Huff Bend Hell House

by Jeremy Simons

  Eric felt eyes beaming on his back. He didn’t need to turn around to know that Mr. and Mrs. Parker were watching him like hawks. Okay, enough small talk, Eric, he told himself.

  “Yeah, we’re exhausted. Can you come get us now?” He turned quickly, flashing a smile and giving a thumbs-up to the Parkers. “Ok! So you’re on your way then? Alright. Yeah, we’ll meet you at Git-It-All. See you in a few.” His smile turned to a snarl as he spoke the next words quietly, nearly whispering. “Love you, too.”

  He slammed the flip-phone shut, shoved it back into his pocket and rejoined the Parker clan.

  “She’s on her way, Mrs. Sam,” Eric said arrogantly.

  “Okay, sweetie. We’ll just wait.”

  The boys’ faces dropped in disgust and despair. Mrs. Parker flashed a bewildered glance at each of them but said nothing. All hope appeared to be lost. As John and Eric both attempted to come up with a reason for the Parkers to leave immediately, a small ray of hope shone through.

  “C’mon, babe,” Mr. Parker muttered. “Let’s just go.”

  “But—”

  “I’m tired, babe. Alyssa looks miserable. Let’s just go. They’re big boys. They will be fine.”

  “Are you sure, hon?” You could see the nervousness on her face despite the darkness.

  “Of course, I’m sure.”

  “Ok,” she remarked hesitantly turning her attention to the boys and added: “We’re gonna go, John. Will you two be okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Eric blurted out.

  “Yeah, we’ll be fine,” said John. “We’re gonna go through that thing on the levee—since Lys was scared to—to kill some time.”

  “And then head over to Git-It-All,” Eric interrupted. “Mom is picking us up there.”

  “Okay, baby.” Her voice still trembled, laced with hesitation and even slight resentment towards the father of her children. But she went with it. She kissed both boys on their foreheads.

  The Parker clan, all except John, of course, begin weaving through the crowd of people, headed for the Baptist church and their red Ford Taurus.

  *****

  John and Eric headed over to the levee, passing the Schephis Museum, the Watermark Saloon, and the bed and breakfast. They stood on the strip of blacktop running in both directions that overlooked the actual levee. They tried to see if they could spot the Taurus or even the Parkers. They saw nothing but unfamiliar faces, mostly hidden behind masks. The truth of it was that Main Street was still blocked off to transportation, and there were too many stragglers wandering about to see anything clearly from where they stood. The church where the Parkers’ parked the Taurus was located just off the opposite end of Main from where the boys stood; it was not quite a mile away but still a good distance. They assumed Mrs. Parker would want to drive back by, as close to the festivities as she could, and try to spot them. She hadn’t from what they can tell.

  The boys disappeared over the other side of the levee where the concrete walkway, cemented above the sloping mountain of white rock that stretched down to the water’s edge, overlooked the beautiful Ouachita River. They sat on one of the park benches off to the right of the walkway beneath one of the few pecan trees for a moment before making their way back to the festival.

  They walked nearly the length of Main Street, passing the intersection with Wall Street, and made a right on to Boatner. They walked in front of the big church—First Baptist Church—where the Parkers’ Taurus sat. It was gone now.

  The boys shared a brief, triumphant celebration underneath their breath. However, they both knew the coast wasn’t clear just yet. They made their way to Git-It-All, both expecting to see the red Taurus sitting in the parking lot. Fortunately, they did not.

  When they made it there, the parking lot was all but empty except for the Ford Ranger belonging to the owner. The gas pumps sat empty. The back alley where the drive-thru began and the dumpsters were located was empty. The drive-thru itself was empty as well.

  Just one more place to check.

  Both boys wandered listlessly into the entrance of the convenience store/barbecue joint with their fingers crossed. They would not have put it past Mrs. Samantha Parker to be inside after persuading her husband to drop her off, cunningly convincing him that Amanda (Mrs. Richardson) would bring her home. But there was no one in sight. Thank God. The food line where the heat lamps were located, the dining area, and even the restrooms were empty.

  SUCCESS!

  CHAPTER 8

  The ride back to Huff Bend was an entirely different experience for Eric, partly because of having John with him, but mostly because of the darkness. The trees seemed larger, the roads longer, and the houses spookier. The few remaining streetlights that hadn’t been blown out by a kid holding a grudge and a slingshot paled in comparison to what little bit of light the setting sun had cast hours before.

  They walked the same route that Eric had run. They stopped only to retrieve the bikes and just long enough for Eric to pick up a rather large fallen branch. He had avoided those dogs once, but twice? Twice, and now in the darkness would be a completely different story.

  The darkness had crept in so thick he struggled to find the bikes. Eric normally had a photographic memory. Under ordinary circumstances, he would have been able to come back in a day or two rather than an hour or two and still find them lickety-split. But not today. He had been too sidetracked to remember the spot, too freaked to take a mental picture. That beautiful face exploding before his eyes haunted him. Had he covered them like he meant to, they might not have been able to find them at all on this night.

  The bumpy blacktop spilled into gravel in an abrupt flash, nearly causing both of them a preventable accident. John manages to maintain control. He knew the layout of this road only a little but knew when the transition was near. The expectation definitely saved him a few scratches, scrapes and bruises.

  Eric, on the other hand, knew its exact location. Even if he had not just crossed over it an hour or so before, he still would have known. Normally, he could have traveled this road blindfolded and not so much as veered out of a straight line… but not today.

  That goddam face! Exploding! Blood Spilling! And gone! Gone where? He wasn’t sure. Why? That answer escaped him as well. But this was all he thought of. He could only hope the answers eventually came. This was all that drove him back to that hellhole at this point.

  Eric’s front tire struck a fallen branch in the road. The tire trampled over it easily enough but sprung sideways on the way down. The handlebars jerked to the corresponding side with which the tires skid, only making matters worse. Before he realized it, he was lying flat on his back in the gravel staring up at the starless night’s sky.

  The handlebars struck his thigh hard, but that wasn’t the unsettling part. The blow had taken his breath away, and that was okay, too. He could feel the grit from the gravel and the rocks digging into the bare skin of his back; this pissed him off because he knew he ripped his shirt, and not just any shirt. No. This was his brand spanking new, nearly thirty-dollar, red-and-brown, Nightmare on Elm Street replica sweater.

  Why hadn’t he brought the damn flashlights? Or at least one of them?

  He had no clue. Forgetfulness seemed to be contagious tonight, and he definitely wasn’t immune.

  *****

  John witnessed the spill but could not react in time to prevent it, or at the least, soften it. Even in the darkness, he had seen the accident coming beforehand; he watched the front tire roll effortlessly over the downed branch and knew something bad was about to happen.

  But Eric should have had it. Eric should have been able to catch himself and prevent it. He could have at least softened the blow some but didn’t do that either.

  John had no clue. He was sure of one thing, though: something was up with his friend. Eric was the more athletic of the boys and usually nimble in anything he did. He could handle a bike like an amateur BMX rider and never took a spill. Something was up. He could tell by the d
istraught look on Eric’s face that something definitely wasn’t right.

  But what?

  John had no clue yet. Thinking back, Eric had been distant at the festival, but John paid it no special attention. He assumed it had been excitement, angst, or probably both, but now, accompanied by the strange look on Eric’s face, it was discerning. He will not pry into it just yet, but soon.

  *****

  The two of them pedaled conservatively up the first hill of Huff Bend. Luckily, it was the only uphill battle they would encounter before reaching Cahill Drive, which was at the top. Unfortunately, there was a downside even worse than the steep hill itself…worse than any of the hills in Huff Bend.

  The last house on the right—or at least the last one until the abandoned trailer-house on the Brownsville side—contained The Pack of Many Breeds. The house was halfway up this hill, maybe a little more. Eric knew if they burned themselves out trying to get up it too quickly, the dogs would get them. Eat us alive, he thought. It may have been a bit of an overstatement, but he could not shake it.

  Besides, most of the dogs, at least from what he could remember, looked vicious. He doubted they only wanted to chase the two of them. And he doubted if one of the dogs managed to bite once, and draw blood, that it would just retreat afterwards. If one of them just so happened to attack, then what?

  9-1-1?

  Of course, this was the most logical scenario, but Eric doubted its plausibility. No service on the cellular devices way out here. Then what? He supposed he could wait on the owners of the dogs, but no. More skepticism. More questions arose at this thought. Are the owner’s even home? If so, will they hear the commotion? How long will it take? Will they even call 9-1-1?

  He had only one repetitive answer to all of these questions: I don’t know.

  When in doubt, always be prepared for the worst. That was something his father has said numerous times over the years, and that was exactly what he aimed to do.

  John didn’t question why they moved so slowly, nor did he question the stick in Eric’s hand.

  Eric fell back a few feet, allowing John enough time to get a link ahead of him. Then, he darted in behind him. When John decided to veer left, Eric pulled up beside him, now on the right.

  “What was that all about?” John asked.

  The thin night air had a certain chill to it, but John was sweating despite it. He could see Eric readjusting his grip on the stick through the darkness, letting it hang down beside him nearly to the ground, and actually dragging it through the gravel once briefly. Eric looked like he was readying himself for some sort of fight, and John feared the worst.

  “You’ll see in just a minute,” Eric grunted. He still seemed distant.

  But John didn’t have to wait a minute to see. They were about to round the bottom half of the uphill S-curve. He could hear the dogs coming, barking and howling, just as he was sure they could hear him and Eric coming. Where at exactly, he didn’t know. Around the bend somewhere was all he could guess. The hollowness and emptiness of the world around them could be carrying these noises from Brownsville or even Copenhagen for all he knew. They were definitely getting closer, though, that much he knew.

  The boys rounded the curve, and there they waited. The dogs stood at the edge of the property line, waiting. Neither boy could calibrate a total; a head count at this point would be too distracting and quite possibly dangerous.

  Eric and John pedaled conservatively, not wanting to startle or spook the dogs into doing anything hasty. John remembered an ancient spark of wisdom from his younger years: don’t run or they will chase you. He always thought this an absurd afterthought until this moment. But what could it possibly hurt to try?

  The first two dogs to run out at them were the smallest ones of course: the runts. They merely tested the waters; see how frightened the boys really were, see how the boys would react before the big boys gave chase. Much to the puppies’, a matted Chihuahua or possibly Feist breed and another vaguely resembling a Dachshund, chagrin, the boys did not flinch. The puppies made it to the edge of the grass lining the ditch butting up to Fisher Road before stopping and giving way to the next wave of dogs.

  As the next two (a brindle-colored cur mixture and a yellow-haired cur mixture) approached Eric and John, three more dogs galloped off the porch. The curs made it just past the little ones and stopped abruptly. They hadn’t planned to go any further. John thought even if Eric wasn’t striking the stick fiercely on the ground in an attempt to spook them, they still would have halted. They, too, were only testing the waters.

  The three coming off the porch were unfortunately the largest. They were the ringleaders. Their paws thudded through the gravel as they walked, then galloped, then sprinted. They approached swiftly, revealing their snarling faces from amongst the shadows—a pit bull mix (the large head and broad shoulders could belong to no other breed) and two German shepherds that appeared to be full-blooded. Their eyes were black and unforgiving, appearing even more sinister in the pale overcast of the makeshift streetlight erected by the landowners. Saliva clung aimlessly from their mouths, swinging back and forth vicariously from their jaws like a pendulum before detaching and making way for a fresh strand, signifying they were hungry. No. Starving.

  John’s feet kicked into overdrive, and he began pulling away from the potential scene. He remembered having always told Eric—or having Eric tell him, whichever one thought of it first in that particular situation—when they had been chased before that he didn’t have to outrun whatever was chasing them, he only had to outrun Eric. And for the first time in his life, he was actually doing it. He was actually outrunning the more athletic Eric, and with relative ease at that. But as John glanced back over his shoulder, blatantly ignoring his most primal and simplistic instinct of don’t look back, he was not so proud of himself anymore.

  He wasn’t outrunning Eric. He was simply leaving his friend behind. It wasn’t because he was faster either. It was because Eric had stopped cold in the middle of the road. John didn’t necessarily want to concede to this idea, but he had no other choice. The bike’s wheels no longer turned. The handlebars leaned to one side with no hands to steer them. Eric had his feet planted firmly in the gravel to each side of the bike. And his hands...his hands were—

  Suddenly, it all made sense.

  Eric’s hands—both of them now—held the base of the stick he had drug all the way here as if he was holding a Louisville Slugger. And why not? He had it tilted above his shoulder as if he was Barry Bonds getting ready to swing for 714.

  John locked up the brakes and dismounted before it stopped. The wheels, namely the front tire, jolted to the left, and the bike itself tumbled end over end. It didn’t matter much now, but later, it would. He would regret doing so when Scotty saw the scuffs and dings. John did not care, though. His friend needed him.

  John scooped up a handful of rocks and hurled them in the direction of the Chihuahua, dachshund, and curs. When these dogs retreated to the safety of the yard, he scooped up another handful and turned his aim towards the larger ones, which were now only mere feet away from Eric. He threw and managed to hit the trailing shepherd. It snarled briefly until it saw he was about to throw again; it, too, retreated to the yard. He threw the next handful, not even bothering to take aim. The second shepherd yowled in pain, or surprise—perhaps both—and fell back.

  The pit bull buried the paws of its hind legs into the gravel and leapt forward. Its front paws nearly grabbed hold of Eric’s arm while its gaze remained fixated upon his throat.

  Eric took a home run cut. The stick connected with the pit bull in the center of its back. It didn’t howl or growl. It merely fell, landing firmly on its four paws like a cat thrown from a considerable height. It took just enough time to pry its gaze away from Eric’s neck and on to the stick.

  Eric swung again. The pit bull somehow caught the stick between its teeth mid-swing. Eric pushed and pulled, trying his hardest to stay atop the bicycle seat while doing so,
trying desperately to make the pit release its grip. But the pit only shook its head from side to side as a counterattack, trying to disarm its prey, refusing to loosen the vice grip it had on the stick.

  If Eric fell, it was all over. The stick would be indecisive if he was flat on his back. If he lost his grip on the stick, it was all over. He needed help.

  The pit dug its paws into the gravel and pulled mightily, nearly making Eric flip over the handlebars.

  John scooped up yet another handful of the loose gravel and hurled it. He heard it ricochet off the metal of the bike’s frame and knew some of the rocks had probably hit Eric in the midst of it all but did not care. That wasn’t important. What was important was the fact the pit bull, whether surprised or hurt, let go of the stick.

  The second the stick was freed, it was in motion once more. Eric re-shouldered it and swung.

  HOME RUN!

  He brought it down straight atop the pit bull’s head. The pit devoured a face full of gravel as its legs splayed and it fell. It lay there shortly, blowing dust from its nostrils like an animated bull blowing smoke out of its snout, before relinquishing its shock, yelping in pain and scurrying away.

  John was back on the loaner bike and pedaling again in mere seconds. He was almost out of sight, preparing to enter the upper half of the S-curve before Eric, who had taken the time to look around and make sure none of the others had came back, got going.

  The remainder of the ride was smooth sailing. No houses. No dogs. No passing vehicles. It was just the simplistic silence and the uphill battle.

  John nearly passed Cahill Drive. Eric only laughed. And now under the fortress of overhanging branches, John jolted nervously to one side every time they heard the water crashing on to the banks. Eric laughed even harder at this. The sound, faint now, grew louder and louder. John was clueless to its cause. Eric would not tell him what they were listening to either. Not now anyways. It was just too funny. Besides, between this and the dogs, he had almost forgotten entirely of the little girl’s face.