CELLAR

 

 

 

CELLAR

By Randy Romero

 

Donald Brackett checked his gold watch, a retirement gift from his former employer. The watch was a symbol of his hard work and dedication. A reward for all those years he put in at the plant. He appreciated the gesture, but it took him time to adapt. He had never been a watch guy. At first, he considered pawning it. But Shelly had pleaded with him to keep it.

And Donald always listened to his wife. That was, as Donald would gladly tell anyone who asked, the secret to a successful marriage. Always listen to your wife. And remember that she’s always right, even when she’s wrong. That last part usually got a good laugh from his buddies at the plant.

Donald had kept the watch at Shelly’s behest. And he was glad that he had. While Donald did own a cell phone, he rarely had any use for it. He had nobody to call, and nobody was calling him. So he seldom carried his phone around with him. The watch helped him keep track of time. After all, he had a schedule to keep.

It was almost nine o’clock. Almost feeding time.

Donald was a simple man. A blue-collar guy who enjoyed the little things in life like an ice-cold beer or a Monday night football game or a steak char grilled to perfection. You didn’t need to call him Mr. Brackett. Donald or Don would suffice. Just so long as you didn’t call him Donnie. He hated it with a searing passion. Possibly because it reminded him of the folly of his youth. His friends used to call him Donnie back then. And Donnie had been a “bad apple” in those days. He had been a drinker, a partier, and a troublemaker.

Not anymore. Don turned his life around after high school. He was a hard worker and a straight shooter. What you saw was what you got. But even the most earnest and sincere individuals can harbor the darkest of secrets. Donald’s secret was currently living underneath his feet.

Don went to the refrigerator and got himself a beer. He had certainly changed a lot over the years, but one thing that hadn’t changed was his love for a cold beer. He popped the top and the can opened with a loud hiss. He emptied the entire can into a clear glass mug. A thick layer of foam formed on top. He let it settle before he took the first sip and sighed. A sigh of adulation, of reverence. This was as good as his night was going to get.

The crooked calendar tacked to the back wall of the kitchen served as a grim reminder of his wife’s anniversary. It would be three years next Wednesday. The word anniversary didn’t sit right with him. Anniversaries were supposed to be a special occasion, a celebration. But death was not something to be celebrated.

Don enjoyed his beer in silence. The kitchen had a retro aesthetic, which really meant it hadn’t been updated or remodeled in decades. Wooden floorboards creaked underfoot every time he took a step. There was a tiny kitchen island made of white Formica that separated the stove from the kitchen table and the refrigerator. Adjacent to the island was a grey threadbare carpet that seemed oddly out of place.

Don finished his beer, retrieved a galvanized pail from his fridge, and walked to the back of the kitchen area. He pulled back the grey carpet, revealing a trapdoor underneath, padlocked. Though they were muffled, he could still hear the most awful sounds emanating from below. Inhuman, unnatural sounds. He fished the key from his pocket and unlocked the trapdoor, flung it open and peered down into the cellar.

Crawling around in the dark was the thing that had killed his wife. The pulsating, membranous mass of flesh that used to be their son.

He emptied the contents of the bucket. A storm of blood, organs, and viscera rained down into the cellar. He watched in terror as his son consumed it all. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep this up. Shelly’s death had been an accident. The others were not. The others had been sacrifices.

The guilt had gnawed away at his insides. An experienced hunter, Don had tried animals at first. Deer, squirrels, possums, anything he could shoot with his rifle and cart back to the house. But the animals hadn’t been enough to satisfy the creature in the cellar. Its appetite could not be sated. So Don had taken extreme measures to ensure his son’s survival. He didn’t understand why. He assumed it was his natural paternal instincts. He had lost Shelly, but some semblance of his son still remained behind that monstrous façade. So he had kept it alive, kept it hidden, kept it well fed.

He slammed the trapdoor and padlocked it. He needed another drink. A little liquid courage for what he was considering next.

Don retired at sixty-five, a year before his son’s gruesome transformation into the creature that dwelled beneath him. That was the year he lost Shelly. Now, at age sixty-nine, Don had very little gas left in his tank.

He was old, tired, miserable. He missed Shelly more than anything. And the guilt of his sins was slowly killing him. In attempting to keep this monster alive, Don had turned into a monster himself, sacrificing innocent strangers to his only child. He couldn’t do it anymore. He couldn’t kill another innocent soul. He had to stop it, to break the cycle.

What if the monster in the cellar simply stopped feeding? How long would it survive? Days, weeks? No matter how long, Donald knew it couldn’t live forever. So he would give it one final meal and say his farewells. Then time would finish the job for him.

He finished his beer, fetched another one. And another after that. He said a silent prayer and unlocked the trapdoor. He opened the hatch and took a deep, soul cleansing breath.

“Shelly, I’ll be seeing you soon,” he said before he leapt into the abyss.

GOODNIGHT AND GOODBYE

 

 

  

GOODNIGHT AND GOODBYE

By Randy Romero

 

 

 

Robert Marsh was beyond exhausted. He needed a hot shower, a cold drink, and a solid twelve hours of sleep. But he still had enough time and energy to tuck his little angel into bed that night.

“You brush your teeth?” he asked as his daughter, Lily, crawled underneath the covers.

“Yes, daddy,” Lily responded.

“And you did all your homework when you got back from school today?”

“Mmhmm,” she said, shaking her tiny head. With a little help from your mother, no doubt, Rob thought. Emily was always on top of Lily and her schoolwork. Maybe a little too on top of things. Most of the time, it was Emily who did the work or solved the equations for her daughter. How is Lily going to learn anything like that? Rob had pointed it out a dozen times. But Emily’s biggest fear was Lily failing or falling behind.

He couldn’t fault Emily though. He knew she only wanted the best for Lily. The best grades, the best opportunities, the best career choices in the future. Still, Rob felt it was a lot of pressure to put on a six-year-old. But Lily didn’t seem to mind. She was incredibly sharp for her age, and she actually seemed to enjoy her schoolwork. And Rob could rest assured that she had a bright future ahead of her.

“Did you say goodnight to mommy?”

“Yes.”

“You need any money for school?”

Lily didn’t offer a verbal response. Just shook her head no.

“You want me to read you a story? I think I have enough energy left for one bedtime story.”

“No thank you,” Lily said, already looking sleepy. Rob envied her. He wished he could fall asleep like he did when he was a kid. Just close your eyes and you’re out like a light. No cares or worries. No fears or anxieties gnawing away at you, keeping you awake all night.

As he tucked her in, Lily leaned in and gave him a peck on the cheek.

“Goodbye, daddy,” she said with nothing but love and innocence in her voice.

Rob Marsh chuckled. “Thank you, sweet pea. But it’s proper to say goodnight, not goodbye.”

“Not tonight, daddy. Tonight, it’s goodbye.”

Rob sighed, exasperated. “Goodnight, sweet pea.” He turned off the light and quietly closed the door behind him.

He was still wearing his office attire. He loosened his burgundy tie and took a deep breath, made himself a stiff drink. If there was one thing he needed after a long day at the office, it was a strong, uncut beverage.

He sat quietly, sipped his Scotch on the rocks, and thought about his daughter’s phrasing. Just an innocuous mistake that any six-year-old could make. But there was something so sincere, so genuine about her tone.

Goodbye, daddy.

However, it was her equally strange follow-up that had really gotten under his skin.

Not tonight, daddy. Tonight, it’s goodbye. It sounded almost menacing, sinister.

He finished his drink in silent contemplation and deposited the glass in the kitchen sink, the melted ice cubes clinking down the drain. Then he retired to his bedroom.

Emily was all rolled up in the covers, her black sleep mask over her eyes, her ear plugs in. The eye mask blocked out any unwanted light and the ear plugs were the only way she could tolerate Rob’s snoring. She had once proposed sleeping in different rooms, but in the end, she compromised with the ear plugs. She loved her husband dearly and wanted to sleep next to him every night. But she didn’t want to hear him sleeping. Rob couldn’t blame her. She had recorded his snores once and he was shocked that those sounds were emanating from his own body.

He slipped into bed and could tell she was already asleep. He was tempted to wake her, to ask her if Lily had said or done anything strange while he was at work. But he didn’t want to disturb her. He knew his wife wouldn’t appreciate it. And besides, if anything out of the ordinary had occurred, Emily would have been sure to call or text him. Best to let it be, he decided, and settled down to bed.

 

It was still pitch-black outside when Rob woke up. It was even darker inside his bedroom without the red glow of his alarm clock. He realized they must have lost power at some point during the night, and he got up in a daze to check the analog clock in the kitchen. He had an early meeting he couldn’t afford to miss.

His ears caught faint whispers from the room next door. Lily was talking quietly, but to whom?

Emily was still sleeping, and Rob and Lily were the only other people in the house. He crept out to the hallway and saw his daughter’s door was slightly ajar. He inched around and tried to peek inside to see who she was speaking to. That’s when he felt the hand brush across his shoulder. He shivered at the touch. They had dry, grizzled skin and wintery hands, cold to the touch.

He spun around and caught a glimpse of the dark apparition. It reached out, one of its icy hands seizing him. Ragged, uneven fingernails dug into the skin of his wrist, deep enough to draw blood.

He gasped and stumbled backwards, freeing himself from its grip. He grabbed his bloody wrist, wincing in pain. The apparition drew closer, and he took a few more steps back. His feet lost the ground beneath him as he edged past the landing of the switchback staircase. He tumbled down the steps, crashing to the bottom at an awkward angle, his neck snapping upon impact.

Lily stood at the top of the stairs and waved as the apparition loomed behind her. “Goodbye, daddy,” she whispered.

WEEPING WILLOW

 

 

 

WEEPING WILLOW

By Randy Romero

 

 

 

Amy Larson didn’t leave much behind for her son, Eric. A few used books, an ancient record collection, and a weeping willow tree that he could see perfectly from his bedroom window. The willow was a large, deciduous tree with a stout trunk, topped by a graceful crown of branches that drooped down, almost touching the grass.

Autumn had turned its healthy green leaves a sickly brownish yellow. Its branches hung even lower than normal. Its leaves shedding with every gust of wind, big or small. Yet through all that, it maintained its dramatic, elegant appearance.

His mother loved that tree, would sit for hours underneath, reading or sketching in her notebook. The tree was special to her, so it was special to Eric by proxy. It pained him to see its current state, but he knew in the spring, the leaves would blossom again, and it would return to its majestic state.

It was just Eric and his dad now. Frank Larson wasn’t a reader like his wife. He wasn’t fond of music or the arts. He was fond of cheap beer and TV dinners and using his fists to solve his myriad problems.

Eric and his mom used to spend copious amounts of time together. Read together, draw together, listen to music together. His mother was a Beatles aficionado. They once sat and counted all the “Judes” in the song, “Hey Jude”. He couldn’t remember the exact number, but it was a lot.

Eric Larson sat awake in his bedroom, reading comic books. The door was closed but his blinds were open. His bedroom windows faced the backyard, where he had the ultimate view of his mom’s favorite tree.

But that night, the skies were weeping. The rain came flooding down and made its presence known. He could hear it beating down outside his windows, accompanied by the occasional flash of lightning or crackle of thunder.

Dinner that night was a microwavable mac and cheese that Eric had heated up himself. His father worked late at the factory and decided to have a liquid dinner. He was passed out in his bedroom by nine o’clock. Not that it mattered. Frank and Eric had little in common and little to talk about or discuss. Eric immersed himself in comics he bought with money that should have been going to his school lunches. He always put a few bucks aside every week for comics that he stashed under his bed. He was also saving up for a new bike.

Eric was too old to believe in Santa Claus. And he had no hope his father was going to surprise him that year with a bicycle. So he decided he was going to buy it himself. He tucked a dollar away here and there, saved all his pocket change, recycled cans and bottles, checked the return slots of every vending machine he came across for stray coins.

Rain tapped against his window and the sky lit up with a sudden burst of lightning. And in the transient moments of this bright flash, he saw it.

Brooding behind the weeping willow, but not well enough to conceal itself. The sky flashed again, and he got another terrifying glimpse.

It was tall and abnormally thin, with jagged, asymmetrical claws and crimson red eyes. Its skin was as gray and rigid as the bark of the tree. It scaled it ways up the stout tree limbs and arched branches, trying to camouflage itself against the tree. But Eric could still make out its glowing red eyes in the rainy darkness.

His throat was too dry to call for his father. He turned away in fright, and when he dared to turn back, the red glow had vanished. He couldn’t spot the creature anymore, if it had ever been there at all.

He turned his back to the window, thinking that if he turned away again and then looked back, the creature would return. No such luck. The sky blinked once again and Eric got a good look at the weeping willow. Nothing was there.

His eyes frantically searched the backyard whenever there was a flash of light, but he didn’t see a thing. He chalked it up to his overactive imagination. Too many comic books and monster movies he probably wasn’t supposed to be watching at his age.

He tucked his comic books away and tried to put the horrifying image in the back of his mind. He tried to convince himself it was nothing more than his imagination. He saw what his ten-year-old brain had wanted him to see.

He crawled under the covers and shut his eyes. Piercing screams shattered the dreadful silence that had ensued since Eric first laid eyes on the creature.

The terrifying shrieks were followed by a series of even more unnerving sounds. The sounds of crunching and snapping, and the wet tearing sounds of flesh being ripped from bone.

He cowered in the dark under his covers as his bedroom door creaked open. He peeked out and saw it standing outside its bedroom. It was taller than the door itself. He couldn’t see its face or its sharp red eyes as it stood motionless in the hallway.

Then it turned and disappeared down the hall. Eric listened closely as it descended the staircase and vanished into the night, leaving him unscathed. Leaving him to wonder for the rest of his life why it had spared him. Was it truly a monster, or had it been a guardian sent by his mother to free him from the chains of his father? The question would haunt him until the end of days.

UNDER THE MOON

 

 

UNDER THE MOON

By Randy Romero

 

 

It was only a matter of time before Lena said the the words Ray was dreading. “We’re lost.”

“We’re not lost,” Ray Stokes told his wife. “We’re on an adventure.”

“What are you, five years old?”

“I have the mind of one.”

She sighed, exasperated. “I told you not to get off the highway.”

Twenty minutes had passed since Ray lost the main road, opting for a more scenic route. It was his decision to abandon the highway for a road he never traveled before, a decision he now lived to regret. But he’d never admit defeat and give Lena the satisfaction of saying, “I told you so.” It was one of her choice phrases.

If it was the scenic route Ray had desired, that’s exactly what he got. The road was virtually deserted, with the sporadic exception of a passing semi-truck traveling in the opposite direction. They were from Nassau County and Ray wasn’t used to how eerily quiet it was in certain areas of Suffolk. No traffic, no commotion, no pedestrians, no crazy drivers blowing through stop signs or red lights.

There were no lights or streetlamps lining the roads, but that didn’t matter on this particular evening. The full moon gave Ray all the light he needed.

He rolled his window and breathed in the fresh, untainted air; no pollutants. At home, their backyard was so close to the Expressway that Ray practically choked on exhaust fumes every time he went outside. His lungs had never breathed air so clean and healthy. His air sacs felt like they were on vacation.

“Roll up your window,” Lena said. Then she added, “Please.”

“Oh, come on, hon. Enjoy the fresh air. It’s better than inhaling people’s exhaust fumes on the highway.”

“It’s December and it’s freezing out.”

“Fine,” he sighed and rolled his window up. Lena cranked up the heat and fished through her purse for her Samsung.

“I should call Zachary and see how he’s doing,” Lena said.

“We never should have left him with Elliot.”

“He was the only person available on such short notice. And what’s wrong with Elliot?”

“I just don’t like the idea of a gay babysitter looking after our son. What if he…you know, touches Zach or something?”

“He’s gay, Ray. He’s not a pedophile.”

“If he likes men, he could like little boys, too.”

“By that logic, all straight men could easily like little girls.”

Ray thought about her argument for a moment, stymied, unable to retort. “All right, you got me there,” he admitted. “At least Elliot’s not transgender.”

“I believe they prefer to be called transsexuals now.”

“Is that what they’re calling it nowadays?”

“You really need to join the twenty-first century, Ray. In this day and age, gender isn’t relevant. It isn’t even binary.”

She made a quick call to the house, checked in on Zach, and spoke briefly with Elliot. “They’re making a gingerbread house,” Lena said when she got off the phone.

Ray felt guilty about leaving Zach with a babysitter on Christmas Eve. But Ray always went to visit his dad on Christmas Eve. Shane Stokes’ condition was rapidly declining, and he didn’t want Zach to see his grandfather in his sickly, emaciated state.

“I hope he isn’t mad at us,” Ray said.

“Your father?”

“No, Zach.”

“We’re only going for a few hours. We’ll be home in time for Santa to put the presents under the tree.”

“You mean I’ll put the presents under the tree. I’m tired of that Santa guy getting all the credit.”

“We need to find a spot to eat. I’m famished.”

“Famished,” he repeated.

“Yes, it’s a word.”

“Nobody says famished.”

“I say famished.”

“I’ll find us a place to eat.”

“Yeah, as soon as you get off this godforsaken road. I haven’t seen anything for miles. What made you get off the highway in the first place?”

“I was bored,” he shrugged. “I wanted to take the scenic route.”

“Well, you definitely got your wish.”

Ray turned up the radio to give himself a much needed reprieve from the conversation, and to drown out the rattling of a bad catalytic converter. He went through every station until he found one that wasn’t playing Christmas music.

Ray and Lena’s road had been a rocky one. In fact, their relationship had been a road paved with landmines. But they had evaded every bomb in their path and managed to keep their relationship intact. Ray knew all too well what divorce does to a child. He’d been through it before, and he wasn’t about to put Zach through the same. And Lena seemed to concur. It was the only thing keeping their frayed marriage from completely falling apart.

“That’s it, I’m using the GPS on my phone,” Lena said, fed up.

The catalytic converter rattled and pinged.

“Don’t bother,” Ray said as he saw a sign welcoming them to the town of Hither Hills.

There was a sharp turn after the sign, and as they came around the bend, it darted out from the tree line. Ray panicked and popped the brakes to avoid hitting the deer. The car skidded on the slick winter pavement, and they collided head-on with it.

The deer went flying and the car came to a sudden stop. They both took deep breaths, waiting for their hearts to beat normally again.

He turned the key in the ignition. The engine coughed and sputtered.

“Sit tight. I’m going to get out and see the damage.”

Ray popped the hood and opened the driver side door. He got out and checked the front. The damage was more than superficial. They would need a tow truck. No way he was going to get it running without repairs.

“Poor thing,” Ray said, looking at the deer sprawled out in the road. Given the size, he wasn’t surprised at the damage. It was the biggest deer he’d ever seen up close.

He walked around to the passenger side and Lena rolled her window down. “Better call a tow truck. There’s no way this thing is going to start.”

“What about the deer?” Lena asked.

“I don’t know,” Ray said. “I think you have to call animal control and they come pick it up. I feel terrible, but it’s the least of our concerns right now. I’ll call my dad and Elliot and tell them both we’re going to be late tonight.”

Rough, serrated claws scraped the pavement as it clambered to its feet.

Lena tried to scream. Tried to find the words to warn her husband. She could hear them in her head. But she had no voice to produce them.

It’s not a deer.

Ray saw the horror in her eyes and was afraid to look. He turned slowly, revealing the bipedal creature that towered over him.

Its body was a suit of thick gray fur, its eyes as yellow as moonlight. Jagged, asymmetrical fangs protruded from its thick, hairy, wet snout. The beast growled, taking Ray’s breath away.

He couldn’t shout, couldn’t talk, couldn’t find the air. He felt dizzy, faint. But he remained on his feet long enough to feel it sink its teeth in.

His screams pierced the night. It was aiming for its neck, but instead its fangs sank into his left shoulder. It ripped and teared away, pulling flesh and muscle from the bone. When it had its fill and its lust for blood was satiated, it disappeared into the night, running back into the woods.

Ray could feel the change almost instantly. Felt his body transforming under the moonlight. He begged and pleaded with Lena to leave him behind before it was too late.

She slid into the driver’s seat, grinded the key in the ignition, praying the car would start. The engine groaned and sputtered.

“Come on,” she cried. “Please, just start.” She turned the key again. Nothing.

She glared through the windshield, watching as the transformation completed. Fur replaced flesh. A thick, gray snout replaced his face. His yellow eyes glowed in the darkness.

In one last act of desperation, she twisted the key again and the engine rumbled to life. She floored it out of there, swerving to avoid the beast in the road that was once her husband.

She looked back in the rearview mirror, watching him howl at the bright, piercing moon above.

THE HOUSE ON BAXTER STREET

 

 

 

THE HOUSE ON BAXTER STREET

By Randy Romero

 

 

Every small town in America has its own ghost story or infamous urban legend.

The jilted lover who was stood up on prom night and died in a tragic accident, her broken-hearted spirit forever doomed to roam those dark, lonely roads.

The hitchhiker who was murdered and vanishes into thin air when you stop to offer them a ride.

The escaped mental patient with a hook for a hand. The monster or demon who hides under a bridge or inside a tunnel, waiting for any unfortunate souls to enter its domain. The uninhabitable haunted house with its dark, unimaginable history, and its restless spirits roaming the hallways.

Fairview’s local ghost story was The House on Baxter Street.

An innocuous looking, two-story, Cape Cod style house with bay windows that faced the street on both floors.

It had been abandoned since before Billy Caputo was born. Craig Caputo loved to frighten his son and daughter about the house. Ellie hated hearing those stories. But Billy, a horror movie fanatic with a keen interest in the paranormal, relished his dad’s memories.

He enjoyed the mystery behind it.

What had led to the McFarlane family–Tim McFarlane, wife Terri, sons Tim Jr. and Buddy–packing up and leaving without so much as a wave goodbye? Why did they just up and abandon their own property? Why did they leave all their furniture and many of their earthly possessions behind?

Tim McFarlane hadn’t even given notice at the local power plant. He just stopped showing up for work and after a few days, they sent the cops to his house to do a wellness check. That’s when they found out the family had split town and left most of their stuff behind.

It was cold that morning, even for December. The temperature outside was twenty-seven degrees and dropping rapidly. The weatherman had snow in his forecast, but Craig didn’t put much stock into what he had to say.

“I wish I could get paid to be wrong seventy-five percent of the time like the weatherman,” Craig said while reading the newspaper at the breakfast table.

“You’re a man and you’re my husband,” Shelia said. “You’re wrong one hundred percent of the time.”

“True, but I’m not getting paid for it,” he said.

Ellie came down to breakfast first. She wore ripped blue jeans and a red flannel hoodie; the buttons open to reveal a Nirvana shirt with a yellow smiley face with the eyes crossed out. A gift from her boyfriend. Her father doubted if either one of them even knew who Kurt Cobain was.

Ellie was fifteen, and her brother was only twelve.

“The nineties called,” her mom said. “They want their outfit back.”

“Of course, they called,” Ellie said. “They couldn’t text back then.” It wasn’t hard to see where and who Ellie got her sarcastic wit from.

“Burn,” Craig said.

“Burn? Geez, the nineties wants that reference back too,” Shelia said.

“Oh, like you’re all that and a bag of chips,” Craig said.

“Did people really used to talk like that in the nineties?” Ellie asked.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Shelia said.

“The nineties? Isn’t that when the McFarlane family moved away?” Billy Caputo asked, joining the conversation.

“That’s correct,” his father said.

“Ugh, not that story again,” Ellie groaned.

“I’m actually in agreement with her,” their mom said. “I can live without hearing it again.”

“We’ll talk more about it after school,” his dad told him. “Now hurry up and eat your breakfast so you don’t miss the bus.”

 

 

***

 

 

Twelve-year-old kids can be troublemakers.

Billy and his friends were no different. Especially Kevin Keller. His dad wasn’t thrilled by the idea of Billy hanging out with him. That was one of the reasons Billy never mentioned him or invited him over. Kevin didn’t take any offense to it. He knew his reputation.

“Have your parents ever talked about the house on my street?” Billy asked his friends one day during their lunch period. High school was a new experience for them. But as freshmen, they were allowed to leave the school grounds for lunch. They sat in the back of a nearby pizzeria, Billy more focused on the house than his food. Pat Reilly spoke up first.

“You mean that creepy house across the street?” Pat asked. “Yeah. My mom says it’s haunted. But my dad says that’s a bunch of bullshit. But he doesn’t believe in ghosts or spirits or anything paranormal. Thinks it’s fake.”

“And you think it’s real?” Kevin asked.

“Hell yeah. I mean wouldn’t you want to be a ghost when you die? Ghosts live rent free. You don’t have to go to school or work. You get to haunt and scare people. Being a ghost sounds like the life.”

“Have your parents ever said anything about it?” Billy asked Kevin.

“Not my mom. But my dad says nobody will live there. He says they can’t sell it. My brother says there’s a demon living in the basement, but I know he’s just trying to scare me.”

“Or warn you,” Pat said.

“Very funny. Why are you asking about that old house anyway?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Just curious, I suppose. It’s been empty forever.”

“Could be the perfect hangout spot,” Kevin said.

“Are you suggesting we break in there?” Billy asked.

“Why not? Who’s going to know if it’s abandoned? You go right in through the backdoor or find a window to the basement to jimmy open.”

“No thanks, I’ll pass,” Pat said.

“Wussy.”

“I’m going to have to pass on that too,” Billy said, remembering why his dad wasn’t crazy about him hanging around Kevin.

“Well, if you change your mind let me know.”

They finished their lunch and headed back towards Fairview High, the house on Baxter Street looming over Billy’s thoughts the entire walk back.

 

 

***

 

 

Billy’s eyes fluttered as the light shone through his window. He woke up tired, confused, disoriented. His heavy eyes moved towards his alarm clock. 3:13 AM.

He rolled out of bed and shuffled to the window to close his blinds.

That was when he realized the bright light was emanating from an upstairs window across the street.

“What the hell?” Billy muttered.

The house had been abandoned for nearly thirty years. The power had been cut off a long, long time ago. And yet, he stared out his window at the glowing fixtures in the adjacent house. The light seemed to beckon him.

That was when he remembered Kevin Keller’s offer.

Kevin lived a few blocks away. And like most kids nowadays, they both had their own cell phones. Billy’s phone was mainly for emergency purposes. But like most kids, he had a habit of abusing the privilege.

He sent Kevin a text and hoped he was awake. He got a response in less than a minute.

It just said: On my way.

Billy snuck out through the garage and met Kevin across the street. They made sure the coast was clear before they walked around the side of the house and hopped the fence. No basement windows, but there was a backdoor.

“Watch the magic,” Kevin said, preparing to pick the lock.

But he didn’t even get that far. The knob was loose, so he tried the door. Unlocked.

“Ta-da,” he said.

“Wow,” Billy said, feigning admiration. “I’m so glad I text you for that.”

“After you,” Kevin said.

Billy took a deep breath and stepped inside. Kevin followed.

The floor creaked with every step they took. The house was almost beyond repair.

Broken fixtures. Rotting furniture. Holes in the ceiling. Stains on the floor. Dust and debris.

In the living room was a white couch devoured by black mold. The smell of mold and mildew permeated the air. But another stronger smell cut through it. The stench of rot and decay.

Billy assumed an animal must’ve died behind the walls or got stuck inside the chimney.

Paint bubbled from the walls and ceilings. Threadbare carpets that dated back to the eighties. Mustard yellow wallpaper in the living room and wooden panels in the basement.

The windows were frosted over inside from the lack of working heat. No running water either.

Billy ascended the staircase, Kevin trudging behind him, but they stopped at the landing. They froze in place as a tall shadow fell over the hall. It was stationary for a moment, then seemed to drift across the hallway.

The shadow moved on its own, with seemingly no entity present to guide it. No figure stood in the hallway. No man or woman could be seen at the top of the stairs. The rogue shadow descended the staircase, gliding towards them. Billy gasped, shut his eyes, and–

 

 

***

 

 

–Woke up in his bed.

His pajamas were drenched in sweat. At least he hoped it was sweat. It took him a moment to realize it was all a dream. He had no idea what time it was until he glanced at his alarm clock.

3:13 AM.

He’d only been asleep for a few hours.

“Just a nightmare,” he whispered to himself. It served him right for getting caught up in those silly ghost stories and letting his dad spook him.

But just as he rested his head on the pillow again, a light caught his eye from across the street.

The light in the upstairs bedroom seemed to call his name, summoning him. He couldn’t resist.

Should I go look? He wondered. But he’d already made his decision, sealed his own fate. He just didn’t know it yet.