Chapter 6 – The Boy’s Story

Old documents and dusty volumes were arranged in front of Pastor John as he sat at the surface in his little, disorganized study. The chamber was bathed in a gloomy, suffocating light as storm clouds had clouded the sky outside. Long, shaky shadows were produced on the walls by the flickering light of a solitary lamp. It was days since he had slept.

His quest for answers had led him farther into the town's past than anyone wanted to recall. Elderly folks he had spoken to know bits of the narrative but were too scared to share it directly. Every discussion was like removing a layer of rot to expose even more deterioration underneath.

Slowly, painfully, the pieces of the boy's story started to fit together. The guilt on his shoulders increased with each detail. This was no mere ghost. It was a child's spirit warped by unbearable pain, treachery, and hatred. Additionally, the Collins family were merely the most recent victim in a long series.

He flipped up a fragile, yellowed newspaper clipping—a few-line, fading obituary: William Harland died at home at the age of four. No other family members made it out alive. Private funeral ceremonies were conducted. The true story was not mentioned. Nobody wished to recall.

However, John had told enough people about the truth, and it was worse than anything else.

William was born into the wrong kind of family by his parents, the Harlands, who had been a young couple. Margaret Harland, the mother, had a reputation for being careless and unfaithful in the community. Her husband, James, soon learned of the rumors circulating about her numerous partners. James gathered his belongings and fled their house one evening after he saw her with another man.

He abandoned everything, even his son.

William was only four years old when James left through that door. He only knew that one day his father was there and the next he was gone, and he was too little to comprehend why he was going. However, Margaret, who was drowning in hate and bitterness, understood just why her life had collapsed.

Margaret's animosity toward her son intensified like a sickness. William was the only person she had left to strike out at, so she held him responsible for everything. She referred to him as a "cursed child," claiming that he had destroyed her life from the day of his birth. She would smirk as she pushed him away or grabbed his food from him, saying, "You were never supposed to be here."

She treated William more like a servant than a son, making him cook and clean the house for her partners. William would be beaten until he bled by the men she brought home while they were intoxicated. Margaret didn't stop them. She occasionally joined in.

At night, when the men had gone, Margaret would pull William down to the basement, where the floor smelled like mildew and old filth, and the chilly stone walls were wet with mold. She told him he belonged on the wall and kept him chained there like an animal.

As she tightened the chains around his wrists, she growled, "You were born cursed." "You will never achieve anything positive."

William made an effort to cry, but eventually the tears dried up. He discovered that sobbing just made the situation worse. It simply intensified their blows.

The chain markings deepened on his wrists each night. His physique grew weaker each night. And his mother pulled him back upstairs to begin the ritual anew each morning.

William ultimately given up hope one of those nights in the basement. As a youngster, he was too young to comprehend why his mother detested him, and his body was too small to endure the abuse.

Particularly cruel was the last man Margaret brought home. He pounded William until the boy's little ribs cracked under his hands and he was scarcely able to move. When the man eventually got bored, Margaret pulled William back into the basement and threw him like a piece of trash onto the chilly floor.

Her voice was a piercing whisper in the darkness as she crouched next to him. She said to him, "You destroyed my life." "You ought not to have been born."

William lay amid the dark, breathing raggedly and shallowly. His wrists were bleeding where the shackles had scraped raw, his flesh was ripped and bruised, and his tiny body was shattered. He was aware of his impending death. He sensed a chill creeping through his bones and circulating through him. Even in those final minutes, however, his mother showed no concern. There, shackled in the dark, she abandoned him. She didn't even bid farewell.

Then, in his last hours, William vowed to do something.

His voice was weak and frail, but it was full of anger beyond his years as he mumbled it into the darkness.

"I'll cause them pain," he said. All families. All mothers. I'll destroy them, just as she destroyed me.

He cursed the house and the ground with his final breath, tying his spirit to it with his animosity. He would never go. Not until, as he had killed his own family, he had ruined every family that came into the house.

The curse on Greystone House began when William passed away. His soul did not die; instead, it stayed bound to the land and the basement, awaiting the arrival of the next family. His spirit eventually become warped and evil, driven solely by anger and a thirst for vengeance.

As the full impact of the boy's story descended upon him, Pastor John sat in his study with his head in his hands. Almost too well, the parts fit together. He had failed to save the previous family because of this. He was unaware of the extent of the spirit's hostility and how it began by attacking the children in order to use them as a means of internally destroying the family.

Eva was the spirit's next pawn after David. The curse would repeat itself if they did not take immediate action.

John stared at the black window while leaning back in his chair. The rain started to fall outside, tapping gently against the glass like a child's bored drumming fingers.

In his thoughts, he heard the youngster say, "I'll tear them apart... just like she tore me apart."

John closed his eyes, shame weighing heavily on his heart. He couldn't afford to fail this time.