Abbadelli’s Family Villa
Author’s note: A peculiar journal was discovered in the Abbadelli’s family villa, located in ███████ Italy. The piece seems to date back to the 18th century, yet is in a surprisingly good condition. It was discovered in ███████ when a wealthy couple bought the old mansion with the goal of renovating it. Soon after finding it, they quickly gave up on the specious plot of land, putting it up for sale. The diary is written in a typical date to date fashion and apparently belonged to Aryana Abbadelli, the younger of two sisters, who was in her late teenage years .The following are a few of the final entries, translated in English. May 17th, 1752 I truly adore my family’s villa. I cannot believe I am going to spend the entire summer here with my mother. How she received father’s permission I will never know. Then again, with Lucia engaged and father occupied with his work, there was little for us to do back home. The roses in the garden are as red as I remember; it appears that Marcel is quite a dedicated gardener. I wish father paid him more, given the splendid work he was doing. But I digress, father knows best. We just settled in and I decided to quickly document my arrival, but other than that the next couple of days will probably be very uneventful. May 19th, 1752 I just came back from my afternoon walk. Everything here is as beautiful as I remember. The endless fields of golden wheat, the small yet populated town and the crystal stream that runs close to it. Granted, my mother insisted that I bring Marcel along. He is a very hardworking man, but I am not too fond of him following me everywhere I go. He also restrained me from going into the town, saying something about an illness that had fallen upon the people. Good thing the villa is far away from it, I do not wish to ruin my stay here by succumbing to sickness. Poor townsfolk, they were always so generous towards my family, I pray for their health. I have to go now, mother is preparing dinner! May 22nd, 1752 My enthusiasm is fading at a rapid pace. Marcel convinced my mother to forbid me from straying too far from the property, giving me little space to explore. I wish I could go and visit the town, maybe explore the markets. You never know what you might find on some of the stands. Moreover, I might even meet some handsome farmer boy, with sun-tanned skin and curly black locks. As if my father would allow it, ‘’I am to be given to a man high of stature’’ he would often say. I cannot describe how tired I am of powdered man with riches, looking to buy me off as if I am some sort of object, only so I can bear them another spoiled offspring. I think I shall read another book, as there is so little to do here. May 24th, 1752. For the past few days I’ve been doing nothing but staring at the lifeless furniture. I feel like I am becoming a decorative peace myself. At least back home there was someone to talk to. May 25th.1752, I cannot take it anymore. I spend all day wondering the empty halls and, to add to that, the only company I have is that nosy Marcel. Each time I set a foot out the manor he is always there, waiting with his crooked smile to accompany me on my short walk. At least I found an interesting book to read. It lacked a title and was stored far in the back, as if someone had tried to purposely keep it away from plain view. The pages are stuck together, it is dusty and some of the letters are simply too faded to be readable, but it is quite interesting. Who knew people around here were so superstitious. May 27th, 1752 I feel so guilty, yet proud of myself at the same time. Last night, as the sun fell, I tip-toed down to the lobby and escaped my cage through an opened window. I couldn’t risk using the creaky doors; Marcel would surely hear the noise. That night I snuck through the wheat and got a closer look at the town. The people didn’t appear sick, gloomy maybe, but certainly not ill. I wonder where all the women were? I saw many men roaming the streets, going about their business, but no woman in sight. Then again, smaller towns were still quite conservative, maybe they were simply not allowed to go outside after a certain time? I thought about revealing myself, but then I recalled that Marcel knew everybody in this town and someone would have surely notified him of my presence, which would result in me having even less freedom. May 28th, 1752 Thankfully, my mother and Marcel are still as clueless as ever. I am as sly as a fox in the night, I suppose. Tomorrow I might try sneaking out once more, but for now I shall appear as the obedient child they want me to be. This old book is really quite unique. It tells the story of this place, going back to ancient times and describing how vital this area was as a trade center for the economy of the Roman Empire. It’s hard to imagine that I am currently standing on the ruined foundations of whole massive district once populated by thousands of merchants and vendors. I wonder what happened to it. May 29th, 1752 This morning I heard mother and Marcel arguing. I didn’t understand much of what they were saying, but my mother was quite harsh. Later I understood that she was heading to the town, eager to meet a few of her old friends. I was quite irritated that she was able to leave whenever she desired and I was not. Marcel had overstepped his boundaries, trying to convince her not to go as well, but even after he pleaded my mother’s decision was final. She informed me that she was going to be back soon and departed, leaving me alone with the lifeless furniture and Marcel. May 30th, 1752 Each day is more dull then the last. I must find something to do before I lose my mind. Perhaps I could read a few more pages… June 1st, 1752 It is late and mother has been away for almost three days now. I would like to say that I am not concerned, but I am. Marcel has been glued to the windows for the last day, taking breaks from his watch for only the most basic of bodily functions. Different unnerving scenarios are beginning to play out in my mind involving my mother. I just pray that she is safe. June 4th, 1752 Mother is still missing. Marcel assured me that he had contacted the proper authorities and that they should be arriving in a few days. I just hope I don’t die from worry until then. All I have been doing for the past couple of days is pacing around the halls like some forsaken patrol, waiting for my mother’s voice to ring in my ears as she announces her return. As I walk, I start to pay more attention to the details around me. Details that I would normally just glance over. The paintings aligning the corridors, for one thing. Between the many portraits of my grandfather, which were to be expected, stood quite grotesque pieces of art. Some displayed people running through crimson coated streets, trying to escape some unseen entity. Other displayed corpses, gutted and piled one over the other, forming a hill of rotting flesh. It was also worth noting that every single victim was a woman. Come to think of it, I rarely saw men in any of the paintings. A shiver ran down my spine. To think these were here all along and neither I nor my mother had noticed them. They remind me of something… June 5th, 1752 I never would’ve suspected that my father’s beloved villa was erected over a land with such disturbing secrets. After some thought, I recalled what the gruesome paintings reminded me of. Some the images were featured in the faded pages of the aforementioned mysterious book I expressed interest in. As I skipped through the pages, I found what I was looking for. Apparently, this place is known to house a very demented cult, which believes that the destructive phenomenon that leveled the previous ancient city to the ground could only be appeased by performing ritual sacrifices. They named the entity ‘’Chimera’’ and would occasionally draw the blood of women in its name, supposedly ‘’feeding’’ it. The book states that cult was eradicated by the Pope a long time ago, yet I cannot deny the lack of womanly presence I witnessed in the town. I just hope mother comes back soon. June 6th, 1752. I can’t just stand here and do nothing. My mother is out there, possibly in danger. I care little for what Marcel says; I am going out to find her June 7th, 1752 Of all the nerve! I cannot believe that goon locked me in my own room! Early this morning, I finally gathered the courage to leave and look for mother. Little did I know, Marcel had locked all the possible exits. When I demanded to be released, he simply dragged me to my room and locked me in here! Does he not realize his place!? At least he did not bolt the single window I had, but the height from here is too great for another ‘’silent escape’’. Now what am I going to do? June 9th, 1752 She is dead…. June 10th, 1752 I am terrified. I don’t want to die too, not like that… never like that. Yesterday, two men arrived at our doorstep. The tall and lanky one carried a pitch fork, which he would threateningly wave around as he yelled profanities that I shall avoid quoting. Then, he called out to Marcel who I haven’t seen for days. Even when he brings me food, he does so while I sleep. As I looked through the curtains of my bedroom’s window, my eyes focused on the more muscular man or, rather, on what he carried under his arm. It was a large wooden barrel, rotten and covered in moss. I could clearly hear Marcel skittering around on the first floor, but he did not respond to the man’s aggressive taunts. Unsatisfied with the lack of response, the skinny man ordered for the barrel to be placed down and opened. His companion did as he was asked; placing it next to him and yanking off the lid. It was at this point that an unshakable feeling of dread overtook me. As if my body was preparing me for what I was about to witness, urging me look away. I didn’t. The rude skinny man then jabbed whatever was inside of there with his pitchfork. The smile on his face was insanely wide, a smile only an evil man could produce. When he brought the gardening tool up, I saw my mother’s decaying head impaled on the pointed tines… I wanted to look away but I could not move my gaze away from her tortured expression, permanently carved on her beaten face. Maggots crawled out her faded eyes, nose, ears and mouth, eating away at her once caramel skin. She is dead…She is really gone… That bastard waved her head around like it was some sort of trophy. I wanted to go down there, grab that pitch fork and stick it in his wretched heart. Luckily, Marcel had a similar intention. A gun shot was heard, originating from one of the lower windows of the villa. My grandfather’s rusty musket probably. The large man who carried the barrel dropped with a bleeding hole in the middle of his forehead, where the bullet struck. The other seemed furious, yelling out to Marcel, calling him a traitor and saying ‘’it’’ was coming for the, quote on quote, ‘’little whore’’ regardless if he was willing to hand me over or not. Then, before he could’ve said anything more, the skinny one also fell after an ear-piercing bang, dropping the pitch fork with my mother’s head still on it. It is safe to say, I did not get a single moment of sleep after witnessing that. I also avoid looking out the window, knowing the remains of my dear mother were still lying there, on our doorstep. Will I die like that too? June 11th, 1752 I spoke with Marcel today. As expected, he still didn’t want to meet me face to face so we talked through my bedroom’s door. He assured me that he was going to protect me and that help was going to come soon. I wanted to believe him, yet I knew the reality of the current predicament. No one was coming and it was only a matter of time before they return, knocking at our gates. I asked him about his history with these people and the ‘’it’’ they were referring to. He ignored my questions, repeating that I was going to be alright that he was going to protect me. Other than that, I’ve been laying across my bed all day, drenched it complete silence. Marcel was seemingly kind enough to dispose of the dead remains, allowing me to look out of the window again without feeling the need to break into tears. Yet, the blood still remained, dyeing the spot where the horror took place in a dark red color. At least the sunset is nice… June 12th, 1752 I had a very unnerving experience last night. As I was almost asleep, I heard a voice calling out to me. Actually, there were many different ones varying in pitch and tone, yet somehow synced into one. I can only compare it to a choir of some sort, only less melodic. I have not heard anything from Marcel, which worries me. What is he doing down there anyway? That’s all there is to write about for now. June 14th, 1752 My room is now officially my prison, my own little well decorated cage. It’s been a while since I used my voice; my vocal cords have probably rusted. I don’t think help is coming anytime soon, or ever for that matter. Marcel has been quiet. I can hear him walk up and down the stairs but, apart from that, I have not spoken to him in…4 days, maybe? Time moves at a snail’s pace when there is nothing to peek your interest. I am probably going mad from being isolated for so long, because I am starting to hear the voice I mentioned in my last entry even in my waking hours. I feel like whatever is calling out to me, is drawing closer. June 15th, 1752. I am scared…no, I am terrified. Today Marcel came up to my room. He did not enter, of course, but I could hear him weeping and sobbing from outside the door. He kept repeating that he was sorry and that I had to endure. Then he told me that he could not protect me anymore, that the guilt was becoming too much to bare. I tried to fish out some sort of explanation from the mumbling fool, but he just kept repeating ‘’I am sorry’’ over and over, lightly banging his head on the door. After a while, I could feel him backing away from the door. His last words to me where: ‘’Soon it will arrive, tempting you to give yourself over. You must not leave this room, no matter what. Remember, it can only take you on your own free will’’ That’s the last I heard from Marcel. After a few hours, a load ‘’bang’’ echoed across the villa, followed by a muffled thud. I can already imagine him, lying across the wooden floor with a bullet in his skull. I am all alone now… June 18th, 1752 Everything is so quiet. Dust coats the furniture and webs have formed on the ceiling. I haven’t eaten in days, that goon could’ve at least given me some food before blowing his brains out. I don’t have the energy to do anything besides lay on the bed, waiting for starvation to eventually be the end of me. I tried breaking the door down, but the wood was much too resistant. The voice is getting louder… more… excited. June 20th, 1752. I ate a spider today. It was repulsive but it did provide me with some nourishment. Yes, it was a rather large spider. Good thing it rained today, as well, my water supply was at an end. Although, I did almost fall through the window while I was attempting to gather the drops. A fall like that would surely shatter my frail body. I haven’t been able to sleep well. The voice bombards my mind constantly and I think I am beginning to make out what it is trying to say: “Come to me.” June 21st. 1752. I am going to die here aren’t I? I’ve already accepted that cruel fact. As I gathered the courage to look into the mirror today, I saw nothing more than a skeleton with a coat of flesh. The lack of food and sleep is naturally taking its toll. I wonder if I will live long enough to see whatever is coming for me. Maybe that was Marcel’s plan all along? June 23rd, 1752. Voices…Loud. Too Loud…. It Hurts! June 25th, 1752 It’s here! It is actually here and it’s… magnificent. I woke up today and immediately directed my gaze towards the window. I saw it, looming over the horizon. A colossal formation of beauty and grace. I dragged my frail body across the dusty floor, crawling over to the window. I felt the sun rush in, it made me smile. Then I saw it, standing in the field of golden wheat, roughly as tall as the mansion itself. A fusion of feminine bodies, aligned in the form of giant arachnid. Intestines binding them together, keeping the whole construction from collapsing. Each body fitting with the other like a peace in a puzzle, contributing to this living artwork. It is still standing there as I write this, calling out to me with a voice sweet like honey. Thousands of faces smiling in my direction patiently, comforting me. I want to be a one of them, I want to join them- be a part of something greater. That way, I will finally matter. My sorry existence will finally serve some higher purpose. I am sorry Marcel, but such opportunities only graze a few. I must go now; I just hope I will have the strength to climb through the window and out of this prison. I think I might’ve just discovered true happiness. Goodbye. After that, it is assumed that Aryana Abbadelli had jumped through the window. Falling from that height would resolve in severe injuries in the best case scenario. Assuming she survived, she must’ve had climbed down the side of the mansion somehow. Experts that analyzed the journal concluded that her encounter with the strange entity described in the last entry was most likely a hallucination caused by starvation. They are probably right. However, we did find old remains of clothing matching the ones stored in Aryana’s room, scattered through the field quite a distance from the structure. Any trace of Aryana’s body has yet to be discovered. After a full investigation of the villa, we found the remains of a male in the cellar, buried under piles of dust and sludge. The cause of death was clear by the hole in the side of the skull; a self-inflicted gunshot from a very close range. The weapon itself was never discovered, probably taken by some of the previous owners. We have identified this body as the Marcel mentioned in the journal. We are currently looking for the described ‘’barrel’’ which might possibly contain the remains of the mother; Maria Abbadelli. We did, however, discover the mysterious untitled book. Due to its current age it is practically unreadable, hence why we are taking it to HQ for analysis. As of now, the Abbadelli’s case in marked as “unsolved” until we come up with more concrete evidence of what had happened.
Credit To – Alex Murder Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on Creepypasta.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance.