The Dinner

While sorting text documents on my backup drive today, I found this short story, which I wrote sometime in 2005. I read through and proofread it, and am considering doing some revisions, specifically to the ending.

Here’s the story as it stands now.

——————

Alice glanced around the table, as the other guests did likewise. The dining room was lit by a circle of feeble candles, resting in their places in a ring of well-polished copper. The ring was suspended from the dark ceiling by a tightly wound cord of black cables. The gentle candle flames danced in a breeze unfelt by those gathered at the table, sending frail and unbalanced shadows jumping around the chipped cement block walls. The walls were clothed by soft carpets, all a deep shade of violet. The floor was a smooth texture of rather depressing blue tones. The only door into the room, a simple slab of dark oak with a dull silver doorknob, stood slightly ajar, letting the darkness from the accompanying corridor seep into the dining room. There were no windows in this room.

Alice looked at the table’s surface, finding nothing of interest happening. The table was a wide circle, with a person seated every five feet or so. There was a plate, along with several pieces of silverware and an empty wine glass, at each seat. There were three guests, not including her, at this dinner. They had been invited individually, no one knowing another attendees. But the host had yet to arrive. In her mind, Alice felt a surge of joy, on thinking of the dinner. She had escaped from her life. Seventeen years old, an honors student at her high school. There was so much pressure from her parents, teachers, friends, and others, for her to maintain grades, to graduate with honors, and go to the best possible university. Her life had already been planned out, with no say from her. Alice could not handle all the pressure. When the letter came, in a simple white envelope, devoid of any words except her name and address on the back, the sense of possibility was a light breaking through the darkness of her mind. The letter was plainly written, telling her she had been invited to a dinner to recognize her achievements in high school thus far, that she would be the guest of honor. Directions to the house were included. But the letter ended in a strange manner: “Tell no one of this event. This is your escape. You will find what you have been wanting for.”

Alice had followed the instructions quite eagerly. She had never been able to do anything of her own free will. Her days had always been planned out. As it was, she had skipped out on a meeting of her high school’s student governing council to attend this dinner. No one knew where she was. Alice had left school at the end of the day, and walked home. She arrived before her parents had returned from their boring office jobs. They never arrived home until six or later, anyway. Alice departed without writing a note.

Sure, the obvious worries had run through her mind. That this dinner might be a trap. That she probably shouldn’t attend. But she had followed rules for so very long. She needed a break. Besides, no one had ever really done anything to show they cared about her. As an only child, her parents were pushing her to succeed, never really showing her any love. She wanted out.

To the dinner, Alice had decided to wear a dress she was not suppose to even touch until the night of her prom. The dress was a scarlet theme, with narrow straps along her shoulders. Alice had worked with the neckline, so that now it fell rather far, exposing quite a bit of cleavage. The lower hem of the dress reach midway down her thighs. Alice felt like being as provocative as she could this evening.

Alice looked around the table again, at the guests. Who were these people? To her right was seated a young man, seemingly in his early twenties, with smooth black hair falling even to his chin. He wore thin wireframe glasses, the light of the candles reflecting in a broken pattern. He stared around the room, a calm and implacable look plastered upon his face. He wore a black jacket, which seemed to absorb the room’s light and return none. His hands were folded atop the table.

To her left was a young woman, about two years on from Alice. She was rather thin, her face displaying a steady calm. Curly red hair fell past her shoulders, as her blue eyes took in the features of the room and the people around her. She wore a blue silk dress, the neckline coming up to her chin, sleeves covering her arms. As she lifted an arm, however, the sleeves slipped a bit, granting Alice a glance at her arms. They were scarred, lacerated in thin, jagged lines of broken red. She dropped her arms on the table, and the arms were covered again by the sleeves. Alice looked away.

The last guest was a man dressed in a simple, dark blue dinner suit. Alice kept glancing at his clean-shaven face, at his green eyes, his auburn hair. Something about it caught her attention, then she noticed it. She was unable to determine an age for the man. Whenever one age seemed reasonable, it suddenly didn’t, and she had to reconsider. The man stared at the table, silent and lost in thought.

No one spoke. Everyone made all effort to not look at anyone else. There was a strong feeling of animosity in the air.

The meal was served. It was a simple feast, nothing too fancy, but nothing too plain. The host, who lingered in the shadows, said a few words, vague, yet capturing the hearts of those in attendance. Then the meal began.

Happiness thrilled through Alice’s mind. She was free from her bonds, her requirements, her responsibility, if but for a while. She lifted a knife, and cut into her food.

Something nudged at her mind, and she glanced around. Whatever it was, the others had noticed it, too. Their minds had been touched. By what?

Alice continued, the knife cutting deeper.

The meal was interrupted by four shrill screams, each devoid of all traces of hope, of care. The voices fell upon the ceiling, and rained in shattered fragments down the carpeted walls.

The four guests had eached perished, their eyes blind to the truth of their actions. They were not cutting their food. They had each used the knives to cut themselves to death. But in their pursuit, they had all found what they had been looking for: a lasting silence and peace, a true escape.

Tumbling Time: The Premise

You unexpectedly time-travel to 1985. You have no way back, ever. What do you do? (self.AskReddit)
submitted 1 day ago by liferebootdotcom

The key word here is “unexpectedly.” You did not prepare for this, so you have no winning lottery numbers or sports almanac. Using only your memory, knowledge and skills, how do you benefit from this?
EDIT: The majority of you want to simply “Buy Apple/Microsoft/Google Stock,” “Invent Reddit/Facebook,” or “Bet on The Super Bowl/Presidential Elections/World Events.”
There are a fair amount of you who want to do cocaine, or my mom.
There are a scary few of you who want to do your own mom, since you believe your father is really future you.
And there was one reply I saw from someone who wants to go back and have sex with their 20 year old self. Not sure if M/F. I support your unique enthusiasm either way.
And to clarify the rules a bit:
1) Unexpected time-travel means that your current self is now alive in 1985. It does NOT mean that your current consciousness is moved to your 3 year old self, or is now piloting a sperm inside of your dad’s nutsack.
2) Your current clothes and any belongings on your person come with you.
3) “No way back, ever” simply implies that you cannot time-travel again. Yes, it is possible to get back to 2011 by transcending time at its normal pace, you jerks.
4) It is possible to change things as a result of your actions, HOWEVER you’re in an alternate timeline/universe, so nothing you change affects the fact that in 2011 you are unexpectedly sent back to 1985.
5) After being sent back to 1985, if you reach 2011 a second time after 26 years, you do not get sent back to 1985 again (No infinite loop). And you all are crazy, man.
EDIT2: 6000 comments, and I’ve read all of the “top level” ones that appeared in my inbox. I tried to reply to many of you but it was hard to keep up with new groups of comments appearing each minute. Thanks for sharing. Hornswaggle is a champ.

source

Tumbling Time (Part 1)

I’m walking around my Uni’s campus, on a Saturday afternoon, alongside my friend Mer. I’m visiting for the weekend, I’ve not been a student since I graduated back in early May. It’s late September, in 2011.

Meredith and I are discussing our visit to the Mountain Heritage Center that morning. I look off into the distance, see the Alumni Tower peeking above the hill that Centennial Drive curves around. Some groups of students are walking along the sidewalk, larger groups, smaller groups, some students walking along alone.

We reach the intersection, in front of an ATM, looking across to Forsythe, and wait as a few cars drive past, for our chance to cross the road. The short bout of traffic lets up, and we begin across.

I blink, as my vision is now more in line with the sun, harsh upon my eyes. I continue walking, my eyes momentarily closed. I feel a hand on my left shoulder, and my skin tingle, as if all my limbs momentarliy fell asleep. The sensation quickly ceases, though, and I open my eyes as I reach the other side of the road.

As when I was crossing the road, I’m still looking at Forsyth, yet it looked considerably different. The front landing on the building no longer existed, the doors were different, the interior was darker, though it was still afternoon, the sun shining bright above. It was then I glanced around, and noticed the road behind me was lower, that I was lower, compared with the building in front of me. Centennial Drive stretched out in a straight line behind me, from the three-way intersection off to my right, on towards Scott Hall to my left. It was as I was looking towards Scott that I noticed another major difference: the Alumni Tower was nowhere to be seen. It was supposed to be in the center of the UC lawn, but that area showed no sign of the tower, just a bunch of trees. For that matter, the entire University Center was gone. That entire section of campus looked rather forgotten, just an expanse of trees that hadn’t been developed on yet.

I paused to listen, and looked around some more. Meredith had disappeared, I saw no sign of her. Where had she gone? Where had I gone, for that matter?

Some students were walking around, in groups, some alone, much as I had seen moments ago, but their walk was different. I couldn’t exactly describe it, just that they seemed to walk differently than I was used to seeing people walk. Perhaps with more assurance, perhaps less distracted, I wasn’t sure.

I hurried along the side of the road (which was simply that, not a sign of a sidewalk), along the grass, to rest at one of the trees in the area I knew as the UC lawn, yet was no, for no discernible reason, completely changed.

The obvious questions were racing through my mind: what had just happened, where was I, when was I, and so on. I searched my pockets, to see what I had with me. I hadn’t a cell phone, as I had let the service on that expire a couple months back. All I had in my pockets were my wallet and a five-year old blue iPod Nano. Oh, and my PokeWalker that came with my copy of Pokemon HeartGold Version, which currently had one of my Mews on it. That’s all I had in my inventory, as it were.

I glanced over at the parking lot near Forsyth, and noticed Coulter nearby. Both buildings looked relatively
new. Speaking of relatively new, the parking lot presented an interesting mix of old and new, wherein all the new-looking cars looked decades out of date. I saw the sharp angles of the cars, the thickness of the trucks, and saw none of the curved surfaces of cars that I was used to seeing. That’s the first visual clue that really gave away, or at least hinted, when I was. The majority of those cars looked like they belonged in the 1980s, and all of those cars shone like new or relatively new. For my mind, that settled it: I was somehow back in the ’80s, the decade in which I was born. The only question remaining was exactly when I was. Was I before my birth or after? I needed a newspaper.

I stood, and walked in the direction of the library. I used the path that was stored in my mind, although the areas around me looked noticeably different. The Killian Annex, for instance, didn’t exist. McKee, however, did exist, as did Hoey Auditorium. I climbed the stone staircase between the buildings, and followed the roughly hewn parking lot around, past Stilwell, with its main entrance below the main sidewalk, down a flight of stairs.

I arrived at Hunter Library where I saw something I had read about at some point but never stopped to consider: the main entrance was now at the end of the building facing Old Cullowhee Road, a wall that was, in my time, closed off with a large window. Looking along the building, I didn’t even see the brick walkway that I was so used to walking along in my time. Regardless, I entered the library.

In the lobby, I saw what I had walked this way for, a wireframe stand, holding a stack of thin newspapers. I picked up a copy from the top, nodding as I noticed the paper’s name, “The Western Carolinian”, in its stylized font acros the top. I looked for the date.

Tuesday, 24 September, 1985.

I just stood there, contemplating that. Late September, 1985. I wasn’t even born yet. Out of curiosity, I pulled my wallet from a pocket, after placing the newspaper under an arm, and looked through it. All of the paper bills inside had series dates of 2001 or later, so I couldn’t really spend those. I had some coins in that part of the wallet, but all of those were minted after 1985, so I couldn’t spend those either. My ID card and debit card were both obviously ahead of this time.

I put my wallet away, and look through the newspaper. The front page has an article about the recently signed Plaza Accord between France, West Germany, Japan, and the United States. An article below the fold discusses plans to construct a new building on a currently unused section of campus.

I carried the newspaper with me as I exited the library. Now that I knew the date, I focused my mind on other matters: what would I do now? I’m suddenly back in 1985, and I’m not going to count on whatever it was that sent me back here to return me to my own time. My mind was also trying to puzzle out exactly how I was sent back in time, and, in wondering, settled upon the Weeping Angels from Doctor Who.

On that note, I searched my memory for what was going on with Doctor Who at that time. Late 1985…Colin Baker’s first season as the Doctor would’ve ended earlier in the year, with his second season, the Trial of a Time Lord arc, set to air a year from now. I thought back to recent episodes of Matt Smith’s second series, and realized they were 25 years away.

What would I do now, though? I knew where my family was living at this point in time, in a house off Windy Gap Road in Franklin. I barely remembered that house, as we had moved from there when I was only four. Besides, I had no car to drive, let alone a driver’s license.

I suddenly had an urge to post what was going on on Twitter, to let my friends online know what was going on and if they had any suggestions. I was actually about to run back into the library before I stopped, remembering my situation. If there were any computers in that library, none of them were public use. There was no Internet at this time, not as I knew it, at least. I was still about five years away from the first webpage going online. There was no Twitter, not for a long time yet. I then thought about other bits of technological advancement that wouldn’t have happened yet: I was barely a month away from the release of the Nintendo Entertainment System in the United States, and even then, I was about half a year away from the release of The Legend of Zelda for the NES. For that moment, I was playing through in my mind a video game that was yet to be released on a console that was about to be released.

I let my mind wander around those thoughts, of technology, of global events, of all sorts of things that hadn’t happened yet, and instead focused on what I needed to do currently: I needed to find some food, soon. I needed to find a place to sleep before evening fell. If only this were Minecraft, I found myself thinking. Given the geography of this region, I was unlikely to make it that far from campus on foot. Walking anywhere off campus would take forever. Perhaps I should try to find a lobby of a dorm that I could hide in.

I walked alongside Old Cullowhee Road, to the three-way intersection, noticed the line of shops that I was used to seeing, though they looked much newer, and noticed that the bank building did not exist. I crossed the road, and saw that the church next to Albright did not yet exist. Albright/Benton themselves did exist, though the buildings, of course, looked a lot newer and cleaner than I remembered them. Large box fans sat inside some windows, some switched on, some switched off. There was no parking lot in that area at this time; instead, it was a grassy field, bordered by trees, a stone path cutting through from the dorm to the shops. Students sat, gathered in groups, talking amongst themselves. I walked on past.

So many ideas…

so many ideas for my story floating around aimlessly in my mind.
i see them all, the characters i’ve written, i see characters I’ve not written
I see the plot, the conflicts, on both the small, interpersonal scale,
and on a grander scale, ancient feuds between nations threatening war
lies, betrayals, secrets surrendered to old allies suddenly become enemies
the complex web of it all is there, in my mind, waiting to be written down
yet the act of writing them down seems to be some sort of horrid act
a severe act of violence, killing them, slicing them open for all to examine
there on the cold table, no motion, only entropy, when the creative energy ceases
i see my characters, that I’ve known in my mind for years,
I feel their pain, I feel their sorrow, their frustration, dealing with what I’ve put them through
and what I’ve yet to put them through, things that must come to pass
yet writing them down, all of this, seems to limit the progress
My mind racing, shouting, fervent, excited, anxious, about all of this
I must write it all down lest I forget,
these worlds that exist only in my mind.
Maybe then someone will see through my words to my own sorrows.

Possible Hint at Next Short Story

I’m still at the initial step of brainstorming ideas for my next short story, but I think I’ve arrived at a good basis for a story. This story will be more rooted in reality than “Forgotten Houses” was.

I know, I usually don’t choose a title for a story until I’m either done with it or far enough into it that I can think of a fitting title. The following might end up being the title (and banner) of this new short story, but no promises. This late at night, it sounds like a good title, but I could just as easily go with something else.

We’ll see what I end up with.

Forgotten House – Listings

Just to keep things straight in my mind, here’s a list of links to the text and audio entries for this short story.

Part One [Audio Recording]
Part Two [Audio Recording]
Part Three [Audio Recording]
Part Four [Audio Recording]
Part Five [Audio Recording]
Part Six [Audio Recording]
Part Seven [Audio Recording]
Part Eight [Audio Recording]
Part Nine [Audio Recording]

There, done with this story (save for some revision and proofreading, should I ever get around to it).

Forgotten House (Part Nine)

Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight

Audio Recording

I had my destination in mind, and I was not going to let anything distract me. I pushed the backdoor open, and hurried along, through the kitchen, through the living room, and through the hall to the basement door, which had closed since I had left. Without pausing, I opened the door and descended to the basement.

I jumped a bit at seeing the corpse on the chair, but did my best to ignore it. I was going through that door, to the floors beneath the basement, to find the answers I knew awaited me there.

My attention did waver for a moment upon seeing the piles of tapes still scattered around in front of the television set. I was curious to see what else was recorded, but I convinced myself that that data was not important at this moment. Sure, they would help complete the puzzle, but they were not crucial to understanding everything.

I reached for the doorknob, and felt a rush of cold air, moving towards the stairs I had just descended. I glanced in that direction and stared for a while. Shaking my head, I turned the knob, and pulled the door open. Switching my flashlight on, I began down those stone stairs. Memories of my previous journey returned, and I thought back, trying to remember how many doors I had passed, and ignored, on that bit of exploration.

Arriving at the bottom of that first flight of stairs, my mind already began imagining all manner of scenario for what I would find, or what would find me. I saw myself being torn apart by formless creatures that could never exist in any degree of sunlight, and I did my best to shake those thoughts away, yet they persisted. Things awaited me, I couldn’t help but think that.

Yet, that was followed by the rational part of my mind demanding to know just what I was doing not only back in this house, but exploring the subbasement floors that I should know better than to ever explore. I had survived that first foray, but again? I knew it was madness, but I had to do it.

Of course, I kept expecting a hand to clamp down on one of my shoulders, or something to break the silenc. I kept walking, shining the flashlight against the walls to either side me, looking for a door. At length, I noticed one, a solitary steel door to my left, closed.

Curiosity got the better of me, as I opened that door. Light flooded a small room, the size of an average closet. It was empty, with no unusual markings on the cinderblock wall. I closed the door.

Hurrying along, I made it to the door at the end of the hallway, the one that I knew opened onto another stairway, leading deeper underground. I stepped carefully down that staircase, following a straight line.

Eventually, I had been descending that particular staircase for about five minutes, when I heard something, a sound not caused by me. It was a voice, cold, soft, distant. I couldn’t determine a gender, and not a lot was said, just a single word, a question. “Who?” I stood there, not moving, listening for something more. There was nothing more.

Landing at the bottom of the stairs, I walked quickly, shivering against the cold air. My guard was up even more at this point. Given that voice, I knew I wasn’t alone, but that only caused my mind to work into even more hectic of a frenzy, as it imagined even more grotesque and terrifying things that could be waiting for me somewhere in this underground abyss.

Light ahead of me flickered, and I shook my flashlight by instinct. Don’t you dare die on me, I thought, realizing just how obvious a thing that be to have happen. Luckily, it didn’t show any further signs of going out.

I eventually found another door, set into the cinderblock wall to my right. I quickly opened this one, and found a vast room, filled with wooden school desks. Some quick investigation of that room showed that the desks were all empty, their surfaces blank. There was nothing of interest in that room. I left, closing the door behind me.

All around me, the air turned to a thin mist, seeping upward to the ceiling, and the stairs well behind me. Whispered voices echoed about the cinderblock walls, not saying anything intelligible, just jumbled sounds. For a few moments, I attempted to count the voices, but I couldn’t manage that. Realizing I was standing still, I ran down the remainder of the hallway.

There was one more door along the wall to my left, before I would reach the end of that hallway, a solitary steel door, closed like the rest. The mist pursued me, winding around the walls. I had a brief moment to decide, and I chose to open the door, dodge inside, and close it.

I thought I had just seen a name, somewhere, but I couldn’t see it now.

Shining my flashlight around, I noticed the room I was about ten-foot by twelve-foot. There were no furnishings, the floor was empty. Yet it was the walls that caught and held my attention, as I wove the flashlight around slowly. There were words, some written tall, others small, yet all in a dark red, nearly brown color, the hue of dried blood. There must have been hundreds of messages on all four walls, messages partially covering others, intersecting, blocking out parts of other messages. I tried following various phrases, to decipher some meaning.

“Always here.” “Can’t you hear ______?” “Where am I?” “Mommy, where ____ you?” “I’m hurt, I’m ____ing, can anyone help me?” “STOP YELLING!” “Don’t look at _____!” “Always here!”

The messages were written in numerous styles, obviously many different people responsible for writing them. By chance, the beam of my flashlight crossed the ceiling, and I noticed more messages had even been scrawled upon that surface, somehow. I then checked the floor, and noticed countless more messages intermingled there.

It was also then that I realized I had closed the door to block out that mist from the hallway. I then faced a mix of relief and worry over that; relief because it hadn’t yet slipped into this room, and worry over those messages.

I pulled open the door and returned to the hallway. The mist had not subsided, but it had ceased growing. At this point, it just rolled lazily around the walls, the floor, and the ceiling far above. Whatever intent had driven it before no longer seemed concerned with my presence. I proceed to the end of the stairs.

What silence there had been was immediately shattered by a clamorous, angry shout, one that continued, yelling things that almost sounded like words, things that you would hear, or maybe say, deep in the darkness of night, mind mostly asleep, images trying to become words, trying to break through to some form of coherence, yet as soon as day shines, those sounds lose all semblance of sense. That voice persisted, drowning me in their low, maddening tones. I ran for the stairs.

I could hear the voice as I descended those narrow stairs, could hear it shouting and echoing around. Its sounds began to form words.

“Tear flesh from those flimsy bones, drain the blood from those foolish forms. Those people don’t deserve to live, ever, never,” the voice screamed on and on, a chant stuck in a tone of shattered insanity. I yearned to shut it up, run away from it, down the stone stairs, further downwards. “Watch them die, burn them alive, why did they ever do that, they shouldn’t, should never have. They don’t know who they were dealing with. ME! ME! MEEEE! Burn this world, watch everything burn to ash, then burn the ashes. Tear everything down, burn it all, melt and burn this very planet.”

I collapsed in front of an open door, and managed to shine my torch to the chamber within. The light fell upon a scattered pile of books and loose leaf pages. I could see notes scribbled over the pages, and I pulled myself across the floor to the material.

I picked up a page, and read it.

“He’s going mad,” read the rather neat script. “I’m afraid he’ll hurt me. I never meant to hurt him. I left him, we weren’t getting along. I just wanted my freedom. I knew I was hurting him by leaving him, I’ve been through that myself, but this…this is only the beginnings of his madness.”

Further down the page, the script had altered. Same hand, just full of panic.

“What’s going on? Why is my place torn apart? What are all of these papers scattered around? They all say the same thing, in different sizes. They just say: ‘Found you.’”

At the bottom of the page, the writing returned to a calm, collected, and neat state, yet the words worried me even more.

“He is wonderful. His actions worry others, but I understand him. I want to make him my religion, I believe in him so much. He is kind to me, he would never hurt me. He hurts others, but there’s logic and truth to it. Praise him.”

I heard a faint, soft cough from behind me. I turned, shining my torch to the door I had just come from. There it stood, that creature I had seen near my bed the night of my sleep paralysis. Some cruel blend of [____________] (delete that description. I still don’t know if what I remember was correct or just my wild imaginings, or if they’ll ever match up to the horror that stood there, staring, not moving, so still, lifeless yet full of foul life at the same time).

The light from my torch was the only light in those catacombs. It stood there, staring, and I felt my terror slowly replaced by reverence. It was not a horror, it was pure and holy. This was not some fell aberrance, as I had at first thought, but my beautiful guardian angel. I had to walk with it, I’d follow it anywhere.

The police had blocked the house off, marking it for investigation. A corpse had been found in front that morning, a rectangular cavity neatly carved from its chest, all ribs removed. A knife was clutched in its right hand, the blood later found to be a match to the victim. The only prints found anywhere on the knife belonged to the victim. His face was forever locked in a masochistic grin.

It was a young man, but few people around town could identify him. He had been found to live by himself at a house just up the hill. He had no family. Research along those lines had found a history of violence. One of two children (he had a sister), he had always been the target of his parents’ anger and fear, though they had separated when he was only five. His father had beaten his mother, until she was brave enough to run away, taking her children with her.

There was nothing much to see in the house, besides the usual litter that collects in places where young delinquets prefer to pass nights away. Someone had been living in the basement, it seemed, if a couch, a chair, and a television set were anything to judge by. Other than the furniture, and an old, beat-up water pump, there was nothing that interesting in the basement. There was a wooden door on the wall near the water pump, but it only led into a closet, which was surprisingly empty.

The body was only identified by a coworker at his place of employment, a local computer repair shop.

Forgotten House (Part Eight)

Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven

Audio Recording

I made it to the top of the stairs, and slammed the door shut behind me as I fell against the opposite wall. I heard something heavy fall over from the basement, and I jumped to my feet, forcing back a cough.

It was late on that Saturday afternoon, by this point, for which I was thankful, as I could still see well around the house. Even so, I stumbled over various piles of litter as I made my way to the backdoor. At this point, the only sounds I heard came from my own hurried and panicked movements. I couldn’t shake what I’d seen on that tape, and I couldn’t ignore how recent the footage was. What had happened down there? Who was that person? What was…anything, with that?

The path I had made through the kitchen was still in tact. I began along it, but paused when I heard what must have been a rather small object fall to the floor in the living room.

I turned, slowly, bracing myself for whatever I would see. I saw nothing out of the usual, nothing to explain that noise I’d heard. I wanted out of that house, so I backed through the kitchen, turning to face the backdoor. My eyes went to that small, diamond window embedded higher up on the surface of the door.

A face faded into view, a face distorted and inhuman, yet somehow bearing a resemblance to a woman’s face, framed in wiry, black hair. What was meant to be eyes were twisted with some form of hateful pleasure. What was meant to be a mouth was contorted with that same mix of emotions. At the same moment, I heard clamorous laughter echoing around the house, coming from everywhere at once. I collapsed on the floor among the clutter, my hands instinctively going for my ears.

“WHAT DO YOU WANT?” I screamed, my voice drowned out by the manic laughter. The only other sound I could hear was a door somewhere behind me being torn open. I wanted so desparately to look away from that face but I couldn’t bring myself to. Those eyes, those horrible eyes, burned through my mind.

I heard windows breaking, countertops smashed, and I prepared for a painful barrage. That laughter continued, mocking me and my inaction.

Then…nothing. The laughter stopped. All other sounds ceased, and all I could hear was the rushing of my own blood through my hands, and my heavy breathing. I opened my eyes, and looked behind me.

Nothing had changed from the last I saw it. Nothing more was broken. I could see down to the other hallway, and the door to the basement was still closed. No windows were smashed. There was still disorder within the house, but nothing new, no sign of the sounds I had just heard.

I looked back to the window in the door, and could see the blue sky beyond. No face leering at me from without. I tried to calm down as I stood, and made for the backdoor, pulling it open on its loud hinges.

I fell to my knees on the remnants of the driveway, in the late afternoon light. It was good to feel that fresh air upon my face. As I gathered my breath, I went over what I had learned in that visit to the house, and whether or not I’d have to visit again. I hadn’t really learned that much, besides seeing bizarre footage from that tape. I’d not even made it to the levels beneath the basement, as I’d sort of been intending when I entered that house today.

Answers probably remained there in the basement itself, I was sure. I guess all that remained was deciding when I would try again. Shrugging, I stood, and faced the house, the back door swinging slightly, beckoning.

Time to try again, I thought, walking back inside.

(concluded in Part Nine)

Forgotten House (Part Seven)

Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six

Audio Recording

The evening of the day after the incident at the courthouse, two days after my visit to that house, saw me looking through the contents of the envelope I’d received in the mail at work. I’d been putting it off, but curiousity finally got the better of me.

I sat at my desk in the den, the only light pouring down from a lamp clamped to the shelf above the desk, aimed downward. The air mail envelope lay discarded on top of my closed laptop, and I looked at the two photos that had been included.

The first photo showed what appeared to be a backyard, the late afternoon sun bathing the flat expanse with its light. There was a single figure in the picture, in the background. A young man, short, black hair, a white t-shirt, denim jeans, with his back turned to the camera, his attention lost to something even farther from the camera. A section of old, rotting, grey fence, two parallel horizontal lines broken by evenly-spaced vertical posts, came to a stop just short of the center of the frame. The young man was leaning against the end of that fence, both hands in his pockets. There was a road just beyond him. The foreground showed nothing out of the usual, just a neatly trimmed yard. A small, black book rested in a small indentation on the right.

Turning the photo over, I noticed a short note, written in a neat script, in blue ink. “Josh. One of two pictures I have left of you. I don’t miss you.”

The second photo was of a couple, a young man and a young woman. Glancing at the first photo, I guessed that the man in this photo was the same as the first. The young woman, with thin, black hair framing a smiling face, stood with an arm around the young man. They stood in what appeared to be the kitchen of their house, in the evening, the lights switched on. A clock in the background indicated it was 7:42. The only unusual thing with this picture was that the young man’s face had been crossed out repeatedly with a heavy, black marker.

I checked the reverse of the photo, and found a short note written in black ink. “You will never have me.”

Placing the photos on the desk, I unfolded the rest of the papers from the envelope. There were three pages, all told, with writing on both sides of each. It looked to be a single letter, written, in black ink, in the same neat script from the back of the photos. The letter was addressed to “Josh”, again, presumably, the same from the photos. I began reading through the letter.

Ten minutes passed, and I finally folded the letter into a simple bundle, and placed it, along with the photos and the note addressed to me, back into the air mail envelope. Without pausing to think, I proceeded to my kitchen, picked up a cigarette lighter cigarrette lighter, and walked outside, taking the envelope with me.

Moments later, I had a neat pile of burning papers set on a section of the driveway. I watched the envelope and contents burn.

(continued in Part Eight)

Forgotten House (Part Six)

Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five

Audio Recording

It was a Saturday afternoon, and I had nothing much to do. I was sitting around the house, glancing at my laptop’s monitor, when I noticed what time it was. It was then that I made my decision.

I had to explore that house again. There had to be explanations hidden within those walls.

After packing a few things into various pockets, I stepped outside, and saw the house down the hill, leaves settled onto its metal roof. I had no one to call, no one to alert about my destination. That’s a whole different story, but I’ve always ended up alone. Even now, I had no one to go to, no one to walk those hallways in that house with me. I’d do it on my own.

The walk to that house, mostly downhill, didn’t take more than five minutes. There was no one around, no cars driving past, no lights visible around the neighborhood this early in the evening. I stepped carefully over debris cluttering what was once a driveway, making my way to the backdoor. Leaves, twigs crunched underfoot, and I half-expected to hear some voice call out to tell me to stop where I was, to not approach that house. No voice did.

The backdoor was still unlocked, and I saw the same refuse in the kitchen as I saw last time. No more, no less, actually. I even saw the path I had cleared out through the kitchen to the living room, so I followed that.

It was unnervingly quiet within that house. I brought from my pocket the letter I’d received from “Melissa”, and read through it again. She said I had delved deeper into the house than even where she resided. I assumed that meant she lived in the basement, which explained the arrangement of furniture I had noticed. That would be my first destination, I decided, so I hurried along through the house to the basement stairs.

I found the lights switched off when I approached that door. My mind worked through things I had seen, and things I knew. I had never turned the lights off when I was in the house last. I had entered the basement, turned the lights on, then proceeded downstairs. My path had taken me to the lowermost floor then, somehow, back to ground level, bypassing the floors I had traversed downward. The geometry for that eluded me, but I wasn’t going to worry about that right now, not when there was the possibility of answers awaiting me at this moment. Still, the fact that the lights were off concerned me. Then again, perhaps the light bulbs had died in the time since I was last here. That was very plausible, but disproven the moment I flipped the switch on the wall, and their yellow glow illuminated the stairs leading downward. Someone had switched the lights off since I was last here. I became a bit nervous. Starting down the stairs, I heard a faint sound, as of static from a radio or television set. Someone was down there, I was convinced. I pressed on.

At last, my feet fell on a stone floor, after the thin wooden steps I had been descending upon. I saw the same singular light bulb dangling via a thin cable from the wooden beams above that I had noticed last time. The basement was cold. Looking at the water pump in the corner to my right, I noticd that it wasn’t exactly connected to anything. It looked to be in working order, albeit covered in layers of dust, but there was nothing physically connecting it to the inner workings of the house. It just stood there, bolted to the floor.

I looked around the basement, and realized that I was not alone. A figure sat unmoving on the sofa, eyes focused on the light bulb. I waited for a response, but noticed none, so I approached.

Suffice it to say the figure was not alive, and hadn’t been for months, at least. The figure, a young man, had skin that had since turned dark with rot, melting downwards to the fabric of the sofa. Eyes had since turned to mush and dissolved, leaving dry cavities in their absence. The underlying bones of his skull were obvious.

It was a revolting sight, but I couldn’t help but study it. How long had that corpse been there? The skin looked fused to both the clothing and the sofa. It had to have been there for months, yet I did not remember seeing it when I was here last.

I turned away, noticing the television set was on, showing a grey screen and emitting the static drone I kept hearing. I hit the mute switch, then noticed the cassette tapes scattered around on the floor in front of the set. None of the tapes were labeled. Some were in their original boxes, others weren’t. Apparently they were all bought as blank tapes.

There was a remote on top of the VCR, so I picked that up. One quick look at what was on one individual tape, I told myself. Just to see, just to state my curiousity, I decided. I switched the VCR on, and the screen switched to blue. I hadn’t played with a VCR in at least a decade, so that blue screen, replete with static, brought a sense of nostalgia.

Then I hit play.

The blue screen switched abruptly to dark grey, the frames of which shook slightly. This continued for about ten seconds, then a face filled the lower half of the screen, in an inverted silhouette. The face was out of focus so much as the features couldn’t be deciphered, besides that the head was bald. A hollow circle marked the eye, staring off into the distance. This image remained for another ten seconds, then an abrupt edit cut to a view of the basement. I could see the stairs I had descended, the single bulb in the room switched on. There was a timestamp in the lower-right corner, which marked the footage as having been recorded two weeks ago.

I paused the video, and studied the perspective. Where in the room was the camera for this shot? My eyes followed a line from the stairs to a distance away that would capture the same area that I saw on the screen. I stopped on the corpse, and scrambled towards it, looking towards the stairs. My view from that point matched the image on the screen enough that I assumed the footage was filmed from this point.

I resumed play on the video.

There was no sound, even though I had unmuted the television. Nothing was happening, the basement remained empty. I hit the fast-forward button, and still nothing changed on the scene. The tape continued at it’s doubled speed, and as I blinked, something changed. I stopped, rewound a bit, and hit play.

A figure walked down the stairs and into the frame. It was a young woman, with smooth, shoulder-length dark hair in a thin layer around her face. She was thin, and wore a blank, blue, short-sleeved shirt, denim jeans, and a pair of black shoes. Somehow, she looked familiar. She took a couple steps forward, away from the stairs, and paused, a worried look on her face. She was staring to her right. I paused, and followed where she would’ve been looking, which turned out to be the water pump, and the door beside it. I resumed the footage.

The young woman stared at the off-screen wall for another ten seconds, then walked towards it, disappearing from the frame. I waited for something else to happen, and didn’t have to wait long. Soon enough, she returned, holding a hand to her nose, and clearly panicking. She fell to her knees, looking towards the wall she had come from. She moved her hand away from her nose for a moment, and I could see a good amount of blood before the replaced her hand over her nose.

A moment later, an arm reached from off to the right of the frame, and grabbed one of the young woman’s arms, the one held up to her face to be precise. She was pulled forcefully forward, off the frame. I was left with a view of that room of the basement. There was no audio at any point during this footage, and I double-checked to make sure I had the television unmuted and the volume rolled up.

I hit fastforward, but nothing more happened. It was just an empty room. I finally reached the end of the tape, and playback stopped. I switched both the VCR and the television set off.

I stared at the door. I remembered what was beyond it, those stairs, those hallways, those rooms. What happened in that tape a fortnight ago? Even when I entered the house a while ago, I wasn’t eager to explore those floors. Now, I was even less eager.

I ran for the stairs that led back up to the main floor.

(continued in Part Seven)