The House of Long Shadows Read online

  My heart felt like it was about to give out on me. I rolled off the air mattress, hitting the floor with a thud, and clutched at my chest. I sucked in air, curled into a ball, but for close to a minute I feared I'd never get my heart under control again.

  Wincing through the pain in my breast, I shuddered in a heap until finally the spots in my vision had cleared and I could raise my head.

  I was in the living room. The lights were on—exactly the soft white they should have been—and my legs were tangled up in a blanket.

  A dream. It'd been a bad, bad dream.

  Relieved though I was, it took me several more minutes before I felt sure I was awake and to breathe normally, rather than in gasps. The weight on my chest gradually shifted. The crotch of my overalls was wet with hot piss and I was dripping with sweat from the waist up.

  Everyone has nightmares; I've definitely had my fair share over the years. But as I sat on the floor, huffing and shaking, I felt pretty sure that I'd never had one quite so bad as this. Had it lasted much longer it might've killed me, if the runaway patter of my heart was any indicator.

  What had caused such an awful dream? Could recent stress alone have provoked those nightmarish visions? I didn't have any other explanation—nothing sane, anyhow.

  In time, I stripped off my wet clothes and changed into something fresh. I choked down a bottle of water and paced the entire downstairs a few times, slowly recovering from the shock. It was past three in the morning when I finally felt in control of myself again, and was sure that I wasn't still dreaming—though this latter breakthrough only came after I'd pinched the shit out of my forearms.

  Even as I calmed down, the scenery of the nightmare continued intruding upon my thoughts—so much so, in fact, that I decided to go into the upstairs. Though I knew it had been a dream, and that there were no cracks in the wall, no monstrous, many-voiced figures lying in wait, I still felt the need to climb the stairs and have a look around. I brought my drywall saw with me, just in case, and headed into the upstairs hallway.

  The doors were closed and no long shadows danced along the walls or floors. There wasn't any crack near the window, either, though that didn't keep me from knocking on the wall and, shortly thereafter, carving into it with my saw. Terrified that the dream had been some kind of premonition, or that the walls might hold some horror like the one I'd glimpsed in my sleep, I cut a small hole in the drywall and used my phone's light to peer inside the opening.

  There was nothing behind it.

  I felt like a damned idiot for having cut into a perfectly good wall, but at last my paranoia ebbed and I was able to return downstairs, confident that everything had been a dream. A horrifying and hyper-realistic dream, but a dream nonetheless.

  I plopped down into the metal folding chair in the living room and tried to relax. Skimming the first few comments on my new video buoyed my mood a little, and glancing over at the printed email from Mona that I'd taped up to the wall soothed me further. Still, the sting of the dream remained. And it was a long time till morning.

  Sixteen

  More comments dribbled in overnight, as did more views. The reception to the newest video was positive, but all the praise in the world wasn't going to make up for a night of ruined sleep.

  Having spent the night nodding off on the air mattress—too scared of recurring nightmares to fully commit to sleep—I'd chosen to start my day early. Just before sunrise, with a bag full of dirty clothes in the passenger seat, I'd gone to a local coin laundry to freshen up my wardrobe. Afterward, I'd eaten a big meal at the diner across the street—a place where the coffee was strong and the waffles were as big as my head.

  Driving home with clean clothes and a full stomach shored up my mood a bit, and by ten I was ready to get some actual work done.

  Stepping back into my overalls—scented now with fabric softener, rather than piss—I prepared to shoot a tour of the house's crawlspace. Of all the remaining jobs, this one seemed like the easiest. Though crawlspace exploration is hardly ever comfortable, a brief time spent crawling around on my belly and searching for leaks or foundational cracks sounded much more appealing than any of the other heavy-duty renovations that awaited me elsewhere in the house.

  More than that, the crawlspace video was sure to be a hit. People loved watching me get my hands dirty, enjoyed seeing me in uncomfortable situations. If I encountered a snake or big spider down there that I could milk for drama, all the better.

  I carried my camera and tripod out to the yard and set it up so that I had the side of the house in frame. There was a small access door at ground level that I pointed to as I began recording my monologue. “Hey, folks! FlipperKevin here. Thank you for tuning in. Today, I've got a real treat for you. I'm going to do a full crawlspace inspection. It's cramped down there, and there's no telling what I'll find. Before continuing with my work inside, I really want to get a look at the foundation, though, and ensure that there are no cracks. Some of the floorboards in the downstairs are a little damaged, too, and I want to make sure that it isn't due to water damage from down below.”

  I did a little sashay and explained the best way to dress for such a task. “I've got overalls on for this job, along with a long-sleeve shirt beneath. Crawlspaces tend to be grimy, and sometimes you find unfriendly critters in 'em. Also,” I added, donning a pair of safety glasses, “eye protection is a must.”

  When I'd pried open the access door, everything was set. I lifted the camera from the tripod, got down on all fours, and switched on the camera light. The entrance to the crawlspace was short and narrow, and the interior wasn't much more accommodating. In order to get around down there, I would have to commando crawl slowly.

  Inserting the camera into the opening and then easing myself halfway in, I began narrating. “So, I'm going to focus on a few things. First, I want to make sure the pipes under the house are sound. If there's an issue with moisture down here I need to know about it so that I can install a moisture barrier. I'm also going to look for cracks in the foundation.” Setting the camera down gently, I pulled myself further into the crawlspace, leaving only my feet extending into the yard. “When you do this kind of inspection, you have to take your time. Don't try to rush it. Just ease yourself in a little bit at a time. It can be hard to see in these places, and if you go too fast you might bust your head on a bit of pipe or something. Not to mention, there's no telling what's living in your crawlspace. You'll find snakes, spiders, termites, rodents—all kinds of things you don't want to get too cuddly with. Thankfully, they tend to be a lot more scared of you than you are of them.”

  I was fully inside the crawlspace now. I could get up on my knees and elbows, but sitting any higher was impossible. I did a slow pan of the space, letting the camera light uncover the layout. Cobwebs hung from every feature like discarded party streamers; I brushed them away as I crawled deeper in.

  Up ahead, its scaly skin glistening in the light, I discovered a small snake in retreat. I could tell it was a boring old garter snake, but played it up for the camera nonetheless. “Whoa, just found a snake down here,” I said, zooming in slightly. “Not sure if you can see it.” I paused for dramatic effect. “Gotta be careful down here... don't want to get bit.” Later, I'd throw in some heavy music to give this find an extra punch.

  Going deeper, I propped myself up on my elbows and surveyed the space to my right, where a mass of pipes sprouted from above. I looked at each one, searched for signs of breaks or leakage. “Pipes look good!” I announced. “Hell yeah!”

  The crawlspace to this house was done in the “mud pad” style; that is, a thin layer of concrete was poured over the soil floor. Everywhere I shined my light, the concrete looked in perfect order. There were no major cracks to be found, no puddles or condensation. The concrete pilings that supported the house, too, were in great shape. “I've gotta say, the people who built this house knew what they were doing. It's awesome down here. I might just renovate this whole crawlspace, what do you think? I c
ould put in some plush carpet, throw up a flatscreen over there—”

  A noise from overhead brought an end to my joking.

  I set down the camera and tensed as the sound of footsteps registered just above my head. Thud. Thud. Thud. Three steps, so close that I could feel the vibration they made, and no more.

  I froze, remaining silent for a time. When no other steps rang out, I was faced with what seemed like two possibilities. Either I hadn't heard steps at all, but merely something falling over, or someone had gotten into the house and was now standing directly above me, waiting for me to make a move. I found the first explanation much more palatable, and recalling that I'd locked the doors before starting this inspection, I felt reasonably sure that the second scenario was unlikely.

  Still, it took me awhile to shake the image of someone standing on the floor directly above my head, unmoving. Visions from my most recent nightmare flashed through my head and my pulse quickened accordingly.

  There was a bit more ground to cover, some more pilings to inspect. When I'd checked the last of them, I'd be getting the hell out of here.

  I picked up the camera again and sniffed at the earthy air. “Thought I heard something in the house, but it was just the floors settling for a minute there,” I said, as if trying to convince myself.

  Turning, I inspected the concrete pilings on the left side and found them sound. “It's all good,” I said with a hint of relief. “The pilings are all intact. No sign of water damage. Now, how about we get out of here, huh?”

  I was ready to head back to the access door, to the yard and the sunlight. As I shifted the camera around, something on the concrete pad beneath me caught my eye. I nearly overlooked it at first, writing it off as some sort of discoloration, but on second glance I realized what it was.

  Beside one of the pilings, rendered in a thin layer of white chalk, was a single handprint.

  I squinted at it in the murk, and then used the camera light to get a closer look. The handprint wasn't very large; it looked like it belonged to a child or adolescent. Furthermore, a pair of initials, somewhat faded, had been written next to the handprint. “F.W.”

  I studied the chalk both with the naked eye and through the viewfinder, and tried imagining who had put it there, and when. Probably it had been the work of a previous tenant; a kid, by the looks of it. The thought of a kid coming down to the crawlspace to leave a little message like that one brought a smile to my face, and as I turned and crawled back towards the exit I made sure to keep an eye out for other chalk messages, lest I accidentally wipe them away with my overalls.

  I was done in the crawlspace and eager to get the hell out. The air was beginning to feel thin, and though I wasn't claustrophobic, the lack of space was really getting to me. I dragged myself forward, careful not to bang up the camera as I went, and fixed the exit in my sights.

  Somehow, the access door seemed incredibly far off, like it had moved since I'd last looked to it. Or like it was slowly shrinking. That isn't possible, I thought, picking up the pace. Pushing with my elbows for a bit of extra speed, I knocked the camera against the concrete floor and felt a deep scratch form on the plastic casing. Then, a few feet later, I caught a face-full of cobwebs. When I cleared them away the access door looked no closer than it had only a minute ago.

  Suddenly, the crawlspace took on something of hostility. I felt helpless, scared, like the garter snake I'd spooked in entering. I breathed in short gasps, unable to draw in enough oxygen and hating the earthy taste that flooded into my mouth with every inhalation. Like a worm trying desperately to surface from the soil during a downpour, I began wriggling forward as quickly as I could, heedless of bumps and scrapes.

  In my haste, I bumped the side of my head on one of the pilings and was momentarily blinded with pain. Feeling like I'd just taken a softball to the head, I rolled onto one side and clutched at my skull, the spot warm and tender. “Son of a bitch!” Blinking back tears, I gave the camera a hard shove and sent it sliding closer to the exit.

  The camera spun to one side and came to rest just beyond my reach. Its light now shined directly into my eyes, making it even harder for me to judge the remaining distance. Squinting at the access door and praying that I was almost there, something entered into my blurry vision that made me halt.

  The daylight coming through the access door had momentarily dimmed, as though the clouds had shifted over the sun. Except, clouds were not behind this sudden dimming. The light was being blocked out by the presence of a figure standing just outside the access door. Spotty though my vision was for the brilliance of the camera light, I could make out two pale, aged legs about a foot from the crawlspace entrance. Small, ivory feet crawling with spidery, cerulean veins were planted firmly in the tall grass.

  The camera, it would turn out, captured a rather unmanly yelp of surprise on my part. It would not, however, pick up any footage of those pale legs outside the door, because it was pointed at my sorry, cowering face. When I finally found the wherewithal to grab hold of the camera and shout at the person in the yard, I found the legs were no longer in view. Bright sunlight warmed the square entrance to the crawlspace, unhindered by the shadow of any figure.

  Moments ago I'd been trying to flee the crawlspace. Now, I emerged carefully, tentatively, like a timid animal leaving its den. I slid the camera out onto the lawn first and then pulled myself through the opening with a grunt. The fresh breeze tasted sweet to me compared to the rarified air down below; I didn't even mind the essence of the Callery pear that rode in on the wind.

  “Who's there? I saw you. Come out! Show yourself!”

  I made three trips around the house before I allowed myself to relax.

  There was no one on the property. The doors were still locked and there was no one to be seen in the yard. Down below, panicking in the dark, my eyes had played tricks on me. That was all. Rubbing at the hot goose egg forming on my head and noticing the scrapes I'd accumulated on my hands and forearms, I cursed myself for being so jumpy. Congratulations. You've probably got Tetanus now.

  Replacing the access door, I staggered out to my van and dug out the first aid kit I kept in my glove compartment. Leaning against the hood, I dabbed at my fresh cuts with alcohol swabs and dry swallowed a couple of Tylenol.

  “Fucking house,” I muttered, looking up at the heap from the driveway. I had my reasons for putting up with all of this bullshit, for seeing the renovations through, but as I stood there, my head pounding, I had to wonder if it was really worth it.

  My father had never walked away from a job, but then he'd always chosen his battles wisely. Dad would never have picked such a shitty house to renovate, I thought. He'd have passed on this one without so much as a second glance. Moreover, he sure as hell wouldn't have bothered fixing such a sorry old house simply for publicity, like I was.

  I resolved to ignore thoughts of my father as I balled up the spent alcohol swabs and returned to the house. It doesn't matter what he would have thought. You and the old man are completely different people, nothing alike. He wouldn't have understood.

  I slammed the door shut and made sure the deadbolt was fast.

  Despite my bump in the head, there was more work to be done. There was no time to laze around, nursing wounds. Not if I wanted to wash my hands of this house ASAP.

  And I did. I really, really did.

  Seventeen

  I looked up at the camera with all the enthusiasm of an amateur magician who'd gotten puked on by one too many kids at a birthday party. “Fixing hardwood floors is that easy,” I said dully.

  I ate up a few hours in town, grabbing a salad and haunting a couple of hardware stores for the supplies I'd need to fix the warped floorboard in the dining room. I selected a length of wood and cut it down to size on the portable work bench I'd set up in the kitchen. I stained it in approximately the same color as the other boards and explained the repair process on camera while hammering it into place. There were no jokes in that segment; I wasn't feeling c
hatty.

  When that was through the daylight was almost spent and I reeked like a walking trash can. I carried the camping shower out to the tree, hung it up and stripped off my clothes. There was still enough light to see by, and it was possible that someone would drive down lonely Morgan Road only to find me rinsing in the buff, but I'd run out of fucks to give.

  The water was cold, but after a minute my body got used to it and I stopped shivering. Using a bit of body wash, I lathered myself up and worked some shampoo into my greasy hair. A clumsy carpenter bee bumbled from one of the Callery pear's flowers to the next as the cool spray washed away the suds.

  While bathing, my thoughts wandered—first through the day's events, then to more abstract matters. Along the way, my brain hit a snag and I found myself thinking chiefly about the numerous frights I'd had on the property, and of the body I'd found in the wall. Odd noises, queer sightings, hideous dreams and more had plagued me since moving into this house.

  What if these scares, these odd coincidences, were related somehow to the body?

  Things progressed naturally from the normal to the paranormal. Seeking an explanation for recent events that would leave things neat and tidy, I thoughtfully considered the possibility that my house was haunted. It was the first time the notion had occurred to me, despite all I'd been through.

  Because I didn't believe in ghosts.

  I didn't have a hard and fast reason for my disbelief. I simply didn't believe because I'd never had cause to. I'd never seen a ghost, or experienced anything I couldn't rationally explain. The idea that my recent troubles could be attributed to some supernatural menace felt like a bit of a reach.

  But it was a convenient, all-encompassing explanation, and that was alluring.

  While on the subject of ghosts, I couldn't help but reminisce. I recalled that, as a young child, I had believed in something. I'd been afraid of the dark, of the unknown, like most kids, despite never having encountered anything paranormal.