After a few more miles down the road, we turn into a narrow driveway. Muffled squeals sound from the trunk with every bump and pothole that riddles the driveway as we drive towards the house. The gut wrenching feeling of doom intensifies as the house comes into clear view. Vines, weeds and shrubbery consumes the porch’s entrance. Years, if not decades, of neglect and miscare scream in our faces.
At one point, I am sure this was a beautiful home. But the state it’s in now tells me nothing good can possibly take place inside. A fungal colored algae covers the roof shingles and shutters. The attic window’s been shattered, the glass left behind resembling like an angry maw in the broken frame. Wooden patio furniture lay discarded in pieces around the front porch railing, and the lower level windows had been boarded up. Despite the depressing state of the surroundings, a crisp welcome mat sits in front of the frayed, front door.
The red haired woman gestures for me to go first as we leave our respective sides of the car. As I turn back to question her, I see her pull a vial and syringe out of her purse. She draws the plunger back halfway then pushes her thumb down, a yellow liquid spurting out of the end as she primes the syringe. “Keep moving Hank! I’ve got this one. Just open the door for me and go lay down.” She snaps as she retreats to the back of the car.
Taking a quick moment, I survey my surroundings, trying to assess if it’s possible to leave on foot. The winding driveway is long and exposed. Woodland treelines of the fields on either side are too shallow to hide in. My body sags involuntarily against the wobbly porch railing as my head begins to pound.
"Under the mat babe!" The woman calls over her shoulder as she prepares to lift the, I'm assuming, now unconscious body from the trunk. “Pop goes the weasel,” she sings as the last bit of the stranger’s body leaves the trunk and hits the ground.
My feet test the rickety steps with trepidation. Each of the four steps creaks at me in protest, as if warning me to stay away or at least stop what I was doing. The crisp welcome mat lifts with ease, revealing a squared metal key underneath. Why the fuck would anyone even bother to lock this?
I’m met with the smell of rotted wood and mildew the moment I open the door. They...well… we I guess now, must be squatting here. There are two makeshift beds are pushed together in what at one time must’ve been a study or guest room. Yellowed mattresses sit atop red and black milk crates, fastened with zip ties to create box spring frames.
I steal a glance out of the open front door, relieved that the red haired woman is gone. A cylindrical trail leads from the trunk to around the back, left side of the house. I don’t know why the hell she made me go through the dramatics of unlocking the front door if the back is unlocked. A low hum starts to bore into the left side of my ear; my energy seems to wane the louder it gets. My head feels fuzzy and light. I desperately want to sit down.
With the pull of sleep becoming stronger as I sit on one of the beds, the concern over a possible concussion fades further and further away. Best case scenario, I fall asleep and wake back up in my body, this being the effects of a terrible dream. Worst case scenario, I fall asleep and don’t wake back up at all. The motto kill or be killed feels all too real at this moment. And if I die in my sleep so someone else has a shot to live, so be it.
*
I wake up with my mouth hanging open, coughing wildly as soon as I take my first conscious breath. Much to my sorrow, neither the best or worst case scenarios have come to fruition. As I reach up to itch my chin, I notice the neatly trimmed nails and expensive watch. The heartbreaking realization is that I find myself in the exact same place and body as before I passed out.
With the relief of my headaches ceased, questions begin to flood my mind. Are they really rich or just a con couple? Why do they stay here if they have access to fancy clothing and cars? What is she going to do with that woman? Do I have time to save her? How could I have fallen asleep knowing someone was in danger?
The rest of the lower level is empty, stairs beaten by time and neglect render the upper levels utterly inaccessible. I’m surprised to see a note hastily taped to the fridge with a local supermarket sticker:
Hank,
I hope you’re feelin better. I went out to the market to buy cleaning supplies and food. You deserve a home cooked meal after what you’ve been through today. Don’t go in the basement without me.
Love, Georgia
So that’s her name!
A heavy, metal door looms forebodingly on the left side of the kitchen wall. A sliding lock and deadbolt sit on the right side. Whoever installed this is very intent on not keeping anyone from getting in, but to keep someone inside from getting out. The coat of white paint on the exterior has started to peel away, revealing rust colored stains underneath. I can’t help but think it’s blood.
Suddenly I remember the key in my pocket, the one that unlocked the front door earlier in the day. It feels strangely cold in my pocket despite its resting place nestled against the warmth of my leg. Pulling it out, I hold the vein hope that it might be the same key that unlocks this door. It slides into the lock seamlessly, only hesitating for a moment before the lock springs free. A feeling washes over me, and I can’t tell if it’s satisfaction or regret. The light of the area behind me only illuminates a small section of the basement as the door creaks open, but unfortunately for me, it’s more than enough.
A cluster of humanoid figures squats in a huddle over something unknown. Tattered rags hang loose from their bodies. They emit high pitched screams the second they see me. As the tallest one screams, a hunk of something flies from her mouth, landing on the floor in front of the stairway. Upon first glance, it looks like a piece of ham. But further inspections shows me a severed and chewed human ear.
Head trauma or not, I’ve got to get the hell out of here. I run faster than I’ve ever ran in my life. A flood of headlights presents itself in the distance. I dive into the tree line just in time to see the battered, red car driving back towards the house.
---
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