The Black Kettle

by Cary
(Athens ALA)

Several years ago, some friends of mine used to ride through the country and explore old houses. We once decided to go look around a house that was known to be haunted. It lay secluded in an old pasture and was covered with wild rose bushes and trees.

After we got there, we crossed a barbed-wire fence and started walking through the trees. A feeling of dread passed through me when I saw it. It was like the house itself didn’t want us there. We cut away some of the briars and found that the door was not locked. It was very humid and even hotter in the house. We had to use cigarette lighters to see our way through.

Inside the living room were cardboard boxes, and an old table. One of my friends left us to go explore the kitchen. While we are looking in the front room, we heard a sound like footsteps. We listened again, and the footsteps were above us. Two of our party became frightened. I called to my friend to come and hear them.

We all were looking up at the ceiling when we heard the boards creak. It took a few steps, then silence. We began to slowly walk to the kitchen and we could hear it follow us directly overhead. We decided to walk in different directions. Every direction it followed. It stopped when we stopped.

We made our way to the kitchen along with our new friend. We could faintly make out a wood stove in the corner of the room. On top of the stove was a black cast-iron kettle. We lit our lights together to see if anything might be in there. In the bottom of the pot I could see a pile of papers. They were drawings of buildings. As I looked closer, I saw that they were churches. Not just any church, but local churches. I felt we had stumbled upon a dark ritual in progress. Once I said that, the footsteps began again. We decided to go. Outside I said a prayer and burned a little sage I had with me. We walked away with the hair stiff on our necks.

It watched us leave.



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