Ethereal Chronicles

Fifteen long years had passed since the incident, but it wasn’t until now that I had decided to speak out about it.

“Would you like to tell me what happened?” The reporter’s gaze was hungry, predatory. To him, this was just another story. A fresh source of income.

I let out a long sigh.

“My parents were going through a rough patch when we moved. Perhaps they thought that a change in scenery, some time away in the country, might do us all some good.

I was eight years old at the time. Despite being fresh faced, lost in the innocence of childhood, I felt a heavy sense of suspicion settle in my chest. Maybe it was intuition. Or maybe it was the oppressive darkness that seemed to cling to the house, something that only my childlike eyes could see. The same eyes that saw the figures in the windows, shadows that my parents dismissed as nothing more than tricks of the light, the product of an overactive imagination.

The hauntings did not wait for us to settle in. That first night was suffocating, stifling in the sweltering heat of the summer and the oppressive energy of the house. I awoke in the dead of night, when the darkness was at its thickest, noticing something standing at the foot of my bed. At first, I thought that it might be a dream. After all, who could possibly believe that a 7 ft long creature would be there in the first place?

Yes – 7ft. It stood there like a beast, its appearance far beyond anything human. Its hair was unnaturally thick, spilling from its head to drape its shoulders and drag across the floor. Its eyes, large and saucer-like, glittered in the darkness. And as it stared, a cruel, red smile stretched across its face, twisting with malice. There was no hint of humanity in its paper white skin.

I shot upright, rubbing the sleep from my eyes in an attempt to make the creature vanish. How dearly I wished for it to be as my parents insisted; a figment of my imagination. But my terror seemed to anger it, for the moment I moved it jolted with a screech, tearing the covers from my body to crawl across the bed. When it reached my face, it let out an ear piercing wail, its mouth stretching wider and wider until a gaping black hole stared at me, spewing the rancid stench of rot.

I screamed with it, certain of imminent death, and my parents rushed into the room. The instant they stepped inside, the creature vanished, and a mouse scuttled away in their presence.

My mother came to my side, shaking me urgently, her hands trembling as she tried to shake me from my frozen state. I could not speak, so I simply left the tears to stream down my face, my body numb with terror. Shaken, my parents carried me to their room, where I slept soundly for the rest of the night.

The darkness of that evening seemed to dissipate with dawn, and I wondered if it might have been a dream. The creaks of the house, once unsettling, felt strangely comforting in the light of the sun, and I think that had it remained that way, I might have grown to love it there.

But the following night, the Boggart came again.

I woke again in the dark, drenched in discomfort, my body rigid with fear. Tormented by the thought of what I had seen before, I cautiously peered over the covers, scanning the spot at the foot of my bed where the thing had stood. To my relief, there was nothing.

But the moment reprieve flooded my body, a cold breeze brushed the back of my neck, and the familiar hideous stench filled my nostrils. I felt my body shudder, and tears welled up as I slowly turned.

The creature lay next to me in the bed, locking onto my eyes with the same black saucers, the same unsettling grin. It breathed in shallow, ragged gasps, its damp hand reaching out to push against my mouth. As I struggled to scream, it pushed down harder, the weight pressing into me as it once more screeched into my face.

After a few moments, my parents burst into the room, and the Boggart disappeared. A mouse scuttled away in their presence.

My father picked me up, carried me to their bedroom, and I slept soundly.

The following night, I could not bring myself to sleep in my room. Instead, I nestled between my parents, melting in the safety of their embrace. The three of us drifted off quickly, but peace was broken when a horrible sound ripped through the night, coming from the barn.

Awful moans and screams of terror rang in the air. The cows were restless. Without a word, the three of us got up and made our way towards the source of the sound.

By the time we reached the barn, the doors hung ajar, swaying gently in the night breeze. My mother peered inside, and then staggered back, her face drained of colour as she heaved, vomiting onto the grass beside her. Beyond the door, all six cows were sprawled across the floor, their bodies mangled and torn apart. One, barely alive, lifted its head weakly as we approached, its ribs exposed and glistening.

There, in the middle of the bloody mess, stood the Boggart. It smiled as my blood ran cold, tilting its head slowly towards me, then to my mother, and lastly to my father. I screamed as I tried to pull them away, insisting tearfully that they were next, that the Boggart had chosen them.”

I paused, leaning back to light a cigarette. The reporter’s eyes flickered to the match, then back to me, his mouth hanging slightly open. He closed it quickly, swallowing hard.

“So…what happened to your parents?”

“They didn’t listen to me.” I said, my voice quiet, steady despite the weight of the words. “Who would believe a hysterical child? No, they dismissed it as my imagination, insisted that I had seen something so horrific my mind was playing tricks on me. They were killed the following night. And I fled.”

“And this…Boggart. Did you ever rid yourself of it?”

I smiled bitterly, inhaling deeply from my cigarette. “That’s the thing about Boggarts. Once they latch onto you, they rarely leave. My Boggart still exists. It is a part of me now, an aspect of life that I’ve grown to accept. I see it sometimes, though it no longer has power over me. I’m not afraid, and as long as I remain that way, no more harm can come to me, nor to anyone I love.”

Boggarts are malevolent spirits rooted in English folklore, known for their sinister attachment to households. Often cruel and vengeful, they infiltrate homes, leaving behind a trail of chaos and terror. These spirits thrive on fear; some may torment their victims by moving objects, slamming doors, or making unsettling noises in the dead of night. Others, darker in nature, may drag people from their beds, scratching and biting, even possessing the living. No home is safe once a Boggart has claimed it, for its presence is a curse, following those inflicted everywhere they go.