Five Points

“Where the hell are we?" Trisha leaned forward from the back seat of the '89 Chevrolet Caprice, her voice cutting through the stale smoke filled air.

"We're almost there, just chill the fuck out, don’t be such a stupid bitch," Trevor shot back, squinting through the grimy windshield as if trying to peer into the very heart of the night.

"Fuck you, Trevor! Don't you dare call her a bitch!" Carl's voice boomed from the back, next to Trisha, his words heavy with the threat of violence.

"Guys, come on, we're almost there," Katie interjected, her tone a desperate plea for peace in the face of rising tensions.

Trevor's voice dropped to a low, muddled growl. "Just stop your fucking complaining, you stupid assholes. You're about to see a fucking ghost."

The four friends were on their way to Five Points, a place of eerie legends and ghost stories. Native Americans once used the ancient burial ground there to channel spirits from the other side.

"Do y'all even know what happened out here?" Trevor asked, his words dripping with cryptic menace.

"Yeah, something about a train hitting a school bus and killing a bunch of kids, right?" Carl replied, his voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and dread. "You park on the tracks, honk your horn three times, and the train will materialize? That's the story, isn't it?"

"That's one of them," Trevor conceded, taking a long drag from his cigarette before flicking it out the window and making a sharp left turn. "There's also the tunnel. You put your car in neutral, and the ghosts of those dead children will push you out. But that's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about Patsy Crain and her mentally ill son, Gary Crain."

Trevor's words hung in the air like a noose, tightening around the throats of his captive audience. "See, Gary was an adult, probably in his thirties. He lived at home with his single mother, Patsy. Gary worked at the butcher shop the Amish owned. But Patsy, she thought she was a witch. She used to kidnap those little Amish kids on their way home from school, using their blood and body parts for her fucked up spells. And Gary? He'd chop up the rest of the bodies and scatter the pieces across the railroad tracks."

Trevor's voice, a guttural growl that seemed to claw its way out of the depths of the night, filled the car as he turned down the long, winding gravel driveway. The Chevy's ancient headlights barely pierced the darkness, their weak beams creating eerie, shifting shadows that creeped like tormented souls upon the overgrown weeds. Then, emerging from the abyssal void ahead, the farmhouse appeared into view—a skeletal relic of decay, its rotting timbers moaning with the despairing sighs of a dying beast. Beside it, the railroad tracks stretched into the endless night, mute to forgotten tragedies. And from the limbs of a dead oak, a tire swing dangled, swaying as if nudged by the hands of the damned.

"If you listen to the wind," Katie whispered, her voice a mere wisp above the rustling leaves, "her sorrowful wails echo on moonlit nights in the stillness."

Carl and Trisha's laughter erupted, sharp and jarring, slicing through the tense air like a blade. Katie joined in, her mocking tone stoking the fire.

"Yeah, you stupid motherfuckers think you’re funny," Trevor snapped, his voice a venomous hiss that smothered the car in silence. "Wait till that bitch grabs you and pulls you into her world. You think I’m fucking around? You think this is a joke? I’m trying to show you fucking faggots some real ghost shit here."

With a violent jerk, Trevor slammed the gear shift into park, the car shuddering to a halt. Before them, the house stood—a monstrous silhouette against the moonlit sky. This two-level farmhouse, built in the 1800s with towering studs, seemed to stretch up to the heavens. As they approached, it appeared to grow, a living, breathing entity hungry for their presence. The wood creaked as they neared the front steps, each groan like the snapping of bones.

"Come on, we can get through this window on the porch," Trevor said, his voice a blend of excitement and sinister dread.

"We’re not going in there. I’m not even walking on that fucking porch. Are you crazy, Trevor?" Katie’s voice trembled with fear as she stared at the gaping maw of the broken window.

"Stop being a pussy, Katie. You said you wanted to do this. Come on, Carl, you aren’t going to be a faggot, are you?" Trevor goaded.

"I mean, it’s just an old house. What’s the big deal? I kinda wanna see inside too," Carl pleaded with Trisha.

"Come on, Katie, it’s just an old house. We can take some dope pics. It’ll be epic," Trisha urged, looking to Katie.

Trevor extended his hand to Katie and led them through the window. Trisha stumbled into the house, falling and knocking over a table, sending a picture in a heavy frame crashing to the ground. Hastily, she scrambled to her feet, brushing off the debris in embarrassment.

"Oh fuck, look, that’s her, Patsy Crain. You fucking knocked over her picture. Oh shit, this is gonna get good. Let’s run up to Gary’s room," Trevor taunted his friends.

"Stop it, Trevor, I’m ready to leave," Katie demanded. Turning back to the window, she found herself alone. The house had transformed, as if time itself had peeled back thirty years. Confused, she called out for Trevor. Suddenly, a towering figure with broad shoulders appeared in the entryway to the kitchen.

"Don’t yell!" he shouted, then transitioned to a whisper, "She will hear you. She won’t like you here."

"Who are you? Where’s Trevor?" Katie pleaded, her voice trembling.

"He’s in my bedroom. Mother is prepping her magic potions, she’s going to make me smart,” the man replied, a twisted smile creeping across his lips. "You want to watch me chop his head off? That’s my favorite part—the sound it makes. It’s like a ripe melon splitting open. I usually save it for last, but if you want to watch, I’ll do it first." His laughter echoed through the room.

Katie stumbled backward, her heart racing as she felt unseen hands wrap around her, cold fingers tightening like a vice. She let out a scream, a raw, guttural sound that made its way from deep within. When she dared to open her eyes, she found herself back in the dark, damp, dilapidated house, her friends surrounding her, their faces covered with concern.

“What the hell are you doing, Katie?” Trisha’s voice cut through the suffocating air, grounding her in reality.

Trevor, standing just beyond the kitchen entryway, froze as a sound sliced through the silence—a low, dragging metallic scrape, like a knife gliding across a countertop. He turned slowly, dread pooling in his stomach at the sight of a tall, thin woman emerging from the shadows. Her movements were jerky, unnatural, as if she were a puppet with tangled strings. In her hand, she clutched a long, glistening knife, its blade reflecting the moon light with a sinister sheen.

Trevor's breath caught in his throat as her solid black eyes bore into him, dark, coagulated blood oozing from her mouth and nose, splattering the floor in clumps. Each step she took sent waves of revulsion through him; he reached for the knife hidden in his boot, but when he pulled it out, it was no blade at all. Instead, he held a bizarre apparition, a mutated crossbreed of flesh and horror. The handle was a squirming mass, a small, fetus-like creature with four tentacles stretching and retracting, pulsating with a life of its own. It let out a wailing cry that echoed in his mind, drowning out all rational thought. Trevor’s eyes locked with the creature’s, and in that moment, the weight of his body seemed to dissolve, leaving him suspended in a void. Silence enveloped him like a blanket, stretching time to an unbearable length. Then, the deep, gasping breaths of the woman before him shattered the stillness, a sound that resonated with both malice and hunger, as if she were savoring the moment before the feast.

Trevor snapped around, adrenaline surging through his veins, the grotesque creature in his grasp forgotten. He focused on the witch, her presence creeping like a dark cloud, and with a primal roar, he lunged forward, driving his knife deep into her chest. The blade sank into her flesh with a sickening squelch, and he felt a momentary thrill of triumph.

But then, something horrific happened. As the knife pierced her, the witch let out a spine-chilling scream that echoed through the house, reverberating off the damp walls. In an instant, the figure began to shimmer and shift, the dark, twisted features warping like melting wax. Trevor stumbled back, eyes wide with disbelief as the witch transformed before him.

The blackness in her eyes faded, replaced by familiar blue, and the blood-soaked visage morphed into Katie’s face, her expression twisted in pain and confusion. “Trevor! No!” she cried, her voice now a desperate plea, but it was too late; he had already crossed the threshold into a nightmare.

The knife remained lodged in her chest, and a fresh wave of horror washed over Trevor as he realized what he had done. The warmth of her blood began to seep around the blade, pooling at her feet, turning the floor into a gruesome canvas of red. Katie’s hands clawed at the knife, her body trembling as if caught in a violent struggle between life and death.

“Katie! No! What the fuck? I didn’t mean to!” Trevor shouted, panic rising in his throat. He wanted to pull the knife out, to save her, but it was as if the very act of removing it would sever the fragile thread that still connected her to the world.

“Help me!” she gasped, her voice cracking, each word a battle against the darkness creeping into her eyes. Trevor felt a deep pit open in his stomach, the realization sinking in that he might have unleashed something far worse than he had ever imagined.

“Stay with me!” he pleaded, his voice breaking as he grasped the hilt of the knife. With a deep breath, he steeled himself and yanked it out, hoping that he could pull her back from the brink.

As the blade came free, a blinding light erupted from the wound, illuminating the darkness. Trevor shielded his eyes, and when he dared to look again, he saw Katie collapsing to the floor, the witch’s influence shattered, leaving only the girl he knew—breathing, alive, but barely clinging to consciousness.

“Katie!” he cried, fear crashing over him like a wave. He cradled her head in his lap, his heart pounding as he looked into her eyes, searching for the spark of life that he feared was fading.

Carl and Trisha rushed into the room, their faces pale as the moonlight streaming through the window. “What the fuck did you do?” Carl demanded, his voice shaking as he pointed at the bloody knife lying next to Trevor. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood, mingling with a suffocating dread.

“It's not what you think! It was her, it was the witch, it was Patsy Crain!” Trevor pleaded, desperation clawing at his throat.

“Oh my God, Katie, no!” Trisha screamed, her voice cracking as she dropped to her knees beside her friend. Katie’s face had gone blank, a cold, dead stare that would haunt Trisha’s memory forever, a reflection of the horror that had unfolded.

In a sudden, frantic motion, Trevor grabbed the knife. He stood up, his movements wild and erratic, and slung Katie’s lifeless body to the ground with a chilling disregard. Carl’s heart raced as he looked up, and Trevor seemed to swell before him, transforming into a massive figure, towering and grotesque, shoulders stretching outward like dark wings unfurling.

“I told her not to yell. Mother doesn’t like people in our house. She’s going to make me chop the rest of you all up now,” the figure growled, its voice a low, rumbling echo that sent shivers down Carl's spine.

Carl looked to Trisha, eyes wide with panic, searching for a way out, but her expression was frozen in horror. Her eyes had gone solid black, an abyss where warmth once lived, her face a blank canvas devoid of emotion. The moment stretched, an eternity of dread, and then her mouth shot open.

A torrent of black tar erupted from her throat, spraying Carl like a morbid fountain, knocking him back against the wall. He blinked through the darkness, trying to comprehend what was happening, but when he opened his eyes, the figure was inches from his face now. Carl could feel its breath, hot and fetid, brushing against his lips.

“My name is Gary,” it said, the name dripping with malice. “Do you like dinosaurs?” The question hung in the air, absurd and terrifying. Before he could respond, Gary grabbed Carl by the throat, lifting him off the ground with an ease that belied the bulk of his form.

Carl’s vision blurred as he felt the life being squeezed from him, his eyes bulging, face swelling, panic igniting in his chest. Gary pressed harder, a jolting motion forcing Carl’s tongue out, blood bursting from his eye sockets as they threatened to pop. A scream tore from Carl’s throat, raw and desperate.

With a brutal, sudden ferocity, Gary slammed Carl’s head against the wall three times in rapid succession, each impact sending a shockwave of agony through his skull. Blood gushed from his eyes and ears, the room spinning into a whirlpool of darkness.

Then, as if pulled from a nightmare, Trisha was transported. She was outside, daylight spilling over her like a warm embrace. An older woman hung sheets on a clothesline, the fabric fluttering in the breeze while a pudgy little boy swung on a tire swing, laughter ringing out like a distant bell. She stood on the railroad tracks beside a tall, beautiful farmhouse, the very same one that now stood in decay, its glory long forgotten.

The boy swung higher, and then he turned, his gaze locking onto hers with a knowingness that sent a chill through her. She felt trapped in a dream but knew she wasn’t supposed to be seen. When she looked back at the woman, she had vanished, swallowed by the sunlit air.

Just then, a soft breath brushed against the back of her neck. “Trisha,” an elderly voice whispered, sending a jolt of ice through her veins. She turned quickly, and there was Katie, tears streaming from her eyes, a gaping knife wound in her chest, the blood a bright crimson against her pale skin.

“Trisha, why did you kill us all?” Katie’s voice was haunting, echoing the guilt that gnawed at Trisha’s soul. Just as she felt the urge to reach out for her friend, a shock of reality pulled her back, dragging her from the dreamlike state.

She found herself back inside the house, the nightmare reasserting itself with brutal clarity. Carl lay dead on the floor, his eyes vacant and unseeing, and Katie’s lifeless form was next to him. Standing in front of the window, bathed in eerie moonlight, was Trevor, knife in hand.

Carl and Katie started to rise up in a twitching, erratic fashion, their bodies jerking unnaturally as if animated by some unseen force. As they stood, their forms twisted and morphed, reshaping into the witch Patsy Crain and her son Gary Crain, sinister smiles spreading across their faces. They stood next to Trevor, a triumvirate of malice, their eyes beaming with a hunger that sent a wave of fear through Trisha.

Slowly, they crept toward her, a nightmarish procession of shadow and gore. Trisha squeezed her eyes shut, desperately trying to retreat into the sanctuary of her mind. She could feel their presence. As she fought to escape the horror unfolding before her, she remembered images of her childhood, those precious days when the world was a canvas of innocence and joy.

She could almost hear the distant laughter of her younger self ringing in her ears, the sound a sweet melody that danced through the air like sunlight filtering through leaves. There she was, running barefoot across the lush green grass of her backyard, the blades cool beneath her feet. Her father would be nearby, his laughter calming like the gentle tones of wind chimes in a summer breeze. In those moments, everything felt possible. The sky was a vivid blue, dotted with puffy white clouds that seemed to drift lazily, and the scent of freshly cut grass and the sweet aroma of blooming flowers. They would play games, building forts made of blankets and imagination. Those beautiful memories had always been her refuge. But now, as the shadows drew closer, she could feel the warmth of those memories slipping. The creeping figures—Patsy and Gary—were a dark contrast to the sunlit days of her youth, their smiles twisted, a mockery of the joy she once knew. Breathing deeply, she tried to hold onto the scent of summer, the sound of laughter, but the encroaching darkness was relentless, threatening to swallow her whole.

She opened her eyes, hoping to find warmth in the light of her memories, but the shadows were there. Panic surged within her, a tidal wave crashing against the fragile shore of her recollections. Yet, even as terror gripped her, she clung to the images of her father, his laughter like a lifeline, urging her to stand firm against the encroaching storm.

"Remember," he would say, his voice rich and warm, "no matter how dark it gets, you carry the light inside you." And in that moment of despair, Trisha felt the flicker of that light, a stubborn ember refusing to be extinguished, pushing back against the shadows that threatened to consume her.

But when she opened her eyes again, hoping to find the nightmare had dissipated, she was met with a horrific sight. Trevor was squatting in front of her, his face twisted into a mask of rage and madness. With a sudden, vicious motion, he plunged the knife into her flesh, over and over, each stab a brutal punctuation mark in the discord of her screams. Blood sprayed into the air like a morbid fountain, splattering the walls and ceiling, painting the room in shades of dark red.

Trevor’s mind reeled as he found himself standing in an abandoned house, the echoes of his friends’ last moments reverberating in his skull. He looked around, disoriented, confusion gripping him like a vice. Blood pooled around him, a macabre halo, and the bodies of Carl, Katie, and Trisha lay in a bloody mess on the floor, their faces frozen in expressions of horror.

He staggered back as he tried to piece together the fragments of what had just happened. The memories were shards of glass, sharp and dangerous, slipping through his fingers. Panic clawed at his throat, but then his gaze fell to the kitchen, where a large meat cleaver gleamed under the faint light. An instinct surged within him as he approached the cleaver, its weight oddly familiar in his trembling hand. The metal was cold, but it pulsed with a dark energy that flowed through his veins, calling to a part of him he couldn’t understand but instinctively recognized. As he gripped the handle, he could hear the whispers of the witch and her son, their laughter creeping through his mind, wrapping around his thoughts.

“Chop them up,” they seemed to hiss, their voices a sinister chorus. “Spread them on the tracks.”

The words echoed, reverberating through the air. He stared at the bodies sprawled before him, their once familiar faces now contorted and lifeless, memories of laughter and friendship warped into a nightmare.

The cleaver felt natural in his grasp, as if it had been forged from the very essence of his soul. It was an extension of himself, an instrument of a fate he could not escape. A twisted smile crept across his face.