CHAPTER 9
The boys stood at the gates of Cahill Manor. The waves continued to crash against the banks somewhere beneath them, and John was no longer curious of that sound’s whereabouts. Both boys’ excitement and angst had now turned to fear, although Eric’s had never entirely departed.
John pushed on the locked gates. This didn’t come as much of a surprise, though. He had imagined nothing on this night would come that easy.
Eric gawked at the broadside of the manor. There was no more blood. No more little girl. The window on the second floor the little girl had been standing in once again remained intact. His mind wandered. He thought mostly that he had imagined it, all of it, that he had been afraid for nothing...but no. He knew better. It was definitely as real as the two of them standing here now.
“How’d you get in earlier?” John asked, continuing to jerk in and out on the gates. No answer came. He glances over to Eric, and even through the darkness, John could tell his friend was off in space. “Yo, E! Earth to Eric!”
“Huh?” Eric said, startled, snapping back to reality.
“How’d you get in earlier? The gates are locked.”
“I didn’t.”
“You didn’t?” John dropped his hands from the gates and turned his full attention to Eric. “I thought you brought the stuff. Don’t tell me you didn’t—”
“Relax, man,” Eric said with a concerning smile. His eyes strayed from the second-story window. “They’re right here.” He pulled the bags from amongst the pile of dead, damp leaves.
“Ok. So how do you suppose we get in?”
“Simple.” Eric pulled the pair of bolt cutters from amongst one of the bags.
John’s eyes lit up.
Eric studied the lock in a way he hadn’t before. It was indeed unlocked, true enough, but he had a bad feeling nonetheless.
There is no alarm, he thought. How could there be a working one after all these years? He felt he was right about this but still.
Still, he could not just ignore this feeling. The gullibility or naivety he once clung to had disappeared long ago. His fear of the Boogeyman and bedbugs and his beliefs of Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny had long since vanished and replaced by a sort of rational thinking he supposed all adults adapted some time or another. Not that he was an adult just yet or even considered himself to be one, but he teetered between the realms of adolescence and adulthood.
What if it does have an alarm? The thought coursed through his mind, blocking out any and all other thoughts.
His eyes continued focusing on the lock itself as if he was trying to look through it; to gaze upon the tumblers inside and make sure there were no wires running in or out of it. Of course, he saw nothing and hadn’t really expected to anyways. Why would he? It wasn’t like he was Superman and possessed X-ray vision. Even if he did, he still would not known exactly what to look for anyways. It just made him feel better (a placebo of sorts), and feeling better in these types of situations could prevent stupid decisions and possibly save lives.
Then there was the guard shack. Not much of a point in paying a guard when a perfectly good, working, top of the line alarm system combed the grounds. Then again, he refused to underestimate the paranoia of the rich. Too much is never enough. And while money can’t buy happiness as the old saying goes, it can buy the material things in life that make people feel happy, safe, and secure.
But the lock itself puzzled Eric. While the lock hadn’t been damaged by any means, the box containing the keypad and a red button to speak with whomever was inside had been. He supposed had there been an alarm, it would have triggered when the box was demolished. He supposed had it been one of those advertised on television a representative could have shut it off, but he doubted it, at least not without the owner’s consent. Besides, if it never clicked back locked after being disarmed (if it indeed had been), the alarm never would have been reset, which meant—
Which meant it was safe…he hoped.
Eric stuck the mouth of the bolt cutters over one of the chain’s links rather than the padlock itself. Never the lock. The angle was too compromising, and he imagined neither one of them had the strength to cut through it.
He gave the handles a quick squeeze. He felt a little give in the link and nodded to John for some help. John grabbed one side of the handles with both hands, Eric the opposite. They worked together using all of their combined strength.
A small screeching sound, like nails on a chalkboard, broke out as the bolt cutters sliced through the link. The chain dropped loosely. Eric grabbed the link nearest the padlock and pulled. The chain came free. John pushed, and the gates creaked eerily open.
CHAPTER 10
The boys entered onto the grounds surrounding the Cahill Manor. A vast ocean of light brown, withered grass stared back at them. Even the lack of significant lighting could not hide the death of things inside these gates. A large stone structure they would soon discover was a two-tier birdbath after equipping themselves with working flashlights, sat in the middle of the mass abyss. A path of bricks, as wide as a single-lane road, led up to and circled around the birdbath.
“You bring enough?” John questioned sarcastically as he watched Eric struggling with the two bags before grabbing one for himself.
“Haha. I’m prepared for anything.” He flashed John a mischievous smile. “Now, let’s go.”
John obeyed and began skipping across the brick path like a young schoolchild on the playground at recess.
“Knock it off, man.”
“Just having some fun, E. Lighten up.”
The boys crept quietly up the pathway. They stopped several times to exchange worried glances when hearing the screeching open and banging shut of shutters (shutters on the sides or the back of the house; there were none in the front from what they could see). Branches knocked or screeched against the second and/or third story windows (again on the sides or back since there were no trees near the manor up front, which only fed their curiosity more). Loose bricks rattled beneath their feet; and even once a—
(but it couldn’t be)
—scream. A scream the two of them first passed off as a neighbor—
(but it couldn’t be)
—no; not a neighbor. There were no neighbors here. Even if there had been, it was nine o’clock at night. This was not a teenager’s scream, nor a woman’s—young or elderly, it didn’t matter much. John and Eric both knew this scream belonged to a little girl.
(But it can’t be.)
But it was.
To John, it was insignificant. He played it off in his own mind, not because he was scared either but because he didn’t know any better. As far as he was concerned, there were neighbors, maybe numerous neighbors. Not to the left because that was the Ouachita River, but what about to the right? Or behind? Or maybe the house with the dogs? Yes. That was it. A house with that many dogs must have children running around somewhere.
But Eric knew. He knew all too well, which was beyond frightening in his own mind. He heard the same scream as before. He had not told John about it, nor would he now. John had been reluctant to come in the first place. Eric had fought urges to turn around and retreat home on each trip here; he could only assume John experienced the same urges, maybe even stronger ones. Because of this, if Eric had told his friend of the screams and the little girl, John would have surely turned back in a heartbeat.
Eric could not risk it. He could not do this alone. He needed John.
Despite the scream, the two of them inched along, drawing closer and closer to the birdbath. It was an eerie site. What they had originally thought to be just decorations perched upon the birdbath turned out to be black crows; three of them. Two sit to each side of the bottom level while the third—the largest—sat atop the second level.
They cawed simultaneously in succession, smallest to largest. Once. Twice. Thrice.
Finally, after what seemed like hours of merely standing still and staring blankly and giving themselves en
ough time to regain their composure and the strength in their arms and legs, Eric made a vague attempt to scatter the crows. At first, he only threw up his arms in a shooing manner, hoping to startle them away without having to open his mouth.
The crows only cawed.
Throwing his arms up once more, opening his mouth this time to shout: “SHOO!” But no. It had intended to be a shout, but what actually escaped his lips was far from that. It came out as more of a blunt and lackadaisical moan, barely above a whisper. His voice sounded vaguely like his own mother’s did at every changing of the season when she miraculously went hoarse, or simply lost her voice as his father so shrewdly put it.
The crows only cawed.
His arms flailed upward and outward a third time. “Get outta here!” This time his voice came in a little louder, a tad stronger.
Still, the crows only cawed.
Before Eric had a chance at a fourth attempt to shoo the crows away, John took matters into his own hands. He picked up one of the many loose bricks from the pathway, tossed it a few times in the air, getting a feel for its weight and symmetry, resembling a relief picture tossing the rosin bag around. Then he hurled it underhanded towards the birdbath and—
He hadn't meant to actually hit the birdbath itself, but he did. The brick hit the lip of the bottom tier of the birdbath and bounced up into the scaffold holding up the top level. The two crows on the bottom took flight instantly at the first hint of danger, cawing angrily. The scaffold crumbled. The remaining crow hung around until the scaffold gave way entirely and the top level cascaded downward into the bottom. It then, too, flew the coop cawing menacingly. As the two-tier birdbath became one, water splashed out from all four sides simultaneously just seconds before the bottom tier gives away as well, spilling water out all over the brick pathway.
Water drenched the already eroding bricks. It spills out onto the dead grass to each side of the pathway, giving the lawn a tinge of color that it hadn’t seen in years. It filled the crevices between the bricks where the mortar had long since rotted away. It ran beneath both of the boys’ feet and out behind them.
The boys stared in awe, speechless at what John had done. They each take a step forward and—
SPLAT!
The water was thick, much thicker than what any water was supposed to be except for the—
(SPLAT!)
—sewage drainage out beside the junior high where they currently attended school. Eric remembered almost casually having stood out there once on the bank just staring at that water. The green gunk that blanketed the water had been appalling, yet, he had not been able to look away. The gunk had made the water stand still as if it wasn’t even really water at all.
SPLAT!
He remembered having seen a frog—not one of the small ones that often found its way inside the doorway of their house either, but a rather large bullfrog—leap down from the opposite bank onto the green gunk. It didn’t sink nor splash. It simply stuck, like a fly or a mosquito does on one of the hanging sticky traps that use to dangle in nearly every room of his grandparents’ house.
SPLAT!
He supposed this water was similar to that. No sewage, at least hopefully not, but something like it. He knew that any type of gunk and/or debris that had accumulated in the water of the birdbath over the years could make it this thick.
SPLAT!
And sticky. It was extremely sticky. He and John were both struggling to pick their feet up following each step.
SPLAT!
He supposed the stickiness could derive from the gunk as well.
Eric caught John peeking down at the substance, but what could he say? He had done it also. Of course, they saw nothing. It was pitch black outside. A blanket of clouds now concealed the frail moonlight that had been shining. The security lights lining the property neglected this particular area. They had flashlights, of course, but neither one of them dared to shine the substance.
“C’mon, John,” Eric finally said. “Let’s keep going before you tear something else up.”
“My bad, man,” John apologized. Sincerity negated him. “I didn't mean to hit it. I was only trying to scare them off.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“I’m serious.”
“We haven’t even made it inside yet, and you’re already demolishing stuff.”
“I said I was sorry.”
“It doesn’t even matter, John. Let’s just keep moving.”
The boys made their way quickly through the remainder of the puddle. Their shoes squished and splatted with each step. The sounds echoed eerily throughout the hollow courtyard. So much for subtlety, Eric thought briefly. Then again, subtlety had vanished long ago. Whatever was here—whatever he had seen if it had not been some sort of fear-based hallucination—knew they were here.
Once out of the water, or gunk, or whatever it was, they slowed their pace. Why not? They had all night, and the fact they were both scared out of their wits went a long way in dictating their speed. They kept their eyes open; their ears attuned like sonar radars, their flashlights point straight ahead, and neither dared to look back at the destruction caused.
It was too bad really.
Neither one of them saw the red footprints they left behind. Nor did they see the previous prints vanishing mysteriously when new ones appeared. They didn’t see the liquid evaporating instantaneously after the footsteps. They faintly heard the sound of stones rumbling behind them but assumed it just some stragglers still falling. Neither boy saw the large chunks of broken stone recreating themselves into a whole again and building back up into their original form. They did not see the birdbath reconstructing itself from ground up. Neither boy saw the crows—no longer three, but six now—bouncing vigorously through the shuffling rubble.
They both were clueless to what went on behind them. The paranormal activity they yearned for so long was happening right behind their backs. Yet, they were too scared to turn around, too blind to see.
*****
They made it to another opening in the center of the pathway. No birdbath here, though, just a large patch of wilted grass.
This must have been where they parked their cars, Eric imagined. He didn’t mention it to John because its import was irrelevant.
The stones had finally stopped falling (reconstructing), and that was a good thing. But now it was quiet; too quiet and—
CAW! Eric and John stopped dead in their tracks. CAW! Their hearts pounded irregularly. CAW! Their palms sweated profusely; the flashlights were almost impossible to hold on to now. CAW! The boys dropped down into a sprinter’s position, like track stars readying themselves for a forty-yard dash. CAW! They fought their better urges to turn around and take a gander at the crow. CAW! They waited.
Silence.
Six. They had definitely counted six, not three like before. Maybe they just cawed twice, Eric thought. It was really more of a question than a thought, in an unrecognizable tone. Either way, it was doubtful. He knew it was six of them somehow without having to turn and look but—
Yet, he found himself turning ever so slowly, stopping cold when John came into view. Their eyes met. They could not help but to share a nervous, guilt-ridden giggle.
They wanted an adventure, and here it was. They had not even made it to the house yet and adventure was staring them in the face. They wanted undeniable fear, to be scared beyond their wits. Again, they had yet to make it to the house and were both terrified.
They each had ambitions to leave now. They had thoughts of going home; thoughts of climbing into their beds and falling fast asleep; thoughts of forgetting this night, forgetting this dastardly plan, but—
They couldn’t. They would not. They needed this experience for whatever reasons. They longed for an opportunity to experience something out of this world, and here it was. So they continued on, not daring to look back.
Finally, they approached the doors of the massive mansion—manor. Before them stood a pair of fancy double doors, large
enough for an elephant to walk through and quite possibly impenetrable from the looks of them, but neither boy showed any signs of despair or discomfort.
“You ready?” Eric asked.
John smiled nervously and replied, “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
Strands of yellow police tape remained stretched across the two doors. They made an X over the threshold, as if stringing it up in an X would make burglars or vandals steer clear. The tape read: POLICE SCENE DO NOT CROSS
“Well, time to go home,” joked John.
But Eric didn’t find it funny at all. Instead of laughing or at least smiling as he most certainly would have did under ordinary circumstances, he simply reached for the knobs protruding parallel from the doors just to each side where the two strands of police tape came together in the center of the X. He may have been terrified but some rational thinking managed to seep through. Padlock or not, which there so happened to be another, it did not mean anything. They could easily cut this chain as well, but removing the padlock and chain became insignificant if the doors were locked. He pressed the buttons on each handle and pushed forward. The doors swung in just far enough for him to recognize the hardwood floor inside before the chain grew taut and impeded progress.
“Break ’em back out,” John said as he dropped the bag next to the doorway and moved to the side of the porch. He plopped down into a porch swing.
John swung while watching Eric rummage through the bags once more for the bolt cutters. He swung forward, backwards, and was on the way forward once more when both chains suddenly snapped and left the hooks they’d been attached to dangling from the roof. The swing crashed down onto the concrete floor of the porch. The old, decayed wood shattered upon impact.
Eric broke out into a fit of hysterical laughter. John somberly joined in once rising to his feet, rubbing and caressing his aching back and buttocks.
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