Jack Jetts
Ghost
@jackjetts
When I used to people I’m an artist, they would always ask me if I was famous, well no I wasn’t, until I died that is. I’m Jack Jetts, a sorry attempt at being some sort of famed artist. I liked to think I could do anything with my life and that anything was paint, draw, and sketch anything. In all reality, the 90’s art scene was hard to get into, with the 80’s behind us the psychedelic art was done and they wanted a new form of art, something that would launch us into the 2000’s. Grunge was in then and people wanted something edgy. Maybe I had just been losing my edge, losing my inspiration. I tried anything to get my mind flowing, but to no avail. I was going to lose my apartment; I was going to lose my car, everything. And when you have no money, you realize who really likes you for you.
I was alone for most of the time, and by 1994 I was at a loss. I had no ideas at all. When someone told me they wanted something dark, something seedy, something that would make people think something other than what’s on the surface. I was really desperate, and when someone told me about a house, a ‘Murder House’? You better believe I was all over it. This was gonna bring be back up, bring me back to the top. I was gonna make something of myself.
I set up my stuff, looking around the house. It really had a spooky feel to it, and I was eating it up. I needed this house, I needed it. I had only been there for maybe an hour, maybe, and I started hearing things, things I tried to push past but I couldn’t. Voices, footsteps… I remember getting up from my chair, I remember following the sound. To which now I know was a terrible idea. The basement was full of voices, arguing. I walked down the stairs, seeing a man, who looked like a doctor arguing with a blonde woman. They looked up at me on the stairs and I looked back at them. The blonde woman started yelling again, yelling about me being there. They didn’t want me in the house. I turned away from them, heading back to the living room to get my stuff, trying to be fast but I was interrupted by a hand covering my mouth with a cloth, and I remember my eyes going hazy, blurry as I was dragged back down to the basement.
I looked around; the darkness of the basement was overwhelming. I couldn’t feel, not until I felt a sharp pain go through my stomach. The warmth that left my stomach made me wince. I remember my own voice trying to call for help but all that filled my mouth was the warmth of my own blood. The coppery taste of it making me cringe. I don’t remember much after that, I just remember waking up, unbloody, and with a scar from where I had been stabbed. This house was supposed to be my ticket to the top, my start to a new life… and instead it killed me. I’m not famous for my art; I’m not famous for my vision. I’m just famous for being a 20 year old found dead in the basement of the Murder House.
I was alone for most of the time, and by 1994 I was at a loss. I had no ideas at all. When someone told me they wanted something dark, something seedy, something that would make people think something other than what’s on the surface. I was really desperate, and when someone told me about a house, a ‘Murder House’? You better believe I was all over it. This was gonna bring be back up, bring me back to the top. I was gonna make something of myself.
I set up my stuff, looking around the house. It really had a spooky feel to it, and I was eating it up. I needed this house, I needed it. I had only been there for maybe an hour, maybe, and I started hearing things, things I tried to push past but I couldn’t. Voices, footsteps… I remember getting up from my chair, I remember following the sound. To which now I know was a terrible idea. The basement was full of voices, arguing. I walked down the stairs, seeing a man, who looked like a doctor arguing with a blonde woman. They looked up at me on the stairs and I looked back at them. The blonde woman started yelling again, yelling about me being there. They didn’t want me in the house. I turned away from them, heading back to the living room to get my stuff, trying to be fast but I was interrupted by a hand covering my mouth with a cloth, and I remember my eyes going hazy, blurry as I was dragged back down to the basement.
I looked around; the darkness of the basement was overwhelming. I couldn’t feel, not until I felt a sharp pain go through my stomach. The warmth that left my stomach made me wince. I remember my own voice trying to call for help but all that filled my mouth was the warmth of my own blood. The coppery taste of it making me cringe. I don’t remember much after that, I just remember waking up, unbloody, and with a scar from where I had been stabbed. This house was supposed to be my ticket to the top, my start to a new life… and instead it killed me. I’m not famous for my art; I’m not famous for my vision. I’m just famous for being a 20 year old found dead in the basement of the Murder House.