Huff Bend Hell House

by Jeremy Simons

  However, John’s filled with dread at the thought of being caught, just as Raymond had planned.

  And what happened next, the boys were completely unprepared for, just as Raymond had planned.

  *****

  After the initial bounce, Raymond shuffled his feet in a bit of a backpedal before turning to his right, towards Eric.

  Eric, focused solely on the glass doors that now seemed miles away, wasn’t paying any attention to anything else. His vision clouded by stinging pools of sweat pouring heavily down from his brows. He never saw Raymond’s second move.

  “Eric?” John yelled. “Look out.”

  But it was too late.

  Raymond hopped quickly to his right, moving with the blinding speed of a mongoose. His arms splayed outward; the butcher knife’s blade gleaming from atop his right hand. This time, he lunged.

  Eric was just far enough out of reach to prevent the blade from inflicting any serious damage upon him, but it did split open a small hole in the arm of his costume sweater, and dug about a quarter of an inch into his skin beneath. The blood sprayed a bit, but he felt nothing. A pure endorphin rush of adrenaline guided him, making him feel invincible (ten feet tall and bulletproof as his father said). It only made him run faster.

  John, who witnessed the whole turn of events in horror, felt only confusion at first; shock settled comfortably in, but neither of these masked his sense of relief entirely. And, of course, he felt guilty. A guilty conscience for feeling relief at the despair of his best friend was the worst of all. These feelings and emotions meshed in with the relentless fear, and he could feel himself involuntarily slowing down to an uncoordinated speed walk. He felt his nerves fluttering; his joints beginning to creak, on the verge of locking up altogether.

  An all too familiar feeling set in, and John envisioned what might happen next. This is how it always happens, he thought. He was freezing up. It was Riverton all over again.

  Once Raymond realized that the extent of damage inflicted was minimal to none at all, he spun around, facing the house. He changed his grip on the butcher knife; no longer did the handle rest safely and securely in the palm of his hand. He used three fingers and held it carefully by the blade; the handle sticking straight up into the air. As he came out of his spin and readied to plant his right foot, he let go of the knife. The strength and precision behind it was inexplicable.

  Eric was too far away. The boy was much quicker than Raymond anticipated.

  CHAPTER 24

  John had nearly come to a complete stop by the time he felt the unbearable pain enter between his shoulder blades. The tip of the blade entered in just next to the spinal column. A small stream of blood erupted from his mouth. His feet stopped shuffling. His eyes fluttered listlessly. He let out an agonizing scream that was nearly a shriek. More blood sprayed from his mouth. It seemed to absorb what little energy and fight he had remaining.

  His legs went numb and buckled beneath the dead weight his body had quickly become, easily turning the 130 pounds to 260, maybe 390. He fell first to his knees; the butcher knife seeming to grow legs and creep in even further as he fell. He sat on his knees briefly, staring up to the sky, saying his final prayers, before falling face-first to the cold, wet, dew-infested ground. By the time his face smacked the ground, only the handle of the knife still protruded from his back.

  Everything went dark.

  Eric felt the blade scrape across his flesh. He heard the cloth rip, and moments later, he felt droplets of blood running down his bicep and forearm. It was merely a flesh wound (he could determine this much without having to look at it), but they always seemed to let on more serious than they actually were. He seemed to speed up even more even though he thought that impossible; every ounce of blood coursing through his veins seemed to have been either replaced by or laced with adrenaline.

  He could see John out of the corner of his eye now, blurry, if he looked just right. With every step John made, Eric made two or three. He was leaving John behind, and worst of all, it appeared as if John slowed even more with each passing second.

  No time to worry about that now, though.

  He lowered his head and simply ran. A God-awful sound rang out. It reminded him vaguely of a potato exploding against a tree or the side of a building after being fired from one of the homemade potato guns his father used to make. The sound that he somehow knew (or at least felt) would haunt him forever. Even in his state of panicky fear, he could recognize it for what it really was: the butcher knife entering a pocket of flesh.

  He half-expected (and actually hoped, for John’s sake, of course) himself to stop cold, every microscopic fiber of life draining miserably out as the butcher knife danced deeper and deeper into his own flesh. But none of that happened.

  Instead, he heard a scream filled with both agony and surprise echo out into the hollowness of the backyard. John, he thought. I’m so sorry, John. He heard a THUD, followed quickly and nearly simultaneously by another one. He glances to his left, shocked but not at all surprised to see John lying face down on the ground, a dark object protruding from his back.

  His throat felt as if it was trying to seal shut. It grew more difficult to breathe. He gasped and grunted. He wanted to stop and aid his friend but thought better of it. By this point, he felt the lifeless lump once referred to as John Parker was beyond civilian help (at least any that he could administer).

  So he only ran.

  *****

  Raymond Cahill moved with ease through the soggy, unkempt grass where John’s lifeless body lay. His mind raced, mostly with broken thoughts and insignificant, misappropriated memories. None of these mattered, though.

  All that mattered was Eric; Eric who now raced across the yard, unharmed, towards the sliding glass door leading into the game room, and much to Raymond’s chagrin, he was nearly there. Raymond had already underestimated this boy once, and he would be damned if he was going to let it happen again; he could not afford to make that same mistake again.

  He was not quite sure of the status of John, and it didn’t matter much either way; alive or dead, he needed the knife. He stuck his foot in the swell of the lower region of John’s back, wrapped his fingers around the black handle, and pulled heartily. It did not budge at first. He wiggled it violently back and forth like a lumberjack attempting to free a stuck axe from a bust of firewood. The boy moaned and gargled blood with each jerk, but Raymond paid it no mind. Every time he jerked, every second he wasted, Eric disappeared further away towards the glass door. He moved his foot further up John’s back until the tip of his boot rested flush with the butcher knife, leaving behind half of a footprint on the bottom of the shirt, and pulled up with all of his might. He used both hands this time. It moved forcibly up, ripping through previously unscathed cloth and tendons before exiting with a fierce PLOP. Fresh blood spurted out in a fountain of mist before puddling up and concealing the wound. Raymond heard John gargle a final gasp of breath before finally falling silent; hopefully for good this time, he thought.

  Raymond immediately began his pursuit of Eric with a meaningful purpose.

  *****

  Eric’s sprint subsided into a fast-paced trot only because of the approaching stoop stretching off the elongated porch; five large concrete steps served as what Eric considered a stoop. One shot, he told himself. You only have one shot. But no matter how many times he said it, it did not make it any more believable.

  Any second he slowed was a second given to Raymond to close the gap between them. He couldn’t risk it. He needed to jump rather than walk the steps. John’s demise would not be for nothing. He promised himself that much and intended to keep it no matter how difficult it may seem.

  Timing is everything.

  “All or nothing,” he whispered as he first crouched, then leapt.

  His left foot landed safely atop the top step; the toe of his right foot landed there as well but not safely. The heel of this foot struck the middle of the step and did not quite make it to the
top. He nearly tumbled backwards, but miraculously, he caught himself. He didn’t stop to acknowledge how close he had actually come to falling and probably getting caught. He did not have the time to do so.

  Instead, he continued running. Eric ran through the sliding glass door. Ran through the cluttered game room, which, ironically enough had fallen quiet once more. He moved through the bare back hallway and past the two doors to his right which he assumed were both still locked. Through the hollow living room, the video of little Raymond trying to take his first steps playing again; and finally into the front hall.

  He prayed that by some miraculous event or chain of events that the front door was unlocked; that something will go in his favor tonight. He reached out with an unsteady hand, the hand of a careless woman holding a gun for the first time in her life and trying to fire it at a threatening assailant. They shook fiercely. He found it extremely difficult to find the knob. The adrenaline only made things worse.

  He found the knob, grabbed it (the sweat in his palm nearly caused him to lose hold of it), twisted and—

  *****

  Raymond trotted up the steps in what was now no more than a nonchalant jog. He supposed he could have leapt to the top and saved some time. He knew it would have helped his situation since he determined Eric must be at least a minute ahead of him. But what good would it have served if he didn’t make it or fell and cracked his skull on the concrete pathway leading off the steps? None whatsoever. Besides, a minute was a generous deduction on his part. A minute was nothing, and he saw no need to panic because he already knew what he needed to do to close the gap.

  He went in through the glass door that Eric entered through not even a minute before. The arcade machines, pinball machine, and television were all quiet. They had been on when the boys first came through. There was no doubt in his mind about this because he heard it with his own ears from the lawn chair on the porch. Nor was there any doubt as to why.

  “You little bitch,” he muttered aloud. He knew she turned them on, to warn the boys, but they were too stupid to understand. “You will pay, Isabella. But first...you will watch him pay.”

  Raymond was not sure of her whereabouts at this moment. The bond between her and himself was an odd one indeed. He could never sense her presence, but she always kept eyes on him (like looking through a two-way mirror). He did know that she could hear him at this moment. She would try to help Eric. But it won’t work this time, he thought. He had one surprise left in his arsenal for dear old Eric.

  Raymond passed through the game room as quickly as possible. He entered the door into the laundry room just as Eric entered the living room. He exited through the other door into the front hallway while Eric trudged through the living room. Raymond tiptoed up to the water fountain and ducked into a crouching position in the shadows just next to it, like a mountain lion cowering in the bushes waiting to pounce on its unsuspecting prey.

  “I have a huge surprise for your little friend, Isabella,” he muttered as Eric’s footsteps entered the hallway. “Just wait for the grand finale.”

  *****

  John laid lifelessly, not playing possum this time, just merely incapable of moving. In fact, he had not moved at all until that bastard pulled the butcher knife out. He moaned and groaned and thought for sure he would be choking to death on his own blood by now but wasn’t. The initial splatter escaped his mouth when the butcher knife first penetrated but that seemed to be it.

  The pain was unbearable, but by some miracle, there was no blood in his mouth, which by his thoughtless conclusion could only mean that the knife had missed any organs or main arteries (at least he hoped so). He knew he could still be dying, and he tried to dismiss it. Thinking like that, along with the pain, would have to remain secondary for now.

  For as long as he held the faintest wisp of breath anywhere in his body, he would fight. He had abandoned Eric once tonight and distinctively refused to do it again. Ever.

  He lifted his head slightly, and the pain felt like he was on an operating table somewhere with a doctor pulling his back open with a pair of surgical tongs…no anesthesia either. He saw Raymond—it had to be Raymond—disappear inside the glass door. Eric was out of sight. Normally, at a time like this, he would be overwhelmed with fear and panic, but not now. John had no reason to be scared anymore. Adrenaline crept through him making the unorthodox struggle to his feet tolerable.

  He eased forward in a limp, being sure to keep his back as still as possible; each step felt like another second running off a ticking time bomb; a time bomb that was keeping him alive. He felt that at any moment now the bomb would implode, his legs would go limp, and he would tumble to the ground once more. Only this time, he was certain he would not be able to rise again.

  He gave his most valiant effort to ignore the pain, the lack of time, and the slight numbness in his extremities. He moved on with the speed of an elderly man on dialysis and in a wheelchair or behind a walker to boot. He wanted to believe that he could truly make a difference but somehow knew he would never make it in time.

  *****

  Isabella witnessed the entirety of the grotesque ordeal in the backyard from behind her cozy, third-story window. Her perception was keen and observant even in the darkness and from such a long distance away. She wasn’t at all surprised by it. She had left warnings…subtle warnings she had been sure would destroy the boys’ curiosity. But alas, boys will boys.

  It was not until John fell and Eric disappeared from sight that she decided to make her move. She glided out of the attic by the opening serving as a doorway and floated down both staircases with an inexplicable speed.

  “You little bitch," Raymond spoke out in that monotonous tone of his. “You will pay, Isabella. But first, you will watch him pay.”

  The words only fueled her. She moved even faster to the front door and through it.

  You will pay, Raymond, she thought, sliding her hand over the chain running across the outside of the front door and looped through the handles. She could feel it, the coarseness and cold of the steel and the dips and resurgences where old links ended and new ones began. She felt the padlock. Foolish Raymond. Apparently, he wasn’t that clever in all aspects. She could have avoided a majority of this. She should have told Eric about the door in the backyard, the hidden door etched into the wall. It had slipped her mind. She had not really expected Raymond to put a chain back on the door. You put the same chain and lock back on it. If you think I won’t continue to help, then you’re even more foolish than I thought.

  She grasped the chain with both hands, leaving a small droop in between, and pulled. The droop of chain tightened, stretching like a worn-out rubber band, and finally, one of the links snapped. One side of the chain slid from around the handle of the door and fell to the ground.

  “Just wait for the grand finale,” Raymond mumbled.

  “Yes, Raymond,” she acknowledged. “Let’s wait and see, big brother.”

  The knob twirled effortlessly in Eric’s hand, but he refused to cave to yet another entity of false hope. Why wouldn’t have Raymond unlocked it? he thought. Give me a false sense of hope? Let me kill time jiggling the handle and trying to push it open? It all seemed believable, but he tried anyways. The knob turned clockwise until it could turn no more just as Eric had figured it would. He leaned his head against the door, mumbling into it as if trying to coax it in to opening.

  The door creaked, moving outwards in front of his weight.

  “Eric, LOOK OUT.” Isabella screamed, seeing—no, sensing—that Raymond was on the move.

  Eric knew the voice. It had become a fixation in his mind along with many other voices, but this one was real. He heeded her warnings and ducked off to his left, leaving the door slightly ajar, just in time to see the bulk of the stainless steel blade go parading by his face. The butcher knife pierced the peephole that Eric had peered into upon arrival, exploding the small, round bubble of glass and widening the hole, easing the door back to but not quite shut a
ll the way.

  Raymond pried at the knife, but it was stuck. Eric, still crouching next to Raymond and the door and thanking his lucky stars that he was still alive, swallowed hard, realizing one important fact: he was this close to freedom, could literally smell it and feel it and taste it. As long as the knife remained cemented in the peephole, he could make it. He just needed to envision himself a hero again—the John McLain type that had scaled the banister and saved John from falling—to muster up the courage to escape.

  All at once, Eric leapt upright, wrapping his arms high up around Raymond’s chest. Using every ounce of the strength remaining his body, he lifted Raymond, who easily outweighed him by fifty pounds or better, twirled around once away from the door and released his grip. Raymond collided into the wall with a THUD; he moaned out in pain.

  Eric never gave a second thought about Raymond after the initial collision. He made a beeline for the front door instead with lightning fast speed.

  Raymond hit the floor nearly as hard as he hit the wall but was up on his knees almost immediately. He lunged forward, grabbing both of Eric’s ankles. He pulled back with all of his might.

  Eric descended into an uncontrollable free-fall. He smacked his forehead hard on the doorknob, making a small wrinkle of skin split open and pushing the door back ajar just enough for him to see the smallest sliver moonlight come reflecting in. He fell the rest of the way, colliding face-first onto the concrete stoop just beyond the door. His forehead trickled a small, solitary line of blood down between his eyes and over the bridge of his nose; his nose poured once more (broken for sure this time). He spat; three more teeth spewed out in a wad of blood.

  “Fuck!” Eric yelled out despite the pain. He wanted and needed to pop back up immediately and run, continue the escape, but the sheer exhaustion was just too much. He had lost an undetermined amount of blood—although he assumed it a considerably high amount—and was weak because of it. He just wanted to lie here, pass out, and sleep for a week. But the sudden realization that all of this shit was still far from over set in.