Huff Bend Hell House

by Jeremy Simons

  Eric closed the knife and shoved it back into his front pocket opposite the flashlight. He then pulled out his wallet. He rifled through all of its compartments. He needed...what exactly did he need? Something sturdy. He was far too young to have any debit or credit cards. He had a library card, but even with the laminated sleeve the librarian covered it with (“this is for your protection,” she had said; “it’ll last much longer with this on it, and believe it or not, that’s important, young man, because you’ll have to pay for the next one”), it was still too flimsy. There was a video rental card, but it wasn’t much sturdier than a single piece of loose leaf paper. He was too young for a driver’s license, but—

  (thank God)

  —he had something similar and just as useful for the situation. He lifted the flap in the center of his wallet and there, staring back at him, was a picture of himself. It was his own personal identification card his mother had forced him to get a year or so ago. He had always regretted it, saying that it is a waste of money and asking why he would ever need it. That was until now.

  “Thank you, Mom,” he whispered as he pulled the ID card from its flap.

  Eric shoved it into the crack between the door and frame. It went slightly further than the blade had, sliding the latch just a bit. He repositioned his grip on the card, putting his fingers near the end of the card closest to the door in hopes it would strengthen it a bit. He pulled again, this time until the ID card bent and threatened to snap in half. The latch moved a little but not nearly enough.

  Eric gave up. He hated to quit, but what was the point? The latch obviously wasn’t going to pull free from the frame, and if the card did snap, he would then have to spend twenty-two dollars of his own money to get a new one. That was the deal he and his mother made with him. She paid for the first, but if he lost or destroyed it, he would be responsible for replacing it, and he would replace it. Coming up with the money and actually going to the DMV would be the easy part. Explaining to his mother how he destroyed it would be the difficult part. The risk outweighed the reward. Besides, he may need it later if he or John came across any more locked doors, doors with locks easier to pick than this one.

  He placed the ID card back in its appropriate slot and shoved his wallet back into its appropriate pocket. He pulled the Old Henry out, opened it once more, then the flashlight and switched it on.

  He turned to his right and opened the second door. A small screened-in porch, which contained a lone porch swing much like the one John had broken near the front doors, lay beyond. He begins to close the door as quickly as he had opened it but—

  —a blood-curdling howl rang throughout the night.

  Eric panicked. He slammed the door shut so hard it rattled the picture frames on the wall. That was no small feat in a house constructed as well as this one. He also managed to drop the flashlight in the process but had no problem finding it. He spotted it immediately, bent over quickly to retrieve it when another howl—a howl much louder and seemingly closer—rang out. He had no clue as to what howled, but he knew it had to be within the gates of the Cahill property.

  A third howl bellowed out. It sounded now as if it was right outside the door, maybe sitting next to the porch swing or even on it. He waited briefly to see if it would howl again.

  *****

  What was that?

  John had no idea. He was sure of two things, though. One, he definitely saw something at the top of the stairs. Two, the question wasn’t “what was it” but rather “who was it”. The silhouette took on the finer aspects of a human being - a little girl, to be more precise. He had caught a glimpse of yellowish-blonde hair atop her head. She couldn’t have been more than six years of age.

  One of the girls from the portraits. It was possible, but also in this deduction, he thought his overactive mind might have doctored the silhouette into resembling the little girl. After all, fear had a way of controlling him like this, or anyone for that matter. Yet, he still wondered.

  His arm—in fact, his entire body—trembled more than ever, making the flashlight shake as its beam danced, uncoordinatedly, at the top of the stairs. He was hoping...well, he was not sure what exactly he hoped for anymore, nor what he should expect. Either way, he saw nothing. Luckily—or fortunately, maybe even unfortunately, he wasn’t quite sure how to view it just yet—nothing was there.

  He shined the light back out in front of him, knowing it was time to move on.

  When it didn’t howl again, Eric reopened the door without thinking it over first. The fact of whatever made the howl could be playing a decisive game of cat-and-mouse and simply waiting quietly for its prey to appear so it could feast never dawned on Eric. He could have been ripped apart without warning.

  He peeked his head out the door cautiously, Old Henry and flashlight both in hand. The porch appeared empty still.

  Eric stepped out. The uncovered bulb of the porch light beamed a bright ray directly into his eyes, causing him to see spots and stumble back. A slight wind rustled, making the various out-of-bloom fruit trees shake vibrantly. Goosebumps prickled up on to his skin. Maybe it was just the wind making it feel cooler than before, but he doubted it. In the moments when the wind died down and the night mellowed to serenity while awaiting the next untimely gust, it still felt cooler. In the back of his mind, he somehow knew the temperature had dropped a few degrees at the least just as before, and it wasn’t the wind chill causing it.

  For the first time in quite a while, he found himself reliving his first trip up here without John. This was the second time he noticed a considerable drop in the temperature in matters of mere seconds. Normally, he wasn’t too keen to notice things such as this, but tonight...well, for some reason or another, tonight he was. And all at once, the little girl—that beautiful face, the face of an angel, then inexplicably exploding into something far beyond the concepts of his wildest nightmares—filled his mind.

  He looked off into the distance, back in the direction he and John had came, in a vague effort to clear his mind; he looked beyond the first patch of withered grass where he envisioned an array of expensive and exotic parked cars and on to the next one where they had accomplished their first deed of destruction.

  A massive structure loomed out of the darkness where the birdbath had stood before. At least, he imagined it to be a structure of some sort,

  (a birdbath)

  not a birdbath because that would just be impossible, even here.

  It could be just his imagination playing tricks, but he somehow doubted it. But it couldn’t be an animal of some sort, could it? Nah. No animal that could make howls like that stood this tall. Did it? No animal except for a—

  (a werewolf)

  No. That’s just ridiculous, he thought. It can’t be a—

  (a werewolf)

  He shoved the thought out of his mind and shined the flashlight on to the object in the distance. It looked more like a structure of some sort than a creature. It appeared to be...st-stone. Impossible.

  (a birdbath)

  It did resemble a birdbath. In fact, it looked to be the exact birdbath John destroyed. But that was...IMPOSSIBLE!

  He shook his head menacingly, hoping he was just imagining it, and it would disappear the second he reopened his eyes. It didn’t. The large stone structure

  (birdbath)

  was still there.

  He waited nervously, tapping his foot atop the porch to see...see what? He wasn’t sure. He wanted—yes, wanted—to hear another howl, to prove that it was a—

  (werewolf)

  Yes, a werewolf. Maybe it was an actual werewolf. Who knew what lived out here in these swamps? That would surely be better than being

  (a birdbath)

  a structure that resembled a dissipated birdbath. But he never heard another howl. Nor did he see the mystery item move.

  He closed the door and began moving down the hallway once more, his heart beating in his chest like that of a heavyweight boxer in the twelfth round putting out on
e last valiant array of combos as he attempted a knockout shot.

  *****

  This particular area wasn’t lit at all - other than a few shadows of light beaming in and out of the bulbs sitting in the chandeliers far above John’s head as they rocked back and forth. They rocked much like in the movies when someone bumped their head on a low hanging one, but that was impossible. They were too high up to even reach, let alone bump your head on. The wind, maybe. But he felt no breeze. If it was a wind strong enough to rock a chandelier of this size he would feel some effect of it, a small chill at least. But no. In fact, it was rather stuffy and muggy in here, on the verge of being flat-out hot.

  John walked slowly, nevertheless, searching each wall for another panel of switches. Nothing but portraits. The family portraits were beginning to thin out a bit but still lined each wall.

  His body had been all but consumed by the eventual darkness when finally, a switch… a switch plate with a single switch. He wasted no time in flipping it. Three lights—one directly above him and two more out in front—came to life. They were much dimmer than the previous three, obviously explaining why there was only one switch here to operate them instead of one for each. These, too, were chandeliers, but much smaller. The third and final light signified the end of the hallway.

  A small sense of accomplishment washed over him as he saw the door at the end of the hall, although he knew that the night was far from being finished. There was no sense in not feeling good, or confident for that matter; after all, he had made it further solo than anticipated.

  And all at once, Eric Richardson filled his thoughts. John knew Eric was perfectly capable of handling himself, but still, he had to wonder exactly what Eric was up to and what that end of the hall had in store. Wonder if he heard the howls, too. Had he seen anything inexplicable? Had he heard the creaks upstairs?

  He looked to his watch. 9:22 p.m. Already. Seven minutes had passed already, and he felt as if he had made it nowhere. At this rate, it would be time to turn back when he reached the end of the hallway. He had to move quickly if he wanted to cover some ground, and he did; well, part of him did anyways; part of him wanted to see what lay ahead. The rest of him still wanted to turn back.

  What to do? John thought. What to do?

  He could have went back to the fountain/fish habitat—he still wasn’t sure of just how to label it—and have a seat and marvel at the koi fish, maybe indulge in a drink and a snack, and Eric would never know the difference. But he didn’t. His curiosity got the best of him. He moved on somberly.

  He kept his eyes glued upon the door at the end of the hallway, deeming it a stopping point, the only stopping point, in fact. He would stop long enough only to open the door.

  Of course, this logic didn’t last long.

  Several steps up the hallway, just below the second chandelier, he discovered two more doors. One lay to each side of the hall. He stopped here, contemplating. He assumed the one on the left led outside, but what the hell? He tried it first despite his certainty.

  It creaked open proving his assumption right. It led out onto a sun porch, a rather large one, and rather than wondering why he and Eric hadn’t noticed it before on their way in, he thought of the howl once more. A vision of a...a werewolf came to mind. Laughable, but he didn’t feel the slightest bit amused by it. He looked just long enough to notice the two items occupying the porch—another swing and a gas barbecue grill—before accidentally slamming the door shut instead of easing it to as intended. It echoes and he cringed. The vision of the werewolf changed to a vision of the figure at the top of the stairs.

  The feeling of watchful, unruly, and unwanted eyes surged over him strongly and suddenly. A million eyes watching his every move. Stronger still.

  The damn portraits.

  They seemed to be watching him now. He hadn’t noticed it before. Then again, why would he? They had not been like this before. They had changed.

  This feeling didn’t last long either, or at least he did not notice it long. His eyes danced over the door to the right, and his priorities realigned. The feeling of those eyes watching him subsided, and he went on about his business.

  John jiggled the handle a few times. It moved just a little. Locked. Oh well, he thought. It’s probably just a linen closet or a coat closet.

  He moved on, now making haste towards the end of the hallway, the door there his focus once again. More portraits lined each wall, thinning out rapidly but still there, and he knew the feeling of strange eyes upon him would return.

  But it didn’t.

  He reached his destination uneventfully. The door stood massively in front of him. He reached out and grabbed hold of the knob. He started to twist but paused. He needed to psyche himself up.

  *****

  Eric made it to the end of his hallway without any further interruption. Without thinking, he twisted the knob and pushed the door open. He grew annoyed with these newfound instincts. Partly because he wasn’t used to behaving so spontaneously; partly because he could not control himself, but mostly just because of the fact the last time he opened a door without thinking he saw something he hadn’t wanted to.

  The room was pitch black. He wanted to boast, to let out a sigh of relief and savior this moment simply because he could not see anything but didn’t. He couldn’t because the joyful realization he could not see anything was also the problem. Anything might be in here, lurking in the darkness and watching his every movement, and he knew it.

  He shined the flashlight on the left wall just inside the door without first stepping into the room. He found a switch plate with one switch and flicked it immediately. The light buzzed on.

  It was a living room or den as some would view it. A large projector-type television hung from the room along the back wall. To the right stood a stone fireplace that sat off-center in the wall. A family portrait served as the center of the mantelpiece, hanging just above it. Fresh ash and a half-burnt piece of firewood rested inside the fireplace. The screen trap stood open. A gold—maybe imitation gold but with the Cahills Eric doubted it—fireplace tool holder, containing all of the usual tools except for the fire poker, sat to the left of the stone hearth. The fire poker lay on the bricks just in front of the screen trap.

  Weird, he thought suddenly and without warning, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it.

  Eric moved slowly into the room. Along the back wall to each side of the television were more portraits. On the wall, directly behind the television was a large entertainment center built directly into the wall itself. The center shelf where he presumed an ordinary family would place their television remained vacant. The left side held many different shelves containing a vast collection of DVDs (mostly of the horror genre).

  “That’s strange,” he whispered aloud.

  And it truly was. A wealthy family like the Cahills, six children and most of which could not even attend a PG-13 movie without an adult present at the time of their deaths, with a hankering for horror movies was strange. And it was not just the classic horror movies that Mr. Cahill himself may have watched with his own father as a child, but newer ones - some that Eric watched with his own father and had been terrified of not so long ago. It was odd. Eric scratched his head in a concerning manner.

  He stepped over to the right side of the entertainment center. It was a twin to the left side, identical in size and the number of shelves. Half of these shelves contained even more DVDs, only these looked to be homemade, or possibly copied. Eric doubts they were horror movies as well. The other half of the shelves contained VHS tapes.

  He pulled one of the DVDs from its respected place on one of the shelves and skimmed over the homemade label: Isabella’s 3rd B-Day was scrawled across it. It was a home movie. He breathed a sigh of relief simply because he knew he would have had some sort of mini breakdown had it been more scary movies. There were collections, and then there were morbid fanatics. He even let a small smile stretch across his lips at the thought of how utterly terrif
ied he had just been as he glanced over some of the labels on the outsides of the VHS tapes.

  Wedding Tape

  Gregory’s 1st B-Day

  1yr anniversary

  Gregory’s 4th B-Day

  Gregory’s Kindergarten Graduation

  Suddenly, he stopped.

  Eric noticed a small red light coming from the middle of the entertainment center on the bottom-most shelf. His stomach sank but not out of fear. In fact, he had a good idea of what the light actually was, one he believed to be valid, but because he had so blindly missed it until this moment. He hadn’t even noticed the shelves above or below the large void on the entertainment center where normal families placed their mediocre television sets. What else had he missed? It was too late to worry about any of that now. Instead, he peered down to the bottom shelf where he realized his good idea to be correct. It was merely a VCR with a remote control fastened atop it with a single strip of Velcro much like television remotes in numerous hotel rooms. Above it on the next shelf, there was a DVD player, its remote securely fastened in the same fashion. Above this, there was a much larger opening—not quite as large as the one for the television set. Occupying this shelf was a five-disc CD changer. Next was the emptiness left behind by a phantom television. And above this, there were still three more shelves to go. They were all empty or at least seemingly empty. If there was anything occupying these shelves then it had been pushed too far back for him to see, and he wasn’t about to climb up for a little look-see.

  However, what he did do next was inexplicable even to himself. He bent down to check the VCR more thoroughly, leaving himself vulnerable. He wasn’t sure why he felt he must do it but blamed it on these newfound, pesky instincts, but—

  There was a bright side that Eric had not thought of in the beginning. The red light shining steadily on the VCR meant the power was on. He had no idea how other people do it, but in the Richardson homestead, the power remained off on the VCR unless there was a movie playing. His eyes lit up at the thought of a movie being in there, and not just any old movie, but…The Movie. The movie that may have been playing the night of the incident. The same movie that may have been playing when Mr. Cahill sat on the couch right behind where Eric kneeled now and had taken his own life. He ran his index finger over the front of the VCR, searching for the eject button when he caught a glimpse of something shiny on the floor.