Scary House

by Sean Thomas Fisher

  Scotty arched an eyebrow at him. “Let me check…nope, you’re still ugly.”

  “Pinch, that thing is filthy.”

  Bringing the penny closer to his face, he examined decades of green oxidation before speaking in a soft whisper. “1964.”

  “Big deal,” Scotty replied, reaching for the doorknob.

  Pincher seized his arm and stopped him from going inside. “See a penny pick it up, all day long you’ll have good luck.” Tipping his chin down, his voice turned grave. “See a penny let it lie, all night long you’ll have to die.”

  “Do you have to say that every time you find a penny?”

  Gavin scratched his head. “Is that even how it goes?”

  “If you don’t say the rhyme, the penny won’t bring you good luck.”

  “Oh yeah,” Scotty laughed, grabbing the doorknob. “Look at all the luck you’ve had so far, rat face. Thirteen-years-old and never even kissed a girl.”

  “Like you have, chunkola,” Pincher spit back, stuffing the penny into his 501s.

  Growing sober, Scotty met their eyes, communicating an end to the small talk. They swapped a reassuring look and nodded back. Filling his chest with a courageous breath, he gently turned the knob and pushed. The door swung inward with a drawn-out screech, letting a shaft of sunlight cut across the worn kitchen floor. The three friends recoiled as a warm blast of air tumbled out that reminded Gavin of a funeral home.

  “Keep your eyes peeled for Playboys,” Scotty whispered, stepping inside with Gavin and Pincher following close behind.

  “Just remember, I’ve only got seven pictures left.” Gavin held his breath against the deathly stench, squinting against the dust motes swirling in the air.

  Pincher’s eyes followed the cracked linoleum into a shadowy dining room sitting on the other side. “Man, how can a place be so creepy in the daylight?”

  “Because there is evil here, my friend,” Gavin softly replied, ignoring the uncomfortable sensation tightening his back. “Behind you!” he shrieked, plopping a hand down on Scotty’s shoulder.

  Scotty screamed and whirled on his heels, expecting someone to split his head open with a rusty axe. “You dick, Gavin!”

  Busting up laughing, Gavin’s gaze hitched on a powder blue Philco model refrigerator with rounded corners and a single door. The laughter died on his lips and the floor groaned beneath his feet. Dust particles churned in his face as he gripped the silver handle, imagining a plated head resting on the top shelf inside before pulling the door back. His lungs shutdown, heart banged faster in his chest. He whipped the door back and unlocked a tight breath. Empty. Clicking the camera open, the top half sprang up like a pop-up camper. Gavin shut the fridge and took aim at a wire rack of dishes resting on an orange laminate countertop, index finger caressing the blue shutter button on top of the camera. Deciding against it, he swung the viewfinder to an old calendar hanging next to a yellow wall phone with a knotted cord. Autofocus slowly sharpened the image of a vintage warplane.

  “Holy crap,” Scotty gasped, staring at the plates and glasses. “These are totally clean. Somebody still lives here!”

  “That’s impossible,” Pincher whispered, the color draining from his already colorless cheeks. “The outside of this place is a total hell-hole. No way anyone lives here,” he said, trying to convince himself as much as anyone else.

  Lowering the camera, Gavin ran a finger along the countertop and held it up to the light. “Look at all that dust. No one’s been here for forever.”

  “It’s like they just left and never came back.”

  Gavin’s eyes snapped to Pincher and narrowed. “But why?”

  “What the heck?” Scotty muttered, examining the flying warplane gracing the month of October. “This calendar is from 1964.”

  “See? No one has lived here for…” Gavin paused to do the math in his head. “A super long time.”

  “Hey guys, check this out.”

  Scotty and Gavin turned to see Pincher reach into a Felix the Cat-shaped cookie jar. Wide-eyed, his hand came back out with an Oreo cookie. He brought it to his nose and inhaled as if sampling a glass of fine wine.

  “Don’t do it,” Gavin said.

  “Do it,” Scotty countered.

  Opening his mouth up wide, Pincher stuck the cookie inside and then pulled it back out. “You must think I’m insane! I’m not eating this thing,” he laughed, shoving the entire cookie into his mouth and crunching down.

  Scotty’s face folded. “That is so gross, dude!”

  His grinding teeth slowed to a mechanical halt, face falling. Bending over the sink, he spit everything out. “Okay, that is nasty stale!”

  “Told you no one lives here,” Gavin said, traipsing into the dining room, where light filtered through a window draped with long sheer curtains. A chair rail separated the bird-patterned wallpaper from the brown wainscoting and Gavin bet that, at one time, this place held some nice family dinners. He pointed the camera at the long table surrounded by high-backed chairs and cream-colored carpeting. Holding his breath to steady his aim, he pressed the blue shutter button. There was an audible click and the motor whined, slowly ejecting a black square of film a little at a time. Butterflies tickled the inside of his stomach as he imagined a family of ragged ghosts sitting around the long table, enjoying their last supper for the umpteenth time in a row. Eternally reliving some painful moment that only the camera could see. The motor finally stopped complaining and Gavin snatched the sheet of film from the instant camera’s thin lips before it fell to the floor. He fanned it through the air, willing it to develop faster.

  “How’d you find this place anyway?” Pincher asked, plucking out another eyebrow hair.

  “My great-aunt Martha died a few weeks ago,” he answered, impatiently waving the instant photograph back and forth. “We drove right by here to get her house ready for an estate sale we’re having next month.”

  “Ooh, I love estate sales,” Scotty said, admiring a bulky hutch filled with unbroken white china. “Anything good?”

  “Only if you like cat figurines and plates with bible verses on them.” Gavin scanned the outdated dining room, the guilty complex from trespassing heightening his senses. He heard something and jerked his eyes into the living room, lump wedged firmly in his throat.

  “Hey, hey, hey,” Scotty whispered, opening the hutch and taking out a Hummel figurine. Tipping it back, he studied the porcelain little boy in a top hat with a thin horn pressed to his lips. “This is nice; hard to find too,” he said, slipping it in a pocket.

  “The fact that you even know that scares me more than anything in this place.”

  “It’s like they went to work one day and just never came back,” Pincher whispered, picking up a squirrel-shaped salt shaker from the dining table. “My mom has this exact set. How weird is that?”

  “Anything?” Scotty asked, peering over Gavin’s shoulder.

  Gavin watched the photograph sluggishly come to life, his mind racing nearly as fast as his heartbeat. Freeing a pent-up breath, his posture slumped when he saw the empty table and chairs. “Not even a lens flare,” he glumly reported.

  “Don’t worry, Gav.” Scotty slapped him on the shoulder. “You’ve got six pictures left,” he said, heading into the living room.

  Returning the salt shaker to the table, Pincher hurried to catch up, skidding to a stop on some green shag carpeting. “Whoa! This place is like a total time warp.”

  Scotty picked up a wrinkled TV Guide from a coffee table resembling a long coffin. “October, 1964,” he whispered, looking up from the cover. “Same as the calendar.”

  “And the penny!”

  “That is so weird.” Gavin panned the Polaroid from a yellow couch wrapped in plastic to a narrow staircase rising behind it. Staring through the viewfinder, he lined up a framed photograph on the wall of a happy family at the county fair. Gavin swung to another black and white of the same family fishing in a curvy stream. The tall man with swept black, oily hair
had an arm wrapped around a young boy, proudly displaying a string of trout while a blond lady sat at a picnic table in the background smiling pretty for the camera.

  “Mia Farrow?” Pincher snatched the TV Guide from Scotty’s hands for a closer inspection, thin eyebrows drawing together. Who’s that?”

  “She was on Peyton Place. Don’t you know anything?” Scotty snatched it back and stuffed it in his hoodie’s front pocket. “Probably worth a small fortune.” He staggered backwards like someone just smacked him across the chops. “Whoa! Look at that TV! It’s amazing!” Resting his hands on his hips, he marveled at a large wooden box with curved glass reflecting his new Chucks that were even blindingly white in the gray reflection.

  “Hey Scotty, I’ll give you five bucks if you can fit in that chair.”

  Following Pincher’s nod to a child’s rocking chair in the corner of the living room, he forced a smile. “Real funny, Greedo. Hey, I’ll give you ten bucks if you can go out in the sun for five minutes without an umbrella.”

  “Ha-ha. Always the vampire jokes when you got nothing left in the tank.” Pincher rushed across the room to an upright piano against the far wall and flipped the lid back with a clank. “Hey guys, remember this one?” he said, gracefully tickling the ivories with a flawless precision that gave Gavin the goose bumps. “Purple brains, purple brainnns. I only want to see you eating purple brains!” Pincher’s splayed fingers slammed down on a perfect combination of keys, holding the last note with a grin pulling into his cheeks. “Now, who’s hungry?”

  Trading a blank look with Scotty, Gavin snapped the compact camera shut and moved on.

  Pincher’s grin faltered. “No?”

  Scotty sighed. “If only your singing matched your ability to play, you could be the next Richard Marx.”

  “Screw Richard Marx!”

  “He’s excellent!”

  “Guys!” Sliding to his knees, Gavin set the camera down on the green carpeting and slid a small door back in the middle of the boxy coffee table. Pulling out a brown photo album, he blew a dead spider from its dusty cover. “Look at this!”

  Scotty rested his hands on his knees and peered over Gavin’s shoulder. “Any Playboys in there?” he asked, craning his neck for a better look into the dark cavity.

  Reaching inside, Gavin felt around, imagining sharp fangs biting down into his hand. Wondering if something hideous would drag him inside the coffin-like table against his will. “Just some magazines,” he reported, yanking his hand out and opening the photo album with a slight creak. Scotty and Pincher huddled closer, scanning the faded, color photographs filling each page. Gavin’s eyes landed on a shot of the same happy family from the framed photos on the wall. In this one, they were standing in front of the house they were trespassing inside right now. There was a sold sign planted in the freshly cut grass butting up to a bed of roses along the front porch, the house’s paint whole and crisp. Sunlight glinted off an olive-green station wagon parked in the driveway, producing a lens flare in the upper left-hand corner. The tall man and pretty woman held the hands of the blond-haired boy standing between them with proud smiles stretching their faces. The mother’s hair seemed to glow in the sunshine, running in golden rivers over the shoulder straps of a flowery dress showing off her slender arms and legs. The family looked so happy it made Gavin sick to his stomach. Swallowing thickly, he moved on to the next page, refusing to allow another’s joy to stir the jealousy haunting his insides. He hadn’t seen his father since Kevin ran off with another woman almost two years ago and what Gavin wouldn’t give to be like the little boy in these old photographs. The one kicking a ball around with his dad in the backyard or laughing on the tire swing out front.

  “Must be the people who used to live here,” Pincher whispered.

  Scotty slowly rotated his head to him. “Ya think?”

  Gavin flipped the page with a glossy slap, gaze drawing to a photograph of the family huddled around a backyard grill. The sun was setting in the background, painting the sky with orange and purple brush marks while the doting parents gleefully cheered the camera with sweaty glasses of iced tea. Gavin could feel the love in their eyes and wondered what happened to them. Wondered why they left all of their stuff here. His eyes scoured the page like a comic book, moving from left to right and stopping on a frame of the father overexcitedly holding up a new necktie. There was another of the mom baking a chocolate pie, followed by one of the young boy splashing around in a plastic pool. Then, as the green grass began to turn brown in the background, summer barbeques gave way to fall leaves and Halloween. Standing on the front porch, there was no hiding the pride in the mother’s brilliant blue eyes as she held the hand of a grinning Bamm-Bamm Rubble.

  Gavin flipped the page with another loud slap. His eyes drew to the top left photo, where the boy leaned on the dining room table with a coned Winnie the Pooh hat sitting askew upon his head. With ballooned cheeks, a candle in the shape of a six flickered on the cake before him. Draped across the wall in the background was a colorful banner reading: Happy Birthday Jeffrey! Dad sat frozen in time, smiling and clapping, while Mom stared dully at the camera’s eye with her chin resting in a palm and a cigarette smoking in the ashtray next to her drink. Messy blond hair fell over a black shawl that was nearly as dark as the skin rimming her eyes and Gavin wondered who took the picture.

  “Did you know that when people blow out birthday candles, they spread over twenty-five different kinds of bacteria across the frosting?”

  Gavin slowly turned to Scotty, who confidently nodded back.

  “Good way to get whooping cough,” he added. “Which is why I won’t eat birthday cake.”

  Gavin snorted. “Not until you break your diet anyway.”

  “Not gonna happen, Gav. Three weeks in and the worst is behind me.”

  Pinched craned his neck to look behind him. “Yep, your ass is definitely the worst part.”

  Scotty pulled a silver crucifix from his waistband and Pincher hissed at him like a frightened cat.

  Flipping through the photo album’s plastic-covered pages, Gavin watched the mom’s smile wilt with the flowers and trees in the background. He stopped on a colorful shot of Jeffrey in his pajamas, opening presents around a Christmas tree decked out in red and silver balls. Morning sunshine streamed through a frost-covered bay window, landing on the boy’s animated smile. In the next photo, he sat in a nest of wrapping paper, proudly displaying a firetruck with a ladder shooting into the sky. Turning to face the front of the house, Gavin stared at the bay window covered with the same dingy curtains as in the pictures. “That’s where they put the tree,” he said softly.

  “Creepy,” Pincher murmured, plucking another eyebrow hair and nervously rubbing it against his lips.

  Scotty returned his attention to the pictures. “Mom doesn’t look too happy in these shots.”

  Gavin’s eyes thinned, for seated in the recliner off to the left, and barely in the frame, the mom sat slouched with a glass of something amber-colored in one hand and a morose look voiding her face of expression. Meanwhile, the dad sat Indian style on the green shag carpeting and helped Jeffrey with the firetruck, the sparkle in his eyes matching the one in his son’s. The mom paid little attention in any of the following photos, staring blankly at the camera and sending a cold shiver through Gavin he could not hide. Turning the page, a collective gasp stole across the room, igniting a far-off ringing in his left ear.

  Scotty staggered backwards, bumping into an end table and knocking a glass lamp to the floor, where it broke into three pieces.

  Adrenaline spiking, Gavin stared hard at the dated photograph of their BMX bikes hidden in the trees out back. He could only blink in the thunderstruck silence sucking the air from the room. His heart pounded faster, throat clenching. A muffled-sounding robin sang out from somewhere in the front yard and Gavin could feel Pincher’s hot breath washing over the back of his neck on rapid waves.

  Despite the photo’s old age, there was no quest
ion the bikes were theirs. The Haro number plate – sporting a large number three nestled between two lightning bolts – mounted to Gavin’s fluted handlebars was a dead giveaway. The beat up Torker, handed down after Boone bought a 1980 Camaro Rally Sport, looked black in the shade of the trees but Gavin knew it was blood red. Knew the bike was his. Just as he knew the chrome GT with black mags belonged to Pincher. He tried to speak but nothing came out. Not even the hint of a breath. His skin prickled and it felt like someone was counting the hairs on the top of his head. One strand at a time. Over and over again.

  “Gimme that!” Scotty blurted, breaking the silence and snatching the photo album from Gavin’s hands. Turning to the bay window behind him, he held it up to the fading daylight while the others scrambled to peer over his shoulders. “What the hey?” he said in a cold whisper, barely rubbing a finger across the black PK Ripper with powder blue grips and pedals. “That’s my bike.”

  “H-How is that possible?” Pincher stammered, his wide eyes darting about the room as if they weren’t alone.

  “It’s not.” Glancing behind him, Gavin expected the pretty mom with blond hair to be standing in the dining room, watching them through those snake-like eyes. “There’s no way someone could’ve taken a picture of our bikes, had it developed, and slipped it into this photo album in the time it took us to get in here. It’s physically impossible.”

  “No shit, Sherlock.”

  A loud thump drew their eyes to the popcorn ceiling. Looking back down, their eyes met in the clammy stillness that came next.

  “What was that?” Scotty whispered, quietly shutting the photo album.

  “Sounded like a footstep.” Heart racing, Gavin crept closer to the staircase, straining to see up into the second-floor landing where it was dark and gray and something moved.

  “Car!” Pincher hissed, pressing up against a wall.

  The others mimicked him like shadows, carefully peeking out the bay window to see a silver minivan motoring down the overgrown driveway. They could hear gravel popping from its tires as it got closer.