by Adam Dark
Max was looking right at me. I think he knew there was something I wasn’t saying. He just didn’t know what.
“Nothing. Like I said, Ben just doesn’t want to be here,” Nico said. “He had a long day.”
The attempt to change the subject was understood but the dig didn’t go unnoticed. It wasn’t worth the fight. I was too tired, too pissed, and too annoyed to care at this point.
“Let’s just get this over with,” I said.
I stomped up the stairs and pounded my fist against the door. I waited three seconds, then knocked again.
“Satisfied? No one’s here. Now let’s go,” I said.
I had my back to the door. I saw their eyes go wide and each of them gasped and stepped backward before I felt the shift in pressure and the cold breeze blow up my back.
I knew the door was open and that the man in the dark cloak who had chased us earlier was behind me. I rotated in slow motion. It was like spinning in a vortex of time and space between different dimensions.
I hadn’t made it ninety degrees before I felt a sharp pull on my shoulders. My body went falling backward. I landed, hard, on the porch. The fall knocked the air out of me. I gasped for breath while Nico confronted our visitor.
“Stay away!” Nico shouted.
The figure at the door remained in shadow, the door merely cracked a few inches.
“Did you hear me?” Nico asked.
I regained my breath and crawled to my hands and knees.
“Nico, get away from the door,” I said.
But Nico didn’t listen. He continued to barrage the man with his words as if they would somehow save us all. When he had finished, the man asked, “Can I help you?”
His voice was soft and deep. It reminded me of a Sunday school teacher I had three years ago. His name was Bob. He was awesome but then he got lung cancer. I never saw him again, but I remembered the way he spoke.
He had a voice that drew you in and that you could listen to for hours without tiring. I wasn’t the only one lured in by the silkiness of the man’s voice.
Nico’s mouth hung. He was speechless. I got to my feet and stepped in front of Nico.
“We’re sorry to bother you. We didn’t know anyone lived here,” I said.
The man stared at me. He wasn’t what I imagined he’d look like either if there was a real ghost or psychopath living at the house. And though he was older, probably twenty years my parents’ senior, he was good-looking. Like, impossibly handsome like an actor or something.
His black hair was long and sat just above his shoulders. His eyebrows were thick, but not in a hulkish kind of way. His jaw was the strongest I had ever seen. It had some pokey stubble, the same my father would get when he hadn’t shaved for a few days.
Of all of the man’s features, hidden in shadow, the one thing that seemed to penetrate beyond the darkness and captivate me the most were his blue eyes.
“I live here,” the man said.
“We see that now and we’ll—”
“Would you like to come in?” he asked, cutting off my apology.
“Yes,” came the response from behind me.
It was Max. The sheep among wolves. The one most unlikely to speak, take action, or step into danger. He was walking up the steps before I had a chance to say no.
The man held the door aside and allowed for Max to walk in.
“Max, what are you doing?” Ian said, but it was too late. Max had already crossed the threshold. His small frame disappeared on the other side. I couldn’t see where he had gone nor what lay within.
The man held the door wider and stepped aside.
“Would you all like to come in?” he asked.
I opened my mouth but was cut short again.
“Sure,” Nico said.
He stepped forward into the house as if it was the most natural thing to do. Ian followed soon after without so much as a blink of an eye.
What had happened to my friends? They had all lost their minds! Did they realize that they were walking into a murderer’s house?
“I have a bad feeling about this,” I heard Henry mutter behind me.
It was odd hearing him choke out those words. Max was the one who usually said that phrase anytime he didn’t like something.
He said it for just about anything, even when choosing an ice cream flavor.
Once we went to see a movie and he told the ticket counter lady, “I have a bad feeling about this.” She had stared at him like he had something off with him, printed his ticket, and flipped it through the window.
It turned out that he was right. None of us slept for a week after that movie. I left the lights on for two weeks just to make sure nothing would get me while I slept.
Usually, when Max voiced his concerns, there wasn’t cause for it. In this case, there was every reason for his keen phrase, “I have a bad feeling about this.”
I was even more dumbfounded by his reaction. He was the first to walk in. At this point, I was at a crossroads. Three of my friends had just committed suicide as if they were hopping on a carousel at the fairgrounds, sipping slushies, and eating salty popcorn.
I had only three options at this point as I saw it.
Either I could go in with the others and risk certain torture and death and God knew what else, stand my ground and fight this strange man to the death and save my friends (which would most certainly end in my demise), or, run to get help.
No option looked good. For one, I had no way of knowing whether my friends were still alive. The second was completely out of the equation—as Henry might say—due to the sheer size differential. And three, my legs were mush. I’d not make it ten feet before he tackled me and dragged me, kicking and screaming, into the house.
If I ran, I’d be the first he’d torture, skin, and roast over the stove. That left me with a fourth option and the one I was least keen to.
Fortunately (if one could put it that way), Henry made the decision for me. He shoved me forward. And for some reason, I didn’t try to stop him. I found myself willingly walking into the strange, dark house with an even stranger, dark man welcoming us.
My heart flipped when the door snapped close.
14
The man bolted the door and walked over to crackling flames raging in the fireplace. I hadn’t seen the light from the outside nor had I smelled it. We should have been able to see it from the porch.
The living room was strangely warm, not the cold sting of death that one might expect when playing among graves. I had run through cemeteries before and it’s not something I’d recommend. This was sort of like that, minus the dead bodies you were stepping on.
I glanced at the floorboards creaking beneath my feet as if there were dried and decayed carcasses of boys, just like us, who had been stupid enough, just like us, to knock on the door at 101 Wry Road.
Henry strolled by me and joined the other three on the sofa. It reminded me of Grandma Jayne’s old furniture from the 1930s. Unlike hers, and to my utter amazement, it was in pristine condition, minus a few scratches and holes where moths had infested its cotton.
The man removed his long cloak and hung it on a rack next to the fireplace. The mantel had to be six-feet tall and as wide as the couch. Even the man looked like a tiny stick figure next to it and he had to be at least six-foot-two, if not taller.
Nico was five-nine and Ian five-eleven (giants for twelve-year-olds) and this man made them look like dwarves. The man flicked open the protective shield and yanked the fire spike out of his holder. My heart flipped as it arced through the air.
He jammed it into the hot coals before adding two more logs to the flames. My body tensed as he rotated it in the air. This was it, I told myself. This was how we were going to go. He would butcher us to death with the fire prong.
He hung it on the tool rack and rubbed his hands together.
“I’m sorry about the cold. I didn’t know I would be having company. The fire should warm up the house soon enough,” the m
an said.
It was difficult to stay afraid when the man spoke. Something about his voice was like sucking on a honey stick with your ears instead of mouth or listening to Mozart play but without the piano. Every defense just melted away like ice in a desert.
The others almost seemed content. Nico had taken up position on the loveseat and had kicked up his feet. Ian, Max, and Henry all were huddled together on the green couch staring at the fire as though they couldn’t be happier.
“Would you boys like something to eat?” the man asked.
“That would be rad,” Max said.
I almost threw up in my mouth. What was going on? Why were my friends acting so strange? Why was I the only one acutely aware of the insanity that was taking place?
“I have some chocolate chip cookies. I’ll go warm those up for you boys,” the man said. He paused after a few steps and turned to face us. “Would you like milk with your sweets?”
Every head nodded but mine. The man didn’t look at me.
“Very well,” he said.
When his frame disappeared into what I suspected was the kitchen, I lunged in front of the fire.
“Guys! We need to get out of here,” I said.
“He’s making cookies,” Max said.
“Don’t you guys find that a bit odd?” I asked.
Ian shook his head.
“I like cookies,” Ian said. “My mother always burns them. I hope his are crunchy on the outside and gooey on the inside.”
I wanted to rip my hair out.
“Ian! We’re not eating cookies! He’s probably in there right now sharpening his blade to come out here and chop all of our heads off,” I said.
“That’s dark, Ben,” Nico said.
“The odds of there being a knife in the kitchen is high, but the likelihood of him chopping our heads off is 7%,” Henry said.
“Only seven? I thought it would be higher,” Ian said.
“Well, if he were in fact sharpening a blade, we’d hear the scraping sound.”
He paused and held up his right ear as if listening for a bird call.
“Nope. No scraping noise. And, since there’s no sound of impending doom, only the smell of the oven and the delicious aroma of warm cookies, I’d say we’re in the clear,” Henry concluded.
“Really? You guys are just going to sit there and wait for these imaginary cookies to arrive?”
“And milk. Can’t forget the milk. I LOVE milk and cookies!” Ian said.
This time I did vomit a little in my mouth.
I looked from Nico, to Ian, to Max, and then Henry. Their faces were content, relaxed, and carefree. Someone might as well have thought we were visiting an uncle and not sitting in a mysterious house that was fabled to be abandoned for twenty years or so from a murderous man who haunted it.
And now, that man was standing before us offering warm cookies and milk as though we were the Girl Scouts. I had a weakness for Girl Scout cookies, but this was different. Something was wrong. They weren’t acting normal.
I could get over Nico and Ian. Both of them were braindead most of the time. As for Henry, I could force myself to rationalize that he had somehow concluded in his head that he was safer with fantasy cookies than real death.
But Max…no way. He never would have walked into the house on his own free will and he certainly wouldn’t still be sitting there like a School Prep boy on his best behavior.
Something banged against the ground in the kitchen.
“Guys, we need to leave NOW! This may be our only chance,” I said.
“You can go if you want, but I’m staying,” Nico said.
He kicked off his shoes and stretched them out toward the fire.
“Yeah, me too,” Max said.
Henry and Ian soon followed. I felt like I was in an episode of the Twilight Zone. My friends had somehow been brainwashed and the killer was busy preparing the mechanism that he’d use to eat our brains.
And I was the only one who could see it! I looked from friend to friend. Their eyes were glazed over. I did the only thing I could. I ran to the door and unbolted the lock.
I yanked the door open.
“Leaving so soon? The cookies are nice and warm,” came the smooth talker from the doorway leading to the kitchen.
I tried to step through the door, but something kept me from doing so. It was like an invisible forcefield preventing me from leaving. I lifted my hand to move forward, but instead, it reached around and flipped the door closed. Before I knew it, I had locked the bolt and was walking over to the couch.
The man carried over a plate of steaming cookies. The chocolate was still bubbling. The boys’ mouths all drooped and dripped with saliva.
I won’t lie, it smelled delightful. And while my body refused to obey my command, my mind was alert. The man gave each one of us a small napkin and used a spatula to scoop a cookie into our laps.
He poured five glasses of milk and set them on the glass coffee table. Each of my friends picked up their glasses and cradled them in their hands as they nursed their cookies.
Ian dumped his entire cookie into his glass and let it dissolve. Henry nibbled on his and would follow it with a sip. Max stuffed the whole thing in his mouth with one bite and chased it down with half his glass of milk. Nico drank his milk before he started on the cookie.
Mine remained untouched in my hands.
“Are you not hungry?” the man asked me.
He still did not make eye contact. He sat on the loveseat adjacent to Nico by the fire. My stomach growled.
“It sounds like you are,” he said. “Don’t be shy. It’s important for growing boys to get their nutrition.”
“Don’t be rude,” Nico said. “It’s good.”
He licked his fingers.
“May I?” he asked.
“Have as many as you like. I can make more if these run out,” the man said.
Nico grabbed a handful and sat back with a wicked grin on his face as though he had won the lottery. The others weren’t quite as direct. They each took one-at-a-time before they reached for another.
The longer I sat there, the more my stomach hurt. The smell of the warm cookies and milk wafted into my nostrils as if an angel were wafting it with a broom. Why was I so hungry? The hunger pangs soon became starvation. Beads of sweat began to form on my brow the longer I tried to resist.
“You can’t resist forever…” I heard.
I glanced at my friends. Each one of them was either stuffing a cookie into their mouth, licking their fingers, or reaching for another. The man still had his head cocked downward.
“Go on…have a bite…” the same voice said.
It sounded as though it were coming from all around me. It pressed on my mind until I finally relented. I lifted the cookie and placed it in my mouth.
An explosion of flavor ripped past my lips. I finished the cookie with one bite and reached for another. I had eaten no less than six by the time the plate was empty. The man scooped up the plate.
“I’ll make some more,” he said.
He brought another batch of oven-blistering cookies and sat them on the table. We consumed them too within a matter of minutes. This whole time, the man did not eat a single one. He merely watched us enjoy the snack in silence.
There was one cookie left. I was about to grab it when Nico snatched it from my hand.
“You snooze you lose,” he said with a grin and stuffed the whole thing in his mouth.
He exaggerated his chewing to accentuate my loss. I leaned back in my chair and actually began to pout. After a few minutes went by, it was as if a fog had lifted from my mind. I became fully aware of my surroundings again.
The man picked up the tray for a second time and brought it to the kitchen.
“It’s getting late,” I said as he returned to the living room. “We really should be getting home. Our parents will be worried about us.”
“It’s best you stay here for the night. There’s an awful storm brew
ing. I wouldn’t be a good neighbor if I let you boys go out in the storm now. Something terrible might happen to you,” the man said.
I stood and walked to one of the windows. A bolt of lightning ripped through the sky. Sheets of rain smashed against the house with a violent pitter-patter. The sky had been perfectly clear, not a cloud or hint of wind, when we had come here. Where had the storm come from?
The lightning lit up the sky. The tall reeds along the driveway whipped back and forth with each ripping wave. I even thought I heard the sound of a train, the telltale sign of a potential tornado.
The valley was prone to severe thunderstorms and tornados were not an unlikely occurrence. Most homes had storm shelters in their backyards or attached to their garages. Others, like our neighborhood, had basements. When they weren’t being used as a bonus game room or bedrooms or storage, they were used for seeking shelter during bad storms.
“We can’t go home in this,” I said.
The words came out on their own. I hadn’t thought them, and I certainly didn’t agree with them. I would brave the storm rather stay the night. And yet, my mouth had uttered those words.
“Very well. You boys can stay in the room upstairs. There should be plenty of room for all of you to sleep comfortably,” the man said.
Each of my friends stood and followed the man as if tied to a string he pulled. I found myself following on call. He led us to the second floor. At the top, we veered right. I took notice of a black door down the hall to the left.
“What’s down there?” I asked.
The man didn’t turn to see what I meant.
“That part of the house is off limits,” he said.
I glanced over my shoulder two more times before we made it to the room where we would be staying. My ears tingled, and I thought I could hear whispering.
The man pushed the door aside.
“Here’s where you’ll be staying for the evening. Blankets are in the chests. I’ll see you all in the morning,” he said.
And just like that, he closed the door and was gone. I heard the familiar latch of a lock sliding in place. I teased the doorknob. It wouldn’t budge. We were locked inside.
My friends yawned and stretched their arms and filtered to the six beds before us. There were more than twenty in the giant room, but only six had sheets and a pillow.
