Huff Bend Hell House

by Jeremy Simons

  The door slammed shut, and John heard the locking mechanism in the knob turn over as well.

  Out of one nightmare and into another, he thought. Oh well.

  He was perfectly content with this nightmare for now. The inexplicable sunshine, which had been the strangest thing to him, was gone. Jeff Cahill and Raymond were gone, and he was alone for the time being...at least hopefully alone.

  He rose to his feet and began exploring through the glum darkness.

  *****

  “Hey! Wait up.” Eric wanted to say, but the words would not come out. His voice was dry and raspy. His throat hurt.

  Dangling from the second floor, all of the dry and hoarse one-sided commentary, the struggling, and the crying and sobbing…it had all aided in getting him parched. Why hadn’t he brought the bags? He could not remember now and supposed it was not important. Besides, he wasn’t sure if he could have even made it up the stairs with one of the bags.

  “Hey?” he tried screaming as Isabella stood at the bottom step of the staircase leading up to the third story, but it still would not come out.

  Even through the darkness, he could see the blank expression on her face, but the impatience of her body language suggested something else. It made him believe she wanted a follower; better yet, she wanted him to follow.

  But why?

  He didn’t know. She had told Eric that he knew they were here.

  Who is he?

  Jeff?

  Isabella moved exquisitely up the staircase a little ways, never peeling her gaze away from Eric.

  “Wait,” he yelled (tried to anyways) but only that dry, hoarse sound he didn’t recognize as his own voice trickled out.

  He jerked and wriggled frantically, crushing some of the larger shards of glass beneath his ass, before finally pulling his feet free from their drywall imprisonment. Eric hopped to his feet, empty-handed. Along with the Old Henry, the flashlight was gone as well, and he did not intend to search for either one of them. Isabella was his only priority at this moment.

  He sprinted up the hallway reaching the third story staircase just as she disappeared from the top of it.

  “Shit.” His voice returned just a little, and he proudly hopped up a few steps. “Isabella?” A few more steps. “Wait.” A few more. “Please.”

  *****

  John looked around briefly through the darkness but saw nothing. He ran his hands along both walls.

  Nothing.

  Checked his pockets.

  They were all but empty except for the packs of spare batteries he had forgotten to replace in one of the bags before leaving. The Old Henry, and most importantly, the flashlight, had disappeared.

  Had he sat them down in the living room, on the fireplace or on the couch, while watching the scene? No. He knew he hadn’t. Maybe he had dropped them while pulling his acrobatic stunt over the couch, but for some off-the-wall reason, he didn’t think so. While running down the hall? Not likely. While beating on the door? Possibly. But he did not think so.

  His memory seemed to be extremely lacking in certain departments. He could, in turn, only search the floor around the door and hope for the best, and if that didn’t work to his favor, then he would just have to continue his search in darkness and continue to hope for the best. However, his first search turned up successful results immediately. The flashlight had managed to roll inside this room with him, lucky break, or perhaps he had merely dropped it when he hit the floor. Either way, he found it against the wall just beneath a cabinet of some sort, or a cupboard of some kind. He scooped it up and switched it on.

  The light was considerably dimmer than it had been before. No doubt it is running low on juice. Thank God he had unintentionally forgotten to return the batteries.

  He shined the front wall next to the door he had fallen through and found a light switch just to the left of the door. He felt ignorant for not having discovered it during his blind search.

  John flicked it.

  Two different sets of fluorescent lights dangled above dwindled to life. Each set contained only two bulbs; one located to each end of the room. It took a moment for them to kick on, and John was surprised to see each set lacked their long, flimsy cover. Normally, he would not have paid much attention to a detail of this magnitude but found it unusual for rich people with maids and butlers and chefs and gardeners—probably even maintenance men—to be missing something as indiscreet as a light cover. He didn’t much care for this although he was unsure of why.

  This room was merely a washroom. A high-tech, state-of-the-art washer/dryer combo sat on the far end of the room near the other door. Next to him, where he found the flashlight, stood a large cabinet somewhat stocked with cleaning supplies. He glanced briefly around the rest of the room: various cabinets containing a whole lot of nothing (nothing useful anyways), a set of small double doors where he imagined an ironing board hid; the ironing board itself stood against the washer/dryer beneath an empty clothes rack; a cool iron sat atop it. In the middle of the room was a door centered in the wall to John’s left. He imagined it was locked, but (curiosity killed the cat) he gave the handle a jiggle anyways.

  It swung open, revealing yet another hallway; actually, it was more of just a narrow corridor. Too narrow, in fact. Probably three—maybe four—feet wide at the most. It seemed just large enough for him to pass through safely and comfortably. A strange aroma—a mixture of mothballs, asbestos, and a hint of mildew but unknown to John—lined the corridor.

  He took his first step into the dark corridor and a strange chill rushed over him. It was cold, borderline freezing, in here and abandoned much like the home itself. In fact, other than the occasional cobweb, disintegrating mothball, or plump spider, it was a vast amount of nothingness. And it was extremely dark. To make matters worse, there were no light switches in here. No fluorescent bulbs with missing covers. No chandeliers. No lights at all.

  He shined the light down towards the opposite end of the corridor where another door awaited. There was no doubt in his mind as to where it led, but as far as what lay in wait beyond it, he was unsure.

  John sprinted down the length of the corridor, not much caring for the darkness or the fact it was a small, enclosed space. He twists the knob, and BINGO. It, too, was unlocked. It’s my lucky day.

  More darkness lay beyond, but luckily, he was quite intuitive for his age. He noticed a distinct pattern pertaining to the switch plates in this house (they seemed to be located to the left of every door) and hoped it would be the same in here. He reached up to his left, and (hallelujah)

  the pattern proved valid yet again. He found a switch, flicked it, and voila.

  Lights. Two more sets of fluorescent bulbs, both missing their covers, fluttered on. A linen closet. His assumption from before had been accurate. It is a rather ordinary—although larger than normal—linen closet by the rich standards.

  Shelves lined the entire room except for where the doors stood. All of the shelves, which contained towels, rags, robes, and various toiletries, stood divided into five different sections labeled as such: MR. MRS. CHILDREN STAFF GUEST. Off to his right, just inside of the entrance, sat another set of small double doors similar to the ironing board closet. He opened them; a place for everyone to hang their jackets and sweaters sectioned off in the same manner and containing the same five sections as the shelves.

  He tried both main doors leading out into the front and back hallways only to discover what he already suspected. Locked.

  He sprinted back through the corridor and tried both main doors in the washroom. Locked and locked.

  A small tinge of claustrophobia began to settle in. It was difficult to breathe. Hyperventilation lurked near.

  He fell to the floor and buried his face into his hands as he allowed his back to fall against the same door he had fallen through. Part of him hoped he had somehow opened a secret panel from the other side when he did this. As ridiculous as this sounded, he prayed he could now do it again. And in no time, he w
as crying again, sobbing harder and more hysterically than he had on the other side.

  “You know, I relive that damn day every day and it never changes,” an all too familiar voice spoke up.

  John opened his eyes and could not believe what he saw.

  *****

  By the time Eric reached the top of the staircase leading up to the third floor, still calling out to Isabella, she was gone. She had pulled another Houdini on him. He had grown a tad more concerned, but it did not outweigh the relief. At least she helped me, he kept thinking. She didn’t have to do that much.

  Which led him to his next question: Why did she help me?

  For this, he had no answer...yet. If things go as planned, he would find out soon enough. Unfortunately enough, his flashlight was now gone, and he had to scurry through the room with nothing but a small beam of moonlight shining in through the lone window about ten feet up the back wall.

  From what he could tell, which wasn’t much, this appeared to be an attic, or quite simply, a store room. He could see enough to determine the silhouettes of hundreds of boxes and probably storage containers lining the walls.

  He still searched, nevertheless, looking for a light switch. He stumbled over many small boxes and loose items throughout the journey, crushing some of the meaningful items beneath his feet. It was not until his feet became tangled in a curtain that his expedition through the obstacle course this room had become ended harshly.

  He fell face-first to the hardwood floor, somehow managing to fall in the only spot in the entire room that wasn’t littered with junk that could have easily broken his fall or softened the blow at the least. His nose and mouth took the grunt of the blow. A busted nose and two loosened teeth were his parting gifts.

  But in the midst of it all, he smiled.

  *****

  Isabella, who had been watching Eric the entire time from the darkest corner of the room, spoke out before he could even sit up. “You’re wasting your time.” Her voice was still soft, shy, and angelic.

  Eric smiled a blood-streaked grin.

  “The lights up here are broken, Eric.”

  Eric, despite the wretched pain gripping his face and the blood pouring from his nose and dripping from his mouth, was ecstatic; and a little startled simply because he had expected her to be gone, since he knew Eric and John were here. But he was happy to no longer be alone; the loneliness was killer.

  He spit. A fine stream of blood and a tooth came tumbling out. “So why are you here?”

  Isabella only smiled as she made her way to the back wall just below the window. Beneath it stood a small table, much like the one he had destroyed except older, much older. The finish was chipping accompanied by many dings and abrasions. The tabletop held many candles. A box of strike anywhere matches rested in the center.

  Eric watched. His mouth continued to ooze a thin stream of blood that was beginning to dry up, but his nose still poured profusely. He imagined it to be broken until he leaned forward and pinched the nostrils, remembering an adage of wisdom from his younger years. Never lean your head back with a nosebleed, he thought, which was what his old elementary school vice principal had once told him when he showed up in her office with a nosebleed after excessively picking it. Most people don’t know it, but leaning your head back allows the blood to run down your throat. You could asphyxiate and end up hospitalized...or worse. Lean your head forward, baby. And although he had never believed it, never dared to go against his own father’s words, which were to lean his head back and shove a piece of toilet tissue in there, he found himself now adhering to his former vice principal’s words.

  Surprisingly, it stopped almost immediately.

  Isabella lifted the box of matches, careful not to bump any of the candles, pulled one of the few remaining red-tipped ones, held it out in front of her face and blew. The match ignited under her breath. She blew again. This time, a small stream of fire shot out (much like it did while holding a lighter in front of a spray from an aerosol hairspray can; a trick he had demonstrated many times before). The flame ignited all of the candles’ wicks simultaneously. Isabella ran her hand out through the air, combing a few inches above the candles. The flames grew higher, putting off a faint but surprisingly bright cloud of light.

  “Nifty little trick,” Eric said sporadically. He had been watching her without interruption, like a child watching a world-famous magician, and had been so distraught that only now when he wiped the sleeve of his costume sweater across his face, he realizes he was no longer bleeding.

  She smiled hesitantly as she brought two of the larger candles over and sat them down in front of Eric.

  “You never answered my question, Isabella. Why are you here?”

  She looked at him—perhaps through him—with those eerily distant, expressionless eyes and blatantly ignored the question. “You’re hurt.”

  Eric, growing more frustrated, spoke lividly. “I’m fine.” He struggled to his feet, raking his tongue over the empty spot where a tooth had been and then gently over another loose tooth. “Why are you here?” His voice now stronger; purposeful.

  She shook her head. “I can’t.” Eric could hear the fear present in her voice. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t.”

  Eric reached up and wiggled the tooth with two of his fingers. He hoped it was loose enough to extract as well, but it didn’t seem to be. “Look, I really appreciate you helping me back there, but enough is enough.” She seemed surprised, but Eric no longer cared. “I’ve been knocked out. My friend bailed. I almost fell from the second fucking floor.”

  Her eyes contained an emotion he could not quite grasp. Concern, he thought, but there was no way to be sure of it. “And now...my nose—I don’t know—might be broken. I’m missing one tooth and about to lose another. Something really fucked up, something I can’t explain, is going on. So if there’s nothing you can say to me before—” He stopped abruptly. He didn’t want to think about what may or may not happen.

  Eric stared Isabella up and down. When she did not move or speak, he interpreted it as all the clarity he needed. He was crying now. He turned to leave, flashing her a peace sign with his fingers in the process and not even realizing it.

  “Wait,” she said hesitantly. “I’ll talk, Eric.” Her tone was no longer shy, nor angelic, but rather trembling. “Please...just sit back down.”

  And so he did.

  CHAPTER 16

  Standing in front of John was an all too familiar face. He recognized it at once to belong to the one and only Jeff Cahill. Or at least a version of what Jeff Cahill had once been. Not the spry, caring Jeff Cahill that had spoken to the chef so respectfully, nor was it the Jeff Cahill that had been fond of manhandling his small son either.

  Jeff stood, propped against the cleaning supplies closet just inches away from John, not in the Chris Paul New Orleans Hornets jersey and faded basketball shorts, but in a red-stained white t-shirt and blue pajama pants. His face was neither angry nor spry, but guilt-ridden. “You know, I relive that damn day everyday, and it never changes,” he repeated, as if John had not heard him the first time.

  John chose to ignore the mantra and replied, “What do you want from me?”

  Jeff bellowed laughter, a real fatherly chuckle, and said, “I want nothing from you, son.” He paused, acknowledging his poor choice of words. “I’m sorry. John. Old habits die hard.”

  “How do you know—”

  “Never mind that.”

  “—my name?”

  “I know many things,” Jeff announced as he flashed a smile of sincerity. “The important thing right now is that you understand that I don't want...nor do I need...anything from you. Understand that much and we’ll be fine.”

  John nodded.

  “Good. If it was up to me, you could leave as easily as you came. You know where the doors are.”

  “Then why can’t I?”

  Jeff shrugged his surprisingly broad shoulders. They seemed out of place on his rather small frame. �
��I suppose you could, John,” he paused to glance cautiously around the room, “but I wouldn’t recommend it...you know...with Eric still here and all. It might not be such a good idea.”

  “What did you do to Eric?” John asked. The rage built inside of him at an alarming rate. “Did you kill him, too?” He hoped the words would affect Jeff Cahill in some way, maybe make him reconsider whatever he had planned and just leave, but they did nothing.

  Jeff only laughed that fatherly chuckle. After all these years, the petty accusations and assumptions meant nothing when directed at him. “Eric is safe,” he said calmly. “I assure you. He’s upstairs—third story—right now.”

  “No,” John yelped. “You’re lying.” He swallowed the annoying lump forming in his throat. “He would have came down when you were screaming like a madman at your son. You’re lying.”

  Jeff laughed again. “Only you heard that little outburst, John. Only you saw that. The scene...the sunlight...all of that was just me inside your head. You seeing what I’ve seen. You seeing what I wanted you to see.”

  “But why?” He was on the verge of tears yet again. “I just wanted out. I was out. Why show me that?”

  “Honestly,” Jeff sighed, “I’m not sure. It felt appropriate. I just wanted someone else to see I guess.” He glanced over to the ironing board standing against the washer/dryer. “That wasn’t my finest moment by any means...probably my worst day ever.” His shoulders hunched down lower as he redirected his attention back to John. “I relive that damn day everyday, and it never changes.”

  John was certain now that if Jeff Cahill could still achieve the simplest of human emotions, he would be crying. He was sure of this much.

  “Every day,” Jeff repeated.

  “Then why’d you do it?”

  “I’m not sure anymore.”

  John detected a hint of sincerity in Jeff’s tone, but he didn’t necessarily believe it. Before he could pry any further, Jeff continued.