He Called Me Beautiful

?Come closer. Just a bit closer,? came a whisper from the grave. I hesitated. Graves weren?t supposed to talk?were they?
?You are a beautiful girl. As beautiful as a morning glory. Did you know that??
Six-year-old me had some self-esteem issues. I had unkempt, mousy brown hair, wore glasses, and had a foster mother who did nothing to stop the verbal abuse that my brother heaped on me daily. Nobody had ever told me I was beautiful, or even said so much as a kind word.
The headstone was tiny and unembellished, and likely posed a tripping hazard to the homeless people who slept in the graveyard at night. Its epitaph was simple:
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1636
TIMOTHY
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Still a bit unsure but enchanted nonetheless by the soothing male voice that seemed to tickle the inside of my skull, I stepped closer.
?What is your name, my lovely girl??
I glanced around, suddenly self-conscious, even at my young age, about talking to a rock. My classmates and our group?s chaperone were all gathered around one of the table-top tombs of some Harvard professor, taking an illegal rubbing of the inscription.
?Jacinta.? I whispered back.
?A lovely name for a lovely girl.?
A blush crept across my already cold-reddened cheeks.
?My name is Timothy.? He continued.
?Okay.? I said in awkward kid-fashion, not knowing how else to respond. I didn?t have any friends, and my social skills suffered as a result.
?I like speaking to you, Jacinta. I have not spoken to anyone in a very long time. I have sweets if you would like some, but you will have to come just a little bit closer...?
I?d never heard the word ?sweets? before, but I knew that ?sweet? meant sugar, so I figured that whatever he was offering was probably delicious. Nobody in my life had ever cared enough to warn me about taking candy from strangers.
I inched forward.
?Just a little bit closer??
When I got within two feet of the stone, a strange low buzzing hum began in my left ear, growing louder with each shuffling step I took. Tiny pinpricks of light appeared before my eyes, reminiscent of the head-rush one gets when they stand up too quickly. I was mesmerized, and felt compelled to open my eyes wide to absorb as much of the light as possible. A feeling of euphoria settled over me like a warm blanket and made every muscle in my body feel like jello. Faintly, very very faintly, through the flashing lights I could just barely make out the shape of a man standing in front of me, though he was little more than a shadow.
I was a finger?s length away from the headstone when the buzzing reached a fever pitch and culminated in a loud POP! that resonated throughout my skull. I was stunned and nearly fell over, but braced myself against a taller headstone to my left.
?Jacinta?? The chaperone, a parent of one of my classmates, called over to me. ?Jacinta, what are you doing over there? Please come back over to the group, right now.?
I straightened up, removing my hand from the lichen-covered piece of slate and rubbing it on my leggings. A dull ache was beginning at my temples, and I felt fuzzy, as if my body was too heavy and too light at the same time. Every kid in my class was watching as I began the walk of shame back to my group, but I didn't care.
I still didn?t feel great that evening, and decided to forgo the dinner of disgusting KFC - which my foster brother had chosen because he knew I hated it - and relegated myself to my bedroom. I tried playing with my small selection of toys to take my mind off of how shaken I felt, but even My Little Pony wasn?t able to chase away the cloud of unease that had settled over me.
As I drifted off to sleep that night, I wondered vaguely if I might actually be ill, and if it could be my last night on earth. I don?t think that?s an uncommon thought for children to have, but for most kids, the possibility of death tends to bring them more fear than comfort.
I woke up at two in the morning with a pounding headache and sheets that were soaked in cold sweat. I had a full bladder, too, but that?s not what roused me.
It was the sound of a man chuckling, so close that he could have been right next to me.
I threw the comforter off of my head and looked around, wide-eyed, expecting to find someone in my bed.
Nobody was there. I lay flat on my back and tried to calm myself. My heart felt as though it was ready to bounce out of my ribcage like a rubber ball, so I took a deep, shuddering breath and let it out through pursed lips. Sleep had nearly claimed me again when?
?Good morning, Jacinta.?
My eyelids slammed open. I looked around, but again, the room was empty.
?Do not be afraid of me, Jacinta. It is I, Timothy.?
?Timothy?? I asked.
?Do you not remember??
?No, I remember. But where are you? I can?t see you.?
?Well of course you can?t see me, dear girl. I am in a place where none can see me, but where you, and only you, will always hear me, and that is where I shall remain.?
?But why??
?My girl, I lost my body many, many years ago. Before you came along, I was trapped beneath the earth. Do you know how cold it is down there? And lonely? I had no one. No one to talk to. No one to be my friend. Will you be my friend, Jacinta??
I knew what it felt like to have no friends. I was hesitant but part of me knew that, in all likelihood, I didn?t have a choice in the matter. A ghost had taken up residence in my head and I just had to accept it.
?Friend?? I asked.
?Yes. Friend.?
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For the first few months, things actually went well. Timothy was my companion, my confidant. He said good morning as I rolled out of bed at sunrise and bid me goodnight as I crawled back in. He told me which breakfast cereal was actually the healthiest for a growing child, helped me with my subtraction, and regaled me with tales of his travels around the world. Most importantly, he listened, which couldn?t be said for any of the mortal beings in my life.
Eventually, though, he started making me do things that I was a bit uncomfortable with. Well, ?making? isn?t quite the right word, as he had no control over my body, but he was a master of persuasion, and knew how to play on my emotions just right to the effect he wanted.
At first the things he got me to do were small and of little consequence, and were always directed at people who had intentionally wronged me. They were so minute, in fact, that they were never even noticed by the targeted individual, and I actually got a tiny thrill out of doing them since the risks were minimal.
For example, when the class bully, Anthony, stole my pencil, Timothy awoke in my head and pestered me until I took his suggestion.
?Reach into his desk when he is not looking and reclaim your pencil,? he told me, ?And take something of his as payment.?
He slowly chipped away at my resolve until I gave in, and then I waited for the dumb prick in the seat next to me to turn his head so I could slip my hand into his desk and take my pencil, as well as one of his fancy basketball-shaped erasers. Nobody would ever suspect meek, shy little Jacinta, after all.
About five months into our friendship, though, things took on a darker tone.
?Do it.? He whispered.
I hesitated, though not for lack of hearing; the good thing about having a voice in your head is that you can hear it above the din of a school cafeteria.
?Make him pay. Do it and Anthony will never steal from you again.?
I removed the freshly-sharpened pencil from my pocket. The notion of standing up for myself was such a fantasy, so intoxicating?it was now or never. And with that, I plunged the pencil - the very pencil Anthony had a penchant for stealing in the classroom - about an inch into his thigh.
With my right hand gripping the implement, holding it in place, I wrapped my left arm around the boy?s back and clamped my hand over his mouth, muzzling his scream so it blended in with the cacophony of the lunch room. I felt a strange rush of victory coupled with a desire to go big or go home, so I leaned in close, my lips almost touching Anthony?s ear, and whispered what Timothy had coached me to say,
?Tell a soul about this and I?ll climb through your bedroom window while you?re sleeping and slice you from ear to ear.?
I yanked the pencil from my long-time bully?s thigh and then casually retrieved the little plastic baggie of potato chips that he?d stolen from me, which he?d done every single day that year.
Timothy chuckled quietly in the back of my skull.
Despite my confidence in the cafeteria that afternoon and the pride I?d felt at finally standing up for myself, I spent the rest of the day a nervous wreck and hid in my bedroom as soon as I got home. I was sure the phone would ring any minute with either Anthony?s parents or maybe the principal or even the police on the other end of the line.
It never did, and Anthony never so much as looked at me ever again.
Although often months apart, my outbursts seemed to get progressively more violent with each occurrence.
?No, you idiot, I told you that paragraph gets glued over here.? My foster brother, Derek, huffed and jabbed at the poster board with his index finger. ?Right here, stupid. And watch where you?re waving that glue gun!?
?Sorry.? I mumbled, picking up the piece of hastily-trimmed construction paper and relocating to my brother?s right side.
?Make sure it?s straight. Mom says you have to help me, so if I get a bad grade it?s partly your fault.?
?Okay.? I sighed as I knelt back down on the carpeted floor. My knees stung, rubbed raw from hours of kneeling on the rough material. I glanced at the clock on the VCR. It was after midnight. I had to be up at seven to catch the bus to school. Maybe if I placed this paragraph extra carefully Derek would let me go up to bed. It was his project, after all; I didn?t know what the **** a Mussolini was.
I smoothed the paper down neatly and admired my work.
?Well??
?Well what?? I asked, my eyelids heavy.
?Well do the next one, *******! This ****?s due tomorrow!?
?I?m tired.? I started to whine, my eyes brimming with tears. Derek slapped the back of my head.
?Shut the **** up and glue the damn paragraphs.?
The jostle to my head must have woken Timothy, evidenced by the subtle scratching feeling inside my brain followed by his soothing voice.
?Why do you let him treat you that way??
?I have no choice.? I responded internally.
?Of course you have a choice. Make sure he never mistreats you again.?
The glue gun suddenly felt heavy in my hand. I gripped it tightly.
?Do it.? The ghost urged.
?Do it.? My brother ordered, slapping the next piece of paper to be glued down onto the board.
?Do it.?
A rage welled upside me as the two male voices battled for supremacy. The embers that had been smoldering inside me for years were rekindled, and a fire now raged.
?If this isn?t done by the time mom gets home from work, I?ll??
Derek shrieked as I grabbed his hair in my little fist, yanked his head to the side, and jammed the tip of the glue gun into his ear canal. I pulled the trigger multiple times, filling his ear with as much scalding hot glue as I could before he wriggled free and stumbled away, his sneakers skidding on the project board and ripping my carefully-glued pieces off of it.
I stomped across the board in my bare feet and crouched down, grabbing my brother again by the hair and slamming his face into the hardwood floor with a strength I didn?t know my seven-year-old body possessed.
I got down on my knees and dragged the log of now-hardened glue from Derek?s ear, jammed it up his left nostril, and then whispered in a frightfully calm voice, ?Now listen to me very carefully. When mom asks what happened, what are you gonna say??
A look of sheer terror seemed permanently etched onto Derek?s face. ?I - I?m gonna say that I slipped on the board and hit my face on the coffee table??
?That?s what I thought.? I released my grip on his hair. ?And I think you?re also gonna treat me a lot nicer from now on, right??
?O-of course!?
?Good. Glad we had this chat, Derek.?
With that, and with Timothy?s quiet chuckles licking at the back of my skull, I calmly walked upstairs to bed. As I brushed my teeth I looked at my reflection in the mirror and was startled to notice that my pupils had turned from their normal jet black to the whitest white. I was a bit alarmed, but by the time I?d finished my nighttime routine about fifteen minutes later, they were a light grey color; surely they?d be back to normal after a good night?s sleep.
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?Take me back to the graveyard.? Timothy urged me one evening in 1998.
?Why do you want to go back?? I asked, slightly alarmed at the suddenness of his request. Did he not want to be my friend anymore?
?I cannot say. But we must return.?
?Okay, but it?s late now. Can we go tomorrow??
?It must be tonight.?
I sighed. I knew I couldn?t refuse, not after all Timothy had done for me.
I waited until two am, when I knew my foster mother would be in an alcohol-induced slumber, before slipping silently out the front door.
?There it is. Over to the left.? Timothy said as I trod carefully upon the grass of the Old Burying Ground, mindful of where I put my feet, lest I trip over a small stone.
?This one?? I placed my hand on a tall piece of slate.
?Yes. That is the one. That is my grave of my brother, Andrew.?
Before I could protest to having another ghost in my head, there was a familiar buzzing sound in my ear and a festival of lights appeared before my eyes. My muscles turned to jello and the feeling of euphoria washed over me once more. Ten seconds later I heard the loud POP and dropped to the ground, hitting my head on the stone as I fell.
I stayed on my hands and knees for a few minutes, fighting dizziness and nausea, while Timothy and his brother got reacquainted. My head was pounding, and the pain seemed to be getting worse, not better, with time. There was a hurricane of words inside my brain, and I began to panic. Is this what it?ll be like all the time, having two of them in there? I asked myself. Was this what insanity was like?
I forced myself to my feet and stumbled over to one of the table top tombs, sitting on its lid and pressing the heels of my palms to my temples.
Then I let out an ear-piercing shriek. The chattering stopped abruptly.
?Who?s there?? Came a husky, cigarette-damaged voice from the far corner of the graveyard.
****. I forgot about the homeless people who slept there at night.
A weak flashlight clicked on and there was the sound of crunching twigs and leaves as the man approached.
?What in the hell?? He asked, the beam from his flashlight settling over me. ?Girl, what are you doing out here this late??
A flurry of voices started again in my head, but this time they sounded jumbled, like complete gibberish. I felt fuzzy.
The man in front of me snapped his fingers. ?Hey, I?m talkin? to you. Where are your parents? Where you supposed to be??
The edges of my vision began to darken slowly, and the last thing I remember is the disgust I felt at the man?s greasy beard, his yellow teeth, and his bulbous nose.
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I woke up in the psychiatric unit of Boston Children?s Hospital, with no memory of how I got there. The last thing I remembered was looking at the homeless man?s ugly face. And then nothing.
I soon learned from the psychiatrist who came in to visit me an hour later that I had attacked the man, who had then jumped the fence and flagged down one of the police cruisers that patrolled Harvard Square every night. I had initially been taken right down the street to Cambridge Hospital but was soon transferred to Children?s when they realized the severity of my condition.
A battery of tests had been run, including an MRI of my brain, an EEG, and a toxicology panel to check for the presence of drugs, which would not have been unheard of in a foster child, even one who was only eight.
The tests all came back clear, as I knew they would. I had ghosts in my brain, not tumors.
I couldn?t help but notice that the nurses who came in to check on me throughout the day seemed somewhat?nervous. They gave me a wide berth, only getting close to me when absolutely necessary.
That evening, as I feigned sleep, I heard them whispering about me in the doorway to my room.
?The homeless man said right before she attacked him her pupils turned, like, white as paper and all of her teeth were suddenly, like, razor sharp?not just the canines like a vampire, but every single one of her teeth??
?He was probably just drunk or high. Probably has a rap sheet, too. Take it with a grain of salt.?
?She bit him, though. Cambridge PD has photos of his wounds.?
?I?ll believe it when I see them.?
?Well, don?t say I didn?t warn you. Enjoy your shift.?
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I hate to disappoint you, but that?s pretty much where the story ends.
I never went back to my foster home. The examinations by doctors had revealed the years of physical and psychological abuse that I had endured. I spent the rest of my childhood and teenage years in that psych ward before being moved to McLean in Belmont.
Timothy was still present, as was his brother, though they spent more time talking with each other in some foreign language than with me, and I began experiencing more and more blackouts during which I would either become violent or I would say and do things that baffled the doctors. One nurse at Children?s quit on the spot after ten-year-old me apparently revealed to her a black tongue and a mouthful of bright red, razor sharp teeth. I have no memory of any of the incidents.
I?ve only decided to share my story because this past week I came into possession of a book called Demons of the World by John Hutchinson. The chapter on New England was eye-opening, page 333 in particular.
?Boston and Environs:
In 1636, pastor Thomas ****** and his group of roughly 100 congregants left Cambridge (then called Newtowne), Massachusetts to settle the colony of Connecticut. Although ****** had disagreed with the religious tenets of Boston minister John Cotton, he was actually frightened away by what he described as the ?presence of multiple demonic entities in the town.?
Cotton, convinced that ****** was simply unwilling to concede that his religious views were flawed, had laughed off his proclamation of possessed townsfolk, but changed his mind after he stayed several nights at the house of Newtowne?s new pastor, Thomas Shepard, and suffered from the same disturbing dream every night. In the dream, he would descend into the church basement where three respected men of the town, Edward Jones, Andrew Howard, and Timothy Smith, would reveal their real names - Reyth, Grattuth, and Chigogoth, respectively - before introducing him to the devil. They told the reverend that they had spent the past 700 years in Wales jumping from host to host before making the voyage to the new world onboard the Arbella, John Winthrop?s flagship.
Not wanting the citizens to learn that their brand new town was being stalked by not one, but three demons, Cotton and Shepard secretly had the men drugged and then buried alive; they believed that the demons would be unable to possess anyone else if the bodies that they inhabited died beneath the earth.
Not long after, the first parish building mysteriously burned down, marking the start of bad luck that would plague the small town for more than fifty years, which included multiple smallpox epidemics, crop failure, and even a tornado that touched down, killing one man.
In the Old Burying Ground, there have been reports for centuries of whispers emanating from the graves of the three men, with children in particular being lured in by what they describe as a ?tickling feeling? in their heads and a sensation of illness that causes them to turn away.?
So there you have it. Timothy isn?t his real name. Timothy Smith was the name of the unwitting puritan man who was used as a host by the demon Chigogoth. Andrew Howard was not Timothy Smith?s brother, but an unrelated puritan man who played host to Grattuth, presumably the brother to Chigogoth.
As for me? Well, Timothy - or should I say Chigogoth - was my only friend. I don't care that he's a demon. He listened to me. He helped me. He was a figurative shoulder for me to cry on. Then Grattuth showed up and it all went to ****. I haven't had anybody to pour my heart out to in over twenty years thanks to that *******.
I think it's time to introduce a new member to the party. If I can prove to the doctors that I'm mentally sound, I'll be free to leave McLean. Then it's just a hop, skip, and a jump over to the Old Burying Ground, where I'll hopefully be able to locate Reyth and make him be my friend.
That is, if he's still there.
https://imgur.com/gallery/xbA6uzq


Source.