| ||||||||||||
|
Trigger warning: Suicide, Losing a loved-one
?Joe...?, it alluringly whispered in his ear, ?Joe...wake up Joe?.
Joe felt blood rushing to his head, heart pounding in his chest, pearls of sweat forming on his forehead. He woke up in trepidation. He must have had this nightmare again. A nightmare that had been haunting him every night now for 10 consecutive days.
It was autumn. The rain was plastering against the window and the wind howling through the trees. The day that lied upon him was pressing on his chest. He dragged himself out of the bed and to the bathroom. He was going to meet his new patient today. He brushed his teeth and trimmed his beard to mimic the designer stubble. Sarah always loved that look. But now Sarah could hardly spare a glance at him. It had been like that for a while. There has never been a fight. No escalation. Not even a discussion that could have caused this barrier between them. Just indifference. Emptiness. Remains of something they once had, slowly fading away.
?Good morning? Joe murmured as he entered the kitchen where Sarah was sitting and slurping her coffee. There was no answer. Sarah was holding the steaming cup to her lip, but wasn't drinking. She was just staring out into nothingness. Her eyes were filled with sadness, with longing, with resignation.
?Sarah? Good morning!? Joe repeated nervously, fearing that they have reached a new low-point.
?Morning?, Sarah sighed, not taking her eyes off the dark nothingness she was staring into.
Joe was disappointed. And scared. He filled a cup with coffee and turned around. On his way out he paused and tried again: ?Sarah, I will go to the hospital now. I will receive a new patient today. I love you.?
?Ok?, Sarah sighed again, slowly lowering her cup and not deigning a look at Joe.
Heart-brokenly Joe stepped outside the door and was shortly caught by a gust of wind. He zipped his jacket up to his chin and crunched his shoulders, shivering. The brown and yellow leaves were carried by the wind, spreading across the pavement. An eeri feeling came over him Something felt awkward about this day.
When he arrived at the hospital, he immediately rushed to his office. He was already late for his 9:00 appointment. When he entered the room, a caretaker was already waiting there holding the handle of a wheelchair. The man in the wheelchair was facing Joe with his back. His head was lowered.
?Thank you, Denise. I got it from here!?
Joe walked around a table and took a seat on a chair across from the man in the wheelchair. He took the notepad that was provided for him and took a quick glance at it. The ceiling lights in the room were uncomfortably bright and Joe had to squint his eyes to peek at the clock on the wall. 10th of November, 9:10 o'clock, he wrote down on the left upper corner of the sheet.
?So, Marc. I see here that you were hospitalized three weeks ago with severe trauma to your back and head. You were found unconscious, lying in the rain by a house complex on Reagan street Unfortunately, we were not able to get in contact with any family members of yours nor could we identify your residency. It also says here that you haven't said a much since you woke up from a coma 10 days ago. Can you maybe tell me what happened that night?? Joe looked at Marc with expectation.
Marc pressed his lips together and turned his head to the side to evade Joe's eye contact.
?Marc. This is a safe place and I only want to find out what happened to you, so that I can help you. You have done nothing wrong.?
?Pah!? Marc mumbled sarcastically. Still avoiding to look at Joe.
Joe tried to study Marc. Tried to analyze his movements, his tone. Something was familiar about him.
?Marc, please let me help you. The sooner we find out what happened to you, the sooner we can release you. We can't do that with a good conscience without knowing whether you were subject to a crime or accident.?
?Fine?, Marc sighed with an annoyed tone. He paused for a moment. Then he started to talk: ?I?I??, Marcs hands began to shake, his voice started trembling, ?I?I?I can't do this. I'm sorry. I have to leave.?
?Marc, please. Try to calm down?, Joe intervened, ?Follow me. Take a deep breath for 1?2?3?4, now hold and breathe out for 1?2?3?4?5?6?7?8. Now repeat. Are you feeling a bit better?? Joe was waiting with expectation but Marc just closed his eyes and lowered his head again.
?Okay, let's maybe start with some more general questions. How old are you, Marc??
?37? Marc answered with indifference in his voice.
Interesting, Joe thought while he was making notes. Marc was younger than him, but he seemed so much older. This was most likely the result of his injuries and the coma, but there was something beyond that. It was his eyes. Joe could literally feel the sadness and tragedy screaming at him through Marc's grey and weary eyes. What had happened to him?
?Can you tell me what you do for a living Marc??
?I?I'm a physicist.?, Marc harrumphed, ?I used to teach physics at the university. Until?? Marc's voice started shaking.
?That is an intriguing profession, Marc? Joe acknowledged excited. He himself was a physics enthusiast. Especially astrophysics fascinated him. ?My little Einstein?, Sarah often called him with a whimsical smile when he was going on about some new galaxy that was discovered millions of light years away. Joe would have loved to study physics, but he came from a family of doctors and from childhood on this was the only accepted path for him. He eventually decided to specialize in psychiatry, to study the mind. The mind to him was like a universe itself. Mostly undiscovered, mesmerizing depths, infinite and full of secrets to be explored. This way he could still follow his dream in some kind of way.
>Tick, Tock<
Joe was pulled out of his thoughts. The clock was ticking strangely loud and the lights were blinding him. He needed a moment to adapt his eyes again and focus on the hands of the clock. It showed 9:10. That was strange. Still? He must have written down the wrong time in the beginning. ?I'm just tired?, he admitted to himself.
?Okay, Marc. Can you tell me about your family or friends? Are you married? Perhaps have children??
Marc pressed his lips together. He stared into Joe's eyes with a touch of helplessness and anger. He clenched his teeth. His hands started shaking.
?Please let me go. I can't do this?, Marc pressed through his teeth with desperation.
?I can't let you go Marc. Not as long as I don't know what happened to you.?
?Pah?, Marc said disapprovingly. Now he lifted his head, staring strongly into Joe's eyes.
?Okay?, he said, ?You want to know what happened? I tried to kill myself, okay?!?
Silence filled the room. The dazzling light was stinging in Joe's eyes.
Joe tried to focus on Marc again, cleared his throat and said with his trained professionalism: ?I'm very sorry to hear this, Marc. I need to ask you now. Are you still entertaining the thought of ending your life??
After a pause Marc sighed and shrugged his shoulders: ?I?I don't know. I guess I don't want to live anymore. At least, I think I can't do this anymore. I can't go on with life anymore. Not like this.?
?Is there a particular reason you feel like you can't live anymore??
?Guilt. I can't bare this guilt anymore.?
?What do you mean Marc? What happened?? Joe asked curiously.
?I?I??, Marc paused. A clump built up in his throat. His eyes began to fill with tears.
?I..?, he tried again, ?I did something?.
?You did something that makes you feel like you can't live anymore, Marc? Can you tell me what you did? Did you hurt someone??
?Yes?, said Marc with a whimpering voice.
?Can you tell me who you hurt, Marc? Was it someone you know??
?I can't. Please. Don't do this to me!? Marc begged.
Joe felt the desperation. The determination. Even though he barely knew anything about Marc, he could on some level sense Marc's pain. This unbearable pain. He must have hurt someone he loved.
Joe tried to concentrate. He took another glance at the clock. 9:10. What? That can't be. The clock must be broken. But the ticking?Joe shook his head in imagination, annoyed by the broken clock. He took a deep breath and asked in a calm voice: ?Are you married, Marc? Do you have a wife??
?Yes? Marc replied and lowered his head again.
?Was it your wife, you hurt, Marc??
Joe could see Marc's nostrils fluttering, his hands clenching to fists.
?No. I mean. Yes, I did. But that's not?I'm sorry, I can't!?
?Okay, Marc. You don't have to tell me yet. Could you maybe tell me a little about your wife? How long have you been married??
?8 years? Marc replied in anguish.
8 years, Joe thought. Him and Sarah have been married for almost 8 years. They used to be so happy. What has happened to them? They met at a rooftop party during university when he was 25. He was studying medicine and she just started her major in art history. Joe immediately noticed her mesmerizing smile. Her sparkling eyes when she was laughing. Her upper teeth that were ever so slightly too big for her mouth. But in a beautiful way. She was able to infect anyone around her when she was laughing. And she was funny. Oh, how funny and cute she was. Now they are not laughing together anymore. They barely talk? They quickly became a couple after they met. Oh, how much they were in love. When they were 29, Joe proposed to her back on the roof of the factory building where they had met 4 years earlier. They were young but determined that they would never want to spend their lives apart. They could not imagine not to be with one another. They belonged together. Like a spell was cast on them. But something broke that spell. Joe can't remember what it was. What had happened? Joe suddenly felt confused. He really could not point the finger on it. When did they stop being happy? What has happened? Joe had a strange feeling. Something wasn't right. Shivers overcame his body, but he quickly shook it off He had to close his eyes for a moment and massaged the skin between his eyes. Trying to concentrate. These lights were just so damn bright.
>Tick. Tock.<
?8 years?, Joe repeated, ?And do you have children??
Marc's breath seemed to stagnate. He swallowed heavily. He opened his mouth to speak but then retreated again.
?I?we?we have?we had a daughter.?
Joe's heart seemed to stop for a moment. A suffocating tightness rose up his throat.
?A daughter?, he thought to himself, ?A daughter.? This daunting feeling again. The garish lights. The ticking of the clock. Something was wrong. He started sweating. His heart was heavily pounding in his chest. A panic attack? Not now! Not in front of my patient Joe tried to calm himself. He focused on his breathing and managed to fend it off. For now.
?You used to have a daughter? What happened to your daughter, Marc?? Joe asked with nervous anticipation.
Marc suddenly buried his face in his hands and started sobbing massively.
?I?I?killed her?I mean?I'm responsible for her death. It´s my fault that my daughter is dead!?
?Marc, I'm so sorry you lost your daughter. You have my deepest sympathy. But you have to explain to me what you mean with being responsible for your daughter's death. Can you please tell me what happened??
?We had an accident. It was a year ago When I was taking her to kinder garden. I?I?it was my fault?I can't?I can't talk about it!?
There was this tension in Joe's chest again. His vision got blurry, the air seemed to vibrate. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He told himself, that everything is fine. He is just tired, exhausted. The situation with Sarah and this job. It is just asking too much of him at the moment. He opened his eyes again and regained his calm.
?Take your time Marc. This is a safe place. I only want to help you! Tell me, do you and your wife ever talk about it? Is she aware of the amount of guilt you're carrying??
Marc took a deep breath. Trying to regain his voice. ?We don't really talk anymore. I think she knows as well as I do that it is my fault. I should have protected her. It should have been me. Not her. She had her whole life ahead of her. My wife doesn't say it, but she never forgave me for it. She will never forgive me for taking her daughter. Taking our life.?
?I understand how much pain you and your wife must endure.? Joe could strangely well relate to this terrifying emptiness. ?It was an accident. As terrible as it is. It was an accident and it is nobody's fault. You never wanted to hurt her.?
?But it was my fault?, Marc cried. ?I was driving her to kinder garden. I was so tired. The semester had just started and I was busy with preparations. I was late. She was excited, telling me what they are going to do today at kinder garden, but I was just so tired and couldn't focus. I was late. Just looking at the clock and at the road, back and forth. I had an important lecture at 9:15 and was already late. I was tired and I was late and only had 5 minutes left before the lecture. I didn't see the truck coming at the crossing. I should have stopped. It came from the right. It directly hit the side where my daughter was sitting. It smashed into her. She?she was dead immediately.? Marc was sobbing heavily. Joe could barely understand what he was saying.
Pictures were emerging in Joe's head. A car. A country song on the radio. A dad and his daughter driving on the road. And a truck, a truck out of nowhere, smashing into the car, throwing it off the road. This hammering noise. This deadly noise. Squeezing walls. And blood?Joe overcame shivers again. He was sensitive today. This patient's story got to him. His heart was racing. This felt strange. He took a deep breath.
Joe had to hold his hand over his eyes to be able to look at Marc, because the lights were blinding him. He tried to focus and to respond with a soothing voice: ?You and your wife, Marc. You have both lost your child. You are grieving and it is probably hard for your wife to talk to you, even look at you, because you constantly remind her of your daughter. Of the accident. Of what she has lost. But you have both lost a child. You are both in pain. You need to be there for each other. If you take your own life because you can't bare the feelings of guilt, the grieve, then you take the only person from your wife that reminds her of her daughter. The only person that knows how much pain she is in. You need to stay alive. For her.?
Suddenly the lights got even brighter. Joe could barely see anything anymore. He couldn't breathe. He felt like the moment before you're pulled out of a dream. He felt like the room around him was disintegrating. Marc's silhouette seemed to fade. And suddenly, with one stroke, realization overflew Joe like a wave. A harrowing truth was tearing him apart.
This was it. This is what happened. This is why Sarah can't look at him. Can't even stand his voice. This is why her once sparkling eyes are now filled with desolation. Joe took her life from her. Joe took her daughter. Their daughter?This is why he jumped. He couldn't stand this torment anymore.
?
?Joe?, the enticing whisper again, ?Joe, please wake up, Joe?.
?
Joe slowly opened his eyes. He was blinded by the bright lights on the ceiling of the hospital room. As his eyes slowly adjusted to brightness in the room, he recognized Sarah standing next to him and holding his hand. ?Joe?, she said with a soft, whimpering voice, ?you are awake. Finally. Joe, I was so scared. I can't lose you too.?
Joe was dizzy, his head was pounding and his throat was sore. He took all his strength to focus on Sarah's tears filled eyes. He took a deep breath and whispered: ?I'm sorry. Please, forgive me?.
?-and whatever you do, stay away from Harrow's Lane,? finished the older boy emphatically. It was a saying all the children in White Lake knew by heart, and so it came as no surprise that the boy's grisly story was met with a tired nod from his audience; they had all heard every type of story about Harrow's Lane one could imagine, from the old man with the axe waiting to dismember you by the toolshed on house 114, to the ghoul that lurked the shores of the property at the end of the lane: White's mansion. An outsider may have scoffed, and indeed those who came to White Lake always rolled their eyes when someone told some wild story about a man who dwelled in the lake and slaughtered innocent teenagers.
?That's Jason,? the outsiders would drawl, ?Crystal Lake? Friday the Thirteenth? Come on, at least be original!? Without fail, the outsiders would attempt to prove their point by heading down Harrow's Lane, but Sheriff Worthington kept a constant patrol out there. Besides, outsiders never stayed for long in White's Lake.
?Oh come on, Tommy,? said one of the boys listening to this latest story, ?We've all heard that one before.?
The rest of Troop 77 agreed. Tommy looked sour, but smiled and said, ?Ah, you start to forget things at my age, y'know??
?Aren't you fifteen?? asked another boy with an impish look on his face.
?Sixteen, actually,? he said with pride, ?but what's more important is that I'm one merit badge away from being an Eagle Scout.?
Even the most jaded and disinterested boys had to nod in respect. Since White Lake had a population just under 900, there were few boys who stuck with scouting long enough to be Eagle Scouts. In fact, the last one to achieve that rank was a Vietnam veteran who now spent his days yelling at birds from his porch.
An autumn breeze blew some crispy leaves into the little circle in the cemetery the boys had formed. The irony that a group of young boys felt more comfortable in a cemetery behind an old church than on Harrow's Lane was not lost on them.
Now of course, any logical person would think this was a load of hooey; how could it be that in the 100 years of the legend of Harrow's Lane, not one inquisitive child had made it past the patrol and squashed it? But there lay the rub; in 1943, a 12 year old girl had made it through the patrol, and was never seen thereafter. Her name was Lydia Stevenson. And again, in 1984, a young boy named David Wellman took a long hike around White Lake to get to White's mansion and vanished into the night. The abrupt disappearances of both were hushed up to the outside world, as even their parents accepted their deaths and didn't want a federal investigation. The sheriff poked around a little, but at the wake, everyone's eyes were hollow.
?Hey, why don't you earn your exploration merit badge by heading down to Harrow's Lane and bringing something back?? asked Mark, the second oldest boy in the troop.
Tommy laughed nervously. ?Mark, I know your family hasn't been here for too long, but that's? not possible. No one goes into Harrow's Lane.?
?How'd this whole thing start, anyway?? Mark's eyes were sharp, and he stared out into the growing darkness between the trees of Pike's Forest. If you followed the path from the cemetery, you'd reach an iron-gated fence in about three hundred yards which led directly to the backyard of White's mansion.
?Well,? began Tommy, ?It started in the year 1919, back when the town's population was just 333-?
?Can you just skip ahead to the scary part this time?? asked Mark.
?Yeah, you suck at telling stories.? Billy earned a snicker from the rest of the troop.
Tommy sneered. ?Basically, the founder of this town, John White, went crazy in his last few years living up in his mansion. He actually murdered everyone living on what was then called Downing Street with a knife, and then went into his master bedroom and hung himself. You can imagine-?
?And so people have been avoiding that road for a hundred years, just because of that?? Mark's black eyes glowed in the setting sun. ?In the city, people kill each other all the time and no one cares!?
?This ain't the city,? said a timid boy.
?Yeah, but I heard people in the country are tougher than people in the city. You guys let an old dirt road bully you?? Mark laughed. ?I mean, c'mon??
?Ever heard of Lydia-? Tommy started.
?And David Wellman?? Mark continued smiling. ?Yes I have. You know what happened to them? They were probably taken by some old pervert and-?
?Some old pervert living on Harrow's-?
?No,? interjected Mark, ?Some old pervert who skipped town with 'em and never looked back. And you idiots stopped any investigation into the disappearance, so those kids died never knowing justice.?
?That's enough, Mark,? said Tommy forcefully. ?No one's going to Harrow's Lane.?
?He does have a point, though,? said the timid boy.
?And you can earn your exploration badge!? piped another.
?That's not even how you earn the badge!? cried Tommy, ?You don't need to actually explore anything-?
?And that's why the boy scouts suck,? said Mark, throwing a dried leaf at the ground, ?But you can change that, Tommy! You can prove to yourself, to us, and to everyone in this town that you're a real scout. Someone who charts new territory, who seeks out adventure, and who doesn't let anything stand in his way! You can show all these kids what it means to be an Eagle Scout! And once this curse is lifted, the whole town can start healing from it!?
?Yeah, Tommy!? said a young scout, the rest of the troop nodding eagerly. Mark's speech had driven them into a frenzy, and their eager eyes pierced Tommy's heart.
?Oh? I don't know,? he said nervously.
?Please, Tommy,? said the timid boy with pouty lips.
?You'd be a hero,? said Mark quietly, ?They'd write a whole section about you for the state newspaper: Fearless Scout excises century-old demon from small town. Think of the glory!?
Something in Tommy's blue eyes darkened. He set his jaw and said, ?Alright? I'll do it. But none of you are coming with me. I'll go tonight after the meeting, and I'll? bring back a newspaper from White's manion - something from the 1910's, just to prove I did it?
?Woo hoo!? cheered the boys. Mark smiled, showing off crooked teeth. The wind swept his hair this way and that, and as the last light died over the horizon, he looked at Tommy with charcoal eyes, peering into his soul. But Tommy was not to be disrupted. As he bid the other kids goodnight, he waited by his car, watching the woods. When Mark left on his bike, Tommy grabbed the flashlight and first aid kit from his car and started along the path to Harrow's Lane.
***
Late autumn in New England brings winds chilled from the arctic itself, and before long Tommy's teeth were chattering as he crunched through the avenue of dead leaves in his path. Pike's forest consisted mostly of tall conifers and maple trees, which meant the moonlight was sifted through pine needles and sometimes pooled up in great patches of maples. The bare arms of some of the trees looked like talons reaching out into the shadows, and Tommy's imagination did him no favors; every crunch in the leaves was a wolf stalking him, and every hoot was an evil owl watching his journey. After ten minutes, his wide beam of yellow light shone through a set of tough iron gates, locked on the other side. The fence was caked in hedges and leaves, and the gate was unclimbable. At least, to most people. Tommy had been on many climbing expeditions with the troop before, so after briefly pausing to slide his stuff through the bars, he grabbed the iron gate and hoisted himself up.
?Alright, easy does it,? he muttered, sliding on the top between two spikes. He brought his leg over with confidence, but ended up slightly low; the spike cut through his pants and into his left leg. ?Ah!? he cried, falling down the other side rather unceremoniously.
His wound was minor, but blood trickled down his hamstring. Immediately, Tommy noticed it was significantly more frigid on this side of the fence, and a wild gust of icy wind sent the cold straight to his bones. He shivered in earnest, grabbing some alcohol pads from his bag and wiping the wound clean before applying some bandages.
?That should do the trick,? he said, smiling.
?You oughta check if that spike had rust on it,? drawled a voice from his left.
Tommy screamed and jumped back, stumbling and falling over. ?Who - Who's there?? he asked, fumbling for his flashlight. He grabbed it and pointed it forwards, only to discover Mark standing before him. ?Mark?? he exclaimed.
?Yup. Just thought I'd tag along.? He smiled and extended his hand to help Tommy up.
?You? you shouldn't be here!? cried Tommy, ignoring the hand and scrambling to his own shaky feet.
Mark shrugged. ?I didn't have anything else to do.?
?How'd you even get ahead of me?? asked Tommy incredulously.
?Ah, I knew a shortcut. Now c'mon, we're wasting time,? he grabbed Tommy's shoulder firmly, but the elder scout pulled away.
?Mark, go home right now,? said Tommy sternly. ?I do not need you here.?
?Oh, I don't think that's true. If you'd had me here, you would've known there's a gap in the fence about twenty feet that way.? Mark smiled, ?Besides, I don't think I want to go home.?
?W-why?? asked Tommy, his teeth clacking like an old machine, ?Are your parents??
Mark smiled wider. ?My family loves me very much, and they'd love to hear that I spent the night helping you rather than sitting alone in my corner again. So let's go.?
?I'm - I'm sorry,? said Tommy, ?I can't allow this. We've got to go back.? He went to grab Mark, but ended up grabbing thin air as he heard a giggle from further down the path.
?Come on, man,? said Mark's voice from the darkness, ?If we hurry, we can both be home in time for the Tonight Show!?
?Mark, get back here!? shouted Tommy, hurrying down the path. His flashlight was trained on Mark's back, but somehow the kid moved quickly through the woods, jumping over roots gracefully while Tommy tripped along.
?Look, we're almost there - you can see the lake!?
?I swear to God-? Tommy grabbed Mark's arm and turned him about - the two had stopped at the edge of the woods, right by the water in the mansion's backyard.
?Look at that,? said Mark proudly. The mansion's old back roof cast a dark shadow over the tilted paneling, giving the whole house an eerie, off-kilter look. Some windows were smashed, but most remained intact, and they could see bits of the interior wallpaper lit up but the moonlight. Tommy's knees suddenly felt weak. Here he was? in front of White's mansion. One legend said that if you went there under the light of a full moon, you'd see old John White's pale, dead face staring back at you from a window. As Tommy stood there, he swore he saw a face in an upstairs window, but he blinked and realized it was a reflection of the moon.
?Jesus, Mark,? said Tommy, ?Do you have any idea what kind of trouble you're in? I'm writing you up! C'mon, let's go back-?
?Do you know your way back through the woods?? asked Mark, a glint in his eyes.
?Of course, you just follow the path-?
?We went off the path almost right away. That old legend about it coming right here - that's wrong. It actually turns around and heads north around the lake.? Mark pulled Tommy's numb fingers off of him.
?W-what?? stuttered the elder scout. A man in better control of his faculties may have asked how the boy knew this, but all Tommy could say was, ?Oh God? Oh God, we're screwed.?
?No we're not,? said Mark mildly, ?I know the way back. And I'll show you after we go in there and grab a newspaper.?
?W-why? I-I don't wanna go in there anymore.?
?Oh, but you've come so far! You're the only person in White Lake who's stepped foot in the mansion's backyard since? well, since David in 1984! Of course, he was chased and you? well?? Mark trailed off, a cold gale driving his words straight out of Tommy's head.
?Why? is this so important to you?? asked Tommy, his knees still weak.
?I just want to see you get what you deserve!? Mark pulled out of his senior's grip and turned to face him. ?No one cares about Eagle Scouts anymore - but a name in the state newspaper? That's something to celebrate! They'll remember you forever! Tommy Lundgren! Kids will be named in your honor!?
?In my honor?? Tommy's shaking hands dropped the first aid kit.
?Yes? and so much more. Now c'mon,? Mark took Tommy's hand and pulled him forward, and the boy did not resist. In fact, before long, he was leading the way. They reached the back door, which creaked the wind.
?Aren't you? cold?? asked Tommy, noticing Mark was not shivering and looked quite comfortable in the blustery conditions.
His companion smiled. ?It doesn't bother me too much. Now please, after you.?
The door slammed open, making Tommy jump, and he shined his flashlight into the house to reveal a long, dark hallway. Just the sight of the decaying peach wallpaper and rotten floorboards was enough to make his skin crawl, but with a calming pat from Mark, Tommy started forward.
?It's so? quiet,? whispered Tommy, each step seemingly causing the whole house to groan and sway.
Mark chuckled softly from behind him. ?Indeed??
They reached the end of the hallway, and a choice opened up before them. To their right was a kitchen and a living room, but to their left was a staircase. ?Where should we go?? asked Tommy, ?Where would John White keep his papers??
?In the parlor, upstairs.?
Again, Tommy did not ask how the young scout knew this, but he nodded, tightening his sweaty grip on the flashlight before starting up the old stairs. Each step was wobbly, and he noticed how constricted his breathing had become, as each exhale seemed to vanish into the vacuous house, and each inhale echoed off the old walls. They reached the second floor, and a gesture from Mark told Tommy to go right.
?Second door on the right,? whispered Mark, his voice almost? eager.
Tommy hesitated. ?I? I don't feel so good.? It seemed as though the darkness was closing in around him. There were no windows here, and any moonlight was confined to the rooms. The hallway was utterly dark before him, and it seemed the darkness was eating away at his flashlight, scratching and clawing bits off of that wide beam until he was left with a meager puddle of light right in front of him.
?You're so close now, Tommy,? muttered Mark. Just go through the door and everything will be alright.?
And so Tommy went. He opened the door to the parlor and his breath caught in his lungs. There was a fire going in the fireplace, and it was a deathly shade of green. Around it stood perhaps a dozen individuals, all with their backs turned to Tommy and Mark. A tall woman turned, the skin stretched tight on her skeletal face. She smiled, the sight sending shivers down Tommy's spine. ?And what have you brought for us tonight, my dear??
?It's been so long,? said an old man mournfully. Their voices were grating - as though the air was being forced through dry vocal chords.
?I've brought? Tommy,? said Mark, sliding through the door and standing before the eerie company.
?Mark?? whispered Tommy, the flashlight dropping to the ground, ?What's? what's-?
?My name is not Mark,? said the boy, the fire playing tricks with the shadows on his face, which deepened as his voice grated, ?I am David.?
An inkling of realization crept into Tommy's heart. He saw his breath fog before him as tears welled in his eyes. ?N-no? please-?
?Ooh, an only child,? crooned an elderly woman, not turning towards him, ?How delightful. My son was an only child too, you know.?
?So long?? repeated the old man, starting to hum.
?Mark? please-?
?Silence,? said a commanding voice. The tallest man turned towards Michael, and all the others followed. Their eyes were empty, and Tommy felt himself slipping away as the tall man fixed him with a terrible gaze. He smiled, his lips cracking as they stretched over rotten teeth. He extended a bony finger and beckoned to Tommy, whose will was not his own. The scout helplessly felt his body move forwards, his feet dragging on the old wood boards.
?So long?? the old man hummed.
Tommy felt himself kneel. A young girl whose face he somewhat recognized appeared before him. ?Lydia, my dear,? said the tall man, ?If you would do the honors.?
?Sure, Mr. White,? said the young girl, her voice almost bright. She produced a knife from her clothes.
?No,? groaned Tommy, but it was no use. The ghastly spectators watched hungrily as Lydia put the knife to his throat and swept it across. After a few gurgles, Tommy was no more. No one would question his death in White Lake, nor would anyone remember someone named ?Mark? who was in the Boy Scouts. Tommy's own parents would not cry at his funeral, choosing instead to shake their heads at the boy's frivolity.
No comments:
Post a Comment