The Elm House Read online

“Since, everyone’s present. We’re going to start the ritual, and I’ll bless the house afterwards,” Father Brian said.

  “In the name of the Father, and the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amend.” Father Brian made a sign of the cross.

  “Amen,” everyone said in unison.

  “John, Mary, Brad and Jesse, peace be with this house and with all who live here.”

  “May the God whom we glorify with one heart and voice enable us, through the Spirit, to live in harmony as followers of Christ Jesus, now and forever.”

  “Amen,” everyone said in unison. First it was Mary who said it then everyone chimed in. It was similar to not knowing the words of a song, but when someone says them then bingo.

  “When Christ took flesh through the Blessed Virgin Mary, he made his home with us. Let us now pray that he will enter this home and bless it with his presence. May he always be here with you, share in your joys, comfort you in your sorrows. Inspired by his teachings and example, seek to make your new home before all else a dwelling place of love, diffusing far and wide the goodness of Christ.”

  After Father Brian gave the family blessings, he ventured in each room and sprinkled each room with Holy Water. He stopped at the foot of the stairs and gazed upward. He made the sign of the cross and seemed hesitate.

  “What is it, Father?” Mary asked as she stood in the hallway.

  Father Brian shook his head.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  But his eyes spoke of something else. Almost like Father Brain was terrified. He coughed into his hand then slowly headed up the stairs. His hand appeared to shake a bit as he held the stair’s railing.

  “If you need anything, let me know,” Mary said, watching him head up the stairs.

  Father Brian turned his head, nodded at her. “I sure will,” he said. Finally, he was up the stairs and began blessing the second-floor hallway.

  Mary returned to the living room and sat down on the sofa next to John. John grasped her hand and smiled warmly.

  “Does this make you feel better?” he asked.

  Mary nodded.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  I hope this does help… for the family’s sake.

  Let’s hope so, too, Mary.

  The family waited in the living room for the priest to return.

  I hope Father Brian cleansed this house, Brad optimistically thought. But what if he doesn’t?

  Footsteps could be heard slowly down the stairs. The footsteps weren’t fast but clunky in nature. One step after another step but slow. The type of footsteps when someone is traumatized. Finally, Father Brian appeared in the archway of the living room. And boy, did he look pale as a window curtain.

  His eyes were bug eyed, and sweat beads formed on his brow. Father Brian looked like death had just rolled over him. His eyes didn’t even blink for one moment. Father Brian’s movement seemed robotic in nature. Almost like there was another part of him, controlling his entire body. The corners of his lips spread into a grin as Father Brian’s white pearly teeth exposed. A chuckle arose from his throat as he shook his head.

  “You shouldn’t have invited him inside,” Father Brian said. But his voice sounded dry and raspier than normal.

  The texture of his voice sounded rough like sand paper. Almost like Father Brian had smoked cigarettes for millions of years. There wasn’t something right about him, alright. Brad could smell the stench of burning flesh from Father Brian’s breath. The living room became much colder. In fact, the room became frosty cold like a freezing refrigerator. If a person is brave enough to stand outside on a frosty winter morning, their body will scream to get back inside the house. Now, that’s how cold the living room became. Brad knew all this wouldn’t end well.

  Brad remembered the time that Jesse’s bedroom became icy cold. Icy cold, to the point, that he could see the light vapors escape his mouth. Something isn’t right, Brad thought. Oh, he was right—too. Father Brian wasn’t his normal self, alright.

  “Is everything alright, Father?” John asked, getting up from his sofa chair. “Do you want a seat?”

  “Hello, John. Remember me?” Father Brian asked, smiling from ear to ear.

  John shook his head.

  “I don’t—”

  Father Brian slowly (and creepily) walked into the living room.

  “You were about to bitch slap the pathetic excuse you call—a wife.” Father Brain grinned.

  “Father Brian, I would like you to leave this house. At once, father. Leave!” Mary shouted. Her eyes looked shocked and appalled.

  Almost hurt, Brad could see inside his mother’s eyes.

  “Oh, Mary… I see you’ve sold your painting. It looked more beautiful with red paint on it,” Father Brian said. “Isn’t that right, Jesse?”

  Brad stood up.

  “Archon, go and leave this house,” he shouted.

  “Archon?” asked John. “What? Who’s this Archon?”

  “I am,” Father Brain said. His haunting smile spread wide, slightly exposing his yellow stained teeth, before he cocked back his head. And he laughed. A bone-chilling laughter emerged from his mouth. Then Father Brain’s stretched out his arms to his side, palms facing forward as he laughed.

  Then Father Brian stopped laughing and jerked his head forward. His eyes filled with terror.

  “Get out!” Father Brian warned. “Now!”

  It appeared that Father Brian was trying to reclaim control over his body.

  “Leave this family at once, foul demon. In the name of the Father—”

  Father Brian was slammed against the wall, knocking down the family portraits. His arms appeared to be pinned against the wall as the tip of his feet were cranked downward. His mouth was ajar. First, Father Brian’s body slide slightly up the wall and dangled in mid-air. Seconds later, his entire body spun upside down. From the looks of it, he appeared to be a upside down crucifix. Father Brian’s hands pinned against the wall like the nails impaled in Jesus’s hands.

  John, Mary, and everyone else gasped at the sight. Poor John; his eyes went completely bug eyed. Mary covered her mouth as she looked absolutely horrified.

  Then everyone screamed in fright. When Father’s Brian throat was slashed open like a sacrificial lamb. His blood gurgled out from his mouth as Father Brian’s pupils dilated. Each time he gasped; his blood spurted out onto the living room floor. He was dead, alright, and then Father Brian’s body dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes. First, Father Brain dropped onto his skull then his body slid down the wall before hitting the floor. It was a horrific sight to see. A therapist may be needed for the Herrick family.

  “We’re going to get our shit, and we leave this house at once!” Mary shouted. “Now, get anything important. We’re leaving—”

  Finally, let’s get the hell out of this house, Brad thought.

  Dig, Brad! Dig before it’s too later.

  Why did Tiffany tell me to dig?

  Mary’s head twitched a bit. She shook her head quickly. Almost like when someone is stunned or dazed.

  Oh, no! Archon found another host, Brad horridly thought.

  So much better, Mary thought. I like this skin. It feels so refreshing. But she wasn’t herself, and Archon was—indeed—embedded within her soul.

  She smiled warmly. Then she remembered something. Oh, right. We pack… blah-blah-blah and we move, gambit.

  Please don’t do this! Mary’s soul protested, internally.

  For fuck sake, woman, get yourself a muzzle. Shut up and let me drive. Now, where was I? Ah, yes.

  “We get our things and leave,” she continued.

  “Okay,” Jesse and Brad said.

  “But… Mary, the police. We need to notify them,” John said.

  Mary looked at John, puzzled then nodded.

  There always has to be a sensible one in the party, doesn’t there?

  “Right, the police. I’ll call them. Help the kids pack.”

  “We can’t just leave. There’s a dea
d—”

  Smack!

  “Do what I told you to do,” Mary said.

  That’s better. Slap that moron of a husband, Archon spoke inside her mind. Good girl.

  Oh my God, what did I just do? Mary’s soul cried.

  The right thing.

  John looked surprised as he rubbed his cheek. Mary just slapped him as hard as she could. Poor John.

  “We need—”

  Smack!

  “Jesus, what’s wrong with you?” John shouted.

  “Do what I tell you,” Mary said.

  Frustrated, John did what he was told. He brought the kids up the stairs and began to help them pack.

  Mary entered the kitchen, but she didn’t pick up the phone. She locked the kitchen side door which lead to the garage, the sliding doors leading out to the porch, and the front door.

  “I’ll be right up,” she shouted up the hallway stairs. Mary ventured downstairs in the basement, opened the telephone box. A grin stretched across Mary’s lips. One hard yank of the wires, the house’s phone lines were sabotaged. She had them all to herself. They were trapped pigs, ready for the slaughter.

  Come here, little piggies. It’s time to play.

  Dig, Brad, dig! Before it’s too late, Brad.

  Brad remembered Tiffany’s warning message in his dream. He stopped packing, turned around but halted in his tracks.

  “Mom!” he said. Mary closed this bedroom door behind her.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Everything’s alright,” she said, placing her hands on his cheeks.

  “Did you call the cops?” Brad asked.

  Mary nodded.

  “I did! We’ll be safe. They’re on their way.”

  “Um… okay… but what are you doing?”

  There’s something wrong, Brad thought. He pushed his mother away.

  “I have to help, Jesse,” he said, moving past her. He was almost to his bedroom door when something struck him against the back of his head. It felt hard too. Brad fell onto the floor, he turned to see his mother raising her hand high in the air. And in her hand, she held Brad’s soccer trophy. As much as Brad’s brain buzzed around, a bit. He lifted his foot and kicked his mother’s knee. Her one leg buckled from the blow. Brad got up, and he certainly wasn’t proud of himself for doing this. He kneed her in the face. His own mother was attempting to kill him, so Brad had to defend himself.

  Mary covered her nose and cried.

  “You broke my nose!” she whined. But before she could get back onto her feet, Brad was already out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

  Dig, Brad, dig!

  Dig for what? Why?

  Brad made a pitstop, out of all things, and he grabbed the kitchen phone. He dialed 9-1-1 as fast as he could. He stopped, and looked at the phone.

  She disconnected the phone line!

  He sprung to action, briskly headed towards the porch sliding doors. He tugged on the door, hard, and then he realized that his mother locked them. Brad unlocked the sliding door, and blitz it down to the shed.

  Whatever I got to dig up has to be worth it, right?

  Brad’s chest started to ache, hard. As more he ran towards the withered toolshed, practically falling apart—surprisingly somehow miraculously still structurally still intact—but appearing to collapse down onto its skeletal knees any second, Brad’s lungs sucked in the frosty air of the night.

  Thud! Thud! Thud!

  His heart pounded like a drum. Brad was getting closer and closer towards the shed. His hand held a shovel as Brad’s body cut through the frosty wind like a knife. He was certainly athletic, alright. Anyone else would’ve just collapsed into the dirt, sprawled out like a road kill on the side of the road. But, not Brad. Although his legs burned and ached as he ran faster and faster.

  Com’on Tiffany, tell me what I’m looking for at least, Brad hopefully thought.

  Any sign would do, Brad hoped for.

  Dig! Dig here!

  What was he about to dig for? Brad wondered. A secret artifact? Something to stop Archon? So many questions spun around inside Brad’s mind. Almost like a spider spinning its web. Then finally, he made it to the toolshed. Brad thought there was a padlock, but the toolshed door creakily swung open then slammed shut against the wind. It could’ve been the wind that opened the door, but Brad interpreted it as—almost—symbolic. Symbolic in a way, perhaps the door was saying “Come inside” to Brad.

  Without a second thought, Brad swung open the toolshed.

  Dig! Dig here! Dig before it’s too late.

  “What happened to your nose?” John asked his wife as she entered Jesse’s bedroom. He went over to examine Mary’s swollen and bruised nose. There was puffiness underneath her eyes, for sure. Brad did a bang-up job with her nose, alright. It didn’t appear broken, John thought. But, of course, John’s just a mechanic. He didn’t have to be a doctor to know that his wife’s nose wasn’t broken; he’d been in few fights to know the difference.

  There was a time in high school where John got into an afterschool altercation. A fist fight altercation with a bully named, “Bobby No-Good”, Johnny had. Bobby No-Good, had a bad rep to begin with. In comparison, Bobby was just like Ted. But Bobby won that Bully competition without even batting an eyelash. He was one mean son of a bitch, Bobby was. A real—ruthless—piece of garbage, he certainly was. Bobby didn’t just make other kids eat feces off toilets, nor did he make students lick the bottom of his soles. Bobby was pure evil inside. He would string cats up by the tail and chuckled as they hissed and bellowed in pain. One time, he had force fed John’s friend to eat roadkill. And, bam, John exploded on Bobby. The fight was over within a blink of an eye. Bobby was seen limping back home, and crying to his dad. Here’s this tough guy, crying to his father, tears leaping off his cheeks. No one has ever heard from Bobby, ever again. Years later, John was in college, and Bobby was off fighting some war. Bobby never made it back, though. But he knew, right there and then, that he broke Bobby’s nose.

  “Get away,” Mary said, harshly.

  Dumbstruck, John looked at his wife with wild eyes.

  “I’m making sure that you’re okay,” he replied.

  “I’m fine… thank you. Now, go find your son.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Maybe… check outside?” Mary said, sounding a bit impatient. John felt something wasn’t right inside his gut. The knots inside his stomach kept on turning and twisting. Something was horribly wrong with Mary, alright. John better do what she asks.

  Like idiots, people ignore their intuition sometimes.

  “Get the fuck away from me?” Mary said. Her eyes glowed like embers. The room became freezing cold as the frost left her lips. One corner of her lip slid upward as she chuckled.

  “Find your son,” she said, straightening her back and standing tall. It appeared almost like Mary was trying to compose herself. Oh, yeah, she was trying to compose herself. But her disguise would be short lived, soon enough.

  “John, get out!” A voice shouted in Jesse’s bedroom.

  “You—” Mary growled, turning her head towards Tiffany.

  John could clearly see Tiffany’s spirit, plain as day. He, too, looked a bit pale and shaken up. John’s belief system was crumbling.

  Ghosts are real? Is this trickery from the devil? How could this be Tiffany? The bible states how the devil will use trickery to cause a person to lose faith. My head hurts… how is this even possible?

  “Tiff—Tiff—Tiff—Tiffany?!” John said.

  Where, the hell, do I dig? Brad questioned himself.

  Dig here, is kind of vague.

  The toolshed’s mustered aroma filled Brad’s nostrils. Obviously, the wood has seen its better days. How the world was this toolshed even holding up? He asked himself. The wood, itself, gave off a strong “wet wood” aroma. The type of fragrance, mold-infested, wood wears to beckon termites. Inside the wood had to—or possibly—started to decay and rot like a corpse.

  Du
st fluttered about in the air as Brad sneezed into his arm sleeve. His eyes could feel his eyes becoming watery. A sudden coldness, chill, that enveloped his body.

  “Here,” a voice shouted out.

  Brad saw Eveline’s finger point square smack in the center of the toolshed’s floorboard.

  “Hurry,” Eveline said. “Hurry before it becomes too late.”

  “What am I going to find?” he asked Eveline.

  “You’ll know when you get there.” She vanished into a wispy smoke.

  Center of the toolshed’s floorboard, right. Okay… fine, here goes nothing.

  Brad slammed the spade shovel deep into the moist floorboard. Splinters of the wood sprang upward. Impressive, since, Brad’s arm still wore the cast from that nasty fall. The nasty fall from the second-floor railing when Brad was first introduced to Archon. Nothing was stopping him from saving his family, he was determined.

  He pried and broke apart the floor. Another hard slam with the shovel, Brad was almost there. Now, the dirt was exposed. There, Brad began plunging the shovel into the moist dirt.

  The spade sunk deep into the earth with ease. He turned over the mound of dirt and worked feverously and hard as he could. Brad could feel his body fueled by adrenaline as he dug faster and faster. Good thing, Brad’s athletic and in good shape. He turned over the mound of dirt to the side and kept digging deeper and deeper. His heart pounded inside his chest like a drum.

  Thud! Thud! Thud!

  Brad’s heart pounded.

  Am I getting closer?

  He dug more furiously, turning over mounds of dirt then tossing the dirt to the side. Then suddenly, Brad heard his sister scream. Her scream broke his concentration. Instincts kicked in, and Brad wanted to run back to the house and protect her. But he had to hurry and unearth whatever was buried deep within the toolshed’s dirt.

  Finally, Brad struck something. The shovel made a clank sound. He got on his knees, reached his hand inside the hole. His hand moved some dirt off the foreign object. Then Brad plunged his hand deep into the dirt to unearth the object from the toolshed’s dirt. He held it in his hand. His eyes bug eyed. He opened the wooden chest, and reached his hand inside the box. A burlap sack with a withered note attached to it.