by Troy McCombs
Late afternoon, on December 5th, on Mayberry Road in Bellsville, fourteen-year-old Robert Silca, armed with his 12 gauge shotgun, ventured into the woods for a day of hunting. After an hour of maintaining position without spotting a deer, he decided to move to a different location. As he did, he began to get an eerie premonition that someone or something was watching him. It didn't matter how far or fast he seemed to go, he felt that he was undoubtedly being followed. Later, he walked into a clearing, right where the Prestillion house was located. "I didn't feel like it was a house, but rather a large hotel filled from corner to corner with evil persons." Robert claims then that he noticed a plethora of closely-connected, beady eyes staring at him through the top, northeast window. For moments he couldn't move, as if whatever was watching him had incapacitated his body. He thought about running, but his legs weren't willing to budge. Almost every part of his body seized up. "I could not look away. I had to look and, as I did, my own eyes burned like fire." That's when he says the front door creaked open by itself, as if the house was inviting him in. The boy aimed his shotgun, wanting to protect himself, but was terribly afraid to fire in case he missed his mark. "The sound that came out from behind the front door was like dry concrete being blown into rubble by a powerful force—impossible to describe. That's when my legs finally moved."
Robert backed away, rubbing his pained eyes. In his peripheral vision he says he saw a figure exit the house that chilled him to the bone. Whatever it was, was not gravity-bound, and was not like any animal he had ever seen. In fact, he wasn't sure if it was a solid being, an apparition, a gas, or a liquid, in true form. "It may have been all these...it may have been none of these."
Robert was found half an hour later when another hunter discovered him lying in the clearing, disoriented and unaware. Later, after he went to the hospital for observation, doctors diagnosed him with severe retina burns and cataracts. He completely lost his eyesight, but still claims he can see the thing that blinded him hanging upside down from the porch of the Prestillion home.
"It haunts me, really. I see it all the time in my mind."
Ever since, local authorities have done their best to block off the perimeter of the Prestillion house until further study can be done on it to understand its troubled nature. In the meantime, local Sheriff Tom Razzel will fine anyone who attempts to pass through the police barrier.
"We just can't have something like this happen again. Too many strange things have happened there, and the first time I saw the place, I got the sense I didn't belong anywhere near it."
John stopped scrolling. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand, his flesh creep. What was it that this reporter was describing?
Emma, the librarian standing halfway across the room, watched John closely, with contempt. Her baby blue eyes, magnified behind her bifocals, gleamed as she wondered—dreaded—what forbidden material the unfamiliar man was reading. People play with fire, they will get burned.
The curser moved south again. John read on:
A Bear vs. an Act of God? -- The Herald Star -- 1983 -- Tuesday
A loud crashing sound awoke 80-year-old Gregory Stittle at dawn on Friday, November 7th, outside his house on Mayberry Road. Groggy but curious, he got out of his bed, walked through his kitchen, and slid the sliding door open, only to find the surprise of his life. Only yards away, on the outside of his chain-link fence, a huge black bear lie dying in agony by his toppled-over garbage cans. "It was breathing real heavily, in real bad shape. I, personally, thought somebody had shot it." Gregory tells authorities. "Then the thing went limp, and I knew it was dead."
But when the authorities came, they could find no actual cause for the animal's death. No gunshot wound, no wild animal wound, nothing.
They figured it had died from natural causes, or had eaten some sort of poison. However, due to the extremely light weight of the creature despite its apparent size, and its extraordinarily jellylike structure, letting cause of death go was too quaint to ignore.
When an examiner opened its body, he found all of the bears internal organs had been liquefied, turned entirely to goo. On the outside there were no visible bruises or lacerations, whatsoever. "Big mystery," says the examiner. "We have no clue what can do this much damage without making any noticeable mark. However, we do believe it was caused by some kind of vibrating force. Its actual death has never been determined.”
John sat back, stretched, rubbed his eyes and yawned. He knew the librarian was staring at him without looking at her.
His eyes met with the side of the screen. The scroll bar was almost at the bottom of the page. There was not much more to study. So he leaned forward and read the last passage.
Boy Dares His Own Sanity -- The Chester Local -- Saturday -- 2002
Oscar Carrin was a respectable teenager with his head on straight, a 4.0 average, and a love for wrestling. He was planning to go to Harvard on a scholarship, but his dreams came to a crashing end when he was dared by a friend to venture into a house notorious for unexplained phenomena--The Prestillion House--one single structure surrounded by many locals who won't even mention it. Not a moment after stepping inside the place, Oscar ran out screaming, ranting and raving incoherent ramblings neither of his friends on site could understand. His eyes, 13-year-old Rick Tollsen said, were wild, completely glazed over, and searching for something that wasn't there. "I've never seen anybody look as afraid as he did then...not even in the movies." His other friend there at the time, Tom Peterson, claims Oscar's body was trembling so badly he thought he was going to hurt himself. "He just thrashed his arms and legs. I don't know if he was trying to fight the air or get away from somebody." Seconds later, the seizure broke, and Oscar fell limp to the ground. Neither one of his friends could tell if he was awake or asleep. "His eyes were open, but I could tell he wasn't all there. I was just glad he had calmed down...but at the same time," Peterson says, "I would have rather had him shaking and screaming compared to what he started saying as he stared up at us, past us. Stuff about 'don't look beyond the veil of', and 'watch for the day when Sturpth opens its head in the sky of the burning star', and other things I understood at the time, but nobody else would if I repeated them. And I cannot do that, or else. The very last thing he did say was the only thing I didn't understand—Rock'a'by' Rollings—
John shot back in his seat as if he'd been shocked by a taser. His own hand began shaking. His mouth fell open. His soul flashed with fear. Rock'a'by'Rollings was a phrase his mother used to say to him when she rocked him as a child. Oscar Carrin hadn't even born yet when she had stopped saying that. John knew that only an extremely gifted psychic or professional medium could pre-tell something that far ahead or distinct. This wasn't normal...not even in his realm of expertise.
He got up, looking down at the screen, in horror.
Rock'a'by'Rolling's, my sweet boy John, a gift to the earth, with you there's no wrong, now go to sleep gently, and have a nice dream, when you wake in the morning we'll eat some ice cream.—he suddenly recalled her singing. Not good enough for a Hallmark card, but it used to comfort him.
John hurried out of the library. This was the first time in a while he had been truly unnerved.
Outside, the air had cooled a few degrees. Heavy gray clouds blanketed the sky, masking the sun that had already begun to set over the Strovenburg Hills in the distance. Still, the general area was void of people and traffic. Street lights were beginning to come to life. A new day was growing old again.
John jogged across the street, down the block, and down the alley, feeling eyes again watching him. Right now he didn't care to whom they belonged; he just wanted to get out of there, go home. But once he reached his Lincoln Town car, and fumblingly took his keys out of his left pocket, he saw just to whom they did.
That Doberman. It was sitting over by a row of dented garbage cans, panting, glaring thoughtfully at the man who inserted a key into a car door.
John turned to the animal. "Are you all right, pooch?
" As soon as he asked, the dog whimpered and walked his way. Much of the fear he felt only seconds ago dissipated into thin air. He got a sense of strength and vitality from the mutt, and an even greater sense of loyalty. Of course, animals were always easier to read than humans, since they didn't build walls around themselves. They also never lied.
"Are you okay?"
The dog's mouth curled up and back, revealing two slimy sets of canines. It was not a signal of an oncoming attack; it was more of a handshake. The dog was smiling. This made John smile in return. He knelt down and rubbed the animal's sides. "You need a name. Can't keep calling you—you. What are you, by the way?" He checked between its two rear legs. "You're a boy. Let's see. I can call you...how about Lucky?"
The dog barked, did a spin, and bombarded his face with a shower of kisses.
"Lucky it is! Ease up, ease up."
Lucky complied.
"Well, Lucky," John said, standing back up and opening his car door, "thank you again for saving my butt, and maybe I'll see you around here again sometime."
But as he went to sit down in the driver's seat, the dog whined and scratched at his leg, either wanting to go with him or wanting him to stay behind.
John shook his head. "You can't come with me. Dogs aren't allowed. It's just the way it is. I have to go now."
Lucky whimpered some more.
Grabbing onto the door handle, John looked down at the creature who just wanted his attention. He felt terrible having to leave the poor stray behind, but he felt he had no other choice.
So he commenced to shut the door, the piercing wails of a beautiful Doberman Pincher anguish in his ears. He could hear it through the windows, he could hear it over the rumbling engine after he turned the key, and he could hear it when the radio kicked on, too. He pushed back the tears in his eyes, put the gear in drive, and drove away, trying not to look back at the dog that had saved his life.
He couldn't.
His eyes shot to the rear-view mirror. He watched as Lucky sat crying alone in the middle of a dark, lifeless alleyway, a lengthy trail of stinky exhaust distancing them farther and farther apart. A mournful farewell to man's best friend.
A tear finally fell down his cheek. John had to use all his strength not to pop the clutch in reverse. He loved Lucky already, and it's for that reason that he did not go back.
***
Later that night...
His head jerked from side to side on the coffee-stained pillow; his legs kicked and thrashed at the sheets and blanket like two large pistons. Moans escaped from his throat, even though his mouth was closed during the entire length of the strange, distorted dream. The images came quickly, and passed even more quickly. John could not discern any of them. His soul was flying through a milky mist over a stream in the woods. Nobody was around for miles.
Then, an image of Lucky flashed inside his mind. The dog was sitting still in a grassy field, looking off to the side, panting. In slow motion, he barked. The sound was deep, penetrating and playful. John wanted to go pet him, but realized he was nowhere in the scene, even though he felt he was.
And just like that, the image of Lucky vanished.
John's head swung to one side, nearly colliding with the bedpost. Inside his head, he continued gliding up, over, and around the stream, the cold night air brushing harshly against his face and ruffling his dark hair. He could barely keep his eyes open, it was so strong. He had had dreams like this before—flying adventures to Egypt, the North Pole, across the Pacific...but this one was different. This time he didn't know where he was going, or why he was going to such a deserted place on earth. It wasn't far by usual human standards, and yet, there was no place more remote.
A flash of light burst inside his conscious, igniting his recent memory of the awful odor he'd inhaled in the Mayberry House. It wasn't a scent akin to eternal hell, his sixth sense told him, and it wasn't a scent akin to the afterlife (ectoplasm was now ruled out); it was something else.
Else...
What was else?
In the way information compiled itself illogically and erratically in most mortal dreams, the answer tried to show itself in simple words, with little meaning at all—
Formless...shapeless...D'kourikai (unknown syllables)...another...stink...forgotten...lost...inhuman...irrefutable...gaseous-like but unbroken...twenty-two-eyed...ea of grity…den wiut rue...be--fr--noth--d--st--away--r--nev--
John flew right into a brick wall. He didn't see it coming; in fact, it seemed to have materialized from out of nowhere. His head ached. Throbbed. The wall itself was damaged, too. Cracks ran along the very spot where he'd made contact. The bricks around the middle shifted, crumbled, and collapsed like an imploding building. Rubble broke over crumbling rubble.
He was flying again, faster through the forest, knowing he was very close to his intended destination, wherever that might be. A dull, misty, cave-like odor filled his lungs, made it hard for him to breathe. It was air, but not earth air. The wind against his body did not feel like earth air, either. It was heavy, cold, and unnatural, being forcibly discharged into the atmosphere by an unseen source. But it was the mumbling, incoherent voice he heard that made him want to wake up. He knew he was sleeping, and so did whatever being the voice belonged to. It had him trapped on a one-way nightmare to...
The Mayberry House?
That's what John saw a moment later, after brushing through the sharp, bendable limbs of a pine.
That building was not set in stone and wood in this reality. Here, it was shifting, moving, shaping itself to its own dreaded desire. It was not bound by any current law of physics. John now knew that. It wasn't bound by any law but one, which he couldn't see, and which it wouldn't let him know. He tried to break past the barrier and look farther, over the wall of secrecy. As he did, a brick wall flew at him, slamming into his body with the force of three Mack trucks. This one, unlike the previous, didn't crumble or break. It suddenly surrounded him and barricaded him inside like a caged animal. For the first time in his life, John Rollings did not have control of his dream. He didn't have control of anything. The wall was simply a trap. He had already gotten close enough for its own liking.
The walls around him, above him, and below him grew close slowly, methodically, and all the oxygen went away. He could not draw even the slightest of breaths; nor could he move very much without bumping his elbow or head against cold hard concrete. His entire form was about to be crushed together like a car in a junkyard. He tried pushing the many solid bricks with his hands, but none were giving slack. They continued inward, down, and upward, now beginning to compress his limbs dangerously close to his body. He felt his elbow gouge his liver, his legs snap in half, and his skull cut through his panicked brain. Blood poured from his orifices, and then from new, ripped orifices. It puddled and ran toward the top of the collapsing cube. Gravity in here was backward.
He couldn't scream or pray or fight. The pain was unbearable. The loneliness was even worse. He felt disconnected from God. Nowhere in him was there a remote trace of peace or comfort. This box was the complete representation of ultimate insanity.
And still, it was not hell.
More bones shattered, more cuts open, more blood spilled. Dying wasn't the bad part...the bad part was the hideous voice that began whispering over and over...
"Rock'a'by' Rollings...Rock'a'by' Rollings...Rock'a'by' Rollings."
Not a human voice.
Not a demonic one.
***
John jolted upright so quickly, with just a little more momentum, he could have toppled over the foot of the bed. A dim sunshine glowing through the window ahead lit up the left side of his face. The other half was stark black. All of it was drenched in sweat. Some beads rolled down and leaped off his chin. He didn't bother to wipe any away. He wasn't sure if he had totally wiped away the nightmare in his mind. The desolate, gut-wrenching feeling still lingering inside him was most dominant. John didn't know dreams like that even existed.
&n
bsp; Now he knew they did.
And when he finally wiped away some of the accumulating sweat from his face, head, and ears, he got an even greater shock.
There was a little blood mixed in with it.
Chapter 4
John left his apartment moments after receiving a call from Charlie Steera. Today, the Sheriff's voice sounded further unsettled, the content of his message bizarre and unnerving. Apparently during the night, one anxious officer had entered that house, wanting to see for himself just what was really happening in there. Moments passed without a scream or a whimper, and fortunately the man came back out alive, but was broken out in hives and talking in a language not even a local linguist could understand. He was taken to the ER for observation, where doctors found cancerous growths suddenly forming in various parts of his body, severe brain damage, ruptured blood vessels, and a bleeding liver. Steera went on to say that the man's eyes turned a pee-yellow color at one point and that his teeth crumbled apart as he spoke the words of an undetermined language.
John thought of much as he made his way through the hallways, down the steps, and through the back door of the United Apartment Building. They were thoughts most people come to consider after watching a convincing horror movie: that we are not alone in this world, in this Milky Way, in this universe. That there may be certain things creeping around in certain places so remote that no man can see...things purposely separated from man so that he may be ignorant to its awesome and horrible existence. No ocean floor has ever been seen by human eyes, and no foreign planet has ever been tread by human feet. There are still regions on islands almost impossible to reach by airplane, helicopter, boat, or vehicle, and there are also caves that have been untouched for millions of years.
The truth of the matter was grim...
Man can split an atom to annihilate a country.
Yet, man still doesn't know his place on the globe.
Whatever had made the Mayberry House its home was something entirely unknown.