The house that spoke

THE HOUSE THAT SPOKE 

SUMMARY: A young man encounters a house on a hill after all the homes downtown were sold off. With no other options, he takes a gander and move in, not knowing he’s not the only resident to call this place home. 

 

50 years ago—

 

Floorboards creaked, wood shaked, and the footsteps pounded outside. Her special corner assuaged the whirlwind of emotions storming, threatening to tear her mind asunder if it weren’t for the familiar beat of David Bowie on the turntable. Nineteen and she had to endure the smashing and clanking as her good-for-nothing grump of a man yelled at her mother for the umpteenth time. Losing count wasn’t the worst of it. Most moments were filled with shouting, tossing expensive china at the wall, and Pops slapping Ma right across her jaw over tepid chicken. One would say the man was overreacting. To an outsider, he was in the right. 

 

Women’s rights had spread all over the world, but they had never dared to set foot on the Artley Estate. Ma’s voice, once vibrant and full of life, had become a hushed whisper over the years. Each time she had dared to voice her thoughts, storms of slaps, raining down harder than the last, became her mother’s and even her fate every time they advocated for themselves—for their own good, he said, but what excuse did that make?

 

Amelia side-eyed the packing boxes. The snobby tickets to freedom, always ready for a grand departure. They remained as relics to a hopeful time, when mother hadn’t lost all hope and still wanted the best for her family. Some days she dreamed of her father discarding his whip and pulling them into his warm embrace. But those dreams were always out of reach yet vividly present in her mind. And just like a fleeting shadow, the thought brought a spark of warmth that quickly dissipated as fast as it came.

 

It’s been 12 years–pushing 13 as soon as she turned 19. Ma hadn’t found peace. 

 

“You good-for-nothing whore!” 

 

Plates shattered against the floor. 

 

“When I said the brulee is to be golden rich, I meant it!”

 

Ma’s response was a whisper, a soft sorry that barely disturbed the silence. It was as if the world held its breath.

 

A shot of agony gripped her like she was in the kitchen. Once again, her mother and her aching body cleaned up her father’s mess. Her presence wasn’t necessary for her to know. The song and dance performed so many times she knew the cues by heart. She wished for different stage directions, yet the performance below wore on. The show was a familiar one. One where the stage was scuffed from so many repeat productions.

 

“Are you a tortoise? Hurry and get this done. My appetite is weaning…” His voice trailed off, the sound of fumbling and heavy stomping roaming in the background as he made his way from the dining room to his quarters.

 

The beat changed to a different song. A melancholic tune swelled like a wave below and shifted tides of nostalgia. Her whole life was spent in shackles, not made from iron or silver, but of people. Others confined her to a cage, forcing her to dance for their amusement until her knees buckled from exhaustion. Once spent, she was callously tossed into another cage, and then another, in a cycle akin to a relentless pouring of rain.

 

Then the music ceased. It slowly went off the rails before descending into silence, leaving her to inspect a scratch on the record.

 

She perked up. The arm swayed slanted and off-kilter, barely touching the surface of the disc. Dang thing must’ve had a malfunctioning tonearm loose. Nothing like a good elbow could fix. She got up and whacked the back with the side of her arm. Disjointed tunes assaulted the room in a disharmonious cacophony, forcing her to shield her ears from the onslaught.

 

“What’s going on up there?”

 

Panic. A thousand needles threatened to burst from inside as the realization pierced deep. He knows. He knows. He knows. She darted her head around the room. The window stood afar, curtains billowing, beckoning her to come with them into the gentle night. In one go, she dashed across boxes then knick-knacks and hurled herself over the window still and into the garden below. Blinding winds shot past her body as her eyes braced for impact. A loud crunch followed by a rustle. She skidded out with a few bruises and scratch marks on her peachy skin. 

 

“Miss Artley,” an older female voice called. There was a pause as the servant took in the sight before her, her eyes widening in realization. The usually vibrant Miss Artley looked pale and shaken, a stark contrast to her usual self. “Good heavens! Are you hurt?” she exclaimed, concern lacing her voice.

 

The older maid Mrs. Brisky rushed to her side to help her up. 

 

“Are you fine, dear?”

 

The young woman just nodded, too winded for words. 

 

“Amelia?”

 

The voices came closer, filled with a mix of worry and reprimand. She was so busted. Her parents were here.

 

Her father’s brow furrowed. Her stomach curdled. The old man caught her red-handed and now she’s gonna face the same fate she always had. 

 

Her mother entered the scene, lips pursed while Mrs Brisky steeled herself for what’s coming. 

 

“What is the meaning of this!” questioned her father.

 

Mom stepped in. “She was just–”

 

A quick slap sent her stumbling on her feet.

 

“MADAME ARTLEY!”

 

Their retainer caught her before the fall. Mother reeled forward and tried to contain her stuttered movements as she slid her fingers over her reddened cheek. 

 

“Tell me.” His voice resonated, draining all color from the garden. Everything suddenly plunged into a cold, hollow silence. “Tell me or I’ll shove you back into her womb.”

 

“Better fate than dealing with a putrid pig like you!”Amelia retorted, her voice trembling with raw emotion, 

 

Her father bore fangs. Red overcame the usual peach of his skin. His hands tensed in balls of quivering rage. Instead of the stern yet angered man she knew stood a figure devoured by a flurry of anger, raring to unleash wrath on the poor young woman. 

 

“YOU IMPUDENT GIRL YOU MAY HAVE MY EYES BUT YOU ARE CURSED WITH HER FOOLISHNESS!”

 

Like a wolf, he bound forward. Mom dashed in and wrested him away. Yet, it was temporary. He gained the upper hand and chucked her aside. Both Ma and their prized maid collapsed onto the ground. Amelia’s heart jogged through her chest. She slipped past his flank only for her feet to leave the ground. 

 

The wind whispers past her before she crashes onto the ground and a jolt of pain stabbed from her side. She tumbled towards a rocky boundary skirting the lake’s edge. A single misstep could spell her end. The ominous thudding of his approaching footsteps filled her with dread.

 

“Girls like you need to behave.” He pulled something long from behind—a belt. “Be a good one and stay still…”

 

Her eyes widened. Times when she was a child, times when she was a baby, and times to come. Times where there was black. All flashed through her gaze the closer he came. 

 

If there was a god, she hoped to go to heaven. Maybe there she’d be free from this eternal torment Amelia regarded as life. 

 

Her pleas sliced through the air “No! Please!” Madame Artley gets a hold of her husband, trying to hold him back.

 

“Get off me, you wench!” he bellowed.

 

The sounds of struggle were oddly satisfying to her, like a symphony of resistance.

 

Amelia felt a force pushing her, causing her to lose her footing and plunge into the icy waters. The young girl’s grip on reality slipped away as the chilling water engulfed her, suffocating her like a constrictor snake squeezing its prey. She gasped for air, but only water filled her lungs.

 

Just when she thought it was the end, she felt the harsh grip of bony hands on her wrist, yanking her towards the dimming light above. The last image that imprinted on her mind was a skull, its hollow eyes seeming to peer into her very soul.

 

The bird finally left her cage. 

 

A bowl of gray oatmeal laid on top of the worn wooden dinner table. One could place square blame on the looming lights but only her meal remained gray no matter which angle it took. Madame Artley prodded and fiddled with her meal but never once spooned a handful into her mouth. Her stomach twisted, her heart wrenched, and her eyes sullen deep into her sockets. 

 

“C’mon dear, eat your brunch,” he insisted while gobbling a few sausage links into his unsightly maw.“It’s getting cold.” Some bits slipped through his beard before landing onto the tablecloth. 

 

That day her daughter plunged into the pool’s depths, she did not resist. Never did she flail as death’s hook carried her body down into its depths. It was as though her time alive was no better than the eternal limbo that awaited her. 

 

The oatmeal grew grayer than the walls, grayer than the strands on his beard, and grayer than her life. When will this stop? When will color return and finally make living worth it again? No more brilliant blues or the vibrant reds lacing the sunset sky or the rich verdant greens from outside.

 

Not only did the color fade, but so did the soft melodies of laughter and joy that used to radiate across the long winding halls of their mansion. Days gone by of her and little Amelia playing chase when she wouldn’t go to bed just yet, or times when she played a tickle monster if she didn’t pick up her toys.  She longed to have her by her side again, her little girl, softly nestled near her shoulder after a long summer morning. 

 

Her husband’s outline fragmented and fractured in her glossy, tear stained sight. Metal clattered, then her chair shot back with a harsh shriek.

 

“Put this to rest, woman!” He yelled. “She’s gone and there’s nothing we can do about it!”

 

“But what about the inheritance? What are we to do once we’re both gone?”

 

The chair pushed, causing a reverberating thud. A groan followed it, and finally, the chair legs clattered against the floor, revealing the house’s current hollow state. Madame Artley pursed her lips, rubbed her eyes, and cleared her eyes of moisture. Clear-eyed, his sharp gaze shook her core. 

 

“I don’t know,” he said curtly, “and I hope I don’t. Lord knows this house is falling apart.” 

 

She muttered. “Because of you…”

 

“Who?” Because of what?”

 

One word gagged at her throat. Her skin pricked as if icy needles pierced her, and her body froze and transformed momentarily into a statue. The world around her seemed to blur into a hazy tableau like time itself held its breath. Then, like the first thaw of spring, a warmth seeped back into her limbs. Her will returned. She was no longer a statue, but a living, breathing woman.

 

“Tell me? Unless the ghost of our girl has stolen your tongue.”

 

“I…”

 

I wished I never married you. I wished I never had to bear another day seeing you whip me, slap me, and beat me till I’m bloody and red.

 

She averted her gaze, looked at anything else, desperate for something besides her husband’s damnable eyes. She settled for his pickle-red nose painting strokes against his pallid skin.

 

“Tell me now!”

 

And risk having my already fragile skin shatter into glass? Her body couldn’t bear another. It ached just thinking of the ways her spouse would knock her head against the kitchen sink hoping to draw scarlet from the side of her lip.

 

“…”

 

“TELL ME!”

 

Her heart pounded in her chest. The room closed in on her. The walls suffocated her. His voice echoed in her ears. It was a harsh, grating sound making her skin crawl.

 

With a sudden burst of courage, she pushed herself up from her chair, her legs trembling beneath her.

 

“ENOUGH!” Madame Artley shouted. Her voice pierced through the room. “Enough of your silly charades. I’ve about had it with you and everything you have inflicted upon me for the past 20 years.”

 

“You are a devil wearing the flesh of my beloved, telling me you love me, cherish me, and never part from me until your final breath. Here you demand that I, your wife, admit to you the treason, the treachery you have caused all over my dear daughter’s death.”

 

“This house is falling apart because of you, our daughter is dead because of you, our dear servant left because of you. Everything that has gone wrong and will go wrong is because of you!”

 

“And you know what’s funny? Her last feeling was happiness? She was happy knowing she will never be burnt by your torment ever again. By God am I grateful.”

 

The room hushed to a fault. Mister Artley looked blankly at her–or perhaps the wall–like a dumbfounded goldfish in a pet store. Cold sweat slipped down her back accompanied by a sudden knot of unease. It was like someone was breathing down her neck.

 

She craned her neck slowly and gazed into the eyes of hell itself. The lights dim. Shadows stretched until they touched the ceiling. Gales flew indoors as though the door were like guests. An unruly mane of blackened hair and follicular tendrils spread into a waving mass of nightmares and revealed to the living a horrid visage from beyond a turbulent grave.

 

It opened its maw to release a thunderous wail that broke plates, severed barriers, and shook several doors off their hinges. Mr Artley tried and failed to duck. He was lifted into the air as he helplessly thrashed for the ground.

 

“Help me, someone help!”

 

Pots, pans, and other cooking utensils marched in from everywhere. Each of them formed an arrow aimed for his heart. By a bow’s snap, a volley of kitchen materials slammed into his body, jabbed his sides, wracked his face, then one singular knife, aiming for the center, plunged to  his chest and rid the man of his colors too.

 

He plopped onto the floor dead. His eyes and mouth agape in fixed terror. The machinations fashioned for murder fell to the floor and clattered against ceramic in a cacophony of noise. 

 

All was quiet.

 

 The ghostly form jerked back and forth until it assumed the essence of a delicate young flower. 

 

Her hair fell down past her hip and her arms laid down. She then floated around to face her.

 

“Mother?” Amelia, now an ethereal being, spoke in that same soft voice she remembered. 

 

She found herself speechless. How in God’s name had her dear girl returned? Even when the depths dragged her in, her positive composure never wavered. Any likelihood she’d come back were low, possibly even lower if died without regrets. 

 

She lingered by her side, asking, “Are you alright?” Amelia reached out to touch her cheek, but her hand passed through, causing her mother to shiver. “Did he hurt you?” she demanded

 

“He didn’t, I’m fine, I’m fine.” She heaved by each pause.  She tried to process what had just befall her former abuser. 

 

Her ghostly daughter reverted into an even gentler guise,  smiling. “Thank goodness.”

 

Madame Artley cried. She was happily reunited with her daughter again. The two of them embraced but it dawns on her that her daughter’s now a ghost. The familiar sensation of her body’s gentle warmth, once a comforting presence, was now absent. No touch slid down her skin, no fingers to play with her hair, no kiss to bid her a good night’s sleep. The mother sobbed into her hands. Amelia comforted her and assured her things will be alright. 

 

It was a bittersweet reunion, filled with joy, sorrow, love and loss. Now they were together again, and that was all that mattered.

 

“Dearie, tell me,” Madame Artley implored. Her voice trembled with a mix of fear and anticipation, “Why are you here?”

 

Amelia spun her face away, looking down as to not expose her true feelings. “I…I can’t tell you I’m afraid.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Just know I came here because my love of you tethers me to this place and once you pass on, I shall too.”

 

“So you came with no regrets?”

 

“Possibly, but there’s other business I must attend to…” 

 

In a blink, she phased back through the ceiling a wisp of vapor and dissipated into nothing. 

 

 

 

The present.

 

“I’M GETTING EVICTED!” Ryan’s voice echoed through the small, rundown apartment. His hands were on his head and fingers tangled in his hair as he paced back and forth. He was a software engineer. His job should have netted him enough to pay the rent, but the cost of living had skyrocketed over the years. His salary hadn’t kept pace. Inflation, the silent enemy of the average person, finally caught up with him.

 

“I don’t make the rules, kid. No pay, no stay.” the landlord grumbled with his arms crossed over his chest.

 

Ryan clasped his hands together. “Can’t I at least work it off rather than pay?”

 

The landlord pinched the bridge of his nose. He leaned against the peeling wallpaper, his gaze sweeping over the worn-out furniture and cracked windows. The place was a dump, but it was all Ryan had.

 

“Look kid, I know times are tough,” the landlord sighed, rubbing his temples, “but you gotta understand when you live on somebody’s property, you gotta learn the ropes, jump through the hoops, know the–“

 

Ryan interjected, “I know, I know, but you could at least find something like a compromise or maybe like a deal,” He bent over the worn-out table and spread his hands wide in a pleading gesture. “Ya know… something that benefits the both of us?” He tried to lighten the mood with a sheepish grin.

 

The landlord gave him a stern look that clearly said, ‘not having this.’ Ryan deflated. He sank back onto the threadbare chair.

 

Ryan had been living here since he was 20. He relished the rush of independence that came with his first apartment. It was a far cry from the comfort of his mom’s basement, but it was his.

 

“Leave by the end of the month,” the landlord’s voice was firm, leaving no room for negotiation. “If I see you back,” he pointed a warning finger at Ryan, “I’m gonna have to call the boys in blue to get yea out.”

 

Ryan’s lips parted as if he wanted to say something, but he sealed them shut and leave. He knew there was no point in arguing further.

 

“Have a good day.” The landlord had the gall to bid him good tidings.

 

After the door shut behind him, Ryan’s phone vibrated in his pocket. It was a call from a friend.

 

“Sup,” he answered. He tried to keep his voice steady.

 

A mellow, low voice responded from the other end. “Sup, fam, how it’s hanging?”

 

It belonged to Kobe.

 

Ryan and Kobe had a bond that stretched back to elementary. Kobe once kicked a bully in the shin for tossing Ryan’s juice box over a fence. He faced punishment for his actions, but Ryan had stepped in and sweet-talked the teacher into letting Kobe off the hook. 

 

Since then, their bond was unbreakable. It was as though Kobe was the closest he had to a brother despite being sons of different mothers.

 

“Not good, man. Landlord says I have about a month then I’m gone.”

 

“Shit, really dude, did you do something illegal or stupid?”

 

“Nah, something about money. Guess investing in that startup wasn’t my best move.” His face visibly cringed before shifting back to something relaxed.“So how about you, is Lana doing okay?”

 

“Yea…about that.” Even over the phone Ryan could feel something was up.

 

“Did you and her–”

 

“Go our separate ways, absolutely and now she’s all up on me demanding alimony just cuz I stood her up.” Kobe’s voice had a hint of disbelief.“Would you believe that?”

 

“You could always talk things over and come to an agreement?”

 

“She be hardheaded, Rye. How am I supposed to come up to here and say yea I fucked up?”

 

“Just try, it’s only advice I can give, dude.” Ryan said. His gaze drifted to a man busily removing flyers from a nearby utility pole. The sight of the man’s determination, despite the mundane task, brought his mind to wander. “Anyway, talk to ya later.”

 

“Aight, see ya.” Kobe’s voice rang in his ear before the line went dead. Ryan pocketed his phone. His mind raced with schemes. Mother raised no loser, she raised a winner—Not when his status as a homed man was at stake. 

 

As Ryan approached, the man leapt out at him and startled him. “Don’t look!” He barked. His voice rang out through the quiet street. Ryan blinked, then opened his mouth to question the man’s odd behavior. His words died in his throat as the flier dangled in the man’s hand.

 

It was an advertisement for a house on the outskirts of town. The listed rent was a mere hundred bucks per year. Ryan’s heart pounded in his chest as he read and reread the flier. His mind struggled to comprehend the unbelievable offer. A sense of surreal joy washed over him and his disbelief slowly gave way to a burgeoning hope. After years of uncertainty and struggle, he was finally on the verge of having a place to call home.

 

“I said don’t look!” The man’s pressing yell slashed through his joy. “No sane man has come to this home a sound man!” Shaking his fist in the air, he closed in and grabbed him by the collar. Ryan stared into those demented eyes. 

 

“Why?” he asked with a raised brow. 

 

“You don’t get it boy!” the old man cackled. His voice crescendoed eerily in the empty street. “Do not come near for the witch of the halls shall drive you mad!”

 

Jesus. This felt like the beginning of those schlocky horror movies. 

 

“Whatever man, I need somewhere to live so….” Ryan said. He reached out to grab the filer from the old man’s hand. “Could I…” The old man’s grip was surprisingly strong for someone his age, but Ryan remained determined. After a brief struggle, Ryan finally wrestled the filer away from him. “Have that filer please?”

 

He broke free and went his merry way down the street. Not for a second did he look back. If he did, he might see the man was screaming like a goat. 

 

“Thanks…” Ryan muttered under his breath, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

 

A chill raced down his spine. Perhaps that old geezer was onto something. One of the first things he learned in life was that everyone had a reason for the way they are regardless of how off the rocks they were. In a world where survival was the only game, he couldn’t afford to let a golden opportunity slip through his fingers. He had one shot at this, and he couldn’t afford to mess it up.

 

Breyer’s street. Nice people. Close to the city. Pets allowed. Reasonable rent and mortgage rates.

 

A bead of sweat trickled down Ryan’s forehead. He quickly brushed it away as it reached his brow. The car engine roared in the background, but he wasn’t ready to leave just yet. He needed to find another option. Maybe the old man had a point. The sight of the house stirred up a fear in him. It was a fear he hadn’t experienced since he read his first spooky tales novel as a kid. He cut his younger self some slack – back then, everything was terrifying enough to make him sleep with one eye open.

 

There was the Elm street house downtown, but rumor has it a man died there. Now no one wants to step foot in the neighborhood. Well, how about Maple avenue? Really friendly atmosphere and the weather is lovely this year. The astronomical rent gave him a jolt. How was he gonna pay it off by this year’s end? Last but not least, Ryan considered the Lakeside drive apartment complexes–but after that abysmal landlord meeting, he might have to call off apartments for the time being.

 

Ryan leaned back with a sigh. The call of homelessness pressed down on his neck as his stomach curled at the inevitable fate waiting for him. He had to find a home fast. 

 

The air grew colder under a wafting breeze. An old house on top the hill reared itself into his search results. His fingers stiffened. His focus wavered. There was that same house, that same old dilapidated house the man warned him off. Should he do it? The rent is to die for and not a single other option stuck out to him. But what if he was right? The man was off his meds. There was a method to that madness. All that yapping got to him. His body protested what to do next. 

 

He peered outside his window and stared at the homeless loiterers smoking their daily cigars.

 

With a tap of the thumb, he accepted. 

 

No sane man has come to this home a sound man!

 

His warnings lingered in his mind. The tall dark trees rolled past his rearview window with the moon glinting off its surface nearly into his eyes. The winding, treacherous path conspired against him. It did everything in its power to dissuade him from reaching that house, but Ryan pressed on undeterred.

 

Through each twist and bend, the car swiveled and swirled until it came to a stop on the road. Just short of the hill, an ebony fenced gate lined the driveway in a straight formation and stood tall enough to touch the peak of the sky. Ryan hopped out of the car to inspect. Normally with these sorts of things, a butler or perhaps some kind servant comes out and greets the guest of honor. No such person appeared. Puzzled, he yanked at the gate, trying to get it open, but no dice. He tried again, and again, and yet again. Nothing.

 

A laden breeze weighed on the back of his nape, nearly sweeping him off his footing and sent shivers down to his boots.

He called out. “Hello?” The wind carried away his words, and fell to the ground–silence. His back prickled. Ryan drove all this way only to be met with a dead end deader than his dating prospects. All this effort so he wouldn’t end up on the streets begging for a living. 

 

Perhaps his mother’s words were like a deep and vast ocean. His mind, feeble as it was, could never hope to fully comprehend their depth. Had he lingered in the roost longer, his current predicament might have been avoided. He wouldn’t be here, scrolling through shady sites, desperately trying to make a quick buck.

 

He emitted a heavy, weary sound. There was always the option to head back and avoid potential regret, but as soon as the thought crossed his mind, a sudden creak peeled through the silence. It startled him and made him jump. His heart pounded in his chest. Each beat followed the wave of fear that washed over him.

The gate opened.

Huh? How in God’s good name opened by itself? Ryan theorized the hinge must’ve come off on its own, but judging the integrity disproved this theory. If the hinges didn’t come off, then what kind of force could have caused it to just fly open like that? He brushed the thought aside and got back to his car. Bushes, heavily trimmed, skirted the pavement sides. They give way to a wide open courtyard. Despite its apparent age, the property was timeless enough to accommodate modern conveniences.

A water fountain sat in the middle of it all. The silent stony relic was dry, aged, and marred by cracks and stains from old fluids. Yet, it was the mansion that truly captured Ryan’s attention. Its massive magnitude was awe-inspiring. From a distance, its size was impressive. But up close? It was a whole different story. The mansion was colossal; with width rivaling a college building in terms of girth. Someone must really have time to kill it seems. 

 

Before he stepped onto the stairs, an eerie presence brushed against his skin like a pair of eyes studying his every move. He whipped around. No one’s there—just the rustling bushes and the wind whispering to the leaves. 

 

Ryan gathered his bearings and stepped into the home with his belongings trailing behind him. The place exuded a vintage aura, reminiscent of a bygone era that had faded into obscurity since the early 20th century. A grand staircase served as the centerpiece of the foyer. It led to a balcony with a tail that stretched across its length. Ryan admired the chandelier hanging above and the various doors leading to god knows where. He was a tiny poor man roaming in the realm of the rich and renowned. 

 

Pretty simple enough.

 

He only brought enough luggage to fill a small room. It was the only thing he could bring after his landlord unceremoniously kicked him out. No warnings or a heads up. Pack it up or leave, he said. Ryan took the entire apartment with him as he frantically gathered everything in a hopeless bid to not go empty headed. His hands still throbbed from all the pushed and shoving crap onto the car seats. 

 

Oh well, he made it this far. Time to walk upstairs and see where to sleep.

 

He ascended the creaky staircase. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a shadow. Before he could refocus for a better look, it vanished. He paused for a moment. He wondered if the stress of unpacking every night was playing tricks on his mind. Shaking off the eerie feeling, he continued his exploration.

 

He ventured into several rooms, each with their own unique character, yet none of them were suitable for a bedroom. That was until he stumbled upon one room shrouded in a whimsical film of old cobwebs. It was as if time had stood still in this room and preserved its charm and mystery. With a sense of anticipation, he swabbed away the cobwebs and revealed a rickety old thing that stood on legs so fragile they were on the verge of collapsing at the slightest disturbance.

 

“Well, if this is a bed,” he mused, “then this must have been the bedroom.” Despite its dilapidated state, there was something about the room that appealed to him. Perhaps it was the sense of history, or maybe it was the challenge of restoring it to its former glory. Either way, he knew he had found his project for the coming days.

 

Minutes turned into hours. Ryan’s legs tethered towards buckling as the weight of insomnia washed over him. The bed, now free of spider gunk, wasn’t as pristine as he hoped but it was better than nothing. He called it a day–collapsing onto the sheets with a limp.

 

No windows signaled the call of dawn but Ryan’s brain forced him to rise from the bedsheets to embrace another day of studying his new place. Odd, the vase wasn’t there a minute ago. He may have been preoccupied making sure things were in order but he could’ve sworn there wasn’t one until now that is. he inspected its surface while his fingers traced its contours. His thumb sunk into something hollow a bit shallow, noting it’s the intracity.

 

 This sudden discovery delivered a pang of shock.

 

You’re not welcome here.

 

The etchings were arranged with a clear intent, as if deliberate in its message. Yet, there was a certain chaotic jaggedness reminiscent of the frantic scribbles one might see in a madman’s jail cell. He should know, he watched movies about it. 

 

 But how was he uninvited? The gate opened on its own, the wind—through relentless—carried him to his destination, and not to mention the convenient parking spaces for a house that old. Either this was a prank or he had lost it. 

 

He laughed it off at first. Ryan shoved it aside in favor of getting his butt from the bed and into the open air. The rackety old closet put up a stubborn rue. Ryan gritted his teeth. The house is old, like older than his grandma, but could it for once cooperate? Ryan punched the darn thing. It shook then the door flew open, sending a deluge of clothes, some old, some new, to smother his sight before pinning him to the floor. He wouldn’t be able to find his shirt and boxers by the time the sun sets. 

 

He fought through the horde with a groan and a mutter, fished out his boxers, and swam to freedom. A shirt flew down from his head and left what to wear taken care of. Now all that’s to do involved getting himself out of this mess. 

 

Ryan tried finding the bathroom, and when he did, it felt as though the hallway stretched on forever and ever, no end in sight. He was met with the stench of corpses and brimstone and found an antique restroom that hadn’t been clean in ages. Dirt and grim languished in abject luxury while the cleanest spots were like diamonds in the rough. He seriously didn’t want to step foot in it. His conscience however demanded he get his own funk off  him after working his rear off last night. 

 

He pads near the mirror. The grime did little to shine light on his appearance. Not like it mattered. He wasn’t much for looking perfect but he at least tried to do the bare minimum health-wise. Then there was the tub. If it weren’t covered in filth, he may have been a neat sight to behold with those encrusted gold trimming and porcelain. He shuddered to think what came out of those gutters though. 

 

He doffed his morning wear and grabbed the cleanest towel off the rack and began his journey into the tarnished basin of old. The experience didn’t feel too bad. Textures were fairly rough, effacing his soles, and left it smooth yet grimy. Cool air tickled his skin along with the strange smell of death that accompanied it. A wave of revulsion washed over him, his stomach churned as the scent of decay clung to his nostrils. His skin crawled. Every pore recoiled from the grime seeped into his very being.

 

His fingers shook near the dial. His mind was going nuts. Ryan anticipated the ensuing disgust that would rain down and violate his body. Suddenly, water burst forth even though he hadn’t even touched the dirty thing. The out-pour nearly drowned him in a deluge that smelled suspiciously like sewage. He wrestled with the dial while slipping on the wet, scummy surface. The water stopped. Ryan was thoroughly drenched and shaken.

 

He stood still. Water dripped from his hair in time with his heart pounding in his chest. “What the heck just happened?” he wondered. His mind racing to make sense of the bizarre incident. Out of the corner of his eye a shadowy figure vanished the moment he turned to look.

 

He shook his head and sent water droplets flying off his hair. “I must be tripping,” he muttered to himself. The unease gripped at his soul. This house was truly haunted by something—no—someone? He only caught a glimpse, but that figure seemed fairly female unless long hair was in vogue when it died. Either way staying here was nipping at his sanity. Not only did it embolden his stupidity, but nearly cost him his life. The price should’ve been a red flag. No one sets their house up for this cheap. It has proven its price point: from the disarray to its age. He figured the person selling it was trying to kill people–explains the whole smell of death thing. 

 

After calming down, he slipped out of the tub, covered himself quickly, and peered from the door. The end was dark, haunting, and ominous. Ryan’s heart was racing from the incident. He pulled at his chest to drive out the stress but he was heaving in shock. For now, he had to take things slow. Another stressor would bring him to his deathbed if he wasn’t careful. 

 

“Deep breaths” he told himself like he was in a self help session. “Deep breaths. Ghost aren’t real. Monsters aren’t real. All this supernatural woo-woo is not real. Keep pressing forward.” He tried to, he really tried to, but his brain, despite being the most logical organ, was running down the hall of terrible scenarios and ruminating on what relenting horrors will greet them both. 

 

The spooked man reached the kitchen located just near the stairway. He twisted the knob. The door opened with a screech. It was a modern-ish kitchen—as modern as antique could get, mind. The sleek stainless steel appliances contrasted with the rustic wooden cabinets, and the LED lights embedded in the ceiling provided a bright, energy-efficient illumination. The antique tiles were replaced with easy-to-clean, durable ceramic ones, and the old wooden table now boasted a shiny glass top. His eyes scanned for any strange anomalies as he delved deeper into the room. Reason won out, and his heartbeat slowed down. Ryan let out a sigh of relief.

 

“Thank God.” Well, that wasn’t too bad. Ryan could finally rest. Hopefully everything stayed normal. Just focus on getting something to eat and everything will be just fine. That’s a promise.

 

His stomach grumbled. All that shock had left him famished. Ryan checked the fridge and was surprised by all the well-stocked food in store. All seemed to be new too with one week from expiration. He squinted his eyes for a bit. If this house was as old as they say, how was the food always fresh? His best guess was the previous folks tried to set up shop only to be driven out. By what? It could be that ghost haunting this place. He looked around. If a ghost was the main reason, there would’ve been rumors or signs going out warning others to not step foot here. Ryan brushed that aside. He was starving.

 

Pulling out the prerequisites for a sandwich, he set out to make a quick bite before he reached for the knife. His fingers only felt air. He checked by his feet first. Confused, Ryan surveyed the countertop. Not there. He checked the pantries. Not there either. The other cabinets? Zilch. A sudden chill seeped into Ryan’s skin. A sensation as cold as winter’s breath froze him to the ground. The touch of cold deepened with each stab down his back. Each one a distinct prick; a frozen pinpoint sent shivers cascading down his spine. 

 

His whole body twisted, quickly but measured. 

 

Death gazed straight into his soul. Ryan yelped. A cabinet knob poked at his back as he tumbled backwards. His heart roared into overdrive. An ethereal being shrouded in white hovered near him silently. Several knives hovered behind like wings of metal glinting under the kitchen lights—aglow with murderous intent.  They danced behind, edges sharp and yearning, and filled the air with thick palpable tension. It was so thick that Ryan struggled to take air in, his lungs growing heavy by every heartbeat. Pictures of childhood, pictures of high school, his future– all reflected in each dagger.

 

This was it.

 

Ghost are real. They exist. He can see them. It’s coming for him. The days of living in bliss, never knowing ghosts, monsters and ghouls roamed these halls of existence waned while he saw the facets of his life flashing in their reflections. 

 

He closed his eyes tight, tighter than his hold on life. 

 

Please don’t let me die!

 

“Boo.”

Opening his eyes, the face of a semi-transparent woman, no older than twenty gawked at him. She didn’t blink. Her round doe eyes inquisitively examined his core with her manipulating the hovering knife, tilting his chin upward for a better look. 

 

“Are you scared?” She asked, eerily soft and morose. 

 

Ryan stared back at her. What the heck? Why isn’t he dead? Was she planning to? The ghostly girl appeared to lack any motivation to do murder, yet his body guarded itself in instinctual self-preservation. She noted this, let one of her knives clatter to the floor, then the rest followed. 

 

“Figures,” she puffed her cheeks in disappointment, forlornly gazing to the side. “All those warning bells and still no dice.”

 

“What?”

 

“I was trying to get you to leave, numhead!” Her spectral form flickered with irritation. “Was the bath thing not enough?”

 

The winds warding him off, the gate that swung open as if guided by an unseen hand, the fleeting shadows that danced at the edge of his vision – all these strange occurrences, he realized, were her doing. Yet, despite it all, none of these antics had truly terrified him, to send him fleeing into the night. Well, except for that bathroom incident, but that was more because of the revolting grime than any ghostly intervention.

 

“So let me get this straight,” Ryan said. His voice was steady despite the surreal situation. “You’re the lady behind all this?” He paused. His gaze never left the spectral figure. “And here I thought haunted houses were just a cliché.”

 

The ghost rolled her eyes. “Uh, duh, of course it was me. What else is there?”

 

“First off, all of this, is uh, bit much yea?” 

 

“Oh the knife thing, I wasn’t gonna kill yea, relax,” she snickered before floating in near his ear. “It’s a prank…”

 

“A prank? All of this was a prank.” His mind, body, and soul were in literal disbelief. He nearly could’ve died, but this was a prank to her? Empathy must have died with her because if she were living she would have at least gotten the gravity of it all.

 

She hovers back. Floating lazily in mid-air with her hands behind her back and her legs kicking the air like she were treading water. None of this mattered to her, did it? Well, when one’s dead for so long, he wagered she had nothing to lose after that point. With your life now gone, any risk that came wades through her.

 

Ryan let out a groan before helping himself up. “Look…uh–”

“Amelia”

 

“Come again?”

 

“Amelia, my name is Amelia. And I died several decades ago.” 

 

“So that would make you…”

 

“Older than you!” She spat out her tongue and pulled down a fold of her lower eyelid. “Older than you!” She repeated with a mischievous lilt.

 

“God, could you act your age?”

 

“Time means nothing for a ghost…unlike you.” That last part dripped with a sort of solemnity, as though she experienced a profound sense of loss. Perhaps an awareness of time claiming everything she loved. “Now leave!”

 

She drifted backward and splashed onto a wall. She disappeared into its depths. 

 

Well, that happened. 

 

749 Views