There is an old abandoned house perched atop a stubby hill not too far from where I grew up. The outer paint all flaked and its garden long since overgrown with weeds, it looms slightly above the rest and looks down upon the surrounding modern homes littered around on all sides. A relic of a time gone past, many in the local community have always considered it an eyesore. A problem to be dealt with in order to pave the way for something new, something worthwhile. It’s sat empty for many years, longer than I’ve even been alive, and remarkably enough it was left entirely untouched by vandals.
I always marveled at it as a child as we drove past. So different. Decayed, yet strangely beautiful among the meticulously upkept suburban residences that contrasted it in every direction. The house seemed to experience the world all on its own. As innovation brushed away the others of its kind, it alone remained. Stoically defiant. Refusing to give way.
At least, that’s what I always thought as a young boy. It wasn’t until much later that my dad would tell me a story about a dead family line and the bank’s efforts to claim the property to no success. And so it sat dormant, waiting. For what, who’s to say? But even as an adult, I’ve always had a niggling feeling that old houses like that, the ones which refuse to go into that dark night of deconstruction, hold some sort of strange power. Ambiguous, but there all the same. As if somehow actively preventing their own demolition.
I finally decided to get inside and take a look. Having recently driven home to visit my parents, I cruised down that same street and was astounded to see that even after the years I’d been away, the house still remained. Now in an even more dilapidated state, its windows were still miraculously intact, caked in dust and grime to the point of opacity but whole just the same. The entire property seemed to almost lean, having sloped in its own rot. That same childlike curiosity overtook me as the thought crossed my mind,
“Nobody’s been inside for centuries…”
Obviously that wasn’t true, but that’s how it felt: there’s always been an ancient presence to it. Something that doesn’t quite want to let go.
I lay awake in my old room that night after having dinner with my parents and going to bed. All those forgotten feelings of naive adventure came rushing back and it didn’t take much convincing to drag myself out there, quietly in the night, to that abandoned house.
I snuck around behind it, wary of being caught trespassing by the neighboring residents, and found that the backdoor had been completely removed. It was gone, not anywhere to be seen in the long grass and weeds or on the slimy wooden rear patio amongst the stray boards haphazardly cast aside around my feet.
‘Who would steal an old door?’
The thought made me want to run, but I clicked on the flashlight and stepped inside anyway, covering my face in a bandana in the likely case of mold. I entered into the kitchen, completely barren besides some aged-brown bowls crusted with god knows what decayed food, if it was even food at all, resting atop the counter in a scattered formation. All the furniture was gone besides a smashed antique TV set in the living room. I pulled open the door, the sound of which will haunt my nightmares, and stepped into the foyer. The front entrance was blocked by stacks of yellowed newspapers and magazines taking up half of the already cramped area.
I mounted the stairs, and each gave a similar alarming creak as did the door. Ascending into the darkness, shining the light through the wooden banister, I saw three more doors: one down a short hallway to the right, one behind, the other was directly in front of me. Climbing the last few stairs and pushing open the nearest revealed a small bathroom, the upper corners of which were caked in thick black mold. I quickly tried to slam the door shut, frustrated to see that it refused to close again all the way in its state of disrepair. I’m not sure if it was right then that I truly began to realise just how stupid I was for being there, in a derelict house well past midnight, or at some other point in the following minute, but the feeling inspired a deep dread-filled nausea that made its home in my gut.
Backing away, spinning around and cringing at the sounds of the floorboards beneath, I opened the door now right ahead of me. A large bedroom, entirely bare except for a visibly soggy mattress tossed up against the far wall. An eerie moonlight showcased the roaming particles of dust and airborne dirt drifting across the space, disturbed by my presence. Now desperately wanting to leave, the fact took center stage in my mind that I really didn’t belong there. My stomach began to sink and I started out of the room and towards the stairs. But there was one last room to see, and I couldn’t just leave it at that.
The hallway was short, but it seemed to stretch into infinity in the beam of the flashlight. Every rickety step sent foreboding chills down my spine, instinct attempting to force me out, but I endeavored forward until I was gripping the handle, turning it, and throwing the door open. With a deafening squeak it slowly swung and then hit off the wall. Before I could step inside, frantic scurrying enveloped the space. But not rats. Not the paws or claws of cats or vermin. I heard the shuffling scraping hobble of bare human feet scatter through the darkness, but not just one set. Many. I was frozen in place, then a single raspy voice broke the silence.
“Who are you?”
In that moment, staring into the pitch-black ahead, I wasn’t even sure if the words had come from my own dry throat or from inside. After the longest time, I heard them begin to slowly advance towards the doorway. I found my feet and stumbled backwards, breaking into a run and fleeing out the way I came in. Thankfully, I didn’t hear anyone give chase.
Climbing back through my still open bedroom window, I collapsed onto the bed, exhausted. After a while I must have fallen asleep because I awoke sometime just after dawn still fully clothed. New sunlight cast its warm glow over the top of me and I felt immediately relieved in the safety of a new day, thinking the whole thing very well could have just been some wild dream.
That’s when I noticed him. Hulking. Haggard. Covered in dirt and hunched over by the door.
“What were you doing in my house?..”