Ghost Story Winner

In the last issue, Autumn 2012, of The Globe, we ran a creative writing contest which was to complete a ghost story that had been started by high school student Evan Seitz. From the many submissions we received, we chose Lillian Harding’s. Her submission was visceral and dramatic. It drew us in and left a lasting impression. Lillian wins a $25 gift certificate at Williams & Sons Country Store in Stockbridge, MA, generously donated by the store’s owner, Teresa O’Brient. Thanks to all the other contributors and congratulations, Lillian!

An Ancient Altar
begun by Evan Seitz

Talons of rock scratch at the sky, drawing blood as the sun sets. The tortured screams of the wind tear through the twilight. In the east, flashes of lighting illuminate threatening storm clouds. The few twisted trees still clinging to this desolate peak writhe before the force of the gale. Shards of rock as sharp as scalpels cover the ground. Up ahead a block of stone rears from the land like an ancient altar dedicated to a cruel god. The stench of burnt ozone and sulfur fills the air.
Dismayed, I survey the peak. With night falling and the storm not far off, I have no choice but to make camp here. Hours of walking on this rocky trail have blistered my feet and worn me out. My head throbs with pain, and I feel feverish.

I should have been off this mountain an hour ago. I gaze around, looking for a sheltered place to pitch my tent. Camping on a mountain peak in a storm is dangerous, but more than that, this landscape seems to emanate malice and evil.

As the sun sinks beneath the horizon, I scramble to set up camp. The wind tears at my tent, snapping the guy lines. I snatch it back, but the poles are splintered and the rocks have torn the fabric. What can I do now?

Between one of the tallest spires and the altar stone, I find a cleft just large enough to hold me. I wrap myself in my wool blanket and the rain fly from my tent. My sore muscles groan as I settle into my makeshift sleeping place.

Story Continued by Lillian Harding

I sleep for a couple hours but wake as a bolt of lightning illuminates the black sky. The booming thunder that follows seems to shake the very rock itself. I huddle deeper into my blanket. Another lightning bolt courses straight towards my head. I pride myself on being very brave, but in that instant I am as terrified as a little child. I hear a deafening crack as the lightning hits the altar, barely missing me but burning some of my wet hair.

I remember from stories that lightning never strikes the same place twice. Knowing that, I shiver up to where the lightning hit the altar and curl up there. I think there is no way I can fall back asleep with this noise, but somehow I do.

As I lie shivering, I drift out of sleep, feeling that there is someone else here. I turn over, hoping this person can help me. My innocent hiking trip has turned into much more than I was prepared to deal with. I turn to either side, but see no one. Confused, I lie back down, but still sense a presence. I feel an ice cold breath on my neck, but it doesn’t seem human. It feels like death itself is whispering at my ear.

Then a thin, eerie voice echoes inside my head: “Get off my altar.”

I scramble to the edge of the stone in terror, and as I move the air seems to quiver. Images start to form where before there was nothing. I see people on their knees with heads bowed, priests in magnificent robes, and young boys wearing colorful clothing. The smell of burning incense fills the air. But there is something different about these people. Their faces are not real human faces. Their faces are skulls with thin layers of skin stretched over them. They are all chanting something I cannot clearly make out. I turn around to see the skeletal face of the high priest. He is holding a sharp dagger and his smile suggests that he wants nothing more than to stab me. The voice echoes again. “Get off my altar.”

I am almost too terrified to move, but I roll and fall down to the rocky ground. I cautiously walk between the chanting people trying to find a way out. I see they are all looking in one direction: the spot next to the altar and the terrifying priest. As I and the rest of the expectant people watch, a sleek black red cow is led out. Five giant men lift struggling cow onto their shoulders and place it forcefully on the altar. The chanting gets louder as the priest raises his jeweled dagger. He brings it down with so much force I think that he is going to cut the stone altar in half. The beautiful cow’s blood drips off the altar, pooling on the cold ground. The expectant people look up at the black night sky. Some of them are crying. The high priest looks up at the sky too, but he looks back down with no emotion on his face and makes a small shake of his head.
The same men who brought the cow now return, but this time they carry a young girl with flowing hair that twines around her. As the men restrain her, she screams and thrashes. The emotionless priest raises the dagger once more slashes it down with force. The woman’s screams stop and even more blood drips over the side of the stone. Again every person looks up at the sky. Confused, I gaze up at the sky not sure what I am supposed to see. The priest also stares up but he again shook his head and wipes his bloody dagger on his robe.

The men once again bring out an unlucky person. I want to look away but I am drawn to this horrific sight. This time the sacrifice is a child no more than eight years old. I try to scream, but no sound comes out of my mouth. I try to move my legs to prevent the murder, but they do not move. My body forces me to watch as the little boy is placed on the stone. He doesn’t even try to struggle, he only looks around the crowd as if searching for his mother. For the third time the priest raises his dagger. I mentally scream as the knife slashes the innocent boy’s chest. Everyone once more looks up at the sky. They are answered only by the raging thunder.

I am scared. Cold sweat drips down my face. I don’t even pay attention as the massive men drag me to the altar.

I finally process that I am lying face up on the altar surrounded in a swimming pool of blood. The smell of death is overwhelming. I try to move as the priest raises his dagger above his head. As he stays there for a second, lightning flashes around me and he is silhouetted against the sky. The dagger slashes down. My warm blood mixes with victims’.
If someone had climbed up the mountain just then and looked around at their surroundings, they would have seen my body stretched across that gray stone altar, surrounded by puddles of my own blood. My clouded eyes stare at the clear, storm-less sky.