“You just can’t help destroying stuff, can you?” Eric asked as he pulled the bolt cutters from one of the bags.
“Okay! That wasn’t my fault.”
“Yeah, neither was the birdbath.”
“Haha,” John remarked with a scowl. “So let’s quit wasting time and get to it already.”
Both boys grasped a handle of the bolt cutters just as they had before. They positioned the mouth perfectly over one of the chain’s links. With all of their combined strength, they squeezed… and squeezed, squeezed harder. This particular chain was much thicker than and not nearly as rusted as the one that secured the front gates. They put forth even more effort. They squeezed harder - squeezed until their faces turned fire engine red., squeezed until the veins surfaced across their foreheads, squeezed until lightheadedness and weakness in their knees set in. They were on the verge of fainting and—
Finally, the bolt cutters pierced through.
The chain dropped loose.
CHAPTER 11
The boys entered through the large double doors into what seemed like another world. It was unlike anything they had seen before. Gigantic pillars sat in the middle of the floor, running up three stories to the ceiling overhead. A huge fountain sat directly in front of them in what they could only assume to be the foyer.
John glanced to his left. Located on the wall next to the door was a panel with six succeeding light switches. What the hell? He reached out and flipped the first switch, the one nearest to him.
He felt leery of flipping them all at once, as if it is a bad omen to do so. Why? He wasn’t sure. It just felt wrong. After all, anything could happen.
Shockingly, nothing out of the ordinary happened. A small chandelier dangling vicariously above the fountain buzzed on.
The water was dark green and murky...and it wasn’t a fountain at all. It was a habitat for fish. He saw small splotches of orange dashing about just beneath the green surface. Goldfish. The question of how they were still alive after being in this abandoned house for all these years never dawned on him.
Eric’s heart skipped a beat when the light began to buzz. His mind wandered frantically.
How? Magic. It had to be. Not exactly magic per say, but definitely something like it. Paranormal. Supernatural. He wasn’t sure which, but he did not rule out either.
Who? The little girl, of course.
Why? She wants...that face resurged in his mind...to...exploding, spilling blood...kill me.
Before he could stop himself, he was slowly turning around. He prepared himself for the worst, prepared his speech, his last dying words: Please, don’t kill me; I know we’re not supposed to be here; we didn’t see anything; we’ll just leave now. He finished his pivot and saw—
John’s hand rested motionlessly on the switch plate when Eric spun around.
“Did you do that?” Eric asked, letting out a valiant sigh of relief and relaxing a little as if he already knew the answer.
“Yeah.” John smiled, partially an accidental reflex but mostly deliberately. “I figured what could it hurt to try.”
“You scared the shit out of me.”
John’s smile widened even more. “My bad.”
“Let me know when you’re going to try something next time, will ya?”
John nodded as the smile turned to laughter.
“Well, flip the rest,” Eric demanded. “Let’s shed some more light on the subject.”
John flipped the remaining five switches. Bulbs and fluorescents to both the left and right of where the two boys stood lit up.
There were large hallways branching off in each direction. Both contained spiral staircases. Each had numerous picture frames hanging here and there. But there was not too much else in either direction from what they could tell.
Eric sat both of the duffle bags down in front of the base of the fountain and...
It can’t be. But it was. Orange blobs floated beneath the green film on top of the water. A fish. A goldfish. It’s dead. But it wasn’t. It was moving…swimming.
“John?” John stood next to him, shoulder to shoulder, gawking at it as well. A strange realization that Eric wasn’t dreaming or imagining it like he had hoped set in.
“John?”
“I see it.”
“Is it a—”
“Yeah,” John said. “It’s a fish.”
“How is that possible?” Eric asked, stumbling backwards.
John shrugged his shoulders. He bent even further over the fountain-like fish bowl, examining the fish.
“They don’t live that long,” Eric said, attempting to convince himself as well as point it out to John.
“What?”
“Goldfish! They don’t live that long. They die in a few months.”
John watched the fish surface and realized two things: one, it was much larger than any pet goldfish he had seen before, and two, it wasn’t an ordinary goldfish. It was a...a...the word was right on the tip of his tongue. He had seen some before in one of the pet stores in Monroe and at the zoo. It was a—
“Koi!” John expressed exuberantly.
“What?”
“It’s not a goldfish, E.” He searched the depths of his mind for anything he had seen or read about them that day in the pet store or at the zoo. He searched for anything relevant or significant. Nothing came to mind.
“Then what is it?” Eric asked.
“It’s a koi fish.”
“What in the hell is that?”
No sooner than Eric spit out these words, he remembered, too, remembered seeing the pools in the back of the pet store. Pools he thought were homes to goldfish in the beginning. It wasn’t until he read the sign advertising them as koi fish he realized his mistake. He hadn’t remembered John being there with him but supposed he had since he knew what they were, too.
“Koi, E.”
“Yeah, I remember but...” He tried to remember exactly what the sign in the pet store had said. “...they’re just like goldfish.” Had that been on the sign? He could not remember exactly, but it sounded somewhat accurate.
“But they live longer,” John added confidently.
Do they? Eric thought. He wanted to question it but didn’t, at least not in a straightforward manner. Besides, he did not doubt that it was the truth. But eight years? That was a concept he had a hard time believing.
“How long exactly?”
“Not sure,” John answered in earnest.
“Eight years?”
“Maybe.”
Maybe? Eric’s mind screamed. Maybe wasn’t an acceptable answer at this point. He needed something more concrete. He needed a “yes” or “no”. “How can they possibly live that long, John? With no food?”
John shrugged. “They don’t really need food.”
“They can’t survive without it.”
“I know,” blurted John. “That came out wrong. What I meant to say was that they eat the algae and the green stuff on top of the water. It’s not good for ’em but they can survive on it. They don’t really need food.”
Eric stared at him coldly, puzzled. Is that true? He wasn’t sure. Maybe. It definitely sounded probable. He decided it had to be true. After all, he didn’t believe John could have come up with that explanation on the fly.
John continued to gleam down at the fish. He felt Eric’s eyes peering onto his back and thought it best not to turn around. Eric possessed an uncanny ability to read him like a book. He knew when John was lying.
*****
Eric fought the doubts consuming him with everything he had. He could not resist continuing on after coming this far. The fish were odd but not life threatening. It was a freak of nature and a miracle it managed to live this long…a miracle and nothing else.
“Let’s do some exploring,” Eric announced.
“Alright,” John agreed while attempting to hand the flashlight back. Eric pushed it away and shook his head. “Why do we still need flashlights, E? We have electricity.”
> “I’m not taking any chances, man. Just ’cause the lights work here doesn’t mean they do everywhere else in the house. On second thought,” he reached out a steady hand and grabbed for the light in John’s hand, “just give me the light and we can go.”
John thought it over shortly. “Nah. I think I’ll just hang on to it.” He flashed a concerning smile. “You know? Just in case.”
“I thought you’d change your mind.” Eric reached into one of the bags yet again and fished out two packs of size C batteries; each pack contained four batteries. He tossed one to John who stared at it blankly while he shoved the other into his own pocket. “Just in case,” he added with a smile of his own.
John shoved the spare batteries into one of his own pockets as well. Next, Eric handed him a small Old Henry pocketknife and kept one for himself. John looked it over carefully. He pulled the blade out until it clicked into a locked position and gently raked the tip of his index finger down the length of the blade (an old trick his father had taught him some time ago). It was sharper than expected.
Eric was about to speak when John abruptly cut him off. “Just in case?”
“Yep,” Eric sighed.
John swallowed the lump forming in his throat before clearing it. “I’m about to ask probably one of the most stupid questions possible to ask in this situation.”
“What’s that?”
John glanced down the hallways in each direction. They were lit up, but it remained relatively dark down each. The lights dangling above did not stretch the length of the hallways either, only adding to his discomfort. On top of this, he had a weird feeling deep down in the pit of his stomach. “Uh...” he paused to swallow yet another lump while Eric waited in anticipation “...are we going to split up?”
Eric flicked his flashlight on and shined it down the hall to the right (the one nearest him). “Yeah, John. I think we should. I’ll go this way.” He used the flashlight to point to the hallway leading left, the one nearest John, much like a businessperson would use a laser pointer to highlight or point out some important fact or statistic during a big presentation in front of the board members. “And you go that way.”
John nodded and glanced to his watch; 9:15 p.m. Eric did the same. His read 9:15 as well. “Alright, E, we’ll meet back here in twenty.”
Eric nodded and responded, “Set your alarm.”
Both boys set the alarms on their watches for 9:35 and headed in their separate directions down their respected and appointed hallway.
CHAPTER 12
John inched quietly down his appointed hallway. He walked on tiptoes, shining the flashlight purposefully back and forth between each wall. The lights overhead did not omit as much as he had originally thought.
Numerous pictures lined each wall. Hundreds of them. Most were of children. There were two blonde-headed girls, seemingly twins that looked to be around five years old in the most recent pictures.
A boy with dirty-blonde hair around ten.
Two brunette girls:
One looked to be at least twelve and the other one around fifteen. There was also a black-haired boy, sixteen or seventeen. And finally, a portrait of a man and woman somewhere between the ages of forty and fifty.
Beautiful girls. Handsome boys. The parents looked like loving and caring people. A modern day Brady Bunch, John thought. A different number of boys and girls. And minus Alice, of course.
He could not help wondering happened. He knew the gist of it: Poppa Cahill snapped and killed everyone before shooting himself. But why? Mr. Cahill looked normal. Several different possibilities of what exactly happened coursed through his mind. From these, he derived several instinctive questions he wanted—no, needed—to ask Eric and was now kicking himself for not thinking of them before splitting up. It was too late now, though. He would have to wait the twenty minutes to ask.
John reached the foot of the spiral staircase still on tiptoes. He didn’t dare go up alone but an urge to look overtook him. It was as if something, some unbeknownst force, drew him to these stairs, wanting him to proceed upwards. But he didn’t. He only looked. He finally peeled his eyes away from the stairs when—
CREAK!
It came from upstairs somewhere. Probably just a rickety two-by-four but...it wasn’t creaking on its own. They never creaked on their own. They needed weight. Someone or something was making it creak.
Eric?
Doubtful. There hadn’t been nearly enough time for Eric to make it down his hallway, up those stairs and then back down this far on the second story. And for some reason, John was absolutely certain the noise came from directly above him. They were not alone.
He reached cautiously into his right front pocket and pulled out the Old Henry. He shoved the flashlight underneath his armpit and fumbled around frantically trying to pull the blade out. The flashlight slipped. He reached for it, but—
BAM!
His efforts were a bit too late, his hands too slippery. The sweat compiled there to the flashlight was like a patch of black ice to an unsuspecting vehicle on the highway. The light slipped through his fingers just like a bar of soap in the shower. It crashed to the floor, echoing throughout the empty hallway.
John’s heart sank into the pit of his stomach. He glanced immediately to the top of the staircase. No one. Nothing. It made him feel much more comfortable just knowing and seeing for himself. He bent, trying to look everywhere at once and failing miserably. Just when his fingertips caressed the cold steel of the flashlight trying to get a grip on it, a blood-curdling howl rang throughout the night.
John froze, still bent at the waist in a rather compromising position, arm still outstretched. He could not move, and even worse, his mind raced even more so now. He knew it had to have come from outside, but where exactly? How far away? Did it come from within the gates of Cahill Manor?
Another howl. He glanced down (there was no need not to anymore), found the flashlight and scooped it up. The beam of light emitting from it danced shakily around everywhere. He shined down the remainder of the hallway. Nothing. Shined back the way he had come. Nothing. Shined up the length of the staircase yet again. Nothing.
He let out a sigh of relief and—
A third howl bellowed out. It seemed to be getting closer. He ruled out it being a dog, telling himself no dog sounded quite like that, and it was partially true. No dog—meaning no dog he ever heard before—sounded so menacing. A coyote, maybe? Prob’ly not, he thought. He had heard many coyotes howling off in the distance before, and they never sounded so vicious. Not to say they couldn’t under threatening circumstances because he was sure they could, but he doubted it. That left a—
(but it can’t be)
—wolf. He refused to believe this as well. He vaguely remembered hearing a dreadful howl similar to these before, but he could not put a finger on the what, when, or where. He waited rather impatiently to see if it would howl again, but it didn’t.
John shined once more to the entrance, expecting—hoping, actually—to see Eric standing there. When he didn’t, he thought it best to just keep moving along. He whipped the beam of the flashlight back around until it once again shone out in front of him, inadvertently shining the top of the staircase once more in the process and—
*****
Eric walked rapidly up his hallway. He had no reason to take his time and linger. He was finally where he wanted to be and was not about to waste any time being scared. He kept his flashlight bouncing from wall to wall, not taking the time to admire the vast collection of family portraits. After all, he had seen all of these people before.
Some reprints or photocopies of these exact portraits floated around on various websites. He saw them personally while researching the Cahill Manor and the Cahills in general in preparation for this excursion.
He came to the spiral staircase near the end of the hallway. It was beautiful, picturesque, and something right out of a mansion or plantation home in big budget films. He shined the flashlight towards t
he top and stepped up onto the first stair, caressing the fine, imported wood of the banister. He took a second hesitant step and stopped abruptly. He was torn. He hadn’t intended on going upstairs, at least not right away. But here he was climbing them, almost unwillingly. It felt as if someone was forcing him to go up. He shined the light towards the remainder of the hallway. His mind cleared. There was no sense in exploring upstairs just yet...and most definitely not alone.
He hopped down from the stairs and continued moving up the hall. He came upon two doors: one to his left, the other to his right. He was certain of where the door to his right lead. It was common sense really, so he grabbed the handle to the door on the left and gave it a jiggle. Locked.
“Shit!”
Eric pulled out the Old Henry and smiled sinisterly. He shined the crack between the door and its frame just next to the handle. His smile widened when he realized the gap was large enough for the blade of the knife to slide comfortably in. He just needed more light.
He shined the light along both walls surrounding the door to his right. Located to each side of it was a small silver panel, each containing a lone light-switch.
Eureka! He flicked the one to his right of the door. A small sliver of light shone in through the small, three-paned window at the top of the door. It was a porch light and unfortunately did not shed any light on what he needed. He flicked the second switch. Three chandeliers—one directly above him and one off to each side of him—high above glimmered to life. It wasn’t as much as he expected or even hoped for, but it would suffice. It had to because he was out of options.
He switched the flashlight off and placed it in one of his pockets. He eased the knife back into the crack separating the door and frame. He tried his hardest to slip the blade in front of the latch, but no. He felt the pressure on the blade beginning to bend it ever so slightly and decided to back it out at once. There was no sense in destroying his knife. Penetrating this door would not be so easy. Either that, or he was merely a piss-poor thief and incapable of picking the most standard of locks. Probably the latter.
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