Philly - A Horror Story

A creepy Halloween ghost story that takes a sharp turn to the left

“Daddy?” my four-year-old daughter tugged insistently at my elbow.

“Yes, love?”

“Can Philly stay for dinner?”

The prep work for our evening meal was not going the way I had expected. Katie, my wife, was much better at making lasagne than me. Frankly, even using the term lasagne near this gloopy spaghetti mess stretched its description too far.

“Daddy!”

“Who, love?” 

Clara grabbed hold of the counter, stood on tippy toes and peered into the big white baking dish. Not dissuaded by what she saw, she patiently asked again, “Philly. Can she stay for dinner?”

After another day of unpacking moving boxes, being forced to scrape up enough energy to go and pick up this ‘Philly’ kid, then drive them home again in the dark, happily engaging in making small talk with their parents on both trips, filled me with thoughts of dread.

I was tired.

Bone and soul tired.

“Clara, I don’t remember you asking if a friend could come over and play, and I’ve nearly finished making dinner. So, I’m sorry, love, but no. Anyway… how do you know Philly?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Was mumbled before she rallied and pleaded again. “Daddy, please! Philly won't eat a thing, not one little thing! She just wants to watch.”  A desperate tone entered Clara’s voice as she began tugging at my tomato-splattered apron. Pleading blue eyes met my quick downward gaze. “Please, Daddy!”

“Sweety, I’m sorry!”

Grabbing the packet of pre-grated cheese, I began sprinkling it about like fairy dust, hoping it would smother my construction mistakes. Halfway through the cover-up, with little blue eyes boring into my soul, I reaffirmed my position; there would be no budging.

“Clarabelle, please stop looking at me like that. You’ll have to message your friend and say sorry, not this time.”

“But, she’s already here, Daddy.”

Clara buried her face into the side of my hip as I lifted the white baking dish, ready to place it in the oven and hopefully not cremate our dinner in the process. Exasperation and weariness flowed into every one of my words. “Clara, NO! Go tell your friend it’s time for her to go home. End of story!”

As soon as I snapped at my daughter, I felt terrible and dipped my head in shame. The dish went down, and a deep breath was taken. “Sorry, love; I didn’t mean to speak to you like that. I, I am sorry… I’m just tired and hungry.”

“I know,” whispered Clara, crestfallen and hurt. “But Philly can hear you, Daddy.” Clara buried her face back into my side and wrapped her arms around my leg, “You don’t need to shout.”

Gritting my teeth behind a pained smile, I reminded myself that the move from our hometown had been stressful for us all. Clara had never been away from her mother before, and the numerous phone calls I was getting from Katie highlighted that she, too, was finding being apart from us both just as hard. We were all feeling the effects of being separated.  

Placing a gentle hand on my daughter’s blond pigtailed hair, I now spoke like the responsible, caring father she needed me to be.

“Well, Lil Miss Belle, if that’s the case, your friend needs to come here and speak to me.”

“Philly is here, Daddy; she’s standing next to the oven.”

“…Baby.” I let out a loud hoot. The silly request for an invisible friend brought relief to my exhausted soul.

“Clara, when you’re pretending to have an invisible friend, you need to make sure everyone knows you’re not talking about a real person.” I lifted her chin so her big baby blues met my own. It was like looking at a miniature Katie.

“Philly’s not pretend, Daddy. You just can’t see her.” She looked to the right of us and then buried her face into my side, her little hands gripping my hand.

Squatting down, I sat my little girl on my knee and gently brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. Her delicate features were darkened with worry.  

“Clara, love, you’re just missing Mommy; I promise it will get better.”

She shook her head, rebuffing my comforting explanation.

Trying a different tac, I continued lightly, “I tell you what, how about I put the lasagne in the oven, you go wash your hands, and then when dinner is cooking, we can face time Mom. You can tell her all about being Daddy’s amazing helper today and…” I looked up at the dish containing my pathetic attempt, “the terrible lasagne I’ve made.”

Clara reached out and wrapped her cold little fingers tightly around my neck, hugging me as snugly as she could. “But Daddy,” she whispered secretively, “Philly is not pretended.”

Gently lifting her head, I fussed softly, “Baby, I know it’s been hard with us moving and Mommy not being here yet. But she’ll be here next week, I promise. Then we can paint your room and brighten up the place. Okay, sweety?”

Clara turned her head back to the empty spot next to us and frowned, then leaned in, her solemn eyes burning as she once more whispered secretively, “Philly says only kids can see her and a hidden corpse like you doesn’t stand a chance.”

I lurched in shock, hitting my back on the cupboard doors, almost unbalancing us both to the floor as I stammered, “Pardon? What…”

“You’re only thirty-four, aren’t you, Daddy! And that’s not too old. And you keep saying Mommy’s a spring chicken, so she’s not old either.”

A big fat tear rolled down from my daughter’s blue eyes and onto her chubby little cheek as she, on the verge of a meltdown, tearfully asked with a quivering lip. “You won’t die, will you, Daddy?”

“No,” I automatically responded with my usual glib response. “Daddy’s Mommy’s toy boy, and she’s a spring chicken.”

Taking a deep breath, I clipped an errant lock of Clara’s blond hair back into place and faked calmness by sighing, “Don’t you worry what this Philly has to say; she’s just mean!”

Then waiting a moment in the hopes I didn’t sound worried, I asked, “Where did you meet Philly?”

Muffled by my shoulder, Clara’s voice sounded subdued, but her warbled fear still came through loud and clear. “In my room.”

“You invited her into your room?”

With a slow shake of her head, my four-year-old murmured. “No! She was always in my room… waiting for me.”

I’m glad Clara couldn’t see my reaction. I’d faithfully kept my promise to Katie, but a string of mouthed cuss words aimed at the ceiling was the only way to express my feelings.

With her head still firmly buried against my shoulder, Clara lamented. “On moving day, when the men put my boxes in my room, I saw Philly ‘cos she was standing by the window watching. I knew she wasn’t real… ‘cos she was all see-through.”

My baby girl absentmindedly caressed the side of my face for comfort; her cold fingers, like delicate little icicles, danced across my skin. Clara’s quiet words mumbled into my ear sent a shiver down my soul.

“Philly said she hoped one of ‘em would fall down the stairs and break their backs ‘cos it’d be funny to watch.”

A lump was swallowed as I gathered my fake composure and uttered, “Wow, Philly doesn’t sound very nice!”

Clara sighed, “I know! She scares me. She’s always around Daddy, so I have to be nice.” 

Goose bumps rose on my skin as I watched the glass on the front of the oven. Or should I say, I watched a little icy fern pattern grow on the glass’s furthest edge!

Looking at Clara’s bent head, I made sure to distract her with a hug as I quickly turned on the oven and stood up, evaporating the pattern within seconds.

“Baby, it’s damn cold in here, and you feel half frozen. I think I’m gonna have to fix the thermostat down in the basement. How about we call Uncle Henry? He can take you out to get some ice cream for after dinner! And whilst you’re with him,” I lifted her head gently from my shoulder so she could see I wasn’t the least bit worried, “I can tell Philly off and make her go away?”

The kitchen lights flickered as my breath now became visible. An ice-cold line crept up the arm that held Clara, making all my hair stand on end. It was hard not to imagine Philly’s dead cold hand slithering along my skin.

Stepping quickly back from the freezing sensation, I carried Clara out of the kitchen, pulled out my phone with my spare hand and dialled my brother’s number.

“Hey, Henry. Sorry if you’ve got plans, but could you please come and pick up Clara for me? …No, nothing’s wrong. Just, you know, I have to deal with the thermostat. …Thanks, man; see you in ten.”

Clara lifted her head from its nest in my shoulder and whispered, “Is he coming?”

“Yeah, love, Uncle Hen’s coming; let’s get your shoes and jacket on.” I gave her a quick squeeze and sat her down on the bench under our coats, hoping she wouldn’t notice how the glass panels by the front door were frosting up.

“Daddy, it’s freezing; you have to fix the heat real good!” Clara shivered as her last shoe was quickly tied.

Smiling as if nothing was amiss and I hadn’t noticed how damn cold it was, I chuckled, “You’re just like your Mom; it can never be too hot for either of you.”

As soon as Clara was dressed, we waited on our front steps. I wouldn’t have my kid in that house any longer than she had to be.

It didn’t take Henry long to turn up in his big ol’ blue pickup, his thick glasses magnifying his blue eyes under never brushed, messy black hair. As he bounded up the front stairs, the assessing stare of concern he directed at me was impossible to miss.

“Hey Clarabelle, how’s my all-time favourite human?”

Clara giggled as she leaned out towards Henry’s open arms. “I’m good, but the house is cold, and Philly’s made Daddy cross. He’s hangry, Uncle Hen!”

Henry wrapped his lean arms around Clara, plucking her from my own. “Hangry, you say. Who’s Philly?”

Keeping it light, I answered, “No one, really. It’s just, you know, like what happened in Brooklyn!”

 “Brooklyn… right!” He slowly drawled out. “You know, Jack, you look… thin. Thinner than usual, man. Maybe, it’s time you ate like you did…” he smirked a knowing grin, “in Brooklyn!”

Clara piped up, “I told you, hangry!”

Henry laughed, then turned his enlarged blue eyes from Clara to me. “Brother, I know you always struggle with the need, but maybe you should enjoy a free takeaway when it turns up at your front door.”

“Takeaway! Please, Daddy?”

I kissed my daughter on her soft little cheek “Yes,” I sighed, “fine!” I must admit that a little bit of me was hurt when she whispered to my brother, “Daddy cooked Lasagna, and it’s not nice to look at.”

Henry couldn’t resist a final word as he walked down the steps with Clara safely in his arms. “Bon Appetite, my brother, Bon… Appetite!”

*

As the click from the front door’s heavy vintage deadbolt rang out into my cold, quiet house, my ragged breath seemed to be the only unsettled noise within its stillness.  

 The hairs on the back of my neck rose on their own accord as the desire to turn my head and catch out whatever caused this primal reaction burned. Placing my forehead on the front door’s cold dark wood, a steadying breath was once more taken.  

“Philly…” I whispered, still facing the front door, “I eat little bitches like you for breakfast.”

Then, I did something you may consider strange. I whistled. Just three notes. One low, one high and one in the middle.

‘I’m coming.’

Sauntering back into the kitchen, my residential ghost gave a display of her mood.

A white cupboard door opened slowly with Philly’s invisible hand at play.

 Unimpressed with the exhibition, I put on a show of my own by grabbing a beer from the fridge, taking a swig and sighing as the cupboard door slammed itself shut.

I moaned, “Wow, Philly, is that the best you can do?” My tone exudes disinterest and boredom.

Silence… as I waited for her next move.

Without warning, every single cupboard door opened and banged shut so rapidly that they quickly became white blurs. The noise was deafening.

Taking another unperturbed swig of beer, I watched.

After about five seconds, all the door’s movement suddenly ceased, and the kitchen became… deathly silent.

The Fluro light flickered above my head as the beer bottle was emptied and thrown expertly into the corner bin. “Well, Philly, you can thank your lucky stars. I hadn’t stacked the plates and cups in all those cupboards yet; I’d be pissed if you broke one of Katie’s heirlooms.”

The lights went out without warning, making the kitchen drown in deep shadows. A streetlight weekly illuminated the small kitchen window above the sink.

Darkness was an old friend, so it made no difference.

The fridge door I’d been leaning against became as cold as ice, making it uncomfortable to be near.  Stepping back, I watched an intricate frozen pattern grow on its surface, swirling and merging in complexity.

“Cool! You know Philly, if that’s your name, you should go to art school; you’re good at this abstract crap.”

With our warning, I was picked up and thrown hard against the tiled side wall, cracking a rib in the process.

Philly would have been pretty proud of herself at this point, but I’m sure as my deep-throated growl grew in volume, bouncing and echoing around the kitchen's tiled surfaces, she wouldn’t have remained pleased with herself for long.

A scream of bloody murder erupted in the kitchen as the agony of transition exploded.

It’s always excruciating and always starts with my teeth and mouth.

I can only guess what it looks like to watch as a sharp, circled row of short razor teeth emerges from my gums. For an observer to see my jaw extend, stretch and distort so it can hold my true elongated mouth, they would agree there’s is nothing sweet nor compelling about my features.

Screaming and groaning as the agony continues. Both sets of humerus, radius and ulna break and then knit together, stretching and narrowing as they do. Their extension allows my arms to slide out from my t-shirt and stretch to their proper spindly length.

As clawed talons with a sickening crack replace bloody fingernails, the ever-eternal unabating incubus hunger boils over into every cell in my body, forcing the change upon the rest of my being.

Unrelentingly, it continues, searing my flesh, stretching my skin over my shattered and reformed skull. The demon-horned and elongated heart shape now allows the space for slitted blacked eyes, glowing green in the darkness, to bubble up from my once simple orbs.  Where-ever I look, an eery glow splashes across the white kitchen tiles.

I could almost taste the soul with my flickering tongue; whoever Philly was, she made my stomach rumble!

Monstrous hissing erupted through my mutated mouth, “You shouldn’t have picked on my kid, shithead; she and Katie are out of bounds.”

I don’t think anyone, alive or dead, is ready to face a half-formed incubus. I know my half-transitioned state had set a flame to Philiy’s resolve. Flickering lights returned to illuminate my monstrous form in full, glorious blackened colour, and not surprisingly, the kitchen warmed.

No matter.

I’d find her easily enough.

The internal incubus swelled to its peak, ripping at my remaining flesh, contorting me into my proper skeletally atrocious arrangement. Leg bones cracked and thinned, stretching muscles and sinews in the process, making my jeans baggy and short simultaneously.

Nearly there.

I was relieved to hear my shoes drop from my clawed toes as my spine finally stretched, cracked and popped under the pressure.

Now curled into a foetal position on my blood-smeared kitchen floor was a cross between a devil, a slender man and a bald four-legged spider. Or, in other words… me in my true incubus glory.  

Three notes were whistled out into the dark, one low, one high and one in the middle. Philly would soon dread this melody.

‘I’m coming.’

Stretching out, I reached up to the marble-topped counter, my talons clicking and clacking on its hard surface as I stood and screeched out my foul temper to Philly, “Girl, you can run but can’t hide!” The echo of viciousness brought forth a modicum of pleasure.

I hate being an incubus, and frankly, being forced to change so I can feed puts me in the worst mood. It’s a pain in the ass! Some don’t mind; ask Henry. He doesn’t have an issue with feeding and says it’s like living in an eternal buffet. 

But I have issues.

Issues that force me almost to starve myself

The need to feed on the living has never sat well with me. And even more so since I met Katie and had Clarabelle… it now sears my darkened soul.

I do what I can.

I still must feed.

But now… now, I much prefer to feed off the dead, the trapped souls who haunt and torment the living.

The way I see it, I’m doing humanity a service!

The bang of a slamming door upstairs claimed my attention.

“Don’t go, Philly,” I bellowed, “We were having such fun!” An evil grin full of brimstone broke free from my insect features.

Hoping my talons wouldn’t mark the wooden floor as I crawled along the hallway, sniffing the scent of the dead as I sang, “Come out, come out, wherever you are.” But Philly remained, unsurprisingly, quiet and withdrawn!

One low note, one high and one in the middled echoed up the hallway.

‘I’m coming.’

Running and hiding wasn’t gonna do the ghost any good. Inhaling its wafting scent at the top of the staircase, I knew exactly where the ghost was hiding.

Clara’s closet.

“Philly. Oh Philly, why you hid’n girl?” I laughed as soon as the echo of my hiss disappeared into the darkened house. Man, I was creepy!

Clara’s bedroom door swung open, allowing all the enchanting, deathly perfumes to embrace my nostrils.

One low note, one high and one in the middled.

‘I’m coming.’

Now, because I am nothing more than the Devil’s child, and frankly, in this form, a mean SOB, I add an extra element of terror by scuttling in, making sure my black talons clicked and clacked on the polished wooden floor, echoing to the silent Philly my arrival.

“Philly, I say Marco, and you say Polo! …Marco…”

Nothing but silence returned to me.

“Come now, girl, for this to work, you gotta play too! I promise it won’t hurt. …For long!”

My spindly form stalked to Clara’s closet; the slatted door shut tight.

One low note, one high and one in the middle was whistled across the wooden slats. 

Twisting the closet’s pretty brass knob slowly, I gently swung the slatted door open and laughed as Philly greeted me, all scrunched up in a corner holding the spectre of a small rabbit doll to her chest. The grey child shook her dark, lank hair as a ghostly tear rolled down her cheek, along her chin and splashed onto her old-fashioned Victorian day frock.

Looking up at me with big pleading eyes, Philly mouthed, “Please… No!” Fear and dread marched across her young features as she took in the monster before her.

Gently, I reached in with one long arm and caressed her hair, running my taloned fingers silkily over her skull, just like I had with Clara. I took her hand tenderly, cooing her comfortable words as I led her to stand out of the closet. Smiling as kindly as I could with a mouth full of razors, I encouraged her to trust me. Fussing to her that it was all right, I wasn’t cross.

She smiled, hope blossoming in her faded features.

Philly’s trust and optimism didn’t last long.

One low note, one high and one in the middle.

“I’m here!”

Turning the palm of my hand to my face, my long tongue slithered out, seeking the delicious traces of her energy from my palm.

As I did so, I sighed and leered, “Mmmm, Philly! You are delectable.”

What little hope had existed within Philly drained from her face and soul as the truth of her terror replaced her false belief.                                                                                       

She bolted for the door, scurrying up the second-floor hallway like her life depended on it, the echoed rabbit doll forgotten on the floor turning to mist as I watched.

Let her run; let her think she has a chance. Every lil’ bunny needs to hope they might live another day.

Snickering, I followed her up to the third floor.

“Oh, so predictable.” Was slithered out of my salivating mouth. “Ether attic or the basement. Ghosts have no imagination!”

One low note, one high and one in the middled echoed into the dusty and forgotten attic as I slowly pushed the door open with one long taloned finger.

Because she now knew what the melody meant, she’d tried hard to hide behind some old forgotten furniture stored up there ages ago. But it was just so pointless.

Walking slowly with my nails scratching the unpolished boards, my whistle echoed into the forgotten space.

One low note, one high and one in the middle.

It was just too easy.

“Peekaboo, I see you!” was sung as I crawled over the piled detritus and pounced on her.

Philly shrieked, hitting me with raking fingers, attempting desperately to kick out and crawl away from my grip.

But for her, sadly, it was too late.

Smiling as I began to reverse crawl up the cornered attic walls. One low note. Her left leg firmly in my grip. One high note. Now, the right leg. One in the middle.  There would be no escaping me.

Kicking was now desperately employed as I hoisted Philly closer to my mouth. Her discorporate body, suspended mid-air, flapped and slapped about as I reeled her in.

Hips, torso, shoulders, neck and finally, I held my delicious prize by the hair as she held on to my arms, screaming, writhing, scratching and crying.

“So, Philly, you find any of this funny?”

She shook her head…

“No, I didn’t think you would!” I drew her throbbing neck to my mouth and crooned. “You, Philly, picked the wrong Incubus, the wrong house, the wrong kid and the wrong Dad. No one, bar no one, picks on my little girl and makes her frightened to be in her own bedroom. No one and no thing!”

The first bight is always the deepest and the very, very best.

Philly pushed with her hands at my face and kicked at my lean body in her last desperate attempt.

I bit deeper into the ghost’s energy, sucking her essence further into my own being. Smiling at the realisation that my vacuum on her dynamism was too strong to allow an escape. I relaxed as my eyes rolled back into my head, ecstasy enveloping me in a warm embrace.

Philly weakened with every moment, still to her credit, she squirmed under the pull.

Scintillating terror vibrated out of every one of her lulled movements and into my mouth.

In her last death throws, the ‘little girl’ mask fell away as my consumption revealed a dark, featureless entity that stretched and pulled its malleable form, trying its last frantic attempt to break free.

Lashing out at every one of my limbs and body, drawing blood with every blow, made me gnaw down upon its eviscerated ghostly flesh.

Salvation was not going to happen.

Not one ounce of nourishment would be left.

“You shouldn’t have made Clara cry.”

One low note, one high and one in the middle, was the last this ghost heard.

*

The doorbell rang out, echoing up the passageway.

“Coming… I just have to wipe the tomato sauce off my chin!”

“Daddy!” 

The solid front door swung open, presenting me with a very cross Clarabelle standing before me, a miniature copy of her mother, a recriminating chubby finger pointed directly at my heart.

“You are silly, Daddy, for spoiling your appetite ‘cause we got takeaway!”

Laughing, I consoled her and promised I hadn’t.

With that, my four-year-old’s reproach was derailed. “Come on in, Uncle Henry; the thermostat is all fixed!” was then bellowed out as she ran past me. Standing by our coat rail, chucking her shoes left and right, Clara turned with her coat half off and solemnly asked. “Is Philly still here?”

“No baby, I told her off for scaring you and then made her go home to her family. She won’t be visiting us again!”

With that, my girl nodded, trusting her father always to speak the truth.

Henry stood in the doorway with a massive bag of Chinese takeaway. “You still hungry?” His eyes took in my flushed cheeks and healthy glow.

“Thought I’d bring this ‘cause, from experience, I know your cooking sucks!”

“I’m almost full, but since you brought that.” I pointed to the delicious food and six-pack in his other hand; “You might as well stay.”

My brother-in-sin walked in, sniffed the air, and met my gaze with a knowing grin.

 “Why cook when the takeaway comes right to you?”

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 This story and Darcy Girl were performed by Mark Wilhelm of Wilhelm Presents Frightening Tales.

He’s an amazing performer and loves the genre of Horror deeply, so give him a listen.