Charley’s Home

It was no secret in Lockeside that there was an abandoned home at the end of the road, right by the last remaining Catholic Church. Once the liveliest area of the old West Virginian town, it was left bare and withered with the installation of the new highway. It didn’t help that there were old rumors of that place; rumors which had only grown with its rot. It was that of the Etsons and their son Charley.

The Etsons were good folk, according to Pastor Davidson. They went to church every week, volunteered some miles out at a soup kitchen, and often left tips for the local sheriff to get ‘those wild rascals out of the woods.’.

Their son went out with his parents to church and those volunteer groups, which was to be expected, and people found the Etsons to be both charmingly conservative and blessed with great moral fortitude. That was until Charley vanished one day. Of course, people talked about it—there wasn’t much else to talk about in Lockeside—and that kind of talk led to accusations of neglect, abuse, and even selling Charley’s soul to the devil, but no one never worked up the courage to report these suspicions to the sheriff, not that the sheriff would’ve believed it anyway. 

That was years ago, before the highway installation. 

The Etsons moved out—no one remembers when or how—without their belongings and, more importantly, without Charley. Some folk say that, when visiting the end of the road—at night no less— little Charley can be heard screaming for help in the basement—as though he’s still there, still as young as he was the day he vanished. 

Jaime was determined to figure out if those old rumors held any real weight. 

He slipped on his flannel jacket and zipped it over his black baggy tank. Turning to his girlfriend, Jaime said: 

“Ready, Lil Miss Hills? Or are ya feelin’ too chicken shit?”

Alissa scrunched up her nose and smacked his arm lightly. 

“No! I told you I was gonna do it, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, just makin’ sure is all.” 

Truth be told, Alissa Hills wasn’t a cowardly type. A Californian immigrant with a semi-spoiled attitude, she craved adrenaline the same way an addict craved their preferred substance; something which united her and Jaime. He wouldn’t have asked her out otherwise. 

Alissa reached down and pulled her shoe strings. Her black leather boots had been giving her hell lately, but she insisted it was kind of a style; what with the leather stripping off the sides and the laces stretched so thin they appeared as though they could snap at any moment. She tied the laces carefully and tucked them into the tongue of her boot. 

Meanwhile, Jaime crossed his living room toward the kitchen. His lil’luns, Waltie and Billie, were crouched over the table busy with their homework. Billie was learning his basic addition and subtraction while Waltie was learning the differences between geometric shapes. Jaime cleared his throat.

“Alright, if y’all need anything, you best call me, y’hear?”

Billie nodded and gave him a thumbs up.

“I love you!” Jaime half-sang, half-said. 

“Love you too!” Waltie sang back. 

With that, he and Alissa were off. The hardest part of leaving at night was heading down the hill to downtown Lockeside. There were rolling mountains round all corners, with trees  which blocked out most of the pouring moonlight. Jaime pulled out his flashlight and felt around for the switch until he managed to click it.

White light nearly blinded him and Alissa both, casting evergreen shaped shadows across seas of twigs and moss covered rocks. Alissa tucked her black leather jacket close and pulled her hood over her French braided, jade dyed hair. 

Jaime shone his flashlight over piles of yellow-orange leaves til he found car tracks leading downtown. He gestured to Alissa and lead the way. 

There were hardly a lick of streetlights in Lockeside and the few that were there had bulbs that hadn’t been changed in years; leaving only glimpses of the relatively dead town for anyone passing through. The narrow, pebbled road snaked through the mountains out toward Point Pleasant and, further out, Ohio. Most tourists passed through here just to go there and whisper among themselves legends of Mothman and the tragedy of the Silver Bridge. Despite being Lockeside’s main source of income, the locals resented those damn tourists and their snooty Northerner opinions. 

Jaime shone his flashlight on the nearby pub. The scene of gossip, sport gatherings, and sheriff lunches, Harty’s pub gathered the community together just as well as the church. Get wasted at the pub on Saturdays, confess your sins on Sundays, rinse and repeat—-and gossip, always gossip, about the going ons of local Betty, drunk John, the lil’luns, gunshots heard uphill—that sort of business—and point out the tourists. Always do that too. 

Snap!

Jaime shone the flashlight in Alissa’s direction. She lifted her foot. Just a damn twig, no need to worry. 

They passed by the daycare-elementary school and Middle-High school. Both buildings were made of the same old brick, even the architecture was the same—rectangular, flat roofed, double-doored. It was said the church came together to build em back in the early eighties—on account of the fact that the parents of Lockeside were irritated they had to drive out about ten to fifteen miles just to drop off their lil’luns, all the while praying their children weren’t swayed by liberal teachers. They wanted their kids close, to fill their minds with Bible parables and traditional values, as well as with stories of Satanic cults hiding up in the mountains.

Jaime never understood why kids needed to hear such tales, but he kept those opinions to hisself. He’d only been a local since he was six after all and his aunt and uncle didn’t care much about religion, nor about the community. The community didn’t care much for them neither. 

There it was, Charley’s home. Wind whistled through broken, fogged windows and shredded curtains. The front door was ajar and the patio was left in a state of brownish-green, with holes poking through its aged wooden planks. The Etsons’ rusted, red truck was parallel parked to the left of the house too—Jaime had heard the Etsons had multiple vehicles, they weren’t poor—so the story goes.

Alissa plugged her nose.

“What the hell’s that awful—?” She whined. 

“Wood,” Jaime answered. “….Maybe food too? Can’t tell.” 

“It better be.” Alissa mumbled under her breath. 

Jaime walked up onto the patio, stepping carefully round the holes, and gently pushed the door back. Alissa followed him in. Jaime swung his flashlight across the kitchen and stairs, barely catching the sound of rats pitter-pattering ‘cross dusty rugs into their secluded nests. He wouldn’t mention this to Alissa, she’d scream at the sight.

For what it was worth, the Etsons’ home was built way back in the late 1800s. Considered one of them luxurious mansions for its time, the man who built it was something of a crackpot. He was too terrified to engage with society in any general sense, convinced both the Union and Confederates were out to get him. At least, that’s what Jaime read about. Now the house was like any other modern day building—average-sized. He stepped further in.

The source of the smell was indeed leftover breakfast or lunch. Roaches crawled over hardened hush puppies, scrambled eggs, cups of aged milk, burnt grits, and moldy pancakes. Alissa winced and straightened. 

“That’s so fucking gross!” 

“If we don’t bother them, they won’t bother us.” said Jaime. “Sides, we’re going to the basement, ain’t we?” 

Alissa exhaled and nodded.

Jaime turned his attention to the stairs and shone his flashlight ‘cross the wall to a door adjacent to an old calendar. Looked like the Etsons left in the early nineties, sometime in July. He walked up to the door and turned the knob. It took him a minute to realize he had to pull the door back rather than push it. He shone his flashlight at stairs that led down to the basement. 

“Oh, shit,” Alissa gasped. “You hear that?”

Scratches. There were more rats down there. Jaime turned to Alissa with half-a-smirk. 

“Rats. You sure you wanna go down there?” 

Alissa hugged herself and broke eye contact with Jaime. After a moment, she nodded hesitantly. He raised his eyebrows, but she faced him and nodded again.

“Okaaaay.” Jaime headed down, trusting his flashlight wasn’t missing no blind spots on the stairs. 

Unlike the kitchen, alcohol permeated the basement. It wasn’t the usual kind of alcohol purchased at no grocery store, no, it was the kind that stunk up emergency rooms and teal smocks. There was a bed too—at the heart of the basement—surrounded by transparent bags hooked to IV poles, with a sphygmomanometer on top, next to folded blankets. Boxes full of alcoholic wipes and other cleaning utensils were piled up behind the IV hooks to the far left of the room. 

Shit. 

Jaime frowned deeply, lowering his flashlight toward the floor. He remembered reading that Charley’s mama was a nurse; though he’d only read it in passing as he’d been gathering up information on the rumors. 

“That’s it?” Alissa said coldly. Jaime narrowed his eyebrows as he faced her. 

“Show some respect, will you?” 

“Sorry,” Alissa paused til a thought struck her. “If Charley just got sick then why’d his parents leave abruptly?” 

“Wouldn’t you leave if a whole town was accusing you of abusing yer sick kid?” Jaime bit back.

Just as Alissa opened her mouth to return the attitude, she stopped. 

“You hear that?” 

Jaime froze, leaning in only slightly to catch what Alissa was referring to. 

“…Mama…Mama…please…” 

Alissa squealed. 

“Oh, fuck!” She jumped back and grabbed the stair railing. Jaime straightened. 

“Hullo?” He called out. “Somebody there?” 

“….Mama…please….it’s too painful…” 

“I’m getting the fuck outta here!” Alissa leapt up the stairs and raced to the kitchen. Jaime stayed, watching his flashlight flicker briefly. 

“Charley?” He called out. “That you?” 

“…Mama….Mama…Mama!” The whispers swelled up into sobs, but then—

“Mama’s right here, Charley. I’m not leaving you, honey.” 

Jaime followed the noise to the back of the basement and moved boxes out of his path.

There was a TV in the corner, a real old one from the eighties, playing a recording of Charley in bed. He was being tended to by his mama. As his papa began to sing happy birthday quietly, the recording stopped and a VHS tape popped out. Jaime grabbed it and stared. He frowned again, letting his shoulders sink.

“Rest in peace, kid.” 

Jaime turned back to the stairs, wondering whether he ought to tell Alissa that there weren’t no ghost down here. He grabbed the railing and headed back up. Then again, what the hell had turned that TV on in the first place?