by C. V. Hunt
Atlatl Press
POB 521
Dayton, Ohio 45401
atlatlpress.com
[email protected]
Murder House
Copyright © 2020 by C.V. Hunt
Cover design copyright © 2020 by Squidbar Designs
Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-941918-67-8
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author’s use of names of actual persons (living or dead), places, and characters is incidental to the purposes of the plot, and is not intended to change the entirely fictional character of the work.
No part of this work may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author or publis
Other titles by C.V. Hunt
How To Kill Yourself
Zombieville
Thanks For Ruining My Life
Other People’s Shit
Baby Hater
Hell’s Waiting Room
Misery and Death and Everything Depressing
Ritualistic Human Sacrifice
Poor Decisions
We Did Everything Wrong
Home Is Where the Horror Is
Hold For Release Until the End of the World
Cockblock
Halloween Fiend
For Andy
I’m glad we get to spend the apocalypse together.
Source: The Detroit Free Press, November 1, 1975
Headline: Hallows’ Eve Massacre!
On Friday, October 31, police were dispatched to the Delany neighborhood near the Detroit River. Neighbors called the police to complain about loud banging and screaming coming from a residence on Crossley Street. Concerned residents told police they did not believe the noise was part of the Halloween festivities. Police arrived on the scene shortly after 10 PM and found James Dobos (40) siting on the front steps of 732 South Crossley Street. Dobos appeared dazed and in shock. When police approached Mr. Dobos he refused to answer any direct questions and officers noticed blood on his hands and clothing.
“He (James Dobos) kept rocking back and forth and mumbling they were trying to poison him. He was yammering something about his family had made a deal with the devil and they were going to sacrifice him and the children and the devil was coming in the house at night from the basement,” Sheriff Michael Lawson of the Detroit Police Department, Southwest District said. “I’d never seen such a sight. We weren’t prepared for what we discovered inside.”
Officers entered the home on Crossley Street to find ten of James Dobos’ family members deceased and scattered throughout the house. All the victims had suffered from what appeared to be various and numerous knife wounds. Some of the family members had been eviscerated and some were missing their extremities. There also appeared to be several bite wounds on the deceased. No murder weapon was found amongst the dead nor were the severed limbs recovered. Of the deceased were James Dobos’ mother, Hope Dobos (65), his brother, Leon Dobos (42), his sister-in-law, Ana Dobos (41), and Leon and Ana’s seven children: Leon Jr. (16), Timothy (14), Anne (12), Theresa (11), Daniel (9), John (5), Carol (2).
“It was terrible. So terrible,” Deputy Joseph McCoy said. “The children were in their costumes. There was gore and candy everywhere. The two youngest were in the basement. There was so much blood it was dripping between the floorboards of the first floor and pooling in the basement. I hope I never have to see something like that ever again.”
Police aren’t sure what prompted Dobos to slay his entire family but several of the neighbors told police James was a taciturn man who was either unable or unwilling to work. He resided in the home with his mother. Hope and Leon Dobos contributed walking-around money to James, which neighbors said he spent nightly at Kovacs Bar.
“He’d get to drinking and he’d tell wild tales,” frequent customer of Kovacs Bar, David Hornok, said when questioned by our reporters. Hornok added, “Always talking about how he was being poisoned and his head didn’t feel right. Said his brother was going to murder him one day and feed him to the devil.” David Hornok shrugged before stating, “I thought it was drunk talk.”
Fellow neighbor, Janice Kemeny, attended Holy Cross Hungarian Church with Hope Dobos. She said, “Hope was fed up with James. The only time he left the house was to go to the bar and spend the money she’d given him. He was a strange fellow. Always talking to himself about the devil but he wouldn’t go to church. I’m glad I don’t let my children participate in all the Halloween shenanigans. Puts the devil in their heads and god-fearing children don’t need any of that.”
The slaying of the Dobos family members turned Beggar’s Night into something more horrifying than anyone could imagine. Funeral arrangements for the deceased family members are being planned. We will provide updates on this story as police disclose more information.
ONE
WE PASSED ONE empty and overgrown lot after another. The area reminded me of something from an apocalyptic movie I vaguely remember watching as a child. I tried to recall the name of the flick but kept drawing a blank. The vibe of the area felt wrong. The neighborhood felt off in a large city like Detroit. I’d heard stories and seen pictures of urban decay but couldn’t quite wrap my head around it until we began to drive through it. Most of the lots were devoid of buildings and had at least waist-high weeds. If there was a house, the windows and doors had been hastily boarded up. But more often than not, the lot held a partially collapsed house with no effort put into securing the broken windows or the missing or kicked-in doors. What few houses we’d seen in the last five minutes appeared to be in such a state I didn’t think even squatters would take up residence in them.
Roofs were collapsed. Windows were gone. Doors were ajar. One faded blue house had ‘THERE IN THE SEWER’ spray-painted across the front of the house.
I half expected Brent to say something about the typo but he kept his eyes on the road, wearing a determined expression, one that made him look angry to anyone who didn’t know him well. It was a look I’d grown accustomed to over the years. The furrowed brow. The pursed lips. It was the same face he made when writing. As if the words or the laptop screen had done something to offend him somehow.
Brent drove over a sizable pothole and our belongings rattled in the back of the station wagon. I noticed his eyes flicking up to the rearview mirror and back to the road. I knew he didn’t care much for the few items we’d brought with us but if anything happened to his laptop or printer I knew the world might as well end for him. I recalled the time the motherboard crapped out on his previous laptop and the near hysterical meltdown I endured for a week while he shopped for a new one and toted the useless one from repair shop to repair shop, trying desperately to retrieve thirty-five thousand words of the book he was working on. That was the time I learned not to offer any encouraging sentiments such as ‘maybe it happened for a reason and the next draft will be even better’ unless I wanted him to offer up such biting remarks as ‘you don’t understand because you’re not a writer’ and ‘maybe if you were passionate about something other than sitting on the sofa and watching television you’d comprehend the situation.’ It got ugly. That was two years ago and the only time I seriously considered packing my things and leaving, although the list of offenses previous and since would be more than enough for most people to be gone in a flash. The admiration of finding a guy with a brain and an artistic passion nearly a decade earlier died after his remarks. Our relationship hadn’t been the same since but neither of us brought it up or talked about it. And honestly, I wasn’t really sure whether Brent was even aware there was a problem. In the two years since, he’d grown cold and distant
and acted as if my mere existence and the fact I was breathing aggravated him. I chalked it up to the quirks of an artist, and the stress of our financial situation would test even the strongest relationship.
“Laura,” Brent said harshly.
I was pulled back from my retrospection and turned to him. “Hmm?”
He sighed and there was an air of irritation in his tone. “You should probably start researching local thrift stores or scratch and dent shops if you want a bed to sleep in tonight.”
The air of condescension in his tone stung but it wasn’t anything I hadn’t grown numb and accustomed to. I lifted my sore butt from the seat and retrieved my cell phone. After so many hours on the road I was looking forward to getting out of the car and standing. A bed was the least of my concerns. I thumbed the screen and pulled up a business review app and searched for used furniture stores. A used bed wasn’t ideal but when you combined the income of a writer and a now-unemployed food server, funds were going to be scarce even with Brent’s promised meager advance once the completed novel was submitted. We were fortunate enough the publisher was willing to shell out the cost of renting the house for us. They were desperate to jump on the true crime boom and hopeful enough to think they’d be able to recoup their costs once the book was hurriedly written and published. They’d given Brent three months to write the thing and three months free rent in the murder house. It was muggy and hot now at the beginning of August. Who knew what the weather would be like at the end of October. By the looks of the houses we’d passed I didn’t have much hope for the actual murder house and was certain it would be a drafty, spider-infested mess. The thought of staying much longer than October wasn’t something I was looking forward to and didn’t think Brent’s publisher would budget a day over.
I’d found a couple of thrift stores that didn’t look like they were crawling with bed bugs when the GPS announced our turn. Brent turned onto a side road. I looked up to see a brick building housing a mom and pop hardware store and the local fire department facing the road we’d turned from. The road we were on was partially constructed from red brick and broken concrete. The first block on the street had an empty grass lot on the left and a huge cluster of overgrown trees and weeds on the right. It wasn’t until we passed the trees that I spotted the glint of a window buried in the brush.
“There’s a house in there,” I said.
Brent didn’t respond. He either hadn’t heard me or didn’t care. I was certain it was the latter.
The GPS announced our destination as we reached the next block. The right side of the road was another empty lot. But the left held a dilapidated house with no trees or shrubs in the yard. Brent pulled into the driveway and I took in our new temporary home.
It was a dirty tan house with a worn and nearly crumbling brown roof. The rickety front porch was missing a door. What windows weren’t boarded up looked filthy and the whole structure appeared to have been steeped in water. It had a bloated appearance, as if there had been a flood at one point or another or rainwater had been left to seep in through the roof.
We exited the car. Brent immediately pulled the paper from his pocket with the numerical code to open the lockbox on the doorknob to retrieve the key. He approached the house as I took in the surroundings.
The mailbox was canted at an angle so severe I wasn’t sure it was okay to use or not. The next block was the last as the road came to a dead end but it was still home to what appeared to be an abandoned church. Since there weren’t any other houses on our block I could spot a row of five houses the next road over. Three of them definitely looked abandoned but the one nestled in the middle had an old car parked in the drive. Even though the car looked decrepit I was sure it ran as all four tires were inflated. I couldn’t say the same for the car parked in front of the last house, its windows shattered and the tires completely missing. I guess the police or whoever kept an eye on the area weren’t concerned with its violation.
Banging came from the porch. I opened the back door of the car and retrieved a box of cleaning supplies and approached the open doorway and watched as Brent held the doorknob and slammed his shoulder into the swollen wooden door. I thought about warning him to not dislocate his shoulder or destroy the door but thought better of it. I knew it would only start an argument or rouse him to give me that silent disgusted look I despised and sometimes made me want to slap him. The door finally broke free and opened into the darkness of the house.
TWO
THE INSIDE OF the house looked as bad as the outside. Maybe worse. I was surprised the lights actually worked. The bulbs were filthy and cast a sickly yellow hue over everything. Brent had switched them on before disappearing to wherever. I took a deep breath and tried not to be pissed because I knew he wasn’t going to help me unload the car. Resignation had been my life motto for a long time now. I knew he’d be too interested in exploring the house and I’d be the one lugging most of our stuff in. I’d only taken a few steps into the living area, holding the box, and nearly fell. The floors were warped and swollen. They didn’t look like anything you could walk across without shoes unless you wanted to dig splinters out of your feet. I’d caught the toe of my shoe on one of the misshapen boards.
The walls of the parlor and living area were covered in a garish forest green wallpaper with gaudy mauve flowers that appeared to be made of cloth. There was a set of sliding French doors to another room on the left with intricate carvings in the woodwork frame. I looked to the left and spotted the kitchen and headed toward it as Brent appeared from the basement door located between the kitchen and living area.
“There’s no lights in the basement,” he said.
“We’ll pick up some bulbs while we’re out.”
“There’s not even a light socket down there for a light. We’ll need to get a flashlight or lantern or something.”
I set the box on the dirty kitchen counter. “A lantern? Where do you get a lantern?”
His eyelids fluttered and I was certain he was fighting the urge to roll his eyes at my ignorance. Without a word he tromped off to another part of the house.
The kitchen counter was covered with Formica laminate and someone had poorly nailed silver trim around the edges. It was evident the trim had been caught on something and bent and nailed back down. The kinks looked sharp, like they were aching for blood. I tried to remember the last time I had a tetanus shot. The cabinets were outdated and a few of the doors were missing. I opened one of the drawers and spotted mouse droppings. I checked the refrigerator. It smelled like death and rotten food and appeared as if it hadn’t been cleaned in a decade. I retrieved a bottle of bleach cleaner and a roll of paper towels from the box and made quick work of cleaning the counter, drawers, cabinets, and refrigerator, throwing the spent paper towels in the sink until there was a sizable amount before retrieving the box of trash bags.
The entire time I was hurriedly cleaning the kitchen Brent was stomping through the house, exploring every nook and cranny. I kept thinking at some point he would begin unpacking the car. I don’t know why I thought he would actually help. We’d been together for fifteen years. I knew better. I was surprised he hadn’t begun hassling me to start unloading the car already, as it would need to be unloaded before we could find a bed.
I turned on the water in the sink to wash my hands before attempting to pull the phone from my back pocket. I didn’t want to get bleach stains on my jeans. The pipes groaned and rusty brown water spat from the faucet, hit the porcelain sink, and splashed up on my shirt. I cussed and stepped back as the water farted into the sink and finally ran clear. Luckily my shirt was black so whatever was in the water, probably rust, wouldn’t stain it. When everything you owned came from a thrift store and you didn’t have money to replace anything should it break or fail, you were careful to baby everything, regardless of how worn or dilapidated it was. And dark-colored clothing was the best option when living on a budget. You didn’t need hot water or bleach to do laundry if everything you owne
d was dark.
I let the water run over my hands, continually fiddling with the nozzle, trying to produce something remotely resembling warm water. The hot water alone had terrible water pressure and took forever to warm. I was certain my stream of urine had more pressure. I was starting to wonder if the hot water heater was broken or if the pilot light needed lighting when it finally began to feel lukewarm.
I cleaned my hands and checked the time on my phone. We had six more hours before the nearest used furniture store closed. I really wanted to clean the bathroom and do a quick sweep and dust of the bedroom before we did anything else.
I didn’t think the layer of filth could get much worse until I checked out the bathroom. The toilet was more than disgusting and someone had decided that painting the shower walls was easier than cleaning the thick layer of soap scum. Paint was flaking off the shower wall and littering the tub floor. Some genius thought putting down carpet in the bathroom was a good idea, probably to keep from getting splinters if the floor underneath was like the rest of the house. The penetrating smell of mold and mildew from the carpeted floor stung my eyes and made my chest tight. I would’ve opened the window but, being on the first floor, the property owner had nailed a piece of plywood over it on the outside.
It was going to take way too long to clean the bathroom and I knew we were going to have to remove the carpet if neither of us wanted to end up in the hospital with some sort of rare lung disease. I dumped some bleach in the toilet and cleaned it and the vanity.
When I’d done what I could with the bathroom I went to find Brent. I climbed the stairs to the second floor and found him in the upstairs hallway. His back was to me. He had his hands on his hips and was staring at a pull cord for the attic door in the ceiling.