The Elm House

by Paul C Skertich

  “I’ll protect you and our parents,” he said, nodding. “It’s a promise.”

  Archon wasn’t too pleased with Eveline and Tiffany’s attempt at protecting Jesse from internal pain. An internal pain that’s too bearable to imagine. Tiffany, Eveline, Matt, and even Margaret (who didn’t do anything) clung to the walls inside the attic. It would’ve appeared, they were glued by some invisible spider web. Their mouths were sealed shut, more like blurred shut. Their lips weren’t visible—only upper portion of their mouths and lower portion melded into one. They were silenced. Their screams couldn’t escape from their mouths, only muffles. Only their muffles came through their ghostly voice-boxes.

  He faced Tiffany, growling at her then shaking his wicked head.

  An army would’ve respected me more… more than these lame and pitiful souls. Too much emotions inside them… too much futile human emotions, engraved in them. So weak… but delicious, they are. I need more to feed my strength, he thought, sticking his long index finger and sharp nail into Tiffany’s eye socket. Each time, his finger was inside her eye socket, her eye socket made a delicious squish sound. The sound similar to a person sticking their finger inside a freshly baked cherry pie.

  Squish. Squish.

  Her eye socket made each time as he slowly slid his finger inside and out of her eye socket. A grin stretched across his withered lips. He seemed to find her squirmish, satisfying. Her “good eye” would squint each time his finger slid into her eyeless socket. Almost like he slid his finger to her “ghost brain”.

  “Maybe now… you two will behave yourselves.” He stopped, slowly turning his wicked head towards Eveline.

  Eveline’s eyes appeared horrified as she watched Archon torment Tiffany like a play toy. Her eyes were wide as she gazed at him, sideways. She seemed like she wanted to say something to him, but she couldn’t. They were silenced.

  With a snap of Archon’s fingers, their lips were back. And they could speak, again.

  “Which one of you will do it, this time?” Archon asked them, sounding impatient.

  “I will!” Tiffany blurted out. Almost like she couldn’t bear her suffering any longer. But she may have other plans, instead.

  “I’ll do it,” she said.

  “Oh?” Archon asked. He slid his long fingernail across her cheekbone. “Why should I trust you?”

  He’s no dummy, of course. It’s bad enough when he could see ten steps ahead of everyone. Almost like God, planning someone’s destined life journey ten steps ahead before the person knows it. But… Archon isn’t God. Archon isn’t the Devil, either. He isn’t confided nor defined by any human mythology. He’s the “Ancient One”, ruler of the darker realm of the universe. He’s superior than the human-defined deities. Archon came into light when the first hydrogen atom collapsed upon itself, causing an explosion (a nuclear explosion) that fused every space matter into what humans had defined as—the universe. Hence, Hydrogen is the alpha (first element on the periodic table), so is Archon. An entity capable of destruction and creation—like nuclear bombs and nuclear power plants. But Archon tends to lean on the destructive side than his other counterpart—his brother.

  Way-way-way back, eons ago, before conception of any known human religion was born. Archon and his brother had an intense battle that lasted centuries. Archon was defeated, sealed tightly inside an outer realm of space and time to remain dormant. Until group of witches unleased him into this world. Elemental guardians were quickly, with ease, dispatched into fragmented pieces of spiritual matter. After Archon was through the portal, he sealed the portal close—forever. The raw energy that fed him wasn’t enough. The running stream of water near the Elm house and underneath the house’s foundation didn’t provide enough for his hunger. His hunger grew and grew. And soon enough, when the first house rested its newly built bones on Devils Road (now Elm road), he found his new enriched diet to feast on—human souls. Some of their souls that couldn’t be savaged were released and transitioned to higher frequencies or even lower frequencies. But he would make a bargain to release some enslaved souls under circumstances. Circumstances, the trapped souls inside the Elm house had to abide by, or they’ll be dispatched into a million fragments of spiritual matter. Although, Archon could only taint those that already were filthy. Filthy souls—souls damned to eternal damnation. The Filthy, were easily spotted like dust and grim covered on a car window. Their soul’s radiant light would refract and bend unlike healthier souls. Spiritual cleansing could wash away some of the filth, but their souls would remain—somewhat, lesser to a degree—tainted. So much, their souls weren’t salvageable by even God. Next place would, possibly, be Lucifer’s play toy to enjoy in their eternal damnation. Of course, their souls would only be considered salvageable to Lucifer “Morningstar” under agreeable trading terms. Archon had mostly ownership rights to, the filthy, due to land ownership or territory ownership. The Elm house was Archons and can’t be touched by any other spiritual salvaging entities. Similar to ghost ships as they were out of international jurisdiction’s groping hands.

  “I want to be freed,” Tiffany said, nodding her head.

  A grin spread Archon’s withered lips.

  “Very well, child.” He nodded. Undoubtedly, he wasn’t too confident in her.

  “Disobey me, again. And you, child, will cease to exist.”

  Tiffany nodded.

  “Understood,” she said.

  Tiffany tried to refrain from planning another alternative inside her head. Archon would know in a fraction of a second and smell her plan. Her plan had to elusive as possible. And her plan couldn’t even raise a slight hair of detection from Archon. As she planned on the back wheel of her mind, she envisioned her heaven.

  Her heaven, consisted of a large scenic ocean view with Seagulls over head in the clear blue sky. The glistering shine from the tiny quartz rock reflected from the sun’s glare and sparkled. Oh, those quartz grains sparkled—alright. The ocean waves gently washed upon the shore. Her body laid on a nicely placed beach towel, warmed by the happy sun. Her skin glistened from the tanning lotion as she rested in her heaven.

  Perhaps… Tiffany’s plan could even free the rest of the enslaved spirits that Archon bound to the Elm house, wouldn’t that just be—heavenly.

  Archon smiled at her.

  “Cute little heaven, you got there.” He scoffed before turning his back away from Tiffany. It’s not, too, surprising he knew what she envisioned her heaven to be like. But what he didn’t know was that in the back of her mind was planning away at something.

  Brad laid in his bed, tossing and turning—another bad dream. Those type of dreams when the unaddressed matters dance about in the forefront of someone’s mind. Those restless thoughts that turn and turn the old hamster wheel in someone’s noggin. Same type of restless and nagging dreams that forewarn someone—something terrible is around the bend. A dream so damn real, the person doesn’t realize they’re asleep. It wasn’t a dream about Archon, Brad dreamed about. It was far more troubling, he dreamed about.

  He dreamed that he’d stood outside his house, under a naked starry night. The stars twinkled and shimmered. They shimmered like specks of light refracting off minerals inside a dark cave. The wind gently brushed up along Brad’s spine. It seemed to be warmer, and the trees still had their blossomed leaves. Crickets stirred up a commotion. However, maybe, the warmth came from something else—something that seemed to glow behind Brad. The naked starry night became blanketed by light fluffy gray clouds. There, too, was a roar behind him as it illuminated the pitch darkness around him. Brad stood there, unblinking, and his right arm seemed to tremble and shake. Almost like he realized he’d done something horrible. He stood outside against the warm glow behind his back, holding tight onto something. His eye lids twitched a bit, uncontrollably. His face seemed grim as tiny red specks clung to his skin. Brad’s shirt saturated with red stains. Oh, and his right arm had specks and trails of the red stains. It wasn’t dry, the red stains weren�
��t. They seemed to slowly but maturely travel downward to his right hand. In the foreground, also illuminating the darkness, were bright flashes of red and blue. Men gathered around, trying to talk to Brad. But Brad didn’t respond. Which startled the men. Their weapons drawn, aiming at Brad’s center of mass.

  “Put down the weapon,” one man shouted.

  I’m only sixteen, and I’m about to die.

  Shush, child. Let’s have fun.

  No! I can’t let you do this to me, Archon.

  Stop your whining and let’s have fun, together.

  Brad shielded his eyes with his left arm. A tremendous bright light that flooded the darkness. It enveloped around him and engulf Brad. When he was able to look again, he was inside his room.

  “Quick, not much time.” Tiffany pulled his hand. Her eye was stilled gouged out by the kitchen knife.

  Am I dreaming?

  “Yes, silly, com’on. Quick!”

  Tiffany brought him by the shed that Matt originally brought him to. He remembered that dream vividly. The white shed that appeared to almost collapse at any moment.

  “Hurry,” Tiffany said, swinging open the shed’s door.

  The shed had a padlock, right? I could’ve sworn it had a padlock.

  Tiffany pointed at the partially ruined wooden floor inside the shed.

  “Dig here,” she said.

  “Why?”

  She looked over Brad’s shoulder, startled. Almost like she heard something or someone coming towards them. Brad turned his head and looked behind him, but he didn’t see anyone.

  What’s going on?

  “Please do it, not much time, before it’s too late.”

  “Do what?”

  “Dig!” Tiffany said, impatiently, before she vanished into a wisp of smoke. “Dig,” her voice echoed inside Brad’s mind.

  Brad sat upright from his bed. He tried to catch his breath, but he struggled to pacify his breathing. Brad slowed down his breathing as his heart began to pace back to normal.

  Dig.

  Before it’s too late.

  Dig.

  CHAPTER 16

  Mary closed her car door tight, kicked back her head and squealed in delight. She couldn’t bear to hold the excitement in any longer.

  When I get home, I’ll cook my family the best dinner, and then I’ll tell them. Oh, this is amazing! I finally done it. I sure did.

  The excitement moved through her body in waves and bubbled in her chest. The excitement wouldn’t wash away, so easily, and it became stronger with each passing moment. If anyone had seen Mary fist pumping the air, they may even smile—a little—as they watched her excitement bubble over. Mary’s happiness was through the roof—maybe even broke through the stratosphere. Oh, did it pain her that she couldn’t tell them right away. The person’s impulses that kick in when something good happens in someone’s life. She wanted to surprise everyone. Maybe she, too, wanted to fall off her rocker as Mary could hear the exciting news leak out of her mouth. But she’ll have to wait.

  It was almost time for Mary’s children to return back from school. And her husband would arrive an hour later after the kids came back. An hour or two, her husband would return from work. Mary got started on preparing and cooking dinner. She knew exactly what to cook for tonight. Spaghetti and meatballs. She remembered her grandmother’s meatballs recipe. Mary’s grandmother was an old Italian lady born in Sicily. She immigrated to America back in 1935 when she was young. Unfortunately, Mary’s grandmother passed in December—three years ago. Her heart failed on her, broken in dismay, after Mary’s grandmother’s husband past six months prior to her own death. Mary tried, oh did she try, to not grieve so much. But, perhaps, her emotions leaked out onto the canvas. For a period, or so, her paintings were grim and gloomy. She didn’t paint warm nor hot colors on the canvas, but she’d paint cold and dark shades of colors. Some of them looked desaturated and almost black and white. Sometimes they’ll be deep dark shades with little less warmth and vibrate colors in her paintings. People sometimes use—pain—to make beautiful art. They tend to express themselves ten-fold when their emotions are strong. But after a month or so, Mary snapped out of it. And she painted vividly again with brighter palettes on the canvas.

  Mary smiled as she was temporary brought back in time inside her grandmother’s kitchen, helping her make her infamous spaghetti meatballs recipe when Mary was a young girl. An “missing you” tear glistened off Mary’s cheek as she flicked away the tear with her finger.

  Miss you, grandma.

  But Mary snapped back to reality and out of her remembrance of her dear grandmother as she heard footsteps from the hallway then up the stairs. She turned around, and a cold brush of air rushed against the back of her neck. The hairs on Mary’s neck stood up. She sensed—someone was there. Someone had passed by the kitchen door frame and up the stairs.

  “Hello?” Mary called out.

  I’m by myself. Right? Did the kids come home soon?

  She crept into the hallway and peered left to right down the hall. But no soul sprung up to greet her.

  “Hello?”

  She headed over to the front door. The front door was wide opened. And Mary closed it. She looked at the door puzzled.

  “Hello?” Mary called out again, standing by the foot of the stairs. Her voice sounded shaky a bit.

  Perhaps, it’s my imagination.

  She slowly started up the stairs when Mary heard some door creak open upstairs.

  “Brad? Jesse?”

  When Mary got to the top of the stairs, she turned her head to the right.

  I’m by myself. Right?

  The attic door was opened, inviting Mary to come… almost beckoning her to come inside the attic. She looked up the attic stairs, flicked on the light switch. Which the light switch was recently installed—thanks to John. And she ventured slowly up the stairs.

  The back of Mary’s neck rose with goosebumps as she walked deeper inside the attic. The floorboard creaked below her. But with no avail, she found nobody inside the attic.

  I’m just imagining things, again.

  With a sigh, she turned around then leaped backward and let out a blood curling scream out of her lips. Her body ran into complete fight or flight mode. Mary’s knees become queasy as her body was pumped with adrenaline. She darted quickly down the attic stairs, slammed the attic door shut and headed over to the bathroom. Mary slammed the bathroom door shut, gasped and stared into the bathroom mirror. Her hands shook and trembled.

  It’s in my head. It’s in my head. It’s in my head.

  She turned on the tap from the sink and splashed some water over her face. She attempted to try to calm her racing heart.

  Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!

  Her heart raced and pounded against her ribcage. She closed her eyes and sighed.

  It’s inside my head. It was all inside my head.

  Mary fixated her eyes at the mirror again, and her body became overwhelmed. Her knees locked up as she screamed bloody murder. She turned around as her skin leaped from her body.

  “What do you want?” Mary screamed.

  “Get out!” Tiffany shouted then vanished into a black wisp of smoke, screaming as she vanished.

  Mary plopped down on the floor and wept. Boy, did she weep, and she gave out a good cry. She slowly started to rock back and forth, like a crazy person would in the corner of an asylum, and Mary’s cheek muscle began to twitch. Almost like the twitch when a person has gone mad. She began to crackle like a looney bin would under a full moon night.

  I’m losing it. I’m losing it. I’m losing… no! I’m not. I’m not losing it. Hold it together, Mary. I’m not losing it. Oh, yes, I am. I sure am. No! I’m not. I made all this up by remembering my grandmother. There, yes, that’s why I saw Tiffany. I was thinking about my grandmother. I miss my grandmother, so I imagined seeing Tiffany… with her eye gouged out.

  Oh, dear Mary, she still can’t seriously be in denial. Com’on and wake up—smell the
coffee, Mary.

  This house is tainted and damned. And for a good reason, Mary.

  Brad dug into his dinner. He sure was hungry, apparently, or Brad really loved his mother’s Spaghetti and meatballs dinner. There was spaghetti sauce smudged on the corners of his lips. After he swallowed, Brad gulped down some Pepsi. He sat back and allowed the food to hit the pit of his stomach.

  Boy, mom could cook a mean spaghetti and meatball dinner.

  He noticed his mother was mostly quiet, slowly eating her food. She appeared almost “there but not really there” kind of way. The way when someone is thinking about something, really-really intensely, type of look. Her eyes seemed a bit cloudy as she slowly blinked her eyes.

  “What’s wrong hon?” John asked his wife.

  Mary snapped out of whatever was on her mind, chuckled to herself. Her eyebrows raised, and Mary’s lips curved into a big smile.

  “I have good news,” she announced.

  “Oh?” John said.

  “What is it?” Brad asked.

  “Yeah, mom! What is it?” Jesse asked, swinging her legs up and down underneath the table.

  “The gallery over on Clinton Street and Oak Avenue,” Mary said, smiling from ear to ear, then squealed with excitement. “They’ve accepted my painting!” Her eyes lit up with delight. But Brad could see something hidden behind those eyes of her. Something not quite—right, Brad sensed. Behind the masquerade of his mother’s mask, so to speak, Brad could sense—somehow, know—that his mother was hiding something. Like, when a person is depressed but smiles to cover up the darkness inside. Famous actors and musicians whom committed suicide hid the darkness well. Too well, in fact, they conveyed a false “life is full of rainbows and sunshine” vibration out to those around them. Additionally, causing those loved ones to be left in shell shock after their self-destruction. But Brad knew that his mother wasn’t down in the dumps, but he somewhat knew—intuitively—that she was trying to mask something.