The Devil Cheats at Solitaire.

“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...