​

 Before there was BoBo as we know him now as a broken-down old clown forced to live his never-ending life out of a circus create there was a nice BoBo.  And as I said in the last story he used to perform for the children around town.  After his dog died he was so depressed that a local gypsy gave him a card for an old costume house that was the home to Dilldread An old lady from the bayou who has been known to produce magic before.  And this is where our new storyline starts.

The story of BOBO as heard and seen by our reporter is now in its complete audio as left on the I.N.S. answering system

  ENJOY THE AUDIO ON HERE BEFORE IT BECOMES A FULL-LENGTH MOTION PICTURE...  Well Maybe not, but sounds cool...

A Witchy Incident
A CampbellWeen Case File
BY: Steve Campbell

Chapter 1: The Incident in Bolton Landing

The air in Bolton Landing had a familiar chill that morning, an autumn crispness clinging to the edges of every breath. It was the kind of day where the sun barely pierced through the haze, casting long shadows over the quiet streets of the small New York town. People here were used to the calm. They had grown accustomed to the gentle hum of daily life, where the most exciting news was the latest bake sale at the church or the upcoming town festival.

But that morning, something was different. Something dark.

A disaster had struck—one that no one could have predicted. The kind of event that would send whispers running through the town's narrow streets and into every living room like a slow, creeping wave.

The first reports came in early, but they were fragmented, disjointed, almost nonsensical. Authorities struggled to make sense of it all, piecing together what little they could. The name of the town's beloved party entertainer—BoBo the Clown—was on everyone’s lips, but not for the reasons anyone could have imagined.

BoBo, known for his colorful costumes, balloon animals, and the jokes that had made him a staple at kids’ parties all over Bolton Landing, was dead. But it wasn’t just his death that had left the town in stunned silence. It was the way he had died.

Local police had been called to his home on a routine welfare check after neighbors noticed something odd—too many lights on for a man who never hosted guests, the front door slightly ajar. Inside, they found BoBo, but it wasn’t the corpse of a man who had simply passed in his sleep. No, this was something else entirely.

Rumors spread quickly—whispers of an explosion, of strange symbols carved into the walls, of burnt paper and smoldering candles scattered across the floor. But the details were hazy. Even now, as the morning turned to afternoon, no one knew exactly what had happened behind the walls of that house.

What authorities could confirm was this: there had been some kind of experiment.

A magical experiment, the likes of which no one in Bolton Landing could have imagined.

Pieces of the story began to emerge slowly, like fragments of a shattered mirror. The police had discovered a hidden basement, one that BoBo, for all his performances, had never mentioned in public. Inside, the stench of death was overpowering. Thousands of rats, their bodies mangled and half-buried under piles of discarded papers, were strewn across the floor. The town's animal control officers were called in, but it was clear this was beyond their expertise. Whatever had happened down there had triggered something unnatural—something horrifying.

Theories began to circulate. Some said BoBo had been experimenting with dark magic, dabbling in forbidden rituals. Others claimed he had unknowingly summoned something from beyond, something that had taken control of his mind and body. But no one had answers—not yet.

"We’ll keep you updated as soon as more information comes in," the local news anchor’s voice crackled over the radio, offering a reassurance that felt hollow. The story was just beginning, and already the cracks in the town’s reality were widening.

In Bolton Landing, nothing would ever be the same.


Chapter 2: The Unseen Horror

The sun had long since dipped behind the horizon, leaving the small town of Bolton Landing wrapped in an unsettling quiet. It was as if the whole town was holding its breath, waiting for something—something even worse—to break the silence.

The news had spread fast, but the real stories had only just begun to leak out.

"We have been able to get more details about the experiments going on here over the past few nights," the news anchor’s voice crackled from a nearby television, though there was something off in the tone—something strained. "An unnamed source close to the investigation has stated that 'BoBo seems to not completely be dead, and he is being transported to a facility to be studied.'"

The words hung in the air like a noxious cloud. Not completely dead.

I was standing across the street from BoBo’s house, trying to make sense of what was happening. The small crowd gathered on the sidewalk murmured in hushed voices, half in disbelief, half in fascination. The house was still cordoned off, its windows darkened, the front yard eerily empty except for the remnants of BoBo's pumpkin patch—battered orange spheres left to rot in the late autumn chill.

As I stood there, waiting for more information, I noticed movement near the curb. Two officials, dressed in full biohazard gear, were carefully maneuvering a large box, the edges marked with red and white stripes like you would find on clown gear. The air around them seemed thick with tension, every step calculated, like they were handling something far too dangerous to be seen by anyone else.

I wasn’t the only one watching. A few other locals had gathered near the police line, some of them filming on their phones.

The box was heavy, clearly containing something—or someone—and as they made their way toward a waiting truck, I felt a shiver run down my spine. The truck’s engine was running, the sound of its hum only adding to the surreal atmosphere. Then, just as one of the officials made a misstep and tripped on the cracked pavement, something truly horrifying happened.

The box—now on the edge of the truck’s bed—jerked open.

For a split second, I thought I was imagining things. But no—there, spilling out of the box, was something unnatural. A skeletal white gloved hand except this  was red with smears of blood and was twisted and clawed, reached out, grasping toward the official’s gloved arm. His eyes went wide, and for a moment, I thought he might drop the box altogether.

Then, in one swift motion, the other official rushed forward and slammed the box shut. The hand disappeared inside, but the damage had already been done. I heard a gasp from the crowd.

But that wasn’t all.

As the box opened briefly, a thick, green goo oozed out and splattered across the ground, seeping into the grass and over a few pumpkins in BoBo’s front yard. The sight was grotesque—slick and viscous, a slime-like substance that glistened under the pale streetlights. The pumpkins, already beginning to rot, now had an even worse fate. The goo seemed to corrupt them, seeping into the soft orange skin, turning them into something... wrong. They looked more like decayed carcasses than festive pumpkins for pies.

Some of the crowd backed away, murmuring nervously. A few people had the sense to start recording, the sounds of clicking cameras echoing in the still night air. The whole scene felt like a nightmare, the kind of thing you can’t wake up from. The official in biohazard gear, his face hidden behind his mask, barely seemed fazed as he shoved the box back into the truck, making sure it was secured.

"We’ll be getting more information soon," the anchor on the TV said again, her voice a little too calm for the circumstances. "At this time, we are told BoBo is being taken to a secure research facility where officials will continue to study what’s left of him."

It felt like the world was slipping away from reality. How could this be happening in a quiet town like Bolton Landing? How could he—BoBo, the clown, the entertainer—become part of something so twisted?

A small group of us stood silently on the sidewalk, staring at the truck as it pulled away, the red and white stripes now a blur in the distance. The only sound was the low hum of the engine, as if the world had gone on, oblivious to the horrors unfolding in its midst.

And somewhere, buried under all the mystery and fear, a single thought clawed at my mind: What had BoBo really been up to in that house?



Chapter 3: The Unraveling Truth

(AM the next day)

The fog from last night had cleared, but the weight of what had transpired hung over the town like an oppressive storm cloud. Bolton Landing had always been a peaceful place—a place where nothing ever felt out of the ordinary. But now, with each passing hour, the town seemed to sink deeper into a nightmarish reality.

(Karl Kolchak)

I had just finished speaking with Mrs. Walker, the next-door neighbor of BoBo, and the pieces were beginning to fall into place—though the picture was more disturbing than I ever could have imagined.

According to Mrs. Walker, BoBo had been acting... different over the last few weeks. She told me that he had been "distraught," barely able to sleep after the death of his beagle, Bags. Apparently, BoBo and Bags were inseparable. The dog’s death had hit him hard, and Mrs. Walker remembered hearing BoBo muttering to himself late at night, the sound of his voice rising above the usual hum of the neighborhood.

“He was obsessed with it,” she said, wringing her hands. “BoBo kept saying he had a way to bring Bags back. He’d talk about it like it was a sure thing—like he could get his dog back from the grave, no problem. And once he did, he said they could be together for decades more. I tried to tell him to get help, but he wouldn’t listen.”

Bring his dog back from the grave.

The words echoed in my head as I scribbled down the notes. What kind of madness had taken hold of BoBo? Was this obsession with death the reason he’d turned to something darker? The "experiments" in the basement were starting to make more sense, but it was all becoming harder to believe with every passing moment.

I took a breath and switched gears. I had an update from the police lab, though it wasn’t the kind of news I had hoped for.

The lab had been destroyed earlier today—bombed, or so it appeared. The officers on site had barely gotten out in time. Before it was leveled, however, one of the techs had managed to brief me on something they’d discovered: the “goo” That was reported on  from BoBo’s front yard was far more dangerous than I realized.

It wasn’t just some strange substance. According to the police, the goo appeared to be a re-animator liquid.

The implications hit me hard. This wasn’t just about BoBo’s grief over his dog—this was something much darker, much older. The liquid was capable of bringing the dead back to life. They didn’t have the specifics yet, but I was told it worked on anything it touched. Anything.

Could this goo have been what brought Bags back to BoBo? It was hard to wrap my head around, but with all the strange things going on—and the skeleton hand I saw last night—it made more sense than I wanted to admit.

I’ve been promised more details within the next few hours, though with the police lab now destroyed, I wasn’t sure how much more I’d be able to find out. The pieces were starting to fall into place, but the puzzle was getting more complex—and more dangerous—by the minute.

The situation only deepened as I spoke with the officials from animal control. The discovery of the rats in BoBo’s basement had already sent chills down my spine, but what I learned today only amplified my fear.

Apparently, the rats weren’t just rats. Many of them had human flesh in their stomachs. The authorities were still trying to figure out what exactly that meant, but one thing was certain: these rats had been revived. Some of the rodents had been dead for over ten years before being brought back to life, only to be used for some twisted purpose—and then killed off again. It was a bizarre form of reanimation, one that seemed to defy every law of nature.

Animal control was baffled. They couldn’t explain how these creatures had survived in such a state, nor why they had been used in the first place. But there was no question: these weren’t just innocent animals. They were subjects. And could have been what killed and ate BoBo.

I made sure to jot down as much as I could before heading back to BoBo’s property. Something else had come to light—another strange, seemingly unrelated incident—but I couldn’t shake the feeling that it might be connected.

Two+ pumpkins had been stolen from BoBo’s front yard. Authorities were chalking it up to animals, given that the roots had been chewed through in a way that suggested rodents or perhaps raccoons. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that the pumpkins might not be as innocent as they seemed. Could the theft of the pumpkins have been part of some larger ritual? Was it an act of desperation—or was someone else involved in BoBo’s experiments? Something about the whole situation didn’t sit right with me.

As I left the property, I couldn’t shake the feeling that more was happening here than the authorities were letting on. Who or what was really behind all this?

I’d need to dig deeper, but with the police lab gone and the town unraveling at the seams, I wasn’t sure how much longer the truth could stay buried.


Chapter 4: The Return

(The Next Day)


I probably shouldn’t be writing this.
What I’ve just seen… no one will believe me. But I have to record it. Someone has to know.

Through not-so-normal means—and I’ll leave it at that—I managed to gain access to the facility where the crate from BoBo’s house was being kept. Security was supposed to be tight, but when I arrived, the air felt abandoned, like the place had been left in a hurry. The only light came from the flicker of emergency lamps that hummed overhead. The smell—thick and chemical—made my eyes water.

And there it was.
The crate.

It sat in the center of the room, motionless, its surface stained with the same red-and-white stripes I’d seen the night before. I don’t know what I was expecting to find—but I wasn’t ready for what actually happened.

The crate moved.

At first, I thought it was the building settling, or maybe a draft. But then the lid… it shifted, creaking open inch by inch, the sound scraping through the silence like nails across metal. My instincts screamed at me to run, but I stayed, frozen in place, notebook in one hand, recorder in the other.

Something inside began to rise.

It was a skeleton—but not a complete one. Pieces of flesh still clung to the bone, a grotesque patchwork of decay and motion. It moved like something half alive, half forced into existence. And then… it spoke.

A voice, wet and rasping, came from behind the jawbone.
“My name… is BoBo.”

I could barely breathe.

The thing—BoBo—sat there, still wearing the tattered remains of a clown outfit, streaked with grime and something darker. The fabric was burned and torn, but the faded red pom-poms still hung down his chest like mockery.

He looked directly at me, though I couldn’t see eyes—just dead white glowing orbs  where they should have been.

“I… tried,” he said slowly. “I tried to bring Bags back… my friend… from his long sleep.”

His jaw clicked as he spoke, the words stuttering like they were being dragged out of a dead throat.

“But something went wrong. The brew spilled. It wasn’t ready… it wasn’t ready!”

He grew agitated, the voice rising in a sharp, broken pitch. “The rats came. The rats ate me. They came from the walls, from the cracks, from the dark… they ate and they remembered…”

And then he stopped.

The skeletal figure froze mid-sentence, as if hearing something I couldn’t. His head tilted sharply toward the shadows behind me. His body trembled—no, quivered—like he could sense something crawling just beyond the edge of the light.

Then, BoBo turned and climbed back into the crate as he was screaming “RATS” . The lid shut with a dull thud.

I stood there for several minutes, paralyzed, listening. There was nothing—no sound, no breath, no movement. Just silence.

I left the facility around 2 AM. I told myself I’d come back before dawn to see if he was still there. Now, I wish I hadn’t made that promise.

(5:00 AM)

It’s gone.

Everything.

I went back just before sunrise, and the entire facility was empty. Not damaged—cleared. It looked like someone, or something, had swept through and taken everything away. Even the walls looked scrubbed. The air smelled like burnt metal and bleach.

Every desk overturned. Cabinets ripped from the wall. It didn’t look like a cleanup crew—it looked like a panic.

Whatever happened here scared them enough to abandon the place entirely.

I searched through what little was left and found only two things:
A spare gas mask lying in the corner, cracked but unused… and a single, charred scrap of paper with the words “DANGER: ANIMAL WASTE” still legible.

That’s it.

No sign of BoBo. No sign of the crate. Not a single piece of evidence that anything I saw even existed.

But I know what I saw. I talked to him. He talked back.

And now—now I can’t stop thinking about that word he used. Bags.

If that re-animator liquid really worked… if it brought BoBo back… then what else did it touch?

I don’t know what’s going to happen to me for reporting this story. I don’t even know who’s still listening. But if anyone finds this note—please—if you hear anything about BoBo, stay away.

He’s not gone.
None of them are.

The crate has been moved.
I think I know where.

I’m going there tonight.
I’ll update you by first light—if I can.




Chapter 5: The Seeds of the Dead

(4:45 PM)

It’s been a few days since I last wrote.
I needed the time—time to process what I’ve seen, what I’ve heard, what I’ve come to believe.

I’ve been trying to fit this all together like some impossible puzzle, but every time I think I understand it, something new happens that changes everything again. Sometimes it all feels like a fever dream… and then other times, it fits so perfectly that I can’t sleep at night.

It’s true. BoBo—the abomination of medical science that crawled out of his own grave—is gone. Vanished. No trace, no whispers, nothing but silence where there used to be horror. It’s as though someone—or something—decided to bury him again, to tuck him away like a dirty secret the town wasn’t ready to face.

But while BoBo might be gone, what he started hasn’t stopped.

Something new has taken root.

I don’t even know how to begin describing what’s been happening here. These are the kinds of stories you’d hear in an old Halloween folktale—something you’d laugh about over a bonfire or tell kids to scare them into behaving. But this is real. I’ve seen parts of it myself.

It started near BoBo’s house again. You remember that pumpkin patch in his yard—the one the reanimator goo spilled across? Authorities assumed the pumpkins were stolen or destroyed, but it turns out… they weren’t.

The pumpkins moved themselves .

Not just rolled or shifted. They dug themselves out of the ground. According to witnesses—and I’ve spoken to several—the vines snapped, and the pumpkins pulled free like something clawing its way out of the dirt. Some neighbors even swear they heard muffled laughter, soft and hollow, echoing through the mist that night.

Since then, things have only gotten worse.

Reports are coming in from all over the region—from Lake George, Ticonderoga, even as far south as Glens Falls. People are talking about sightings of a small figure, roughly the size of a child, wandering the streets at night. Its head is shaped like a pumpkin—jagged grin, candlelight flickering behind the eyes.

They call him Sam.

According to local superstition, Sam shows up at homes that don’t have a jack-o’-lantern on their porch. It sounds ridiculous, I know—but the injuries aren’t. Several residents have been hospitalized after unexplained nighttime attacks. One elderly man in Bolton said something “short and round” came to his door, knocking softly before slamming the window open. When he woke up in the hospital, his arm was covered in deep vine-like cuts, and the doctors said the wounds were… growing.

It would have stayed just another story—another town myth—if not for what happened two nights ago.

A long-time sheriff’s deputy, who has asked me not to reveal his name, swore he and his team confronted something near the edge of the old orchard on Route 9N. “We caught it,” he said. “It was fast, like an animal, but when we shot it, it screamed. A human scream.”

The deputy told me they managed to sever what he called its “head”—a pumpkin-shaped growth with a flickering, molten light inside. He described it as still talking after they removed it.

I thought he was exaggerating. Until I saw it.

The head—Sam—was contained in a box of green with three clasps and a lock, sitting in a cold storage room in the substation. Even with the lid sealed, you could hear muffled noise coming from inside: a gurgling, half-human voice muttering nonsense. When the deputy cracked the lid open just a few inches, I saw it for myself.

A pumpkin face—half-rotted, half alive—its mouth writhing like something trying to form words.
And it was speaking.

“He has more work to do,” it said. “Give me my legs back.”

Then the screaming started.

The deputy slammed the lid shut, shouting for everyone to get out. Within minutes, men in plain uniforms arrived—people I’d never seen before, not local law enforcement. They grabbed the box, shoved it into the back of an unmarked truck, and drove off like the world was ending.

I tried to follow, but they cut me off.

I can still hear Sam screaming from inside the truck as it sped down the road.

Now no one will talk to me. Everyone’s afraid, pretending none of this is happening. Even the deputy has gone quiet.

BoBo’s gone. Sam’s been taken. And this town… this town is rotting from the inside out.

Sometimes I wonder if this is what BoBo meant when he said the rats “remembered.” Maybe that cursed brew didn’t just bring life—it spread it. Twisted it. Warped it.

It’s getting worse. I can feel it in the air.

I have more places to check—more leads to follow before I publish any of this.
But one thing’s certain: the dead aren’t staying buried anymore.

And whatever started in BoBo’s basement… isn’t done with us yet.



Chapter 6: The Witch and the Collector

(Halloween Morning)

It’s Halloween.
Funny how everything’s come full circle on this day—what started as an investigation into a party clown’s mysterious death has now turned into something I can barely recognize. Days have blurred into weeks, and I can hardly remember when I first began this dark journey. The faces, the whispers, the strange occurrences—they’ve all melded into one long, unending nightmare.

And it’s not over. It won’t be.

I’ve finally gotten a lead on the man—or should I say the collector—behind this whole mess. I don’t have a name yet, but I know he’s based down south, somewhere in Florida. Word on the street is that he’s made a fortune from collecting rare items—things you would never think could be worth anything, much less fetch a price so high. He’s apparently the kind of man who can cover up something as big as this entire nightmare, paying off anyone who gets too close, ensuring that any trace of evidence disappears as quickly as it surfaces.

This collector… it feels like he’s the puppet master of this whole dark operation. But that’s not the worst part.

The worst part is the person who started this mess—the one who gave BoBo the tools he needed to bring his dog, Bags, back from the dead.

I’ve been hearing rumors of her for weeks now, but I wasn’t prepared for what I’ve uncovered. They say she’s a witch—though “witch” doesn’t quite do justice to what she really is. She could be from New Orleans, or maybe Russia, I don’t know. No one seems to know for sure. Her origins are as shrouded in mystery as her name, which, from what I can gather, is unpronounceable by anyone with a tongue.

But I’ve gathered what I could. The town folks that remember her say she’s ancient—older than anyone should be. One source even claims she’s been alive for over 150 years—and yes, I know how that sounds. I get it… but when you look at the evidence and hear the stories from those who’ve seen her, it’s hard to dismiss.

They call her a witch, a seer, a fortune-teller, but most people who’ve crossed her path have nothing but terror in their eyes when they speak of her. She has a gaze—a look—that freezes people in their tracks. One guy I spoke with, who claims to have been in her presence once, said, “Her Gayz will freeze you in your tracks.” I’m not sure if “Gayz” is some kind of regional term or just a personal quirk of his, but what matters is that whatever it means, it’s terrifying. People who’ve encountered her swear they never want to see her again.

I’m still piecing together the story, but the picture is becoming clearer. She’s not just a regular “witch” who can read tea leaves and predict the future—though she did that too. According to old records I dug up, she ran a shop for a long time, where she’d tell people’s fortunes, offer advice, and sell her herbal remedies. But everything changed when BoBo—yes, BoBo the clown—started showing up at her shop. That’s when the whispers began.

It seems that, at some point, BoBo got desperate. After losing Bags, he started seeking out things no sane person would even think of. Word has it, he went to her—this ancient witch—and begged her for help. He needed a way to bring Bags back. That’s when she gave him a cauldron. Not just any cauldron, mind you—a magical cauldron capable of reanimating the dead. She gave him all the supplies he needed to make it work. I can only imagine the dark rituals BoBo must have performed.

This cauldron… this is what tipped over in BoBo’s basement, spilling its brew of reanimator liquid and triggering the madness beneath the house. And when the liquid mixed with the earth, it began to bring things back. Things that shouldn’t have been alive. The vines, the pumpkins, the rats, and whatever else was buried beneath.

But the real horror is in what the cauldron can do: it can keep what’s alive alive. And it can bring life to what was never alive. That’s how BoBo became what he is—a half-eaten, half-dead zombie clown—stuck between two worlds, unable to die. His fate seems sealed, just like the twisted creatures now walking the earth.

From what I can piece together, BoBo’s experiment went horribly wrong. The cauldron spilled, and the things it reanimated started attacking him, tearing him apart and pulling him into whatever nightmare they came from. He wasn’t fully dead. But he wasn’t fully alive either.

I wish that was the end of it. But no.

I’ve learned that the witch—the woman who started this whole mess—has a brother. He’s not here, but he’s out there somewhere, another part of this cursed equation. They say he wanted to be a clown too. He was obsessed with it—obsessed with the same dark magic BoBo sought out.

I’ve got to find him.

And then, there’s the collector. The one who buys up the “pieces” of these twisted events. What exactly is he planning? What does he want with the horrors BoBo has set loose on this town?

I can’t say much more for now. Time is running out. I need to verify what I’ve been told, follow up on where these hellish puppets might be transported next. If I don’t get to the bottom of this, if I don’t stop them, who knows what will happen?

Maybe I won’t even be around to finish this story. But if I am, you’ll hear from me again. I’ll keep you updated—if I can.

Until then…       Stay safe. Stay away from the witch. And whatever you do, keep your jack-o’-lanterns lit just in case there are more like SAM.




Chapter 7: The Shipment 

(Halloween Night, 11:45 PM)


I’ve found them.

I don’t know how long I’ve been chasing shadows, but tonight it’s all come into focus. I know where they’re going. I know who is behind this now.

The rumors were true. The collector—the one I told you about from down south—isn’t just hoarding these monstrosities; he’s planning to display them. Like some kind of grotesque sideshow. A living museum of horror. I overheard part of a conversation between two men in plain uniforms while tailing the transport truck—they mentioned Florida, something about a “secure exhibit” near the north.

I almost laughed. A “display”? These things aren’t relics. They’re alive.
And if even one of them wakes up fully, if the containment seals break…

God help them all.

From what I can tell, three of them are being shipped together. The truck is parked about fifty feet ahead of me right now, idling under a dim service light by the airport freight terminal. I can see the crates through a gap in the doors. Each one is marked with the same red-and-white hazard or circus stripes as BoBo’s original box.

But these aren’t just boxes anymore.
They’re coffins.

And inside—
BoBo.
Sam, the talking pumpkin head.
And something new.

Someone—or something—else is with them.

I caught a glimpse when one of the guards opened the back door to check the locks. There was movement in the farthest crate. It wasn’t BoBo—I know his outline now. This was smaller, sharper. I swear I saw fingers—roots?—curling around the inside edge.

It’s true what they said: the slime spreads. One drop, one spatter, and it infects whatever it touches. That’s how Sam was born, remember? Just from BoBo’s spilled reanimator fluid soaking into the pumpkins in his yard. Now there’s word of another one—a second talking pumpkin head with no body—roaming somewhere between here and the county line.

This has to stop.

I don’t know how yet, but I have to destroy these things before they spread any further. Before that green slime—whatever it is—turns the rest of this world into something unrecognizable. I’ve packed accelerant, a crowbar, and a handful of tools that might help me breach the truck once it stops. I know it sounds reckless, but if I don’t end this now, there might not be another chance.

The collector has no idea what kind of evil he’s inviting into his life. He thinks he’s getting curiosities—oddities for his private collection. But these aren’t curiosities. They’re pieces of something much bigger. Pieces of a curse.

And it’s all tied back to her.

The witch.

I’m sure now that she’s orchestrating this, guiding it from the shadows. Maybe she sold the cauldron to BoBo, maybe she cursed the earth under his house, maybe she did both. But one thing’s clear—she’s not finished. She’s still out there. And I think she wants these things to spread.

I need to talk to her. I need to know what her endgame is.

I’m going to follow the shipment until I find the right moment to make my move. Once I’m close enough, I’ll try to intercept—either at the airport or wherever this plane lands. If I survive long enough to find the witch, I’ll try to complete the story.

If you don’t hear from me again, just remember this:
Don’t go looking for the boxes.
Don’t go near the collector.
And whatever happens—if you see anything crawling out of the ground this Halloween—run.

—End transmission—





Final Chapter: Flight 92

(October 31st – Halloween Night, 12:58 AM)
[Recorded transmission recovered from an unknown device found near the crash site of Flight 92]

Message Log — “To: Tony”

Tony—
I found them.
All of them.

BoBo.
Sam.
And a third crate.

I think… I think the third one contains the witch herself.

They’re loading them now, Tony—onto a cargo plane. Flight 92. Destination: Miami/Fort Lauderdale. The collector’s waiting for them there. He’s got no idea what kind of nightmare he’s about to unpack.

You have to try to stop this.
Call whoever you can. Get this flight grounded.

If you can’t… I’ll get on the plane myself. I’ll stop it from the inside.

I can’t let these things live.
I can’t let that plane land.

I’ll call you from onboard once I figure out what’s happening.
If I don’t make it back, tell everyone—burn everything.
No one can ever open these crates again.

Whatever happens I hope to god this finds you tony!

—End of message.





[Audio File: FINAL MESSAGE FROM THE PLANE — Timestamp: 1:42 AM]

Low static. The dull roar of engines. Metal rattling. The sound of breath close to the mic.

Tony… I guess you didn’t get my last message. Or maybe you couldn’t stop the flight.

I’m inside.
I made it.

The cargo bay’s colder than I expected. There’s frost on the inside walls, like something’s draining the heat from the air. All three crates are here—tied down, but shaking slightly every time the plane hits turbulence.

There’s… something else.
I keep hearing mumbling.

At first, I thought it was the engines. But no—it’s coming from the crates.

Distant sounds: rhythmic thumping. Whispering. A low hum building beneath the recording.

Wait—
I think it’s chanting.

Footsteps. The mic shifts as he moves closer.

I can hear it better now. It sounds like a voice coming from all three boxes at once—like they’re… speaking together.

(Whispering, faint at first, then rising)
“Come one, come all… come one, come all to get yours…”

Tony—
I think they’re saying, “Come one, come all and see the truth… that death is light and life is gone.”

Oh God…
They’re not asleep anymore.

I can feel something moving inside the crates. There’s pressure building. The air smells like rot and burnt sugar. And that sound—
It’s getting louder.

(Recording distortion — voices overlap: “The dark is coming… the light is gone…”)

Tony, listen—
If anyone ever finds this, you have to make sure they don’t open those boxes. BoBo, Sam, the witch—they’re not separate. They’re connected. Pieces of something bigger.

The witch—
That’s what I never told you before. I found out what she’s doing.

Loud creak of wood splintering. Sudden bang.

She’s using them to seed cities.
The cauldron wasn’t just reanimation—it was infection. Every creature that spills her magic spreads it. She planned this for decades. The slime, the pumpkins, the rats, BoBo—it’s all part of it.

She’s not just reviving the dead, Tony.
She’s turning the living into them.

She called it The Second Harvest.

(Background chanting crescendos — multiple voices now, layered and distorted)
“The dark is coming… the dark is coming… feed the roots… feed the roots…”

No—
No, no—something’s happening!

One of the crates—it's opening—
There’s light coming out of it! Green light—like the goo!
It’s spilling—oh my God, it’s moving on its own!

(Sounds of scuffling, metal clanging, screaming)

Tony!
The witch—she’s awake!

She’s in the third crate—she’s standing up!
I can see her eyes—white hair—she’s smiling—

(Terrified breathing. Shouting. Then, a woman’s voice—calm, ancient, resonant.)

“Come one, come all… to see the truth…”

No—no, I have to—
I have to stop this plane! I have to—

(Sudden burst of static. Impact sounds. Screaming. Then silence—followed by faint chanting in the background.)

“The seeds are sown… the harvest begins…”

[END OF TRANSMISSION]

Postscript:
Authorities Found a recording device according to reports..
Flight 92 vanished from radar thirty miles off the Florida coast.
Debris later washed ashore across several miles of beach—pieces of fuselage covered in a sticky green residue.
No human remains were found.

But in the marshlands outside Fort Lauderdale, locals claim pumpkins began to grow where no seeds were ever planted.
And sometimes—on Halloween night—if the wind is right, you can still hear a faint, distorted voice whispering through the leaves on the crash site:

“Come one, come all… to see the truth…”







Epilogue: A Witchy Incident

(Recovered fragments from local reports and restricted internal communications – Nov 3rd, 2024)

[Excerpt: WBLT Local News – North Florida Feed]

“Authorities continue to search for the missing Flight 92 cargo manifest after the plane vanished somewhere over the Everglades near the small town of Everglades City, Florida, have reported strange lights and noises in the surrounding marsh forests. Law enforcement has not confirmed any connection between the missing aircraft and what some locals are calling ‘Campbellween.’”

“According to witnesses, a sprawling property north of town—once used as a Halloween attraction—has recently been fenced off, with unmarked trucks entering and leaving at all hours. No one seems to know who owns it, but the name ‘Campbellween Haunts’ appears on several of the vehicles. Locals claim to hear laughter, music, and… even pirates speak behind the fence.”

[CLASSIFIED FIELD REPORT — Unverified Source]

Subject: “Project Campbellween”
Status: Active
Location: Restricted Area – North Florida Pine Barrens
Command Entity: The Witch (Unidentified Female Subject, est. 150+ years old)

Following the crash of Flight 92 and the recovery of debris along the Everglades coast, the cargo—believed to be three contaminated entities (Subject B-01 “BoBo”, Subject P-01 “Sam”, and Subject W-00 “The Witch”)—has been traced to a facility operating under the name Campbellween.

Intelligence indicates the witch is alive and exerting direct control over the revived subjects, along with numerous secondary entities created through exposure to the reanimator compound (designated Substance G).

Evidence suggests the witch is using Campbellween as both a containment site and a manufacturing ground for new hybrids. The phrase “The Harvest Continues” has appeared scrawled in several recovered field logs.

Multiple agents have reported hearing voices inside the compound—often belonging to the dead. One in particular has been confirmed through vocal analysis:
Karl Kolchak, the missing reporter presumed deceased in the Flight 92 incident.

Witnesses claim the witch reattached Karl’s severed head to the body of a massive, reanimated rat. The creature is said to roam the underground halls, its jaw stitched and bolted to its skull, forced to speak the witch’s stories aloud.

Codename for entity: “The Rat Reporter.”

Reports say that each night, the witch commands Karl to tell new stories—not for the living, but for her creations. His voice echoes through the tunnels of Campbellween, keeping the undead entertained while they await their next command.

The witch reportedly calls this her “Midnight Broadcast.”

[Audio Snippet — Origin Unknown, Timestamp 3:13 AM]
Static. Rat-like screeching. Then a voice, warped and trembling:

“This is Karl… reporting from the dark… from where the light can’t reach. She made me see it, Tony. She made me tell it. The Harvest isn’t over. It’s growing… She's feeding it. She has more coming, a Talking Face and a Pirate Head!. I count 5 persons all condemned to a death of her wishes in this hell. “

(low cackling in the background)

“Campbellween will open soon… come one, come all… to see the truth…”

Transmission ends with heavy breathing, scratching sounds, and a distant voice humming a carnival tune.

[Final Government Addendum – Restricted Access]

Campbellween remains cordoned off. All entry prohibited. Multiple missing persons reports have been filed in connection with the site. Local officials deny its existence. However, satellite imagery shows a multiple small structure erected at the center of the compound.

No survivors have been recovered from inside.

Postscript:
Rumor has it, if you drive through northern Florida around midnight in late October, you can still hear Karl’s muffled broadcast through dead AM stations—
a distorted voice warning listeners to keep their lights on,
and to never look toward the tents that glow orange in the trees.

And sometimes, between the static, a woman’s voice whispers:

“Come one… come all…
The Harvest is here.”
this crate that has become his coffin forever.​