The Old House
By: Steven Whittle

Short Fiction

            I’m not sure what possessed me to check the place out. I’d see it on my way to school on the bus, but I never became curious about it until a few weeks before . . . . Well, we’ll get there when we get there. I want to make it clear that I don’t normally do things like this. I’m not one to snoop around abandoned buildings or closed off areas, but some things can’t be helped… and some things should be left well enough alone.
 
            This . . . old house. It was the kind of thing you saw in an old article on the Great Depression. You could feel the oxygen snuffing dust at the very sight. The old house was the subject of much stigma in the neighborhood. Nobody lived there. There was no furniture, decorations, or any other signs of an owner. It was as if it was just built to look creepy and never be used. Of course, no one went near it for fear of any wild animals or unstable construction, and as for children, they spoke of ghosts and monsters. All kids’ stuff to be sure, but still, you could not deny the aura of intimidation that the old rickety shack emitted.
 
            The story around it was more akin to a tale of disappointment and failure as opposed to bloody murder. Supposedly there was a man who built it from the ground up. Stone by stone, board by board. It was his passion project, and for a moment when you hear this story, you could almost imagine it as this beautiful expression of the American Dream. Unfortunately, this euphoria of a happy memory fades with the next portion of the tale. Once the man finished, he promptly married his current sweetheart, then had kids, then divorced. He would remarry, have more kids, and divorce once more, this process would repeat again until the man was torn by bitterness, then . . . nothing. The house seemed static as both the man and his numerous unwanted children faded into local legend. Even the house itself seemed to be a physical manifestation of legend. Like a Greek statue of a demigod or Egyptian sarcophagus.
 
            I slowly stepped up to the abandoned hovel and I wasn’t sure what kept me going closer. Was it courage? Excitement? Or just plain old curiosity? No matter the reason, I went up to the old door. The wood had lost all paint and now looked like it was forged from termite ridden logs, the whole house looked that way. The glass in the windows seemed to have a yellow tint and everything was covered in a thick sheet of dust. I went to turn the knob, but it was so rusted and broken down that my mere touch broke the knob off and the door creaked open. With deep hesitation, I stepped through the doorway and got a look at the inside of the house for the first time.
 
            The stories were true, not a single piece of furniture, not a painting on the wall. It was almost . . . depressing. I thought about turning back, but I was dead set on finding out more. I found myself feeling lost in the relatively small house even though I hadn’t moved at all, and the more I stared into black shadows that fled the beams of sunset light, the more I swore I could see something moving in them. I finally began walking again and looked about the house. It was pretty standard looking and if you imagined it furnished, you could tell what each room was. That’s when I saw a cellar door under the floorboards, barely even noticeable.
 
            Without thinking of why it was so well hidden I went forward and opened it. . . .What I saw . . . what I keep seeing when I sleep, when I close my eyes . . . I will never forget.
 
            As I went down the stairs an awful smell hit me, like rotten fish. I kept going as I pulled my shirt over my nose and looked into the dark cellar. There was . . . a man, an old man in a wheelchair. A creepy smile went over his face that never moved. Then I noticed the rest of the room. Row upon row of small, rusty cages full of small skeletons . . . child skeletons . . . and out of each came an IV that led to the old man. He had a large, empty blood bag leading to his arm, but the IV had fallen out and I realized the man was dead. I was about to turn and leave quietly to report to the police . . . when I heard the squeaking of wheelchair wheels behind me. I bolted out of there, headed straight home, and slammed the door behind me. My heart was pounding out of my chest and my breathing was fast and heavy as I recalled the events and questioned myself if what I saw was even real. There was no mistaking it, unfortunately, it was real . . . all too real.
 
            ​I never reported my findings, I never told a soul . . . I couldn’t even bring myself to pray about it or mention it to myself out loud . . . How could I? Because of this morbid revelation, every time there is silence, I smell the corpses, I see the old house . . .and I hear a close, ominous
SQUEEEEEK. . . . ​

"I think my biggest focus was to make it scary without explaining every little thing . . . so I opted to create something scary that didn't need explaining to be creepy or disturbing." --Steven Whittle from Atlantic High School.