The gravel driveway crunched underneath the tires as they came to a halt. I glanced up from my book and saw it…
Grandma’s house.
The old red paneling was weathered and beaten down by decades of exposure to the harsh elements. Autumn leaves kicked up by gusts of wind blanketed the front porch.
Finally, the hours-long drive had concluded.
“Ok, out of the car, Jimmy! We’re here!” My mother put the car into park and rotated around to face me. The thick, shiny, red leather seat cushion squealed loudly underneath her. I giggled immaturely, the sound resembling flatulence.
“Oh stop it!” She smiled, slapping my shoulder playfully.
“It was just the seat, silly!” She continued, chuckling as I plugged my nose in jest.
“P-U!” I said, my voice nasally from my sealed nostrils.
“No, it’s my seat! Really!” She shifted her weight, each hip movement causing the same, oddly hilarious squeak. After several iterations of the noise, she sat still, looking at me with a triumphant grin.
“See! I didn’t fart! This leather is just old and squeaky!”
“I guess, but I don’t know if I believe you!” I said, my tone playfully accusatory. My mother gave me a smiling, lighthearted roll of the eyes, motioning me to exit with a delicate gesture of the hand. I groaned as I opened the Cadillac’s clunky door, the bitterly cold wind slicing through my inadequately thin clothing with ease. Goosebumps raised themselves on my skin as I began the slow trek towards the house.
I heard my mother exit the car, her petite, well dressed frame shivered in the overcast haze. She stumbled around the car to retrieve my luggage, her patent black high heels making balance difficult on the course gravel.
The year was 1989. I was eight years old. My parents had just finalized their divorce, and it was incredibly toxic. Abusive relationships can quickly spiral out of control, and for my mother and I, this was no exception. My father was a hard working, well paid union construction manager, yet coped with his stress by drowning himself in the bottle. He was an angry man when he was drunk.
My mother, meanwhile, was a paralegal, and without my father’s money, her salary became relatively meager. Despite this, she did the best she could to support me. She feared for my safety ever since the divorce, however. So much so that until the restraining order was worked out, she sent me to my grandmother’s house to try to give me some distance from all of the drama.
I heard the car door slam forcefully as my mother hauled my heavy suitcase with both hands. I walked up the wooden steps and stared at the old, dilapidated door. A rusty metal bench rested to the right on the porch. A grimey, unclean window gave a murky, unclear view into the house.
My mothers breath turned into vaporous clouds as she brushed beside me, placed my suitcase down, and drove her knuckles into the door.
Once…
Twice…
Three times…
She stepped back and waited. After a moment, the lock jiggled, then opened, revealing an old woman, my grandmother, with hair as white as snow. She looked at me and smiled warmly, her cardigan undoubtedly sewn by her own hands. She looked up at my mother and gasped.
“Oh my… what did that animal do to you, Jordan?!” She reached and poked my mother’s black eye softly, her face a concerned mask of dread.
“Nothing, momma. It’s nothing.” She retorted dismissively.
“Could we come in? It’s freezing!” My mother continued.
“Yes, sure thing dear!” My grandmother stepped aside as we both entered the warm living room. The grimey exterior was the antithesis of the interior. Spotless. Immaculately clean. Shiny wood floors and velvet sofas. A television playing a Magnum PI rerun in the lowered living room pit. A roaring fireplace.
What caught my attention most, however, was the wallpaper. Strange, contorted faces started at me from all directions. Bloody red imagery adorned them. Worms crawled out of eye sockets. Upon seeing these distressing images, my mood immediately soured. A weight pressed down onto me, tension filling the inside of my skull.
“And how are you, young man?!” She squeezed my cheek warmly. I grunted something unintelligible, my focus still transfixed by the wallpaper.
“Jimmy! Answer your grandmother!” I heard my mother demand. I remained silent, dread slowly creeping up my shoulders. As to why, I couldn’t be entirely certain. I just remember feeling… uneasy. Watched. Unnerved.
“Sorry, he’s been under a lot the past few months.” My mother broke the silence awkwardly.
“Go up to your room.” My mother said gently, squatting down to make eye contact. She pulled my head away from my entranced stare and pointed up the stairs.
“Are you ok? You look spooked!” Her face contorted into a cacophony of worry.
“I’m ok, mommy!” I shook free of her grasp and bounded up the stairs. The open door to the guest bedroom was inviting, but I decided to crouch behind it and listen.
“Jordan, I…” My grandmother began, but was quickly cut off.
“I know Mom, I know.”
“Does he know where you are? He’s scary, Jordan! I mean, he’s tried to kill you how many times?” She whispered.
“Mom, please, I can’t do this.”
“If you want to stay here with Jimmy for a while it’s no trouble.”
“No, no, that’s ok. I’ll be fine.”
“I’d feel better if you did.”
“I’ll be fine. The restraining order will go into effect soon. Besides, what am I supposed to do? Not live in my own home?”
“Why have you waited so long? You should’ve filed a restraining order months ago!”
A creak from the staircase shifted my attention. The rest of the conversation became a jumbled blur as another creak from underneath the floorboards sent my heart into my throat. I held my breath.
I saw it from underneath the top step. It was subtle, you had to squint in the poor lighting to make it out.
A finger.
Reaching out between the planks of wood. The nail was caked in dirt and grime. It poked through the thin opening and wiggled, trying to pry through the wooden step. I gasped, covering my mouth with my hand. I retreated into the dark bedroom as another loud creak echoed through the hallway. The overcast sky ensured the corners of the room were a dark, dingy, lifeless gray.
“Jimmy! Quiet down up there!” My mother ordered.
Another floor jolting creak.
I heard the explosive shots of my mothers stilettos firing up the stairs. I sat down on the bed as the light flicked on. My mother stood with her arms flung to her sides, angry.
“Jimmy!” She began to chide. My mouth ran dry as I examined the room, now fully enveloped in light.
More faces on the wallpaper. These ones more eminently detailed. Evil, wicked, cursed faces all bore their vicious gazes into my eyes. I looked up.
Only one face was etched into the ceiling.
My father.
Mid-yell. Droplets of whiskey shot out of his mouth at top speed. The veins in his neck bulged a horrid shade of red. His bearded face contorted into a rage-filled outburst.
My heart pounded. My mouth went dry as I began to hyperventilate. I shook my head as my ears reminded me of my mothers chastising.
“Well?!” Her hands flew to her hips. My face must’ve been fearful because her scowl softened into compassion.
“What’s the matter?” Tears welled in my eyes as she embraced me.
“Do you see the faces, mommy?” My voice quivered as fear strangled my vocal cords. She pulled back from the hug and looked at me.
“What faces, Jimmy?”
“On the walls.” She turned her head in all directions. Her eyes seemed to look for something that never came.
“No sweetie, there’s only flowers. I don’t see what you’re talking about.”
“What about the fingers?” I whimpered. Her face morphed from concern to fear unease.
“What? What are you talking about?” Is all she managed to say.
“The fingers mommy, underneath the stairs.” Her shoulders tensed as she turned her head to look past the open bedroom door. A dark, empty hallway stared back, beckoning us to investigate further.
“Under the stairs?”
“Yes mommy.”
“How did you see them if they were under the stairs?”
“They poked through.” I whispered.
The overcast sky outside began darkening into a rich violent hue that hung heavy shadows in the house. My mother walked over to the stairs and squatted down to examine them.
“Was it this one?” She pointed to the top step.
“Yes mommy.”
She looked around and felt in between the cracks of the wood. I braced myself for a jump scare that never came.
Only dread.
As the sunset dwindled into darkness, my mother, at grandma’s persistence, decided to stay the night with me. The back of my neck buzzed in primal, unbridled fear.
The walls were watching me.
The darker the evening became, the more the faces seemed to morph and undulate in hypnotic, psychedelic waves of motion. My heart seized, my ten-year-old brain unable to rationalize what I was seeing. This, paired with the fact that nobody else saw the faces only added to my apprehension.
The only comfort I felt was when my mother slipped into bed next to me. Her warm hand caressed my scalp and soothed my anxiety. My fathers rage-filled expression stared down at me from the ceiling, the anger and hostility replaced with love and compassion from my mother.
I closed my eyes, yet sleep eluded me. The comfort I felt from my mother’s presence quickly and positively evaporated. After a nondescript amount of time, I heard a noise that made my blood run cold.
A creak from out in the hallway.
Light floated in from a crack underneath the bedroom door.
We hadn’t left any lights on.
Upon this realization, I became paralyzed by fear. I couldn’t move. Breathing became an impossibility as I heard footsteps.
My father’s old work boots.
I tucked my head underneath the covers as the footsteps approached the bedroom door. The door squeaked open as the footsteps ceased.
I trembled uncontrollably, my mind fully consumed by terror. My bladder relaxed as its warm contents spilled. Something was thrown on the bed next to me. I heard my mother stir, slowly awakening from her slumber. She mumbled something groggily as she sat up. I saw a stream of light as the bedside lamp was flicked on.
I waited. My chest seized.
“AHHHHHHHH!” A deafening scream caused me to jolt upright. My heart felt as if it was about to burst. I focused my vision on my mother, her face a horrifically deformed curtain of revulsion.
My grandma’s severed head, her white hair stained a sickly shade of red. I wanted to scream, but my vocal cords were dried up. I couldn’t make a sound. I listened to my mothers continued outbursts. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw a flutter of motion.
My father. A massive grin was sprawled across his face. He held a massive logging ax in his hands, the blade stained red. His plaid buttoned jacket was speckled with red droplets. His jeans and work boots bore the same stains.
“So, Jordan!” My father boomed. “You think you can just steal my boy, huh?!” His fingers twitched as they held the ax handle. Caked in grime. The same finger from under the stairs.
The disturbed faces on the walls flashed red. My father approached the bed and heaved the ax above his head.
“Jimmy! Run!” My mother screamed as I scrambled out of the bedroom door and into the dark hallway.
“You little shit!” A hand reached for me, tearing the fabric of my shirt as I darted. I heard the ax handle slam down against the floorboards as he tripped and face-planted.
“Jimmy! Go!” She screamed.
I sprinted through the dark hallway. I heard commotion from the bedroom; a mighty wail. An exasperated sigh. Panting. I bolted out of the door as the crisp, frigid night air sent shockwaves throughout my body. I hurriedly opened the driver’s side door of the Cadillac, the trunk latch hanging open. It flailed up and down in the icy wind gusts as the front door swung open.
My mother.
I ripped open the car door as she ran over and scooped me up in her blood soaked arms. Her tattered clothes warmed me as we tearfully embraced.
The police report stated that my father, in a fit of delirious rage, hid in the trunk of my mothers car. He waited until we stopped, got out, and snuck into my grandmother’s basement. He hid down there until the house grew quiet and dark, then beheaded my grandmother and attempted to do the same to us.
What still frightens me is those faces on the walls. My mother never saw them, yet they still continue to follow me to this day. Any house I go into, the bloody red faces etch themselves into the wall.
I’ve learned to ignore them for the most part, yet something still unsettles me in the dark recesses of my mind…
What if my father is still alive?
My mother never did tell me exactly what she did to him in that house so many decades ago.