by Pete Kahle
The phone continued to ring, and the lights continued to blink.
This house was probably as evil as her mother, and it was finally turning on her. A stupid and irrational theory, but that seemed to be where things were heading as of late.
She tossed the phone on the bed, went back downstairs, retrieved the very same flashlight she had been using on and off all day long, and left. She didn't even take a lingering look back. She just kept walking. Down the driveway, and down the road, where she kept going for half a mile. It was chilly, and she couldn't understand why she wasn't wearing something over her T-shirt. Once she came to the bottom of the house's driveway, she forgot all about something as significant as keeping herself warm. It didn't matter, for she would soon be inside another house.
Jo shined her light at the wrought iron fence that was padlocked in front of her. The only time she had seen something this old was in one of David's haunted house books. She ran the light up and down its weathered spikes. It was rusty, but looked firm. She stepped up and pulled at it. There were no squeaky hinges as she had expected. How odd that the chain and padlock seemed more modern than the fence itself. Someone around here must be maintaining it. As she looked at the home on the other side of the road, and the ones up and down the street, she wondered who that could be.
Why the hell did she keep distracting herself with such inane shit? Nothing mattered more than getting to that house, and getting inside it, and then getting …what?
Stop thinking, you bitch! Just go!
She yanked at the fence until it separated to a point where she could squeeze under the chain. Once she was on the other side, she bolted up the drive, her flashlight beam bobbing up and down as she went. It gave her glimpses of the aged and cracked blacktop, of the weeds and tufts of dirty grass that sprung from underneath it.
She slowed as it illuminated more problematic obstacles, like thick rotting logs that looked like they could trip her if she wasn't paying better attention to where she was going, and dangerously twisted branches with broken points that looked more like they were designed by an inebriated Mother Nature to be traps for the legs of the unwary.
Even the overgrown shrubbery that dipped down from the hillside on the right, and the bushes that grew up and onto the drive on the left appeared to have unnatural designs woven into their genetic codes. But this was all an optical illusion, for their ominous looks faded away when she forced the flashlight's beam on them.
Then, without warning, a figure appeared.
It had been hunched over in the middle of the driveway, but was now in the process of making a mad dash for the woods on the left. Her hope it might have been David was ruined when she saw the speed and nimbleness it was capable of, but those same hopes were unexpectedly strengthened again when a silvery glint was reflected back at her. It was one of David's crutches. She was sure of it, but if this figure obviously wasn't her brother, then how did it come into possession of something he owned? That was a question she was going to get an answer to if it killed her, or the stranger, whichever came first.
With speed that surprised even her, Jo was capable of pulling the Glock out of her back pocket and firing a warning shot into the air long before this stranger was able to reach the woods. The report startled this individual so badly he stumbled.
The boy was on his knees now, trying to get back up as she neared. He was also fumbling for something at his waist, something that obviously wasn't there, judging by the peeved expression that came over his face.
She had a sinking feeling it was supposed to be a gun. This made her take even more precaution as she closed in on him. He was also dressed way too formally for his backwoods surroundings, in a black leather sports coat, dark snazzy pants, and what appeared to be an equally expensive maroon button-up shirt.
"Don't you fuckin' move!" she called out. But he did, so she fired another shot into the air. He dropped the garbage bag he was holding, stayed down on one knee, and put his hands up, like he was being arrested.
"All right! All right!" he called back. "I'm not movin'—okay?!”
The object she presumed was David's crutch was in plain sight now, and her eyes had not deceived her.
"Where did you get that?!" she demanded. "Where's my brother?!"
"What?!" He glanced at the crutch she momentarily shined her light on. "That thing? It was just lying on the ground. I have no idea how it got there."
Jo moved the light to his face, kept it there so he couldn't see her, and pulled the crutch all the way out of the garbage bag with her foot. "Where's the other one?! Jesus Christ, you do something to my brother?!"
She placed the muzzle against his head.
He flinched, "You're the only person I've seen out here tonight—all right?!"
"Don't fuckin' lie to me, asshole! I'll fuckin' kill you if you are!"
He flinched again. "I swear to God I'm not lying!"
Maybe, he wasn't. If he had come across a kid as weird-looking as David, he certainly would have blurted something out about it by now. But she still didn't like the fact that he had her brother’s crutch in his possession. This just wasn't making any sense. If he was actually telling the truth, then how had David been separated from something so integral to his survival like his crutches? And how in God's name did he make it all the way out here? Why would he even want to be out here in the first place?
She suddenly remembered the dreams he had been having of that house, and wondered if there was a connection. If she could just get a moment to sit down and think straight, to get the pain out of her skull, and the succulent image of that house out of her mind, she knew she could reason this whole mess out.
There was something else she was on the brink of knowing, something about a dream he was in. Not the one where her mother was taking him away, but another one where . . . no, no—it was gone now.
As she debated over what to do with this interloper kneeling before her, Jo quickly pulled the light off his face so she could wipe away the sweat that was perched precariously on her eyebrows and threatening to drip into her eyes. There was no way someone like David could make it all the way out here without help. This asshole had to know something about him. And seeing that he wasn't willing to talk, maybe she should just go ahead and teach him a lesson. How should she do it though, blow his kneecaps off? Or maybe put a bullet in each shoulder? Or one in each of his hands?
Put a bullet in his head and be done with it!
No, she wasn't going to kill any more people tonight. Her mother may have deserved it, but she didn't know this boy well enough to know whether or not if he did.
Jo killed the light, "You just got lucky, asshole!" While still keeping the Glock trained on him, she stashed the flashlight in her back pocket, grabbed the crutch off the ground and continued on her way up the drive, choosing to navigate by her poor night vision instead. She only had two hands, and she didn't feel good about trading the Glock for the light just yet.
Before she got too far out sight, she glanced back to check on the boy, and saw that he had vanished. Now she felt more comfortable in trading personal security for illumination. By this time she had already reached the house. And, in the darkness, it looked exactly like it had in her dream, ominous and unwelcoming.
She approached, turning the flashlight on. It illuminated a large wraparound veranda, reflecting off the two large picture windows over on the far right. She presumed these picture windows extended around the corner, along with the rest of the veranda. She found it very odd that these windows weren't obscured by any drawn curtains, or blinds. If she had wanted to, she could've walked right up and looked inside.
This wasn't her objective, however; whatever was inciting her to be here, wanted her in the house without any delays. At that point, Jo simply complied. She calmly strode up to the front door, opened it, and stepped over the threshold. It was like she entered another world. But a world she could only perceive through intuition, and that gut feeling of hers told her it wasn't too
late. She still had time to turn the fuck around and run like hell back to the road.
It wasn't too late!
The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Her legs trembled, and goose bumps broke out all along her arms and legs. It seemed that her mind wasn't the only aspect of her that was raising red flags.
Keep the door open!
That sounded like a good idea. With David's crutch, she pushed the heavy front door all the way open. It didn't squeak once. As she swept the light around the foyer into the spacious room off to the right, she started to think about her brother, about unremembered dreams, and what those two things might have in common.
Her light ended up coming back, moving slowly to the ivory colored wall next to her; it’s almost dust free, glossy appearance piquing her curiosity. Leaning the crutch against her leg, she reached out with two, trembling fingers, and ran them briefly over the walls. She peered at them closely with the flashlight, but couldn't find an ounce of dust on them.
The house was just like the gate. Antiquated, yet very well maintained. Why? It was obvious no one had lived here for years, maybe decades, perhaps centuries. Why then, should it seem so ready for immediate habitation?
Was it just her imagination, or was her flashlight beam a lot dimmer than it used to be? For now, she was going to blame it on her imagination. Strangely enough, she wasn't too worried about being doused in utter darkness if the light really did go out. From what she could see of the next room at the end of the foyer and the living room on her right, the walls of the entire house seemed to be painted in this same glossy, ivory veneer. Navigating in the dark with that kind of background shouldn't be that difficult.
Wait a minute. She was confused. Why would she want to be exploring this place in the dark to begin with? Why the fuck was she really here?
Because the house wants you here.
But why did it want her here? This was a basic question that should have occurred to her back home. Maybe then she would have seen how useless this whole venture was, and done something a little more rational with her time, like, say, call the police.
David—you’re here because of him? The boy with his crutch you encountered earlier? Ring any bells?
That’s right. She was here to find her missing brother. What was wrong with her? That bash on the head she had taken. Yeah, that was it. Jo tentatively felt it. It was still sore and soggy.
Clutching his crutch tightly in her hand now, she opened her mouth to call out his name, but hesitated. The silence toiling within this place was just as troubling as its atmosphere, and it might become even more troubling if she broke it.
She began to feel her presence being sensed, like a hunter who knew the prey he stalked was somewhere in his general vicinity, but without it drawing some kind of attention to itself -- say through a bad judgment call in movement, or sound generation -- he couldn't tell exactly where it was.
Jo hated herself for coming up with that analogy, it only cemented the fact that she was in a situation that could only go from bad to worse, unless,she walked back out that open door behind her. In theory that was a great idea, probably the best idea she ever had, but as long as the house had some say in the matter, she wasn't going anywhere.
Jo needed to do something that told her she was the one in control. She reached into her back pocket and took out the Glock. A surprising rush of confidence overtook her.
That was more like it.
She exhaled audibly, then quickly held her breath. Now she had done it. The vibe in the atmosphere changed and that defenseless little animal from her analogy had just been spotted.
Since the damage was already done, there was no point in maintaining her statue-like vigil in the foyer.
“Might as well have a look around.”
Jo pushed the front door all the way back against the wall, and wedged David’s crutch up against it to ensure that the wind, or anything else that could be called an act of God, wouldn’t end up closing it.
While she was doing that she noticed an open closet right next to it. She shined her light into the empty space, and noticed how drastically it dimmed. So, it wasn't her imagination after all.
She felt compelled to move into the living room. As she crossed over its threshold the flashlight went out. She didn't need it, however, to know something terrible had occurred there. The smell told her as much. In fact, she had been getting a whiff of it the entire time she had been lingering in the foyer, but the breeze that was blowing in made it so ephemeral that she wasn't sure if it was even real.
It gave her a flashback of the moment when she found the secret cellar's trapdoor open, and smelled that odor wafting up from it. Bloodletting. That's exactly what this smell was, too. More bloodletting. And unlike that moment when she had the choice to either stay where she was, or go down and confront its source, she wasn't given any such luxury this time. The source of this new odor was simply there when she turned her head.
Jo put the flashlight away, cupped her hand over her mouth and nose, and, through her night vision, tried to ferret out some details of what precisely it was. A body, of course, but whose? The only obvious answer was David's, but she refused to believe it until she saw proof. At the moment, the only proof she had was of the inconceivable violence it had gone through, for there were countless dark smears on the wall all around it and on the floor where it lay.
Reluctantly, she found herself wanting to get closer. It was the only way she was ever going to be sure. And when she did… the only detail she was trying to see… the very one she was dreading to behold… the only trait her brother had that made him unique, came regrettably into a hazy, black and white focus.
Those big eyes of his gazed up in stark horror at her. One of them anyway, for his other socket had been savagely ripped out.
By now Jo's knees became weak, and her head went dizzy again. It wasn't the kind of dizziness she could easily associate to the aftereffects of a violent encounter. This was the kind of vertigo a mind suffered when it couldn’t process the insanity of what it was being forced to look at.
The only solution she could come up with was to drop quickly to the floor, close her eyes, and take deep breaths. Miraculously, the vertigo lessened, and her mind was able to accept a vaguer picture of the situation she was in. So vague, Jo wasn't quite sure why she had retreated to the floor in the first place. It was that mysterious inner voice that finally filled her in.
'Jo, I know you're gonna hate to hear this, but I'm dead'… The dream… Oh, God that dream I couldn't recall… He was already dead by then, wasn't he?... Okay, time to get the hell out of here… time to go home…
"Where are you gonna go? This has always been your home, Josephine!"
She looked up, pointing the Glock around, "Who said that?!"
And then, faintly at first, came the slaps of many bare feet on a hardwood floor. It was also accompanied by a rigid and rhythmic tapping—reminding her of blind man using a cane—from what sounded like the floor directly above her. As they neared, growing louder, moving across hallways yet to be seen, down half-glimpsed staircases, she became acutely aware of similar noises, except these were emanating from a much closer location.
An adjacent room existed farther down on the same wall her brother's corpse laid against. She gazed through the open doorway, making out nothing but more empty space and more white walls. The horror that wasted no time in showing itself there was the very same that eventually appeared at the threshold that lead back into the foyer.
Her eyesight, however, was focused intently on that adjacent room, and what she finally saw take shape in its doorway was a large roundish object about the size of a basketball. There were things on it that hinted at a mouth or a hideous maw, and slender jointed appendages that may have been fingers, or a hand with fingers, but attached directly to the jaw line, clasping each other, and cupping the thing's narrow, boney chin at the same time.
At first, she thought this head-thing's primary means of locomotion
was good old-fashioned levitation, but that didn't make sense when she weighed it against those feet-slapping sounds. She then noticed a crown of protuberances into which its skull seemed to merge. There were four of them, thick as arms. That's all she could see, for the head-thing hadn't committed itself yet to entering the room. The one blocking her way to the foyer also seemed to have the same kind of phobia.
This might be a damn good time to get herself off the floor. She was way too vulnerable down there. The heads tensed up, lowering themselves, their crown of sticks flexing closer together, as she stood.
She took a quick glance at the windows in the corner bay to assess their potential weakness. Problem was they didn't seem all that weak. No, it was clear. Her only way out was going to back the way she had come and out the front door, which, as far as she could tell, was still wide open.
Whatever was going to happen in the next few seconds was going to happen in the blink of an eye. It made her wonder if David had suffered, or whether he was dead before he hit the ground. If she could see more of his body, maybe she could determine that. But it was her ever reliable intuition that chimed in with what felt like the truest answer, that he had indeed suffered greatly.
She had a gun though. They didn't. She had the ability to kill from a distance. From what little she could tell about them, they might have the same capability, but she was going to bet they didn't. Otherwise, they would have used it on her already. So far, things were looking pretty sweet, that was until she started factoring in speed—hers versus theirs. It didn't matter how clever, or courageous, or strong she thought she could be, if she wasn't faster than them, she didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of living to see tomorrow, much less the next few minutes.
She found that she could easily keep track of both of them from the corners of her eyes, but she only had one gun, and since they were most likely going to rush her at the same time, she would only be able to shoot one of them—preferably dead—before she herself was set upon by the other. And if that happened, she knew she would never have another chance to redirect her Glock and fire a second time.
