The Mansion on Harrow's Lane

“-and whatever you do, stay away from Harrow’s Lane,” finished the older boy emphatically. It was a saying all the children in White Lake knew by heart, and so it came as no surprise that the boy’s grisly story was met with a tired nod from his audience; they had all heard every type of story about Harrow’s Lane one could imagine, from the old man with the axe waiting to dismember you by the toolshed on house 114, to the ghoul that lurked the shores of the property at the end of the lane: White’s mansion. An outsider may have scoffed, and indeed those who came to White Lake always rolled their eyes when someone told some wild story about a man who dwelled in the lake and slaughtered innocent teenagers. 

“That’s Jason,” the outsiders would drawl, “Crystal Lake? Friday the Thirteenth? Come on, at least be original!” Without fail, the outsiders would attempt to prove their point by heading down Harrow’s Lane, but Sheriff Worthington kept a constant patrol out there. Besides, outsiders never stayed for long in White’s Lake. 

“Oh come on, Tommy,” said one of the boys listening to this latest story, “We’ve all heard that one before.” 

The rest of Troop 77 agreed. Tommy looked sour, but smiled and said, “Ah, you start to forget things at my age, y’know?”

“Aren’t you fifteen?” asked another boy with an impish look on his face. 

“Sixteen, actually,” he said with pride, “but what’s more important is that I’m one merit badge away from being an Eagle Scout.”

Even the most jaded and disinterested boys had to nod in respect. Since White Lake had a population just under 900, there were few boys who stuck with scouting long enough to be Eagle Scouts. In fact, the last one to achieve that rank was a Vietnam veteran who now spent his days yelling at birds from his porch. 

An autumn breeze blew some crispy leaves into the little circle in the cemetery the boys had formed. The irony that a group of young boys felt more comfortable in a cemetery behind an old church than on Harrow’s Lane was not lost on them. 

Now of course, any logical person would think this was a load of hooey; how could it be that in the 100 years of the legend of Harrow’s Lane, not one inquisitive child had made it past the patrol and squashed it? But there lay the rub; in 1943, a 12 year old girl had made it through the patrol, and was never seen thereafter. Her name was Lydia Stevenson. And again, in 1984, a young boy named David Wellman took a long hike around White Lake to get to White’s mansion and vanished into the night. The abrupt disappearances of both were hushed up to the outside world, as even their parents accepted their deaths and didn’t want a federal investigation. The sheriff poked around a little, but at the wake, everyone’s eyes were hollow. 

“Hey, why don’t you earn your exploration merit badge by heading down to Harrow’s Lane and bringing something back?” asked Mark, the second oldest boy in the troop. 

Tommy laughed nervously. “Mark, I know your family hasn’t been here for too long, but that’s… not possible. No one goes into Harrow’s Lane.”

“How’d this whole thing start, anyway?” Mark’s eyes were sharp, and he stared out into the growing darkness between the trees of Pike’s Forest. If you followed the path from the cemetery, you’d reach an iron-gated fence in about three hundred yards which led directly to the backyard of White’s mansion. 

“Well,” began Tommy, “It started in the year 1919, back when the town’s population was just 333-”

“Can you just skip ahead to the scary part this time?” asked Mark.

“Yeah, you suck at telling stories.” Billy earned a snicker from the rest of the troop.

Tommy sneered. “Basically, the founder of this town, John White, went crazy in his last few years living up in his mansion. He actually murdered everyone living on what was then called Downing Street with a knife, and then went into his master bedroom and hung himself. You can imagine-”

“And so people have been avoiding that road for a hundred years, just because of that?” Mark’s black eyes glowed in the setting sun. “In the city, people kill each other all the time and no one cares!”

“This ain’t the city,” said a timid boy. 

“Yeah, but I heard people in the country are tougher than people in the city. You guys let an old dirt road bully you?” Mark laughed. “I mean, c’mon…”

“Ever heard of Lydia-” Tommy started.

“And David Wellman?” Mark continued smiling. “Yes I have. You know what happened to them? They were probably taken by some old pervert and-”

“Some old pervert living on Harrow’s-”

“No,” interjected Mark, “Some old pervert who skipped town with ’em and never looked back. And you idiots stopped any investigation into the disappearance, so those kids died never knowing justice.”

“That’s enough, Mark,” said Tommy forcefully. “No one’s going to Harrow’s Lane.”

“He does have a point, though,” said the timid boy. 

“And you can earn your exploration badge!” piped another.

“That’s not even how you earn the badge!” cried Tommy, “You don’t need to actually explore anything-”

“And that’s why the boy scouts suck,” said Mark, throwing a dried leaf at the ground, “But you can change that, Tommy! You can prove to yourself, to us, and to everyone in this town that you’re a real scout. Someone who charts new territory, who seeks out adventure, and who doesn’t let anything stand in his way! You can show all these kids what it means to be an Eagle Scout! And once this curse is lifted, the whole town can start healing from it!”

“Yeah, Tommy!” said a young scout, the rest of the troop nodding eagerly. Mark’s speech had driven them into a frenzy, and their eager eyes pierced Tommy’s heart. 

“Oh… I don’t know,” he said nervously. 

“Please, Tommy,” said the timid boy with pouty lips. 

“You’d be a hero,” said Mark quietly, “They’d write a whole section about you for the state newspaper: Fearless Scout excises century-old demon from small town. Think of the glory!”

Something in Tommy’s blue eyes darkened. He set his jaw and said, “Alright… I’ll do it. But none of you are coming with me. I’ll go tonight after the meeting, and I’ll… bring back a newspaper from White’s manion - something from the 1910’s, just to prove I did it.”

“Woo hoo!” cheered the boys. Mark smiled, showing off crooked teeth. The wind swept his hair this way and that, and as the last light died over the horizon, he looked at Tommy with charcoal eyes, peering into his soul. But Tommy was not to be disrupted. As he bid the other kids goodnight, he waited by his car, watching the woods. When Mark left on his bike, Tommy grabbed the flashlight and first aid kit from his car and started along the path to Harrow’s Lane. 

***

Late autumn in New England brings winds chilled from the arctic itself, and before long Tommy’s teeth were chattering as he crunched through the avenue of dead leaves in his path. Pike’s forest consisted mostly of tall conifers and maple trees, which meant the moonlight was sifted through pine needles and sometimes pooled up in great patches of maples. The bare arms of some of the trees looked like talons reaching out into the shadows, and Tommy’s imagination did him no favors; every crunch in the leaves was a wolf stalking him, and every hoot was an evil owl watching his journey. After ten minutes, his wide beam of yellow light shone through a set of tough iron gates, locked on the other side. The fence was caked in hedges and leaves, and the gate was unclimbable. At least, to most people. Tommy had been on many climbing expeditions with the troop before, so after briefly pausing to slide his stuff through the bars, he grabbed the iron gate and hoisted himself up. 

“Alright, easy does it,” he muttered, sliding on the top between two spikes. He brought his leg over with confidence, but ended up slightly low; the spike cut through his pants and into his left leg. “Ah!” he cried, falling down the other side rather unceremoniously. 

His wound was minor, but blood trickled down his hamstring. Immediately, Tommy noticed it was significantly more frigid on this side of the fence, and a wild gust of icy wind sent the cold straight to his bones. He shivered in earnest, grabbing some alcohol pads from his bag and wiping the wound clean before applying some bandages. 

“That should do the trick,” he said, smiling. 

“You oughta check if that spike had rust on it,” drawled a voice from his left. 

Tommy screamed and jumped back, stumbling and falling over. “Who - Who’s there?” he asked, fumbling for his flashlight. He grabbed it and pointed it forwards, only to discover Mark standing before him. “Mark?” he exclaimed. 

“Yup. Just thought I’d tag along.” He smiled and extended his hand to help Tommy up.

“You… you shouldn’t be here!” cried Tommy, ignoring the hand and scrambling to his own shaky feet. 

Mark shrugged. “I didn’t have anything else to do.”

“How’d you even get ahead of me?” asked Tommy incredulously. 

“Ah, I knew a shortcut. Now c’mon, we’re wasting time,” he grabbed Tommy’s shoulder firmly, but the elder scout pulled away. 

“Mark, go home right now,” said Tommy sternly. “I do not need you here.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s true. If you’d had me here, you would’ve known there’s a gap in the fence about twenty feet that way.” Mark smiled, “Besides, I don’t think I want to go home.”

“W-why?” asked Tommy, his teeth clacking like an old machine, “Are your parents…”

Mark smiled wider. “My family loves me very much, and they’d love to hear that I spent the night helping you rather than sitting alone in my corner again. So let’s go.”

“I’m - I’m sorry,” said Tommy, “I can’t allow this. We’ve got to go back.” He went to grab Mark, but ended up grabbing thin air as he heard a giggle from further down the path. 

“Come on, man,” said Mark’s voice from the darkness, “If we hurry, we can both be home in time for the Tonight Show!” 

“Mark, get back here!” shouted Tommy, hurrying down the path. His flashlight was trained on Mark’s back, but somehow the kid moved quickly through the woods, jumping over roots gracefully while Tommy tripped along. 

“Look, we’re almost there - you can see the lake!” 

“I swear to God-” Tommy grabbed Mark’s arm and turned him about - the two had stopped at the edge of the woods, right by the water in the mansion’s backyard. 

“Look at that,” said Mark proudly. The mansion’s old back roof cast a dark shadow over the tilted paneling, giving the whole house an eerie, off-kilter look. Some windows were smashed, but most remained intact, and they could see bits of the interior wallpaper lit up but the moonlight. Tommy’s knees suddenly felt weak. Here he was… in front of White’s mansion. One legend said that if you went there under the light of a full moon, you’d see old John White’s pale, dead face staring back at you from a window. As Tommy stood there, he swore he saw a face in an upstairs window, but he blinked and realized it was a reflection of the moon. 

“Jesus, Mark,” said Tommy, “Do you have any idea what kind of trouble you’re in? I’m writing you up! C’mon, let’s go back-”

“Do you know your way back through the woods?” asked Mark, a glint in his eyes. 

“Of course, you just follow the path-”

“We went off the path almost right away. That old legend about it coming right here - that’s wrong. It actually turns around and heads north around the lake.” Mark pulled Tommy’s numb fingers off of him. 

“W-what?” stuttered the elder scout. A man in better control of his faculties may have asked how the boy knew this, but all Tommy could say was, “Oh God… Oh God, we’re screwed.”

“No we’re not,” said Mark mildly, “I know the way back. And I’ll show you after we go in there and grab a newspaper.”

“W-why? I-I don’t wanna go in there anymore.”

“Oh, but you’ve come so far! You’re the only person in White Lake who’s stepped foot in the mansion’s backyard since… well, since David in 1984! Of course, he was chased and you… well…” Mark trailed off, a cold gale driving his words straight out of Tommy’s head.

“Why… is this so important to you?” asked Tommy, his knees still weak. 

“I just want to see you get what you deserve!” Mark pulled out of his senior’s grip and turned to face him. “No one cares about Eagle Scouts anymore - but a name in the state newspaper? That’s something to celebrate! They’ll remember you forever! Tommy Lundgren! Kids will be named in your honor!”

“In my honor?” Tommy’s shaking hands dropped the first aid kit. 

“Yes… and so much more. Now c’mon,” Mark took Tommy’s hand and pulled him forward, and the boy did not resist. In fact, before long, he was leading the way. They reached the back door, which creaked the wind. 

“Aren’t you… cold?” asked Tommy, noticing Mark was not shivering and looked quite comfortable in the blustery conditions. 

His companion smiled. “It doesn’t bother me too much. Now please, after you.” 

The door slammed open, making Tommy jump, and he shined his flashlight into the house to reveal a long, dark hallway. Just the sight of the decaying peach wallpaper and rotten floorboards was enough to make his skin crawl, but with a calming pat from Mark, Tommy started forward. 

“It’s so… quiet,” whispered Tommy, each step seemingly causing the whole house to groan and sway. 

Mark chuckled softly from behind him. “Indeed…”

They reached the end of the hallway, and a choice opened up before them. To their right was a kitchen and a living room, but to their left was a staircase. “Where should we go?” asked Tommy, “Where would John White keep his papers?”

“In the parlor, upstairs.”

Again, Tommy did not ask how the young scout knew this, but he nodded, tightening his sweaty grip on the flashlight before starting up the old stairs. Each step was wobbly, and he noticed how constricted his breathing had become, as each exhale seemed to vanish into the vacuous house, and each inhale echoed off the old walls. They reached the second floor, and a gesture from Mark told Tommy to go right. 

“Second door on the right,” whispered Mark, his voice almost… eager. 

Tommy hesitated. “I… I don’t feel so good.” It seemed as though the darkness was closing in around him. There were no windows here, and any moonlight was confined to the rooms. The hallway was utterly dark before him, and it seemed the darkness was eating away at his flashlight, scratching and clawing bits off of that wide beam until he was left with a meager puddle of light right in front of him. 

“You’re so close now, Tommy,” muttered Mark. Just go through the door and everything will be alright.” 

And so Tommy went. He opened the door to the parlor and his breath caught in his lungs. There was a fire going in the fireplace, and it was a deathly shade of green. Around it stood perhaps a dozen individuals, all with their backs turned to Tommy and Mark. A tall woman turned, the skin stretched tight on her skeletal face. She smiled, the sight sending shivers down Tommy’s spine. “And what have you brought for us tonight, my dear?”

“It’s been so long,” said an old man mournfully. Their voices were grating - as though the air was being forced through dry vocal chords. 

“I’ve brought… Tommy,” said Mark, sliding through the door and standing before the eerie company. 

“Mark?” whispered Tommy, the flashlight dropping to the ground, “What’s… what’s-”

“My name is not Mark,” said the boy, the fire playing tricks with the shadows on his face, which deepened as his voice grated, “I am David.”

An inkling of realization crept into Tommy’s heart. He saw his breath fog before him as tears welled in his eyes. “N-no… please-”

“Ooh, an only child,” crooned an elderly woman, not turning towards him, “How delightful. My son was an only child too, you know.”

“So long…” repeated the old man, starting to hum. 

“Mark… please-”

“Silence,” said a commanding voice. The tallest man turned towards Michael, and all the others followed. Their eyes were empty, and Tommy felt himself slipping away as the tall man fixed him with a terrible gaze. He smiled, his lips cracking as they stretched over rotten teeth. He extended a bony finger and beckoned to Tommy, whose will was not his own. The scout helplessly felt his body move forwards, his feet dragging on the old wood boards. 

“So long…” the old man hummed. 

Tommy felt himself kneel. A young girl whose face he somewhat recognized appeared before him. “Lydia, my dear,” said the tall man, “If you would do the honors.”

“Sure, Mr. White,” said the young girl, her voice almost bright. She produced a knife from her clothes. 

“No,” groaned Tommy, but it was no use. The ghastly spectators watched hungrily as Lydia put the knife to his throat and swept it across. After a few gurgles, Tommy was no more. No one would question his death in White Lake, nor would anyone remember someone named “Mark” who was in the Boy Scouts. Tommy’s own parents would not cry at his funeral, choosing instead to shake their heads at the boy’s frivolity.