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Just Read And Chill - Chapter 7
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In 1997, after acquiring enough savings, I moved my wife (Deborah) and two daughters (Shirley and Clarice) into the suburbs of Baltimore, Maryland. The house in particular was a large duplex with friendly, inviting neighbors and a generally warm atmosphere, so we expected nothing more than the usual living accommodations. The history of the house was never explained to me thoroughly by the manager, but this did not bug me in the slightest.
The first several weeks went by with little to no dilemma, as we managed to unpack and setup our belongings rather quickly. Deborah would call me while I was at work at a local computer scripting service, telling me how great our new home was and boasting about the easy living, which included enough rooms for all of us and a pool out back. I would smile and agree.
Shirley and Clarice also loved the house and found plenty of games to play around in the large space availability. The two slept in the same room together near ours, so they could easily access us in case of an emergency.
By the fifth week of living here, the two came storming into our bedroom doorway very late into the night, both claiming to hear a “little boy crying” near their bedroom window. Deborah and I both exchanged confused and frightened looks, but proceeded to examine their room. It was relatively empty, save for a few toys lying about.
“We heard it, Daddy!” they both exclaimed.
“Heard what?” I asked, puzzled.
They both began to describe the boy as sounding very much afraid and crying through the night, even singing to himself quietly at one point. I peered out the window and turned my gaze downwards. Nothing. I exchanged them both confused looks and decided it was best to have them sleep between Deborah and I in our bedroom. They nodded in agreement and I tucked them inside.
Granted, I was unable to fall asleep for awhile, but eventually drifted off after an hour or so, throughout which I did not hear the mysterious crying.
A dream began, however, and I found myself in an open field bound plentiful with wheat. I shoved through the tall grass and our new house eventually came into view, but the houses that would be around it were not visible. I entered the threshold and saw that the house was empty and that pieces of furniture had been randomly stacked atop each other.
Odd. I thought.
I made my way to the curio and approached the swimming pool. I slowly turned my attention to the very bottom of the pool, for which a young boy lay in a sleeping position below. The boy promptly disappeared and reappeared before me on dry land.
“Wh—who are you?” I asked nervously, clenching my hands in disbelief.
The boy, who was around six or seven years of age and dressed in rusty overalls and a striped tee, slowly looked up into me, his misty eyes staring right up into mine. Despite this outward appearance, he seemed friendly and I perished any thought of trying to fight him.
“I’m sorry,” the boy responded.
“It’s okay,” I replied back, patting him on the shoulder.
We talked for awhile and he seemed content during the conversation, almost pleased that I was with him. At this point, he grabbed my hand and began to mutter gibberish under his breath. I stood motionless and urged him to quit, but he seemed to have entered a somewhat possessed state and the strange words became louder.
“Where is she?” he suddenly asked, his face now wrinkled up in anger. He repeated this several times, each time his grip became stronger.
“I don’t know!” I snapped back, attempting to break free of his iron grip, to no avail.
He remained silent at this point and continued to strengthen his grip, becoming more and more persistent by the expression on his face. After an intense struggle, I pulled my arm free and pushed him away, making a beeline for the front door and making no stops to look behind. I finally exited the door and ran out into the fields. The house was now lit aflame and I could see the boy screaming in agony from one of the upward windows. I felt guilty and ashamed, but I could not do anything to help the boy.
I awoke into the dark of night, breathing heavily and sweating intensely. Deborah took notice and calmed me, using the sheets to wipe me down.
“What happened, dear? Did you have a nightmare?” she asked worried.
“Y… yes,” I replied.
“Just go back to sleep,” she said.
We managed to fall back asleep shortly afterwards and I could not recall any dreams afterwards.
The next morning, I asked the manager to evaluate more on the building’s history. He gave me this look of despair and finally delivered. He told me that the building once burst into flames some twenty years prior due to an accident of unknown cause. According to his claim, one of the past owners’ sons died in the cataclysm and was unable to be rescued by firefighters.
“The house was rebuilt,” he continued, “but some say it has remained the same.”
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In 1988, a mysterious explosion destroyed the home of the Amos family in Heswall, England. When firemen sifted through the burnt-out shell of the house, they found a framed picture, entitled ‘The Crying Boy’, which was a portrait of an angelic-looking boy with a sorrowful expression and a tear rolling down his cheek. But the picture was not even singed by the blaze.
Not long afterwards in Bradford, there was another blaze, and again a picture of the crying child was found intact among the smouldering ruins. The head of the Yorkshire Fire Brigade told the national newspapers that pictures of the weird Crying Boy were frequently found intact in the rubble of houses that had been mysteriously burnt to the ground. Journalists asked him if he thought that the picture was evil and could somehow start the fires, but the fire-chief refused to comment.
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The reports of the unlucky painting causing fires are still occasionally reported; there was a Crying Boy picture found at a gutted house in Dublin in 1998, but no one as ever found out just who the child is in the supposedly cursed painting. One well-respected researcher into occult matters, a retired schoolmaster from Devon named George Mallory, claimed that to have uncovered the truth in 1995. Mr Mallory claimed he tracked down the artist behind the controversial portrait: an old Spanish postcard artist named Franchot Seville, who lives in Madrid. Seville said the Crying boy was a little street urchin he had found wandering around Madrid in 1969. He never spoke, and had a very sorrowful look in his eyes. Seville painted the boy, and a Catholic priest said the Boy was Don Bonillo, a child who had run away after seeing his parents die in a blaze. The priest told the artist to have nothing to do with the runaway, because wherever he settled, fires of unknown origin would mysteriously break out; the villagers called him ‘Diablo’ because of this.
Seville ignored the superstitious priest and looked after the boy. The paintings of the little sad orphan made Seville fairly rich, but one day, his studio was mysteriously burned to the ground. Seville was ruined, and he accused the little Don Bonillo of arson. The boy ran off crying, and was never seen again.
Then, from all over Europe came the reports of the unlucky Crying Boy paintings causing blazes. Seville was also regarded as a jinx, and no one commissioned him to paint, or would even look at his paintings.
In 1976, a car exploded into a fireball on the outskirts of Barcelona after crashing into a wall. The victim was charred beyond recognition, but part of the victim’s driving license in the glove compartment was only partly burned. The name on the license was one 19-year-old Don Bonillo; could this have been the same Don Bonillo who had been the subject of the Crying Boy painting eight years earlier? We will probably never know, as no friends or relations ever came forward for the body.
(Source: creepypasta)
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