The Elm House Page 5

  Soccer try outs are in spring, Brad remembered. Boy, he couldn’t wait. He wished that it was already Spring. And Brad couldn’t wait until he told his parents about it. They would be very ecstatic.

  CHAPTER 5

  Jesse was so excited, like usual, she almost had died from laughter. The Herrick family sat around the dining room table, preparing to munch down on some delicious grub.

  “I’ll be trying out for my school’s soccer team in Spring,” Brad said to his parents. His parents beamed with delight. They told him that they couldn’t wait until his first game. His mom cooed about how many photos she’ll take of him. His father offered to help him practice after work.

  Jesse quickly began to swing her legs up and down. Again, rocking the table as she excitedly swung her legs up and down. She was very excited to share something, also.

  “Mommy, I drew something in class!” She got up, darted upstairs to her room in a flash, came back down with a piece of white plain paper and showed her mother. “See,” she said.

  Brad got a glimpse of her drawing. She drew a red house, blue colored sky, white—semi-decent, crude artform for an eight-year-old—clouds, green grass, and several stick figures outside of the house. They had names above them as well: Mommy, Daddy, Brad, Me, Matt, Margaret, and Nana. Matt and Margaret looked terrified for stick figures that they were, and Nana looked angry—and almost evil—with red glowing eyes. Nana was colored in pure black for some odd reason. It also seemed, to Brad, Matt and Margaret held each other with sad faces (or could be interpreted as sad faces).

  “That’s so wonderful,” Mary cooed, observing Jesse’s drawings. She pointed to Matt, Margaret and Nana. “Who are these?”

  Jesse raised her shoulders upward then relaxed them. “I don’t know,” she softly said. But Brad thought otherwise. He didn’t feel confident that Jesse was telling the absolute truth. Perhaps, Jesse was afraid of being scowled for believing in such non-sense like--ghosts. He felt that his sister was hiding something, but he didn’t know what.

  A boy was in my room, he remembered from the night that Jesse woke him up. Was this the boy that she saw? Brad questioned himself. There I go again, over-rationalizing everything and making everything into a big deal.

  “I think… people that lived here,” Jesse told mother.

  Father was about seconds close to correcting Jesse when mother gave him a stern look. The look that says “don’t even dare!”, Brad could see in his mother’s eyes. Father smiled politely and told her that her drawing was fantastic.

  “See!” Jesse handed Brad the drawing. It was a crude drawing for an eight-year-old, but she did put a lot of effort into it.

  “It looks good,” he told her. “Good job.” He smiled politely, and he handed back her drawing.

  “I’m going to hang it on the fridge!” She told mother, dashing towards the kitchen and seconds later coming back, sitting down back at the table.

  “That was fast!” Brad jokingly said towards his sister.

  “I’m faster than a speedy bullet. I’m Supergirl!” She giggled before stuffing her mouth with food. Her legs swung up and down—rocking the table—when she stopped kicking her legs. Brad didn’t realize, but soon he was alarmed. It wasn’t just him alarmed; Mary and John were both alarmed.

  Jesse’s face turned bright red, on the offset of slight purple, and began choking. Her tears seeped through her eye ducts as she coughed hard.

  Mother patted her back as hard she could, but not to break her back or misalign her vertebrae, and father told her to cough it out. The fear in John and Mary’s eyes shined as they tried their damndest to get Jesse to cough out her food. She’s going to die, Brad morbidly thought. And I was only mean to her.

  The chunk of roasted porkchop shot out of her mouth onto Jesse’s plate. Jesse’s face turned back to normal, a good healthy pinkish skin color, and began taking deep breaths in and out. She began to sob her eyes out briefly before wiping her tears and sniffle, a bit. Father promptly refilled her glass with milk and instructed her to drink it slowly. She nodded her head and took a long, good, sip from the cup and sighed.

  “See what happens when you eat too fast?” Mother asked Jesse.

  She nodded her head as mother stroked her luscious flowing hair.

  “Good girl,” mother said, kissing her on the top of her head.

  “You’ve had us all worried.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jesse said softly, slowly beginning to eat her food.

  Mother and father sat back down at the table.

  “Did you put some of your items in the attic?” mother asked Brad.

  He envisioned going up in the attic and shuddered. He was a bit hesitate about going up there—alone. He didn’t feel right near the attic door.

  “No, not yet,” he said, looking at his mother’s disapproved look. “I will, though, I promise.” Whenever, I get the balls to go up there, he thought.

  “After dinner, I want you up in that attic putting your stuff away.”

  Brad quickly tried to figure out an excuse, but he came low on excuses. He couldn’t even spare an excuse for the life of him. There’re dust mites… no… I heard an animal up in the attic… no, that won’t work…. There’s a boogey man up there… hell, that won’t even work. Damn, I have to go up there.

  “Okay,” he replied, slowly eating his food—actually, really just stalling—with slow bites. But no matter how slow Brad chewed, he’ll eventually have to face the attic—alone.

  Hesitate as a dog getting into his dog kernel, Brad was. He stared at the attic door, praying—no, more like wishing—that it wouldn’t swung open at him. With his cheap plastic flashlight in one hand, and a small cardboard box under his arm, he reluctantly opened the attic door. A musky aroma filled his nostrils like a moldy basement as he took one step at a time upward the attic stairs. With a flick of his flashlight, he was able to see—somewhat, to a degree—what lurked within the darkness of the attic. It’s just an attic… like a basement… just an attic, he thoughtfully repeated to himself as an affirmative: “I can do this… I can do this… there’s nothing to fear.”

  Each step that Brad took upward the attic stairs had creaked loudly, sending chills up and down his back. He had prepared himself for anything that would leap out from the shadows to engulf him. It’s just an attic, he repeated to himself. Finally, he rose to the top of the attic stairs and peered around the room. Brad must’ve felt stupid enough to be afraid of an attic. See, it’s just an attic. There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s an attic—that’s all.

  Strangely enough, the attic still possessed previous owners’ belongings—whomever they may be—that had dust clung onto them. Some of their objects had white bulky covers draped over them. There were cardboard boxes stacked along the sides of the attic, a large vanity mirror rested against a dresser armoire, several other objects covered to protect them from dust, and something in the far back of the attic. It was slightly too far away for Brad to see, so he squinted his eyes slightly as he shined his flashlight into the far back near the attic’s oval window. Isn’t that the boy that Jesse was talking about? He asked himself. Silly Brad, getting crazy with his vivid imagination. It can’t be. He set the cardboard box, that was under his arm, down and took a further peek at the foreign object in the far back. He sighed a relief as he came closer to the mysterious object. It’s just a mannequin—that’s all, he thought, feeling more relieved. Brad’s flashlight began to flicker. He banged it against the palm of his hand. I have to change the damn batteries, he woefully thought. The flashlight fully came back on, and Brad’s curiosity got the best of him. Was it… curiosity killed the cat, perhaps? He wanted to know what was inside some of the old cardboard boxes. Brad knelt down by one of them, looked through them, pondered how far they dated back. There were old family photographs in these leathery photo albums, some news article clippings, one black leathery photo album book. He eyed at each photo inside the black leathery photo album. They seemed to be posing (sitting down
on a wooden chair, some standing up next to their siblings, and even some laying down in their beds) when the photos were taken. These photos weren’t something that Brad never seen before; they were old—like ancient old—like they were taken when cameras first came out, kinda old.

  “Brad, honey!” Mother called out to Brad.

  “I’m coming!”

  He stood up, headed down the attic stairs, but before he could reach the attic door, the attic door slammed right in front of his face. His flashlight flickered as Brad’s heart pounded out of his chest. He tried his damndest to open the attic door, but the door wouldn’t bulge—not one damn bit. Open! You, dumb door! Open! He frantically thought. He tried his hardest to open the door, but each time he tried—panic sat within his chest. Brad was about to shit his pants as his heart thudded louder inside his chest.

  Thump! Thump! Thump!

  His heart pounded faster and faster. His hand pounded against the door. He could’ve sworn there was someone standing right behind him, staring with gleeful eyes, sharpening its long sharp nails. Brad screamed and pounded at the attic door as his heart raced.

  Thump! Thump! Thump!

  His heart pounded so hard; he heard it with his own ears.

  The attic door was swung open, and Brad stumbled out into the hallway. He slammed the attic door shut. He turned around and yelped.

  “Jesus!” He held his hand over his chest.

  “I’m sorry,” Jesse said, frowning and looking concerned at Brad. “Are you okay?”

  Brad sighed.

  “No,” he said, heading back into his room.

  “It’s that boy again—isn’t it?” Jesse asked. “He’s being mean to you, isn’t he?”

  Brad stopped at his door, shook his head and told her no before heading into his room.

  It’s that boy again—isn’t it? Brad remembered his sister asking. No, it’s this damn house! I didn’t even want to move. I was fine where I was. Sure, shitty neighborhood, the bullies sucked, and every corner was some drug dealer selling—whatever—to whomever needed it most. Weeks later, you’ll find out they’ve been killed by some gang rival for selling on their turf. Yet, this neighborhood is peaches and cream compared to my old neighborhood. But now, I live in a fucking creepy house. A house that could be haunted… haunted by some fucking boy.

  Brad looked over at his digital alarm clock. Shit, I should do homework. But I’ll do it tomorrow. He plopped on his bed, stared at the ceiling and tried to relax his nerves. It’s that boy again—isn’t it?

  And how could I forget my mother called me, he asked himself. He sat upright from bed and headed out his bedroom.

  She looked at him dumbfounded, more like confused really, as Brad stood there like a silly Ox in the kitchen. She felt his forehead.

  “Are you feeling alright?” Mother asked.

  Brad nodded his head.

  “Yeah, just fine.”

  Her facial expression still appeared to be a bit quizzical.

  “Are you sure?”

  Brad’s head nodded again. “I’m completely fine. I was putting stuff away in the attic, and I thought I heard you calling me.”

  She shook her head slowly and told him that she didn’t.

  Great, I’m going crazy! Brad thought. Well, I couldn’t had imagined the attic door slamming shut on me and not bulging open. This house will drive me bat shit crazy.

  “Well, tomorrow, you’ll need to go to the Wright’s Brother’s hardware store with your father.”

  “Okay,” Brad said.

  She planted a kiss on his cheek as she turned her attention back to the dishes. Brad headed back to his room to finally rest his weary head. He reached the head of the second-floor hallway, turned his head and stared at the attic door. Don’t you dare open, he hopefully thought, heading into his bedroom for the night. That’s a good door, stay closed, damn attic door.

  Brad covered himself in bed, turned off the lamp on his night stand and began to fall sleep. Damned house, alright.

  What were those articles about? Brad questioned himself as he sat shotgun inside the family’s Ford Explorer, heading to Wright’s Brothers hardware store with his father. It’s that boy again—isn’t it? He remembered Jesse asking him last night.

  “Did the realtor talk about anything about the previous owners?” Brad asked his father, hoping he would at least get some clues of who they were. His father just shrugged his shoulders, shook his head as he stared straight ahead.

  “Not that I can recall,” he said to Brad. “Why? What’s up, kiddo?”

  “Nothing—”

  But Brad knew it wasn’t just nothing, and he was determined to do some investigation into the house’s previous owners. For starters, why were their belongings still there? Brad thoughtfully questioned. They seemed to date back from present year (2018) to the Victorian era (almost 1920s, perhaps).

  “I saw some of the previous owners’ belongings in the attic,” Brad said.

  “Ah,” his father said, calmly, almost in deep thought.

  “So, that’s what is on your mind.”

  “Yeah… kinda… well, no one just leaves stuff inside an attic, right?” Brad asked.

  “Not really. Most of them either throw their old stuff out and move to another house. Now you’ve mentioned it—it does seem a bit odd. But I’m sure there are good reasons. Maybe—they left in a hurry. Who knows, right?”

  Yeah, they left in a hurry alright! Brad thought. He remembered the black leathery photo album that had pictures of people posing—some sat down next to their siblings, laid in their beds, also standing upright next their sibling or family members—and they seemed to appear different, weird almost.

  “There’s this black photo album that I’ve seen in one of the cardboard boxes upstairs. They had photos of children laying in their beds. Some were even standing upright in the photos. Like a baby was held by their mother, but they never were smiling.”

  Brad’s father raised his eyebrows, nodded, glanced briefly over at Brad.

  “You’ve never seen one of those before, have you? Do you know what they’re called?”

  “No,” Brad said.

  “Back in the day—way back in the day—they would take photographs (when cameras were first introduced) of their dead. They would believe that their souls would be captured in the photographs for the family to remember them more. It’s called post-mortem photography, son.”

  “They’re dead?” Brad asked, bewildered.

  His father laughed and nodded.

  “Yes, they’re dead.”

  “Why the hell would anyone do that?”

  Brad’s father chuckled then sighed. “It was an old superstitious belief back then—back in the Victorian era.”

  “Like I said, they believed that their souls would be captured into those photographs.”

  “So, they’re ghosts could be roaming around the house?”

  “Whoa! Now, let’s take an easy there! Let’s not get all crazy with the ghosts-thing.”

  “Sorry, but they could be—right?”

  “Absolutely not,” Brad’s father said, appearing slightly aggravated as if Brad had touched on a sensitive topic. Which of course, Brad knew that it did bother his father to a slight degree. Since, his father’s belief system was only in black and white thinking. It’s either this or that—some people think in terms to help them cope during the day. In addition, the human mind creates this type of thinking patterns to filter out unwanted mind-junk that the subconscious mind absorbs like a sponge. The human mind could be viewed as a quantum computer; information is processed at the speed of light—trillions (if not more) transistors, turning off and on, creating binary code that consist of ones and zeros—consisting of bits of data from a person’s daily life.

  “After we die, we go to heaven or hell and that’s that.”

  Yeah… that’s that… but maybe not, Brad thought. He felt at times that the topic was overall… pointless, like talking to a wall which isn’t fun, so he
dropped it. But before Brad dropped the topic all together, he did thank his father for telling him about the black leathery photo album. It was something at least valuable, so he thought. He wasn’t certain how valuable the information was, but at least he had some clue. A clue of why the house may be damned and tainted as he recalled Timmy telling him.

  “Well, we’re here.” His father parked the vehicle into the Wright’s Brothers hardware store’s parking lot. They got out on a nice breezy warm August’s afternoon and headed into the hardware store.

  Like every home, does, they need a bit more renovating—a tad bit tender and loving care, so to speak. That what’s Brad’s father was about to do; he first wanted to start with the basement and work himself up. A brand-new spanking fuse panel was about to be placed instead of keeping the same-old (happily hazardous) cartridge fuse box. His father estimated, eventually, he’ll get most of the house—up in top notch shape—renovated by summer of next year. The rooms would stay the same, his father told Brad, but should have central air conditioning by Spring or late summer. At least, it was his father’s highest hopes. Brad knew his father was a bit too quick to jump the gun on some of his half-cocked plans and eventually would regret it later. For the whole rewiring of the house with Type-B sockets (with Earth pin), his father took an estimated guess at possibly before Thanksgiving or Christmas. The plumbing that his father spoke about would be end of February of next year. Brad’s father, although half-cocked some of his plans, still relentlessly dotted his I’s and crossed his T’s when he planned for something. Sometimes, a missing part of his carefully thoughted out plan would be the culprit of most of his plans.

  Brad’s father parked the family’s SUV into the attached garage, stopped the engine, and took out the new fuse panel from the trunk.

  “How was your stop at the hardware store?” mother asked as they entered in the kitchen from the kitchen’s side door (garage side door communicating with the kitchen).