Stories: Dark and Evil

October 4^th, 2008

           The house had peeling paint, rotting shingles, and an overgrown yard. Vines climbed the front, stretching over the boarded windows. It looked like the door had been scrubbed but faded spray paint remained.

           “It’s perfect, I’ll take it.”

           The realtor looked at the house then back at me. “You’re serious?”

           “Yes.” I tore my eyes from the house and faced him. “So, isn’t there like paperwork we should work out or something?”

           “Well. Yes. I have it all right here.” He pulled out a binder and I clicked my pen. The man watched me closely as I signed here and initialed there.

           “You know the history of this house, don’t you?”

           I clicked the pen again and closed the binder. “Thank you so much, sir. Now if you don’t mind, I have a lot of work to do.”

           The realtor slowly took the binder. He opened his mouth as if to say something then seemed to change his mind. He nodded a goodbye and gave me one last confused look before he drove away.

           Finally. I had my few possessions packed into the back of my truck. I went to work on moving into my new house. Inside, I set up an old table and folding chair I had found the big bay window in the front. I tore the boards off the window and wiped the grime and webs from the glass. Lastly, I set my typewriter and metronome neatly on the table facing the window. I was ready to begin.

           I looked out at the dark town from my perch behind the grimy bay window in the house on top of the hill. The house creaked around me. Old and heavy. I could hear critters scurrying around upstairs and in the walls. But I didn’t care. I wasn’t here on vacation. I was here for the truth. This town was keeping something from the world. It is a dangerous thing to keep a secret too big and too dark for long. It will manifest into something ugly and evil. As I looked out on the potholed streets, rundown houses, and boarded up businesses I could tell it was already happening. The town weighs heavy with its stories. And I couldn’t help up wonder if I wrote down these stories, would the town get lighter?

           I cracked my knuckles, set my metronome, and started typing. I decided to start with the past owners of the very house I was sitting in:

If ever there were a tragedy it was the story of the Reuban family. They bought the house in 1978. Walter and Rachel were young and newly married. Walter had gotten a job in town at the Fritter Factory, which was now one of the many boarded up, rotting buildings that littered the area. They had built parts for boats or something like that. It was a big deal for Walter, because the owner, Ken Morton, had gave him a special chance. See, everyone knew Walter was a little slow, had trouble piecing things together, remembering names, matching his socks, sometimes got lost in town. Little things. But Morton was one of the few in the area that thought it was right to give everyone a fair chance at making a living.

After ten years Rachel had had two kids and was expecting another. Walter had successfully held on to his position at the factory and had received a raise or two. Everything had been perfect…until that night. On October 5, 1988, the Reuban family was brutally murdered. Walter was savagely beaten and tortured until his attackers mercifully ended his grief by hanging him from a branch from the oak tree in front of their house.

           I stopped typing and stared out at the tree. I could almost see a bloody Walter being lifted, clawing at the rope around his neck. My heart started beating a little faster and I squinted to get a better look. Was that…a piece of the rope still tied around the branch…

           A sudden knock at the door caused me to nearly jump out of my skin. Which was a rare occurrence for a horror writer. I got my breath back then went to the door. I opened it to a very grumpy looking man in his mid-sixties. He was smoking a cigarette and without hesitation thrust a tinfoil wrapped pie into my hands.

           “Here, wife made this to…welcome you to the neighborhood.” He spoke in a gruff voice with a cigarette hanging from his lip and the last bit had sounded sarcastic.

           “Oh…thanks.”

           The man looked me up and down. “What in the hell brings a guy like you to a town like this? Especially in…this house.” He gave the house a quick scowl and looked away again.

           “Well, I’m a writer. I search for real horror stories to share with-“

           He waved his hand to stop me. He was grimacing as if my words had caused him physical pain. “All right, all right. Well, as my wife suggested, I came over to be friendly and say welcome.”

           I forced myself to smile and say thanks. Even though this encounter seemed far from friendly. Before I could say anything else he turned to go.

           “See you around,” he mumbled as he sauntered down the sidewalk. Then he stopped and turned around. For the first time he took the cigarette out of his mouth. “Just be careful what you’re getting into, kid.”

           I faked another smile. “I’m used to shady people and situations.”

           The man raised his eyebrows and made a sound that I guessed was a chuckle. Then he shoved his smoke back into his mouth and left. As he disappeared around the bushes, I realized we didn’t even introduce ourselves to each other. I stood there for a moment, then glanced up at the oak tree. No rope.

Rachel Reuban died from drowning. They had shoved her head into the sink water where she had been washing dishes. She was found on the kitchen floor, belly still plump with a baby that would never be born.

The closet upstairs had been pulled apart suggesting the kids had been hiding. But they were found. Lindsay died from a blow to the head, and Robert was strangled. A cruel, soulless crime. People from town claimed they seen gang-like characters wandering around town that week. The police searched for them, but eventually the case went cold. The monsters who committed this hideous crime had gotten away with it.

           I paused to rip open the tinfoil on the pie from Cigarette Man. I pulled out a piece and took a big bite. My ex-girlfriend used to say I was “messed-up” for being able to eat while listening to gruesome stories and watching horrific movies. I always just shrugged. Instead of taking away my appetite evil stories just made me hungry. I like to say it symbolizes my hunger to hear the fascinating tales of our dark world.

           I continued:

In the months preceding this crime many children from town went missing. None of the twenty or so that vanished were ever found. The FBI had a few leads with some shady people temporarily staying in the town over, but they did not find enough evidence to incriminate. Another case gone cold.

In 1989, a year after the Reuban murder, three residents in town committed suicide. All on the same day. October 5^th. Shockingly there was no investigation. It was waved off as the result of sad, depressed people in a crumbling town unwilling to face reality. As for the date, it was just a coincidence. Odd, but stranger things have happened.

Three years later, after talk of all the deaths had winded down a young man from town who had just graduated high school thought he had scored a deal in buying the Reuban house. Which he did, it was dirt cheap for obvious reasons and had been empty for four years. He got a job at the local mechanic shop and first paycheck bought a rusty blue Ford pickup. He only lasted five months. Again, October 5^th, everything changed. The young man went mad. In the middle of the night, he left the house in a hurry, leaving the lights on and the door wide open. He got in his truck and drove two blocks over. Reaching a speed of 85 miles an hour he ran straight into the Johnsons’ household killing himself and Harold Johnson who had been sleeping on the couch after a dispute with his wife.

After talking to the parents, the police found that there had been no history of mental instability or paranoia. His boss at the mechanic shop described him as a good, hard-working kid. There was a thorough search of the house, which for a young man was surprisingly clean besides a messy upstairs closet and a sink full of soaking dishes. And again, the police were stumped, and the story evaporated after a month. Since then, the Reuban house has remained empty…until now.

           I smiled and ate another slice of pie. It was my favorite, apple. It was getting dark outside, and the October wind was blowing. I got up to adjust all the old radiator heaters in the downstairs rooms. They were working, but the house was so drafty. I glanced up the dark stairs, listening to the wind howling and the critters crawling. I decided I would sleep downstairs.

           With the fire blazing and my cot set up in front of it I decided I would have a cozy night. I grabbed the dish with the leftover pie and took it to the kitchen. The light flickered a few times before it finally caught. Man, that kitchen needed a good scrub down. So much work to be done. I plugged in the fridge and threw the pie onto the cleanest shelf I could find inside. I glanced at the sink with its spider web city on the bottom and was glad I had bought a case of bottled water for now.

           Switching off the light I went back to my table. One more part to write down before I turned in for the night:

What is happening to this town? Will the mysteries of the missing children, Reuban family, and suicides ever be solved? What is making this town so dark and heavy? What secrets are buried in these potholed streets? In the overgrown cemeteries and boarded up houses? I intend to find out.

           A sudden crash outside made me jump for the second time that day. This time included a yelp as well. The sound came from out front. I dug around in the boxes until I produced a flashlight. Opening the front door, I cautiously peeked out. My ears only caught the sound of wind rustled leaves and a distant cat fight. I ventured out and down the steps. The trash can across the street had tipped over. I let out a breath.

           I jogged across the street picking up stray trash as I went. Once the can was upright and more secure, I strolled back to my yard feeling good about my nice deed. The flashlight’s light bounced with my steps. I was just passing under the oak tree when the hair on my neck and arms stood up. And it wasn’t from the chilly breeze. I spun around, pointing the light side to side. There was no one. Maybe I was still on edge from the crash.

           I was about to continue to the house when suddenly something heavy fell off the tree behind me. It seemed to catch on something and hang and I swear I felt a foot bump my shoulder. I didn’t even look, just raced with madman’s speed into the house and slammed the door shut. My fingers fumbled with the door lock, but I finally got it to click. I locked the second one and the third one, then latched the chain…wait, what? My heart was still beating but I paused to study the line of locks on the door. Why so many?

I realized that only one other person had lived in the house since the Reubans and Walter Reuban hadn’t sounded like a hundred locks type of person. But the young man. Had he gone insane while living here? Did the investigators fail to see this during their search? This put an interesting twist to the story. I was so excited about this new event that I almost forgot all about my traumatic experience outside. I went to bed, eager to continue my work in the morning. There were so many people to talk to and research to be done.

I woke up a couple hours later. I wasn’t entirely sure what had woken me, but the fire had gone down to glowing embers, and I was shivering. I got up with the intention of starting it up again, but then froze. There were footsteps upstairs. Quick, little ones. Like children running. Then I heard giggling. Darn town kids messing around in the spooky house, I guessed. How did they get in?

“Hey! Who’s up there?” I started toward the stairs then heard a noise in the kitchen. I turned to check there first. The light was on though it was flickering in protest and my pie dish was sitting on the center island. I frowned and moved my way around the room looking for kids. I was about to head for the stairs again when I noticed that the sink of full of water and dishes. Hadn’t it been empty earlier? A cold fear crept through my body, and I could feel my muscles locking. I was about to dart from the room when two strong hands gripped my shoulders and shoved my face into the sink water. I thrashed and fought, but the hands remained firm. I felt myself fading…fading…then darkness.

The floor was freezing when I woke up. I was flat on my back. I was alive? Slowly sitting up I realized I was still in the kitchen and my hair was wet. I got up and walked into the living room. On my way I passed a clock and read twelve-fifteen. I realized with a flip of my heart that was October 5^th. Suddenly I was sitting down at my typewriter. The lamp turned on by itself, the metronome started ticking and my fingers moved as if possessed. They typed this:

This town is lying and has been for twenty years. They can’t face the truth. Some even took their lives, like the cowards they were. Why did they hurt that poor family? Because he was slow? They thought Walter Reuban was guilty, that he took those children. On that October night, members of the town decided that Reuban needed to be punished. Since the police weren’t any help, they took matters into their own hands and killed Walter. It was supposed to stop there, but things went too far. A man convinced his two buddies that they needed to kill Rachel as she was a witness. The others hesitated, argued that there was another way, but it was too late. They drowned her in the sink. Then that horrible man searched the house. He found the kids upstairs hiding. He killed them by striking one and strangling the other. So unnecessary and horrible to kill those children. Only a man without a soul could accomplish such a crime, a man who enjoyed watching children suffer…

           I suddenly realized that I knew this person. He gave me a pie. Cigarette Man.

Unfortunately for the folks of this town they will pay for what they did. And he has a plan. It was attempted four years ago, but the chosen man was weak. He didn’t have the stomach to commit the acts of vengeance needed by Walter. He went mad and died. But now a capable donor has presented himself to me. And now, finally, Walter Reuban will get his revenge.



           My body flung to a standing position and my feet started marching to the door. The locks undid themselves right in front of my eyes and then I was outside. I tried to will my feet to stop, tried to scream, or stomp or anything to stop myself. But he was in complete control, and I was useless. The only thing I could do was listen to my panicked thoughts. We passed the cursed oak tree and turned toward the backyard.

The night air was freezing. But I no longer felt it. All I felt was hate and hurt. I felt the anguish of a man whose blood stained the yard of his very home. A man whose family was brutally murdered. The wife who fought for her life. The children who tried to hide. The baby in the womb who never got to take a breath of air. They were innocents, they were innocents! And so was Walter. Will they think he’s slow now? No, he has his wits about him, and he is more alive than ever.

           We reached the shed, and I opened the door. I watched my hands reach out and grab the axe off the wall. I stared at it with wide eyes. The moonlight glinted off the edge so beautifully. I felt something in my soul shift.

           Fine. Okay Walter. Use me as you will… It will put an interesting twist to the story.