8-Bit Horrors - Wraith

What gets left behind?

Mark trudged along the barely visible path, one eye on the dark clouds in the sky. What had started off as a pleasant day in the Scottish Highlands was taking a turn for the worse. The ominous clouds seemed to come together from out of nowhere, growing darker and lower by the minute.

Stopping for a break and a drink of water, Mark surveyed his map and tried to figure out his next move. A night in the most remote bothy in Scotland was his goal, but the weather was giving him pause. Sure, it had been a long drive to get here, but the bothy wasn’t going anywhere, so coming back another day was always an option.

By his estimation, he was more than halfway to the old bothy, which was still about an hour away by foot. He turned and looked back in the direction he had come, knowing that the warmth of his vehicle was a longer walk. He groaned, looking back and forth, trying to decide what to do. His body seemed to make the decision for him, as he once again set off in the direction of the old stone house.

The clouds grew darker still, threatening to burst open at any minute, dropping what would almost certainly be a deluge of biblical proportions. As a Scotsman, Mark was accustomed to wet weather, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be caught in it. The thought of arriving drenched to the bone spurred him on, and he quickened his pace, head down, keeping an eye out for holes or other dangerous spots hidden beneath the tall grass.

Even with the faster pace, Mark couldn’t outrun the weather. The rain came down in a torrent, the surrounding hills becoming little more than humped shadows looking like the body of Nessie herself emerging from the wilderness.

Mark flipped up the hood on his rain jacket and grabbed the straps of his backpack. Head down, he trudged on, the rain finding the tiniest gaps in his outerwear and streaming down his body. Just when he thought he might drown under the weight of the rain, the bothy came into sight, like a beacon calling him home.

Almost sprinting the final distance, Mark barged through the front door just as the first peals of thunder echoed through the valley. Ripping off the backpack, Mark leaned against the door and tried to catch his breath. As soon as he felt halfway normal, he removed his dripping outerwear and hung them on the hook by the door. The removal of layers led to shivering and a realization of just how cold it was inside the old stone bothy.

The interior had no electricity, so Mark flicked on the flashlight on his phone and shone it around the single room. The wooden shelves along the end wall held some cans of soup and other bits and pieces left behind by former visitors. Mark eyed a half-full bottle of whiskey that he promised himself to drink from as soon as the fire was lit.

An old wood stove served as the heat and cooker in the building, and Mark was delighted to see that there was ample wood and kindling in place to keep him warm overnight. He quickly got the fire going and then spread his sleeping bag on one of the cots and moved it closer to the stove. The heat quickly spread out, and when combined with the exertions of the day, Mark felt his eyelids begin to droop. The last thing he wanted was to fall asleep in the middle of the day and then be awake all night in the bothy. Mark didn’t believe in ghosts, but he also wasn’t keen on sitting in the dark in a place where people swore up and down was haunted.

He stood up and sauntered over to the shelves, jumping as the windows rattled under the weight of the howling wind, which wormed though every nook and cranny in a high-pitched whistle that sounded like screaming banshees.

“Fucking hell, man, get a grip,” Mark said aloud, while also avoiding eye contact with the uncovered windows. He grabbed the whiskey bottle and took a long tug, savoring the warmth of the amber liquid as it slipped down his throat.

Rap. Rap. Rap.

Mark spun around at what sounded like someone knocking on the front door. It wouldn’t have been a total surprise for other hikers to end up at the bothy, but given the weather and the time of year, it was still unlikely. “Hello,” he called out, berating himself for the tremor in his voice.

The sound came again, as though in response to his call. Taking another swig of the liquor, Mark charged to the door and threw it open, fists raised, ready for a fight. It was then that he noticed the old iron knocker on the door, the wind lifting it slightly and bringing it down on the wood. He felt like a fool, but the laugh that escaped him still felt forced.

Closing the door, Mark went back to the bottle and took another hit, the peaty liquid beginning to create a calming buzz in his head. As he gripped the bottle, contemplating another shot, he spied the guest book tucked away behind some cans on one of the shelves. He pulled it out and turned the pages, quickly scanning some of the entries. He soon noticed that the comments turned darker with each passing page.

A fun night spent with friends. Don’t believe all the haunted stuff. This place is cool.

Planned on staying a couple of nights, but we felt a little unsettled after night 1. Probably more to do with the lack of home comforts.

Did not sleep well at all. Sounded like someone was moving around outside all night. Probably just the wind.

I’d heard tales of the hanged man that haunts this place. Didn’t believe in that stuff until I spent a night here. I think he is still in this building.

I wasn’t alone last night. I should never have opened the door when I heard the knocking. The wraith joined me… I am no longer me.

The last entry struck a chord with Mark, but he assumed the person who wrote it hadn’t noticed the knocker and how the wind moved it. The moment the thought crossed his mind, the rapping started again, as though the elements had crept inside his head to pluck out those thoughts.

Taking a much longer hit of the whiskey, Mark turned to the door and yelled, “Why don’t you come in and join me for a drink?” The attempt at gallows humor quickly fell flat as the door swung slowly open. The wind came rushing in, the gusts licking at the fire, which caused shadows to dance across the stone walls.

Mouth hanging open, Mark followed the shadows, positive he saw a humanoid shape moving along the rear wall. He rushed across the room, stumbling as the alcohol coursed through his system, and slammed the door shut. He downed the last of the booze and headed for his sleeping bag, hoping the whiskey would pull him into a drunken slumber that would carry him through the night.

Turning to face the wall, Mark clenched his eyes tightly shut, mumbling to himself to try and block out the sound of the scuttling and scratching sounds moving around the bothy. An affirmed atheist, Mark cast his lack of belief out, praying to whatever God would listen to his prayers.

As the scratching sound drew nearer, Mark turned to face the oncoming threat and saw a pair of mice running across the floor, stopping to sniff and nibble at stray crumbs in their path. With a heavy sigh, he turned to lie on his back, trying to talk his heart back to its regular rhythm.

As he began to settle, Mark felt weariness take hold and sleep began to come. The sounds of the mice and the wind and the rain (but not the rapping knocker) began to fade into the distance, as though now coming from afar instead of in and around the bothy. He was, though, brought back from the brink of peaceful sleep by the feeling of being watched. His eyes shot open, but before he could scream, a withered hand covered his open mouth.

“Thank you for the invitation,” the thing standing above him whispered in a voice as coarse as shredded snakeskin.

Mark’s eyes went wide as he took in the being standing over him. Its face was gaunt and skeletal, the cheekbones hollowed out into endless pits of darkness. The eyes, jet black with flecks of orange, shone with malicious intent, the sharp teeth in its gaping maw proving that such intent was indeed possible. The creature wore a crown of thorns, while his neck bore the mark of what looked to be rope burns.

“What do you want from me?” Mark wanted to look away, but the thing gripped his jaw, forcing him to maintain eye contact.

The thing leaned in closer, the scent of damp earth spilling from its open mouth. Something wriggled inside that hole, but whether it was a tongue or some crawling insect was impossible to tell. “I’m hungry,” it said.

“I... I can make you something.”

The thing tilted its head and smiled, its eyes scanning the room. “I remember many meals here. A hearty broth, meaty stews that filled the belly for days on end. So many sweet memories, but alas, laddie, such meals no longer fill me.”

“Please don’t eat me,” Mark pleaded, hot tears spilling down his cheek.

“That won’t be necessary,” the thing chuckled. “All I need is a taste of your essence. A little of your spirit, as you partook of mine.” It gripped Mark’s jaw tighter still, forcing his mouth into a near perfect O. It then leaned down as though moving in for a kiss and began to inhale, its eyes rolling into the back of its head.

Mark woke with a scream, forgetting where he was for a moment before getting his bearings. He tried to remember the dream that had frightened him so, but nothing came to him. Mark gagged as the scent of damp earth hit his nostrils and then shivered at the cold air blowing in from the open door.

He rose on unsteady feet and felt compelled to open the guest book. He flipped to the next empty page, grabbed the pen and scribbled, “A deep, dark sleep in this place of haunted memories. I fear a part of me will be left behind when I leave.”