The Elm House Page 3

  Brad had a thousand of questions, filled inside his mind, dancing about freely without a care in the world. He wouldn’t know much later on why the students raised their eyebrows high over their foreheads when they heard that he lived on 333 Elm Road.

  Inside the school’s cafeteria, Brad sat next to Colin. Colin sat next to Timmy. Across from Timmy, sat Stephen.

  “I don’t understand why everyone was shock about the house I live at,” Brad said to them.

  “Superstitious—that’s all,” Colin replied, taking a chunk out of his cheese burger. He chewed with delight as he could be seen savoring each bite.

  “Nope, not a fat chance in hell, it’s not superstition. You know that, Colin,” Timmy declared. He nodded his fat head. “It’s straight up damned, the house is.”

  Still confused, Brad was. He didn’t get why the house was damned. He took a bite of his slice of pizza with Italian sausage toppings, chewed, swallowed his food down. He fetched for his plastic cup and took a sip through the straw. After a good gulp or so, he plopped the cup back down on the table. His mind pondered a bit and remembered the hunch that sat inside his stomach about the house. He remembered the eeriness sensation as he walked throughout the house. Could this be what they’re talking about? Brad questioned himself. The odd, eeriness, and possibly reason why the attic opened by itself? It’s really creepy, but a cold draft could’ve opened the attic door. He couldn’t help himself from remembering vividly the moment when he heard footsteps running up and down the second-floor hallway. He chased the thoughts away. It’s just an old creepy Victorian house—yeah, that’s it. It’s old. But his heart disagreed with him on that notion.

  “Why is it damned?” he asked.

  “Because bad things happened in that house—that’s why,” Timmy said before munching down on his slice of pizza with pepperoni toppings. A trail of the Olive oil drizzled down the side of his left cheek as he wiped off the oil with a napkin. His eyes caught Brad’s, filled with curiosity, eyes.

  “Really bad things had happened in that house,” he continued.

  “Like what?” asked Brad, so engrossed and intrigued with questions of why.

  Timmy looked at Colin, who was too busy finishing up his cheese burger, and sighed.

  “Murders and suicides—”

  “Stop that shit,” Colin said. He shook his head. “Now, you’re scaring the shit out of Brad.”

  Scared? Brad questioned himself. No, I’m intrigued as hell!

  “Go on,” he told Timmy.

  “Well, maybe, later on… But, Colin, needs to accept the fact the house is tainted,” he replied to Brad.

  Brad was more on the edge of his seat than ever before, and he wanted to know why the house was damned and tainted. He couldn’t fight off the anticipation any longer. It seemed to him, he was being yanked around like on a roller coaster—waiting for that climax before the coaster went soaring down the steep slope and into twisting loops. Damn, he thought as the school bell chimed loudly throughout the hallway. Maybe, tomorrow, I’ll know more.

  They got up from their table and threw away their unfinished food and headed to their next class.

  Brad will have to learn some patience before knowing the true nature of the house.

  CHAPTER 3

  The walk from Brad’s school to home wasn’t far, at all, and was quite a relaxing stroll. The distance, if one would have to say, was maybe a half a mile—give or take. The wind swirled about gently, brushing against Brad’s face and hair. He kept on thinking to himself about what Timmy had said. The house is tainted, he remembered Timmy’s words, and the house is damned. By why? Brad questioned. He sighed, shook his head to chase away the never-ending questions of why, and continued heading home. He was only a block or so away from his house, and the walk felt mighty fine. Mighty fine indeed, the walk was for Brad. Although, Brad was already athletic, the walk on a nice sunny evening made him realize that he forgot to talk to the soccer coach. Damn, he angrily thought, how the hell could I forget about something like that? No problem, tomorrow, I’ll talk with the coach.

  He remembered his first introduction to that Orc, the one who wanted Brad to lick the dog shit off the bottom of his shoe, and frowned. Maybe, I’ll never run into that guy again, Brad hopefully thought, but I’ll have to face him eventually.

  He heard loud footsteps, rushing up behind him. Oh, how wonderful, I was followed by that Orc and his troll friends.

  He stopped and turned around, ready to defend himself.

  Timmy hunched over with his hands on his knees, swallowing more fresh air as possible.

  “Jesus, Brad, you’re a fast walker!” he said as he tried to catch his breath. He finally sighed as his face turned back to pale white. He stood upright and sighed. Colin laughed beside him, patted Timmy on the back.

  “You’ve burnt some fat there, tubs!” Colin said, pushing Timmy’s shoulder.

  Timmy returned with a disgusted face at Colin, and a nice complimentary middle finger in his face.

  “Fuck you,” he huffed.

  “Mind if we come over, Brad?” asked Colin.

  Brad shrugged, nodded. He didn’t have anything else to do, so why not and agreed for them to come over.

  “You guys live near me?” he asked Colin and Tim.

  They both nodded.

  “Colin lives just about five blocks away from Elm Road on Tulley Street, and I live block over Tulley Street on Cook Avenue,” Timmy said.

  “I heard you’ve encountered, Ted. I’m going to take a wild guess that went well, right?”

  “Ted?” Brad asked Timmy.

  “Yeah, Ted, the King of Douche-Baggery Town, The School’s Douchebag Mascot, Sir Douche-a-lot, Captain Douche on the Douchebag team… that guy.”

  Brad laughed heartily, realizing who the hell Timmy was talking about.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Timmy, confused.

  Brad shook his head, still having a giggle to himself.

  “That guy, I know now. I wasn’t going to lick his dog shit off his shoe. Jesus!” he said, smiling from ear to ear. “You had me laughing with those names for him. You’re a comedian.”

  Timmy’s certainly funny—alright, Brad thought.

  Timmy playful punched Brad’s arm.

  “At least, he didn’t make you drink the toilet bowl water from the men’s restroom.”

  The thought of someone drinking from the toilet had instantly made Brad stomach queasy. Tiny little shit particles still floating about inside the toilet water, and bacteria and viruses swimming with glee. Brad could sense his food jumping up from his stomach and touching the back of his throat. He shuddered.

  “You’re okay, there?” asked Colin. “You seem a bit green in the face.”

  Brad shook off the thought of someone drinking toilet water.

  “Oh, yeah! In addition, Ted made him lick the toilet rim,” Timmy said.

  Brad fought hard against puking on the front lawn of someone’s house, but he found it very hard not to puke. The thought of someone’s slimy tongue sliding along the piss-stained rim, and loose pubic hairs that clung to the ceramic toilet rim; already sent Brad sailing to someone’s front lawn and bending over to empty his stomach’s lunch contents. He spat on the front lawn, wiped his mouth with his sweat jacket, and groaned.

  “That shit is fucked up,” he said angrily at Timmy.

  “I’m sorry, bro… I just—”

  “He doesn’t use his damn brain half the times,” Colin said to Brad.

  He waved his hand at both of them, nodded, and said, “It’s fine. Shit, Ted is a King of Douche-Baggery Town.” He shook his head.

  “He’s some kinda of work, alright,” Timmy said. “This one time, he—”

  “No!” Colin said, shoving Timmy on his shoulder.

  “Alright, alright! Fuck sake! Fine, I won’t say it… but—”

  “No,” Colin said again with slight anger in his voice.

  Timmy groaned and moaned.

  “Fine, I
’ll drop it,” he said.

  What a relief! Brad cheerfully thought.

  They’ve reached his house and entered inside the front door. It was good for Brad to have some good friends. Some good quality friends, Brad needed alright.

  Brad’s mother was bending over and sorting through a grocery paper bag. The refrigerator door was wide opened, and she was placing food items inside the refrigerator. When she was done, she stood upright with her hand on her back and groaned. She closed the refrigerator door, turned her head and smiled widely.

  “Hiya, boys!” she said.

  Brad planted a kiss on her cheek and introduced him to his friends—true friends, maybe even, first time ever best friends—and asked how her day was.

  “Running around a bit, getting everything situated, and Gallery hunting.” She smiled.

  Brad’s mother painted elegant and beautiful paintings on a canvas that she hoped, one day, that she’ll sell to an art gallery. Brad could remember, a time, when his mother spoke heartbrokenly about a local gallery that rejected her painting. The painting of the Earth weeping of sorrow from waterfalls as humans devastated her with pollution, war, not properly filtered nuclear water waste. Brad’s mother poured her heart and soul into the painting, perhaps – too much of herself, that left her broken when the gallery turned her down. Brad could remember a time his parents argued that night. The sound of defeat in her voice, that night, Brad’s ears cried. Boy, did Brad feel extremely sorry for her, but he couldn’t do anything about it. What was he supposed to do? Sure, he could’ve just marched over there and force them to accept his mother’s paintings just to take away her pain. But in reality, there was little to nil chance, Brad could’ve done to help his mother feel better. Although, he did hear one time or another, rejection makes a person stronger. He knew eventually she’ll pull through and became successful. And he knew that all she needed was just an itty-bitty break to regather herself up from the rubble and wipe away the dust from her shoulders.

  “I hope you get it this time,” Brad said, smiling encouragingly. He nodded. “What type of painting is it?”

  Brad’s mother smiled and gave him a boop on his nose.

  “Can’t tell you. It’ll ruin it.”

  She smiled, sighed as her hands were placed behind her back. Her torso leaned slightly back, and then she flinched.

  “Your mother is falling apart over here,” she said, laughing at her aches and pains. “So, what are you boys up today?”

  “Just chilling,” Brad said.

  “Well, you all have a good time—chilling,” Brad’s mother said, trying to be hip and cool. She laughed and began to wash dishes.

  Tim, Colin, and Brad headed up to his room.

  “Are you sure that you haven’t felt cold spots in this house?” asked Timmy.

  Cold spots? Brad questioned. He thought back to the time when he felt a cold breath tickle the back of his neck.

  “You mean like… a cold breath behind your neck?” he asked Timmy.

  “Yeah, like that.”

  The three of them stopped in the second-floor hallway.

  Brad confused, looked at them strangely.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Does that always happen?” Timmy asked, pointing his finger down the hallway.

  “Do what?” asked Brad, turning his head to the direction Timmy had pointed.

  For Christ sake, it had to be a draft or something, he thought. It had to be. He headed over, slammed the attic door shut. He shook his head.

  “Probably cold draft or something,” he told them. “Probably, nothing.” But Brad felt differently inside his heart. There was something odd about this house, and it bugged him to a slight degree. Has to be a draft that pushed the attic door open. Drop it, I’m going insane thinking about this damn shit. Next thing, I know, when I hear a creak in the hardwood floor—I’ll shit myself.

  Both Timmy and Colin let out a nervous laugh from their throats.

  “I saw that door open,” Timmy said.

  “It could be a draft, and the house is old,” Colin said, shrugging his shoulders. “Maybe it was not properly shut.”

  As soon as he said that, which he would possibly regret, the attic door popped slightly ajar, began to creak open, and opened a bit further.

  WHAM!

  The door slam shut hard. So loud, some of the picture frames that hung on the walls had shook. So loud, footsteps rushed to the landing of the stairs.

  “You boys alright?” asked Brad’s mother.

  They were completely speechless, and their eyebrows raised high over their foreheads.

  Brad managed to nod. “Yeah,” he said. “We’re fine.”

  But that was further from the truth, they shitted themselves.

  “I thought one of you fell,” she replied.

  Brad heard his mother footsteps disappearing back down the hallway.

  “Cold draft, eh?” Timmy asked Brad, shaking his head. “I call bullshit on that.”

  As much as he’d love to rationalized it away, he couldn’t come up with an explanation. There’s something definitely wrong with this house, he agreeably thought.

  “Okay, well… that never happened before. But I did have other things happen,” he told them.

  Their eyes of fascination and immense interest shined.

  “We’re going to have to investigate this, soon,” they both said in unison.

  “We don’t know the full story about this house,” Colin said, “it’s all rumors and legends. But this confirms it… your family purchased a haunted house.”

  Boy—was Colin right, Brad thought. The realtor should’ve told his parents after she showed the house: “this house may come with a couple of genuine spooks, but don’t you fret none—it’s still a beautiful home to live in.” A beautiful home it is, indeed, but it had some unwanted baggage still left behind. Whatever baggage it still clung onto. The house’s energy or whatnot had enough strength to slam the attic door hard and jolt his friends and Brad’s skin right off their bodies.

  The house is tainted and, possibly, damned, Brad thought. But he wouldn’t know how tainted nor how damned it truly was, nor would he ever expect more abnormalities to appear more frequent.

  Brad’s mother offered his friends over for supper, but they politely declined. They told her that they needed to head back home and do homework.

  Brad walked his friends out of the house and gave them a bro-fist (bumping each friend’s fist together).

  “I’ll see ya guys tomorrow,” he said, waving them off before he headed back in the house to eat supper.

  He sat across of Jesse, who was swinging her feet up and down—rocking the dining room table—like she always does, and he dug into his hearty meal. After he chewed and swallowed, he wanted to know something about the house. The thought of wonder had danced about inside the frontal lobe.

  “Dad?” he asked.

  John was about to scoop a spoonful of mash potatoes into his mouth but rested the spoon on the plate.

  “Yeah?”

  “When the realtor showed us this house—did she say anything about this house being haunted?” Brad asked his father.

  John cracked up, shook his head. The whole facial expression on his face read “why would it be haunted?” very vividly.

  “Where did you hear that from?”

  Brad shrugged his shoulders, looked down upon his plate of food. He knew his father didn’t believe too much about the paranormal. His father wasn’t a skeptic, but it troubled him to think of such things as—ghosts.

  John believed only in the infamous one-way thinking—heaven or hell was the only inevitable option after death. A God-fearing person, he was, yet he wouldn’t attend church every Sunday like most folks do. John always had a saying—church is where the heart is and as long as the person believes in God then that is what matters the most—that was convinced inside his very core. It made sense to Brad; a church is just a building (foundation of faith). If the person has
faith inside their heart, they should be alright with God.

  However, Brad had a hard time with the whole “blind faith” notion. Say if one would have faith in something else, besides God, then what? Brad would often question himself. What or who is God? His questioning thoughts would dance about in his head, a superior alien race that genetically created us? Someone who is faceless that we (as humans) must believe in solely from an ancient book of texts? Who is this, God, entity that brilliantly and almost perfectly (imperfectly perfect) created us and all things?

  Additionally, what really bothered Brad the most was the “never question the word of God but fear him for he is the Almighty, the Creator” ideology. Shit! Brad was more afraid than ever in his lifetime when that attic door slammed shut by itself. He’d never experienced anything remotely paranormal. So, questioning everything, Brad thought, was a good thing.

  “Well… today, my friends and I saw the attic door slam shut by itself,” he said.

  John shrugged it off like “no big deal” and finished chewing his mash potatoes. He guzzled some of his Miller beer and quietly belched before pardoning himself.

  “Brad, it could be a draft from the attic or from the other room.”

  “Yeah, Brad, there’s no such thing as ghosts!” Jesse said, teasing her brother on such a silly notion. A silly notion that she’ll have to face directly, maybe later, but not now.

  “Right, dad?” she asked her father, smiling from ear to ear.

  “See, Brad, your sister is smart to not believe in that nonsense.” John nodded at Jesse. He took another gulp of his beer. “I’m sure there’s an explanation,” he said, nodding his head.

  “So… that’s what the loud bang upstairs?” Mary asked.

  Brad nodded his head.

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, I’m sure that it’s nothing to worry about.” Mary waved her hand at him. “It’s okay,” she said, digging back into her food.

  Well, that talk, went well, Brad sarcastically thought. There’s not one bit of rationalization behind the attic door slamming on its own. Or is there? Here I go again, driving myself up the wall and overthinking shit that’ll freak me out more. Maybe, they’re right, there is an explanation for it all. Something doesn’t happen without reason, right?