity. No, the child began
(50:36):
to speak, and her words filled the basement with a
presence so powerful that dust motes danced in the air
around us. She told me about the fear that had
gripped Salem in sixteen ninety two, about children playing games
that spiraled into deadly accusations. She described the pressure from
adults who used the trials for their own purposes, the
(50:57):
terror of knowing that telling the truth might mean being
accused herself. As she spoke, mercy became more solid, more real.
Her night gowns stopped flickering, her bare feet touched the
dirt floor, and when she gestured, I could see the
movement clearly. But with increased manifestation came increased power. The
temperature continued dropping until icicles formed on the basement walls,
(51:21):
and the very air seemed to vibrate with supernatural energy.
I was going to tell them, she said, her voice
growing stronger. I was going to stand before the court
and say that we had lied, that none of the
accused were witches. But they found out the men who
were using us, who were taking land from people they
wanted to destroy. They couldn't let me speak. Father Castellano
(51:44):
stepped forward with the silver crucifix, holding it between us
and the manifesting spirit. How did they stop you, Mercy poison?
She said, simply in my porridge, three days before I
was supposed to testify. They told every one it was feet,
but I knew. I died knowing that my lies had
killed innocent people, and I would never get the chance
(52:06):
to make it right. The spiritual energy in the basement
reached a crescendo. Objects began moving on their own, old
tools hanging from the walls, Broken furniture scattered in corners.
But it wasn't malevolent destruction. It was the released emotion
of a child who had carried unbearable guilt for over
three centuries. I can make it right now, I told her,
(52:30):
raising my voice above the supernatural wind that had begun
swirling around us. I can tell your story. I can
make sure people know that Mercy Williams died trying to
save the innocent. The child's spirit looked at me with
hope and desperation mixed in equal measure. Will you, will
you tell them that I wasn't evil, that I tried
to stop it. I promise. The moment I spoke those words,
(52:54):
something fundamental shifted in the basement. The temperature began to rise,
the supernatural wind calmed, and Mercy Williams smiled with such
radiant joy that the entire space seemed to fill with
warm light. Thank you, she whispered, I can rest now.
But as she began to fade, becoming translucent once again,
(53:16):
Father Castellano stepped forward with his wooden box. Wait, he called,
You don't have to disappear, Mercy. You can choose to
move on, to find peace beyond this place. The child's
spirit paused, considering his words. How by forgiving yourself, I said,
suddenly understanding what was needed. You were nine years old, Mercy,
(53:40):
You were terrified and manipulated by adults who should have
protected you. You tried to do the right thing, and
you died for it. You have nothing left to atone for.
Mercy Williams looked at me for a long moment, tears
streaming down her ghostly cheeks. Then she nodded, slowly. I
forgive myself, she said quietly, I forgive the frightened little
(54:01):
girl who told lies to save her own life. The
light that filled the basement at those words was unlike
anything I had ever experienced, warm, golden, and infinitely peaceful.
It seemed to emanate from Mercy herself. As she transformed
from a tortured spirit into something radiant and free. The
centuries of guilt and rage that had bound her to
(54:22):
this place simply melted away, leaving only the innocent child
she had always been. Tell them my story, she said,
one final time, her voice already echoing from somewhere far away.
Tell them that some of us tried to stop the madness.
And then she was gone, not vanished, but departed. I
could feel the difference immediately. The oppressive spiritual weight that
(54:46):
had hung over the building since my first night was
completely absent. The basement felt like just a basement again,
old and dusty, but no longer haunted. Father Castallanos and
I stood in the circle of salt, breathing heavily from
the intensity of what we had witnessed. The blessed candles
had burned down to stubbs, and the temperature was returning
to normal. Most importantly, the entity that had terrorized generations
(55:09):
of tenants was finally at peace. Is it over, I asked,
though I already knew the answer. It's over, he confirmed.
Mercy Williams has moved on. She found what she needed
forgiveness and the promise that her story would be told.
We climbed the basement stairs in contemplative silence, securing the
(55:32):
door behind us, but I no longer felt the need
for protective barriers or blessed salt my apartment. When we
returned to it felt like home for the first time
since I had moved in. The next morning, I woke
to bright sunlight streaming through windows I no longer needed
to keep covered. The air was clear and clean, free
(55:54):
of the oppressive atmosphere that had marked Mercy's presence. I
had slept through the night without a single super nan
natural disturbance, no knocking, no whispers, no cold spots. Missus
Chen knocked on my door around nine o'clock, carrying another
plate of homemade cookies and wearing the first genuine smile
I had seen from her. It's finished, she said, simply,
(56:16):
I can feel it. The building feels light again. I
spent that day writing not freelance work, but Mercy Williams's story.
Everything she had told me in the basement, every detail
of her tragic life and death, every moment of the
witch trials that had destroyed so many innocent lives. It
(56:36):
would become an article, then a longer piece, than eventually
a book. I would keep my promise to tell her story.
Father Castellanos visited one final time that evening, officially releasing
me from our supernatural partnership. He looked younger somehow, as
if the successful resolution had lifted a weight from his
(56:56):
own shoulders. You did something remarkable, told me, as he
packed away his unused ritual supplies. You gave a tortured
soul the one thing she needed most, someone to listen
without judgment. What will you do now, I asked. There
are other hauntings, other lost spirits who need help, But
this one, this one will always be special. You didn't
(57:20):
just banish an entity, Emma, You helped a child find peace.
As the weeks passed, life and Apartment six settled into
a routine of normal, mundane happiness. I kept the letter,
with its five rules, now meaningless but historically significant, framed
on my kitchen wall. Sometimes visitors would ask about it,
(57:41):
and I would tell them the beginning of Mercy Williams's story.
The building's turnover rate returned to normal. New tenants moved
in and stayed, no longer driven away by supernatural terror.
Missus Chen became not just a neighbor but a friend,
and we would often discuss the remarkable transformation that had
taken place. I never experienced another supernatural encounter in Apartment six,
(58:04):
but sometimes on warm summer evenings, when the light slanted
just right through my windows, I would feel a presence,
not frightening, but peaceful, the grateful spirit of a child
who had finally found her voice and told her truth.
Mercy Williams's story was published six months later in the
Salem Gazette, then picked up by historical journals and paranormal researchers.
(58:27):
Her name was added to the official records of the
witch trials, listed among those who had tried to prevent
the tragedy rather than perpetuate it. And in Apartment six
at four forty seven Chestnut Street, I continued to live peacefully,
no longer haunted, but somehow blessed by the experience of
helping a lost soul find its way home. The rules
(58:47):
no longer applied. The entity was gone, but the memory
of a nine year old girl's courage would stay with
me forever, a reminder that sometimes the most frightening hauntings
are simply souls in desperate need of understanding and forgiveness.
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