Look at What the Wind Has Brought

📅 Published on October 12, 2023

“Look at What the Wind Has Brought”

Written by Dale Thompson
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).

🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available


Rating: 10.00/10. From 2 votes.
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One might say they hear the wind, but I argue the wind is silent.  So, what is it that one hears?  I make the claim it is the sounds of what the wind carries with it in its invisible torrent.  One hears the roaring, the whipping, the gushing, the whirring, which is nothing more than the science of friction.

Where does it come from in its swift surprise?  What is its genesis?  It can fan the flames, drive a fire, stir an ocean, but where does this phenomenon originate from?  It is hard to imagine that a simple motion of air can bend the tree tops.  When we hear the shouting of the wind, heard from the trained ear, is it just the old oaks creaking or the faint murmuring of the grasses?

Have you ever wondered how phantoms travel and traverse?  Do not tell me that you do not believe.  If you can bear to listen intently enough, you will hear the whirring of their breath and the beating of their wings.  They ride the sweeping winds, which raise the seas and pull the sailors beneath the dark waves.  They move the air and cause it to spin and twirl like a top, filling itself with destruction and debris.  It has the power to take lives, but it does not always act without permission from a higher authority.  As indiscriminate as it may seem, the wind is governed.

These terrors leave desolation if they leave anything at all.  How do these phantoms spare a child with a silent heart who is gazing from a window at the raging storm, yet when the winds hit, carry away everything else, leaving the child orphaned?  This thought leaves me numb in utter sensibilities.

My story may not be unique, yet it is unequaled for one such as I.  If I say I have been left perpetually haunted, it would not be a lie.  Never had hope been more decimated in my life than when the storm blew in.  It is not what the storm brought in, but in retrospect, I say it is what it left me with. Allow me to explain.

In my current state, I had just returned to my computer after taking a long look at the horizon, which was crimson in hue, like blood smeared across the troubling skies.  The forecast for the day was clear and sunny skies, yet it appeared the storm of the century was brewing.  I would have to keep my eyes peeled concerning this one.  There was not anything I could do to protect myself.  I had no basement or a storm shelter.

I could hear it picking up momentum, roaring and rumbling like an approaching freight train that was about to leave the tracks.  I sat facing my computer, hoping if I ignored all of the signs, the storm would simply go away, yet my keen psychometry was getting numerous vibrations.

I am one who believes that inanimate objects resonate and have moving parts.  If you do not believe me, cast a dry piece of wood into a fire.  Hear it change, hiss, crackle, and sizzle.  Yes, infinitely delicate vibrations seek other receptive objects and this way, they have purpose, reason, a connection.  Credulous minds cannot fathom such quasi-science, yet those with vivid imaginations – you know the type, the thinkers, the dreamers, the creative ones –  have the advantage.  If a man does not dream, he merely sleeps his life away without connecting to anything around him.  It is only awakening from a dream with breathless excitement that one knows they are alive.

With everything in the room singing in my ears with warning, I continued to research on my computer.  My right hand was positioned on my wireless mouse while my eyes were glued to the screen.  To restrain my anxiety, I looked up ‘famous quotes of hope.’  An odd one appeared, mixed in with the running column of quotes.  It was a Bible verse: ‘The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth: so is every one that is born of the Spirit.’

For the time being, I was comforted by this verse.  Wasn’t it with the breath of God that man became a living soul?  No one sees the viewless wind.  We can record it, predict it, but dark sylphs ride with the prince of the power of the air, masquerading as angels of light.  I was conflicted suddenly because outside, a foreboding darkness seemed to have its way with the light of day.  I am reminded that darkness is no match for a single lit candle.  But the wind, on the other hand, with its Aeolian modulations, removes all imagination and hope for its manifestation and snuffs out the flame from the wick, dispensing the twirling smoke as if it never was.

Atmospheric changes were happening, but I remained disinclined to move, for where could I go?  If I were to be honest, I was solidified under this intolerable suffrage.  The house shook, it rattled, it creaked, it swelled as if the walls were about to burst.  This is when the most unexpected weirdness manifested itself.  From the computer screen, which was still locked on the quotes page, an actual hand appeared, bodiless.  With its uncommonly long fingers, missing the first finger, it stretched forth and penetrated the glass of the screen and came into my world.  This grey, bony, leathered appendage with yellow nails rested upon my hand, which was still gripping the mouse.  The haunting hand moved my hand, clicking on different things on the screen until it reached a quote, clicked on it, and it appeared enlarged before my eyes.  ‘If a man knows not what harbor he seeks, any wind is the right wind’ by Lucius Annaeus Seneka.

I had no idea what this could mean.  I was horrified and frightened beyond belief.  This was unimaginable madness.  I was insane with fear but could not pull loose the grip, which forced me to surf the net with incredible speed.  Under an oppressive uneasiness suffering from an attack of nerves, I was helpless.  I gazed fixedly at the screen.  This appendage imposed its will upon me in so much as to guide my hand to websites of blasphemy, indignant scrutiny of pain and suffering, to sites of foul, carnal, fleshly lust, and into screens where the web content became darker than I could have ever envisioned.  It held me captive, fastened tighter than a pair of handcuffs.  The storm outside was in plangent fury.  The house was under full assault.  If it blew away now, I was sure I would go with it. I could hear the ruthless smashing of glass.  Something must have crashed through the window. There was the sound of personal items being blown off their shelves, and the doors were slamming shut within the interior.  I could only begin to envisage the damage.  At the computer, I turned my head from the offensive content, but every time I did the hand, that decrepit hand squeezed mine tighter, as if to show who was in control.  It certainly was not me.  If I did not want my hand and wrist broken, I had to watch the screen.  This accursed extremity knew every time I shut my eyes. Resistance was a waste of all my strength.  Why did it want to fill my head with such abominations? This protruding death lock had clamped me for many minutes before releasing me and receding back within the computer.  It disappeared as if it had never existed, yet it left a severe bruise around my wrist and the coloring extended into my fingers.

The storm settled straight after the unexplainable episode, and I went to the freezer to collect ice cubes to apply to my contusion.

I was not remotely interested in finding anything further on this macabre bizarreness.  I was certainly distressed in my clarity.  It was totally and completely intolerable, this confusing, evil episode.  I do not know any other word to describe it.  It was almost like a seductress was luring me with the disgusting depravity of the world.

I rested until I heard a braying laughter from outside.  I leaped to my feet in fright.  I knew not whether to run or to find a weapon.  The important thing was that I keep my head on straight and not lose my cool.  I went to the front door because the laughter originated from that part of my property.  Then again, anything was possible.  Before I reached the door, I asked myself the question if I had actually heard the unnerving laughter at all.

I opened the door slowly, and to my surprise, a man stood on my doorstep.  I was taken aback but instantly took notice of his appearance.  His face was too full to be handsome.  It was a cascading face that was at mutiny with itself.  His forehead was deeply rippled with a runaway nose.  His eyes squinted, forming thin lines around his eyes like a traffic junction, and the color was undefinable.  His cheekbones were as dull as butter knives, but he had a captivating smile that stretched from ear to ear.  He was neither handsome nor loathsome, striking, or ugly, yet for some reason, he bore an attraction.  I suppose it was because he was charismatic, not in a religious way but rather in a ‘I do not give a damn way.’  If he had not been shaken loose from infinity, then I was sadly mistaken.

The first thing he said before I was able to address him properly was, “I am here from the winds of unknown spaces.”  He proceeded to smile malignantly, showing his copious mouth of crowded, jagged teeth as if time was on his side.  I said a silent prayer of salvation, for I did not know if this was to be my hour of death or not.

He knew right away what I was mumbling.  He remarked, “Save your breath.  No one is listening. Anything supreme deserted mankind ages ago.”

That was a troubling statement.  If he was truthful, which I scarcely doubted, then I would hope for the immortal oblivion of eternal rest.

His chin tilted outward as if he was measuring my soul.  I thought how impossible, how irrelevant as trying to understand the movements of birds in flight.  He laughed again, and it was such an obscene squawk it could have only been a guffaw which no one could ever be accused of letting out, unless stoned on the ‘green fairy.’  I am not sure if it is even translatable.  I shrank back atrophied with great concern.  This was absolutely unusual in every sense of the word.

I gasped and shut the door straight in his face.  There came a rapping again.  It was bony knuckles against wood.  I did not know what to do, so I ran back to my computer room.  It seemed everything started here; maybe I could end it there.  I immediately unplugged the machine, yet the screen still glowed with perversion and images that made me nauseous.  The knocking continued.

Obviously, it was not going to be as easy as unplugging the lurking entity.  I retrieved a kitchen knife of formidable length and, with sure and practiced steps, returned to the front door.  Although it was a solid wooden door with no way to peer inside my residence, when I approached the door, the knocking ceased.  There went my element of surprise.

I yelled through the door, “What do you want?” I pressed my ear to the wood to hear the answer; however, the ear not pressed to the door heard a troubling whisper.  “I beckon thee to come with me.”

With feigned surprise, I collapsed to the floor.  My hand became too weak to hold onto the knife.  It dropped from my hand.  I was now in a crouched position with that which was outside, now appeared inside and standing over me glaringly.  I was panic-stricken in so much my breathing became rapid and shallow.  My head became fuzzy and light, and I prayed death would not be painful.  I have always been an intuitive soul; you know, first impression, the gut feeling, sixth sense sort of thing and how I was reading this situation made me shiver.  With a wry expression growing on his face, this man of privation reached down with his right hand and lifted me back to my feet.  It was ever more evident now that this man was not from this time.

I instantly retracted in a way that was clumsy and embarrassing, more afraid than before.  My elemental strength would be no match for his certain wizardry.  That is what I thought at the time, that this must be a magical enchanted person from another world.  He ignored my initial resistance, and seeing for the moment I was unapproachable, he stood, patiently waiting, it seemed, for me to collect myself.  I had to think, to reason this out.  I had no concealed methods of dealing death other than the knife I had loosely allowed to fall from my grip.

Strangely significant, I began to realize if this towering figure wanted to bring me to my demise, he could have already accomplished it.  Mortified beyond anything I had ever felt, I mustered the voice to speak.

“What do you want?”

“There is something at work in my soul that I cannot describe.  I am carried by the phantom winds in search of the hand, that wretched, deplorable thing which terrorizes the living.”

“The hand?” I realized he was after the same hand that had possessed my computer.  I carefully studied the man but could read nothing of his intentions.

“I am a raconteur from a former time.  I exist but do not exist because I am incomplete.  Do you understand?”

I understood nothing as the man cast his hard gaze upon me.  I did not have a clue, but because he was holding all of the cards, I answered truthfully.

“I do not know what you want?”

“I am Sir John Rowell, a character in a Guy de Maupassant book.” “I cannot help you.  I do not know what you expect of me?” “The hand has visited you.  It is a murderous hand and must be contained.” “You are a character in a book, you say?  How have you sprung from the pages and now stand in my house?  If you are a character in a book, then you are only a figment of someone else’s imagination, a creation invented in the mind of this author you mentioned?” I was not a big reader; thus, I had never heard of Guy de Maupassant.  My knowledge of the literary world was considerably lacking.

Sir John responded with, “The hand must be gathered, the hand must be returned.  I have no peace otherwise.  Where is the hand?  What have you done with the hand?”

This was some kind of fresh terror now.  A dead man who does not really exist is chasing a severed hand in some phantasmagorical land, which just so puts him here at my doorstep, in my home.  If this had been any other intruder, I would have demanded that he was to leave immediately, but seeing this had to be a bad dream, I honestly did not know where to direct him to.  It was not like I was hoarding information.  I believed Sir John knew much more about this insatiable matter than I did.

“The phantoms collected the hand.  These mystical creatures sent from Abaddon’s lair exist in the ‘without world’ where demons rule.  Seldom are they permitted to cross over.  Yet the hand Guy de Maupassant wrote about, and this story I am in, was real.  It is the hand of Baal, which I once possessed and had nailed to my wall.  I came into possession of it through mutual trades when I was brewing a unique blend of alcohol.  Gypsies from the Balkans had traveled through our land, and once they heard I had the very best spirits anyone had ever tasted, they were quick to make me an offer.  They traded me the hand, saying it had only been a curse for them, yet swore it was the right hand of Baal.”

Sir John implicitly believed what he was conveying to me.  I was oblivious to any of the history which he described.  I was convinced I was not in immediate harm’s way and was able to generally relax without becoming complacent or comfortable.

“I have what is called a computer.  It is very technical, and I will not go into great detail concerning how it works, but can say this was the place I was accosted by the hand.”

Sir John winced as I pointed to my home computer.

“But it is only a box.  Is it magical?” he asked.

“Nothing supernatural or like a sorceress, yet it has a lot of power.  It is called the information highway or the Internet.”  My explanation was very simple, and even with this uncomplicated approach, I could see Sir John had not a clue as to what I was sharing.  I was unsure how to relate the mysteries of the computer world to this 19th-century individual.  There was a plenitude of information, yet I hardly knew where to begin.  Simple perambulation was my approach, and I hoped it worked.

I first logged onto the computer with my password, which Sir John immediately found fascinating. He was elated at the screen and how I used the mouse.  At first, he believed the mouse was a planchette associated with a Ouija board.  I assured him it was not.  I did not want him to think I was a spiritualist.  He might have me talking to the dead.  Then again, it appeared I was already conversing with the dead.

I described the unintelligible dread I had suffered earlier before Sir John arrived when the hand manifested and grabbed me, showing him the bruising on my wrist.  Carefully, I surfed through pages, though for what reason I did not know because I could not be sure if this hand was lurking on my computer or not.  In some regards, I thought I might go mad, insanely facing this intolerable dread.  I just knew at any instant, the hand would lunge from the screen and drag me into the cyber world.  There was no perfectly logical explanation for this, so I assured myself I had no cause to despair.  The abominable notion of living this night added to the unnecessary terror I was dealing with.

Within minutes, the house rumbled as if in the mist of another storm, but there was no wind nor rain nor torrent of any kind outside.  It was the house itself coming under attack.  The walls shook; more things were rocked out of place and onto the floor.  The lights flickered off and on several times, and the moment it stopped, the hand as gruesome as before lunged from the computer screen and ceased upon my sore wrist.  I struck it this time with my free hand.  I gave it a battering of three or four serious whacks before I saw Sir John slap a handcuff around what was left of the dangling wrist flesh.  This was attached by a chain snapped to his trouser belt loops.  The struggle was on.  I resisted with all of my might, aided by the formidable Sir John, who was tugging against the amputee limb with all of his might.

I am sure if I had been able to step back away from the scene and actually see how absurd this was, I would have found it ridiculously amusing.  As we fought against invisible forces to extract this demonic malware from my computer, the gruesome hand was fingering with the mouse and surfing through the perverted websites again, sex, violence, war, murder, and disgust as if it were addicted to everything unclean and could not get enough.  From the corner of my eye, I witnessed Sir John reach to his right hip, and from there, he produced a sidearm.  It was a shining pistol of some sort.  I knew right away nothing good could come from a deadly weapon.  Personally, I avoided guns and had done so all my life.  In this instance, however, I was hopeful Sir John knew how to use it without accidentally wounding me.

The irredeemable hand jerked wildly, adding incredible tension to the strenuous fight.  Once we freed the hand from the screen, the sound of a gun blast practically concussed me, and I went stone deaf with a constant ringing assaulting my ear drums.  The instant smell of sulfur from the gunpowder filled my nasal cavity, and I smelled another type of smoke as well.  When I surveyed the damage, my computer had been shot to pieces.  Whether the ghoulish hand had been dealt with or not, I could not discern.  I could clearly see there was no hope for the computer.  The bullet went straight through it.

There was no sign of the cursed hand.  It was loose somewhere in the house.

“I missed,” Sir John admitted.

“Seriously?” I moaned.

I heard scuttling down the hall.  The decrepitude appendage was invasive and quick.  I was not about to be the first one after it – I had no idea what it was capable of – but not Sir John.  He was eager to keep up the fight, and off he ran with his pistol raised in the air over his head.  I followed Sir John at a safe distance in case there was another assault.  I had no desire to become an unintended victim.

The morbid thing had taken up refuge in my bedroom, still with the chain around the wrist.  When I reached the doorway, I saw the infernal, distal limb attached to the corner of the wall in what could only be described as a pouncing position.  Sir John said to it, “I have something for you, you miserable… you unmittened manus.”

I did not know what that meant, but I took it as an insult of some sort.  Sir John then bent over at the waist and coughed a few times extremely hard.  He held a hand over his own mouth, and what I witnessed next practically made me lose my lunch.  He coughed up something that was long and crooked.  It was comparable to a finger.  I thought, “Good Lord Almighty!”  No wonder the maimed hand only had four fingers.  Sir John presumably had bitten that finger off at some time since his association with the double amputee.

“Is this what you were looking for?” In a dastardly tone, Sir John seemed to tease and taunt the atrophied hand, which scuddled noisily, with the chain dangling, along the wall to the parallel wall, then took up a position on the ceiling as if watching Sir John and measuring him up.  Holding the finger slightly out in front of himself, baiting the hand, Sir John cocked the hammer on the gun and slowly aimed it at the hand, which had clenched itself into an indignant fist.

“It’s all yours if you want it,” he slyly gestured.  The withered hand, using its fingers as legs, galloped along spider-like across the ceiling toward Sir John.  He fired his weapon once again, but unfortunately, the arachnid-like thing sidestepped the bullet with lightning-fast reflexes.  Again, the blast caused torturous ear pain, but I was better prepared, and less shook by the concussion.  When I took a deeper look through the cloud of white powder, I saw Sir John wrestling with the malformed extremity, which had moved on him with tarantula-like speed and had clutched itself with vice strength to his throat.  I did not know if the revolting hand had been wounded or not, but I sprung into action and immediately grabbed the chain.  Instead of a constant steady pull, because that did not seem to be the trick earlier, I yanked violently on the chain trying to free Sir John from the deadly choking that was taking place.  With every effort I gave, the aberrant hand fought back using superhuman resolve.  After a dozen or more vicious pulls, the metacarpus which had fused itself forcefully snapped loose from the strangulation of Sir John’s gullet but seemed as though it had turned its focus directly on me.  I had no way to defend myself, but I quickly grabbed a table lamp, and when it came toward me, I did not hesitate to use the lamp as I would a baseball bat and swung for the fences.  I made solid contact, and the hand went flying across the room.  With unintentional and terrible aim, I had swatted the hand back onto Sir John’s chest.  Sir John scampered on his backside away from it, slapping it, brushing it away with a look of fright in his eyes.  Again, it leaped to his throat and began to strangle him again.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I grumbled and took hold of the chain once again.  I cannot believe there was a ghastlier scene.  Sir John, red in the face from lack of blood due to the asphyxiation, and me, straining my guts out, attempting to dislodge the hand from Sir John’s throat for a second time. There was little doubt that this morose scene, as eerie as it certainly was, was becoming fatalistically comical.  If I was unable to free Sir John from this demented death grip, not only was he going to perish, but I would easily be its next victim.  So, the scene was Sir John laying flat on his back, pinned supine by a single severed hand which wore a chain, me tugging with two hands on the chain in an attempt to save Sir John from being killed.  On the floor beside us was the dismembered appendage which Sir John had regurgitated moments before.  As ignoble as it all was, I managed once again to free Sir John, who bolted for his gun that he had been forced to give up at some point.  I never saw him drop it, but obviously he had.  The hand dragged me along, racing Sir John for the pistol.  Never would one imagine a cadaverous appendage could demonstrate such power.  I dug in my heels just enough to slow the hand and, in doing so, allowed Sir John the advantage to collect the pistol.  He did not hesitate or necessarily take aim.  A third shot, a fourth and a fifth shot exploded in the room, and I felt no more pulling on the chain.  The tension ceased, and I stopped there to look at what had occurred.  At least one of the bullets had hit the deformed hand, for it lay on the floor without even a twitch.  Promptly, Sir John collected the hand, which had turned completely black.  He tightly ran bailing string around the bag and knotted it closed.  He secured the newly packaged hand into his hunting bag.  He looked quite satisfied as he threw the strap over his shoulder and tucked the bag underneath his arm.

“What are you going to do with it now?”  I did not really need to know since it was obvious my work was done, but I was cautiously curious.  After I asked the question, I honestly did not expect a response, but politely he answered.

“I will return it to where it belongs, nailed to the wall in my house in a story written long ago,” Sir John said as he made his way to the door.

“But won’t the phantoms come for it again?” I enquired.

“Let them.  I will not forget this night.  I will be ready for them.”  Sir John picked up the finger and grotesquely and, with some trouble, swallowed the finger again.

“Why go back to a place like that?  Why can’t you go anywhere you wish now?” “Someone else is writing this narrative.  I can only go and do what is written of me,” he kindly said as he opened the front door.

“Do you need me to give you a lift or anything?  I have a car?” “My departure is at hand,” he declined as he stepped through the door.  A savage gust of wind howled in out of nowhere, and just like that, Sir John was swept from the step never to be seen again.

It was late, very late, and I was hit with incredible slumber.  I would worry about my computer and the few gunshot holes tomorrow.  As for now, I only wanted to sleep.  Maybe tomorrow I will pick up The Hand by Guy de Maupassant.  Something tells me the book will be much different than the events to which I was inadvertently contributed as an unwilling participant.

Rating: 10.00/10. From 2 votes.
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🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available

Written by Dale Thompson
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

🔔 More stories from author: Dale Thompson

Publisher's Notes: N/A

Author's Notes: N/A

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Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).

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