Huff Bend Hell House

by Jeremy Simons

  Eric began imagining his movies again. Not action this time, but horror, suspense, and thriller. The heroes in these types of movies were always just ordinary Joes like himself and John. He was not quite to the point of losing his grasp between fiction and reality, but he believed they still had a chance and consulting the movies had a calming effect on him. What would those heroes do here and now? he thought.

  The ones upstairs usually die. It was true; they usually do die, but it wasn’t the eventual outcome for Eric and John...yet.

  While dying was not exactly the last outcome he plotted, it most certainly was not the first either. But he knew this was the part in the movies where the hero/heroine was left to his/her own devices and would devise some kick-ass plan to defeat the villain and save the day.

  Or die trying.

  Yes. That was always a possibility, too. But he was beyond exhausted. The ole ticker—as Mr. Adams, the shop teacher, loved to refer to the brain as—was not functioning quite as well as it had been when they first arrived here. He hadn’t lied when he told John he was all out of ideas.

  Running and screaming like a banshee to the front door still seemed plausible. Unfortunately, he had nothing else besides this. It could work. No. It would work. No. It had to work.

  But part of him, somewhere deep down inside, was not so sure of the success rate.

  While Eric plotted, John stood idly by thinking of...well, nothing in particular. While Eric thought of plans to get them the hell out of here, John thought of things to take his mind off of what was really happening here: a Saints football game, helping out his dad in the garage, Elizabeth Turner (his crush for as long as he could remember now). He thought of only the things that had brought him joy in his life. He knew if he focused in too much on the things happening within the walls of Cahill Manor that he would probably seize up again, rendering himself useless.

  The happy thoughts rolled in: the stack of Playboys buried at the bottom of his dad’s toolbox, his first taste of beer, his first pull off a cigarette.

  “You ready?” Eric whispered.

  The words roll through John’s mind just as another memory formed. The fact that Eric speaking was not happy or anything that had brought him joy in the past snapped him back to reality so abruptly that he lost track of where he stood. He came back to just in time to hear Eric whisper again but comprehension kept its distance.

  “John? You ready?”

  “For what?” he asked without even realizing it.

  “To get the fuck outta here. Haven’t you been listening?”

  “Yeah,” John said defensively, and as if trying to play it off since he now remembered, added, “I just didn’t know what you had planned.”

  Eric sighed. “To run. Run and never look back.”

  “That simple?”

  “Yeah, it’s that simple.”

  They walked together over to the staircase leading down to the first floor. Peering down the stairs, they felt both relieved and more terrified than ever before. Relieved to be this close to getting out. Terrified at the thought of not being able to finish the escape when they were this close. They both took in deep breaths and let them out exuberantly.

  “Careful going down the stairs.”

  John nodded.

  “I don’t trust this rickety, old banister,” Eric explained as he gave it an untrusting shake. It seemed sturdy enough, but he knew all too well just how easily it could break.

  John nodded again, solemnly, as if he knew the weakness firsthand as well.

  Eric began the count. “One...two...three—GO!”

  Off they went. They bounced vigorously down the stairs. Neither relied much on the railing. The steps creaked; ear-rupturing creaks as the boys’ combined weight pressed down atop them. Creaking in succession, each new step joining the harmonious ballad.

  They both leapt to the hardwood surface of the first floor from three steps up. Their ankles buckled and wanted to give away when the impact of the jump vibrated throughout their bodies but didn’t. Their knees buckled but held. Their stomachs roared from hunger, but if they could get beyond the gates of the Cahill Manor with the bags Eric had packed, they would be fine. Their muscles were weak. Dark circles gleamed beneath their eyes. But all of that was about to change.

  The front door loomed just a few feet to their left. The water fountain where Eric had left the duffle bags waited just a few feet beyond that. Only a matter of mere feet and seconds stood between them and the freedom they so greatly desired. Smiles spread across both of their gloomy faces, bringing a tint of shade to their otherwise pale cheeks.

  Eric looked to John.

  John looked to the front door.

  Again, they moved in unison.

  John stopped at the door and Eric passed him by. No worries, he thought. For the first time tonight, he did not worry, because for the first time tonight he knew—he was one hundred percent sure—Eric was only fetching the duffle bags, their survival kits that aided them none whatsoever tonight. There was no hidden agenda, but they were important to Eric. The bolt cutters possibly, since Eric had taken them from his father without permission. But it was merely a pair of old, rusting, garden-variety bolt cutters that Eric could easily replace with a week’s worth of allowance, and why Eric would risk a few more moments in this place for them was beyond John.

  Eric knelt in front of the fountain; with John watching him closely, he tilted his head in a concerning manner towards the door. He did it a couple more times before John realized what he wanted.

  John tried to pull it open, but it would not budge. The locking mechanism on the knob itself rested sideways indicating it was unlocked. The dead bolt matched. The chain lock dangled loosely from its holster. The alarm system next to the door indicated activated.

  But how?

  By whom? The answer was obvious to John.

  “It’s locked,” John whispered. He wasn’t sure if he even wanted Eric to hear at this point. In fact, he was not sure if he even wanted to believe it himself.

  “So unlock it,” Eric snapped back. His patience wore thin.

  “From the outside, E. All the locks are undone, but it still won’t open.”

  Eric dropped his head to the basin of the fountain with a muffled THUD. “The bags are gone, too,” he whispered, softly enough to where he hoped John would not hear. He knew he should not have said it at all, but he felt he might explode if he kept in another secret. He said it only to clear his own conscience. But John heard, not enough to reconstruct the entire statement but definitely enough to question it.

  “What did you say?” John asked, now moving slowly towards the fountain without even realizing he was doing so.

  Eric swallowed the hardening lump in his throat. And to John’s chagrin, he repeated himself. “The bags are gone, too.”

  “Where?”

  “How the fuck am I supposed to know?” Eric growled. But he did know; maybe not the location but he knew who took them. They both knew. His intensity rose; his fists clinched tightly, resting on the hardwood floor. He didn’t feel like himself anymore but rather the Eric from upstairs. He was not very fond of that Eric and couldn’t let him take over. He let his hands fall open once more and rose to his feet. His heart thudded maniacally, but he ignored it. He passed by John as if he was not even standing there and made his way to the front door.

  All three locks were, indeed, unfastened, but he already knew they would be. He had somehow sensed that much before John even told him. He jerked furiously at the door, but it would not budge. Then, since he could not remember whether the door had opened in or out, he rammed it with his shoulder. Nothing.

  The black letters ACTIVATED flashing in the fluorescent green from the alarm system panel caught his eye. While he never thought of why it hadn’t tripped when he and John entered or why neither of them had noticed it before, he did think of one thing; simple and to the point. He could trip it now. Marvel while the alarm system bellowed out its horrible wailing, letting
the desolate surrounding area know something was going on (if anyone could even hear it). Marvel while the alarm system alerted its manufacturer. Marvel while someone from the manufacturer’s office—or possibly someone from the surrounding area—alerted the local authorities. Marvel while the sirens of the Caldwell Parish Sheriff’s Department’s cruisers grew closer and closer.

  Complete and udder pandemonium would ensue.

  Eric stood staring at the ACTIVATED flashing across the front.

  John watched, speechless.

  Eric flipped down the panel concealing the numbers and gazed over them. While he did not know much about the subject, he knew that most standard alarm systems came encrypted with a manufacturer’s numeric code, some computer-inspired code that either came typed in the owners’ manual or told to the owner by the technician at the time of installation. But the rich were always different. The Cahills probably had their own personalized code. Probably one of—if not a combination of all—the kids’ birthdays, Eric thought. Or the parents’ anniversary. People always seemed to choose corny compilations like this (corny to most but sentimental to the proprietors).

  He thought of what the numbers could be. There were six children—seven if you included Raymond, but he highly doubted that. That meant six birthdays; an anniversary; any possible family members that were close enough to bear the Cahills’ consideration. He came to one conclusion: the numbers are overwhelming. When he factored in the possibility of the code being anywhere between four and eight numbers—this was what he imagined most basic alarm systems operated on…no less than four numbers and no more than eight—the possible sum went up even higher.

  He strummed his fingers atop all of the numbers on the brightly lit keypad, being careful not to press any of them just yet. Luckily, the alphabetical companions accompanied the numbers, like on a telephone. There were other buttons here as well. A few were blank with writing above them, too faint and small for him to read without straining his eyes. Others labeled with unknown abbreviations. But he focused primarily on the one through nine keys.

  3825 968, he thought of typing in. He smiled sinisterly as he thought of the reasoning behind it. FUCK YOU! It possessed a gleaming quality to Eric, but then a lingering doubt came to mind.

  Another flood of questions poured into Eric’s mind, and this time there was no one to bombard with them...well, that’s not entirely true. There was John. Only John knew less than he did.

  If I do it, Eric thought, if I trip this alarm...then what? Many images of possible scenarios came to mind, but all were unpleasant, and none he wanted to see play out.

  Thirty seconds. He knows he would have approximately thirty seconds after an invalid code. Thirty seconds in which he needed to disengage it by entering the correct code before it actually tripped. But he wanted it to trip. So then what?

  How long before the manufacturers call this residence like on those Brinks’ television commercials? This number has been temporarily disconnected. Please hang up and try again. Eric smiled at that. How many times will they call here? Two? Three? Five? And then what?

  His mind continued to race, speeding towards an endless abyss of questions like a NASCAR driver barreling down the final straight stretch with the coveted checkered flag in sight. They’ll call any emergency contact numbers given at the time of installation. Then what?

  The police will be notified. But would they respond? Of course. They have to. How long would it take them to get out here? He could only pray that a unit was close. The sheriff’s department was not that far away, true enough, but given the road leading up here, Eric estimated it taking them five minutes (at the very least) to get out here; ten minutes at the most.

  But then came the most important line of questioning.

  Where was he? Where was Raymond? Eric started to believe that maybe he did not exist...if not for the DVD. The DVD kept coming to mind, bringing a surreal feel to the equation. The DVD was real. Raymond had to be real. So was he upstairs? The kitchen? The living room? The game—

  Before he could even finish the thought, he found himself moving back up the hallway.

  *****

  “The game room,” Eric muttered aloud without even realizing it.

  “Now’s not the time for games, E.”

  “Remember the doors, John? The back doors?”

  John started up the hallway as well, shouting. “They’re probably sealed up, too.”

  “Worth a shot,” Eric announced as he stopped to let John catch up. “I’m not waiting around ’til he finds us.” It was a minor slip, but he was so distraught that he had forgotten not to mention Raymond.

  John did not even seem to notice, though, or if he did, he did not bother acknowledging it.

  “It’s our only hope, John.”

  CHAPTER 21

  They scurried into the living room, not really knowing what to expect, and partially not caring. Again, nothing was how they had left it, and they were not surprised.

  The television flashed brilliantly; the same DVD of Raymond trying to walk filled the screen. The many speakers surrounding the room grumbled incoherently, not nearly as loud as before and not quite loud enough to decipher the words being spoken, but loud enough to rumble. The lights above flickered on and off like a strobe. The fire poker was back on the stone hearth; behind it, roared a slowly burning blaze in the fireplace.

  The boys looked passively at each other, but neither one took the time to express their concerns. Whether it be a warning from one of the deceased Cahills or an atrocious act from Raymond, it did not matter. All that mattered was the doors, and so they moved on.

  The back hallway boasted the only ounce of complacency in this damn place. No surprises. No televisions or fires. No missing items. No locked doors that were supposed to be unlocked. The lights were off (probably had not been turned on in the first place). Neither of them could remember doing so during their first trip back here.

  John flipped the switches now, and to their dismay (or maybe their luck; it), chandelier lights far overhead came on. One bright ray of hope in an otherwise dim night.

  Eric paused at the entrance to the game room, breathing heavily, forcing John to stop dead in his tracks as well. He laid his forehead against the door—it was cool on his skin—and prayed; prayed for an escape, for an alternate ending to what he imagined was about to happen.

  “What are you doing?” John asked, voice teeming with impatience.

  Prayed for no more surprises. Prayed that Raymond was not real. Prayed that everything that happened tonight was by the withering Cahills.

  “Eric?”

  Prayed for his bed; his home and his bed. Prayed to see his mother’s and father’s faces again. Prayed for courage. For survival.

  “Eric?” John shouted, jerking Eric’s shoulder back and forth. “What’s wrong, man?”

  And finally a response. “I just got this feeling...” Eric announced slowly, his stomach grumbling, not of hunger now, but nervousness, “...in my gut, man.”

  John sighed, not out of relief but out of despair. “Something ain’t right, huh?”

  “I’m not sure yet. Just keep your eyes open.”

  John nodded.

  Eric fiddled with the doorknob as the sensory cramp—cramp was all he could think of to describe it—tightened more violently and maniacally with each passing moment.

  The game room produced sights and sounds that had been missing in action during their first trip through; the noises were as they had been eight years ago. The Mrs. Pac-man machine sung out its enchanted theme music exuberantly. Bullets flying and spacecraft explosions rumbled from Asteroid. A hypnotic, female voice beckoned, “Play me”, from the Bride of Robot pinball machine. A checkerboard lay across the floor in one of the corners; the reds dominated the blacks from what Eric could see. The television flashed, moaned, and roared, the word HALO came into view on the screen just as Eric glanced at it, letting him know the Xbox was currently connected and running. All of the board games
(neatly stacked on the shelves on the far side of the room before) lay strewn all about the floor. A faint gasp of moonlight trickled through the gaps of the receding blinds draping down in front of the sliding glass doors.

  This moonlight embodied freedom.

  If only they had gone out these doors earlier when John suggested they do so, they probably would not be in this predicament now. Then again, they probably would have just opened the doors, taken a quick look around, and then came right back in and still be here...in this predicament. But that didn’t really matter, does it? They were here now, and you can’t dwell on the past as they say.

  *****

  The glass door felt cool to the touch on the inside, freezing cold, in fact, and despite being concealed by the floor-to-ceiling blinds and the rising temperature in this hellhole, Eric paid it no mind. He wrote it off as the steadily dropping temperature outside and nothing more. He fiddled once more for the handle, found it, grabbed hold, mumbled a brief testimony under his breath and pulled.

  It did not budge. Locked. He flipped the locking clasp, re-grasped the handle, recited the previous testimony with a few additional “pleases” and “thank yous”, pulled, and—

  *****

  Fresh air coursed through the tiny gap. “Thank God,” Eric and John both exalted collaboratively. It felt cool despite the flat October night, and fragrant. The dank Caldwell Parish air had never been so refreshing or downright intoxicating. He pulled a little harder and—

  Fuck!

  The door did not budge. It was stuck in place.

  “Goddammit,” Eric screamed. He felt bad and even hypocritical for having said that just moments after looking to Him for help, but enough was enough.

  What now? he thought. How is this possible? There’s no chain. No rope. No string. Nothing holding it. Prob'ly just not going to open. It hasn’t been opened in years and refuses to now. Prob’ly a rock or dirt caked up in the track or—

  He felt foolish, imbecilic, as he glanced down to the track in which the door moved across, and there was the problem. One of the oldest tricks in the book; one that his own grandmother had taught him back in the day; a little added insurance plan against burglars. A stick—the most effective usually being a broken, wooden broom or mop handle; this particular piece appeared to be the latter—had been laid off in the track, blocking the door’s path and preventing it from moving any further. He closed the door back, and John, seeming to read Eric’s mind, removed the stick. Eric pulled it back open.