The House

The House
By
Paul Forster

A letter came today and when I opened it the pages burst into flame. I immediately tossed it away and when it landed among the lace curtains over the living room window I thought at first the house would be gone, but that didn’t happen.

The flames did not set fire too the lace curtains they embraced, and, inspecting the letter, I could detect no apparent heat. When I hesitantly picked up the pages my fingers were not burned nor the pages consumed by the visible flames. It was an illusion of flame dancing over the sheets.

On examination the sheets were revealed as pages of news print with headlines blaring in bold type, “CLETUS IS LONELY DAVID,” and “COME BACK TO CLETUS DAVE,” and “YOU DIDN’T SAVE ME DAVID.” I could feel the icy fingers of a familiar cold hand taking a grip on my heart and applying an increasing pressure.

This terrified me and I crumpled the sheets, throwing them toward the fireplace. The illusion of flames disappeared and the sheets seemed to consume themselves in flight so what reached the fireplace was a fine dusting of light, grey ash settling over the darker ashes already there. Then the grey dusting disappeared and I wondered about the existence of the letter, but the fear remained.

I stood, gasping and as fearful as I had ever been.

I remembered Cletus. He was my best friend until the summer between junior and senior years when he disappeared. That will be 70 years ago this July, weeks before our 17th birthdays; there was 6 days between us, I was older. We were both 16 at the time, but Cletus didn’t celebrate his 17th birthday that year, or any other since. Cletus went missing that summer and no one ever found out why.

No one but me, I always knew where Cletus was. I’d seen what that little, innocent looking White House did.

Cletus and I had heard all the stories of our local haunted house, but we didn’t believe them. It was said it would suck you inside and you’d never be seen again. But, we’d seen the house, it was a nice, clean little Bungalow that looked like it was ready for someone too move in. It did sit by itself, the only house on a one block street. It was set quite a ways back and a dirt trail into the woods north of town ran off the end of the block so half the kids in town rode past it on the was to adventures in our Sherwood Forest.

Thinking back later I’d realized it always looked like it was ready for someone to move in, and it was a house that looked like it could do no harm. Small, white and looked freshly painted with clean windows and a mowed lawn. We never saw anyone working there.

The town seemed shy of the place too, all development seemed to happen around it, but nothing near it. Essentially the town ended several hundred yards before it and one street ran past, ending shortly in that one block. Beyond that was nothing but forest, so the whole area took on a dark tone.

We were 16 and totally invulnerable as teens are, so we decided to check it out. A Bungalow, small, white, with a porch with railings and posts; what could hurt us.

Standing with our bikes and looking up the walkway I noticed the white picket fence and gate seemed to have been recently painted, and the yard and bushes trimmed. I seemed to feel an invitation to come in and visit. Apparently Cletus did too because with a distant stare he opened the gate.

“Cletus! Don’t!” Was a yell, but it was too late, he was already several steps down the walk. “Cletus, come back! . . . Something’s wrong, come back!” By this time I was screaming, but nothing caught his attention or slowed him down. And I could feel a tug myself. Something like a whisper in my mind about all the pleasure I’d feel if I just went inside, but something in me kept saying, “Do not do that.”

He stepped on the porch and the front door slowly opened by itself. I could see the look of fear appear on his face when he looked into the house and yelled, “No!” Then he turned to run, looking at me and yelled, “Dave, help me!” It was his last sound. His body seemed rigid and it looked like a magnet pulled him through the door. I have never forgotten the look of terror on his face as he disappeared into that house. The door slowly closed behind him and somehow I knew Cletus was gone.

It would have gotten me, but I was already half way back to civilization and the tug was fading.

I’m still afraid of that house. I’ve been forced too move many times, first across country then to Mexico, Brazil, England, the Scottish highlands, Spain, and now Germany, but I still hear it. I’ve studied and joined every major faith and many non-major or fringe cults, but none have given me answers or hope.

It’s a pitiful call I feel, full of tears, remorse and a longing for company that is compelling in nature and very difficult to fight. First, Cletus, cajoling and begging, then the house and a myriad of other voices, all pleading and begging for my company.

I’m 87 now, I’ve been fighting against it for 70 years and I’m tired.

I’ll die soon, another year maybe, and I am terrified of what will happen when I do. I have nightmares, both when I’m asleep and walking around in the daylight. I can see the house sucking my soul in through that open door and me having to deal with whatever had terrified Cletus.

Word Count: 977