The House on Mayberry Road

by Troy McCombs

  A tall, young, muscular soldier standing in the middle of the road signaled him to turn back. He didn't look happy, either.

  "John! John!" – It was Sheriff Steera's voice, muffled by a thin sheet of glass. Steera was standing beside the passenger-side window.

  John rolled it down. "Holy shit, Charlie, I thought there would be a few out-of-town authorities here, but I never expected—"

  "Yeah, tell me about it. They won't let any local authorities past security."

  "Turn around and go back the way you came!" The solider walked forward, his eyes almost as fiery as the glow sticks in his hands.

  "Look, John, I don't think we can stay here. How about I meet you back in town? We can talk about it there. You can explain to me the—" Before he could finish, the soldier in camouflage walked over to Steera and clutched him by his arm. "I need both of you to—"

  Charlie yanked his arm away from the vise-like grip. "Don't you fucking touch me! I know my rights, asshole. I've been a cop in this town for longer than you've been born. You're in my jurisdiction now. You don't know what you're dealing with in those woods."

  "Listen, sir, I can have you arrested if you and your friend don't leave at this very moment."

  John watched through his rear windshield as a flock of photographers took multiple pictures of the scene with their large, expensive-looking cameras. Click! Click! Click! Click! Click! An enormous man with a rifle backed them away.

  Steera continued, “You can't arrest me. And I don't really give a shit what you have to say. My men are the ones that died in there. I'm the one who should be in charge. Not your sorry ass, or your bosses sorry ass. Me. I've been investigating this house since day one."

  "Sir, I'm going to ask you nicely one last time. Please leave the area." He moved closer, his face only an inch away from Steera's. Charlie didn't like this kid with the garlicky breath invading his personal space. He hated this case—his case—being suddenly overrun by a bunch of inexperienced, power-crazed morons from St. Cardinal Military Base.

  He didn't really give a fuck about getting in trouble anymore.

  "All right, kid." Steera held up his hands and backed away, smiling. “You got it. We're leaving."

  The soldier watched him as he slipped into John's car. John immediately knew something was up.

  "Don't tell me we're getting past security," the psychic sighed in disgust.

  Steera giggled, still looking at the asshole in camouflage. "These fucking punks think they're going to kick me out of a part of my town, they got another thing coming. Meet me down at Pierce Run Road a few miles back."

  "What's your plan? And is it going to get me shot or arrested?"

  "Don't worry. If they just knew what you and I know, they'd realize they need our help." Steera stepped out of John's car, jogged to his SUV, and jumped in. John shifted his car into reverse and drove back down Robin's Pike. Steera soon did the same. The boy in camouflage shook his head while he watched them go.

  "Stupid pig."

  ***

  The branches of a dying maple tree scratched at each other in a chilly afternoon breeze. A few sporadic, early-bloomed leaves coated some of the larger limbs. The steady pour of a nearby stream below filled the countryside with a bleak glimpse of life. The covered bridge over which it flowed groaned and creaked, its worn structure itching for someone to tear it down and put it out of its misery.

  The psychic and the sheriff met here less than five minutes later, right under the maple, between the faded covered bridge and the entrance to Pierce Run Road. Basically, in the middle of nowhere.

  "Okay, Charlie, I'm waiting." John stood beside the front right headlight of his car. Steera had just exited his SUV, and was walking his way.

  "Well, there is a way we can get around their barricade…"

  John sighed. He was not an adventurer...not this kind of adventure anyway. "You're talking serious trouble here. I don't know the laws fully, but I'm sure they would severely frown on that. I mean, I want to investigate this case just as much as you do—" He stopped, not knowing what else to say.

  A harsh wind blew Charlie's hair, made him squint. "There is an old four-wheeler path that starts a couple miles up Pierce Run. It goes through the woods and all the way back to the Mayberry House. We would just come out toward the east side, near the rear. They won’t even know we're there, at least not until we let them know. I'll park a mile away in the woods just to make sure they don't hear the engine once we're close."

  John seriously considered it...venturing back into the unknown world of the Presitllion House, or being locked behind bars for two months? Breaking the code of reality and slipping into a realm of unseen origin, or having a bunch of military officers breathing down his neck, demanding he tell them why he didn't obey the law...?

  He weighed each one carefully.

  "You only got one life to live, John. Don't you wanna know as much as you can learn? You've been in that house twice now. Twice! And if we go in there, you can show them your theory. Jesus, I haven't even heard it yet. I know they'll believe you. I already do."

  John stared at the ground for many long seconds. His face went blank. Dormant. He looked extremely uncertain. Then he looked up at Steera and shook his head. "God, you're so convincing, Charlie." A goofy smile manifested on his pale face.

  "You asshole," Steera laughed. "You had me convinced you were going to say no."

  The smile on John's face eased out and became more subtle, more genuine. "What do I have to lose? Just a few dozen days behind bars?"

  ***

  Moments later, an obnoxious, rumbling motor suddenly drowned out the calming sound of the steadily-flowing stream. A cloud of exhaust spewed from a large tailpipe. Big Michelin tires came to life and spun ferociously, flinging dirt and rocks against John's Lincoln Town car. The state trooper vehicle took off, heading up Pierce Run Road.

  "And what if they don't care about what we have to say?" John watched the driver from the passenger seat, wanting to get out, go home. Getting in trouble wasn't so exciting to him.

  "Then screw 'em. They push us aside just because they got a different badge then I do, and now they're in command? I don't think so. That's bullshit. I figure we might as well try to stay where we're at. By the way, what's your stereo for?" Steera looked down at a small, out-dated radio sitting in John's lap.

  "Just drive. You'll learn soon enough."

  Steera looked back at the road. "I think they started sending guys in there. I heard one of the army boys talking on his walkie. The voice coming from the receiving end was panicked, saying that Sergeant Johnson's transmission was sending out a bizarre signal from hundreds of miles away, just after he'd 'entered the premises'. Now, since it's our 'we know everything' government, I wonder how many troops they're going to expend just trying to learn the first thing about that place."

  John shook his head. "It's a suicide mission, not a warzone. The only thing they're going to have for sure is a lot of dead bodies on their hands."

  "Hold on." Steera stepped on the gas pedal. His oversized hands yanked the wheel right. The SUV veered off the main road, passed between two trees displaying ripped and faded NO TRESPASSING signs, and ventured into the narrowest pathway of the woods John had ever seen.

  "You sure you know what you're doing?" John buckled himself in and held onto the door handle.

  "I've personally never been down this way before, but I know a few people who have. My cousin used to camp out around these parts."

  "Okay, I trust you. I think."

  Steera laughed and switched gears. The front of the SUV plowed through a group of small trees, snapping them apart like bones in a grinder. Stray leaves flew several feet into the air. John watched out his window as limbs and shrubs scraped against the glass, leaving behind dirt and scuff marks. Steera didn't seem to notice. He simply drove, watching the road, or lack of one, ahead. The rocks they drove over grew increasingly larger, the hills and turns they drove down, or around, increasingly
steeper and sharper. John didn't believe Steera knew where the hell he was going. He didn't want to say anything to him, either. Luckily he had his recently-charged cell phone with him, so if they did happen to get lost, they could be found easily.

  Relatively easy, anyway.

  "Can you slow down just a little?" The psychic's voice was unsteady. His breathing became faster and shallower.

  "We're almost there! Have some faith in me. It's not every day you get an amusement park ride through the Bellsville woods."

  "Yeah, but I didn't get my hand stamped to ride a rollercoaster, did I?"

  Charlie's Nike-clad foot slammed on the brake. The vehicle abruptly slowed down...a lot. Charlie then changed gears. John turned his head away from him and looked through the windshield. The change on his face was sudden and absolute: extreme disappointment.

  "No. Don't even try it."

  "This puppy can handle it. It's got four-wheel-drive. We'll be all right."

  The puddle down the hill up ahead was as big as a small swimming pool. It was almost as wide as the length of John's Lincoln. It looked deep, probably five or six feet, but that was impossible to tell. The sloppy mud surrounding the miniature pond looked quite willing to entrap the unfamiliar aluminum beast standing there, motionless.

  "Is there any other way around?"

  "No."

  "What if we get stuck?"

  "Then we get stuck." Steera revved the engine. The SUV twitched. The puddle waited, hungry. A light gust of wind blew by, pushing a small pebble into the water. Ripples spread to the edges quickly.

  Not only was the mud John's main concern, but the hill leading down to it was, too. Steep. Slick. Bumpy. Like an icy, wavy sliding board.

  "You definitely better hold onto something this time." Charlie looked at John, who did just that. He clutched onto the sides of his seat, tense.

  Steera looked right into the crater of brown water. His hand jerked the clutch. The cabin moved.

  "Ready?" Steera smiled.

  "I...guess."

  "Trust me; it'll all be over within a minute. Afterwards, you're going to be glad you did it."

  "I doubt that when your tires get submerged and we have to struggle to get it out of the mud."

  "God, John, for a psychic you're pretty pessimistic."

  The ride began. Charlie floored the gas. The SUV sped forward at top speed. Though adhered to his seat, John looked liable to fall out of it. The entire cabin shook, trembled. Hundreds of horses broke free. Tires chiseled through dirt, then mud. Chunks of it soared backward into the air, the tread mark of the tires imprinted on them. The steel beast proceeded down the sharp hill, slipping, skidding, then finally, regaining its hold on solid ground. John jostled from side to side, from up to down, nearly bumping his head off the window and the ceiling. The puddle came close...closer...and closer toward the men. Small pebbles smacked off the hood. Steera had a hell of a time holding onto the steering wheel.

  Then, the front end of the van careened into the puddle. Muddy water exploded into the air, splashing against the windshield and momentarily blinding both men's view of the path.

  John burst out laughing.

  Charlie looked over at him. "What'd I tell you?"

  He flicked on the wipers. They swayed from side to side, wiping some water away and smearing small clumps of mud across the glass. The entire hood of the car was now suddenly brown. A generous amount of smoke began to waver out of its vent holes. The engine began to lose power. Fast. Internal horses were struggling to gallop.

  "Come on. Come on." Steera pumped the gas.

  "What's going on? We aren't stuck, are we?"

  The front quarter of the SUV sat smack dab in the middle of the puddle, floating in spite of its massive weight. Seconds later, the submerged wheels found solid ground.

  Charlie switched gears. His foot hit the peddle. Tires turned, but didn't grip. Turned, but didn't grip. There was no tread for the rubber to stick to, only slimy mud working as makeshift quicksand. The tires rotating against it actually made the trench worse, digging their main member deeper into an inescapable trap.

  "Go, dammit!" Steera smacked the wheel.

  John laughed, unsure if he was laughing at Charlie's frustration or the situation...or both. He looked over at the man whose face was bursting red, whose hands were wrapped so tightly around the steering wheel that their knuckles were paper-white.

  "Come on, baby." Steera gazed at the dashboard, his foot resting heavily on the gas. Water and mud gushed and sprayed from the exposed, spinning rear wheels, much of it drenching the trunk of a fat oak twenty feet away. Bubbles gurgled to the surface of the puddle. The calm, mechanical hum of the motor filled the cabin.

  "You're the psychic. Can't you get us out of this? Use some kind of magic word or something?"

  Under the water, the front wheels managed to scrape through a hefty layer of mud and find a large stone buried beneath. This gave them all the traction they needed to climb back out of the small pit.

  "Alli-kazam!" John joked. Right after he said it, the cabin jolted, the monotonous hum quieted, and they were set free. The SUV climbed out of the puddle and up a small incline. They were back on flat land.

  Steera looked at John, stunned. "How did you—?"

  "I was kidding," John said. He looked almost as mystified as Steera did.

  Steera shifted gears one last time and drove off into the woods, in the dirtiest State Patrol Vehicle known to man.

  From there on it took them only two minutes to get near the Mayberry House. Charlie parked about a mile away, behind a group of shrubs, hidden well out of sight from any dopey military personnel. After parking, the men got out, John with his stereo and Steera with his tape recorder (the one with John's possessed voice on it). They sneaked up a small hill scattered with thin, bare, leafless trees, across a small ravine flowing with clean, clear stream water, and came to a large row of bushes on the east side of the house. Once there, they hunkered down, sheltered from view. They could see everything that was going on. The clearing was crowded with men dressed in G.I. Joe uniforms and equipped with guns. Positioned ahead of them were three expressionless men in startling black suits, like those peculiar Men In Black individuals linked to infamous UFO stories, obviously the ones now in charge of this operation. There must have been thirty people altogether standing there like statues, watching as one tense, unlucky, sweaty cadet walked toward the front porch, pistol in hand, about to enter through the door of no return.

  John looked at Charlie. "He'll die. We can't let him go in there!"

  Charlie pushed a bush aside. "Then go tell him. They'll arrest you before you even get to him. Let's wait and see what happens. Then we'll make our move. To tell you the truth, I'm anxious to see if that gun he's holding will protect him in any way."

  John watched from twenty yards away as the soldier continued forward, the gun in his hand trembling noticeably. He constantly wiped away the sweat from his flushed face with his other hand. Steam poured rapidly from his opened mouth. Snot ran from his nose. He stepped up onto the porch slowly, and hesitantly reached for the knob, wishing he was still back in Iraq and not here, where the enemy was invisible and unknown. He just hoped his fate would not mimic that of his last colleague, who'd entered the house thirty minutes ago, screamed horribly, and had had god-knows-what happen to him.

  His hand closed in on the knob. The finger of his other hand was wrapped around the trigger of his Desert Eagle, prepared to squeeze lead into anything standing in his way. Sweat dripped off his chin, made contact with the door mat. Before his flesh even touched the rusty, worn brass, the door flew open, and he was jerked into the terrible house. The kid didn't even get the chance to scream. By the time his pistol hit the doormat, the door closed, and the young boy in camouflage was gone. Everybody in the clearing, and behind the bushes, watched it happen. Nobody knew if their eyes were fooling them or if reality had simply fluttered away into the breezy cool air.

  "Gu—" someone st
arted to say.

  The men in black were no longer without expression. They looked dumfounded. All the other soldiers looked around at each other and shook their heads, all refusing to set foot near the building.

  Everybody in the vicinity jumped when they heard the loud noise. Their eyes shot to the attic window as something crashed through it, out of it, and came spiraling down to the earth like a fallen coconut, trailing droplets of blood as it fell. It hit the ground, bounced off, rolled, and came to a stop by someone's military boot.

  It was the soldier's head; eyes bleached white, tongue hanging, expression bound in terror.

  One soldier ran, another vomited, and another fainted.

  Steera laid his hand on John's shoulder. "Alright, I think we can give them our attention now." Slowly, casually, he stood from behind the group of shrubs. "Excuse me. Everybody, listen."

  The words were barely a whisper, but every gun in the clearing pointed his way. He raised his hands. Triggers were on the verge of being pulled.

  "It's okay. I'm a cop of Bellsville."

  "Who the hell gave you permission to be out here?" One of the MIB pulled a Glock from his own pocket and came forward. He was almost uncomfortable to look at, and for more reasons than his appearance. This darkly-dressed man knew things other people would be killed for if they ever found out. Top-top secret information.

  Charlie raised his arms higher. John lay still, not wanting to move.

  "I don't exactly have permission, sir. But this whole thing began as my case. I've been on it for quite a while. I know how haunted this house is, and I may be of much assistance to you."

  Mr. MIB continued toward him, gun pointed. The other two men like him pulled out their own guns at the same time. Mouth-steaming soldiers gazed at the out-of-uniform, self-proclaimed cop, all wondering if he was somehow involved with the house's evil magic.

  "How do I know who you really are?" The MIB stepped forward. His expression didn't shift. His features were cold and unnaturally sharp. "Do you have a badge?"

  Steera made the mistake of reaching for it. He almost got shot right then.