Huff Bend Hell House

by Jeremy Simons

  Stainless steel countertops all the way around, a large stainless steel table sat out in the middle of the floor like an island; a small heating-lamp dangled above it. It looked like and had the feel of a restaurant’s kitchen. The pantry was relatively empty other than a few outdated canned goods. The refrigerator was mostly empty as well and reeked of spoiled and rotting food. The freezer—a gorgeous stainless steel, double-door, upright model—was filled with all different types of meat and vegetables, all of which were badly freezer-burnt. All of the dishes were neatly stowed away in their appropriate cabinet and on their appropriate shelf. All of the silverware was put away perfectly in its respected drawer. A large shelf filled with various sizes of pots and pans and skillets was hidden away in the furthest corner of the room, near the large stainless steel door marked EXIT in large and dull, red letters. An outdated fire extinguisher hung on the wall to their right next to a beautiful stainless steel stove. The countertops were lined with various utensils and appliances, ranging from a cylindrical holder of spoons all the way up to a turkey roaster; and of course, not excluding a stainless steel knife holder.

  The boys remained in the kitchen just long enough for Eric to search the knife holder. John was right by his side. They discovered, and not to either one of their chagrin, that one of the knives—the biggest one of all—was missing.

  As they pondered where to go next, they discovered three more doors leading off of the kitchen. There was one to the left marked EXIT, but they could not have cared less about this one. It obviously led outside. The second was a pair of batwing doors that looked as if they had come straight out of a saloon in one of the old westerns each of their fathers enjoyed watching. These doors led back into the dining room.

  John had a momentary lapse, kicking himself for not having seen these before. Had he really been that preoccupied with the dining room table? He supposed so. It’s not that big of a deal either way, but it was funny how one’s mind can seem to overlook certain things when flustered. Under normal circumstances, he never would have given the table a second glance but would have stared at these doors in awe. They had an antique feel and frankly, were out of place amongst the rest of the things in this house.

  The third and final door, located on the right wall of the kitchen next to the stove, was of the stainless steel variety as well and looked identical to the one they entered. Eric pointed to it. John acknowledged, and they moved quickly through it.

  It led into another hallway, identical to the front one, spanning lengthwise down the backside of the house just as they would have predicted had either one of them actually voiced an opinion. The hall contained a spiral staircase at each end. A single door stood to the boys’ right at each end, but rather than leading outside, they were locked. Eric tried to pick these locks as well, and of course, nothing happened. John even tried but to no avail. The hall also contained a single wooden door at the far side, which they presumed led back into the living room. And finally, there were two doors on the left side at each end of the hallway as well.

  Both boys shared one thought, and one thought only, as they stood in front of one of these doors on the left staring: It leads outside. And it probably did, but

  (curiosity killed the cat)

  They both wanted to see what the backyard held. Eric gingerly pushed the door open.

  They were both wrong.

  The door didn’t lead outside but rather into a game room. A massive game room that would suit the likes of any child in America (or the world, for that matter). John flipped the light switch just inside the room. They both gawked at what they saw.

  Another huge projector television every bit as big as the one in the living room, maybe bigger, suspended down in front of the wall to their left. Behind it was another custom-built entertainment center containing every electronic gaming console Eric and John could think of, along with probably a hundred games (give or take) to each. The right wall contained shelves with every board and card game they had ever played and more. An air hockey table was wedged against the wall just inside the door next to where they stood. A tournament-sized pool table and a foosball table were out in the middle of the floor. Two arcade games—Mrs. Pacman and Asteroid—sat side by side in the back right hand corner of the room. A pinball machine in the left corner.

  A sliding glass door they assumed led out into the backyard stood on the back wall. But they had no desire to see the backyard.

  They turned around, went back out into the hallway, and made their way to and through the door at the end. It opened up into the living room just as they thought and saw no reason to reinvestigate the room until—

  John could not help but to glance over the back of the couch as he passed by it. After all, this was the spot where Jeff Cahill, one of the most infamous men in Caldwell Parish of all-time and the guilty party in the most gruesome murder-suicide in Northeast Louisiana, had been found; also, it was where the murder weapon had been found. But in the midst of his awe-stricken stare, he noticed an even more relative detail. The remote controls were gone.

  Eric was already about to wander back out of the living room and into the front hallway when John spoke. “Hold up, man.”

  “C’mon, John,” Eric said, sounding exhausted. “I’ve already looked in here. There’s nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “The remotes are gone.”

  “They’re behind the TV, John.”

  John grunted as he realized just how closely Eric had been listening before. “There were two lying right here on the couch. I told you that.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.” John frowned. “I used ’em both. One went to the TV and the other to the surround sound.”

  “Maybe you tossed ’em,” Eric fired back with little conviction. “You know...whenever you found me.”

  “Nope. I laid ’em right back where I picked ’em up from. I didn’t see you until afterwards.”

  Eric, not sure whether to trust John’s word at the moment because John had a reputation for cracking under the pressure in situations similar to this, mades his way back behind the television. “You’re right.”

  “Why you say that? What do you see?”

  Eric lifted a remote from atop the VCR on the bottom shelf next to the one he had discovered fastened there with Velcro before. He flashed it to John. “Here’s your TV remote.” He allowed his eyes to wander up to the next shelf. “The remote for the surround sound is here, too. They wasn’t here earlier.”

  “See!” John blurted out. “I told you, man. Something weird is going on.”

  Eric hated to admit John was right, but as he glanced down between his own feet, it seemed inevitable. “That DVD that I told you I found is gone, too.” He glanced to the fireplace and a sickening knot tightened and twisted in his stomach as he realized something else was out of place. “The fire poker wasn’t hanging their earlier either. It was laid out in front of the fireplace.”

  “Let’s get outta here,” John demanded. “This place is giving me the creeps.”

  They scurried out of the living room, back up the front hallway, and stopped in front of the fountain. Eric watched in astonishment as John began immediately packing things back up into the duffle bags. He tosses in the bolt cutters, which Eric had carelessly left out, his flashlight, the Old Henry, and anything else Eric might have left out.

  “What in the hell are you doing?” Eric asked angrily.

  “We’re leaving, man. I can’t take this shit anymore. It’s...it’s just too much.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  John slammed the bag—now filled to its capacity and zipped as far up as he could get it alone—down on the bricks of the fountain. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m staying,” said Eric. “I came here for a reason, and I’m not leaving. I’m staying...with or without you.”

  “Without,” John said, not missing a beat and without any hesitation as he reached into the half-zipped duffle bag an
d pulled the Old Henry the flashlight back out. He refused to leave empty-handed if he was going alone.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said ‘without’. I’m leaving. I’m going home, going to bed, and I’m gonna forget this night ever happened.”

  “Fine!” Eric boasted snidely.

  “Fine! I’ll call you in the morning when I wake up,” John announced as he started out the front door.

  Eric said nothing in return as he disappeared back down the hallway towards the living room.

  CHAPTER 15

  Eric stomped angrily up the staircase, mumbling obscenities towards John underneath his breath. He could not believe the situation he found himself in now. He never in a million years would have thought John would abandon him in a time like this. After all of their heated conversations over the years about ghosts and hauntings, how could he just leave? How could he back out on this opportunity?

  The more Eric thought about it, the more frustrated he became. But finally, he came to a conclusion: he wasn’t about to let John’s stupidity—and yes, it was stupidity—ruin his night.

  He bounced up the remaining steps with an odd pep. His frustrations had mostly faded away by the time he reached the top.

  He wasn’t surprised in the slightest bit to discover yet another hallway awaiting him at the top of the staircase. This time, however, a long, almost circular hallway seemed to wrap around the entire second floor. One more set of stairs—a spiral staircase, of course—sat just down the hall to his left. He took a step to his right where the hall bent around, above what he knew was the living room, but immediately stopped.

  He shook his head meaninglessly. He had gone right downstairs. He thought: Why not change it up this time? He actually felt obligated to go left now. After all, if John was right and there was, in fact, something...weird going on here, then maybe a little spontaneity might be a good thing. Not to mention, going right downstairs had landed him a gash in the head, a spooky and inexplicable occurrence, and a brief bout with unconsciousness.

  He waited briefly, frozen at the top of the stairs, part of him expecting to hear the front door creak open and slam shut again; expecting to hear John holler out for him; expecting an apology.

  But no. He received nothing of that sort.

  A sinking feeling came crashing over him as he finally began to acknowledge the fact maybe John was not coming back and he truly was alone and would be from here on out. Oh well, he thought. I’m better off without him. He didn’t believe that, though, not entirely at least.

  Eric ventured to the left only a few feet from the staircase when he noticed a small end table sitting against the wall to his right—the only wall, coincidentally, since to his left only darkness loomed over the banister running lengthwise as far as he could see in either direction and hovered above the first floor.

  He didn’t pay the table much mind at first. What could a simple end table with one lone drawer possibly possess? Besides, he had a major hankering to check the bedrooms, the scenes of the crimes. He felt like a kid standing out in front of a video game store, waiting for the doors to open so he could run in and purchase the newest, best-selling game. It was merely angst and anxiety, but he found it odd these were the things that excited him: blood, death, guts, and gore. Odd, but at the same time, he supposed was completely explicable since he was barely a teen. He had mixed emotions on nearly everything in his life at this point; these emotions seemed to change from one day to the next like weather patterns. Today, death…tomorrow, who knows?

  He began walking past the table but could not help but give it a second glance. He stopped cold. He saw a face above the table. Eric’s skin turned pale and cold; the hairs all over his body stood at attention as gooseflesh marched over his flesh; he wanted to run but remained cemented in place.

  He shut his eyes and was horrified, though not surprised at all, to see the face still there.

  *****

  John stormed out of the front door feeling—

  He was not exactly sure how he felt now. Anger? Rage? Guilt? Betrayal?

  He could sum it up as only a combination of all of the above. Anger teetering on the verge of rage towards the stupidity of Eric seemed appropriate.,, guilt at leaving Eric behind. Betrayed because Eric hadn’t left with him.

  In any case, how he felt now did not really matter. What mattered was he now found himself all alone; that it was late at night on Halloween and it would probably take him hours to get home walking, that was if the crazies—as his own father so shrewdly referred to overcompensating Halloween celebrators as—did not get him first. There had been many crazies out tonight, and he assumed there were probably still several of them out.

  John supposed he could take Scotty’s bike, but that meant he would have to return it sometime tomorrow. He didn’t want to do that. Besides, if he left it here, that means Eric would have to struggle with both bikes while trying to return it. This thought sent a good and almost vengeful feeling coursing through him. He supposed he could just cut through a few patches of woods if he walked. That would ultimately shave off a lot of time. But no. He did not dare travel through these woods under the best of circumstances—a beautiful, sun-shiny day—let along now.

  He had kept his eyes shut since walking out of the front door…partially from fear of what might lurk in the dark but mostly due to concentration. It was a habit of his while in deep thought: close your eyes and shut out everything around you. His fists closed tightly around the flashlight and the Old Henry.

  John slowly opened his eyes, preparing for the worst and getting just that, although what he got was not something that had previously crossed his mind. He did not see Eric as he had hoped he would, nor did he see any of the gruesome things he expected. The vehement beast that had made those screeching howls, a flock of perturbed crows waiting to pick apart every inch of flesh from his bones, the little girl from the top of the staircase, the entire Cahill family waiting to haunt his every waking moment…none of it was there waiting for him.

  Instead, he saw only daylight.

  A vast amount of sunshine glowed over beautiful, green grass. Sprinklers off in the distance spun wistfully around, casually wetting the separate patches of grass.

  This ain’t happening, he thought.

  He now stood between two glorious sport cars that had not been here just a second ago. One was red, the other black. This was the extent of his knowledge. He was terrible with cars.

  You’re dreaming John.

  In the distance, he saw the birdbath standing tall. Its beautiful stone walls gleamed methodically. Many birds—all different species and sizes—basked in its glory.

  John pinched himself on the forearm; hard, hard enough to bring out a small red blotch on the surface of his skin. He did not wake. This was no dream. A hallucination, maybe, but he seriously doubted it. This was too vivid and lifelike to be anything short of reality.

  But how? Why?

  So many questions rush through his young mind. There are too many to bother with sorting through, and unfortunately, not a single answer accompanied them.

  It was then that his mind returned to Eric. Sympathy weighed in. Something out of the ordinary—something with no realistic explanation other than the most obvious…paranormal—was definitely going on here. He doubted Eric’s capability of handling this situation alone. Eric’s had been prepared for everything until now, but what came next? Whatever it may be, John was certain that it would not be handled as easily as the padlocks on the gates and front door.

  Despite all of his instincts and his conscience screaming at him to just run away and don’t look back, he felt as if he had only one option of what to do next. He must stand by Eric.

  John Parker reentered the front door of the manor.

  *****

  It took only seconds on the follow-up glance for Eric to realize whom this face belonged. It was...Eric Richardson. A small vanity mirror hung above the end table.

  That’s weird.


  He has never seen a mirror in such a spot, hanging above an end table in an all but desolate hallway. It had no business being here, but here it was staring back at him.

  He wandered over to the table. Now, for some reason or another, he felt obligated to search it.

  The tabletop itself was empty other than a few insignificant whatnots. Nothing sat beneath it either. He pulled gently at the lone drawer’s handle. It opened with relative ease. Papers. Various bank statements, receipts, check stubs, and a single three-subject notebook filled the drawer.

  He carefully removed the notebook, making sure not to disturb or mix up any of the papers and envelopes lying atop it. Not that it mattered much. It wasn’t like anyone would be keeping tabs on the contents of this drawer anymore; at least he hoped not.

  The notebook appeared to be a time book for the Cahill’s staff. The dates ran concurrently from September of 2000 to May of 2001. Many names, all unknown to Eric, lined the sheets. Their hours were odd, and the most intriguing aspect of all was the fact there seemed to have always been a worker here: twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

  Eric thought briefly of how with as much money as the Cahill family made (and in most cases, how he had heard they so openly spent and flaunted it), why they would keep up with their payments in a notebook. This thought was blatantly blindsided as the times ran through his mind again. He could not help but to think if there had been a staff member here the night it all happened. If so, why didn’t Jeff kill him/her as well? Why didn’t—

  As he placed the book back into the drawer just as carefully as he had removed it, a new outlook on how that night’s events played out blew through his mind so vividly that he would have sworn he was sitting in a movie theatre somewhere watching it.

  Maybe Jeff hadn’t done it at all. Maybe it was the staff. That would explain why there had not been any cuts on either of Jeff’s hands.

  His mind raced on, stopping only when a feeling came crashing down upon him. An awkward feeling that suggested he might not be alone anymore. A feeling that something or someone was watching him. He wanted to believe it was merely paranoia but could not fight it.