The Haunting House |
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I Still Sleep with the Lights On
by Scott BergI still sleep with the lights on. Sounds like something these kinds of stories always start with right? Well who ever made those stories up got it right, by luck or experience, it doesn't really matter. My story however has little to do with luck and everything to do with experience. I used to visit the graveyard near my family's home when I wanted to be alone. It was only a couple miles away down a gravel road. We lived in the country so there wasn't much traffic or people so it was usually a quite walk. I would go to the graveyard to think. My reasoning was no one else there had the burden of thinking anymore. I figured I'd have a clear chance at it, there if anywhere. It was an old graveyard, no fences or anything, just plots and headstones. Some of the headstones were so old the names and dates were faded from stone and memory. A large number of the head stones had lambs sculpted on them. Those headstones were for children who were buried there. I tried not to think about them that often.
A driveway with a caretaker's shed was the only thing there that seemed out of place to me. In the middle of the cemetery was a huge oak tree that seemed to shelter the graves and headstones in a motherly fashion (the numerous things that entered through my mind when I thought about the dead children and the tree I will not relate here). Down the hill, the side furthest from civilization there was a copse of Birch and Cottonwood trees.
I never went down there, well, not until that day, but I will get to that part.
That day in particular started out fine, a little sunny for my liking but I could see storm clouds on the horizon. I felt the need to be alone and think. Grabbing my rain coat; I headed out the door and down the family drive towards the road.
I waived at my father when I saw him working in the fields, to which he waived back. Thoughts in my head were swirling this way and that, before I really paid any attention to my surroundings I was nearly to the graveyard.
Before me lay the little hill with the cemetery on top. The day seemed to darken and clouds formed behind the hill and it began to rain. With a shiver and a shrug to my adolescent self I continued on. The day got windy and more rain fell as I neared the summit of the hill and the entrance to the graveyard. I began heading to the tree for shelter from the rain and a place to rest. That was the point when I first noticed something unusual. There was a swing hanging from the limb of the oak tree. That was new. Strangely enough the wood and rope seemed old, like it had been there for years. I began getting a bad feeling about the place just then, even before I notice the rope that was tied to the wood seat of the swing looked a lot like a hangman's nooses.
A gust of wind blew through the cemetery then, which caused the swing to move in the normal fashion a swing should. I thought at that moment, through sound of the wind that I heard the sound of children laughing. Looking back I wonder why I didn't run right then. Something caught my eye though and I forgot about my trepidations. Facing south from the swing I noticed a house nestled amongst the trees at the bottom of the slope of the hill. Odd, never noticed that before (or again, looking back). It began to rain heavily then, and I felt trapped. The tree I was sheltered under was no longer a mother protecting me. It was a demon scratching at my soul. I had to get away.
I ran from the waning protection of the now tainted tree. I ran toward the house. It seemed a good idea at the time (youth is indeed ignorance). As I got closer the house seemed to grow larger than I imagined its size to be from the distance. It gave a dark and cold feeling, but yet dry and unthreatening. It was an old styled farmhouse; its white washed finish was peeling as if the years had finally broken the solidity of the paint and care that went into maintaining it. There was a covered porch and there I went.
I heard the children laughing again. Not just my imagination this time. It was real.
Maybe somehow, after all those years I had managed to miss this nice little home. Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe. At that point the door creaked open and a little blond girl stepped out, dressed in a white shirt and overalls, not looking cold at all (I was freezing at this point shaking from cold and nerves). She smiled and waived me over.
"Its much warmer inside, won't you come in?" she inquired.
Naturally this was not what I expected. I mumbled thanks and walked over slowly; she laughed a sweet laugh and disappeared into the house, leaving the door open for me.
It was warm in the house. I recall that clearly. Not warm like a fire or a furnace, but warm as in being underground, stuffy earthy warmth. Inside the house there was very little. It looked abandoned. Rotting old furniture, tossed about old books and clothes here and there. Doors opened and disappeared into dark hallways. And in the center of the room stood the little blond girl. "I told you it was warm, now you can play with us. This is our home."
Again with the sweet little giggle, perhaps now not so sweet.
Everywhere, behind pieces of disused furniture, piles of books, underneath old clothes children began to appear. All laughing.
"Where are your parents?" I stammered then, beginning to feel very shaky.
"We don't have parents anymore," a bare chested boy of about 11 spoke "This is our house, come play with us while you get warm." More laughter from all the children ensued.
At this point "warm" was not what I was feeling. I don't think I will ever feel warm again.
"Then where did you come from? How long have you been here?" I asked, edging toward the door (somehow it had been shut behind me with out me noticing).
"We've been here all along silly," the blond girl giggled, "every time you come here we watch you."
"We come from under the hill of course." The bare chested boy spoke, "Now we want you to live here too, we like you!" laughter again. Not sweet at all. Not anything I ever want to hear again. I noticed at that point the children behind me. Blocking the door. Blocking my way out. I began to run past them all, the laughter going louder and more vile. I ran for so long, it seemed for ever, down hallways and through decaying doors. Darkness all around. Eveywhere. I tripped then, visions of boys and girls laughing at me swirled through my eyes and mind. The Green fire, it was leaves, against the grey sky. I was looking up at the oak tree in the middle of the graveyard. Sitting up I looked around. No Swing, no house, more important, no children.
I ran then, away, ran home, ran away from that place. I had a bad taste in my mouth. Dirt, like I had been buried. I was dirty all over. I stopped about halfway home and fell. Out of breath, covered in fresh earth. Something stuck out of the inner pocket of my coat. I picked it out tentatively. Two small rag dolls. Both old and worn looking, dirty. One was a girl, blond hair, wearing a white shirt and blue overalls, the other a boy, bare chested with old blue jeans. Just like the house. I ran home. I put them into a box and taped it shut. I still have them. I'm still afraid they will find me again and want me to come into that warm house. I still don't sleep with the lights on.
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