“I'll drive up the road from the old
house and park off behind that stand of trees then walk to the house
and hide upstairs. I'll get there about 9 o'clock and wait for y'all
to show up and then scare the hell out of them when they get
upstairs.” “You're going to sit up there in that house, by
yourself, at night?” “Yeah.” “You're a lunatic.” “Whatever.
Just don't be too late.”
That was the entire conversation. It
was no big deal. I was just volunteering to sit by myself at a place
we affectionately called, “The Devil House”, no big deal!
It was 1996 or '97, I don't really
remember. It was around Halloween and I was driving down a dark road
headed straight for an even darker one. I passed by the shining eyes
of deer standing stupidly close to the highway and made my way
towards a narrow gravel road on the left. It was chilly out. I had on
jeans, black Reeboks, a white t-shirt, and a dark blue flannel shirt.
I was young and didn't give a shit. I was scared of nothing. I had
already seen enough to know that there was plenty that science
couldn't explain and just as much that they didn't talk about in
Sunday School. I was chasing ghosts. Literally and metaphorically. I
did a lot of that back then, still do, and sometimes I catch them.
I pass by white fences, in my mind they
are there to keep the bad things on the other side of the road. In my
mind as long as there is a fence, I've got a place to put my back if
things get too spooky. I pass by the glowing eyes of things smarter
than deer. They stay just outside of the light. I start to think that I've
made a big mistake. The radio goes quiet, the cassette tape
has reached it's end, and Tupac is no longer rapping in Iambic
Pentameter. Young ones, be thankful for CDs and their ability to
start over when finished. It's too quiet, gravel crunches under
tires, there aren't any more white fences, creepy crawlers rustle
around in the leaves.
There ain't a single wide spot in the
road to turn around in.
I keep on moving, straight ahead,
around curves and up hills. The moon peeks through the trees and the
gravel looks like an illuminated path. Keep on going it says, don't
stop, don't turn around, just keep going. I'm a stubborn man, a
dummy. I turn onto a bumpy dirt drive and put the car in park. I turn
it off and cut the lights. There is nothing like a full moon on an
October night in the woods to keep the blood pumping. Have you ever
noticed that when you're out in the woods that the quieter it gets
the louder everything is? Over there a twig snaps. To the left
something is walking across leaves. Just exactly what in the name of
the Wolf man is kicking gravel around behind me? Then I have to
tinkle. I puff my chest out, unzip my fly, and wet the tires; while in
the back of my head the only thing I can picture is the boogeyman and a quiet dude in a hockey mask playing paper, rock, scissors for
my intestines.
Fly zipped back up I make my way along the
road towards that old house. I can see the
chimney against the night sky. It's all red brick and mortar. It
hasn't seen a fire in years. The house is falling apart but it was
built right in the beginning. It's foundation is sturdy. The windows
are long gone as is the door. There are now just empty holes where
adornments once resided. Blind eyes and missing teeth stuck in a
wrinkled face that used to be pretty. Nobody loves it any more. It's
usefulness is long gone and now it's just half a shelter for
nocturnal creatures and a ghost chasing man who is barely past being a boy.
There is no cell phone, nor flashlight. A flashlight would have meant
that this idiot endeavor had been properly thought out.
I walk in, I cross the threshold of
where the door used to be. Something is not right. The air is thick
and muggy. It doesn't smell like an old house should smell. It
doesn't smell of rotted wood and varmints. It smells like sweat and
blood. I can taste the iron and copper. I stop and listen. Nothing.
There are no leaves rustling and nothing is walking along the glowing
gravel. I look back outside to make sure Lucifer isn't playing
Solitaire on the front porch. Right inside the doorway is a staircase
on my left. Why the shit is everything on my left? I can't see very
far into the front room and I can only make out a few of the steps
leading upstairs. I light a smoke and a light bulb appears above my
head. The Zippo will work for awhile, I just filled it up this
morning.
With the Zippo burning like an
underachieving torch I decide to skip exploration of the violent
smelling room and walk up the stairs. I make it up two before I turn
around. I make it back down one before I turn back around and walk up
three, four, then five steps. I'm looking at a wall and to my left,
go figure, is a turn into darkness. I hold the lighter out and a
breeze from somewhere makes it flicker. I see another step heading
further up. I swing around wide, back against the wall, nothing
there. There are four more steps then a door. This time the door is
actually there. The entire inside of the house is white except for
this bastard door. The door is black.
Forget that mess. There is no way I'm
about to open that door. The cigarette, totally forgotten, burns my
fingers. I cuss, to be specific I said, “Damn it!”, and then drop the
cigarette and put it out with my shoe. I shake my head, go over the
situation one more time, and then I turn around and start to walk
back down the stairs. Then I hear it, a car slowly making its way up
the road coming towards the house. It sounds like it's some where
close to the last hill before the flat stretch leading to where I am.
I reassess things and the knowledge that I will soon not be alone
sways me towards the black door. I'll be alright is what I say to
myself. There will be a dozen teenagers here making noise, girls
giggling, boys cussing. I'll just open the door, hunker down, and
wait.
I turn the knob and push but it doesn't
open. I take the Zippo back out and shed some light on the
situation. There is a lock on the door, a spike run through two iron
loops. One loop on the door and one on the frame. Why is there a lock
on the door? It doesn't matter. I'm running out of time. I hear the
car stop and I pull the spike out. I open the door, close it back,
and refuse to look around me. I stand still and listen. There is no
giggling and no cussing. I hear heavy footsteps downstairs. One set
of footsteps. It takes about two-tenths of a second to realize that
something bad is about to happen. It takes the rest of that second
for me to think of a dozen different ways that this is about to get
really real. Those footsteps sound very heavy. Purpose laden weight.
I have a rusty spike and a lighter. Discretion is the better part of
valor.
I walk slowly towards the back of the
room, the only light is the moon through the window, which given my
luck is actually there. It's like this part of the house was kept
intact for a reason. No quick scamper off of the roof for me. The
shadows run deep in the back corner, the left corner, away from the
moon. I have no choice. I tip toe across the room and head towards
the corner. There is something there. I can't make it out and I'm not
really looking for details at this point. It's inanimate and that is
all that matters. I can squat down behind it and be out of sight.
Heavy feet start up the steps. I squat, I hide, and I wonder why I
ever thought this was a good idea.
The steps stop at the door. There is
stillness and then the door flies open. I don't move and somehow I
don't piss myself. Flight or fight is in full effect. Every hair on
arm, neck, and head is standing on end. Goosebumps have conquered my
arms and claimed them as their own lands. No more steps, just the
quiet and a whole lot of goosebumps having a house party. I'm not
looking. If they aren't coming in then I'm not looking. Not going to
look. I look. There is a figure there. I stop looking. I fumble
through “yea though we” and “we shall fear no evil.” The door
closes. Yes! I hear something slide through the two iron loops and
the door being tested. Shit!
I sit down and wait. I can hear steps
downstairs. I hear them walk around and I hear things being moved
here and there. I sit and I listen. I sit and think about
how I am ever going to get out of this mess. I have a feeling the
crooked smile isn't going to work this time. It gets quiet again and
then I hear something being scratched against one of the walls.
Nothing else is stirring anywhere. The only sound is the scratching.
It finally stops and then I hear the steps walk out of the house,
across the yard, crunch in the gravel, and then I hear a car door
shut and an engine roar to life. I'm alone again. I light my last
smoke and look at my watch. It is 11:30. I've been here for two and a
half hours. I decide to give the reason I'm here thirty more
minutes and then if they aren't here I've got to decide how to get free from this place.
Before five minutes have passed I have
changed my mind about staying. The feeling I had when I first walked in is back and
exponentially worse. It's heavier than those footsteps. It's a
feeling of deep depression. Sadness, regret, desperation, and terror.
It isn't even my feeling. The feeling isn't internal. The air has
been replaced with those things. It falls over me like a slow cold
rain. I've got to get out. I get up and walk towards the window
closest to the road. I can see the gravel glowing and beckoning for
me. I try to lift the window up. It's a no go. I try the door. Nope.
I go back to the corner I was in and flick my Zippo open to take a
look at what I was hiding behind. I should have just jumped out of
the damn window.
Sitting there in front of me is a
dollhouse. It's made of wood and looks like the actual house. I look
inside it and see the stairs and the damned black door. I see the
room I'm in. It's painted red. There is a figure made of match sticks
inside the room. The feet are black, the legs are blue, the torso is
white and dark blue. I look at myself. Black shoes, jeans, white
t-shirt, dark blue flannel shirt. The matchstick man is chained to
the wall. The next thing I know I've covered the floor in what is
left of a half digested bacon cheese burger and a large order of
fries. My guts are empty. That rain of desperate emotions is coming
down hard. I utter a, “Fuck that” and pick the heavy dollhouse up
and chuck it straight out of the window. I'm right behind it.
I slide down the tin roof, reach under
at the edge, and grab onto the frame of the porch and swing down. I'm
on the ground, I'm cut up a bit from glass and tin. I start towards
the road and then turn around and look at the house. What did he
scratch into the wall? One second passes. It doesn't matter. Two
seconds pass. Yes it does. I walk back in. I have to push through the
thick air. I walk towards where the scratching sound came from using
the stairs to get oriented. I open my lighter, flick the striker once
then twice. The flame burns and I move my hand towards the wall.
There are words there. A sentence. A subject, a verb, and an object.
I read the words once and then again. Under the words there is a
date. The date is my birthday of the next year. I read the sentence
again and look at the date. I hear something slide wickedly across
the floor upstairs. Something full of sharp and boney parts is
sliding across the damn floor of the room I just vacated via a
window. Something that was locked in the room I just left is sliding
across the floor towards the window that is now open to all of the
world.
I'm out. I'm doing the forty yard dash
in under four seconds. This is not training or quick twitch muscle
moving me. This is the palpable fear of death that is moving me. I
hear something clack against the roof. I hit the gravel with visions
of me as a child riding my bike down a gravel road until my untied
shoe laces get caught up in the chain and I tumble to the ground. I
tumble to the ground. I'm rolling head over heels and back to my
feet. I don't miss a step. I hear the fingernails on a chalkboard sound
of murder and the devil sliding down the tin roof. There is the car.
I'm in. It starts and I'm moving. I hit the lights and to my left is
a darkness darker than tar. I'm headed to the right. Gravel flies as
I fishtail onto the road and leave early demises behind. I drive a
mile and eject the mix tape, flip it over, put it in, and hit play.
Tupac starts singing, “If I die Tonight” as the tires of the car
hit blacktop and ahead of me I see white fences.
To be continued...