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Many people were hired by the Cassidys to perform various jobs at the resort. Jackson Reynolds was a skilled carpenter who hailed from Sealy, a vibrant community to the west of Houston. Jackson, a proud African American, stood tall with a rugged build that reflected his years of hard work and dedication to his craft. He sported a neatly trimmed beard, complementing his warm, friendly smile. Jackson was happily married to his high school sweetheart, Sarah, and they shared a cozy home. Despite growing up in a region rich with tales of the supernatural, Jackson had always been a skeptic when it came to ghosts and the paranormal, preferring to put his trust in the tangible world of wood and nails. This is his story.212Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCiJGtr5s6q
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It was the next day, and the Saturday afternoon sun scorched the flat-top roof of the resort. Carlos was in his apartment sleeping off the drunken bash he had thrown for his friends after the bar had closed for business the previous night.
For Jackson Reynolds, the friendly carpenter from Sealy, it was just another routine day. He was knee-deep in a remodeling job commissioned by the Cassidys, working in a section of the resort that still retained the features of the old high school. As he explored the area, moving through dusty corridors and forgotten classrooms, he stumbled upon a hitherto unseen hatchway hidden behind a stack of old wooden crates. The hatchway wasn't far from The Pit, adding to the mystery of its purpose and connection to the eerie occurrences within the school. Intrigued, he pried it open and descended into the darkness below, his flashlight guiding his way. This particular tunnel section seemed different, adorned with beakers and test tubes, leaving Jackson puzzled about their intended use. Just then, amidst the eerie silence, he heard his name called, echoing through the darkness of the tunnel. He stared down its length, but there was nobody in sight, leaving him unsettled and questioning what he had stumbled upon.
"Who's down here?" he called out, his voice deep and husky as he tucked his black T-shirt into his jeans.
No response.
"Carlos! If you're down here, you better start explaining this crazy setup!" Jackson called into the tunnel, his voice echoing off the walls. He peered around, his flashlight casting eerie shadows on the beakers and test tubes lining the walls. His gaze fell upon a psychedelic poster advocating for the legalization of marijuana, adding a bizarre layer to the scene.212Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQdz35yRmle
"A secret drug lab, huh?" he muttered to himself, making a mental note of his discovery.
"Jackson, darling!" A soft, wispy voice called out from behind him. He turned around again but still was unable to see a person calling his name. He knew it wasn't Carlos. He heard it that time. It was a woman's voice.
"Hey, you down there! Is all this drug-making gear yours?" Jackson barked into the tunnel, his voice carrying a mix of suspicion and accusation.212Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡo20sExlL7t
No response.
He started to call out again but froze in his tracks when a piercing, frigid wind shot through his body like a surge of electricity. It was as if some evil force had just passed through his body, making its presence known.
It became apparent that he was not alone in the tunnel, but it was not a human being down here with him. As he stood there motionless, he felt someone tap him on the right shoulder, and he shrieked as he spun around only to see an empty passageway again.
"What in the hell's going on?" he groaned.
As Jackson's nose was suddenly assaulted by an obscenely powerful perfume scent, filling the air with its noxious presence, he reeled back in shock. Then, as if in response to the overpowering aroma, he heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps. But it was not just one pair of them; it was as though hundreds of feet were marching in unison, echoing across the hallway floor above him like a battalion of soldiers, each step synchronized with the next in a chilling display of eerie precision.
"Dear God," he sighed, "what's happening?"
Reynolds raced for the ladder, taking two rungs at a time until he emerged topside in the ancient hallway. He just stood there, looking around. The marching sounds instantly stopped. There was not a soul in sight. Just another space---just like that tunnel.212Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsYQGLRdJSK
"I'm gettin' the hell outta here!" Trying to hide his fear as he ran through the corridor. He quickly moved through the building and headed for the front door. Then he heard the jukebox whirr to life in the ballroom, playing a Dolly Parton song at an obscenely slow speed.
That did it! He fled through the building, racing for the exit door as if his life depended on it. Suddenly, Jackson Reynolds, the skeptic carpenter from Sealy, Texas, realized that he now believed in ghosts.212Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuIgEP1KNv9
