Ali Koomen (Arizona)
2nd Place
Scared… but Not! ~ WWW Halloween Fiction Contest 2007
The Parsonage
Tossing keys on the counter, Hope called out, “Dustin, I’m home. And if this pizza tastes as good as it smells, we’re in for a feast.”
When no response came, she checked his bedroom. It was empty. “Dustin, come on. The pizza’s getting cold.” She checked a few more rooms. “Quit joking around.” The house was silent. Perhaps he was in the back yard. She walked back through the kitchen and stepped outside onto the back stoop. “Dustin! Dinner’s ready.” Her voice echoed throughout the trees. A crow cawed back in response.
She wasn’t afraid. At first. Then she remembered the small creek that ran through the woods at the back of the property and panicked. What if he’d fallen, and knocked his head on a rock, and went face down into the water and. . .she took off across the lawn at a fast clip, yelling his name the entire way. She ran pell-mell, not caring about the branches and brambles tearing at her clothes. Then she saw his slight figure, standing on the path in front of her.
“Where have you been?” She tried to keep the anger out of her voice. He was a boy. He’d been out exploring his new home.
Dustin grabbed her hand. “C’mon, mom. You gotta see this.” He pulled her along behind him, weaving in and out of the trees as if he’d lived there his whole life. It was the first time she’d been into this part of the property. They stepped into a clearing. “What the. . .”
He grinned up at her. “Yeah, it’s cool, isn’t it? An old graveyard.”
Golden sunlight tricked through the trees at an almost parallel angle, reflecting off the white marble of a large obelisk in the center of the plot. The realtor hadn’t mentioned that the place came with its own cemetery. “Let’s go back. The sun’s almost down. We’ll come out tomorrow. Maybe make some hand rubbings.”
“There’s something wild about this place. Look at the dates on all of the tombstones.”
Warily, she stepped over to the closest grave. July 21, 1882. Then she noticed the date was the same on every one of them. Hope’s realtor had told her that the home was once a parsonage to a church that had caught fire, but had neglected to mention that the church was occupied when it burnt to the ground. Smiling brightly to cover her confusion, she said, “This is cool and all, but I hear a sausage and shroomer calling my name. . .”
“Yeah, I think I hear it. Race ya!” With a whoop, he took off toward the house. Hope ran after him, pausing once to look back at the graveyard. It was beautiful and eerie, all at once.
Hope dumped boots and overshoes on the floor of the coat closet, then stood on tip-toe to tuck a box of gloves and scarves on the shelf above. Her fingers bumped into something solid, wooden. Her fingers maneuvered it closer to the edge and down. It was an old document box, with intricately carved snakes and ravens on the outside. She carried it to the kitchen and placed it on the table. When she lifted the lid, a strange aroma wafted from the box: dust, cinnamon, old paper, tobacco, and underneath it all, something rotten, like meat left out too long. A book was inside. It was covered in an unusual leather-like material.
She pulled it out and opened it up. The first part of the book was some sort of roster or census. As she leafed through the whisper-thin pages, she wondered how old it was, and what it was worth. Perhaps she could take it down to the local antiques dealer on Monday, see what he could offer her on it.
She idly turned the next page and a scream caught in her throat. A man, with long dark hair and a mocking smirk stared at her with eyes that were both piercing and leering. Two goat horns protruded from the top of his head. The picture was labeled “SAMHAIN.”
Satan.
With trembling fingers, she turned the page, then the next. Horrifying images assailed her. A sacrificial ceremony too realistic to have been drawn from imagination. A conflagration, with faces pressed to windows in a rictus of ecstasy. An eviscerated corpse being skinned. . .
Suddenly, the source of the leather cover became apparent. With a shudder of disgust, she shoved the book away from her. A page came loose; it drifted to the floor as she threw the book back into the box. She bent to pick up the errant sheet, opened it and let out a moan.
A charcoal drawing of her son stared back at her.
With palsying fingers, she spread the picture out on the table. The paper was yellowed and brittle; it had been drawn years, if not decades ago. But why? How? A sound came from the cellar, a murmuring sound, but one with cadence, like a chant heard from a long ways off. Running to the door, she secured the top bolt. The sound stopped.
“Dustin!” she screamed, running down the hall, her heart heavy in her chest. It swooped down to her gut then slammed back into her ribcage when she found him safe in bed. “Dusty?”
He murmured in his sleep and rolled over. She grabbed his shoulder and shook him. “Wake up. We’ve got to go somewhere.”
Confused, he raised up on his elbows. “Now? Where? What time is it?”
“Just come on, I’ll explain on the way.”
“Geez, mom, it’s the middle of the night.”
Exasperated, she snapped, “We need to get to the police department. Now.”
The urgency of her voice got him moving. He slid out of bed, tugging on his shoes. “Tie them in the car,” she hissed, grabbing his arm and yanking him down the hall. She picked up the box and its terrifying contents and together they stumbled out to the car. With a squeal of her tires, she sped down the drive.
“Mom, you’re scaring me. What’s going on?”
“I don’t know.” She quickly explained what she had found, watching her son’s face pale as she told him what she had found.
Hope had no idea what she would tell the police. She’d probably look like a madwoman barging in at midnight with her wild tale, but she knew if they remained in the house, something bad would happen to them. With a groan, she realized she had been tricked into buying the place. She had looked at a lot of places in St. Louis, but hadn’t found one she liked. Out of the blue, a realtor had called her, telling her that he’d gotten her name from a fellow broker. He had a house across the river in Illinois, in a small town called Niahmas that she would love.
And she had. The minute she saw the old parsonage, she wanted it. And they-whoever “they” was-had been clever. The price was too good to ignore. At first the lender was asking for 20% down, but quickly decided to just have her pay closing costs. At the time, Hope looked at the entire deal as serendipity. Now she knew that someone had wanted her and Dustin in that house. Dustin, her beautiful, wonderful boy. She and Michael had adopted him when they had been unable to have their own, and she had loved the boy before she ever knew him. He was hers, and they’d have to kill her before they took him from her.
The downtown area was quiet and deserted, but one building was brightly lit. The gold lettering on the door spelled out “NIAHMAS POLICE DEPARTMENT” As she pulled up in front, she could see a single man sitting at a desk near the door. When her headlights cut across the room, he looked up from his computer. He must have seen the fear telegraphed in her eyes, because he quickly stood. She grabbed the box from the back seat, grabbed her son’s hand and ran into the station. The officer was at the door, his eyes questioning.
She yanked the door open, pushed Dustin inside and rushed in behind him.
“What’s the matter?” the policeman asked.
She shook her head, unable to put the jumble of thoughts in her head together.
He smiled. His eyes glowed red, or was that a trick of the light?
Shoving the box into his hands, she said, “I found this. . .”
His smile grew, exposing large, pointed fangs.
She grabbed Dustin’s hand, turned, and ran headlong into the door. It was locked tight. It was then she noticed the reverse reflection of the town’s name: SAMHAIN
It was the last thing she saw.
Copyright 2007, Ali Koomen. All rights reserved. Do not copy without author's permission. Contact WWW, info@womenwritersworldwide.com.
