It held the
land, the house.
It squatted
upon a foundation of fieldstone; walls held straight by thick lengths of timber
cut from the fresh bodies of trees. Floors, windows, stairs, and rooms crowned
like a king with gables of ornate grey slate. And, like a king, it held the
land. Nothing grew from the dirt in its cellar. Nothing was kept safe or secret
with its doors. Nothing mattered save the house.
But what is
a king without servants? How can a king force its will, without a force to
will? The house called for knights. Many heard the call.
Shortly
afterward, the husband and wife who lived in the house, the young pair who had
built it from a dream of what their future together might be, died. A tragic
accident, it was called.
Time passed.
A new couple
came to the house carrying their belongings and their hopes. They dusted and
they cleaned and they planned. The house watched and waited, but only shortly.
The pair were eventually found, having not been seen for several days, by their
neighbors come to check in on the new residents. They were carried out in pine
boxes under rosy stained linen. A terrible crime, pronounced the men as they
placed the boxes side-by-side in the back of the wagon. Such nice folks didn't
deserve such an end, they all agreed. They pushed the horses on, eager to get
home to their own families for surely a madman was loose in the area. The
knights danced around pieces that were never found.
Time
passed.
More people
came. They placed thin strands of copper within the house’s walls; strands that
were married to larger strands coming from the outside. An odd box, strange and
heavy, flashed to life. The king and its knights watched the box. It gave the
house new thoughts that widened the march of its red knowledge. Such a wise
king to see the very, very old in such a new device. The house went upon the
people slowly now. The name of this new land was terror. Slow terror for the
man. Slow terror for the woman. Slow terror, first and foremost, for the two
small ones. A creaking door here, a misplaced object there. Words of mistrust
and infidelity slipped into sleeping ears. The knights hid their presence save
for the children. They were made to see and hear and feel the nightmares in the
walls. Opened closet doors revealed nothing to the tired, worried parents. The
king listened with delight to the slowly growing songs of arguments and
accusations. Silent anger and mistrust grew with every scratched and bruised
little arm or leg. Could she, would he really do that to them? Why do the kids
keep crying about monsters and ghosts? Finally, the inevitable happened. The
parents exploded at each other in anger and frustration. The king watched his
garden come to blossom. The children tried to stop their parents from fighting.
The cried and screamed it was the house, but they were ignored in the angry
din. One more drop was needed. The parent's gun, always carefully hidden away,
now sat in plain view. The parents saw the gun...and stopped. They looked at it
and back at each other. They then took a step back, reaching out for their
children. This was not what the king had expected or wanted. The family as one
moved toward the front door. Stupid little things! it raged. Stupid
little ruinous things! The knights poured out over them. This time, many
people came to carry away the work. Most milled about outside whispering back
and forth, stopping only for the occasional nervous look at the house itself.
The ones in blue uniforms snapped flashing pictures, drew lines, made
measurements, and shook their heads in confusion and disgust. The knights
begged to be released again. Their frustrated king said no. They obeyed.
Time passed,
but memories tinted red resist fading.
People did
not come back.
The king
squatted perturbed upon its fieldstone. The emptiness felt wrong. It waited and
waited while the world outside changed and grew. Eventually people did come,
but like the world this too had changed. They came not to live in the house,
but to see it or be in its presence. A few even broke in, or so they thought.
All, however, spoke low and fearful about IT. The House. The king liked this.
Its knights scratched and itched longing to act, but the king only replied Aim
your weapons at their eyes and ears, it declared. Gift me screams.
The knights did as commanded fashioning new edges. No blood, said the
king. No blood cried the knights. Its kingdom grew from the whispers and
tales of those who walked or ran away.
Unless, of
course, it was a time for blood.
A stumbling
loner. A collared animal. For these things, the king sometimes unleashed its
knights. It was a generous king, after all.
Time passed.
Bloodied memories stretched like a web from the house.
It came to
happen one day, that a person came to the house. They did not come in the
secret of night, but in the bright light of day. They, in fact, had a key for
the front door. The king, IT, the house, watched with interest. More people
soon arrived to join the first. They walked all the house speaking plainly of
the king’s deeds while opening doors and peering in closets. Some carried in
boxes, just like those in the past always did. The king liked the seeing
familiar. It liked hearing their words more. When two of the newcomers removed
the front door, this puzzled the king. When they then removed the back door,
the puzzlement grew. The king took no action, however. It was curious, and
besides little things loved doors. They would be reattached soon enough. Large
lights were carried inside. Shovels and pry bars and small beeping boxes were
passed from person to person. Three collared animals reluctantly sniffed
throughout its halls and basement. The knights kept silent for they had never
seen people act in such ways. Floorboards were lifted, too easily. Holes were
dug, too deep. Walls were turned inside out. A small hush followed each bundle
carefully carried outside.
They will
leave, declared
the king. More will follow. This is the way of the world. The knights
quickly agreed with their king. Faster, thought the king. Yes, they must leave
faster so the old can replace the new.
On the
second floor, a door suddenly swung into the face of a man. His nose CRACKED.
He stumbled to the floor. The king, had it a face, smiled. The people, however,
did not flee. They brought in axes and splintered the door. And another. And
another. A knight pushed a woman down a flight of stairs. Angry cries rose from
the people as they carried her away. A basement window was smashed out. Then
another. Then more. A sharp command rose above the clamor. The king turned its
attention beyond its walls.
An old man,
a young woman, two men with arms entwined, and several others stood shoulder to
shoulder facing the house. The king looked at them and they at IT. They SAW the
king.
I have seen
eyes like those. That one’s nose. That one’s stance. But where? wondered the king. Most
stirred its memory, but a few seemed quite familiar. The house had seen so many
people over the years, killed so many. The knights felt their king’s confusion.
The bits and scraps carried off. Thieves of privacy, how had they
known to look? The king found only nagging familiarity. They hadn’t lived
here. Nothing lived here, only stayed for a time. It knew them somehow…or
knew people in the past who had looked like them… But lo! Look! The others were
hurriedly leaving the house, leaving their boxes behind.
They are
people. Candle flickers and nothing more. I was before them. I will be after
them. My knights will roam to twist and tear! Drinking the refreshed certainty in its words, the knights
lifted their voices knowing what would come next.
The king let
slip its hold.
The knights wailed
and screamed as they raced free throughout hallways and rooms toward the rabble
outside. The horrors crawling out through broken basement windows heard a
popping sound from an abandoned box, like the sound of a joint being pulled
apart.
FIRE!
In name and
act, burst hungry from its hidden cage, biting for purchase in anything it
could find.
FIRE!
Poured out
from all the left boxes, smothering floors, and climbing walls. The people had
seeded the house with flame!
Roaring
tongues boiled and ate at its wooden body, while all the king could do was slam
open and shut what impotent doors or windows remained. It cried out from under
the racing consumption filling it. Inch by foot by yard it was disappearing
into unbeing. Aged walls shuddered, free finally to bend and fall. Its crown
collapsed. The knights shrieked and cursed as they faded back into less than
the thin shadows they were before they held the anchor of their king. They
piled upon each other grasping the shrinking handholds. Their cries and ranks
fading forever beneath the panicked weight. The house pulled desperately unto
itself, clutching at its slipping existence trying to remain, to be. The
flames reached ever higher, growing in hunger, until finally they starved and
faded.
Time passed.
No sirens came. Smoke drifted to the sky disinterested in its birth. Slowly the
group too faded with silent nods and “thank you” glances. A few stayed longer
to watch and wait, to be safe and sure, and if needed to burn even the ashes
again and again. And so, they waited.
Time passed
a final time. The work, it was clear, was done. The watchers stood guard over a
char-black huddle of old wood. Nothing moved without reason. No sounds were
heard without plain cause. The house along with its longest resident was gone,
both having died empty and alone.
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Hello, gentle reader. There's more to the story
Click here - "The Haunting's House" is a sequel, I think.
*Orb Weaver spider pic courtesy of the spider dropping into the middle of my evening walk in a local park. Almost went face-first into it.
