I’m an ordinary, unremarkable person, a tiny gray speck in the human tide, convinced that religion is the opium of the masses, atheism is needlessly extreme, politics is nothing but filth, and life is the meaningless existence of protein bodies. I fear nothing except the dark thoughts of others.
I believed this right up until the moment an unpleasant, sniffling man in a plaid coat appeared on my doorstep.
I wasn’t glad to see him—I never am for visits like that. For six days I’d been covering for my vacationing coworker; all I wanted was sleep and quiet, yet this plaid pest kept stubbornly jabbing the doorbell.
I dragged my bleary eyes to the clock: six in the morning. I had to get up. With half-shut lids, I shuffled to the door. Strangely, I didn’t feel like asking who it was or picking a fight. I never opened for the local cop, never for neighbors, but for this guy, I did.
The man slipped into the flat like a weasel and bolted for the kitchen.
— Name’s Simon Irving. On business. You’re Christopher Sanderson, right?
— Yeah, that’s me.
— From your grandmother, Irene Nicholson. She passed you the house documents.
— You’ve got the wrong guy, whatever your name is—I wanted him gone yesterday—no grandmother here. Died ten years back. Have a good one.
— Hold on, hold on. All correct. Irene Nicholson’s a distant relative from Ashland. Fancy a cup of tea?
— I want to sleep! Couldn’t you have come earlier? Middle of the night, why not! Let’s talk grandmothers, relatives, and the rest some other time.
The man shot me a sour look and slapped a thick envelope on the table.
— Dawn’s coming soon; can’t stay long—muttered he—sign for receipt.
I scribbled a squiggle and shoved him out. Halfway to the elevator he turned and glared at me with a vile, predatory glint. It unnerved me.
Sleep was ruined; I’d have to brew coffee and shake off the drowsiness. The envelope held a pile of papers: inheritance documents, the old lady’s death certificate, and a photo of a lopsided, drab house. I couldn’t recall any such relative—maybe my parents never mentioned her? Either way, the shack could be sold; I’d buy a car at least.
Vacation was coming, so without delay I decided to go see the inheritance. The GPS plotted a 180-mile route—lucky it wasn’t in the Alaskan wilderness. I brewed a thermos of coffee, packed sandwiches, and hit the road.
I liked old things; maybe something interesting would turn up. Friends knew my hobby and regularly brought me vintage cassettes, oil lamps, pins, books.
Playing it safe, I stopped at a gas station. While a young kid filled the tank, I grabbed coffee and walked around the car. Rust streaked the fenders and doors in stripes—odd, just a couple spots recently. Time to ditch it soon; domestic engineering, the devil take it.
A couple hours later, drowsiness hit. Passing a tiny hamlet, I nearly ran over a fat calico cat that darted right under the wheels.
“Hey, Karen, damn it!” The cat gave me a lazy, disdainful look and sauntered off regally.
By noon I reached the right yard; the sun beat down as if intent on melting both me and the rusting car. From the opposite yard emerged an old woman:
— Christopher? she croaked in a grating voice. — Looks like, looks like. Show your papers.
I handed her my driver’s license; she glanced at it carelessly, muttered something, and shuffled off—as far as I could tell, for the keys.
— Here’s the keys—I flinched; she’d materialized behind me out of nowhere.
— Thanks! I’ll stop by tonight, or you come over; think I’ll stay the night. Tell me about the relative at least.
— No, no, no—you come yourself, and better stay at mine overnight; don’t remain here after dark, bad place.
— Thanks.
Had the crone lost her marbles, or just not gotten along with the neighbor? She hobbled home, but I still felt her gaze from the window. Pushing to the porch was tough; tall grass had claimed everything, no paths. Near the doghouse something clanged—damn, I hadn’t asked about animals. A quick glance and I regretted coming at all: a huge black dog charged me. I bolted inside and locked the door just shy of its snout. Outside, claws scraped the wood; then sudden silence. The dog didn’t even bark. That damned crone—couldn’t she have warned me about the beast?
A narrow hallway led into the house; mirrors draped on the walls, icons. My eyes stopped on an old oil lamp.
“Jackpot,” I thought, instantly forgetting the dog incident and anticipating the find. Further room inspection yielded dusty old photo albums; walls held photographs too. One young man looked uncannily like me: smile, eyes, haircut. I took the photo down and read on the back: “Sanderson Christopher, 1884–1910.” Even the age matched; chills ran down my spine.
Despite the summer heat, the house was cool, with a draft from somewhere. Behind an old wardrobe was a boarded-up pantry door—not on the floor plan. Curiosity piqued; I couldn’t pry it open, so I grabbed a crowbar. Nails came out hard, as if bent from the other side. Exhausted, I collapsed on the ancient sofa and picked up an album. No one in the photos smiled; faces like wax.
On one photo I recognized my grandfather with a woman labeled my grandmother. Grandpa never spoke of her. Turning the page, I froze: from the yellowed snapshot stared a guy with my name and face, and beside him the plaid man who’d brought the documents at six a.m.
“Right, need a nap; I’m just overheated and tired—should take up sports,” I thought, and drifted off.
— Christopher—whispered a voice right above me—thank you…
I jolted awake, sleep vanished like a dream. Outside it was dark; I’d slept a long time.
Need light. The room switch just sparked; others showed no life. Wiring needed replacing—couldn’t sell the house like this.
I turned on my phone flashlight and lit the old oil lamp. The tiny flame dimly lit the room and dark doorways. In that light the photos looked even creepier; I avoided the mirrors, sensing someone else in the house.
The pantry door stood ajar; from the small room wafted rot, oil, age, and something else.
I entered: a dried-out wooden crate, that same plaid coat; on the wall a large portrait of my grandmother in odd clothes.
I wanted out of the room, the house, the village entirely. The lamp and album were more than enough for my collection. But the urge to find more overrode sense; I started prying the crate with the crowbar. At the bottom lay a small object wrapped in grimy, greasy cloth. I unwrapped it: a greased pistol and two magazines.
The lamp light hit the cloth—stains like blood, creepy. I looked down, stepped back, and trod on something hard: a cellar hatch with a metal ring, perfectly clean and polished, as if used often. Behind me the door slammed; my last courage fled. All I wanted was out.
I dashed down the hall to the front door, but something made me turn. I’d regret that for a long time.
What I saw shocked me; the world seemed to crumble, and I was losing my mind. From a rope hung the woman passed off as my grandmother; beside her on a chair, head bashed in, sat the plaid man.
Suddenly the grandmother turned her head toward me and reached out; the man with a black eye and bloody face rose and advanced. By their look, they’d died long ago.
Waves of horror crashed over me; I ran for the door—it wouldn’t budge. Panic nearly consumed me, but remnants of reason spurred quick action. I cut across the corpse’s path, past the opening cellar from which oozed some vile sludge, and hurled a nightstand through the window. One leap and I was in the yard—but no salvation. Acrid black smoke poured from the window, touched my legs, and paralyzed me. The smoke rose higher; I stood frozen.
Whispers pierced my head, pulling back: “We’ve been waiting, Christopher dear, come back.” My body turned itself and shuffled toward the house like a zombie. The black dog, my morning acquaintance, sat motionless, burning me with empty eyes.
A sudden gust saved me, scattering the smoke; I broke free and fled.
I stopped only in the neighbor’s yard, gasping for air but failing.
— Told you, don’t stay there overnight, fool—she muttered. — Five folks vanished in the last decade; all blame your grandma. Shouldn’t have let you go, old fool that I am.
I listened silently to her laments, steadying myself, feeling car keys in my pocket. Pity about the trophies left in the house, but go back? God forbid.
— Your grandma sat home alone, talked to no one. Sent Alex and Buster to the store. Smart dog.
— You couldn’t have seen him. Died right after his mistress. Mail lady brought the pension: dog dead, Irene hanging, Alex with a bullet in the skull—screams heard village-wide.
— Maybe imagined it—I didn’t want to seem crazy and pretended nothing happened.
— Tomorrow we’ll go look together; don’t scare so easy—your imagination’s run wild from my tales.
— No way, not setting foot there. Dawn’s breaking; I’ll head out. Key’s in the lock; I’ll send realtors—they can handle the sale.
The old woman stared fixedly at the cut on my shoulder and sniffed. Smiled for the first time since we met.
— Dawn soon; sit tight, I’ll fetch a bandage—don’t leave.
I meant to stay, but glanced at the table. A utility bill named the payer Nicholson Nina Irene. No thanks—I wasn’t waiting around. I jumped up and ran to the car; miraculously, it started right away. I peeled out, wringing every ounce from the old heap. Only now did I notice the total absence of people, the filthy stinking pond, crooked houses with boarded windows. The sun rose, and the black smoke retreated.
A new day swept away the night’s nightmare; I resolved never to return. Let the money rot with them.
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