I am an ordinary, unremarkable man—a tiny gray speck in the sea of humanity. I've always believed that religion is the opium of the masses, that atheism is unnecessarily radical, that politics is nothing but filth, and that life is merely the meaningless existence of biological organisms. I fear nothing except the dark thoughts of other people.
I was certain of this right up until the moment a disheveled, sniffing man in a checkered trench coat appeared on my doorstep.
I wasn't happy to see him; I'm never happy about such visits. I'd just finished a grueling six-day stretch covering for my partner at work, and the only things I wanted were sleep and silence. But this man in the checkered coat kept pressing the doorbell with stubborn persistence.
I glanced blearily at the clock: six in the morning. I forced myself up and stumbled to the door, eyes half-closed. Strangely, I didn't feel like shouting or asking who it was. I never opened the door for the landlord or the neighbors, yet for some reason, I opened it for him.
The man brushed past me into the apartment and hurried toward the kitchen.
"My name is Simon Miller. I'm here on business. You are Steven A. Collins, aren't you?"
"Yeah, that's me."
"I'm here on behalf of your grandmother, Ida Collins. She sent these house documents for you."
"You've got the wrong guy, Mr. whatever-your-name-is," I said, desperate to get rid of him. "I don't have any grandmothers. The last one passed away ten years ago. Have a nice day."
"Wait, wait. It's all correct. Ida Collins was a distant relative of yours from out west—somewhere near the coast. Perhaps you could offer me a cup of tea?"
"I want to sleep! Couldn't you have come any earlier? Like in the middle of the night, maybe? Let's talk about grandmothers and relatives some other time."
The man gave me a cold, unsettling look and placed a bulky envelope on the table.
"It'll be light soon. I can't stay long," he muttered. "Sign here to acknowledge receipt."
I scribbled a signature and ushered him out. Halfway to the elevator, he turned back and pierced me with a foul, predatory gaze. It made my skin crawl.
***
My sleep was ruined, so I made some coffee to shake off the grogginess. The envelope contained a stack of various papers: inheritance documents, a death certificate for the old woman, and a photo of a slumped, nondescript house. I couldn't recall such a relative; maybe my parents just never mentioned her? Either way, I figured I could sell the place and finally buy a decent car.
I had a vacation coming up, so I decided to go see the property without delay. The GPS showed a three-hour drive—lucky it wasn't halfway across the country. I packed a thermos of coffee and some sandwiches and hit the road.
I've always had a soft spot for antiques. My friends knew about my hobby and regularly brought me old cassette tapes, kerosene lamps, vintage badges, and books.
To be safe, I pulled into a gas station. While a young kid filled the tank, I grabbed a coffee and walked around the car. Strips of rust were eating through the fenders and doors. It was bizarre; just a few days ago, there were only a couple of spots. I needed to get rid of this junker as soon as possible.
A few hours later, I started feeling drowsy. Driving through a tiny, dilapidated hamlet, I nearly hit a fat calico cat that darted right under my wheels.
"Watch it, Anna Karenina!" I yelled. The cat looked at me with a lazy, contemptuous stare and walked away with its head held high.
By noon, I reached the yard. The sun was beating down as if it wanted to melt both me and my rusting car. An old woman stepped out of the yard across the street.
"Steven?" she rasped in a high, grating voice. "You look the part. Let me see your ID."
I handed her my driver's license. She glanced at it dismissively, muttered something under her breath, and disappeared—presumably to get the keys.
"Here you go," she said. I jumped; she had reappeared behind my back with unnerving silence.
"Thanks! I'll stop by this evening, or you can come over. I think I'll stay the night. You can tell me about my relative."
"No, no, no," she stammered. "You come to my place. Don't stay there after dark. It's a bad place."
"Right. Thanks."
I wondered if the old lady had lost her mind or just didn't get along with the neighbor. She limped back to her house, but I could still feel her eyes on me from the window. Getting to the porch was a struggle; tall weeds had overtaken everything, and there were no paths left. Near a doghouse, I heard a metallic clank. Damn, I hadn't asked about pets. One look and I regretted coming at all: a massive black dog was charging at me. I lunged into the house and slammed the door just before it reached me. I heard the sound of claws scratching against the wood, then sudden silence. The dog didn't even bark. Crazy old woman—she could have warned me about the beast.
***
A narrow hallway led deeper into the house. The walls were lined with covered mirrors and religious icons, but my eyes landed on an old kerosene lamp.
"Score," I muttered, instantly forgetting the dog as I anticipated the find. Further inspection revealed dusty photo albums and framed pictures on the walls. One young man looked exactly like me: the same smile, the same eyes, the same hair. I took the photo down and read the back: Steven Collins, 1884–1910. Even the age matched. A chill ran down my spine.
Despite the summer heat, the house was chilly, and a draft seemed to blow from nowhere. Behind an old wardrobe, I found a boarded-up door to a pantry that wasn't on the floor plan. My curiosity got the better of me. I couldn't kick it in, so I grabbed a pry bar from my trunk. The nails were stubborn, as if they had been bent from the other side. Exhausted, I lay down on an old sofa and opened one of the albums. None of the people in the photos were smiling; their faces looked like wax.
In one photo, I recognized my grandfather with a woman identified as my grandmother. He had never spoken of her. I turned the page and froze. Staring back at me from a yellowed photograph was a man with my name and my face—and standing next to him was the man in the checkered coat who had delivered the documents at six this morning.
"Okay, I need to sleep. I'm just overheated and tired. I should really start going to the gym," I thought, and drifted off.
"Steven..." a voice whispered right above me. "Thank you..."
I woke up instantly, my heart racing. Just a dream. It was dark outside; I'd slept longer than I intended.
I tried the lights, but the switch only sparked. The others didn't even click. The wiring was shot; I'd have to fix that before I could sell the place.
I turned on my phone's flashlight and lit the old kerosene lamp. The small flame cast a dim, flickering light over the room. In this glow, the photographs looked even more sinister. I didn't dare look in the mirrors; it felt like I wasn't alone in the house.
The pantry door was now slightly ajar. The small room smelled of rot, grease, age, and something else I couldn't name.
I stepped inside. There was a warped wooden crate and that same checkered trench coat. On the wall hung a large portrait of the old woman in strange, ceremonial clothing.
I wanted to leave—leave the room, the house, the whole town. The lamp and the album were enough for my collection. But the urge to find something else overrode my common sense, and I began prying open the crate. At the bottom lay a small object wrapped in a dirty, greasy rag. I unwrapped it to find a lubricated pistol and two magazines.
The lamplight hit the rag; the stains looked like blood. Creepy. I looked down, took a step back, and stepped on something hard. It was a cellar hatch with a metal ring. The ring was perfectly clean and polished, as if it were used frequently. Behind me, the door slammed shut. Whatever courage I had left vanished. My only desire was to get out.
I bolted down the hallway toward the front door, but something forced me to turn around. I would regret that for a long time.
What I saw sent me into a state of shock. It felt like the world was collapsing and I was simply losing my mind. Hanging from a rope was the woman I was told was my grandmother. Next to her, sitting in a chair with his head caved in, was the man in the checkered coat.
Suddenly, the woman turned her head toward me and reached out her hands. The man with the black, hollow eye and bloodied face stood up from the chair and started toward me. Judging by their appearance, they had been dead for a very long time.
Waves of terror hit me again and again. I ran for the door, but it wouldn't budge. Panic nearly paralyzed me, but survival instinct took over. I dove past the dead man, sprinting by the opening cellar hatch where a foul, dark substance was oozing out, and threw a small table through the window. One jump and I was in the yard, but the nightmare wasn't over. Acrid black smoke poured from the house, swirling around my legs and freezing me in place. The smoke rose higher, and I couldn't move a muscle.
A whisper slithered into my mind, pulling me back: "We've been waiting for you, Steven... come back." My body began to turn on its own, dragging me toward the house like a zombie. The black dog sat motionless, burning me with its empty stare.
A sudden gust of wind saved me, dispersing the smoke. The invisible shackles broke, and I ran as fast as I could.
***
I didn't stop until I reached the neighbor's yard. I stood there gasping for air, unable to catch my breath.
"I told you not to stay there at night, you fool," the old woman muttered. "Five people have vanished over the last decade. Everyone blames your grandmother. You shouldn't have gone in there. I'm a senile old woman; I shouldn't have let you."
I listened to her rambling in silence, gradually coming to my senses. I felt the car keys in my pocket. I regretted leaving the antiques behind, but God help me, I wasn't going back for them.
"Your grandmother lived alone. Never talked to anyone. She'd send Alex and the dog to the store. He was a smart dog."
"Wait... Alex?" I gasped. "The man in the checkered coat? And the dog... I saw them this morning."
"You couldn't have. They died right after she did. The mail carrier came with the pension check—dog was dead, Ida was hanging, and Alex had a hole in his head. There was enough screaming to wake the whole county."
"Maybe I just imagined it," I said, trying not to sound insane.
"We'll go take a look together tomorrow. Don't be so scared; your imagination probably just ran wild because of my stories."
"No way. I'm not setting foot back there. It's getting light out; I'm leaving. The key is in the lock. I'll send a realtor; let them handle the sale."
The old woman stared intently at a cut on my shoulder and sniffed the air. She smiled for the first time since we met.
"The sun is almost up. Stay a moment, I'll get a bandage. Don't leave."
I was about to stay, but then I looked down at the table. A utility bill was sitting there. The name on the account was Ida Collins.
That was it. I wasn't waiting for anything. I bolted for the car, and to my surprise, it started on the first try. I floored it, pushing the old engine for everything it was worth. Only now did I notice the total absence of people, the stagnant, foul-smelling pond, and the leaning houses with boarded-up windows. As the sun rose, the black smoke receded.
The new day began to wash away the traces of the nightmare. I decided right then that I would never return. To hell with the house, and to hell with the money.
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