Die Ungebetenen

CW: Physical violence, gore or abuse, Suicide or self harm, Mental health

I can still hear the laughter and the exhilaration in the voices of my children. They had been so excited for the journey before us, and the promise of a new life ahead. My wife, Mary, had shared their enthusiasm and her infectious giggle was like a sweet melody as we travelled.

It is now the year of our Lord 1721, and winter has come again. How I wish I had not had the naivety to bring my family to this godforsaken place. Perhaps then, we would surely still be a family.

My name is Jonathan Miller and I am a carpenter and joiner by trade. I brought my family across the ocean with the intention of starting afresh in the New World. The journey was arduous and fraught with danger in itself, but that journey now seems like child’s play in comparison to the long winter months in our settlement.

After we arrived, Mary and my dear sweet children, Martha and Stephen, were so happy to be here. We had land, we had food in abundance and the people we lived amongst were kind and courteous. I built us a fine home during those initial spring and summer months, with the help of our new friends and neighbours. We felt that we truly belonged here, and that we would flourish in the community. My skills were in demand and, I was earning more money than I ever had. Our house was one of love and joy, and we were thankful and pious.

Summer turned into autumn and the harvest was more than we could ever have expected. We toiled hard in the fields and shared the spoils. Our community pulled together as one; no one was to be left hungry, no matter their wealth or background. Life was perfect.

But then, autumn turned into winter. No one had warned us of the harshness of the winters and the damned cold that would come. It was a cold that we could never have imagined; a cold that chilled us to the very core. Soon, the snow followed like a rolling fog, enveloping all before it. The chill winds forged drifts higher than any man, ensuring that we could not leave, even if we had so desired. We thanked the Lord for his abundant harvest, for we were sure that without his providence, we would surely have perished.

We persevered, convinced that nothing on earth could be as treacherous as the accursed cold, but we were as innocent as tiny children, for what was to follow was a living hell.

The first year it came, we had no warning, no prophecy or omen. It came at night, under cover of cloud and lack of moonlight. It was only the cries of the unfortunate that alerted us to its presence. That was also the first time we heard its guttural howl. We were paralysed with fear as it moved beside our house, scratching the wooden panels. I held Mary and the children tightly as we whispered prayers of forgiveness.

At some unknown hour, the terror abated, and we fell into a restless sleep, clinging to each other for dear life.

When the daylight broke, the men gathered in the town centre, whispering tales of horror. There were those who told of disappearances and those who told of carnage. Not one man could say what it was, for those who had seen our assailant had not lived to tell the tale. We don’t know what it is; we can only surmise where it came from; we only know that it comes to feast.

Sometime later that day, I surveyed the damage to our building. The wooden panels had been torn to shreds as if made of linen. Whatever it was, we knew it must have the strength of many men, and this only fuelled our fear, knowing that it could easily tear a man apart.

Isaac the blacksmith offered to ride out and search for help, but it was futile. The weather had made the journey nigh on impossible. We are set in a valley, surrounded by steep, rugged mountains that had been deluged with snow. The cold was so deep that even the river had frozen over.

We thought that it had gone away after the first night as we prayed for our dead and those missing. We were sadly mistaken. It came again, bringing waves of slaughter and chaos as it took our wives, children, husbands and elders. It was indiscriminate and had no thoughts for mercy in its evil mind.

That first year, it took many. We had no place to hide, no protection, no weapons. My dear wife was one of the first to be taken. I can still hear her screams as it dragged her into the night. My face was spattered with her blood as I lay wounded, punctured by the beast and unable to move. Doctor Sidwell, God rest his soul, had saved me, but I only longed for death, my life torn apart as had been my flesh. Martha and Stephen gave me the will to continue, and we comforted each other as we grieved.

After three days of carnage, as suddenly as it had begun, it was gone. We gathered in the church to count those we had lost and those who were still clinging to existence. It was heartbreaking; over half of those we considered friends and neighbours had died. The majority of those who had perished had been taken to feed that Devil’s hunger. Some of the families were entirely lost, whilst others were rent asunder and left to mourn their dead.

Determined to be safe, we built ramparts, walls, and hiding places where we could secrete ourselves should it ever return. We worked day and night, even the poor children, save for the very young. We forged weapons as best we could and taught ourselves to fight, albeit at a rudimentary level.

Using the skills of my trade, I built a chamber beneath my floorboards that was hinged on the inside and could be bolted shut from within. It was invisible to those outside and large enough to secrete myself and the children whilst allowing a little comfort so that we could hide for long periods. Many wanted the same, and I had work to do in many houses.

Some built attics that could be shut from the interior. They replaced the staircases with ladders that could be drawn inside. I feared that this could lead to their being trapped and warned them against it, but my words fell on deaf ears. Some reinforced their cellars, but this did not leave an escape route either.

Others, so bent on the belief that God would spare them, refused to take precautions and sat with the priest in the heart of the church.

We posted a lookout in the bell tower and provided a telescope to survey the land. We took it in turn and watched carefully day and night for signs of movement outside our walls. The bells were to peal if there was any sight, to allow us to retreat to our hiding places and take evasive action.

This all seemed to be effective for a long time and we let ourselves believe we were free from its grasp. But, almost a year after it had first arrived, the beast returned.

As the bells rang, the people leapt from their beds and scurried to hide themselves. Women and children screamed as fear overcame them. The gates were closed and barred, and we were sure that we would be safe. We had worked so hard to keep ourselves from harm.

It took no longer than a minute for that vile thing to splinter the gates, its massive claws tearing through the wood like paper. Those who had sought solace in the mercy of our Lord were the first to succumb. It had no care for religion, no God to bear witness.

From within our hiding space, I could hear the cries of our neighbours, the Carlssons, as they were torn to shreds. Tearfully, I tried to block out those dreadful sounds and prayed silently that our lives would be spared from this torment. I prayed too that my friends would not suffer too greatly and a quick death would be their salvation.

The next night was the most fearful to date. I had only just finished douting the candles and was making my way towards the hideaway when the creature let forth its terrible cry. I froze in the dark of the house, and through a gap in the window shutters, I could see a black shape move swiftly and powerfully into the compound. Its red eyes shone as brightly as the fires of Hades, and it stopped momentarily as if sniffing the air.

Despite the smallness of the gap through which I viewed it, I was sure that it could sense my location, for it turned towards me, its massive frame accentuated in the light of the moon. I dropped the douter and ran to the children, locking the bolt behind me and quivering with fear.

We sat silently beneath the boards, and the children trembled as I held them close. No words were spoken, save for a whispered prayer. Without warning, Martha yelped as we heard the crash of our door caving in behind the force of the brute, and I held a hand over her mouth, for I knew that any sound could give away our position and condemn us.

Heavy footsteps pounded above our heads as the beast ransacked our home, destroying all that we had worked hard for to make it our own. When we were able to leave our hiding place, even a doll that my beloved Mary had sewn for Martha had been ripped to pieces.

With the help of those who still remained, hasty repairs to our door were made, but I feared they would not be strong enough, should our tormentor return. I begged that John Cooper, the farmer, and his wife, Greta, take charge of the children whilst I stayed alone in the house. They possessed an attic stronghold that I trusted more than my own.

It was on the third evening, whilst out in the fields tending to what little remained of the herd with John Cooper, that we heard their screams across the cold winter air. By the time we made it back, my children breathed no more. From the repulsive scene that greeted us, Greta had fought hard to save their souls but, alas, she too was taken.

Numbed by grief and functioning by memory alone, I had to bury the bodies of my offspring next to that of their mother. I resolved to be strong and to live on in their memory. John Cooper was not as resilient. We found him hanging in his own stairwell later that day.

For three nights, it had ransacked our dwellings, searching for flesh and blood to satiate its hellish lust. Some were given away by their cries; some had failed to secure their homes; some simply lost their minds and tried to run. They did not get far, for the creature was too quick and agile. The bloodstained snow at dawn revealed their last moments. The viscera gave nightmares to the smallest children. They had seen too much at such a young age.

Then, once more, the slaughter ceased, and we gathered to take stock and mourn those who had departed this life.

That was winter past, and now is my third year in the cursed valley. Many left last spring in order to find a new home, a safer home; the kind of home that we set out to create when we sailed the ocean for pastures new. I curse those who sold us a false dream. My wife and children would still be alive and well and full of untainted beauty if we had not believed their lies. Rot in hell, you bastards. I could not leave; my home is all I have now. I could not leave the graves of those that I love and will forever love. Once more, I have fortified my house to the best of my ability. All I can do is pray that it is enough.

The crop failed this year, and we were running low on supplies before the snow and ice. Those who are still surviving are weak and lethargic. My fingers are starting to blacken with frostbite, and I am losing their use. Isaac has recently passed from starvation, God rest him. Those among us who are superstitious have suggested that the beast intentionally destroyed the harvest in order to weaken us. That would imply that it is of a higher intelligence, and I know it is not of man. It is a vile and terrible abomination.

This very night it has returned to stalk us once again, and we have fled to our safe places. I can hear its terrifying howl as it hunts for prey, seeking its quarry in every nook and cranny. I lie in silence, alert for any sound, with only my fondest memories for comfort.

I hear a crash as it easily breaks through my heavy oak door. The fear wells inside me as I hear it move above my head. I pray to God that it will pass me by. It stops and sniffs the air. Can it sense my fear? I put a hand over my mouth to stifle a gasp. My fingers are crossed in hope. I can smell its sulphurous stench and the coppery odour of blood.

I wince as it drags a heavy claw across the wood, gouging the surface. Its heavy breath slows as it surveys the room. I shut my eyes, tears welling as I screw them tight. I’ve childishly convinced myself that if I can’t see it, then it can’t see me.

Its steps strain the floorboards as I lay prone and still. It makes a sudden move and goes into a gallop, and I shudder. I exhale hard and feel relief, longing to hear the screams of others, knowing that it won’t be me. What have I become? These are my friends.

I think of those that I have lost, and it sickens my soul and breaks my heart. I sob uncontrollably as I hear Mary and the children laughing within my head and see their faces in the quiet of the dark. God has forsaken me.

The air moves on my face as if a warm breeze has passed. Looking through the cracks in the floorboards, I see a ball of fire. I am confused; what is this? I hear the clawing at the boards, the splintering and its rage. That is no fire; that is an eye. I have betrayed myself to the beast.