Horror
The Eternal Packer
A Haunting Tale of Unending Terror and Relentless Pursuit
Living in a small, remote hamlet tucked between a meandering river and deep forests, Rose was often packing and relocating. She would show up at a new house, spend a few months, and then — mysteriously — begin the process once more. The residents murmured about her, creating stories of a restless spirit, a cursed life, and a continual fear that trailed her everywhere.
Rose’s most recent action landed her in the outskirts of town at a run-down Victorian property. Long deserted, the home was covered in a thick layer of ivy and shrouded by gnarled old trees. Its windows, cracked and opaque, presented only a distorted perspective of the outside world; its creaking floorboards and drafty halls seemed to sigh with a life of their own.
Rose sensed an uncomfortable presence on her first night sorting through her possessions. The air grew weighty, and her bones started to chill. She dismissed it as anxiety and weariness, but deep down she knew something was really wrong.
Days stretched into weeks, and the home started to show her secrets. Rose heard whispers at night — faint, incoherent murmurs emanating from the walls themselves. She would wake in the middle of the night to discover her things stacked back into boxes or changed. Always just out of sight, shadows moved on the margins of her view.
She came upon a dusty journal belonging to Margaret, who had lived in the house over a century ago, one evening while sorting through an old trunk in the attic. The notes described a constant anxiety, of being watched and pursued by a black figure, of an irresistible need to keep going never stopping, never relaxing.
Margaret’s last visit was a wild scrawl: “He is here. He follows me while I pack. I have nowhere to run from. I have to keep on shifting. Should I pause, he will pick me up.
Rose’s heart hammered as she saw how Margaret’s narrative matched her own experiences. Now all made sense: the drive to migrate, the sense of observation. She turned to find a shadowy figure standing at the edge of the attic after feeling a chilly breath on the rear of her neck. Its sunken, black eyes pointed into her soul.
Rose staggered backward terrified, clutching the diary to her chest. The man moved in closer, its shape sharpening. She shivered down her spine from this man, thin and ghostly with a twisted smile.
He said, “You cannot escape,” his voice like the rustle of dried leaves. Right now, you belong to me.
Rose ran from the attic while her mind flew. She had to keep on, leave. She felt, however, an invisible force dragging her back, packing her belongings, calling her to stay as she hurried through the house.
Days melted into nights, Rose’s existence became into an endless loop of packing and unpacking, of attempting to escape and then pulled back by the evil ghost haunting her. From a distance, the townspeople observed their voices become increasingly more quiet since they knew the truth: once the home had you, there was no way out.
Years went by and Rose became into a ghostly form, constantly packing and traveling from house to house, compelled by a curse she could never lift. And in the shadows, the black man observed, his twisted smile a continual reminder of her doom.
The Victorian home in the middle of the woodland stood calmly with dark, vacant windows. Inside, on a dusty table, a fresh diary lay open, the last entry penned in a shaking hand. He observes me while I pack. I have nowhere to run from. I have to keep on shifting. Should I pause, he will pick me up.
