Huff Bend Hell House

by Jeremy Simons

  *****

  The second his tires struck the dirt and loose gravel of Huff Bend Road, it was something completely different.

  Eric’s stomach grumbled with nervousness. He passed the abandoned trailer-house to the left at the beginning of the road, which had supposedly served as a crack house at one point. This trailer-house had never meant anything to him until now. Now, it stood as a sign—the only sign, in fact—there had at least been civilization here once upon a time, the only sign until the house with The Pack of Many Breeds.

  Seeing the trailer-house disappeared into the scenery behind him made his stomach knot ferociously as if he had drank a glass of milk past its expiration date. But he knew better. He had eaten only a sandwich today, one he made himself and consumed just before leaving home this evening, one consisting of two slices of bread (from a fresh loaf) and a single piece of ham (from a previously sealed package). Hunger…maybe? But he knew that wasn’t the case either.

  It was, more or less, the strange feeling of knowing he was doing something wrong. That or maybe the fact something bad might happen.

  In his own eyes, he saw nothing wrong with what he was doing now or what they planned to do later. This left the latter sentiment hanging around in his thoughts, all alone.

  The mere thought of this—the realization something bad could happen tonight no matter how much he had reassured John otherwise—made his stomach knot so tightly he wanted to vomit. It felt as if someone had placed his intestines in a vice grip and was quickly spinning the handle, tightening it down, and there was nothing he could do to stop the pain. His palms were sweating so profusely that every piece of loose gravel the tires of Scotty’s bike rumbled over nearly forced him to lose his grip from the handlebars. The bags felt as if they had doubled—no tripled, maybe even quadrupled—in weight. Pushing the pedals forward felt as if he was trying to pedal the Lincoln Town Car the elderly woman had passed him in rather than his ten-speed.

  He soon found out pedaling would be the easy part. Stopping or slowing would be the difficult task. Coming this route, the road was nearly all downhill. As he began trolling down the first large, steep hill, he tried to brake without using the handbrakes. He knew that would send him tumbling end over end. He applied the foot brake...well, tried to. Holding the pedals back to lock the wheels and keeping them locked was like standing on a set of railroad tracks and trying to stop a freight train coming at him full-speed by just simply planting his feet and holding out his arms. It was impossible.

  By the time he reached the bottom of the hill, the bike rocked and shook violently, quivering beneath his weight. He thought it might fall to pieces like in one of the cartoons he watched as a child. The image alone brought a smile to his face, but he could not stop to reminisce.

  The bike didn’t fall apart. Instead, it began decreasing in speed before coming to a full stop in the middle of the road. He took a moment to “rest his bones” as the old-timers say. The throbbing muscles and aching joints subsided quickly, but now it felt as if someone was playing Boy Scout with his intestines, trying to win a merit badge for the most complicated knot possible.

  And that feeling...that damn feeling something devastating lingering in the near future grew stronger. And why not? He was closer now—just one more curve to go—to the opening where donuts were cut, beer consumed, drugs inhaled, and the trail where mud-riding took place.

  He knew there was going to be a Caldwell Parish Sheriff's Department cruiser sitting there; waiting. For what? Someone such as himself. Someone up to no good.

  Eric shook his head abruptly and thought, I’m doing nothing wrong. This thought, which he played repeatedly, was actually helping; not to mention the relative fact just dawned on him that most of the police were patrolling Main Street by now or acting as roadblocks to keep the traffic to a minimum. Eric shouldered the bags once more, found a grip on Scotty’s bike, and began pedaling once more. I’m doing nothing wrong.

  Yes you are, a voice inside his head spoke up. Eric did not know its exact proprietor, but he had heard this voice before. It always seemed to speak up in times like these, times when he was nervous and needed any little thing to help put his mind at rest. It was a voice of doubt that only bestowed more fear into him. He’s there, Eric. Waiting. He’s waiting for you. And he’s going to stop you.

  I’m doing nothing wrong.

  You look suspicious, the voice chimed in.

  Eric supposes he did look that way to the trained eye, but it was too late to back out now. He stuck with his guns. I’m doing nothing wrong.

  You have a stolen bike, Eric. And the bags?

  I'm staying with a friend. I'm just returning the bike he let me borrow. I'm doing nothing wrong.

  I suppose the fact that you're returning this friend's bolt cutters and tape recorders and pocket knives on Halloween is just a coincidence.

  I’m doing nothing wrong.

  Eric rounded the curve. The different colored, spray-painted initials and Amy was here and all the other clever signature markings of people who had been here or heer or hear or herr once upon a time on the bluff to his left came into view. The opening on his right. It was empty. Thank God it was empty.

  Eric sped up and put this part of the expedition behind him.

  If not for Eric being familiar with this area, he would have missed the road entirely. It wasn’t freshly paved or graded any longer. The brush and overhanging branches nearly covered the mouth of the road from years of overgrowth. The old-timey, white Southern plantation type sign advertising Cahill Manor, knocked over for whatever reason, had disappeared. Its replacement—one of the mundane green road signs that litter Caldwell Parish—was now missing the head that read Cahill Drive.

  The woods surrounding the road overtook it. A few more years and this place would undoubtedly be invisible to the naked eye. Even though the sun still beamed dimly as it began its long journey west into eventual nightfall, it wasn’t nearly a strong enough glow to penetrate the overcast of branches looming above him. No streetlights aided him either. Those would definitely come in handy to Eric since they would be switching on at any minute now. There were no reflectors marking the ditches to each side of the road. Even the lone reflector on the front of his bicycle was of no help.

  He decided to leave Scotty’s bike at the beginning of Cahill Drive because it had yet to serve its purpose. He still needed to carry it closer to town for John to ride back on, and he did not need it for this part; it would only slow him down. He hid it beneath a pile of leaves and hoped no one would see it. Then again, he didn’t imagine there would be many people traveling through Huff Bend right now.

  The unkempt gravel road spilled out into an opening of withered grass. The temperature seemed to have dropped considerably in the short time since he turned onto this road. He did not know how or why, but it most certainly had. He had been on the verge of sweating only moments ago but could now see the breath coming out of his mouth in thin, white puffs of smoke.

  Eric wrote it off as nothing, but somewhere deep down inside, he felt differently. While Louisiana was well known for its unorthodox and unpredictable weather patterns, this wasn’t right. This was not typical October weather.

  *****

  The townspeople had been truthful. There was no warning of the dead end or the upcoming bluff whatsoever. The road just ended straight into it. He envisioned yet another cartoon from his childhood, the roadrunner and coyote cartoons; the ones in particular where Wil E. Coyote gave chase and the roadrunner came to a screeching stop at the edge of a cliff or mountain and ole Wil E. could not stop fast enough and went straight over the edge. A smile spread over his face. Still envisioning those cartoons, he imagined if he ventured a look over the edge of the bluff during daylight hours, he would see something resembling a paved road perfectly painted down the surface of the bluff. He knew this to be impossible, but it was still an interesting thought. Of course, if Eric had it his way, he would never find out because he had no plans of look
ing over the edge during the day (or at night for that matter) ever.

  The water below rushed up onto the banks in hard, crashing WHOOPS, sending needle-like tingles up his vertebrae. Eric wanted to leave, but as he shifted to his right, behind another patch of brush, he caught a glimpse of a few iron bars that had managed to stay just slightly in view over the years despite the thick blanket of shrubbery. “The gate,” he murmured to no one in particular. It seemed as though the townspeople had been truthful yet again.

  Eric stared blankly at first, seemingly frozen. In his stupor, he descended from atop the bike, let it fall to the ground, and cleared a small path through the brush. He stared in awe at the massive iron gates. CM, no longer the brightest shade of white but rather rapidly turning a light shade of brown from rain and mildew over the years and the once gold trim outlining them now a dingy shade of yellow, was still stamped in the center of the gates as certain townspeople had suggested.

  Eric pushed aside and snapped off even more of the branches so he could find the lock and finally see what if it getting was doable. He eventually discovered it. Every discarded branch he hadn’t broken fell back into place, tickling the back of his neck, nearly making him jump out of his skin.

  The lock didn’t appear to be fastened. And come to think of it, he was unsure why he had thought it might be in the first place. The electronic code box controlling the lock was smashed, but even if it wasn’t smashed and still functioning properly, how would the cops have gotten in all those years ago had it been locked?

  It seemed logical. He assumed only the Cahills knew the code. Yes, he remembered hearing they had once had a guard, but he had been escorted away first and placed under temporary lockdown on grounds of suspicion and probable cause. Now, the guard shack, just inside the fence and to the left of the gates, appeared just as deserted and rundown as the manor itself.

  No matter how easy it may have seemed, Eric knew it would not be as simple getting inside as everything else has been thus far. The small chain and one lonely padlock that lay looped through the bars of both gates was evidence of that. Despite what appeared to be a minor setback, he was overwhelmed with a sense of relief that he had the wherewithal to bring the bolt cutters.

  The urge to go in now was strong, but Eric fought it away somehow. Instead, he dropped the two bags next to one of the concrete pillars bracing the gates as planned, covered them with a pile of damp leaves, and backpedaled towards his bike.

  Eric took one final look at what little he could see looming in the distance of the massive mansion (manor continued to escape him; to him, it was a mansion), not because he wanted to but because he felt compelled to do so.

  A breathtaking roar echoed out shrilly. What was that? He was not sure, but he knew it had not been a figment of his imagination. He would not even begin to tell himself that lie. A scream, maybe? He was about to rule this out when—

  It sounded off again. It was definitely a scream, shrill but muffled into sounding considerably deeper by the whooping of the crashing water.

  Again. A violent chill washed over him, sending a wave of gooseflesh marching out all over his skin, including the parts concealed by clothing.

  Again. Eric managed to get back to his bike.

  Again. He straddled the bike, wanting to go, desperately trying to pedal, but nothing happened.

  Again. His heart sank into the pit of his stomach as he vaguely noticed a shadow appear in one of the second story windows.

  Again. He felt helpless, as if he didn’t have the power to move at all. It would be only his bladder or his bowels doing the moving.

  Again. The shadow turned into more of a vague silhouette.

  Again. And the silhouette into the form of a person...a little girl...long blonde hair.

  Again. The glass of the window shattered, and the face became crystal-clear, as if he was looking through a pair of night vision goggles at something in close proximity rather than staring blindly at something from this distance. Her face was beautiful and blemish-free.

  Again. The gorgeous face distorted all of a sudden, cracks all over, spilling pools of blood down the front of her pink sundress and out the broken window, oozing down the cream-colored planks of the house.

  Again. And she was gone.

  Whatever had been holding him in place—he would suspect later on when his nerves calmed down enough to allow his mind to conceive logical thinking once more that it had been the little girl in the window—loosened its grip. Eric finally moved, not his bowels or his bladder either as anticipated, but his feet.

  He pedaled the bike harder and faster than he could remember ever doing before. Holding the handlebars straight was nearly impossible. He was so freaked out that he almost forgot to get Scotty’s bike from beneath the brush pile. He remembered just in the nick of time before leaving the road behind him—he remained unsure of whether he would have turned around and came back to retrieve it—and stopped to pick it up against his better judgment.

  Still freaked, he pedaled so hard and fast that The Pack of Many Breeds barely had a chance to escape their driveway after him before he disappeared from sight. He didn’t acknowledge their howling, barking, or yipping.

  So freaked, pedaling so hard and fast, the transition from gravel to black top had been smooth and easy. He didn't notice it.

  So freaked, pedaling so hard and fast, he forgot to hide the bikes at An-Accident-Waiting-to-Happen intersection. He made it not too far past the intersection when he realized his mistake He turned around and let them slide down the side of the hill leading away from the road. They came to rest somewhere at the bottom. He didn’t bother covering them up. He told himself no one should bother them, but it was more fear of lingering to long that aided his decision. And then he ran.

  Eric ran the length of Cherry Hill Lane, down a leg of Cemetery Hill Road, down Lakeside Avenue, up Boatner Street past the elementary school and onto Main Street without stopping.

  CHAPTER 7

  Eric arrived on Main Street just as the fullness of nightfall creeped in. It was another transition he chose not to acknowledge. Several hundreds of kids and adults alike lined the street waiting for the festivities to begin, waiting for Witch Way to Main Street to begin.

  Witch Way to Main Street was a unique and time-honored town tradition. The local law enforcement shut down Main Street and barricaded it off from vehicular traffic. All the local businesses on and around Main, and even a few from other areas in the parish, set up booths to hand out candy and other Halloween treats to all the kids. A cart was brought in to serve carnival and fair-type food (nachos, burgers, funnel cakes, etc.). The Sheriff’s Department hosted costume contests for all ages. There were games with smaller, miscellaneous prizes for the tots (pickup ducks by far the most popular). People decorated the levee and concrete walkway overlooking the Ouachita River to look haunted; deemed a haunted trail, people dressed up in gory and frightful costumes before hiding in various spots with the sole purpose to scare the shit out of children. And let’s not forget about the cake walk.

  Several houses surrounding Main Street left their porch lights on signifying they were home and handing out candy. A few citizens even decorated their homes to resemble haunted houses and allowed others the experience. It was great fun for the entire family.

  Eric’s plan had the two of them meeting at the intersection of Main Street and Wall Street, between the old school board office and the old drug store now turned dance academy, at seven p.m. It was now 7:02. He assumed it would be impossible to find John in all of the commotion, it Eric spotted him immediately.

  *****

  Both boys, now fourteen years of age but still full-fledged kids at heart, took Alyssa around to all of the booths first, collecting candy not only for her, but for themselves as well. They attempted the cakewalk a few times, losing each, claiming it was rigged and a waste of money. They drank cider in front of the gift shop and ate nachos and funnel cake from the cart set up in front of the sheriff’s depar
tment.

  *****

  With all of that done, it was now after eight o'clock. They had been ready to set out on their adventure for the better part of forty-five minutes now but didn’t think it wise to give John’s parents reasons to be suspicious. The boys wanting to leave this soon would definitely be an oddity to the Parkers. But now they could clearly see the mounting frustration and sheer exhaustion plastered across both Mr. and Mrs. Parkers’ faces. Alyssa was tired and teetering on wobbly legs as well.

  They felt it best to implement the final stage of their plan while the time was right.

  *****

  THE DITCH

  John told his parents they could leave if they wanted. He added that Alyssa was full-up on candy, described in detail how tiresome she looked, and that they (the boys) would be leaving as soon as Mrs. Richardson showed up.

  The Parkers—well, Mrs. Parker anyways—did not give up so easily. She questioned the integrity behind her son’s words. While she trusted him completely, she didn’t trust other children much, especially not today, not on Halloween.

  The boys needed to come up with something fast. Eric did. He had planned for the worst-case scenario in what seemed any situation; he had planned a potential escape route for any predicament that might have reared its ugly head, including this one. He assumed Mrs. Parker (the overprotective Samantha Parker) would be hesitant of leaving the boys behind.

  Eric reached into the pocket of his brown costume pants—pants he had sliced and punctured in various places and doused with fake blood to give them a more authentic look—and pulled out his cell phone. Technically, it belonged to his mother. It was a prepaid phone she had gotten just for him but only allowed him to take it when he wasn’t planning on coming home. John’s mother did not possess this knowledge.

  He pretended to dial, turned his back towards the Parkers, and took a step away.

  “Hey, mom,” he says with excitement, maybe even too much. He may need to dial it down a bit. He paused, giving his fictitious mother time to speak in return. “Yeah, it was cool. We had fun.”