Welcome to Episode two of the Accursed. 
This is a story you're going to want to start from the beginning, so if you missed episode one, I would suggest going back and beginning there. 
Also, this podcast shares some scares and frights. It delves into adult themes. Specific content warnings are in the show notes of each episode. Please check them so that you can honor yourself and your boundaries.
I don't know the best way to share these stories with you, if I should tell them to you in the order in which they arrived, or my best attempt at a chronological order, or if I should try and focus on the larger story that seems to be emerging. For now, I've just picked the second story I ever received because, well, it drew me in and I thought maybe that'll be true for you too. 
Here we go. 

~STORY~


I didn't know who he was, who they were. Uncle Arch's sister Belinda had known them from church. Aunt Grace sat me down one day and told me they'd gotten me a job to nanny and keep house. I'd be staying out there at Mr. Field's place for the summer, longer if all went well. I was 18 now and it was clear my welcome had worn thin. 

She told me that his wife had died over the winter and he was in dire straits when it came to the kids. She even laughed, imagining the chaos she was sending me off to. No doubt. I didn't know much about babies or kids at all, except for having been one recently. I figured I would just do whatever Mama didn't. 

Uncle Arch drove me over, even carried my trunk up to my room in the attic. He gave me a squeeze on the shoulder and a ten dollar bill if an emergency should arise. Mr. Field was a lawyer, didn't talk much, at least not to me. He wanted dinner on the table at six and the children to be quiet that I could see to. On Sundays Mr. Field took the kids to church and then to see his parents. I was left to my own devices. 

Those kids were sweet, no trouble at all. There were three of them, two, five, and seven. I knew they missed their own mama, but they barely ever talked about her. Only sometimes at bedtime and then just to wonder when they'd get to see her again. I never knew what to say. I had seen through the door enough times to know it was not nearly as simple as they hoped.

It was a nice looking house, I'll say that much. Big white clapboard farmhouse with a wraparound porch overlooked a pond that no one was allowed to get near. I guess it had been his wife's family for an age. Inside, you could tell what had been the old cabin and what was added on later. As pretty as it was, I never liked that house. It had a breeze when no windows were open and there were whispers in the night and early mornings, even when I was sure to be the only one awake. I could never hear exactly what was being said, but I didn't like it regardless. It was a place where it felt as if eyes were on you even when you were sure no one was looking.

And that was before one night, nearing the end of summer, Mr. Field called me into a study and gave me a talking to about making ruckus so late at night. I had no idea what he was going on about, and I said so. His face turned as red as dirt. I could tell he wanted to holler, but thought better of it. Uncle Arch was a big man. He said he'd gone to check on the children and could hear me running back and forth. Third night in a row, I assured him that I went straight to bed after putting the oldest down for the night, and I would never be running inside. Gran taught me better than that. He thought I was lying. Every day for the next week, he would make mention of the running. 

Sometimes across the attic, sometimes up and down the stairs. How it kept him up, how, it needed to stop. I promised him with tears, even, that I was not doing such a thing. 

One night, while on my moon, I snuck down the stairs to attend to myself. I was as quiet as I could be, I assure you of that. He was standing in the hall when I left the washroom, his eyes accusatory. But before he could even open his mouth, the noise started. He looked at me and then up to the ceilings. Footsteps, pounding, running back and forth faster than I could have ever imagined. He yelled for me to stay put and bound up those stairs like lightning. But then it got quiet. Everything stopped. No running, no nothing. I heard what sounded like a stifled sob, and he called down, asking me to bring up a towel, for some reason. I wondered if something was wrong with the pipes. 

He didn't let me back in my room, handed me my pillow and told me to sleep in the guest quarters for the night. Said we would deal with this in the morning. There was no rest for me. I tossed and turned the night, feeling like it was hiding so much. 

Once dawn broke, I got to making breakfast just to give myself something to do. It was a Sunday. Mr. Field offered to drive me to see Aunt Grace, but I knew better than to show up unannounced he warned me to stay out of the attic, having brought my trunk down to the guest room for the time being. 
I did not like being in that house alone. Not one bit. Especially not that day. I m sat on the porch until the mosquitoes started to get at me. When I had to go inside, I turned on the radio for some company. I knew I would get in trouble if I were caught, so I sat at the breakfast table where I would be able to see when they pulled back up. Stack of catalogs kept my mind busy until the sky start to get dark, like if a storm was going to roll through. 

The wind picked up, making the leaves on the ground swirl around like a little cyclone. I remember getting the shivers and thinking how I didn't know it was supposed to rain. The radio went to static all of a sudden. It sounded like someone was whistling or maybe singing underneath it all, but I couldn't say for sure. I leaned over to turn it off, but the stomping made me freeze. The same sound as I'd heard the night before, but not on the ceiling, on the stairs coming up to the house. I looked out the window, and there was nothing. The doorknob started to jiggle, and then it turned. Slowly. I pulled myself into the corner of that banquette and tried to make myself visible. The door flew open, smacking against the wall. I, tried so hard to stay quiet, but my breath was ragged and I hiccuped with the tears. The noise, the footsteps. They started up again. Heavy, slow, deliberate. And on the floor. Wet footprints. Small, dainty. Like a lady. Like mine. I watched as they walked through the living room and through the house to the stairs. I heard the banging on the ceiling as whatever it was went from room to room. It felt like maybe it was looking for something. And the stomping got louder, angrier. I could hear whatever it was coming back down the stairs, and I closed my eyes, made myself as small as I could. The footsteps at this point were practically running through the house, cabinets opening, doors slamming, and the radio growling. I didn't move a muscle until I heard the slam of a car door. Everything stopped. Mr. Field was home. 

I sat up quickly and shut off the radio, grateful for one moment of silence. I guess I looked like what I had seen because he didn't holler at me when he saw the mess. He sent the kids and I to the playroom for the evening, allowing us to have a picnic while I read them stories. Everything was quiet that night, for which I was grateful. 

The night after, the youngest, Maribel, started crying. It was nearing 3am when I ran to her room, not wanting her to wake Mr. Field. She had a fever and was in a bad state. I held her and rocked her while she cried for her mama. 
A few days after all that, Mr. Field called me back into his study to tell me that they were moving, going to live with his parents, and that my services were no longer needed. He gave me two extra weeks pay and told me he would be sure to tell my aunt and uncle that this was of no fault of my own. Still, I had him drop me off at the homestead with Pop, since I didn't know if they would believe me. 

A few years later, Aunt Grace mentioned that his wife had drowned in that old pond. She'd been a good swimmer, Grace said. No one knows how it could have happened. Aunt Grace gave me a dirty look when I said I didn't know either, but she sure seemed mighty angry. 

~END OF STORY~



That story stayed with me for, a good long time. After I got the first story, I started checking the library every day and couldn't decide if I hoped that I would find something or if I was making sure that nothing was waiting. But about five days after that first envelope, the second one arrived, the one that held the story I just read. I remember it being a cold morning and I was underdressed for the weather, but I sat on my porch anyway and read the whole thing. 

When I was 13, I read the Exorcist. And as I am saying that, I am, realizing that's probably not the best choice of literature at that age. But, I survived. So, anyway, I read the Exorcist, but I would never read it in my house. I would sit on the front steps and read because it all just seemed too much, too scary to read inside. And maybe because so much of it takes place in a house in the suburbs and that was just too close for comfort. I have a similar feeling about these stories. It's not that these are as scary as the Exorcist, but I sort of immediately had this feeling that I did not want the energy of these stories in my home. For weeks, if not the first few months, I read every story sitting on my porch. At least the first time. I, still do most of the time. Honestly, it's silly because I read these to my friends while inside my house, but for whatever reason, I do not like being alone and reading them inside. I mean, I've done it. Sometimes it's raining or too cold, but honestly, it just gives me the willies Whenever I do, if I have to, I keep the front door open. As if that's gonna protect me in some way. it's not rational, I know. 

Like I said before, I love ghost stories. But I am terrified of ghosts. When I bought my house, all I wanted was a new roof and for it not to be haunted. Before I go to sleep at night, I look around the room to make sure there aren't any ghosts. I have had my own experiences. And honestly, I just never want to again. Not like that, at least. I, am, I suppose, sensitive. And I don't just mean because I cry over just about everything. It's hard to talk about without sounding like a total loon. But let's just say that as a kid. I could see things that others couldn't. Yes, there were some concerns for my mental health. But there were plenty of times I could accurately describe someone who died. Someone I'd never heard of, let alone met. I would say something like, we're getting counting a conversation I wasn't there for. Eventually, my family started to believe me. It wasn't fun, particularly the seeing things. I was scared a lot of the time. Bedtime was the absolute worst, I think, because I was alone. But the truth is that there was nothing there in the daylight. That wasn't also there at night. It's just, at night, there were no distractions. 

I don't see things anymore. I shut that down as soon as I realized I could. But I'm, still weird in different ways. So when something feels off, I do my best to listen to that. Which is why I usually read the stories while sitting on the porch. I also never check the library at night anymore. If there's a story, it can wait until the morning, thank you very much. 

Maybe it's just superstition, but it makes me feel better. I want to talk a little about the stories themselves. And Hazel. It feels weird calling her that. Hazel. It's like giving her a name makes her more real. And I don't know how I feel about that. Names hold power. maybe again, this is me being needlessly afraid or superstitious. But I don't want to give her, whoever she might be, any more power. My friends and I almost never say her name. We usually just call her the Girl. Maybe it's like Bloody Mary and if we say her name too many times, she'll pop up in the mirror. That's a joke. In case whoever makes these rules is listening. 

Just to be clear, Hazel is not a name that I gave Her. It's the name she uses. In the first story, her mother refers to her as Hazelnut. It didn't occur to me that her name was Hazel then. It wasn't actually until I read it to my boyfriend that he pointed out that might be her name. And there are times that she recounts conversations and refers to herself as Hazel. So Hazel it is. 

For the sake of all of this, I'm gonna treat Hazel like a real person. Because that's how it feels to me. She may not be. This may all be a very long and strange joke someone's playing. But for now, for me, she's real. I also obviously have no idea if this is fiction or a truth or what someone thinks is a true story. But again, for here and now, I'm gonna treat it as true. Or at least what someone thinks is true. The stories that I have already, when laid out chronologically. Seem like she's trying to tell her life story. Or at least a story about this aspect of her life. The experience of being haunted. 

Every story that I've been given in some way has an aspect of the paranormal in it. Or maybe just the unexplained. Some of the stories seem like random occurrences. Like a Monster of the week kind of deal, in the parlance of the X Files. Others appear to hold a piece of a larger story of shadows and woods and presences that haunt not just her, but her whole family. It feels like there's a purpose behind it. Like whatever energy she writes about wants something from her, from them. 

When I was making notes of what to say here, this is where it kept getting stuck. Her family, what she shares, is riddled with emotional abuse and neglect. There are also times of kindness, or at least not abuse. But there's an undercurrent to it all. To them, something more. Something that feels so very wrong. Maybe it's just the haunting nature of the stories, or maybe they truly are accursed. But whenever I imagine the people Hazel describes. Like maybe lined up for a family photo I see them all draped with a mourning veil. There's a sadness that seems to flow like a river through them. She speaks of her family with both venom and care. I think they probably deserve both. And whatever has been haunting her has been with them all in some way, for quite a long time. They are haunted, each of them, whether they know it or not. 
The life Hazel writes about begins before her birth and seems to span a long time. In one story, she mentions being in her 80s and ill. She talks about two marriages as well as two children. She was raised mostly by her grandparents, as well as her aunt and uncle. Her mother looms large even when she isn't present, which is often enough. It feels like she's both a ghost, or perhaps a demon, and also the one being haunted a little aside. So I mapped out the first few episodes before I recorded them because I have no idea what I'm doing, and that seemed like a good plan of action. And when I got here, I spent a long time trying to find a word that means the object of a haunting, the person being haunted. And there really isn't one. Not in the English language. Anything that comes close to specifically meaning what I was looking for requires pretending. A verb or an adjective is a noun. I don't know why there's no word for that, but I couldn't help but wonder. It's perhaps a way to discount the experience, to keep it in the realm of the unreal. Maybe it's safer that way for all of us. When I was on this particular hunt, I asked the “what's the word?” Subreddit and someone suggested accursed. And while it wasn't exactly what I was looking for, it did feel like the perfect title for the podcast. So thank you to all the folks that helped me there. 

But back to the matter at hand. Hazel is not a reliable narrator, which makes these stories difficult to track. There are times when she is perceptive and seems to really understand the dynamics at play, and other times where she almost shockingly, does not. In some stories she seems emotionally and mentally stable, other stories not so much. Though given her life, I can't say I don't understand. She also often seems to be talking to someone as if she were writing the story for them. Maybe it's me, but there's a familiarity to how she addresses them and it makes me think it's for someone she knows. 
I always imagine the stories taking place here, where I live in western North Carolina. There are a few references that make me think she's at least in the Southeast or specifically southern Appalachia. Like she mentions being told not to whistle at night. 

It's funny though, whenever she talks about the family homestead, I imagine where I grew up in New York State, the Catskills. She often describes there being an old stone fence next to her grandparents house, acting as a border between the woods and the world. For me growing up. There was also an old stone fence that ran along the side of our property. On one side was us and the other the woods. Our fence ran right under my bedroom window and I hated looking out there into the woods at night. I did love playing in them during the day though. 

There is of course a lot I don't know about these stories. Still, maybe there'll be more answers as I get more stories. If I get more stories and if I had my druthers. The thing I would like to know most is why. Let's just say if. If this is a real story, or again, at least what someone believes is a real story. Or hell, even if it's all made up, why are they telling it to me? What's the purpose of writing it all out and then putting it in my little library? They're not left randomly for anyone to find. They are envelopes with my name on them spelled correctly, which in and of itself is a rarity. I don't understand and I want to very much. I want to know why I'm the one to be tangled up in it all. And I don't know if I'm ever going to get that answer. Though if you have some answers, I would love to hear them. You can email joanna@theacursed.com until next week. Thank you for listening. 

. See you next time. 

The Accursed is written, created and all around conjured by me, Joanna Dane. You can find out more about the show at theaccursed.com or on Instagram  at TheAccursedPodcast. You can find out more about at joannadane.com.
 
The intro and outro song Cathedral is provided by Moby Gratis. Want an extra bonus story? Sign up for our mailing list at theaccursed.com and one will be delivered right to your inbox. If you like the show, there are two ways you could help us out. First, please consider leaving us a review on Apple Podcast, Spotify, or wherever you happen to listen. Second, share us with other folks in your world who also might love a ghost story. Thanks again for listening. Bye.