The House on Mayberry Road

by Troy McCombs

  "No, let me get it."

  "Left pocket."

  The MIB reached in, took it out, and examined it carefully.

  "Hmm. Could be a fake."

  Cramping up, John Rollings shifted, moving a shrub, making a sound. This startled the man. He stepped behind the bushy barricade and aimed his Glock at the man lying stomach-down on the ground. This was the first time Rollings had ever had a gun pointed in his face; he didn't much like it. It was like looking at the Grim Reaper face to face.

  "Whoa! Whoa!" John lifted his hands and rose to his feet.

  "Who in the hell are you? One of you tell me what's going on here, and now."

  "I'm John Rollings. Psychic...expert of the supernatural. I've also been with Charlie on this case since a week ago. We came here because I figured out what is inside that house."

  The Man in Black lowered his gun; as he did, the others did too. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

  "You guys have five minutes to make an impression. If you fail, I will have you put away for interfering with a federal investigation." He turned and walked back toward his men. John and Steera followed, one with his tape recorder, the other with his stereo.

  John cleared his throat. "Last week, one teenager went in on a dare and died. His torso, much like the head, flew out of the window. Since then, everyone who went in died. Except me."

  "Why you?" The MIB did not look one bit curious.

  "That part I don't know. But I've researched the place. I've gotten vibes from it, and I, too, have struggled to come up with some kind of answer. What's in there is not a ghost…"

  "Well, no shit." The MIB checked his watch. "Four minutes."

  "It's the devil," one young soldier mentioned. John pointed to him and responded, "That's also wrong. It's us. It's like us, what’s in there. Let me show you."

  John set the stereo down on a box labeled U.S GOVERNMENT PROPERTY, and continued. "That house can be compared to the tuner of this radio. Imagine, instead of only a spirit world enveloping this one, there are several more beyond it, some physical, and some indescribable by our means of understanding. Maybe here, on earth, there are many, many worlds intersecting each other. They're around us at all times, these planes, filled with creatures, ghosts, devils, and other things we can't see. They probably can't see us either. Maybe some can. We're moving against each other all the time. Now, the earth is like the stereo. You got A.M. and F.M....many stations resting alongside each other, working independently. Different frequencies right at the turn of a knob. The house is like the knob. Somehow, a door was opened either when this place was built, or it was built on a door that was already opened, or was closed but became open. I still have to figure that out. The way it's designed is that every world is supposed to be separate from the rest, and we can only connect with the others in thinner spots, where the barriers between the inter-dimension passageways are open to each other. It's like listening to one radio station with interference from another. Now, I don't know how that works. I doubt anybody does. But it's the best way I can come to explain what's going on in there." John looked at Steera, who smiled and mouthed the words Right On.

  "Very interesting, Mr.?" The MIB stepped forward.

  "Rollings. John."

  "How many dimensions, or worlds, do you think exists within the house?"

  "Again, I can't be sure. There might be one, there might be millions."

  The man looked frightened. "Millions? And how do you propose we solve the problem?"

  John looked down, as if defeated. "Again, I do not know. The house can't be destroyed. The guys who tried to burn it down proved that. Someone mentioned to have it bulldozed...don't think that will help though."

  The man in black pocketed his gun and paced, hands laced behind his back. Steera thought on the manner. Some of the soldiers nodded.

  "I think," John hesitated, "the only way to fix the problem is to go into the place. We have to know more about it."

  The man stopped pacing and looked disdainfully at Steera, then at John. His eyes narrowed. His mouth puckered at the corners. Charlie thought they were going to be arrested immediately. Waste of time and effort, this was.

  But instead, he smiled thoughtfully and concluded, "So, Mr. Rollings, you share my same motto: to conquer the enemy, you must know it as your best friend, first."

  Charlie started to smile.

  John nodded, his head bobbling up and down. "Yeah, I guess you could say that."

  "One last question, Mr.—"

  "Please, call me John."

  "John. How do we get inside without dying so that we can study it further?"

  John shook his head no.

  "You said you went in and came out once?" The MIB didn't seem to believe this.

  "Twice," Steera beat him to the draw. His face was bright with a revelation. He'd figured something out. He had an idea. "He went in twice. The first time, he almost died; the second, he came out relatively fine. It's like...he was allowed to go in. Remember the odor that that seeped into your lungs the first night?" he proposed.

  John flicked his fingers, catching on quick. "Yeah!" He turned to the man in black, who was all ears. "It could have killed me...if it wanted. It wanted to send a message. To me. To all who wanted to learn of its secrets and expose them."

  "Where are you guys going with this?" Another MIB stepped forward.

  "Well, if the master being of the house wants me to stay alive, supposedly," John began.

  Steera finished his sentence, “then why not bring someone in with you?" He looked at the psychic and nodded.

  John looked at the lead Man in Black. "Sir, if—"

  He interrupted: "Vaul. Name's Vaul." The smile that formed on the MIB's face looked somehow foreign, like it didn't belong there.

  "If someone goes in there with me, they might be safer. Might, being the operative word. Can't say for sure."

  The man nodded without thinking. "Okay. Let's report back here tomorrow at six o' clock sharp, when we're fresh. Then we'll try again. I'll have some of my guys stay 'till morning to make sure no one trespasses on this dangerous property again. Thank you for your help, both of you." The man turned and walked away. John and Steera went to each other, both gratified that they had gained the officers approval with their on-going investigation of the house.

  Neither man said much on the matter as they walked back to the mud-covered SUV, laughed at how dirty it was for a few minutes, and headed back into town. The sheriff took the psychic home, and then went home, himself.

  ***

  Upon entering the apartment building, John could smell the clean, pleasant scent of washing detergent permeating through the parted door leading down into the basement. It reminded him of childhood, when his mother washed clothes in the pantry. The rumbling roar of the washers and driers, themselves, struck his ears next. Lights were on down there, and the low whispers of people's voices mumbled amidst the humming machines.

  He walked forward, down the tattered halls, whose carpet was ripped and stained, whose walls were cracked and busted. The small lights aligning them were old sconces, and their brightness was a joke. The output they gave was probably less than 60 Watts max.

  They burned out regularly, and usually weren't changed until two or more days later. Sometimes at night the halls became pretty creepy, like a deserted old labyrinth in an old, run down, haunted mansion. To make matters worse, sometimes the lights were so dim, people bumped into each other at certain intersections...

  Now was one of those times.

  John came around the corner, as did another person from the opposite direction. Their heads collided. They both grunted more in surprise than in pain. John immediately smelled a mixture of L’Oreal Shampoo and Tresor Perfume. The woman grabbed her forehead and chuckled, her eyes fixed on the floor. "Sorry." Her voice was flat and small.

  "You all right?" John asked.

  She didn't look up when she responded, "Yes, thank you." The woman was slightly younger than John, a N
ative-American girl with pitch black hair so long that it stretched down to her lower back. Thin-rimmed spectacles sat across the edge of her nose, giving her a thoughtful, intelligent-looking appearance. A young librarian in the making, perhaps. Her face was broken out in acne; her breath reeked of cinnamon. She wasn't very attractive, but John saw an attractive woman beneath all those pimples, behind those glasses, and down inside those dark brown eyes that refused to meet his. He had seen her in these halls before, a shy, awkward young lady who kept to herself all the time.

  He watched her as she continued down the hall, toward the door he'd just come in through. She did not look back.

  There is something about her...John thought. But he didn't know what. He filed the idea and went to his door.

  By the time he removed the key from his pocket, he noticed that the door to his room was ajar. He swung his head around, but there wasn't a soul in sight. The halls were vacant. Silence filled his ears. At closer inspection, he realized the lock had not been busted or wrecked. He fiddled with the idea that he'd forgotten to lock the door when he left, but he was not sure. If somebody had broken in, they had to have had a spare. John only had the one.

  He threw open the door, standing back cautiously in case anybody was still snooping around inside. Crime was low in Bellsville, which made this all the more puzzling. Murders happened every decade at worst. Thievery wasn't much a problem. Drugs were the town's biggest downfall of all.

  Nobody was in the dark, stale smelling room, John soon realized. He carefully searched through all his belongings to make sure they were still there. The place looked no different than when he'd left. Lucky was fine. He was lying in the bathroom by the toilet, snoozing. John spent one whole hour looking for proof of an intruder, but what he found was that he'd gained an item. An intricately designed, handcrafted Dream catcher hung from the only window in his room.

  A million questions boiled inside his far-stretching mind. Who had left it? How did they get in? Why did they leave it? What did they known about his dreams? Did they know something he didn't? Did this have anything to do with the case he was investigating? What were they trying to tell him?

  A satisfactory answer evaded him. He hadn't a clue. He was too drained to really care at the moment. So instead, he got into bed and fell fast asleep.

  Night enveloped Chester County hours later. Neither the moon nor the stars granted the valley any light through the gathered clouds, but only the dreary, flickering streetlamps. Silence followed. No noise presented itself to any of the United Apartments residents. John was deeply immersed in Rapid-Eye-Movement sleep, and a dream was beginning to surface behind his eyelids.

  There were quick, jumpy flashes of light, and the image of another brick wall trying to slam into him, resurfaced. But this time it failed. Then again. Then again. For some reason they could not reach him, no matter how close they got. Soon, they discontinued their vain attempt to crash against his body altogether.

  Shrip. Shirp. Shirp.

  The clipping sound of scissors struck his ears, loud and echoing. He could see a close-up of somebody's hair being trimmed with the gleaming metal blades, but could not make out the barber or the customer. In slow motion, thin, light strands of hair fell to the floor, where a small heap had already accumulated. A broom then entered the picture and brushed it all into a pan. Whoever swept it up, carted it off to—

  The dream shifted a third time. John was now surrounded by clouds, gliding through wind and soaring effortlessly into the light-blue sky, the sun gleaming against his smiling face. He did not glance back at the tragic world below as he distanced himself farther from its eternal chains. The warm fuzzy feeling in the pit of his stomach told him not to worry, but that he was quite welcome where he was headed. In the distance—the immediate distance—he heard a voice he hadn't heard in almost ten long years...

  "John. John." It was his mother, Tamera's voice.

  The clouds gave way, opened up, and he began to slow down rapidly. Thin, warm fog steamed off his heavenly figure. He was wearing a robe so white it could have blinded any average-sighted man from a mile away. A pulsating bright glow poured from his transparent body. He was not dreaming anymore, he realized. His soul had left his body back in United Apartments and had come to the pearly gates.

  "John!" Tamera walked out of thin air and stepped onto the large pillowy cloud. She looked exactly as he remembered her, but so much more vibrant and beautiful, her face unmarked by a single wrinkle, her skin oozing pleasant pink light. The joyful smile on her face almost brought tears to his eyes. She was okay, in heaven, with God, and oblivious to the cancer that had robbed her of an earthly life.

  "Mom...is it really you?" John tried to rub his eyes, in vain (neither his hands nor his face were physical here).

  "John, I miss you."

  "I miss you, too."

  She walked over and looked at him face to face. The robe she was wearing, unlike his, was fluttering in a warm breeze. Her hair was now the color of gold (not gone), her eyes the color of emerald (no longer washed out).

  "Is this heaven?" He wanted to cry, but was unable to.

  "Sort of. You're in a place between heaven and hell—or should I say heaven and earth. Earth, hell—same place, really, of course I don't have to tell you that now, do I?"

  "But I've seen hell. I've seen demons. I've studied them. They're real. Hell's a real place."

  She shook her head and smiled. The smile glowed, literally. "Not as real as you think. So many people are afraid of it that they created it, much like God creating man and earth. Nobody gets tortured or punished for all eternity. They just made that up to scare people from doing wrong."

  "But I've seen demons. I could smell them. I felt frightened beyond comprehension by them."

  "Those demons you thought you saw were you. You still haven't let it go. I see it without even reading your aura."

  John looked confused. His mother smiled. "Walk with me."

  They walked across an endless bubbly stretch of cloud. She walked calmly and smoothly. He walked nervously and sloppily.

  "Don't worry, son, you won't fall out of the sky."

  "What were you saying...letting it go?"

  "I will get to that in a minute. That's some investigation going on down there in your world. You and the house on Mayberry Road. I've been tracking your progress. We all have. You would have died the first night you went in there if it weren't for Sam."

  "My father..."

  "Yes. It's a shame you never got to meet him. He died soon after your birth. He's become one of your spiritual guides now. Anyway, what you're up against is divinely monstrous, very powerful." She lowered her voice, as if what she was saying was forbidden. "This thing's more powerful than Lucifer, John. At least society's persona of what they think he is. But this entity is real. Many I've talked to up here can't tell me much beyond a description of what it looks like. Twenty-two eyes, a profound knowledge of mysticism, and can reshape space. But, just like there are prohibited texts on earth which people aren't allowed to read, there are up here, as well. I don't have the authority to look further into this mythical monster."

  "Can you tell me what caused the creation of the portal in that house?"

  "I know what caused it but I'm not allowed to tell you."

  "Why?"

  "It will spoil all your fun."

  John stopped walking. He stood now between two enormous clouds, bewildered by what his mom had just said. "Fun? You call this fun? I don't have fun doing this, mom."

  She stopped, looked back at him, and laughed. "Your earthly bodies really got a death wish. So bound and so blind."

  He walked forward. They both continued side by side. "If I am so bound, so blind, then why don't you tell me what's going on down there?"

  "If you knew what was going on, would you want to go back?"

  "Of course!"

  "Exactly. Which is why it would spoil the fun."

  "Then why am I here?"

  She chuckle
d under her breath. "Always wanting something. Can't you just spend some time with your ol' mom?"

  "Listen, I didn't mean it like that."

  She smiled. Her teeth sparkled. "I know. I want you to remember that there are forces at work in the world above you, some below you. None of them have complete control of you. Some can hurt you. Some can help you. Some can save you. The ones with the bad intentions are the ones you got to keep an eye on. They're flawed like you. The thing in that house is, too."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Does Rock'a'by Rollings ring a bell?”

  John swallowed hard.

  "The entity discovered that after I sang it to you. It picked up on your trail. Yet, it still can't see as far as it wants to."

  "What are you saying?"

  "John, why do you think you went back there? To Bellsville?"

  "I...don't know."

  "Reasons for everything. You just got to find them."

  "I don't know why you won't tell me. I mean, I need to know. You keep hinting, but you don't give me anything concrete."

  "The world as you know it is not concrete. What fun is it to be human and know everything without taking adventures? Without gambling? It's like receiving the treasure without embarking on the journey. No point to it."

  John shook his head, irritated. "What should I do, then?"

  She smiled. Her eyes lit up. Another warm breeze blew by, ruffling his and her robe. "Finally, a question I like. Indirect and innocent. Not something so dull and tangible. You know what you should be doing, John. You've always known. It's the reason why you wake up in the morning. It's the last thing you think about before you go to sleep. You're already doing what you're supposed to be doing, what God commands of you. Everybody has a purpose, even serial murderers. But yours is one of a kind. It's the universal connection of all living and non-living things."

  John didn't know what she was saying, really, but what involuntarily shot out of his mouth made him suddenly recognize the hidden truth behind what she was hinting:

  "Helping souls?" He raised his eyebrows.

  She grinned and nodded. "What else is there? If you connect the dots, you perfect the cycle." Tamera looked closely into his dark eyes. Inside them there was something missing, a large piece of a puzzle broken and buried.