"What is it?" Walter asked, looking down at Noel and then following his gaze to the woods.
The girl jumped back in fright and disappeared into the trees.
"What are you looking at?" Walter asked, squinting and holding a hand up over his eyes to block out the sun.
Noel stared at where she'd been standing. In the midst of all the bad omens he'd been feeling, there was a certain comfort in the sight of the girl, like maybe there was someone who lived nearby who could take his mind off this terrible place. Someone who could be his friend.
Blackout
Walter laid another log on the fire and stoked it. The blaze crackled in the hearth and spread its glow and heat throughout the living room. Noel leaned forward in the armchair, grateful to feel the warmth on his skin. Walter had gotten him back inside the cottage and helped to put some of his fears to rest. But only some. The whole place still seemed spooky, especially now that darkness had fallen, but everything a little less so. Noel was still grappling with the thought that he would have to stay in this strange new place for the indefinite future, but the reality was setting in that he didn't have a choice.
"Are you comfy?" Walter asked.
"I guess so," Noel replied, shrugging his shoulders.
"That's a ringing endorsement if I've ever heard one," Walter said. He glanced over his shoulder at the double doors leading to the game room in the den. "Listen, Daddy has to do some work now, okay? Actually, Daddy has to do a lot of work for the next week."
Noel's face was strained, like he was trying to hold back some sour emotion.
"It's the way it's gotta be, kiddo. Just a week, and then we're going to decorate this place up for Christmas. Me and you."
Noel sat with his arms stretched out on the armrests, the chair way too big for him. "Mommy never would've brought me here," he said.
A subtle tinge of red touched Walter's face. Noel usually saw it when he got angry, or when he was drinking. "Don't start with this," Walter said. "I got enough shit—" He stopped himself and took a deep breath. He considered his son again, then he knelt down beside the armchair and rested his forearms on the edge of it. "I have a lot of stuff to do. I know it's hard, but bear with me for a little bit. Please."
"There's nothing to do here," Noel complained. "The TV doesn't work."
Walter glanced up at the flatscreen the movers had hastily put on the fireplace's mantle from their old house. "The cable guy's coming tomorrow to hook up the phones and TV. Sit and enjoy the fire. Use your imagination."
Noel was quiet, and when his father leaned in to kiss him on the cheek, he pulled his head away. Walter stood up immediately and intensely stared at his son. He walked away and disappeared through the doors to the game room, leaving Noel alone with the gently crackling fire. The light flicked on in the game room, and its glow painted the edge of the den that Noel could see through the archway. There was a light that Walter had left on in the kitchen, one dingy old bulb that seemed like it was far too low a wattage that covered the area in a murky yellow. The rest of the house sat in darkness.
Noel stretched his feet out on the brown leather ottoman and dug himself deep into the chair, resting his hands on his stomach. An old analog clock ticked on the wall, creating the only sound in the living room other than the fire.
Tick, tick, tick.
Noel shivered.
The bench seat in the game room scuffed along the floor and Walter cleared his throat. The standard arpeggios that Noel heard a thousand times before were worked through, and then, as Noel predicted, a few old jingles his father had written for commercials that had made him famous played in the silent house.
Noel sat and listened. He stared at the wall separating the living room from the den, then his eyes swiveled through the archway toward the doors of the game room where the cheerful melodies marched out. His eyes continued along the wall to his right, until he was looking down the hallway toward the kitchen. The light in the kitchen seemed dimmer than before, and the rest of the house between it was so dark and frightful. Noel sat up in the chair, trying to get closer to the fire to warm himself. He wore a sweatshirt and long pants, but in the dark of the house, a chill clung to him.
After Walter ran through his old jingles a few times, there was silence. Noel knew that this was when his brain went to work coming up with new tunes. But there was a very long pause, and Noel knew that the longer it was, the harder a time he was having. Finally, a sustained note rang out. When it ended it was followed by another one, slow and careful, as if checking that the two could mingle. A C-note came next, followed by a quick flick up to F. Then there was silence again.
The clock ticked. Noel gulped.
More notes followed, quickening in pace. Before long they cobbled together a bouncy tune, and Noel could hear his father put his weight onto the keys, vigorously hammering it out. It was catchy and snappy, but somewhere along the way when Walter attempted the hook, he tried something that just didn't play with the rest of it. His hands crashed down on the low keys, creating an ominous rumble. He cursed under his breath. After a moment, he tried again. He kept the first part and came to the hook again, but again he just couldn't figure it out.
"Son of a bitch," Noel heard him mutter from the game room.
The playing slowed down and he tried the hook by itself, tinkering around with a few ideas. But nothing came to him, and the long, ominous low notes rang out again in his frustration. The sound of the bench scraping across the floor drifted out of the room and footsteps followed. Walter came out into the den and glanced at the bar. He took a step toward it, then he paused and looked over his shoulder at Noel.
Noel snapped his eyes shut, hoping his father didn't see him staring. He held them closed for a few long moments, then he worked up the courage to pry them open by just a sliver.
Walter stood in front of the shelf behind the bar, tilting various bottles and inspecting their labels. He pulled one up to eye level and gave it a careful look, then he twisted the cap and gave it a sniff. A sour grimace plastered his face and he put it back. He grumbled under his breath, and his forefinger tapped along the top of each bottle in the row. Knowing most of them had long spoiled by now, he tried to find one that would still be good. His finger stopped on one close to the edge of the shelf, and he smelled it. His eyes scrunched up, but then, considering it for another moment, he bent down and pulled a glass out from under the bar and filled it with the amber liquid. He tossed one last glance to Noel as he went back into the game room, and Noel made sure it looked like his eyes were closed.
When he was out of sight, Noel opened them and shifted uncomfortably in the armchair. As his father got back to work—no more successful than before—Noel glanced around for something to keep his attention and take his mind off the anger and frustration he knew would soon come over his father. He watched the second hand tick by on the clock, highlighted by the dancing orange light from the fire. The snowy field outside the back door was much too dark to make out at this point, but his eyes lingered on it. He wondered about the cross he'd found erected by the lake. He wondered why he got such a bad feeling from the lake itself, and the shed, or the house for that matter. When his mom was still alive, his father had read him a story one night at bedtime about a ghost who lived in a house with a little boy. It turned out the ghost who had given the boy quite a fright only wanted to be loved by somebody. But the story had always haunted him after that, and he sometimes wondered what it would be like to live in a house with a ghost. The feeling he got when thinking about that story was the same he felt when he stepped through the front door of the cottage.
Noel glanced toward the kitchen. He thought about the bullet hole he'd seen in the window and the ones in the façade outside. His father told him to forget about it, just like he'd told him to forget about the cross at the lake. It seemed like there were a lot of things he hadn't been telling Noel, to the point where his own father felt alien to him. Noel could never understand why he didn't bring mommy h
ome safe that night, why she died in that car accident and left him all alone. No answer ever satisfied him, and ever since then he just felt cold to his father. He didn't trust him. Not being old enough to grasp the concept of money problems, the idea lingered in his mind that Walter had brought them here to punish him for the lack of trust and forgiveness Noel felt for him. For the disdain.
The clock ticked and the piano notes played. Frustration followed, accompanied by the sound of glass being set down on wood.
That dismal, aching despair that Noel had felt since coming here expanded in his chest like a balloon. He thought of that little girl standing in the woods. Who was she? She must have lived nearby, but she was clearly scared to come any closer than the edge of the woods, and scared of anyone who would live in this place. She must have known something about it. Noel's mind played with these ideas as he stared blankly at the fire.
A groan came from behind him.
Noel spun around in the chair. His eyes darted around for the source of the disturbance, but nothing was there. A stiff wind whipped against the glass door next to the fireplace and the house shifted and groaned from the force of nature. Noel relaxed, realizing he was working himself up over nothing.
He turned back to the fire, leaning forward in the chair and shivering more than before. He held his hands out to it, begging for warmth. His teeth chattered, and as the wind picked up outside it began to drown out the sounds of his father working in the other room. In his mind, he was surrounded by the darkness and the cold and the wind, all alone. Every peculiar sound gnawed at him and he harshly whispered to himself over and over again that everything was fine, that there was nothing else in the house with them.
A creaking sound came from the kitchen.
Noel's head slowly turned.
The pantry door had opened by a foot.
The sight of it was so ghastly to him that he found himself petrified. His heart hammered like those in the piano striking their strings in the other room.
Slowly, Noel rose to his feet. He walked down the hallway, the bottoms of his feet scuffing the floor. The door stood motionlessly on its outward angle, shrouding whatever was behind it. His stomach tied itself in knots and his teeth chattered like ice cubes knocking against each other in a glass.
Had it only been the wind? A draft? Or was there something with him in the sickly light of the kitchen? Something in the pantry...
The hallway stretched forever in front of him. The door loomed over him like it was the monster itself. He stopped before it, reaching out for it. All the hairs on his arm stood up. His fingers wrapped around the cold doorknob, then he pulled it open all the way, that awful creaking noise cracking his eardrums.
Blackness stood behind it, and it seemed like even the light from the kitchen couldn't penetrate it. Noel stared into the void. The warm air he felt come out of the pantry before was gone now. Something much colder and more sinister lay waiting inside. Noel's eyes were wide, his heart thumping like mad, searching for it, waiting for some monster or ghost to reach out and grab him.
The silence was so heavy and overwhelming that it felt like he was a thousand fathoms underwater.
He took a step forward and reached into the darkness. Just as his hand passed the threshold, something seized his body and he stood bolt upright.
Horrible flashes of images played in front of his mind's eye. They were so horrific and gruesome that he couldn't make sense of them at all. Unbearable pain coursed through his body and he screamed. But the pain and suffering wasn't from him; he was experiencing the emotions and images of someone else. The pictures swirled through his vision so quickly that they blended into one, and all of the unknowable images and scenes Noel witnessed came together in one single, unified theme that he could understand: murder.
Then he blacked out.
The period that passed afterward was murky like ink. There was movement, sound, and the faintest bit of light. And then, his eyes opened.
The living room came into view, except now he was looking up at the ceiling. And hovering over top of him was his father's face.
"What... what happened?" Noel asked weakly.
"I think you had another one of your blackouts," Walter said, worry streaked across his face. "But you're okay now. You're laying on the couch in the living room. Just stay here until you feel a little better."
"Okay," Noel replied, his eyebrows arched and strained with the pain he'd felt. He closed his eyes again and adjusted himself on the couch, getting into a more comfortable position. The terrifying images he'd seen before he blacked out were standing on the fringes of his mind, but they were hazy now, and he couldn't quite remember them. He periodically had blackouts in the past, usually whenever he encountered something upsetting, but never one like this, and never with such vivid imagery.
"I pulled your sheets out of the box and put them on your bed upstairs," Walter said. Just stay here and rest for a while, and when you feel up to it, head up to bed. I'll be working for a little bit longer." He leaned down and kissed Noel on his forehead.
Noel was too weak to protest, and the kiss felt like a sting to him.
Walter looked at him with a disappointment that Noel didn't see, then he left Noel lying under a blanket in front of the fire and went back to work.
Noel shifted on the couch and pulled the blanket to his chin. The warmth of the fire was comforting, and he basked in it as the piano's melody played into the night. He fell asleep.
When he awoke, the fire was out. He found himself wrapped in his blanket like a cocoon to keep warm from the cold that settled over the living room now. Softer, more elegant notes came out of the piano, and Noel wondered what time it was. It could have been two in the morning for all he knew, and yet his father was still at it.
Noel was exhausted, but it was too cold to stay on the couch. He got up to his feet and made his way for his bedroom, rubbing his groggy eyes. He tensed up as he approached the pantry door, but he was too tired to give it attention. The door was firmly closed, and in his exhaustion he wasn't sure how much of what he remembered was real or imagined. The strain lifted when he got to the stairs, and he climbed them to the second floor.
He headed to his bedroom like a homing missile locked onto the bed. His father could work on his jingles into all hours of the morning, but Noel needed to sleep.
But before he could make it inside his room, the door at the end of the hallway opened.
Walter stepped out into the hallway and paused when he saw Noel. "Goodnight, kiddo," he said sleepily. He yawned, then he turned into the bathroom and shut the door.
Noel stood frozen in the hallway, his blood run cold.
The Butcher
Noel had a turbid dream. He had trouble falling asleep, and when he finally did his dreams were confusing and disturbing. At one point he was running down a long hallway from something unseen chasing him. Then the dream morphed, as they usually do. Next he was in a playground at school, horsing around with his friends. An uneasiness gripped his heart, and he worried what he would do when the winter break ended and he would have to say goodbye to them and go to a new school. He stood there with tears streaming down his face as he watched the ground slip away from him, carrying his friends with it. He felt the pull deep in his chest, like he was falling through dark waters. And then, with a lead-heavy dread, he recognized the familiar scene around him.
He was standing in the middle of a wintry road in his pajamas, his bare feet frozen to the pavement. That horrible scene.
He clutched his blanket tighter in his arm and walked down the road. He'd done this so many times before, he lost count. The gentle snowfall brushed against his cheeks and his hands, and he shivered in the winter cold. Red taillights became visible in the white haze and he saw that demented wreck once more.
"No..." he pleaded. But his body carried him on against his will.
He felt his legs work down the decline at the side of the road and now he was in the field behind the car, bearing wit
ness to the carnage. He saw the two heads peeking over the headrests through the cracked back window.
"No!" he sobbed again.
He walked to the side of the car, gazing at it with the curiosity of a child finding a shipwreck. But he didn't want to know what was inside. He wanted the dream to end and he wanted to wake up to whatever horrible reality awaited him; anything but this.
White smoke drifted out from under the hood, gently mingling with the falling snow. The scene was so serene and peaceful, it could hardly be believed what awaited him.
The passenger door was before him, and his eyes were glued to it; he knew his mother was behind it. He approached and reached for the handle, just as he had reached for the pantry door. He desperately tried not to do it, but it was like some other force was possessing him, forcing him to do it. He squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to watch, but he felt every movement, felt the cold metal under his wrapped fingers. The familiar pop rang into the night as the latch opened, and he heard the creak of bent metal wrenching against itself.
"Noel!" a horrible voice said.
Noel's eyes shot open, and he wasn't prepared for the monstrous sight he beheld. He gasped and staggered backward on stilted legs.
"Noel!" his mother cried again, blood gurgling in her throat. She wore her nicest red dress. Her short brown hair was recently cut, and a pair of diamond earrings sparkled in the snowfall. Her makeup was done up, but her face was all wrong. Her eyes were wide and bloodshot. Her skin was ghostly. Thick crimson ran over her lips and down her chin, pairing with her lipstick. Every time she tried to cry out to her son, more blood poured out, splashing on her lap and the seat beneath her. She reached out for him, but her elbow bent the wrong way and the forearm fell down limply, hanging like a swinging sausage on a hook. She tried to cry her son's name again, but the blood choked her throat. Then she collapsed, dead.
The Box Set of Hauntings and Horrors Page 21