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.
