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Dread Diery: First Encounters
Dread Diery: First Encounters
Dread Diery: First Encounters
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Dread Diery: First Encounters

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Stephanie is a young girl with the sixth sense of interacting with the dead. But when the connections between the living world and the afterlife begin to bring forth the evil ghosts envious of life itself she must discover a way to cease the exploits of evil intent and regain her tortured soul from a curse that will, without mercy, overcome her completely. Set in the 70's, the trilogy Dread Diery: Narrations of the Afterlife commences within the monochromatic town of Shawstern surrounded by a notorious forest said to be the heart of ancient witchcraft rituals, possessions, spiritual and demonic haunts named after a tyrant that once ruled over the cursed grounds in the 16th century. With a mysterious diary found at her grandparents' old house in the attic, Stephanie narrates her encounters of dread, her escapes from her lifeless stalkers, and a malevolent spirit with a connection to her that stops at nothing to claim her of her life. Dark and poetic, grisly-detailed and terrifying, the beginning of the nightmare begins on First Encounters, though so far from the light of salvation one be lost from, for now. Or not.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherH. Xavier
Release dateNov 9, 2013
ISBN9781311077745
Dread Diery: First Encounters
Author

H. Xavier

Greetings to all the Smashwords readers and publishers, as well as the general audience outside of Smashwords that every day make the world more interesting and amazing with their countless stories depicted within books/e-books. I am a proficient writer of multiple genres and the original creator of the horror series "Dread Diery", a trilogy based upon the paranormal and the protagonist Stephanie's journey to save herself from the evil entities that haunt her daily as she struggles to mediate between who or what breathes the air of life and those that mimic in deceit. Please support the Dread Diery movement, the story, or anything involving mentioned series as it grows and expands to more readers that would be interested in accompanying Stephanie through her dire adventures amongst the dead. Lastly, enjoy the other genres I am capable of writing and publishing through Smashwords, both free or at a very affordable price. "Embrace your imagination and free it of limitations so that you may reach divine interventions sheathed from condemning damnation"- H. Xavier

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    Book preview

    Dread Diery - H. Xavier

    Dread Diary

    First Encounters

    A horror novel by

    H. Xavier

    Smashwords Edition

    Copyright 2013 by H. Xavier

    For more info: hex_effect@yahoo.com

    For H. Xavier’s online art gallery: hexeffect1.deviantart.com

    Visit the Dread Diery Facebook page at www.facebook.com/DreadDiery

    Book cover by H. Xavier

    Artworks by H. Xavier

    Edited by H. Xavier

    This book is a work of fiction. All characters, events, dialog, and situations in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

    All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of reprinted excerpts for the purpose of reviews.

    Table of Contents

    Narration: Prologue

    Narration: One

    Narration: Two

    Narration: Three

    Narration: Four

    Narration: Five

    Narration: Six

    Narration: Seven

    Narration: Eight

    Narration: Nine

    Narration: Ten

    Narration: Eleven

    Narration: Twelve

    Narration: Final

    FIRST ENCOUNTERS

    (SHAWSTERN TOWN)

    Narration: Prologue

    He will not stop following me; the Killer with the Revolver. He drags himself, almost as if he taunts me. He attempts to torment me as well, but I am not scared, not in the least. He approaches nearer, still dragging himself. He grins at me. His eyes glare at me with a revolting thirst to kill. He approaches nearer, he is almost close. With a raspy, muttering voice he calls my name: Stephanie. He reeks of dry blood and decomposing corpses. Perhaps the smell comes from the multiple victims he heartlessly murdered. I am trapped, I have nowhere to go. I ask him to stop, but it seems he does not care. Please stop, I don’t want to die, please don’t kill me. I was not scared before, but he nears, and I gasp in aghast in and out. My breathing hastens as my body shivers. The horrid smells gets stronger, it’s causing nausea. He aims his revolver at me, laughing wickedly and whispering my name repeatedly. There is no hope for me; I have tried to escape from this house from Hell! And he has been pursuing me to and from. A loud shot escapes from the revolver’s barrel and I shut my eyes. It is over. Suddenly a loud knock causes me to shoot my eyes open. The killer, he is gone. I slowly get up and stare at my surroundings, and it would seem he has vanished into thin air. Odd enough, the dark room is lightly illuminated by a nearby window with a ragged curtain that weaves around with the chilly wind that is entering from the outside. The wind, I can hear it. It’s so quiet in here, but I need to leave now, before the killer returns.

    The distant thoughts within my head commenced to wane away and I was again aware of the real world, departed from the sub-conscious trance of previous.

    I ambled down the long hallway, tad sluggish and inane, slowly recovering from what had just occurred.

    Foul, terrifying, ghost of evil, a man distinct of rage, hatred, stalked my every move with only his lust to murder.

    Murder me, inside this old house: his only care and determination.

    Creaks of the old, wooden floor echoed through the surroundings on every single step I made. I felt followed for some reason, and I could hear creaking downstairs too, I was not alone. I slowed down a bit to cautiously listen to whatever was mirroring my creaking downstairs, but it would not concede my curiosity of its mannerism and intent, nevertheless my hairs rising and sending goose bumps all over my body. A loud knock followed and I jolted, panting away breaths of dismay, heaved on lashing nervousness that trounced my nerves into a rattling urge of discomfort. I gathered up my courage to escape out of here, since it was either freedom or this constant nightmare pinning me down prisoner to its indulgent darkness, and reached the stairs hastily, deprived to shoot out of the dark house, running down towards the door, which without warning violently opened. The wind would welcome my departure to liberty so ever vicariously. Outside sure was chilly, the gusts of wind had picked up speed, the such forcing me to hold my black hair bangs and avoid them from intruding my view as I stormed toward the field that led to the local avenue. My bicycle was not too far from me, my transporter away from this area infested with the presence of the devilish ghost, the Killer with the Revolver, an entity drowning inside a bottomless sea of iniquity.

    The strong gusts carried out a faint whistling noise, accompanied by the rustling sounds of the trees thus a setting of dreadful propose, cliché setting of horror scenery. Far to my right my bicycle rested against a tree naked from leaves, a noteworthy reminder of the chilly autumn season young in its birth.

    Ahead of the bike and lonely tree lied the road, main two ways that led to and away from my home, the small and melancholy Shawstern Town, my thirteen years of life as a young girl and restless memories of tainted childhood memories with the lingering curse caste upon me: Divine interaction with the dead.

    Bare and without travelers were the seldom view of such road around the early mornings awaiting the rising sun and its rays of warmth across cold bitter winds, but disregard the notion of emptiness if I was referring to vehicles or pedestrians, as what stood at the road appeared to me as a specter staring through its lifeless form, frozen still and facing my direction. Perhaps staring at me, it did not move, remaining there as if it admired me from the distance it stood from, of course I was not flattered by its gawking and surely was not heading out until it decided to leave or disappear. I didn’t want to go through another scare. Long, dragging minutes passed by and it remained there, the persistent one it was without shame of showing it as it found an apparent permanent place to stalk me. I rebuffed to communicate with it, through pleas I begged for it to just wilt and surrender its patience and creepy behavior, psychotic sans the actuality that it was a simple spirit missing the mind of life, hollow-like emulation of its past existence.

    Waiting, I turned my head and stared at the harrowing house from where I fled; I would never return here for sure. A little more might to the heavy wind and I would not be surprised if that old thing stumbled into shambles, the worn wood cracked and feeble that simply leaning on it would send you plummeting to the ground. Maybe that’d be for the better, as I would cherish to bury the reminiscent of such as rubble. I turned my head back towards the avenue and, to my relief, the figure had vanished, to where was not cared, hopefully to never appear again.

    Its abandonment was cue for me to curry down the hill and to my bicycle to return back to town, east from where I was. A scream ceased my running momentarily and I turned around to see where it had come from, realizing that wasted seconds of prying could have meant a shrieking memoir inflicted within my psyche upon the grisly conclusion that the distracting scream had come from the madman once pursuing me inside that forgotten house.

    The Killer with the Revolver rushed down the hill and towards me, frenzied psycho pointing his gun barrel and grinning with nefarious fangs and black hollow eye-sockets. I had no choice but to run as fast as I can to my bicycle and take off before he caught me, or his deathly bullets. My black shoes made sprinting arduous on my feet and I regretted my fashion of gothic prissiness and allowing his unbelievable supernatural speed to hound me by just feet. A maniacal laugh escaped from him, very deep, very demonic, scream with an almost warbled voice, his sickening sight of dreary haunt and his yelps throbbing my ears like a sharp shriek of nightly black bats. I pushed vigorously to reach my bike and outrace him, and my wishes were pleasantly granted with persistence, my thin and weary feet madly pedaling away to save my life, cutting through the frost wind as my black dress flapped through its traveling norm, and within gradual seconds all that remained behind me were his wicked echoes of anger from his inability to nab me, the victim that escaped from his lifeless grasps, I was overwhelmed with relief. Alas, despite my success, till I had not reached the entrance of Shawstern I would not exhale in relief despite his figure no longer chasing after me.

    The nightmare now behind, across the norm the Sun began to rise from its slumber, and its expected rays of light gave the ambience a sense of peace, massaging of my nerves similar to a spoiled petted kitten in search of amorous affection.

    The once heavy wind subsided to a calm morning breeze, and the once dark world I felt trapped inside of earlier had disappeared. Morning faces of innumerable town-folk were more pleasurable than the previous dead one hated of everything that had to do with I.

    Living flesh and blood people walked about in the town, their daily routine of work or miscellaneous to do’s and I could breathe again this air I shared with them through my lungs that dissipated the former rush of desperate gasping, unearthing my poise to normal, distant from that afterlife realm swarmed of lost souls.

    Shawstern Town was my home though I was not fully proud of it; I could not have had more preferential options so accepting where I was raised was both reluctantly welcome and bitterly applauded at the same time.

    Though the seventies were among us, this day being September 3, 1972, an older-styled way of living was intact in Shawstern, Victorian-like and very much practiced by about the majority of the residents, seldom were the ones to keep up with the current trend and cultural shifts and the blending of both was in fact noticeable yet not widely accepted by the more old-fashioned elders who rebuffed the carefree and flashy apparel of bell bottoms and leisure suits as mere ignorant and lacking formality.

    Between the two I chose the dark and old Victorian outfits but would not ever shy away of wearing the up-to-date clothing but yet as years may pass and I mature, those deceased from their timeframe shall forever inhibit their last living appearance through the demesne of the living. Through the varied-wardrobe people of the early young morning I strolled by with the breeze majestically blowing against my skin, I lusted for a moment of serenading mood before heading home, an escapade of the mind before it dwindled in stress hence I re-routed toward the quieter streets of the town for long minutes.

    Much needed diversion nevertheless I commenced heading up the barely steep uphill to the lone house north of the town, my house, no next door neighbors, with just a large road surrounded by grass and two trees.

    Approaching home sweet home, I glimpsed at the widowed Ms. Chambers’ residence, a woman once a time remarkable, now an audacious emotional mess after her husband set himself on fire inside the car at their garage about a month ago. I was to pay the Chambers’ family a visit later tonight since an energy surge had been ominously present around her premises, and it was my curiosity penchant of greeting disdains that caused me to find myself entrapped within the grasps of spirits.

    Regardless, the anomaly was recognizable as someone I was friendly with because of one of my most cherished beauties of my entire life:

    Sherry.

    My precious child of light, rest in peace amidst your innocence, for I was to attempt to unravel a bit more of your demise with your scorched father in the evening.

    Weary body and legs, I hurried to rest myself before the encounter; answers to the tragedy needed to suffice.

    Narration: One

    I had arrived home; or my place of vague sleeping since I did not exactly feel cozy in it.

    My mother sat outside once on the front porch again, moving back and forth on her rocker chair with a face so solemnly sad it would make the stars of the night fall from their shimmery grace. She had been at that hobby for a week already, moping and inactive, and I was pretty much irrelevant whether I passed by her or even tried to speak to her, a figment ghost with powerless speech and presence. Her chair’s woody creaking brought back that horrid event I went through earlier, and continuing to stand watch of her melodrama was assured to open that depressing door I had closed upon escaping from the Killer with the Revolver, and so I continued to enter the house while murmuring my apathy towards her violin tunes of morbid. My dear mother, she did not even say hello to me for some time now. Neglectful actions can antagonize a person, but my heart be ripped to shreds more because it derived from the woman who carried me within her womb thirteen years ago. Pitied sentiments swayed, I headed to the kitchen and prepared myself a delightful tea of lime, my favorite, before heading to my room to sleep till the time I was to visit the Chambers’ home and meet with the energy that lingered around its vicinity, the dead spirit of Ms. Chambers’ husband, father of my Sherry.

    The steamy teapot rested atop the stove grill and I waited next to it with my arms crossed and rocking to and from with impatience since I needed to shut my eyes to regain composure and calm especially after that terrible escape from the evil Killer with the Revolver.

    Experiences like those were routine almost daily, and through all of them the primordial one still lounged itself across my thoughts to this very day as it was the first of them all; the beginning of the terror. Shawstern Town possesses a highly-active plethora of the paranormal and occurrences with spirits cannot be missed entirely, but moreover my run-ins the first one surprisingly did not occur here.

    Whilst the tea finished its preparation, I headed upstairs toward my room, where I would retrieve my most precious item, the one thing I longed and yearned for.

    It was where everything accounted of ghosts, my encounters and battles with them, either aiding or fleeing from terror; all past events were jotted down inside it, the aging pages of its characteristics.

    A diary, red in color of its cover exterior, but nonetheless beaten with withering years of its origin.

    My loving Dread Diary, inside the stories of my survivals against the paranormal, the first story of them all; the introduction of my heartache, memento of unrequited aghast:

    My grandparents’ 50th anniversary of my mother’s side, an evening where my family celebrated alongside the two, not too grand of a party since they were a bit too old for loud racket . Me, my mother, Amy my older sister, and last but not least but barely worth mentioning, my father were the only present there, beforehand the ceremony a few other kin briefly showed and delivered best wishes or presents but did not linger for much, mostly due to the strong loath of my father and anything that was related to him. The aged lovebirds were supposed to be sharing mutual joy, though neither did for tragic news had reached both a few days ago about their son’s, my Uncle Rich, death.

    Grandfather Clifford, Grandma Josephine, mourned deeply the passing, wrinkled faces of saddened note that caused pity.

    But even before such unfortunate fate my Uncle Rich was a drunken fool who constantly humiliated my grandparents, being a pitiful beggar and a family parasite, the unsuccessful one and polar opposite of his sister, my mother, who became a proud high-profile nurse. I would heartlessly say that he had deserved his death since his belittled caring concern for others reeked in foul, constant tears of my dearest grandmother because of his actions, rebuff of sympathy that trampled away with notoriety and bitter cold heart of winter.

    The silly man learned that the motto ‘Don’t drink and drive’ meant serious business and wished he had known that sooner before flying through the car’s windshield and falling down a bridge, his remains, literally, discovered around the accident scene, scattered bits of entrails, limbs and blood stains all around, or so the newspaper detailed.

    For the party, one last visitor had decided to come by and possibly spend time with my grandparents and through the window pane where I sat staring at the outside scenery I witnessed him.

    Weary were not my conscious sights nor was I imagining things, but where anxiety and dreadful fear would arrive that day with no relent it would have surely been beside this unwelcome guest.

    My eyes widened and my heart pounded as he dragged himself across the floor with his only intact arm, or the scarce bit that remained of it.

    In grisly detail, streaks of reddened blood stains smeared the floor, his adorning of gore, a rotting cadaver attempting to join the family, the one he had left behind due of careless indolence. I screamed upon seeing that revoltingness outside the window, frozen stiff and enough rattle of fright to get my family’s attention, especially my grandma Josephine who rushed quickly and unearth my woes.

    Blessed be her soul for every reminding memory, concerning of my well-being far more than anyone including my mother, ever so calm and pacified, but ever tormented by the wallowing memories of the monster that would refuse to leave this world even after his violent passing.

    Dragging, Uncle Rich’s mandible hung from his disfigured, mangled face, and from his torn, mutilated body chunks of rotting flesh hung by a thread.

    His eye-sockets only bore one, left eye, moving about independently in creepy behavior. His scalp was missing, and portions of his brain seemed to be missing as well, though I would had thought he in fact missed them regardless when he was alive. With all the movement his eye was doing one would think that it would not settle on one view, but I was wrong. He glanced at me, rather glared, and focused his haunting presence solely on me who apparently was the only in adverse dismay to be able to see him and all his mangled glory.

    I continued to scream in terror, I had never encountered anything like it and not anyone with the courage of a bold lion not be shaken up by this traumatic visage.

    My brute father, the violent crass, unannounced by my awareness, grappled my shoulders and yelled at me to not blurt out random screams since I was not cleansing a depictive judgment of other’s views of myself as a crazed case with spurts of unexpected screaming. Mother defended me in an almost started quarrel with him and inquired the motives of my unsuspecting outrage. I explicated everything knowing it would sound crazy to all of them, and in the end I was right; they thought I was indeed going insane. Sister Amy did not help in the least, calling me a ‘nut-job’ alas pouring the salt in the wound that were my nerves, but I ignored her and peeked back outside the window to see if Uncle Rich was still there to, hopefully, show them what was out there. If I saw it then I was pretty sure they could have too. But they did not see anything and I was just a wacky child imagining crawling dead spirits of family members drowning in the obsession of attention, something I made them believe was detrimentally poor.

    My uncle was gone but surely that brief commodity of tranquil gasps were nabbed from my breath, a tapping on the window next to the previous one I had witnessed horror caught my sights. He now was leaning against that window now. I gasped in shivering fear as my body violently trembled from the trauma I was being witness to, and he did not help with his scratching of the window glass with his right hand, his fingertip’s flesh peeled off, with some of the decaying meat still intact. He pressed his shredded face against the window, his jaw swinging side-to-side, and I saw in better detail his severe injuries as maggots feasted and some of his face’s skin fell, a few slowly sliding down the glass.

    My heart pounded, my mind was not strong enough to withstand the deathly panorama.

    Everyone around me was freaking out at my agonizing screams; they held fear and anxiety to the near-brink of lunatic welcome.

    Amy laughed at my theatre drama, as noted by her, but a brief scolding of grandmother Josephine firmly planted her discipline to respect and null her silliness, apparent less noteworthy than mines. My father, angered, pointed at the window and yelled that there was nothing out there and afterwards raised the window.

    The leaning cadaver grotesquely caressing the window glass amidst his muddled hands, tripped through the open window and landed inside the house floor, my turning point to lose it all mentally and officially head to the asylum under labeled insanity.

    My screaming only worsened and I attempted to take off running before trampling and landing on my backside as I watched

    Uncle Rich crawling towards me, whimpering and wheezing as he approached closer, nearly grabbing my ankle if it were not for my backwards leap to avoid his bony fingers. Dragging his body by using his right arm, since his left was missing, he slid through the floor as he attempted to get close to me. His eye, again staring at me, almost sticking outside his eye-socket, and the jaw that swung by his every movement finally gave way and fell off, thudding onto the floor. It was there when I uncontrollably screamed through wallowing tears and dashed away into the living room and into Grandpa Clifford’s arms. I sobbed and shook in between heavy exhales, pale and cold, a complete disaster. Grandpa inquired about the entire racket earlier, with Amy mocking my hysteria as her and the rest of my family entered the living room. I looked up and stared at my grandpa, though he did not return a stare of his own, he could not. He was blind, and boy what would I

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