As I carefully entered the haunted house, the door shut behind me and…
I froze in terror, careful to move in the pitch black darkness. This was meant to be fun. Haunted houses are supposed to be silly things that you enjoy with your friends and laugh about afterwards. This was different. It wasn’t a haunted trail put together by a bunch of high-schoolers with fake ghouls and skeletons. This is a legitimate haunted house, abandoned after the family was murdered and has been a squatter home for druggies ever since. This was real. And I was alone. Horribly, dreadfully alone.
I knew that the door was locked, not that I could get out that way anyhow. The only reason I came in this house was because, while I was on the porch for some stupid reason, a bolt of lightning hit a tree with a huge crack! and it fell onto the gazebo, allowing for only one way to exit the house- hopefully some sort of back door.
I crept quietly through the room, my hands probing the air in front of me so not to trip over anything when, from a small sliver of light from a boarded up window, I glimpsed an unlit candle on the mantle above a small fireplace. I made my way over and was relieved to find a box of matches set next to it. After a few strokes, I finally got a spark of flame on the small splint and lit the fuse of the candle.
I slipped the rest of the match book in my pocket, just in case.
Holding the candle before me, I neared a doorway that seemed to lead to the main hall. I swallow the lump growing in my throat and started going forward.
I winced when I heard a sudden slamming on the floor above me and I let out a small noise of fear before slapping a hand over my mouth.
After that, however, there was no other noise for several minutes so I cautiously carried on.
Down the hallway I went, passing by ancient looking doors and dusty picture frames with black and white photos of the family. Luckily for me, each doorway had a small wooden sign framed in lace that read what each room was. As I was approaching the corner of the hall, I heard talking from around the bend. I could feel my eyes grow twice their natural size and I backtracked, entering the nearest room.
I closed the door as quietly as I could and press myself flat against the wall beside the door so, if they looked in through the small porthole window of the door, they wouldn’t be able to see me. I let a sigh of relief as I heard the source of the chatter pass and looked about my new location. It was a kitchen. Dusty and dirty, it seemed as though it hadn’t been cleaned in a long time, but handprints in the dust implied that it had been used. I looked out through the porthole to see if I could leave yet, but a hand grabbed me roughly by the shoulder. I dropped the candle and was about to scream when they wrapped their hand in front of my mouth.
“Shh, shh, shh, dearie,” they whispered. “Don’t want to wake the children now do we?”
I struggled against the assailant’s grasp, eyes wide with fright.
Turning me around gracelessly but never relieving my mouth of their hand, the stranger, a man, shushed me. “Oh, hush, I won’t do anything. In fact, my dear, I want to help you help me.”
I pushed his hand away from my mouth and shook the other from my shoulder, half disgusted and half creeped out. He was a grimy old man with greasy hair. He seemed to have a never ceasing smile, but that only made my flesh crawl more.
“Leave me alone!” I cried before he shushed me again.
He tilted his head down, lowering his voice with a hiss as his smile faltered, “You mustn’t be too loud- they’ll hear you!”
“Fine,” I whispered, clenching my fists as adrenaline shot through my veins, ready for fight or flight, “Who will hear me?!”
“The children!”
As if by cue, a strong wind blew outside, sending leaves whistling past and the branch of a decrepit cherry blossom tree tapping against the window. Below the floorboards I heard a rustling- a small pitter patter of feet followed by a high pitched chitter.
Rats, I thought.
But what rats giggle like that? I argued to myself.
The old man cursed to himself, looking around with alert eyes, his mouth forming an ‘o’ in anxiety. He turned to me, his face dead serious. “You must stop them. I’ve been safe here for sometime- they never thought me much of a threat, but more as a plaything. Now it must end. Hurry now, go; I’ll hold them off for a bit.” His hand flew out, gripping me tightly on the arm. “Please,” he whispered before he took off running, smiling madly once more. A few seconds later, I heard him screaming a bit further through the house, spewing insults at some dark image within his own mind.
I swallowed hard, reaching down to pick up my candle and relighting it. I was in the house with a madman. I’ve got to get out of here, I thought to myself.
I looked out the kitchen window, my view falling upon the tombstones that lined the lawn like teeth. Of course, I thought. The graveyard out back where the family had supposedly been buried for centuries. Last summer, I visited it with my older brother before he left. It was surrounded by a tall, wrought iron fence, but there was a gate that he was easily able to unlock by sticking his arm through the metal bars; it would be doubly easy from the inside. I guess I get to visit some dead people on the way out.
I slipped back out of the kitchen and into the hall, continuing through the house. As I approached what appeared to be the living room, a large fire place came into sight, and then a large picture frame ornamenting the wall right above it. I squinted at the black and white photo, tilting my head. The family seemed normal enough. A woman in a sitting chair with a man standing above her and two children- twins, from the looks of it- sitting before her. You wouldn’t have guessed that the fancily dressed man with his arm draped elegantly around his wife’s shoulders would have been so crazed as to slaughter his wife and her two children. Or three, I thought to myself, as I drew closer, surprised to see the misshapen face of a third (the triplet, I suppose) being cradled in the woman’s arms.
Huh. I guess I misremembered; I had always thought there were only two children. That’s probably what happens when all you hear are vague rumors and local horror stories. Man goes whacko, pulls out an ax, dices the wife, throws the children in the fireplace and drowns himself. I shuddered, eyes trailing down to the scorched bricks of the fireplace.
I shook my head. Humans are crazy, I thought as I crossed the room, candle clutched tight in my hand. I had the eeriest feeling that I was being watched, but I suppose that’s the normal feeling one gets when trapped in a haunted mansion.
I carried on down a long stretch of corridor toward what I hoped was the back exit of the house. As I walked down the hall, I stopped to look at a broken mirror, shattered by some impact right in the middle of it. I stared at the sharp ridges of it, the kaleidoscope image of a picture on the wall and a staircase leading upwards, parallel to the hall. From the corner of my eyes, I saw some sort of shadow descend the staircase, moving from one shard of broken glass to another as it climbed each step with a small thump.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I slowly turned. I was relieved to see that it wasn’t a person, but, in fact, a grapefruit sized toy ball, its coloring eroded from time. I felt chills run up my spine as I heard that familiar pitter patter that I noted in the kitchen, followed by a loud crashing sound and another something tumbling down the stairs, something larger. I screeched and opened the door nearest to me, nearly tripping down the stairs that followed as I slammed the door behind me, locking it immediately. I clutched the doorknob, breathing hard as I hugged the door.
Slowly, ever so slowly, I inched upward, peeking out of the porthole. I saw the old man from before, sprawled at the foot of the stairs, body twisted unnaturally. Standing above him was another man, in a suit, staring down with his back turned to me. I held my breath, watching him as he bent down, touched the old man’s face, then stood back again. He seemed to shake his head before stiffening, and then, suddenly, he disappeared.
I stared blankly out the window, nearly processing what had just happened when the man reappeared, his face- if you could call it that – just inches from mine. I screamed once more, stepping back, only to find empty space.I fell, tumbling down multiple stairs, before hitting the ground.
My whole body ached. I had lost my candle and, groaning, I fumbled in the darkness uselessly. I felt a wall and pulled myself up against it, reaching into my pocket to pull out the matches I had grabbed earlier. I struggled to get one lit, shuddering as I thought about the man’s horrifying face- or rather, lackthereof. Maybe I had hit my head too hard, I thought as I pictured eyeless, mouthless features.
Finally, a match caught flame. Winching at the sudden light in the darkness. Leaning forward, I held the matchstick close to the ground in search of the candle. My blood froze when the light flickered onto a pair of shoes, leading up to the legs and skirt of a person. Slowly, I stood, following the body up l until I saw her face. I screamed and dropped the match, but before it hit the ground and went out, the woman flicked her wrist and the match stopped midair, captured in space.
I stood, frozen, as the woman bent down and picked up the match, handing it back to me, her head tilted in what must have been concern.
“Uh, th-thank you…” I took the match between my fingers.
The woman reached her hand out to the right of me, I turned, worried that there was something there, but rather than some horrendous monster, the candle I had lost seemed to roll from the darkness and fly into her hand. She then tilted it to me, nodding at the match. I quickly lit the wick, staring hard at the candle in an attempt to not gawk at the face that strongly resembled the one of the man who had been standing over the old man- nothing but the curves of skin covering flesh and bone.
The woman turned, walking into the darkness. I simply stared after her, stomach queasy. She turned back to me and waved her hand, gesturing for me to follow. I quickly scampered after her, afraid to be left alone in the dark. We walked in silence for some time through what must have been underground tunnels of the ancient house.
I decided to pipe up, “Uhm, where are we going?” She didn’t seem to acknowledge me at all, which I believe was fair enough considering the fact that she didn’t have a mouth.. I stared at the back of her head. The hairstyle and face shape and such of this woman matched those of the woman in the portrait, and judging from the whole floating match/ flying candle, I decided to go out on a limb and say she was a ghost. I mentally laughed, realizing that, after this, I would have to go check myself into the looney bin.
Finally, we came to a stop in front of… something. The woman walked around it, stopping on the otherside and gesturing for me to come towards her and the object. So I did. As I came closer, I was able to distinguish the object as a large cradle, perhaps made for a child of 4 or 5 years old, covered by a blanket. I looked up at the woman quizzically, “A cradle?” The woman nodded slowly, head bent, her shoulders slumping. Suddenly, it connected. “The child in the photograph above the fireplace- the one in your arms. Is this..?”
She nodded, lifting the blanket and folding it back. What I saw was grotesque, it made me cringe and fight back the bile threatening to make its way up my throat. There was a child of probably 6 years old, but its body was shriveled and decomposed, for the most part. It smelled awful, but what was even worse was the ghost of the child. Faceless like the mother, it laid in its own remains, writhing in pain, but unable to cry.Like it’s corpse, its arms and legs were shriveled and even its general face shape looked twisted, a mocking reminder of what must have been some nasty disease it had in its previous life. I looked back up at the mother, “He died here…but.. it was a natural death right..?” It must have been the disease..
The woman nodded again, shoulders shaking from soundless sobs as she covered her face with her hands. I felt so bad for the woman and the child. It was forever in pain, but she could do nothing to help it.
“I-I’m so sorry, ma’am…” The woman sullenly recovered the squirming child, turning to walk away again.
I followed as she led to a rather large room. She coaxed the candle to float up into the air, lighting the large chandelier above us. As the room filled with light, I saw what must have been the children’s playroom. But the walls were covered in blood in one corner, the crusted dark red spattered on the peeling wall paper. I shuddered. The woman sat down in the corner, pointing first to the blood, then to herself.
I swallowed hard, “You died here?” She nodded, reaching up to rub her shoulder. But her arm seemed to disconnect, getting caught in the arm of her dress. The unattached arm tried to wiggle itself out of the sleeve, crawling like a spider. My head felt dizzy and I grimaced upon seeing cruel scars up and down the arm and the fleshy, rigid cut where her arm was detached. She reattached the arm and seemed to retreat into herself, wrapping her arms around her body. “And your husband did this to you, right? He actually did attack you with an ax?”
The woman stood, shaking her head fervently.
“Wha..?” I was about to ask, when I heard a familiar chitter behind me.
Within two seconds the woman was behind me and she pushed me toward the wall with an invisible force. Startled, I looked around the woman and saw the two children from the portrait. Their hands clasped, they stood, obviously curious of me.
The woman started moving as if she were talking to them, silent to the ears of the living. She then turned to me, arms waving urgently. The children were obviously displeased by this and one of them whisked their hand; the woman’s image flickered and disappeared.
The children then looked at me, heads tilted.
“H-hello,” I said weakly, nervous.
They simply offered their free hands to me. Stomach doing flips, my every instinct told me to run, but I reached for them, stopping and yanking my hands back as their’s burst into flames. That familiar chortle filled the room and their whole bodies caught fire.
I screamed and jumped back. The children, as if it were a game, jumped forward. I felt myself back into the wall and squeezed my eyes shut, trying to ignore the heat blasting against my face and the imminency of my own death.
I waited for moments, but nothing happened. Opening my eyes, I saw the woman in front of me. Next to her was the suit- clad man who had stood above the old man at the foot of the stairs.
I relaxed for a moment before slumping to the ground. I could feel tears threatening to escape from my eyes. My hands curled in my hair. “I need to get out of here,“ I pleaded to the couple.
The man nodded, offering a careful hand. Cautiously, remembering the story, I edged myself back shaking my head. The woman, understanding that I was afraid, knelt next to me and offered her hand. I took it and was surprised. There was something there, but at the same time, it simply felt like air. As if I were a mime in a box but the wall of the box was actually there. She helped me stand.
We want to help you escape. I yanked my hand away, terrified as what must have been her voice echoed in my head. She simply bowed his head forward, offering her hand once more. Timidly, I took it. Please, you must help. Find someone to demolish the house so this torment may end and we can finally rest. Clear my husband’s name. He would never hurt me, or the children, even after what they did. Please.
Slowly, I nodded. “I promise. I will.”
Satisfied, the woman put her other hand over mine. Thank you. There is an exit through the graveyard in the back. We can help you as far as the back door, but past that is up to you.
“I understand.”
We went back through the tunnels and up the stairs, passing the body of the old man as we went. I grimaced in the direction of his corpse. “Has he become a ghost now too..?”
The man put her hand on my shoulder. Not yet. It takes days for the apparition to form. Until then, there is no consciousness.
I nodded. At least he wasn’t in the same pain this family was in.
As we walked, I could feel a sourceless wind soaring through the house, making countless papers fly around and cupboards slam open and close.
The couple led me back through the main room, where the fire place and portrait were. In the fireplace, a huge fire roared, flames licking up past the brick and against the picture of the family, slowly burning the canvas away. In the center of the bricks sat the forms of the two children, still holding hands. But instead of their normal form, their bodies were charcoal black, the color of scorched wood. And from their faces I could see eyes. Red, harsh eyes that seemed to convey evil.
The parents seemed to release an aura that even I could feel, forcing the flames to quell ever so slightly. The children just narrowed their eyes, but, rather than at the couple, they directed their glares at me. I looked to my side and grabbed an iron fireplace poker, clutching it in my grip. Somehow I doubted it would be helpful, but when I picked it up, I could feel the parents stir a bit.
But they never left me, and so we carried on through the house until finally we approached the back door. I turned back to them, tipping my head. “Thank you. I will do my best to carry out your wishes.”
The woman took my hands. Thank you. We will try to keep the children here in the home until you escape, but you must hurry.
I nodded and left the house.
The storm carried on from when I first entered the house, but the night appeared to have passed, leaving the world in the stillness of the dawn. I ran through the tombstones, my eyes already locked on the gate exit.
I was just ten meters from it when the little devils appeared before me. They held out their arms to their sides, sending fire into the air and grass, creating a firestorm circling around us. My hair whipped around me as I clutched my fire poker. Laughter circled the air, mixing with the fire in some psychotic frenzy. I roared and ran toward the two, slashing at them with the fire poker in one last desperate attempt to save my own life. It swiped through them easily and they simply looked down and back at me.
I cursed to myself, stumbling backwards. The children began to approach me when suddenly they stopped and looked back down, their images shuddering.
I felt the slightest bit of hope and slashed at them more, repeatedly, maniacally, desperately. I could feel the fire scorching my skin and I could smell my own hair burning, but I kept swinging madly until, finally, the winds died down and I was left alone.
Shaking, I dropped the fire poker and ran to the gate, unlatching the lock and running out, slamming the gate behind me. I fell to my knees, crying and laughing, thanking the heavens and the ghosts and the whole universe.
I was safe.
I picked myself up, turning back to the house. On the other side of the gate were the children, but they now they had returned to their normal form- faceless children, hands clasped.
I edged closer and the two just turned their heads ever so slightly, observing me.
I cleared my throat, “Why did you kill your parent?”
From everywhere, I heard the voices of the two children screaming in my head, angry and so full of pain that I collapsed once more, hands gripping my head.
They deserved it, they cried. They kept him from us. We just wanted to play. We just wanted him to be happy, our brother…
Clenching my fists in my hair, I yelled, “But why?! What did they do?!”
Again, the booming duet of voices filled my head, They let him die! They lost one child, then hid him from the world, as if ashamed, and took their pain out upon us. We just wanted to see him. We just wanted to see our brother…
The echoes of the children faded from my brain and a cool wind rustled across the field, blowing the kids away with it.
After many minutes, I stood, staring at the empty graveyard.
4 days later, a newspaper gave the full story- the true story from an anonymous source and the house was scheduled for demolition. I stood there as the bulldozer plowed across the rubble of brick and stone. Watching, wondering who were the villains of the story: the grief-ridden parents or the children who couldn’t understand death..
Death seemed to be the one that started the problem, but even He couldn’t end it.
Maephly 