Part 1 of 2
Buckle up boys and girls. My buddy and I just experienced some grade-A Creepyshit while on a trip to Red Rocks in Colorado. I write a lot of things down anyway and so I figured I might as well post the story here and see what you guys think.
So who here has used AirBnB? raises hand. I think I’ve used it no less than twenty times. All great experiences up until this point, seriously.
I need to go ahead and preface this by saying that, while I could send you a link to this house, it wouldn’t do you any good because it’s not there anymore. But we’ll get to that.
I’m guessing that since you’re reading this, you’re probably a bit like me. A big reader, kind of weird, generally a fan of being scared. More power to you. My buddy (we’ll call him John) is the same way.
So a few weeks ago me and John saw that one of our favorite bands was going to be playing at Red Rocks. We’ve been talking about making a trip up there for years now (we live in Florida), and the timing seemed perfect. Both of our wives are pregnant, and the thought process was that if we were going to make a trip like this, it was now or never.
The drive was going to take about 24 hours, so we decided we would drive until about midnight after we got off work, find a place to crash, and finish the drive the next day. I immediately hopped onto AirBnB and started looking for somewhere cool to stay.
Remember what I said earlier about being into the slightly creepy?
Well, I’m scrolling through potential places to stay in Tennessee, since it’s about eight hours from Tampa (where we live). I come across this majestic, plantation style house in some place called Sequatchie, Tennessee. The pictures look amazing, and it only costs $30/night to stay there ($30 gets you the upstairs suite, complete with its own bathroom). You can tell that it sits on a tall hill in the woods, overlooking a fairly large valley. It’s a sprawling, two story house, white wood, with ferns hanging off the wraparound porch. It looks like something from To Kill a Mockingbird. And I’m immediately sending John screenshots like “dude, WE HAVE GOT TO STAY HERE!”
He texts back, equally enthused. He does point out, however, that the place has no reviews.
Now, in my book, this is an AirBnB no-no. But the place seems so cool, and it’s so cheap, and, what can I say, I was feeling spontaneous. So I booked it (strict cancellation policy be damned). I mean, you can’t beat fifteen dollars per person. We would play rock-paper-scissors to see who got the bed when we got there.
A couple weeks go by and the day of our trip finally arrives. We both get off work at 4 and meet up, already packed and ready to go. We knew that the trip from Tampa to Sequatchie would take 8 hours, so we didn’t waste any time getting on the interstate.
Honestly, the drive up there was pretty uneventful so I will spare you the details. By the time we make it into Tennessee, it’s approaching midnight. When we get off the interstate and head toward the address, it’s dark. It doesn’t get this dark in Tampa. Apparently the town of Sequatchie isn’t overly concerned with things like streetlights.
The cell service finally dwindled to nothing about 15 minutes after getting off the interstate (surprise, surprise), but John was smart enough to screenshot the route beforehand so that it wouldn’t be lost (5 star wingman there, ladies and gentleman).
We navigate some serious back roads, eventually leaving the pavement behind for a long, gravel driveway. It didn’t stick out at the time as much as it does in retrospect, but the mailbox was actually lying on the ground, causing us to miss the turn on the first pass. Only after getting out in the pitch darkness and examining the fading address stickers by the light of John’s phone did we determine that we were indeed on the right track.
We continue up the driveway (if not with a little more skepticism than before). It winds on for (I shit you not) 12 minutes through some mountainous territory. At times the grade became serious enough that I thought I might have to put my 4runner into four wheel drive.
We finally come around a bend in the drive that opens up onto a large field. In the distance, I see the house briefly as my high-beams swing across it during the turn. I think that was the first time that I really became concerned that something wasn’t right. In the brief seconds that my headlights illuminated the house, it was obvious that the pictures had been deceiving. It was without a doubt the same house, but it clearly hadn’t been cared for in some time. Half of the shutters were hanging off haphazardly, the white paint was dirty and chipping. The ferns from the picture had long since withered away.
My car continues the turn and the house is once again obscured by darkness as we make our way around the perimeter of the field in front of it. I remember John saying something along the lines of “what the fuck have you gotten us into,” as we pulled to a stop in front of a massive old willow tree that served as the end of the driveway. It looked like some ancient sentinel in the semi darkness.
The house stands about 30 yards away from the end of the drive. I notice with relief that it does have electricity. At the side door, there is one of those old fashioned yellow light bulbs casting a sickish glow onto the surrounding bushes and the sidewalk leading to the driveway. I turn off the car and try to lighten the mood by saying something my grandfather always used to say.
“Home again, home again, jiggity-jig.”
John casts me a sideways glance and smirks.
“We could leave. Find a Motel 6, or just take turns driving.”
At this point, my creep-meter was quietly pinging at around a 6 out of 10. Just on the threshold of Uncomfortable, but not quite there yet. Definitely not Motel-6-Uncomfortable.
“Come on John, where’s your sense of adventure,” I say as I swing my door open and hop out. My feet make a scrunch sound as they meet the gravel and I’m immediately struck by how loud the sound of the summer bugs is.
We grab our backpacks and pillows and make our way down a very old sidewalk, toward that yellow light. For some reason it reminds me of a hospital.
“The instructions said check-in whenever, the key will be under the mat.”
John stoops and lifts a corner of the ancient mat. Underneath is a skeleton key, roughly the length of my hand. Pretty cool.
He stands up with it and we just sort of stare at each other for a second. The door has a large frosted window, and we can see that it’s pitch black inside. He shakes his head at me and sticks the key in the lock. The dead bolt makes an ungodfully loud kachunk sound that, I swear, echoes. I reach passed John and push the door inward.
The air that blows out as the door opens is stale. It smells like air that has been sitting still since the Paleozoic Era. I need to be clear that it doesn’t stink, it’s just thick with the smell of disuse, if that makes sense. John gestures for me to go first, so I do.
If I’m being honest, I think at this point my creep-meter had probably edged up to a 7. Still quiet, but now a more pronounced pulse. Still not Motel-6-Uncomfortable. The place just felt so empty.
I shine my cellphone light around in front of me as John follows me through the door. We are in a large kitchen. Huge, even. He gently eases the door shut. Every footstep sounds like a squeaky explosion on the weathered hardwood, and John shushes me as I make my way towards the counter on the other side of the room. I can see a piece of printer paper illuminated there. My stomach drops as I get closer.
Now, you’re going to think I’m making this up, but I swear to god, it’s a piece of printer paper with the words “make yourself at home” scrawled on it in blue crayon. And it looks like it was written by a toddler. Each letter is blocky, crooked, and two inches tall. I turn and look at John as he begins to read it over my shoulder, and I immediately recognize his Nope-The-Fuck-Out-Of-Here expression. His eyes are huge.
“Dude, what the fuck.”
“DUDE, WHAT THE FUCK.”
He’s looking over my shoulder now. I snap my head around in the direction of his gaze.
“What!? What is it!?”
He’s looking out a huge window. Through it, the tree line is dimly illuminated in the hazy yellow glow from the bulb outside the door.
“I just saw something moving out there. I swear. Just passed the edge of the woods.”
I strain my eyes, but see only the trees and their shifting shadows. It seems like the wind is picking up.
If the crayon hadn’t done it, John’s outburst had. I was officially Motel-6-Uncomfortable.
“Let’s get out of here. You’re right, we can find another place to stay. Sleeping in the car would be better than this.”
John is one hundred percent on board. We make our way out of the kitchen and let the door slam, no longer worrying about being quiet. I’m actually jogging by the time we get halfway down the sidewalk, my backpack bouncing awkwardly. John beats me back to the car and I see his shoulders slump as he slows down.
“What?” I ask. Then I see.
The tires. All four tires are completely flat.
That’s when the screaming started.