House of Fear

by Joe R. Lansdale

  As an added note, when I had the nerve, I unlocked the door from the living room to the dog run, stepped into the hallway and looked about. Nothing was there, and to make things even more disconcerting, both doors to the dog run were still locked.

  Before night settled in solid, I was brave enough to go to my bedroom to gather up bed clothes to sleep on the couch. I found that side of the house, where my bedroom was, incredibly cold. Though I didn’t have the impression anything was there, I had an overwhelming feeling that something had been there, and that that side of the house was more its domain. In my bedroom, I grabbed a pillow and some blankets, noted that the window I had nailed down had been lifted, and that the tips of the nails I had driven through the wood stuck out at the bottom like weak little teeth.

  I closed the window and locked it, as if it mattered, and with my pillow and blankets left the room. That night I slept on the couch, but not comfortably. Nothing else happened.

  That I was aware of.

  The first thing I suppose you might think is if there was something actually wrong with that house, what was its history? I thought of that, and I must also pause here to say that I never in my life have believed in ghosts, and oddly, I’m not sure I do now. Not in the way that some people might think of them. But I took it on myself to visit with the lady who had rented the house to us.

  It was Saturday morning, and the moment I awoke, I went to town, dropped by to see her. She had an office on North Street where she handled dozens of rentals. She was a big, middle-aged woman who looked as if she could wrestle a steer to the ground and make it recite poetry. Something I was assured by people around town she had actually done, minus the poetry part. I asked her if there had been unusual experiences reported in the house.

  She laughed at me. “You mean ghosts?”

  “Unusual things,” I said.

  “No. Until about six months ago the only thing in that old house was hay. I kept it stocked there, like a barn. No one but you and your friend have rented that house ever. I bought that property thirty years ago from the Wright family. You two are the first renters.”

  “Is there anything curious about the Wrights?” I asked.

  “Yes; they are all very successful and there are no drunkards in the family,” she said. “But as for ghosts, or murders, or ancient disturbed grave yards... nothing to my knowledge. Matilda is the only one alive. She was the youngest child of the family, and she’s young no more. She was a famous artist of sorts. At least, she was famous around here. She’s up in the Mud Creek Rest Home now, and no doubt that’s where she’ll finish things off.”

  I don’t know if it was our land lady’s intent to make me feel foolish, but she did. I had not directly asked about ghostly activities, but she certainly understood that this was exactly what I was alluding to, and had found the whole thing amusing.

  I drove home, stopping by the mail box across the dirt road from our house. It was rare I received any mail, outside of a few bills, but inside was a note from Cliff. It wasn’t a letter. It hadn’t been mailed. It was a note he had left there for me.

  Its content was simple. He wasn’t coming back. He had dropped out of college and was thinking of starting next semester at a Junior college in Tyler. There was a P.S. written at the bottom of the note. It read: ‘There’s also the house. It makes me uncomfortable. It might be a good idea for you to leave.’

  That was it. I concluded he too had had experiences, but had never elaborated. My guess was he had driven home, felt better being away from the house, and determined not to come back, except to the mail box to leave me a note. He had driven all the way, which was a good two-hour drive, to deliver that note, not waiting to send it by mail, and not waiting until I was home, therefore avoiding having to re-enter the house. As I considered that, I decided that what was even more likely was he intended to return, but once he arrived, just couldn’t go inside again, and had written the note in his car and left it for me in the mail box.

  Of course, that should have been it for me. I should have grabbed what mattered to me and hauled out of there, but the truth is, even with two of my room-mates gone, I could still better afford the rent there than somewhere else, and I really needed to continue with the semester. If I dropped out, I would lose my tuition. With that very earthly consideration to deal with, I decided that most of what had happened had been in my imagination. It was a decision based on necessity, not common sense, but there you have it. I was determined not to believe what my own senses had revealed to me.

  At night, though, I felt differently. I felt trapped, fearful of stepping out into that dog run. I was also equally determined not to believe that the thing had opened locked doors and had paused at the one to the living room, and had not opened it. I couldn’t explain that, nor could I explain that I could lock it out from the kitchen, yet it had free run of the porches, and the dog run, and, as I was to discover the next morning, the other side of the house.

  I had learned to fear the night and any dark days due to rain. Because of that, I always hurried home before dark, and I had learned that as night came the house became colder on the bedroom side. Because of that, I had taken to permanently sleeping on the couch in the living room, and due to that choice, I had not really visited the other side of the residence since Cliff left. In fact, it seemed, with him gone, the atmosphere of dread had compounded, and was focused now on one person. Me.

  But the mornings always seemed brighter and less fearful, and it continued that way until late afternoon when the ambiance of the house shifted to a darker and more oppressive tone. It also seemed activated by any grim change in the weather. The ice storms had melted out, but the winter was still unseasonably cold and subject to shifts in temperature and sudden outburst of rain. When that occurred, no matter what time of day, the feelings of dread mounted. Because of that, I was glad I was gone most of the time, and on Wednesdays, when I had a late class, I was at my most nervous on returning. I parked as close to the porch as possible and entered the house rapidly and made my way to the living room, and locked myself inside. The back door from the kitchen to the porch I never unlocked.

  But, I was telling you of the morning I went to the other side of the dog run to examine that side of the house. In Cliff’s bedroom I saw that all of his abandoned belongings – his books, his clothes – were strewn everywhere, the clothes ripped to fragments, pages torn from books. I was shocked to discover the entire room looked as if an angry burglar had been through it. That was my first thought, actually, or vandals, until I saw that the bed clothes in my bedroom had been ripped from the bed and piled at the end of it in a shape. That’s the only way I know how to explain it. Somehow, those blankets had been twisted in such a way as to make a kind of teepee, but one that had no opening into which to crawl; a twisted cone the height of my shoulders. The sheets were ripped in strips and thrown around the room and the glass was knocked out of all the windows. My mattress had been ripped apart and the stuffing was tossed about as if a fox had had its way with a chicken.

  When I breathed my breath frosted. This made sense as the outside weather had been let inside, but I had the feeling that the air was not cold from natural atmospheric occurrences. Still, I didn’t feel that odd impression of something being in the room or nearby; the cold was more like the residue of something having passed through.

  This should have been my absolute cue to pack up, but at this point, to tell it as truthful as I can – I was mad. The idea of being forced out of the house, and the idea of having to pay money I didn’t really have for a different place to live, or to consider moving home and losing my tuition loan, was more than I could bear.

  I locked the door to the ravaged side of the house as I came out, and then I made sure both ends of the dog run were locked. I followed that by entering the living room side of the house and locking that door. I pulled all the curtains across the windows, and even went as far as to take some of the spare blankets I had moved into that room a few days back, and
hung them over the curtain rods in such a way to secure myself from the sight of anything on the porch. I concluded if I couldn’t see it, I would be less fearful of it.

  I took some peanut butter and a loaf of bread, a plate and a knife to spread it with, and carried it into the living room, followed a moment later with a glass and a gallon of milk from the refrigerator. I closed the door from the living room to the dining room and locked it. I determined I was going to make that room my sanctuary this night.

  I didn’t have a television or a radio, not in that old house. There were actually only a few electrical outlets available. It had never been fully transitioned from farm house to modern home.

  There was a little bathroom off the living room, a kind of guest bath that had once been a closet. It was large enough for a toilet, a sink, and a shower. I took a shower and dressed in comfortable clothes I had laid out, as I had already moved all of my major possession into the living room, and then I prepared myself a peanut butter sandwich, had a glass of milk and, sitting on the couch with an end table lamp at my elbow, began taking a crack at my studies.

  As the teacher had cancelled her class for that day, there was no need to leave the house, and I decided not to. Instead, I planned to direct myself to my studies. The house had already taken up far too much of my attention, and to be honest, even at this point I thought that what I might be dealing with were vandals, and that tomorrow, when I went into town, I would file a police report. Mostly, I tried not to think about the other side of the house, and instead concentrate my efforts on my studies.

  This went well throughout the day, until late afternoon. I had by this time become a bit more confident – fool’s confidence – and I chose to unlock the door from the living room to the dining room and to make my way to the kitchen to see if I might find something more appetizing for dinner than a peanut butter sandwich. As I reached the kitchen I noticed a curious thing; the hinges on the door to the porch were losing their screws; they were twisting slowly from the hinge. One of them fell to the floor with a small clatter. The hair on the back of my neck spiked up.

  I observed this for a moment, until another screw began to move, and then I will admit quite freely, I broke and ran for the living room, closed the door – quietly, lest I somehow aggravate whatever was out on the back porch further – and locked it. I picked up a poker from the fireplace and moved to the couch. After awhile I heard a noise, and I knew immediately what it was. The back door had fallen off its hinges and there was nothing the lock could do for it; the door had dropped into the kitchen, and if that wasn’t enough, there was something moving in there now, and even two rooms away, I could hear it breathe.

  The breathing became louder as it moved through the house, toward the living room. I gripped the poker so hard I tore the skin on my palm. And then it was at the door connecting the living room to the dining room. I could hear it breathing, and there was a shadow at the bottom of the door where there was a thin crack. The shadow remained for a long time, and then it shifted, and I swear to you that the next thing I saw was a long finger, or what looked somewhat like a finger, slide under that gap in the door and run along its length, wiggling, as if feeling the temperature of the room, which had become almost unbearably cold. Then I saw it wasn’t a finger at all, but a limb, or a thin, knobby branch. It clutched at the bottom of the door frame, and then more fingers appeared, and more, until there were far more woody fingers than could be part of a human being, and they began to pull at the bottom of the door. The door moved; it heaved, but after a long fearful moment, it held.

  There was a sudden yanking and then a screech so strange and so loud I almost thought I would faint. This was followed by a rush of wind, an appearance of light at the bottom of the door – the artificial light of the dining room bulb – and then there was a popping sound and the light was gone. This was followed by banging and what was obviously the clattering of pots and pans.

  And then everything was still and silent and the room warmed up.

  I didn’t leave the living room until the morning was so bright it bled through the blankets. I unlocked the living room door and made my way through the dining room and kitchen. They were a wreck. The dining room table was flattened and chairs had been thrown through the windows that led to the porch. In the kitchen, pots and pans were tossed about, along with flour and sugar, and there were broken plates and glasses. Some of the plastic glasses I had collected from fast food places to supplement my dishes had been ripped apart as easily as you might tear wet newspaper.

  I had a class that morning, and a test, but they were the farthest things from my mind. I drove into town. I went straight for the Mud Creek Rest Home.

  Mud Creek Rest Home actually turned out to be Mud Creek Retirement Home. It was a community home where the elderly could have their own rooms and shared facilities. It was very nice, actually. I found out which room was Matilda Wright’s. When I came to her door, it was open and there was bright sunlight pouring through her windows and the room was stuffed fat with easels and paints and paintings. Matilda, who I had somehow expected to look ancient and be confined to her bed or a wheelchair, was standing at one of the many easels, painting. What she was painting was a large multi-coloured flower, unlike any flower that actually existed was my guess, and the rest of the paintings were of beautiful, but twisted trees and rivers, all nature paintings.

  Matilda was so deeply into her work I hesitated to interrupt her. She was a tall lean woman, and quite attractive for someone I had to guess was in her late seventies. She had her hair dyed blonde, and her face, though creased with wrinkles, looked lively, or at least the side of it I could see. She was actually quite beautiful for a woman of her age, and I could imagine that even twenty years earlier she must have turned quite a few heads. She was wearing a paint-splattered, over-sized shirt and blue jeans, white canvas shoes dotted with paint. She didn’t look like a woman who would know about weird things that crept up on the porch where she once lived.

  Finally, I knocked. She turned, slightly startled, and saw me. Her face lit up and she said, “Yes?”

  “Miss Wright?” I said, not entering the room.

  “Actually, it’s ‘Mrs,’ but my husband is long dead. I prefer Matilda. Do I know you?”

  I shook my head. “No, ma’am. I live in what used to be your family home, or so I’m told. Would it be all right if I came in and spoke with you?”

  “By all means,” she said.

  She hustled to lift a box of paints out of a chair and offered it to me. I took the seat and she sat on her bed and looked at me. “You live in my old house?”

  “I do.”

  “How interesting. I think about it often. It’s where I grew up.”

  I nodded. “I wanted to ask you a few questions about it. They might seem like silly questions.”

  “By all means, ask.”

  It turned out I didn’t so much as ask her a question, but broke down and told her all that had happened since I had lived there. I felt, as I feel now speaking to you about these events, a little silly. But I couldn’t stop telling her all that had occurred, and she didn’t once interrupt me. When I finished, I asked the actual question. “Did anything odd ever occur while you and your family lived there?”

  “Nothing of that nature, no. And my family and I were very happy there.”

  This was a disappointing answer, and I’m sure my face showed it. I said, “I don’t know what difference it would make if I knew what’s responsible for what goes on there, but I keep thinking if I knew something, then maybe it would make a difference. Though, now that I say that aloud, I can’t imagine what it would be.”

  Matilda looked at me for a moment, as if measuring my character. “I didn’t say there was nothing odd that ever happened there.”

  My ears pricked.

  “I said there was nothing of the nature you describe, and that we were happy there.”

  “Then there was something?”

  “Quite different
than what you describe. I had an invisible friend.”

  I was immediately disappointed. “So did I, when I was very young,” I said. “Lots of children do.”

  “That’s true,” she said. “The thing is, well... shall I take some time to explain?”

  “Yes, ma’am, that’s why I came.”

  “When I was very young and we lived in that house, we owned a large amount of acreage. I don’t know how much of that is left.”

  “Ten acres and the house and barn,” I said.

  She nodded. “It was a hundred acres then. Right behind the barn there were woods.”

  “There still are.”

  “The woods were thick, and I often went there to play. And one day I came upon a grove of trees. It’s impossible to describe how surprising this was, because they weren’t just trees. Here I was in the middle of a forest, quite comfortable walking about, and I came upon what can only be described as a kind of grove. It was broken apart from the thickness of the woods, and there were a number of trees that were clutched together, but they were not like any of the other trees. They were thick limbed, and they didn’t grow very high, and they were amazing in the way their boughs twisted, and underneath them it was cool and pleasant. None of the other trees were near them. There was instead a field of flowers, blue bonnets, and they were the buffer between the grove and the other trees. I would suspect that the grove was surrounded by two acres of those flowers.

  “The trees appeared very ancient, though I can’t say that I knew that at the time; I say that in retrospect. For me then, they were merely odd and beautiful. Thinking back, they seemed to me to be among the first trees to ever grow on the earth. They had not aged like other trees, or grown high, but they were thick, and their bark was soft to the touch.