by Greg Chapman
She would have had Ben’s children if he’d wanted them. At least that’s how she’d felt when they first met, before he put his career before her. In many ways she was glad she hadn’t put herself through motherhood because in the end it would have been the kid who’d suffered. This way, their parting would only affect them, and not some innocent child.
The sound of breaking glass turned Megan away from the phone and her morbid thoughts. Through the window, she glimpsed her neighbour, Alice Cowley, struggling to carry several cardboard boxes to her car. One of the boxes had fallen, spilling delicate contents over the driveway. Megan slipped her phone into her jacket and hurried to the front door. She jogged up the path to help the woman, who was crying all over again. China cups and saucers were spread out in pieces at the woman’s feet.
“Here, let me help you.” Megan bent to pick up the fragments.
The woman stared blankly. “Oh… thank you,” she said.
Megan admired the floral pattern on the china plates and felt a pang of regret as she caught a glimpse of the woman’s tears. “I’m so sorry. And I’m sorry about your daughter.”
The woman cradled the broken pieces of plate. She nodded her thanks.
“My name’s Megan. Megan Traynor.”
“Alice. Alice Cowley.”
“Mom?”
Megan looked up to see a boy holding a box of his own. His eyes also registered loss.
“This is my son Dale,” Alice said. “Dale, could you go and grab a dustpan, please?”
Dale put his box down and walked back inside the house.
“You’re moving away?”
“I… we just can’t live here anymore.”
“I’m moving out, too.”
Alice frowned. “You are?”
“I’m splitting up with my husband.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
Dale came back, dustpan in hand. His mother took it and started to sweep up the smaller pieces. “I can clean up the rest,” Alice said. “Thanks for your help Megan—and your compassion.”
Megan squeezed Alice’s hand. “I just wanted to help, and to say how sorry I am.”
Alice nodded. “Thank you. And good luck to you.”
Megan walked back towards her house, the guilt of not knowing Alice and her family before, weighing hard on her shoulders. It was easier for people not to care about others; to limit the circle of pain. Her expression of sympathy had been too little and too late, but she hoped that Alice knew she’d been sincere. She glanced over Willow Street and thought about all the other people she was about to leave behind. Megan wished them luck, too.
She stopped suddenly, thinking she’d seen someone standing behind a tree across the street, someone watching her. A second look convinced Megan it was just her imagination, and she went inside her house, shaking her head at her gullibility.
Chapter Nineteen
Ben’s skull blazed with agony when he regained consciousness.
He looked around the darkened room with blurry eyes. Pulsing pain shot through his temple, and when he clamped his hand on it to quell its intensity, his palm came away with blood. The sight of glistening red on his skin brought his last memory to the surface.
“Mitchell, Mitchell Cross.” The last thing he’d seen was the madman stepping out of the dark. He tried to get to his feet but the throbbing inside his head, left him weak. Cross had hit him hard.
“I told you not to go into that house.”
Ben flinched as Cross emerged from behind a row of standing shelves filled with archive boxes, the length of pipe still in his hand. “You keep back!”
“Why did you go in there? I warned you not to go in there.”
Cross’s hospital gown was a different shade to Ben’s, off-white, with flecks of dirt and other stains. The man paced on the spot and picked at his skin with dirty fingernails. He had descended even farther into madness since Ben had first met him at The Gazette. Cross had gone to the extreme by taking Ben captive, but Ben didn’t know whether he was in a storage room or hospital basement. The room they were in was just shelves of archive boxes, leading off to a door. Through a small window in the door, Ben could make out a flight of stairs.
“Look, you need to calm down, Mitchell,” Ben said. “Just take it easy.”
Cross ran a shaky hand through his hair and pulled at the strands. “The house isn’t safe! Not my house, and not the one on Willow Street!” He looked up. “Not even this building is safe!”
“Okay, then let’s get out of here. Let’s go somewhere where we can talk.”
“No!” Cross trembled with rage. “You can’t leave! If you leave, the house will claim you.”
Ben got on his haunches. He had to be ready to make a run for it if Cross became violent, and the look in his eyes told him he wasn’t far off. “I have to leave. I have to warn others about the Willow Street house. Just like you warned me.”
“I warned you, but you still went in there. Why would you be so stupid!?”
“I wanted to know the truth about what happened to your family. Now I know.”
Cross grimaced, baring yellow teeth. “You didn’t believe me?”
“No, no I did believe you. I just wanted to see what the house was like—inside.”
“That’s because it wanted you to! You shouldn’t have gone there!”
“The house is gone now. It burned down.”
A hint of elation passed over Cross’ features, but it quickly faded to sorrow. “You burned it?”
“There was an electrical fault. When I flicked one of the switches, it sparked and started a fire.”
Cross licked his lips, his eyes narrowing. “You’re lying. Why are you lying?” He took two steps closer and Ben stood straight.
“No, I’m telling the truth…”
“You saw something in that house, didn’t you?”
Ben pressed his back against the wall. “It was empty.”
Cross shook his head. “They’re never empty. What did you see?” The madman took another step closer.
“Nothing, I swear.”
Cross grabbed Ben by the shirt and shook him. There was no rage in Cross’ eyes, only desperation. He raised the pipe in his other hand. “It showed you what it wanted you to see! You shouldn’t have looked! You shouldn’t have gone in there.”
“I know, I know and I’m sorry,” Ben said. “Please you have to let me go so I can warn everyone. My wife is across the street from that house. I have to make sure she’s okay. Please!”
Mitchell shook him again. “Your wife’s already dead! Everyone on that street is dead!”
Ben shoved Cross backward. The man slammed into one of the shelves, spilling two boxes of hospital files onto the floor. Ben heard Cross’ weapon hit the ground with a clang, echoing away as it rolled along the concrete floor. “Megan’s not going to end up like your wife, trapped in that hell-hole! I’m going to go to that house and burn it down, too!”
Cross’ eyes widened. “So you did burn it down!”
Ben silently cursed his own foolishness. “I told you it was an accident!”
“What did you see?” Cross attacked Ben again, but this time his hands were wrapped around his throat. “Did you see Cindy? Nathan? Did you see my little boy?”
“No…”
“Did you burn that house down with my family inside!?”
Ben gasped for breath. “They… they were already… dead.”
“No! Nooo!” Cross lashed out with a fist to Ben’s face.
The reporter’s vision wavered from the force of the blow, but Ben’s desire to fight and flee was enough to keep him standing. He smashed his left elbow into Cross’ nose. The man stumbled backward, a torrent of blood splashing over his gown. Ben took the opportunity to kick his shocked opponent in the knee, and Cross buckled to the floor. But when Ben tried to plant another kick to his ribs, the man was waiting and grabbed the reporter’s leg dropping him on his back. Cross crawled across the floor, quick as a snake, once mo
re wrapping his thin hands around Ben’s neck.
“I can’t let you leave! The house knows you. It sees you!”
Ben saw blasts of blackness behind his eyes as Cross squeezed his throat. The reporter’s lungs burned for air, and through a fog of asphyxiation, Ben summoned the last of his strength to scratch at Cross’ grimacing face. Ben’s fingertips became slick with blood. Cross howled and loosened his grip, and the reporter was able to bring his knee into the madman’s groin. He shoved Cross aside and ran to open the door and make for the stairs.
Cross’ moans of agony became shrieks of rage which followed Ben’s every step. He knew Cross would pursue him, but all he had to do was get to the next floor and signal for help. His half-crushed throat seared with each frantic breath, but he had to keep going. He had to get out of the hospital and back home, and send that house back to Hell where it belonged.
A scream and slap of feet on the stairs below pushed Ben on more urgently. He turned left onto one flight of stairs, and then right onto another, until he finally reached the door to the next floor. To his horror, the door was locked. He pulled on the handle and screamed for help, but those on the other side seemed deaf to his pleas.
“You can’t leave!”
Ben turned just as Cross tackled him. They fell to the floor. Cross had the upper hand, and powered by his psychosis, rained down a series of punches into his face. Ben felt his nose break, and he tasted blood at the back of his throat. He lifted his knees and kicked out, sending Cross toppling back down the stairs. The man tumbled against the concrete, until his agonised cries were silenced by the sickening snap of bone.
Bruised and bloodied, Ben crawled to the edge of the steps and saw his attacker lying at the bottom, his neck broken. Cross’ eyes stared blankly into Ben’s own. Ben turned away and breathed. He was alive, and there was still a chance to save himself, and his wife, from the curse of Willow Street. Groaning, he pulled himself to his feet and got ready to bang on the door again for help—when suddenly, it opened.
To Ben’s bemusement there was no one on the other side, and as he made a run for the hospital’s front doors, not a single, solitary soul was there to stop him.
~
Bags in hand, Megan opened the front door, only to find a strange, short, chubby man standing at the other side.
The man adjusted the glasses on his nose and smiled. “Hello.”
“Oh, you startled me.” Megan looked the man up and down. “Can I help you?”
The man smiled again. “My name’s Darryl, and I live down the street at Number 61.”
Megan placed her bags on the floor and offered Darryl the plainest smile she could muster.
“Hi,” she said.
The man raised his eyebrows and nodded. “I just thought I’d come and introduce myself, you know, be a good neighbour.”
“Well, thank you, but as you can see,” she indicated the bags. “I’m about to leave.”
Darryl didn’t even glance at the bags; he just kept on smiling, and Megan felt a twinge of apprehension. “Are you going on vacation?” Darryl said.
“Um… sort of. Look, I’m sorry, but I’m waiting for my taxi.”
“Oh, how rude of me,” Darryl chuckled. “I was just, you know, trying to be a better neighbour.” He put on a more serious face. “Especially with all the terrible things that have been happening.” He looked briefly over his shoulder at the dark house across the street. “It’s just awful, and with poor Amy Cowley taking her life… so tragic.”
Megan glanced at the Kemper House and back to Darryl. The sad look he was giving her, made his face look even chubbier, and she wasn’t entirely sure he was being sincere. “Yes, it has been very hard.” She picked up her bags. “I appreciate you coming over, but I really have to go.”
Darryl made a grab for her suitcase. “Let me help.”
“No it’s fine, really. I can manage.” She picked up her bags and stepped out of the doorway.
Darryl grabbed her wrist. “You won’t even tell me your name, you ungrateful bitch?” His eyes grew cold. Megan attempted to scream, but her neighbour clamped a sweaty hand over her mouth. “But it doesn’t matter anyway because I know everything about you, don’t I, Megan?”
He shoved her so hard she struck her head on the tiled floor, and plunged into a black pool of unconsciousness.
~
Ben drove his car to the limit, weaving between cars on the freeway. He didn’t care if the police tried to stop him. He hoped a patrol car would spot him and give chase, just so he could lead them home.
When Megan told him she was leaving, Ben had felt crushed. But now, with all that was happening around the Kemper House, he wanted her to be gone, to be out of harm’s way.
If the house got a hold of his wife…
But he couldn’t think like that. He had to focus, and figure out a way to stop the evil from spreading.
As he drove, he wondered if he was already too late. The Kemper House and its evil had existed long before anyone in the city was even born; its roots were firmly planted and stretched in every direction. He knew from his experience at the Mayne Avenue address that the Kemper House held sway over death; that those who died inside were doomed to reside within for all eternity and do the bidding of some demonic entity.
The blare of a car horn wrenched his thoughts back to the road. Ben swerved in front of a sedan and sped up the outside lane to overtake a cement truck. He was touching 90 miles per hour. He’d never driven this fast in his entire life. But then, he’d never held so many lives in his hands. He shook his head, still disbelieving.
Was this what it was like in Mitchell Cross’ head? And his wife’s, before she killed her only son?
Cross’ final words came to him again and the fear along with it.
What if this was the house’s doing? What if it wanted him to race home? What if this was all part of its plan?
No, he told himself. You’re in control. Just get to the house and burn it to the ground. Send it back to Hell.
Seeing the exit ahead, Ben steered the car into the inside lane and then floored it to overtake another vehicle. He exited the freeway and started to count down the miles to Willow Street.
~
Megan opened her eyes and found the world around her so dark and cold she thought she was already dead. When she tried to sit up her head pounded, and she had to take a deep breath to stifle the nausea that hit her like a wave. She squeezed her eyes shut and re-opened them, hoping that miraculously everything would return to normal, but she was betrayed by the stark reality of her surroundings. She was no longer in her own house.
Wet warmth trickled down the back of her neck. She tried to move her hand to touch it and was shocked to find her hands were fastened behind her back. The skin of her wrists stung when she tried to wriggle them free. The nausea settled deeper in her gut, roiling into a pulse of fear. Her heart pounded faster and her head throbbed in turn as she realised the danger she was in.
Through the murk of dizziness, Megan tried to recognise the room. The air was musty, the floor beneath her gritty and worn, the walls were cracked and peeling. The entire space contained only the faintest hint of light, a shaft of moonlight creeping between the heavy curtains that covered every window. She didn’t know which house she was in, but she could guess how she’d arrived inside its foreign walls. The ache on the back of her head brought with it a memory of the man who had attacked her.
Darryl.
He appeared from around a corner as if summoned by her thoughts. Megan recoiled and felt the skin of her wrists tear as she tried to move away from him. Even in the dark she could make out his round face and equally circular glasses. She remembered his face now; he was the man she met in the street the day the body was found, and the man at her window. The lenses reflected Megan’s horrified gaze.
“You’re awake,” he said. “Excellent.”
“Stay away from me!” Megan squirmed.
Darryl stood at her feet and slippe
d his hands into his pockets.
She dreaded what he might have concealed in them.
“I’m not going anywhere.” He smiled and readjusted his glasses. “I’ve waited a very long time for this moment.”
Megan screamed, as loud and long as she could. “Help me! Help!” Her voice swirled around the room but faded as soon as she ran out of breath.
Darryl laughed. “Are you done?”
“Fuck you!”
“You can scream all you like. He laughed again. No one will hear you. This house is completely empty.”
“They’ll hear me outside! Help me! Help!”
Her kidnapper shook his head. “This is His house. It stands outside this world. It only reveals itself to those it deems worthy. It is his temple.”
Megan thought he sounded like Ben. The only difference was that Darryl had already lost his mind. “What do you want with me?”
Darryl smirked and sat in a cracked leather recliner. A great waft of dust painted the moonlit air around him. “To serve the purpose all women serve,” Darryl said.
Megan swallowed. She knew what he intended and fought to contain her fear. “I won’t let you touch me.”
“When you understand your purpose, I believe you’ll go willingly.”
Megan clenched her jaw. “Just fucking try it.” Her thoughts trailed back to Ben, and how she wished he were here. She felt tears in her eyes and dared herself not to blink, not to let them fall.
Darryl expanded his hands and gazed about the room. “I built this house so long ago.” he said. “I came here—to America—to start anew. I’d hoped to bring his vision with me, to be his apostle. People back then had nothing but their faith. Christians, Jews, Protestants, Masons. I wanted to spread the true word, and show people that they should embrace darkness rather than fear it. A few came into the church, but it was all too secretive, going out at night, meeting in cramped drawing rooms and halls. I used my gift as an architect to find employment with the local council, and it wasn’t long before I had the ear of the Mayor. Just a few words was all it took in those days. People were hungry for guidance, for signs and wonders and oh—they saw many.” He was suddenly downcast. “But, by venturing into the squalor of this city I succumbed to its filth. Months after coming here I fell ill. At first I was enraged; I felt betrayed by Him. But as I slowly weakened, I realised that He’d bestowed on me a gift—a purpose. So I channelled my pain into building temples. I shared my plans with the Mayor, and the doctors and benefactors I had secured, and they helped me build His Houses.”