Print, Panic, and Paranoia: I Broke Into the Kingsmouth Chronicle

 I’d like to begin this post with a heartfelt apology to absolutely no one.

When the public archive fails you, and the town librarian says, “Oh honey, we don’t go back that far anymore,” what else is a girl supposed to do? Respect boundaries? Ask nicely?

No, you climb through the Chronicle’s busted side window with a torch between your teeth and a righteous obsession in your heart. And that’s exactly what I did last night.

Selfie evidence? Oh, absolutely:

So yeah. Kingsmouth Chronicle. Not exactly New York Times, but it’s charming in that abandoned-haunted-murder-den kind of way. Smells like mildew and typewriter ink. I half expected to find a raccoon with a press badge. I felt like a right PI or investigative journalist, or whatever they're called nowadays. Snoops.

The article I found in the Black House — the one dated April 4th, 2005 — turned out to be genuine after all. Tucked away in the dusty archive box at the back of the Chronicle’s basement, just like the librarian insisted. Real paper, real ink, and Jack Boone’s unmistakable signature at the bottom: JB.
Jack. Boone.

Local legend. Professional crank. Probably right about more than we’ll ever admit.

But something about it didn’t sit right. It felt incomplete — like a page was missing, or like the story had been trimmed down for public consumption. Boone was never known for subtlety. If he’d sniffed something strange, he’d have chased it to the edge of madness. So why did this piece feel so… careful?

So I needed to know: What else did Boone write about the Black House?

And so I looked. I looked and looked. Nothing. If there was anything, it didn’t exist in any known database. Not on microfiche, not in the “special collections” box the librarian swore contained all the archived local print.

And that's where things got weird.

Weirder than the dozen half-lit cult flyers pinned to the wall? Yes.

Weirder than the old editor's desk still having fresh matches and a warm mug? Yes.

Tucked in the back room, behind the weather-warped door labeled ARCHIVE, I found a terminal still connected to their internal network.

It was just humming. Like it had been waiting.

Waiting for me? Too weird.

On it? One of Boone’s notes, scrawled on a sticky, just said:

“See internal: KMCNET → /unpublished → CODED/BOONE/06-04-05”

I nearly screamed.
Instead, I took another picture:

Long story short?
The article? The real article? It’s not in the paper.
It’s in the system.

Boone started writing something bigger. Something that didn’t make it to print. Something he buried in the Chronicle’s internal website.

There’s more there than words. Far more than words. I've never heard of steg tools, but I checked it out.

Oh.

My.

God.

Not telling that here. Not after they already hacked me. You can find that out for yourselves.

I don’t know if anyone ever made it out of that office. I don't know if what I felt watching me was the story… or the thing behind it.

But I do know this much:
The house didn’t burn because of the storm. Or the mob. Or even the fear.

It was something else.

Something beneath all of that. Something that wanted out.
And I’ve seen what they buried behind login walls and blacked-out files. I followed the trail far enough to know I shouldn’t have. And maybe that’s why I can’t say it. Not all of it.

But ever since that night... I can’t stop hearing it.

Carrie is still here.

Not a rumour. Not a legend. Just a truth no one wants written down.

Stay strange,
— Jenna 🕷
keep on feeding the moths

The House That Hates You: My Night in the Black House

 You know that feeling when a place doesn’t just feel wrong — it wants you gone?

Yeah. That.

That’s the Black House, and I made the excellent life choice of going inside it. Alone. At night. With a half-charged torch and a deep-seated belief that I’m immortal because I have good hair.

So here’s your backstory, served hot and a little scorched:
April 3rd, 2005 — fire guts a twisted little cottage out on the edge of Kingsmouth. Locals say lightning struck. Locals also say the grocery store freezer aisle is haunted, so… salt that generously.

But this wasn’t just a fire. It didn’t end. The place didn’t crumble and get bulldozed into history like a normal crime scene. No. It stayed — scorched and stubborn, like the earth itself refused to forget. Even now, it feels wrong. Like walking into a bad memory that isn’t yours. The air doesn’t move right. The shadows breathe funny. And something — someone — watches.

Yeah, yeah, insert horror-blogger eye-roll. I get it. But screw you, I was there. And the house knows when you’re lying.

Now here’s where the rabbit-hole creaks open:
Buried under a pile of soot and ruined timetables, I found a Kingsmouth Chronicle clipping. Not birdcage-filler. Not souvenir-shop tat. This thing was real. Singed edges. Faded ink. But still readable. The headline?

“Woman Burned to Death in Fire — No Apologies Necessary”
Dated April 4th, 2005. One day after the blaze.
No byline — just initials scratched in at the bottom: JB.

Jack freaking Boone.
The town’s resident conspiracy magnet. Unofficial mayor of ‘Don’t Trust the Water Supply’. And now? My newest obsession.

The article was weird. Rambling quotes, odd little spiral symbols, a side-rant about local witchcraft. The woman in the fire? Carrie Killian. Loner. Bookworm. Maybe a witch. Maybe just unlucky enough to piss off the wrong crowd.

And here’s the kicker: that article? It doesn’t exist.
Not online. Not in the Chronicle’s back issues. Not even in the dusty librarian-only folders they swear haven’t been touched since MySpace was cool.

So, obviously, I did what any curious, slightly unstable person would do:
I broke into the Chronicle office.
Details coming soon — probably after three coffees and a minor existential spiral.

Stay tuned, creeps. The paper trail’s still smoking.

Spoiler alert: I found Boone’s original draft. Jack Boone. The conspiracy-chasing, chain-smoking journalist with a paranormal complex and a grudge against authority. He’d been investigating the Black House long before it burned — and what he found didn’t exactly scream "act of God.”

Anyway, I’ll let you dig through that yourself. I’ve got ash in my boots and possibly a ghost in my backpack.

Stay tuned, weirdos. There’s more under Kingsmouth than we’ve dreamed.

— Jenna
feeding the moths

Same Moths, New Flame

 

Well. That didn’t take long.

Barely six months into this new chapter and already the ghosts are nipping at my hard drive. For anyone wondering where my older posts went — yeah, that’s not me scrubbing my tracks. That’s someone else trying to.

About two weeks ago, my old blog (RIP Echoes Beneath, we hardly knew ye) suddenly locked me out. Total freeze. Then the archive started vanishing — one entry at a time. Weirdest part? It wasn’t all the posts. Just the ones where I dug too deep. The Academy, the Lighthouse, that freaky static loop I picked up near Blue Ridge? Gone.

I managed to pull a few from my personal backups, so you’ll start seeing reuploads. Don’t freak if timestamps are weird or the comment threads look stitched together. I’m doing my best to Frankenstein the old data.

And before anyone says “You probably just got phished, dummy,” I’d like to point out that the IP activity on the admin panel was bouncing through seven countries and had a ping echoing inside the site before anything even changed. One of the headers just read “13” in the auth log. No context. No domain. Just that.

Maybe I’m imagining things. Maybe it’s just some jerk with a grudge. Or maybe it’s Thirteen.

Either way — we’re live again. Same moths. New flame.
Let’s see how long I get to keep the lights on this time.

🦋
— Jenna