The Red Left

Pulling into the driveway in my red sedan, I know this is not just any old house. This is the oldest house in our town, the house that was talked about, a popular gossip topic that produced ancient stories. All this intensified the moment the little white sign with peeling white paint was hammered into the frozen ground.

For sale. 

Two red words that had people anxious and too curious. The house had never been put up for sale from the moment it was built. It was passed down through the Frye family, cranky humans who preferred quiet and lonesomeness over the liveliness of the town square and Main Street. 

Though, I haven't quite seen them in a while. Probably could not wait to get out of town.

For sale. 

Who would have bought such an ugly house-

Ring. Ring. Ring. 

I bring the car to park and peer once more at the worn brick and thick vines, the filthy windows, and hanging shutters before picking up my phone from the center console. It reads an unknown number. Pressing the power button, I choose to ignore the random person trying to waste a couple seconds of my day. I grab my purse from beside me and unwrap a new packet of gum, popping a fresh stick of peppermint into my mouth. Quite calming for anxiety, I do have to say. 

Getting out of the vehicle had to be the hardest part of it all, which is saying a lot because I had not known what awaited me inside) but now, at the doorstep, I force myself to reach out to the door knocker with the shape of a lion’s head. I give it three good knocks and then step back, patiently anticipating the sound of faint footsteps and the click of the lock. 

Then.

There they are. 

The footsteps. My heart beats along with the rhythm and then palpitates when the faint sound stops behind the door. Shuffling, there is some of that too, and out of my periphery, I see red curtains draw back from the large window to the right. 

It is then that I see him.  

His eyes.

I will not look away.

The red curtains swish when he disappears and a moment later, there is the click of the lock. 

Thump. Thump. Thump. 

Creaking, the door is drawn open to reveal a man of tan skin, jet-black hair, and wide shoulders. He stands there in ironed, gray dress pants and a clean, white t-shirt. He just stands there with his protruding muscles in his biceps and his veins in his arms. He has them at his sides, non-threateningly.  

“Anne Whitlock?” His voice does not thunder, it is steady and calm. 

I am oddly at peace. 

“Yeah, that’s me,” my voice quivers at the end. I continue, “You’re Mr. Wilde?” 

His eyes brighten and I find the color to be a brilliant blue. He smiles, “Why don’t you come inside? I can prepare some coffee?” 

Anne.

Stop. 

Do not go inside. 

That is what they had all told me.

The cowards that live in my town.

The man is fine.

“Sure, thanks.” 

He moves aside, welcoming me into the belly of the infamous mansion. My eyes are first drawn to the crystalline chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Shining from the rather large front windows, the sunlight glints off of the chains and the prisms and casts long rectangles of light on the warped wooden floor, on the frayed rug at the entrance. A grand staircase sits at either side of the wall to reveal another room beyond. 

“I know it’s not much at the moment,” Mr. Wilde exclaims. 

Click. 

“But it works,” I finish, smiling as he comes around to stand in front of me.  

He nods in agreement. “This had to be a wonderful house when it was first built.” 

He leads me through the house, giving me a tour of every room. Finally, we enter the grandest room of all, the room beyond the stairs. 

A small, circular table sits in the center of the room with two wooden chairs that are both pulled away from the table. A laptop and a neat stack of paperwork, paperwork we are to be discussing?

“My sister has been sick for quite some time now. It’s been really difficult to care for her all on my own. I feel horrible for admitting it-”

“You can stop yourself right there,” I smile. “Don’t feel horrible. It can be really hard taking care of a family member, especially when you have a busy work schedule.”

His crease at the corners as he somewhat shrugs and tilts his head to the side, “I don’t know, it’s just been alot. I work at home.” Nodding to the paperwork he walks over to the circular table, “Not very organized either. I had meetings all morning.” 

He shuffles around some papers and finds the documents that are intended for my eyes.

“I can show you where she is,” Mr. Wilde starts walking away quickly now and I follow him behind the grand staircase. 

“How funny,” to my surprise, a hidden door sits behind the stairs, “I didn’t even realize that this door even existed.”

Fumbling with the contents of his pockets, he finds the key and slides it into the lock. 

Click. 

“I don’t like people to snoop around, especially if she’s trying to sleep. I figured this was the best spot for her.” 

Hidden. 

Alone. 

“Hm, okay,” I smile as he finally opens the door wider and that’s when I see it. 

Not his sister.

Sick.

Stomach-churning horrors. 

I can’t look away. 

I can’t run out fast enough. 

Then with a hand on my shoulder, a searing pain burns across my neck and I am bleeding. 

Everywhere.

I turn just in time to see Mr. Wilde’s blood-stained white shirt. 

The knife finds its home again. In my ribs. 

He leaves it there. 

And I’m left with the rest of the Frye family, 

Mr. Wilde, with the money and the red spatters.