“Quiet,” they bark at the boy chained to the corner of the room.

His face dawns blood, dried upon his cheeks, welled from his recently emptied eye sockets.

“Momma,” he cries.

“I said quiet, boy,” they demand once more.

“You don’t want me to kill her, do you?” they threaten, hovering a peculiar knife over a corpse.

Their hinged blade punctures through the vessel’s torso, the blood collects along the edges of the observation table trickling down into two separate oak barrels. Wax melts onto the cold concrete floor as candles dimly illuminate arcane symbols hastily scribbled on the cracked stone walls. Poorly secured shelves present mason jars like trophies containing a variety of liquids and herbs preserving indistinguishable monstrosities. Thin twine hangs severed fingers over the boy’s head accompanied by chimes made with empty bottles filled with teeth like some sort of nightmarish crib mobile. A gust rushes through the corroded steel barred cellar window. The witch is still, they place the blade aside admiring the crescent moon’s pleasant shift from a calming cool blue to a warm orange hue. Revealing themselves from the darkness, their flesh is torn almost down to the bone, their face is mostly burned making their jaw the only distinguishable feature, and their figure is as fragile as the crystal glassware scattered amongst the cellar tabletops.

“It’s time,” they say.

The witch gathers a candle, their spellbook, and a copper goblet reforged by thirteen generations of blacksmiths belonging to the Paladins of Criafar. Placing the candle in front of the boy, they kneel lighting it ceremoniously. The boy quivers, whimpering before the presence of the witch who mockingly smirks at him turning through their spellbook with intent, and pleasure, to harm him.

“Please,” the boy starts.

“I just want to see momma,” he pleads.

“Don’t worry,” they scoff.

“You will,” the witch whispers into his ear.

Rising, they grasp the goblet with purpose, presenting its copper casing towards the moonlight revealing a hidden text that glows a similar orange tinge. The text is illegible however symbols throughout match those drafted amongst the walls. The witch submerges the goblet in one of the oak barrels, filling its contents with blood. The blood bubbles for a moment, further highlighting the goblet’s engravings. The witch indulges themselves by inhaling the steam as if it’s a warm cup of cider on a gloomy fall afternoon. The bubbles settle and the glow fades as the witch again approaches the boy. The boy continues to whine as the witch begins to gently caress his cheek.

“Shhh….there, there, boy,” the witch consoles him.

“Where’s momma? Is she alright?” he stammers.

“Momma’s resting, dear,” the witch answers glancing over at the corpse on the table.

“Momma, momma please,” he continues.

As the boy continues to call out, the witch forcibly tightens their grip on his jaw. Mouth agape, he pulls against the steel restraints, pleading for freedom. The witch ignores his requests, raises the goblet to his lips and looks towards the moon.

“Under the moon, that’s been set ablaze. Over the boy, with a stolen gaze. Consume the blood of this bastard’s creator, for life will be restored near death, but no later,” they read aloud.

The witch pours the boys’ mothers blood into his mouth, he quickly begins to choke on its thick consistency. Coughing up blood onto himself, the witch tosses the goblet aside and proceeds to close the boy’s mouth and clasp his nostrils shut.

“Swallow it boy,” the witch commands.

“Don’t you want to see momma?” they ridicule as the boy’s limbs writhe within the shackles.

Unwillingly, the boy swallows his mother’s blood. The witch holds him a bit longer enjoying his struggle, eventually tossing him back to the corner. On his hands and knees, the boy gasps for air in between dry heaves. The witch waits, staring attentively. Suddenly, the boy releases an otherworldly screech, stretching his limbs as far as the restraints will allow. He collapses. The witch draws nearer, optimistic. Immobile, the boy’s body lays lifeless on the cellar floor amongst a puddle of his blood and urine.

Anxiety overcomes the witch as they straddle the boy’s corpse. Eyeing the window, the moon begins to slowly return to its original temperate blue color. Rushing towards their spellbook, the witch begins to doubt themselves frantically sifting through the pages, carefully reviewing the ritual once more. Shackles begin to rustle behind them, relieved they grin turning towards the boy who gradually awakes. Stretching his arms out, he rubs his eyes, immediately realizing his vision has been restored and his wounds have been healed.

“It worked!” the witch exclaims.

Now aware of his surroundings, the boy’s quick session of relief swiftly shifts to panic as he witnesses his mother’s body sliced open on the table presenting her organs to the nauseating, musty cellar room.

“Momma,” he shrieks.

“Momma, wake up. Momma, please,” his cries fade as he’s brought to his knees in exhaustion.

The witch makes haste as the moons shift is imminent. Retrieving the tossed goblet, they submerge its now empty basin into the other oak barrel presenting it to the night sky. The boy sobs as the witch knocks back a glass of his genealogy. After the final drop passes down their esophagus, the witch drops to their knees, raising their arms to the stars, presenting their whole being to the changing night sky.

“Yes, yes, yes,” the witch moans as pain passes through their body.

The boy watches in terror and confusion as the witch’s empty flesh pockets fill with white skin that shines against the stars, lushes dark brown locks flow from their once rotting scalp, and their eyes become once more, filled with life. As if a pig is being massacred, the witch expels a hellacious screech. The boy covers his ears before the witch eventually collapses and begins to convulse.

Reaching for the candle still lit in front of him, the boy leans in for a closer look as the witch’s convulsing starts to seize. The boy’s panicked breathing gently pushes against the candle’s flame. Their body is still as the crickets accompany the winds whispering through the chimes above his head. Suddenly, the witch awakes forcefully grabbing the boy by his throat, then pleasurably inhales through their restored anatomy as the boy begins to gasp desperately.

“Mmm, you have your mothers eyes,” the witch mocks, tightening their grip.

Hot wax drips between the boys loose grip of the candle. Singing the edge of his palms, he releases the open flame onto the witches tattered robes; it ignites. Unaware they’ve been set ablaze, the witch cackles as their fingernails dig into the boy’s skin. His blood runs down their hands, his eyes wide; they kiss the boy on his forehead tossing his defeated corpse back into the dark corner of the cellar.

The witch turns towards their spellbook salaciously licking the boy’s blood from their fingers. Kicking another lit candle over, the flames begin to travel up their robes quickly disintegrating the worn fabrics. Sprinting towards the well, the witch leans over the cobblestone casing, pulling the rope to retrieve the bucket from below. The witch is able to douse themselves as infernos consume the tapestry, the bodies, eventually reaching potion vials filled with flammable contents. The witch turns and makes haste for their spellbook however the flames envelop any viable path. Escaping with their life, the witch hastily makes their way up the cellar stairs. Smoke rises to the night sky while ashes scatter amongst the desolate woods. 

First light approaches, as hikers come across the warm embers and debri.

“Look,” one says sifting through the ashes.

“What is that?” the other questions as they uncover a textbook.

The spellbook and copper goblet present themselves…unharmed.

Cover Art: Joy Marino (@joymarinoclicks)

© John Marrows Some Rights Reserved

Consider helping me deliver more content: https://www.patreon.com/imarrowsj

Opened in 1978 on 315 Travis, Treebeards lives within the Baker Travis building, which is the second oldest building in Houston, Texas. Although the reviews mentioned great food and a lively bar atmosphere, reports of cold spots and a bean cooks description of a full body apparition are what caught my teams eye. Making it a perfect lunch stop on my travels through Houston.

The bean cook describes what could’ve been Mr. Danowitz, an elderly tailor that shared the building with Treebeards when it first opened its doors in 1978. Within a building that’s been standing since the 1870s, Treebeards may be hosting more than just customers at their southern cooking cafe.

Consider helping me deliver more content: https://www.patreon.com/imarrowsj

Entrance

Gator

Staircase

Above Art

Upstairs Bar

Barkeep

© John Marrows All Rights Reserved

Constructed in 1926, the Julia Ideson Building located at 500 McKinney stands across from downtowns Main Branch Library in Houston, Texas. Although checking out a book would regularly be on my itinerary while visiting the library, rumors of a past caretaker and his dog’s spirit roaming the grounds are what sparked my team and I’s interest.

Caretaker Jacob Frank Cramer and his German Shephard companion Petey, have been said to be seen roaming the library grounds during their nightly rounds. Sounds of Peteys nails clicking across the tile floor has been enough to keep some believers away from this historical Texas building.

“Unfortunately, we cannot confirm that HPL has a resident ghost – even though we joined Houston Chronicle staff last year in a ghost-hunting exercise. We trekked the halls of the Julia Ideson Building into the wee hours of the night, searching for any sign of Mr. Cramer or Petey. Sadly, we didn’t turn up a single note, click or flash of light. But the legend continues.” – Sandra Fernandez, HPL public relations manager.

Consider helping me deliver more content: https://www.patreon.com/imarrowsj

Main Entrance

Side View

Side Door

Front Sign

Texas Historical Mark

© John Marrows All Rights Reserved

The Hewitt House in Granger, Texas. As seen on Texas Chainsaw Massacre (2003). Originally standing on the current grounds of the University of Texas, this architectural piece of horror film history moved to Granger, Texas in the 1930s. Current residents assure visitors and fans of the films that no one was murdered at this house. No Trespassing signs are posted around the gated entrance with a flyer stating they “do not offer tours, nor can you come closer to take photos”, but encourages guests to take photos from the road.

NOTE: “This is a working farm and people do live here.” If you’re a fan of the films and are planning a visit, please be respectful of the grounds and the family that lives there.

Consider helping me deliver more content: https://www.patreon.com/imarrowsj

IMG_3002.JPG

IMG_3000

IMG_3003

IMG_3009

IMG_3012

© John Marrows Some Rights Reserved

Meet My Ghost is “a podcast of short ghost stories where you’ll hear a collection of quick but spooky encounters. Because a ghost story doesn’t have to be long, to be creepy. I’ll bring you eerie tales recounted by those who experienced them. And maybe some freaky fictional creeps now and then too…”

-Sandy Tufts

Creator and Narrator of Meet My Ghost

Be sure to give Meet My Ghost a listen on Apple Podcasts and all other podcast platforms!

Follow Meet My Ghost on Instagram and Twitter: @meetmyghost

Have your own story? Head over to MeetMyGhost.com to submit!

Around the age of seventeen, I spent the majority of my time with my two best friends Haley and Stan, who also happened to be a couple. We spent many weekends at Stan’s grandfathers’ house chatting about obscure slam bands and how “untraditional” our home life was. One early evening, while Haley and I were chain smoking our poorly rolled cigarettes on the porch, we couldn’t help but overhear Stan arguing with his mother on the phone. Stan’s grandfather is going away for the weekend and he’s supposed to watch his German Shepard, Bear. AKA, we’re all going to drink beers in the basement playing video games and listening to metal music. Of course, Stan’s mother being the manipulative drug addict that she is, attempts to guilt trip Stan into coming home. She was rambling about his dad being drunk again and taking the truck somewhere, but knowing Stan’s father, he probably didn’t make it very far. Broken teenagers from broken homes. Labeled by society as outcasts, losers, deadbeats, I’m sure you understand what I mean. “The spawns of white trash”, I remember our teachers would say referring to our tight-knit clique. Haley and I always thought that White Trash Spawn would make a perfect band name. Stan always voted for more brutal names like “Trailer Park Carcasses” or “Orphanage for Dumpster Fetus”. Who am I kidding? A band wasn’t really in our wheelhouse, but a kid could dream.

“Just make sure Bear gets fed while I’m gone,” Stan’s grandfather said passing us on the porch shaking his head in disappointment.

“We will,” I abruptly replied as my cigarette singed the ends of my fingertips.

Haley laughed under her breath as I shook out my hand. Bear began aggressively barking by the front door as Stan’s grandfather pulls out of the driveway.

“Shut up!” we heard Stan shout at Bear joining us for a smoke.

“You bailing on us tonight, or what?” Haley mockingly asked Stan.

Cracking open a fresh can of beer, he rolled his eyes before chugging its contents.

After a few more cigarettes, a walk to the gas station, and pellet gunshots at some bottles, we made our way inside. Grabbing some snacks and collecting a few more beers, I remember rushing to the basement hoping to grab the game controller before Stan. Stan wasn’t very open about his feelings and either secluded himself from everyone or lashed out with spouts of aggression when uneasy topics arose. Looking back, I feel our friendship only worked because of our obvious sense of wanting in a society that continued to shut us out. Throwing on some tunes in the background, Haley and Stan began to get amorous next to me on the couch. As the music played, Stan’s hands ran up Haley’s legs gently tugging at her already torn fishnets. Uncomfortable, and a little more inebriated than I thought, I paused the game standing to my feet. Stumbling over a few empty bottles, Stan and Haley laughed as I attempted to find my way to the stairs. Grasping the railing on the way up, I eyed the door at the top of the stairs hoping my balance wouldn’t betray me. This was probably the first time I’ve felt the full effect of being drunk without blacking out. Ascending the towering flight of poorly crafted steps, Bear woefully greeted me at the door whimpering as he followed me closely into the kitchen. Opening the fridge door, I shuddered from the brightness of the lights as Bear continued to whine behind me.

“There’s no food in here for you Bear,” I said petting his head.

“Stanley,” an elderly voice called out from the living room.

Immediately closing the fridge door, I glanced towards the dark living room. The television was on, but nothing was playing. Just an annoying low hum as the empty black screen dimly lit the living area. Bear continued to whine lying on the kitchen floor. Shaking my head, I quickly open the fridge once more grabbing as many beers as I could hold shuffling back to the top of the basement steps.

“Stanley, Stanley is that you?” the elderly voice called out from the darkness.

“No, sorry. Not Stan…just a friend,” I nervously answered back.

“Oh, that’s alright. Could I bother you for a cup of tea?” they requested.

“Ummm…sure,” I answered, gently placing my beers on the floor.

Fumbling through an old packaging of tea leaves I somehow managed to prepare a proper cup.

“Three sugars,” they humbly requested from across the room.

Carefully making my way towards the living room, Bear stayed in the kitchen continuing to moan. Placing the tea on a television tray, an aging woman, frail and fading, reached her hand out to mine.

“Thank you,” she graciously stated.

“No problem…anything else you need?” I stammered.

She pulled me in closer and whispered into my ear.

Still intoxicated, and a bit confused, I carefully descended back down into the basement. Stan and Haley playfully wrested upon the couch as I found my seat.

“You get lost up there?” Stan kids with a spirited jab to my abdomen.

“Your grandma’s upstairs in the living room, she asked me to make her some tea,” I explained.

“What?” Stan angrily replied.

“She’s sitting in front of the TV, why didn’t you tell us she was going to be here?” I asked.

Stan’s stunned silence frightened me. I didn’t know what he was thinking or how he might react.

“His grandma’s been dead for a couple of years,” Haley adds.

“No, I just saw her,” I said.

“C’mon you guys, stop messing with me,” I anxiously smiled, hoping they were messing around.

“Did she say anything?” Stan sharply questions.

“Uhhh…” I mumbled as Stan violently towered over me.

“What? What did she say!?,” Stan belligerently eggs me on.

“She said…just tell Stanley I say hello,”.

© John Marrows Some Rights Reserved