The House

The House
By
Paul Forster

A letter came today with no return address. When I opened it the pages burst into flame and I immediately threw them into the lace curtains over the living room windows. A thought of losing the house crossed my mind, but that didn’t happen, the flames did not set fire to the curtains. On inspecting the pages there was no heat and when I picked them up my fingers were not burned. It was an illusion of flame dancing over the sheets.

They were 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 that familiar cold hand tightening it’s grip on my heart.

I crumpled the sheets, throwing them toward the fireplace and the flames disappeared, the sheets consuming themselves in flight. What reached the fireplace was a fine dusting of 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 clenching of my gut told me it was real.

I stood, gasping and as fearful as I had been when Cletus disappeared.

Cletus was my best friend and we did everything together, until the summer between junior and senior years when he disappeared. That will be 70 years ago this July, a week before our 17th birthdays; there was 6 days between us, I was older. Cletus didn’t celebrate his 17th birthday that year, or any other birthday since.

No one ever found out what happened to Cletus, why he went missing, but I always knew because 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 clean little bungalow that looked like it was ready for someone too move in. It did sit by itself, the only house at the end of a half-mile paved road. It was set way back along a cement walkway and behind a white picket fence with a gate. The sidewalk continued from the street to the house and there was no driveway. We always thought that was strange, everyone had a car so where were you supposed to park?

A dirt trail ran off the end of the street into the woods north of town so all the kids in town rode past it on the way 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. The windows were always clean and the lawn mowed, but we never saw anyone working there.

The town seemed shy of the place too, all development happened to the south, but nothing near it. Essentially the town ended that half-mile before the house that one street ran past. Beyond was nothing but forest, so the whole area took on a dark tone which enhanced the Sherwood Forest adventures. We did not play in the forest to the east.

We were 16 and totally invulnerable as teens are, so we decided to check it out. From appearances, what could hurt us? Right.

We rode our bikes up the walkway to the gate which seemed recently painted and I felt an invitation to come in and visit. Cletus had too because with a distant stare he’d opened the gate and stepped through.

“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 as with slow, deliberate steps he approached the house. I felt a much stronger Tug and pulled the gate shut, stepping back. Something like a loud whisper in my mind about all the pleasure I’d feel if I just went inside, but something inside me kept saying, “Do not do that.”

Cletus stepped on the porch and the front door slowly opened by itself. I could see a 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 turned rigid and it looked like a magnet pulled him backward 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 might have gotten me too, but I was already half way back to civilization and the Tug of that invitation was fading. I never rode past the house again and left town as soon as I graduated high school. School a thousand miles away, but the Call was still there. When I finished college I left the country.

I’m still afraid of that house. The Tug has never stopped and I’ve fled the fear many times, first across country then to Mexico, then several countries in South America. Then all over Europe and the old Soviet Union, but again, no relief, it’s always there. I’ve studied and joined every major faith and many non-major and 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 and difficult to fight. First, Cletus, cajoling and begging, then a myriad of other voices, all pleading and begging for my company.

I’m 87 now and very tired, I’ve been fighting against that Tug for 70 years. I’ll die soon, another year maybe, and I am terrified of what will happen when I do. I have nightmares, both 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: 1,035