She told him the answer to his problem was simple, if he would only look beyond his fears and face it.
"The door is unlocked," she explained, her gypsy eyes glistening in the candle-lit room. The air was thick with the aroma of incense. The walls were covered with smoke-stained tapestries with images of wild animals outlined in golden-brown threads. Their growling faces stared at him, daring him to act. He turned back to the gypsy. Her eyes were deep, dark pools. Who was she? Where did she come from?
"Find it, and turn the knob," she urged. "Take your chance!"
"Chance?" he asked, putting a hand to his throbbing temple. What could she be talking about?
"A second chance," she replied. "It is yours for the taking, if you want it. It is just beyond the door."
His eyes scanned the room once more. The only door he remembered was the one at the glass storefront he had stumbled through only minutes before. He had lived on this block for seven months and thought he knew it well, but he hadn't noticed this place before tonight. A fortuneteller? Where was the liquor store where he purchased his cheap wine and cigarettes?
His thoughts were muddled. Had he finally overdosed? Was he dead? He closed his eyes and tried to retrace his steps. He had entered the store, but instead of the familiar clerk, he had found this woman who had taken his hand in hers and guided him through a green velvet curtain into a back room. There she had taken the remaining money stuffed in his soiled pocket and told him things he hadn't had the guts to face in years: vile secrets from a life gone wrong.
Her words hurt, but he couldn't ignore them. She was right; he had thrown his life away. But that was the past, he told her lamely, and the past could not be taken back.
"You are wrong," she answered. "Sometimes, not too often, time pauses. It pauses at the door."
"What door?" he asked again his frustration mounting. "There is none."
"The door is within, it is without," she replied cryptically. "It is real, it is not real. It is a door of solid oak. It is a door made of air."
He stood to leave this craziness. He tore his eyes from hers, only to come to rest on her folded hands. Her long, deep-red fingernails curved in a downward arch. They seemed to glow in the darkened room, swirling in their cuticle barriers like pools of blood.
"Go!" she whispered, pointing a finger up at him.
He turned to escape through the heavy curtain hoping to find the liquor store that sold despair to those who had the money, and go out to the rain-streaked city street, back to the empty apartment, to resume the shambles of his life.
But when he parted the drape, he faced a door. It was dark and forbidding. Its surface was carved with half moons, stars and the incantations of ancient runes. Its knob was cut crystal.
"Open it!" her distant voice commanded. "Sometimes time pauses."
He put his fingers to his lips to stop a scream, and he forced his trembling hand to grip the sparkling knob. The door opened with a sigh.
"Step through!" she urged, her voice more distant till.
He turned to see her one last time, but she was gone. Everything was gone. "Why?" he asked the air around him, but there was no reply. He stepped through the door and fell....
He awoke as a child on a cold Minnesota morning, frost on his bedroom windowpane, and the smell of hot oatmeal drifting from the kitchen, his mother rattling the morning dishes.
"Wake up, Andrew Walter!" she called, using his first two names. She meant business. He had overslept again. He would have to play tag with the school bus, in an attempt to avoid the two-mile walk through the snow that would make him late once again.
He looked at his eleven-year-old face in his bathroom mirror and realized with a grin that shaving would not be necessary on this morning. There were no facial hair and no dead-end factory job awaiting him. There were no addictions to help him make it through another grueling day. On this snow-filled morning he looked at his fading freckles and realized he had been given something, something precious, something he had not even dared to wish before the gypsy had taken his hand and the cash from his pocket.
He was being given a second chance.
He sat on his bed and thought carefully. Could this be real? He held out his hand. A silver Boy Scout ring glistened from his finger. The scars were gone. The bailing machine had yet to etch its tattoo signature. The tracks of needles he used to kill the pain were still twenty years in the future. It was the perfect hand of a young man with a lifetime ahead of him.
A second chance. The words echoed in his brain.
"Andrew Walter Benson, you get in here right now!" his mother yelled. "You'll be late again!"
Yes, he would be late again. He would have to listen to Mrs. Sutcliff's admonitions in front of the snickering class. He would have to face the anger of his father when he returned late from the fields to face his errant son with yet another failing report card.
But there was one thing he knew on this cold morning. A second chance was being given; a second chance would be used. Used to the fullest.
He stood and grabbed at his folded school clothes lying neatly at the base of the bed. "Coming, mom!" he heard his preadolescent voice yell. "I'm going as fast as I can!"
The House
The dirt and gravel path meandered like an ancient riverbed from its humble beginning at the lip of the cracked asphalt highway. The acrid aroma of dried motor oil and tar wedded with the wispy fragrance of wild flowers and dandelions poking their colorful heads in the springtime fields. Lazy white cotton clouds floated listlessly in the azure sky as if the day offered no better place for them to go.
It was a beautiful day, a day made for oil paintings, for wicker picnic baskets on checkered red and white blankets spread under the solemn oaks that dotted the pencil-sharp horizon. It was a day better suited for young lovers then the drama that was about to unfold.
Cole Sinclair stood at the edge of the road, staring at the old wooden gate. The rusted metal hinges and fragile lock looked as if they would shatter with only the slightest provocation. It didn't look like the last checkpoint before hell, but that was exactly what it was.
He looked once more at his '71 Ford Pinto Runabout, sitting forlornly at the shoulder of the road. In spite of its reputation as a deathtrap, the Pinto had served Cole well. He had picked it up at an impound lot sale for five hundred bucks. Through the years it had puttered along, taking him from one sad resting place to another. He had slept in it many a night when the money was low and the fever of the road called him to move on again.
"You can still leave, you know," it seemed to be telling him. "Just jump back in and move on down the road. No one willed you back here. No magic spell commanded you to drive three hundred miles to this God-awful place. There's no need to prove anything to anyone, not me, not yourself."
But he knew deep in his heart this wasn't true. He knew that every action of his life for the last twenty years had led to this desperate moment: a last ditch attempt to erase the guilt that burned his soul with such brightness it felt as if he were going mad.
Cole took a deep breath and willed his foot to cross the barrier between the hardpan and the snake-like trail that led to the object of his obsession. He couldn't see the old house from here, of course. The low knot of a feeble hill kept it hidden from the highway, and unless you had grown up in this rolling farm country east of the San Francisco Bay, you wouldn't even know it was there. And that made the first step harder, and caused the tightness in his chest.
The gravel crunching under his feet was louder because of the quiet of the day. The only other sounds carried on the hint of a breeze flying over the tall green winter-fed grass was the private hiss of insects, and the rhythmic pounding of his heart. Cole reminded himself that there was nothing to fear. Not yet.
Though the late morning sun should have warmed him, Cole felt a chill. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and bowed his head against the jumble of emotions that rumbled in his mind. With each step up the road, he felt himself being propelled into the past, and that summer day twenty-seven years before....
The knoll loomed before him as the path cut through the green hills. Cole remembered them as they were on that fateful day, that day of betrayal; burnt brown in the scalding August sun, looking as if they might spontaneously burst into flames.
There was hope, Cole reflected. The house might have been torn down. Perhaps all he would find when his restless feet ended their journey was a crumbling foundation. But deep down Cole knew it wouldn't be so easy. The house was there, all right. Somehow it had stubbornly survived the years, mocking him for his cowardice, awaiting his return to its grasp.
The house revealed itself like a lover slowly removing her clothes. First he saw the widow's walk. Cole expected it to be missing or at least listing like a doomed schooner swept against the rocks, but it was as tall and straight as a soldier on parade. A proud weathervane rooster rotated lazily in the breeze. The rest of the house revealed itself not as a twisted, wretched memorial, but a vibrant restored celebration of wood, color and glass.
Cole gawked. The house was a crisp white with blue trim. New sturdy windows. The rotting front porch had been rebuilt, wide and elegant. A pretty sofa swing hung proudly from its beams on sparkling chrome chains. Even the air around the house celebrated its rebirth, smelling as fresh as newly laundered sheets drying in the warm springtime sun. His nightmare house was now someone's home.
Then Cole saw her. A straw sun-hat sat coyly on her head as she bent to tend a garden of rainbow-hued flowers. A trowel held with delicate confidence in her right hand was digging precise rows in the freshly turned soil.
She sensed him behind her and rose to look. Long, slender legs delightfully fell from denim shorts. Green, sparkling eyes appraised him. She bore a confident smile that reflected the rebirth of house itself. A smile that never considered that there was a cruel world, a raping world out there--a world that would love to hurt someone with green eyes and long legs.
"Hello," she said. "You startled me."
"Sorry," Cole managed to reply. He stopped a safe distance away. Safe for her; safe for him.
"No one comes that way, hardly," she said, pointing at the gravel trail. "At least not since I built the drive." She pointed to a fresh path of asphalt, as new and black as a virgin freeway. It has been cut around the knoll, moving in an arch to the front of the house.
"Didn't know it was there," Cole said shyly. "I used to come up here when I was a kid. That was the only way in. Sorry again for startling you," he quickly added.
"Well you did, but I suppose it's okay," she replied. "Anyone who manages to even find this forgotten place deserves the benefit of the doubt."
She extended her hand. "I'm Sherri," she said. "Sherri Palmer."
Cole stepped forward and took her hand. It was cool, self-assured, without a hint of nervousness. "Cole Sinclair," he returned.
There was an awkward silence. Cole supposed he should announce his intentions, but what could he say? The truth might invite disaster.
"I grew up in Bird's Landing, but I've been living away for a long time," he said carefully. "This old place has a special meaning for me. Thought that since I was in the neighborhood, I'd come by and--"
"See if the memories are still there," Sherri completed.
Cole smiled winningly. It was the same smile that melted the hearts of the few women he had allowed brief access to his heart. "Yeah, I guess so," he said.
"Come, Mr. Sinclair," she said, offering her version of the smile. "I've been working in the garden all morning. I think I deserve a break. Come sit on the porch and have some lemonade with me, and let's see if the memories show themselves."
She quickly disappeared into the house, the new screen door banging. It was a comforting sound, a sound that echoed of family and lazy summer afternoons. But Cole made no move toward the porch. He eyed the house once again, suspicions swirling about him. It was smaller than he remembered it. He recalled it as huge, looming, alien. It was known as the Rebero place, after the Portuguese family that built it a century before. The Reberos and their progeny were long gone. Only the house remained--with its memories, with its secrets.
The door opened, and Sherri Palmer emerged with a bright red tray she placed on a small table behind the porch railing. She poured a glass from a ceramic pitcher and handed it to Cole.
"Come. Sit," she said, pointing toward the sofa swing. "I don't bite."
Cole ignored the swing and sat warily on the top step feeling the house might reach out and grab him. He tried to focus on his glass. Refreshing ice tinkled within its green-yellow depths. He drank deeply, letting the sweet nectar wash down his throat.
"Good," he said between gulps.
"Guess so," Sherri replied with amusement. "Drink up, Mr. Sinclair. There's plenty more."
"Didn't realize I was so thirsty," he said, holding out his glass. Sherrie filled it again. It was halfway gone before he lowered it, feeling a bit embarrassed for his gluttony.
"So, I suspect there's a story behind your visit here," Sherri said. "Tell me now, what is it?"
Cole regarded the lovely woman before him. He had no intention of telling his tale to anyone. The embarrassment, the humiliation was just too much, but the lemonade had satisfied more than his thirst. His shame was suddenly broken, and he found himself speaking of that day for the first time in years. The words were hard at first barely sputtering the story of two boys, ten years old, out on a day's lark....
-2-
Reed Moreno and Cole Sinclair were more than best friends; they were like brothers. They lived across the street from each other, and from the time they learned to walk they were nearly inseparable. Together they shared a mutual love of the outdoors and spent their spare time exploring the wind-blown hills and rambling streams that surrounded their town.
It was in the summer of 1969 that they turned their curiosities to the Rebero place. Two miles from their home, it was a place of childhood legend; stories handed down from one generation to another. With each retelling the stories grew wilder. The old house was haunted, it was said. A place of murder, death, of unspeakable madness.
"It's just a bunch of bullshit, Cole," his father told him when he asked about it. Jim Sinclair was working on their old Fordson tractor, a dirty wrench in his hand, his overalls stained with grease. "The Rebero's just went bust, plain and simple. Get that nonsense out of your head."
But his boyish temptation to believe in the unknown could not be refused, so he and Reed made a pact to go there, to discover for themselves if the stories of the Rebero house were true.
On a bright day in August they finally wheeled their bikes down the pot-holed road that led to the isolated ranch. They told no one of their plans--fearful a parent would interfere, certain that the spell of adventure they had woven between them would be broken if anyone else tagged along. This was something they would do together, a tale to brag about for years to come.
The dirt and gravel path looked very much the same as it would years later when Cole Sinclair would take his solitary steps into the unknown. The two boys stopped at the gate and looked toward the burnt brown hills with anticipation.
Cole felt a twitch in his stomach, an intoxicating blend of fear and excitement. "It's up there," he said, pointing nervously past the road.
Reed didn't reply. He straddled his bike, the toes of his worn sneakers touching the ground. His jaw was tight, his face set. "Let's go," he said, pushing himself off.
Cole followed, pumping hard up the steady incline. Before long the top of the house became visible behind the hill that protected it from the Delta winds. The widow's walk was bent and crooked. The lonely spike of a missing weather vane pierced the sky like a lightening rod. When the boys finally rounded the last corner and the house came into view, they stopped.
The whitewash had long faded and the neglected porch sagged with age. Most of the windows were cracked or broken, victims of vandal's rocks and stray gusts of wind. A torn screen door banged forlornly in the breeze.
"Really think it's haunted?" Cole asked.
He looked to Reed to bolster his flagging nerve, but Reed ignored him. He was closely examining the dreary remainders of a family's failed dream.
"Probably not," Reed replied with a distracted smile. "But even if it's not, we won't tell that to the others. Let them come see for themselves"
Cole nodded. He knew that just the act of coming here, of entering this place of legends was an accomplishment. Whether there were ghosts or not really didn't matter. The older kids would respect their daring and the younger ones would look at them slack-jawed, awed by their bravery.
"We got to bring something back," Reed said. "Proof we've been here."
"What kind of proof?" Cole asked.
"Billy Cutshaw told me that old man Rebero hung himself in the attic."
Cole looked at a broken window near the roof. "Even if he did, the body's long gone."
"Billy told me that his cousin went up there once. He said the rope was still there. Had blood on it."
"That's a bunch of bull," Cole replied. Or at least he hoped it was a bunch of bull. The thought of a bloodstained rope was something he didn't even want to think about. Deep in the summer heat a chill spread through him, and his knees turned weak.
"Maybe it is, maybe it isn't" Reed replied, still staring at the house. "Let's go see."
Cole wanted to say no, to insist it really was a bunch of bull. The cops would have taken a rope as evidence any dummy would know that! Maybe they'd better return to town and play catch or maybe watch a little T.V. But his words of reason refused to come. They froze in his throat like ice cubes in a glittering aluminum tray.
Reed parked his bike, and Cole found himself following along stiffly, his logic forgotten. They stood before the four broken stairs that led to the dilapidated porch with anticipation.
"Here's the plan," Reed said, turning toward Cole. "We go in, take a quick look around and head for the attic."
"Do we gotta go up there?" Cole asked nervously. "There ain't no rope."
"We gotta make sure," Reed replied, his voice confident. "It's one thing to come up here to this haunted ol' place, but if we came back with the bloody rope, well, that would be something!"
Cole knew his friend was right. The rope would assure them a place in Bird's Landing history; hollowed names to be passed down as long as boys roamed its dusty streets with dreams of adventure. But at what price? They hadn't even entered the house, and Cole felt like he was going to piss in his pants.
Cole sighed. There was no way in hell he was going to turn yellow on Reed. He'd go all right, even though he'd probably have nightmares for weeks to come. "Go ahead," Cole he weakly. "I'll be right behind you."
The sagging front steps sang a ragged chorus as they climbed the stairs. The screen door was barely attached. It was just a matter of time before a gust of delta wind sent it sailing into the seedy front yard. Reed opened it carefully and pushed on the cracked wooden door behind it. It swung open in classic haunted house fashion: a loud, ominous creak.
"Ready?" Reed asked his friend with an excited grin. If he noticed Cole's panic, he chose to ignore it.
Cole nodded grimly.
The house had the musty smell of moldy wood and dried urine. Peeling wallpaper hung mournfully from warped, cobwebbed walls. The floor, once beautiful stained oak, was littered with debris. Reed produced a flashlight from his rear pocket, but in spite of its steady beam, the house remained veiled in a shadow. The two boys explored the downstairs. Cole walked on careful, quiet feet, his stomach a thick knot of tension. Every turn presented new danger, every dark corner held a potential spasm of horror.
Reed took no such precautions. He casually picked up and examined any piece of trash that grabbed his interest. One Old Crow bottle was still half-full. Reed unscrewed the cap and put it up to his nose.
"Yech!" he said, tossing the bottle to the floor. He looked at Cole sheepishly. "Nothing good down here. Let's see what's upstairs."
Cole gulped hard. "You really think we should?" he said breathlessly.
Reed smiled as if noticing his friend's fright for the first time. "It's just an old house, Cole. You don't really believe that stuff about ghosts, do ya?"
"Well, yes," Cole admitted.
Reed chuckled. "Even if there are ghosts, everyone knows they only come out at night."
Cole wasn't so sure about that, but it did make him feel better. He looked around, trying to imagine the house at night. The very thought made his legs buckle. "Okay, he said with resignation. "Let's do it and get out of here."
They climbed the stairs, Reed chattering all the way. "Gosh I hope that rope's up there," he said. "Wouldn't that be something? Can't you just see everyone's faces if we brought it back to town?"
Cole didn't reply. Words would only eat up his dwindling reserve of bravery.
The steps ended in a landing at the edge of a hall. At the end of the hall, highlighted by the light of a cracked window, the boys could see the final short stairway that led to the attic. Again Cole followed Reed. They passed an open doorway. The room beyond was empty except for wind-blown leaves and a dirty, worn mattress thrown on the littered floor. The walls were filled with drawings scribbled in thick black ink, hasty outlines of tigers, wolves and creatures unknown.
They reached the base of the final stairway. Looking up, they saw a closed door. One look and Cole knew. He'd had enough. "No, Reed," he said weakly. "Let's not go up there."
Reed ignored him, climbing fixedly up the steps. He reached the door and pushed it with his hand. It slid open in eerie silence.
Reed stared into the attic. "Shit," Cole heard him swear.
Cole swallowed his fear and clambered up to stand beside his friend. He peered over Reed's shoulder and sighed with relief. Pallid sunlight, filtered through broken rafter vents, revealed a musty, pyramid-shaped room. An empty room.
"Shit," Reed repeated.
"Gee, too bad, let's go," Cole said without a hint of embarrassment.
Once again Reed ignored him. He stepped into the attic and looked around. "Some asshole got here before us," he said bitterly. "Some stinking asshole stole our rope!"
"Forget it, Reed," Cole pleaded. "This place gives me the creeps. Let's get the heck out of here!"
"Just hang on a sec--" Reed began, waving Cole off. He tilted his head as if listening to some far off conversation. "Do you feel it?" he asked.
Cole frowned. "Feel what?"
"It's like--electricity."
"There ain't no electricity in this old house," Cole began, but he stopped. He could feel something. Cole tilted his head, too. Soon he felt a warm, tingling wave, passing through his body. It seemed to be coming from the center of the attic. And it was getting stronger.
Cole stuck out his trembling hand. It felt as if it was immersed in electrically charged water. The more he stretched his arm, the more the sensation increased, getting stronger until the tips of his fingers actually began to feel uncomfortably hot. Cole blinked and remembered his friend. He looked over at his friend, whose eyes were wild with fear. "Reed," he managed to mumble. "Oh, God, Reed....
-3-
"Mr. Sinclair?"
Cole looked up at Sherri Palmer feeling as if he had been sucked back through a time tunnel. Her face was a blur. That was when he realized his eyes were filled with tears.
"I tried to save him," Cole said, his voice choked with emotion. "The house--it wouldn't let me!"
"What happened?" Sherri asked.
Cole bowed his head. "They found me lying on the ground out here," he said, pointing out at the yard. "There was a nasty bruise on my head. Thank God Reed's older brother had put two and two together. When we didn't show up for dinner, he came looking for us."
"And Reed, what happened to him?"
"He was gone, just gone," Cole replied. "They never found him. Not a trace. It was like the house swallowed him up whole."
To Cole's surprise, Sherri laughed. "Surely not my house," she said.
Cole's dark eyes narrowed. "You don't believe me, do you? I suppose I can't blame you. No one else did. At first they thought Reed had just run off, and I was covering for him. But when he never came back, they started to suspect me. Thought I did something to him. I tried to explain, but they didn't believe me. They never believed me."
Sherri lowered her eyes to her lap as if ashamed of her laughter. "It's not that I don't believe you," she said. "Something did happen here, of course. It's just that this house has been such a comfort to me. My sanctuary. I have never felt or seen anything out of the ordinary in the three years I've lived here. Ever since my husband died....”
Cole regarded her carefully. So, he wasn't the only one haunted by sorrow, he reflected.
"Maybe what got Reed was satisfied somehow," he said. "Maybe it left, moved on to ruin someone else's life."
"Maybe," Sherri echoed.
There was a long silence between them. A soft breeze swirled chattering leaves around the driveway. A wind chime at the far end of the porch tinkled a random song. Cole could smell spring around him, almost hear the new life pushing through the soil of the fertile, rolling hills.
"So, Mr. Sinclair," Sherri said. "Would you like to see inside?"
The thought of entering the house, no matter how beautiful, how safe it seemed, gave Cole the sudden urge to urinate. The porch was far enough for him, thank you. "But you've gone this far," a voice within him urged. "End it, Cole. End it once and for all."
"I do need to use the rest room," he said reluctantly. "I don't know about the rest of the house, but I suppose I could go that far."
Sherri stood and held out her hand. "Rest room it is, Cole Sinclair. And after that, well, we'll see."
Cole stared at her outstretched hand. It looked warm, inviting. He took the hand and stood.
Sherri smiled reassuringly. She was about his age, he guessed, a beautiful woman with a shadow of sorrow hiding behind her green eyes. His fear melted, and he found himself following her into the place of nightmares.
She chattered all the way, pointing out the antiques she had culled from antique shops and yard sales, the rarity of the embossed wallpaper. She told him of the complexity of adapting modern plumbing to a house that once had an out-house planted in the backyard.
Cole listened politely, trying to ignore the beads of sweat that gathered on his furrowed brow. His bladder complained sharply, and he hoped he would reach the bathroom in time.
At last they were there. The bathroom, like the rest of the house, had been meticulously remodeled. The doorknob was made of cut crystal that sparkled in the diffused light of the opaque outside window. The floor was a mosaic of white, black and pink tile that highlighted pretty flowered wallpaper. An enormous, claw-legged bathtub sat majestically along the far wall. The toilet was an antique, with a gravity-fed tank and pull-chain mounted on the wall.
Sherri left him. Cole closed the door and locked it. He stood over the sparkling clean toilet bowl and unzipped his faded Levis. The flow began. He sighed with relief and allowed himself the luxury of thinking more closely about Sherri Palmer. She was cute, he reminded himself. Cute and a widow.
Cole chuckled. "What are you thinking about?" he chastised himself. "You come here to face your worst nightmare, and now you're thinking about getting laid?"
His thoughts were interrupted by a quiet knock on the door. "Mr. Sinclair?" Sherri asked softly.
"Y-yes," Cole said, embarrassed that she could hear him doing his business.
"Excuse me for interrupting, but there is something I must tell you."
"Ah, can you wait a sec? I'm almost done."
"No, it can't wait," she said sternly.
Cole was taken aback by the harshness of her voice. Had he done something wrong? "What is it?" he asked.
"I know the truth," she said.
"The truth?" Cole repeated, perplexed. "I don't understand. He suddenly wished he wasn't standing there with his dick in his hand.
"I know what happened here that day," Sherri replied. "I know what happened to your friend, Reed. I know the truth. I know it all....”
Cole stopped urinating, and at that moment he wondered if he would ever piss again. What could she know? he asked himself. A panic began to rise within him, a panic that had carefully guarded a secret. A vile, dirty, secret.
Cole gulped hard. It was a joke, of course, he told himself. A sick, stupid joke.
"It's not a joke," Sherri said from behind the closed door.
Cole felt a chill ripple through him. Sherri Palmer had read his mind.
"None of this is a joke, Mr. Cole Sinclair," she continued. "Not then, not now. The house gets hungry, and when it's hungry, it must be fed. Nothing can stop it from this imperative. Over the years it's enjoyed many meals. First it was the fools who built this house on tainted ground. Those who thought they could break this land like a wild mustang. They paid the price in madness and death.
"Over the years there have been others: vagabonds, migrant workers, society's castoffs searching for free shelter. Later there were teenagers from the city looking for a secluded place to drink and have sex. Then it was me.
"We've been waiting for you, Cole. All of us. Especially your good friend, Reed. Just one, big happy family waiting for you to come home. Waiting for you to own-up."
"No," Cole whispered.
As the word left his lips, the room darkened. The inviting spring light defused by the beaded bathroom window turned a sickly gray. Cole jarred himself from his misery and frantically zipped up his pants. His trembling hand fumbled for the wall switch, but he couldn't find it. The wall switch was gone, and with it, so was the pretty flowered wallpaper. The wall had stripped down to rotted wood slates that gaped at him like jagged teeth.
Somewhere above him a moaning wind swept through the house. The pain of a hundred migraines bolted like lightening through Cole Sinclair's mind. He shut his eyes and was propelled back in time, back into the horror once again....
"Do you feel it, Cole?" Reed gasped, his eyes the size of saucers. He was standing in the middle of the empty attic. Sunlight filtered through uneven cracks in the roof and ceiling creating a cascade of light across his frightened face.
"Yes," Cole said woodenly from the doorway. He definitely felt it: the power, the hate.
A moan rattled through the attic, a deep clenching sigh as if a sleeping monster deep within the bowels of the house had awakened from a hungry sleep. The roof shuddered and the walls bulged with its breath. Reed's face, so full of the wonder just moments before, was now etched by a dawning terror.
"Cole!" he whispered.
Cole stayed at the doorway, unwilling to enter the room. "Come on, Reed!" he said, waiving him at him. "Let's get the hell out of here!"
"I, I can't move," Reed replied frantically. "Something's holding my legs."
"It's just fear!" Cole said. "Try, Reed. Try. We've go to get out of here before it's too late!"
Reed looked at Cole across the abyss of the attic, tears streaming down his face. "I can't!" he said. "I can't!"
Reed's panic unnerved Cole even more than the haunting itself. Reed had always been the rock of their relationship, his practical, brave nature an inspiration to the more excitable Cole. Reed's unrestrained fear was sending him a message: they were both in deep peril.
Reed held out his hand. "Help me, Cole! Come here and help me."
Cole wanted to help, desperately wanted to help, but found he couldn't. Terror had seized his heart. Goose flesh rippled through his trembling body. He could only stare at his friend, his pale face waving back in forth in a dismayed "no".
"This is its center, Cole!" Reed raved. "Its rotten soul. It wants us. It means to have us. It will have us! Help me, Cole. Help us. Together we can beat it!"
Reed's arms were wildly flailing about, as if they had become unhinged from his shoulders. Cole couldn't help himself. He turned and ran. As he flew down the stairs, he heard Reed speak his last words. "We were friends!" he wailed. "God damn it, Cole! We were friends! Friends....”
-4-
Cole Sinclair looked desolately at the doorknob. Its once inviting sparkle was gone, replaced by a black so deep it made him dizzy to gaze into it. It was a metaphor of his life, Cole reflected: dark, empty, and alone.
"I'm fucked," he mumbled. And what's more, he deserved it. Deserved it in spades. For Sherri Palmer had spoken the truth through the bathroom door. He had betrayed his friend. He had lived while Reed Moreno died, and for that he had to atone. Atone with his life, now, while he still had the nerve and the dignity to do what was right.
"We were friends," Reed said to him that day. The words screamed across the years, burned into his soul.
Cole forced himself to grab the knob. It felt warm and clammy as if it might melt in his hand, but it turned, and as it did a sort of eerie calm descended upon him. The decision had been made, and for the first time in years, he felt an uneasy peace.
Cole gulped hard and stepped into the hall. Sherri Palmer's yuppie remodeling job had vanished. The Rebero house had reverted to its former decayed glory.
Its killing glory.
The heavy smell of rain, mixed with the rot of termite infested wood filled Cole's nostrils. A bitter winter breeze swept past his unsure legs. It was as if he had been in the bathroom for months instead of minutes. Far above him loose shingles flapped crazily in a howling wind. The old house creaked on its sagging foundation like a dying elephant ready to fall.
Cole walked uncertainly down the darkened hall. His sense of direction betrayed him. He felt lost, confused. He could feel the house's hunger, its greed pressing on him like a weight. "Come and get me, motherfucker," he taunted. "If that's what you mean to do, come and get me now."
Cole listened as the wind echoed through the tortured hallways, and the rain beat on the time-weakened walls. And there was something else, something distant, something terrible. Somewhere within the walls that imprisoned him he could hear the desperate, muffled cries of those who been captured here. Then, just as he accepted his certain doom, he heard a familiar voice drifting among the others, a voice that had haunted Cole's dreams for an eternity. It was the young, sweet voice of Reed Moreno.
"Cole," Reed said. "You have come at last."
Cole turned and blinked hard. Reed was standing less than ten feet away, a golden highlight against the blackness.
"You're an angel," Cole said, his voice breaking. A voice flush with sorrow, repentance. "Oh, dear God you're a sweet angel."
Reed smiled. "I'm not an angel, Cole," he said. "Not yet, at least."
"Reed," Cole sobbed. "I wish I could take back what I did that day. You have a right to hate me. I was a coward. I've always been a coward."
Reed stepped forward as the house held its breath in greedy anticipation.
"There is no need for guilt, Cole," Reed said. "What happened was meant to be, that's all."
"But I ran, Reed," Cole said through his tears. "I could have helped you, but I ran....”
"You ran because it was your fate to run. The house chose me, Cole, not you."
The house rumbled as if disturbed by Reed's words of comfort. Boards ripped from the ceiling and plummeted to the floor like a toy thrown by a child in a tantrum. A last, solitary window shattered, sending shards of glass tinkling like demented bells.
Cole grimaced. "What is this place, Reed?" he asked with a shudder.
"It's a rift in the fabric between heaven and hell," Reed said. "It's like a volcano that ejects misery and death instead of rocks and lava.
"Cole, if you want repentance, the time has come. We've been waiting for you, Cole, all of us trapped here. I told them that someday you would come again and release us so that we might have our rightful peace."
"Release you?" Cole asked incredulously. "What can I possibly do?"
"Fulfill your destiny, Cole," Reed replied.
"But how?"
Reed smiled. "Something simple, something hard. Its name is fire. Destroy the house, burn its evil core once and for all. Set us free."
The house revolted. Behind Cole, the door to Sherri Palmer's bathroom exploded from its hinges, blasted against the outer hall, and splintered into pieces. Razor-sharp projectiles boomed outward like missiles. One grazed Cole's face as he fell sprawling to the floor, escaping decapitation by inches. Blood oozed from a gash across his cheek. Plaster flew from jagged craters left in the walls.
Cole waited then scrambled to his knees, his heart pounding, ready for the next assault. He turned frantically, his eyes searching for Reed, but to his dismay his friend had once again disappeared. Cole's heart sank, for not only was he now very alone, he discovered he was no longer in the hallway. He had been transported to the very heart of his nightmare, the attic.
Above him the storm howled, slapping the roof shingles up and down in a manic applause. The attic was filled with a spectral light that was nowhere and everywhere all at the same time.
Cole heard a creaking noise and looked up. Old man Robero's hangman's noose was dangling from the center rafter. Blood was caked onto it as if it had torn into the flesh of its last victim. The rope swayed hypnotically from side to side.
"Don't be afraid, Cole," Reed's voice whispered in his ear. "The house plays tricks. Don't believe it. Don't give in. Your fate is with life, not death. Your time has come, Cole! Stand and be true!"
The tingling sensation began just as it had so many years before as the house tried to lull him into submission. Reed's words filled him with renewed hope, but Cole knew that this was not the time to be standing still. If he had any chance of succeeding, he would first have to escape the house's grasp.
Cole tore his fearful eyes from the rope and bolted before the soothing current could turn lethal. He reached the attic door wondering if fate would help him once again. Ignoring the darkness, he hurled down the stairs, almost sprawling on the narrow landing. He lurched to his feet and stumbled down the hallway toward the main stairway.
As he swept past the doorway on his right, he saw a sight that would fuel his nightmares for months. It was only a glimpse, little more than a snapshot of two horned demons coupling on the filthy floor. One looked up as he passed. A thick, viscous string of saliva fell from its snout. It looked at Cole and smiled.
The stairs were undulating like a snake chasing down its prey. Cole didn't think; thinking would have only paralyzed him. He started down, gripping the twisting railing for support. The stairway growled under his weight. The boards of the steps ripped loose. Rusted nails snapped at his feet like fangs. Several dug into the tender flesh of his right foot making him howl with pain. Cole tap-danced his way down the stairs, thinking crazily about tetanus shots.
Somehow he made it to the ground floor, but he was still far from safety. Sherri had led him only a short way to the bathroom, but the downstairs he remembered had disappeared. He appeared to be trapped in the very bowels of the house, and there seemed no hope of escape.
Cole despaired, his mind twitched. Had he come all this way just to lose now? Would he be trapped in this nothingness between life and death forever? But though he feared the worst, he realized that the spectral gloom that surrounded him wasn't total. There was something, something dim and elusive, glowing on the tormented floor. He wiped the blood from his face and dared to look. There, on the floor, appeared to be the delicate scarlet footprints of a small child. Each tiny toe looked as if it had been dipped in shimmering blood, trailing off into the darkness.
Cole's eyes widened with hope even as his soul filled with sorrow. Whose precious, lost child made these prints? And what awful tragedy happened here? Cole shook away his morbid thoughts, and he began to follow this unlikely trail. Help for this forgotten soul depended on his freedom. The faint pleas of conflicting voices continued in his ears. Some called out his name and urged him on his desperate mission. Others screamed out in the fear, demanding he yield to the will of the house.
Outside, the storm raged. Water, or at least Cole hoped it was water, seeped from above him. Heavy, sticky droplets fell on his hair and face. Cole brushed them aside and continued on, wondering how much more of this he could take before his sanity left him forever.
The house upped the ante. On his right the outlines of glowing faces appeared, pressing out from the tattered walls like demented cookie molds. All were etched in bitter agony. Cole tried to ignore the faces, reminding himself they were nothing more than another trick sent by the house to kill his resolve. He bowed his head and concentrated on the footsteps leading him ever onward through the twisting labyrinth.
Eventually, the blackness lightened. The trail appeared to be giving way to an evil dawn. With each step Cole felt closer to freedom. The house, too, sensed he might escape its grasp. Behind him there was a bloody roar. Cole stopped, momentarily unable to move. Then he saw it. Charging up the twisted hall came a howling apparition, hurtling from the arterial depths of the house to halt his desperate flight.
The shape was roughly human, a demon swathed in robes of bloody scarlet and cobalt blue. A large hood hid all features except cold yellow-rimmed, nictitating eyes that glowed like satanic beacons. Its arms were extended, its gnarled fingers twitched sending coronas of arcing gold-blue sparks from the end of its long, splintered fingernails. It was lunging for him.
Cole screamed and scrambled forward. The smell of spent electricity mixed with the sweet fragrance of the hills. One more turn! One more turn and he would be free! But as his eyes began to fill with the blessed sight of freedom, he felt a solid tackle grip his legs. He had been caught.
Cole fell to the floor, hitting his head with a thud. Stars spun in his eyes. He felt numb as if he had been jabbed by a stun gun. He managed to turn and look. Bright laser eyes mocked him, long fangs sprang from a bulging mouth, hot sulfur breath enveloped him.
The apparition inched greedily up his body. Cole pumped his legs frantically, trying desperately to escape. Just when he thought all was lost, his injured right foot miraculously yanked free, leaving his blood-soaked running shoe in the creature's grip. Oblivious to the pain, Cole cocked his foot and with all his strength smashed it into the creature's face.
The phantom roared, not out of pain but of outrage. No one, no one, had resisted before. Once within its grasp no one had the will to do anything except piss in their pants and submit. And to make it worse, the phantom's roar had betrayed it, loosening its vice-like grip just enough for Cole to wrench himself free.
Cole took to his feet, careened off one wall, turned to his left and saw the front door looming ahead like a celestial gate. He literally flew through the tattered screen door and fell sprawling on the splintered wooden deck. Blood gushed from his torn cheek, his foot throbbed, but Cole got up again and staggered down the steps to the safety of the front yard. He collapsed to his knees feeling weak and beyond care. Would the creature follow? No, he thought not. It was as much a prisoner of the house as its victims.
Cole looked around, amazed by what he saw. Sherri Palmer's invitation to use her remodeled bathroom had occurred only minutes before on a cloudless spring morning. Now it was night and cold rain was pelting his face. How could it be?
Now was not the time to ponder. Reed had given him a mission, and he knew that if he were to live the rest of his life in peace, he had to complete it. Fire. How does one burn down a haunted house in the middle of a rainstorm? Cole had a cigarette lighter stuffed from in his dirty front pocket, but how could he use it?
He struggled to his feet, wiping his muddy hands on his pants. He stumbled around in a daze searching for anything that could be used as a fuel. Rain fell in an unrelenting stream. Everything was soaked. There was nothing to burn. He ventured timidly onto the porch keeping well clear of the front door and the terror that lay within. The porch was empty except for a few wind-scattered leaves.
From the inside, he decided. If he had a chance, the house would have to be burned from its dry inside. But how could he do it? How could he go back there without going mad?
Cole's eyes filled with tears, his shoulders sagged. He felt panic welling within him. He couldn't do it! He wasn't strong enough. He didn't have the nerve. God damn it, he wasn't man enough! He stumbled down the creaking front stairs, turned and faced the house. A bolt of lightening lit its crumbling whitewashed facade. Cold broken windows stared at him, mocking his cowardice.
"Sorry I'm such a loser, Reed!" he cried. "I'm sorry I can't help you!"
He stopped, his eyes suddenly wide as a wild, crazy thought burned into his mind. Could it work, he wondered. Cole Sinclair turned and ran into the night....
-5-
Innocent rain fell on the rolling California hills, unaware of the evil that lurked there. The house stood silently, disturbed only by an occasional clap of thunder, its cache of souls held firmly within. It had stood there like a festering sore for a hundred years and might well stand for a hundred more. No one dared tear it down.
Once, a young, aggressive builder by the name of John Palmer took an option on the land and planned a track of luxury homes for Bay Area yuppies on the move. One Saturday he brought his young wife, Sherri, to see his project. On the rise above the little valley he held his wife's hand and told her how they would level the old house to construct the road that would wind its way into the hills.
"But it's a beautiful old place," Sherri said.
John nodded. "It's had its day, Sherri and it's in the way."
Sherri dropped his hand and gaily ran ahead of him. She turned and looked at her husband, her summer dress blowing tantalizingly in the breeze, a wink of youthful lust in her eye. "Let's look inside," Sherri said coyly. "You never know what might happen."
No one ever saw them again...
...and the house still stood like a wooden Venus fly trap, and the wind still howled around it, and the victims still entered its poisonous folds never to return to the light of day. Until Cole Sinclair.
Off in the distance there was a crash as Pinto tore through the old wooden gate. Cole ran to the edge of road not knowing if the faded yellow car would still be there. He had lost all track of time and suspected time had lost track of him. Months could have passed as easily as hours since that fine spring morning that marked the beginning of this nightmare. His faithful Pinto might very well be gone, towed away to a wrecking yard, now nothing more than a tight ball of rusted metal. But to his relief the car was still there, waiting patiently to take Cole on its final ride.
The Pinto bucked up the gravel road, its nearly bald tires spinning crazily in the soft, rain-soaked ground. Cole gripped the steering wheel grimly knowing that success or failure was now in the hands of God and the Ford Motor Company.
He rounded the last curve. The house was just ahead glowing in the darkness. He swirled the Pinto through the mud so its rear end faced the porch. Cole rolled down both windows, pushed the car into reverse, gulped hard and gunned the ancient engine to a scream.
Cole looked into the cracked rear view mirror. The porch was directly behind him, beckoning like a gaping tongue. He popped the clutch, and the old car lurched back. When it encountered the first step, it paused only slightly before bouncing up the four steps to the porch.
The house's front door disintegrated as the Pinto plowed through it. Splinters of half-rotted wood flew off like an exploding Super Nova. Yellow paint scraped in long, claw-like scratches from the car's rear fenders. The Pinto slowed, but Cole knew he wouldn't have to go very far; just enough for the Pinto to reveal the fatal engineering flaw that had banned it from the highways of America.
The wheels spun madly, inching the little car farther into the entryway. Its flimsy rear bumper collapsed under the impact. The large rear glass window shattered. Underneath, its flimsy gas tank buckled until it finally burst.
Gasoline spilled from a four-inch break, filling the entryway with its pungent odor. At the same time there was a loud ping as the Pinto's engine hurled shards of metal through its insides. The car sputtered once then died.
Cole looked around fearfully. The aroma of gas was stronger now. He had to get out of the car. Once the vapors hit the hot undercarriage, there would be an explosion. He had rolled down the front windows to insure his escape, but he hadn't anticipated that the Pinto would come to rest smack in the middle of the doorway's oak jam. The massive pieces of wood, fashioned in a time when solidity was a virtue, mocked him like the iron bars of a jail.
"Shit," Cole said. He was trapped.
From behind him came a voice, "Cole?" it called.
Cole recognized the voice. It was Sherri Palmer. But when he looked into the mirror, it was not the pretty, inviting Sherri he remembered. It was her rotted corpse.
"Join us, Cole," she said as she approached the rear of the car. "Come and live with us--forever."
Though shaking with fear, Cole told himself not to panic. He leaned into the rear seat. The car was as messy as his life. Heaps of discarded Big Mac wrappers and old beer cans were strewn across the seat and floor. He fumbled around, searching for something that kept him company when he spent cold nights sleeping in the car. As he searched, Sherri drifted closer, her decayed skull smiling as if unaware of its condition.
Cole found it. Cold and black in his hand, the tire iron was like a gift from God. He turned, cocked his arm, and rammed the windshield, thankful for the long horizontal crack that already wandered across its surface. On the forth blow, the glass shattered. He braced himself against the seat, lifted his legs and kicked out the window.
Cole scrambled across the dashboard and onto the cold, yellow hood. The smell of gas made his head swim, but miraculously there had been no ignition. Cole rolled off the hood and onto the porch. He stood and faced the car. Fumbling into his pocket, he found the lighter. "Come on," he said, cupping it in his hand. He desperately flipped the ignition wheel. "Come on you son-of-a-bitch!" The lighter wouldn't work, not even a spark.
On the other side of the car, Sherri Palmer howled and began to climb over the wreckage toward him. "It won't work, Cole," she screamed. "The house is hungry once more. And it will feed."
Cole fought with the lighter striking it again and again, but still there was nothing.
Then Reed Moreno spoke to him one last time, whispering into his ear. "Run, Cole," he said. "Run now. The rest is up to God."
Cole dropped the lighter and ran. The gasoline was seeping across the porch, falling through the cracks, but a single long ribbon of fuel trickled across the splintered front steps, soaking into the dirt even as Cole stumbled off the porch. He ran a few more feet and collapsed to the ground, his mind and body spent.
For so many years the house had protected itself, even healing itself like some demented cancer. Nothing could touch it; nothing could deliver it serious harm--not age, not man. But when the first trickle of gas seeped into the heart of the Montezuma hills, another power took over. A power that had waited patiently for a chance to correct a grievous wrong.
Lightning does not fall from the sky. It leaps from the ground, arcing its charge of molten electricity to the heavens. That was what Cole saw when he turned his head to look. And as the spark made its celestial trip, it ignited the small puddle of gas.
Blue frame leapt up the steps like a tidal wave rushing toward the Pinto. It arrived just as Sherri Palmer stood on its dented hood. The explosion blew the corpse apart, sending chunks of spoiled flesh and bone in an arc across the porch. Cole scrambled back from the heat, holding up his hand to protect his eyes from the brilliance of the flame.
The house burned; burned fast. It was totally engulfed within minutes. Cole could hear sirens in the distance, fireman to the rescue, but he was glad in his heart for there would be no rescue of the Rebero house and the horror within it. It was gone for good.
Cole managed to stand. He staggered around the side of the house, the flames glowing in his eyes. He stopped outside what was once the house's room. His eyes widened. They were all in there, those who died. Oblivious to the holocaust that surrounded them, they were sitting around a long table, untouched by the flames, eating a grand, last feast. Sherri was there sitting next to her husband, a small child playing joyfully on her lap. Next to her at the head of the table was Reed Moreno: young, strong, ready to take life's final journey into the unknown.
For the first time since it all began, Cole felt at peace. Tears filled his eyes; tears of both sorrow and joy. Cole couldn't roll back the clock, but God had finally granted him a chance at life. And as he looked with awe and relief at Reed and his friends, they all turned in unison. They looked at him with joy on their faces and raised then glasses in a hearty toast.
It was over.
It was a beautiful day, a day made for oil paintings, for wicker picnic baskets on checkered red and white blankets spread under the solemn oaks that dotted the pencil-sharp horizon. It was a day better suited for young lovers then the drama that was about to unfold.
Cole Sinclair stood at the edge of the road, staring at the old wooden gate. The rusted metal hinges and fragile lock looked as if they would shatter with only the slightest provocation. It didn't look like the last checkpoint before hell, but that was exactly what it was.
He looked once more at his '71 Ford Pinto Runabout, sitting forlornly at the shoulder of the road. In spite of its reputation as a deathtrap, the Pinto had served Cole well. He had picked it up at an impound lot sale for five hundred bucks. Through the years it had puttered along, taking him from one sad resting place to another. He had slept in it many a night when the money was low and the fever of the road called him to move on again.
"You can still leave, you know," it seemed to be telling him. "Just jump back in and move on down the road. No one willed you back here. No magic spell commanded you to drive three hundred miles to this God-awful place. There's no need to prove anything to anyone, not me, not yourself."
But he knew deep in his heart this wasn't true. He knew that every action of his life for the last twenty years had led to this desperate moment: a last ditch attempt to erase the guilt that burned his soul with such brightness it felt as if he were going mad.
Cole took a deep breath and willed his foot to cross the barrier between the hardpan and the snake-like trail that led to the object of his obsession. He couldn't see the old house from here, of course. The low knot of a feeble hill kept it hidden from the highway, and unless you had grown up in this rolling farm country east of the San Francisco Bay, you wouldn't even know it was there. And that made the first step harder, and caused the tightness in his chest.
The gravel crunching under his feet was louder because of the quiet of the day. The only other sounds carried on the hint of a breeze flying over the tall green winter-fed grass was the private hiss of insects, and the rhythmic pounding of his heart. Cole reminded himself that there was nothing to fear. Not yet.
Though the late morning sun should have warmed him, Cole felt a chill. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and bowed his head against the jumble of emotions that rumbled in his mind. With each step up the road, he felt himself being propelled into the past, and that summer day twenty-seven years before....
The knoll loomed before him as the path cut through the green hills. Cole remembered them as they were on that fateful day, that day of betrayal; burnt brown in the scalding August sun, looking as if they might spontaneously burst into flames.
There was hope, Cole reflected. The house might have been torn down. Perhaps all he would find when his restless feet ended their journey was a crumbling foundation. But deep down Cole knew it wouldn't be so easy. The house was there, all right. Somehow it had stubbornly survived the years, mocking him for his cowardice, awaiting his return to its grasp.
The house revealed itself like a lover slowly removing her clothes. First he saw the widow's walk. Cole expected it to be missing or at least listing like a doomed schooner swept against the rocks, but it was as tall and straight as a soldier on parade. A proud weathervane rooster rotated lazily in the breeze. The rest of the house revealed itself not as a twisted, wretched memorial, but a vibrant restored celebration of wood, color and glass.
Cole gawked. The house was a crisp white with blue trim. New sturdy windows. The rotting front porch had been rebuilt, wide and elegant. A pretty sofa swing hung proudly from its beams on sparkling chrome chains. Even the air around the house celebrated its rebirth, smelling as fresh as newly laundered sheets drying in the warm springtime sun. His nightmare house was now someone's home.
Then Cole saw her. A straw sun-hat sat coyly on her head as she bent to tend a garden of rainbow-hued flowers. A trowel held with delicate confidence in her right hand was digging precise rows in the freshly turned soil.
She sensed him behind her and rose to look. Long, slender legs delightfully fell from denim shorts. Green, sparkling eyes appraised him. She bore a confident smile that reflected the rebirth of house itself. A smile that never considered that there was a cruel world, a raping world out there--a world that would love to hurt someone with green eyes and long legs.
"Hello," she said. "You startled me."
"Sorry," Cole managed to reply. He stopped a safe distance away. Safe for her; safe for him.
"No one comes that way, hardly," she said, pointing at the gravel trail. "At least not since I built the drive." She pointed to a fresh path of asphalt, as new and black as a virgin freeway. It has been cut around the knoll, moving in an arch to the front of the house.
"Didn't know it was there," Cole said shyly. "I used to come up here when I was a kid. That was the only way in. Sorry again for startling you," he quickly added.
"Well you did, but I suppose it's okay," she replied. "Anyone who manages to even find this forgotten place deserves the benefit of the doubt."
She extended her hand. "I'm Sherri," she said. "Sherri Palmer."
Cole stepped forward and took her hand. It was cool, self-assured, without a hint of nervousness. "Cole Sinclair," he returned.
There was an awkward silence. Cole supposed he should announce his intentions, but what could he say? The truth might invite disaster.
"I grew up in Bird's Landing, but I've been living away for a long time," he said carefully. "This old place has a special meaning for me. Thought that since I was in the neighborhood, I'd come by and--"
"See if the memories are still there," Sherri completed.
Cole smiled winningly. It was the same smile that melted the hearts of the few women he had allowed brief access to his heart. "Yeah, I guess so," he said.
"Come, Mr. Sinclair," she said, offering her version of the smile. "I've been working in the garden all morning. I think I deserve a break. Come sit on the porch and have some lemonade with me, and let's see if the memories show themselves."
She quickly disappeared into the house, the new screen door banging. It was a comforting sound, a sound that echoed of family and lazy summer afternoons. But Cole made no move toward the porch. He eyed the house once again, suspicions swirling about him. It was smaller than he remembered it. He recalled it as huge, looming, alien. It was known as the Rebero place, after the Portuguese family that built it a century before. The Reberos and their progeny were long gone. Only the house remained--with its memories, with its secrets.
The door opened, and Sherri Palmer emerged with a bright red tray she placed on a small table behind the porch railing. She poured a glass from a ceramic pitcher and handed it to Cole.
"Come. Sit," she said, pointing toward the sofa swing. "I don't bite."
Cole ignored the swing and sat warily on the top step feeling the house might reach out and grab him. He tried to focus on his glass. Refreshing ice tinkled within its green-yellow depths. He drank deeply, letting the sweet nectar wash down his throat.
"Good," he said between gulps.
"Guess so," Sherri replied with amusement. "Drink up, Mr. Sinclair. There's plenty more."
"Didn't realize I was so thirsty," he said, holding out his glass. Sherrie filled it again. It was halfway gone before he lowered it, feeling a bit embarrassed for his gluttony.
"So, I suspect there's a story behind your visit here," Sherri said. "Tell me now, what is it?"
Cole regarded the lovely woman before him. He had no intention of telling his tale to anyone. The embarrassment, the humiliation was just too much, but the lemonade had satisfied more than his thirst. His shame was suddenly broken, and he found himself speaking of that day for the first time in years. The words were hard at first barely sputtering the story of two boys, ten years old, out on a day's lark....
-2-
Reed Moreno and Cole Sinclair were more than best friends; they were like brothers. They lived across the street from each other, and from the time they learned to walk they were nearly inseparable. Together they shared a mutual love of the outdoors and spent their spare time exploring the wind-blown hills and rambling streams that surrounded their town.
It was in the summer of 1969 that they turned their curiosities to the Rebero place. Two miles from their home, it was a place of childhood legend; stories handed down from one generation to another. With each retelling the stories grew wilder. The old house was haunted, it was said. A place of murder, death, of unspeakable madness.
"It's just a bunch of bullshit, Cole," his father told him when he asked about it. Jim Sinclair was working on their old Fordson tractor, a dirty wrench in his hand, his overalls stained with grease. "The Rebero's just went bust, plain and simple. Get that nonsense out of your head."
But his boyish temptation to believe in the unknown could not be refused, so he and Reed made a pact to go there, to discover for themselves if the stories of the Rebero house were true.
On a bright day in August they finally wheeled their bikes down the pot-holed road that led to the isolated ranch. They told no one of their plans--fearful a parent would interfere, certain that the spell of adventure they had woven between them would be broken if anyone else tagged along. This was something they would do together, a tale to brag about for years to come.
The dirt and gravel path looked very much the same as it would years later when Cole Sinclair would take his solitary steps into the unknown. The two boys stopped at the gate and looked toward the burnt brown hills with anticipation.
Cole felt a twitch in his stomach, an intoxicating blend of fear and excitement. "It's up there," he said, pointing nervously past the road.
Reed didn't reply. He straddled his bike, the toes of his worn sneakers touching the ground. His jaw was tight, his face set. "Let's go," he said, pushing himself off.
Cole followed, pumping hard up the steady incline. Before long the top of the house became visible behind the hill that protected it from the Delta winds. The widow's walk was bent and crooked. The lonely spike of a missing weather vane pierced the sky like a lightening rod. When the boys finally rounded the last corner and the house came into view, they stopped.
The whitewash had long faded and the neglected porch sagged with age. Most of the windows were cracked or broken, victims of vandal's rocks and stray gusts of wind. A torn screen door banged forlornly in the breeze.
"Really think it's haunted?" Cole asked.
He looked to Reed to bolster his flagging nerve, but Reed ignored him. He was closely examining the dreary remainders of a family's failed dream.
"Probably not," Reed replied with a distracted smile. "But even if it's not, we won't tell that to the others. Let them come see for themselves"
Cole nodded. He knew that just the act of coming here, of entering this place of legends was an accomplishment. Whether there were ghosts or not really didn't matter. The older kids would respect their daring and the younger ones would look at them slack-jawed, awed by their bravery.
"We got to bring something back," Reed said. "Proof we've been here."
"What kind of proof?" Cole asked.
"Billy Cutshaw told me that old man Rebero hung himself in the attic."
Cole looked at a broken window near the roof. "Even if he did, the body's long gone."
"Billy told me that his cousin went up there once. He said the rope was still there. Had blood on it."
"That's a bunch of bull," Cole replied. Or at least he hoped it was a bunch of bull. The thought of a bloodstained rope was something he didn't even want to think about. Deep in the summer heat a chill spread through him, and his knees turned weak.
"Maybe it is, maybe it isn't" Reed replied, still staring at the house. "Let's go see."
Cole wanted to say no, to insist it really was a bunch of bull. The cops would have taken a rope as evidence any dummy would know that! Maybe they'd better return to town and play catch or maybe watch a little T.V. But his words of reason refused to come. They froze in his throat like ice cubes in a glittering aluminum tray.
Reed parked his bike, and Cole found himself following along stiffly, his logic forgotten. They stood before the four broken stairs that led to the dilapidated porch with anticipation.
"Here's the plan," Reed said, turning toward Cole. "We go in, take a quick look around and head for the attic."
"Do we gotta go up there?" Cole asked nervously. "There ain't no rope."
"We gotta make sure," Reed replied, his voice confident. "It's one thing to come up here to this haunted ol' place, but if we came back with the bloody rope, well, that would be something!"
Cole knew his friend was right. The rope would assure them a place in Bird's Landing history; hollowed names to be passed down as long as boys roamed its dusty streets with dreams of adventure. But at what price? They hadn't even entered the house, and Cole felt like he was going to piss in his pants.
Cole sighed. There was no way in hell he was going to turn yellow on Reed. He'd go all right, even though he'd probably have nightmares for weeks to come. "Go ahead," Cole he weakly. "I'll be right behind you."
The sagging front steps sang a ragged chorus as they climbed the stairs. The screen door was barely attached. It was just a matter of time before a gust of delta wind sent it sailing into the seedy front yard. Reed opened it carefully and pushed on the cracked wooden door behind it. It swung open in classic haunted house fashion: a loud, ominous creak.
"Ready?" Reed asked his friend with an excited grin. If he noticed Cole's panic, he chose to ignore it.
Cole nodded grimly.
The house had the musty smell of moldy wood and dried urine. Peeling wallpaper hung mournfully from warped, cobwebbed walls. The floor, once beautiful stained oak, was littered with debris. Reed produced a flashlight from his rear pocket, but in spite of its steady beam, the house remained veiled in a shadow. The two boys explored the downstairs. Cole walked on careful, quiet feet, his stomach a thick knot of tension. Every turn presented new danger, every dark corner held a potential spasm of horror.
Reed took no such precautions. He casually picked up and examined any piece of trash that grabbed his interest. One Old Crow bottle was still half-full. Reed unscrewed the cap and put it up to his nose.
"Yech!" he said, tossing the bottle to the floor. He looked at Cole sheepishly. "Nothing good down here. Let's see what's upstairs."
Cole gulped hard. "You really think we should?" he said breathlessly.
Reed smiled as if noticing his friend's fright for the first time. "It's just an old house, Cole. You don't really believe that stuff about ghosts, do ya?"
"Well, yes," Cole admitted.
Reed chuckled. "Even if there are ghosts, everyone knows they only come out at night."
Cole wasn't so sure about that, but it did make him feel better. He looked around, trying to imagine the house at night. The very thought made his legs buckle. "Okay, he said with resignation. "Let's do it and get out of here."
They climbed the stairs, Reed chattering all the way. "Gosh I hope that rope's up there," he said. "Wouldn't that be something? Can't you just see everyone's faces if we brought it back to town?"
Cole didn't reply. Words would only eat up his dwindling reserve of bravery.
The steps ended in a landing at the edge of a hall. At the end of the hall, highlighted by the light of a cracked window, the boys could see the final short stairway that led to the attic. Again Cole followed Reed. They passed an open doorway. The room beyond was empty except for wind-blown leaves and a dirty, worn mattress thrown on the littered floor. The walls were filled with drawings scribbled in thick black ink, hasty outlines of tigers, wolves and creatures unknown.
They reached the base of the final stairway. Looking up, they saw a closed door. One look and Cole knew. He'd had enough. "No, Reed," he said weakly. "Let's not go up there."
Reed ignored him, climbing fixedly up the steps. He reached the door and pushed it with his hand. It slid open in eerie silence.
Reed stared into the attic. "Shit," Cole heard him swear.
Cole swallowed his fear and clambered up to stand beside his friend. He peered over Reed's shoulder and sighed with relief. Pallid sunlight, filtered through broken rafter vents, revealed a musty, pyramid-shaped room. An empty room.
"Shit," Reed repeated.
"Gee, too bad, let's go," Cole said without a hint of embarrassment.
Once again Reed ignored him. He stepped into the attic and looked around. "Some asshole got here before us," he said bitterly. "Some stinking asshole stole our rope!"
"Forget it, Reed," Cole pleaded. "This place gives me the creeps. Let's get the heck out of here!"
"Just hang on a sec--" Reed began, waving Cole off. He tilted his head as if listening to some far off conversation. "Do you feel it?" he asked.
Cole frowned. "Feel what?"
"It's like--electricity."
"There ain't no electricity in this old house," Cole began, but he stopped. He could feel something. Cole tilted his head, too. Soon he felt a warm, tingling wave, passing through his body. It seemed to be coming from the center of the attic. And it was getting stronger.
Cole stuck out his trembling hand. It felt as if it was immersed in electrically charged water. The more he stretched his arm, the more the sensation increased, getting stronger until the tips of his fingers actually began to feel uncomfortably hot. Cole blinked and remembered his friend. He looked over at his friend, whose eyes were wild with fear. "Reed," he managed to mumble. "Oh, God, Reed....
-3-
"Mr. Sinclair?"
Cole looked up at Sherri Palmer feeling as if he had been sucked back through a time tunnel. Her face was a blur. That was when he realized his eyes were filled with tears.
"I tried to save him," Cole said, his voice choked with emotion. "The house--it wouldn't let me!"
"What happened?" Sherri asked.
Cole bowed his head. "They found me lying on the ground out here," he said, pointing out at the yard. "There was a nasty bruise on my head. Thank God Reed's older brother had put two and two together. When we didn't show up for dinner, he came looking for us."
"And Reed, what happened to him?"
"He was gone, just gone," Cole replied. "They never found him. Not a trace. It was like the house swallowed him up whole."
To Cole's surprise, Sherri laughed. "Surely not my house," she said.
Cole's dark eyes narrowed. "You don't believe me, do you? I suppose I can't blame you. No one else did. At first they thought Reed had just run off, and I was covering for him. But when he never came back, they started to suspect me. Thought I did something to him. I tried to explain, but they didn't believe me. They never believed me."
Sherri lowered her eyes to her lap as if ashamed of her laughter. "It's not that I don't believe you," she said. "Something did happen here, of course. It's just that this house has been such a comfort to me. My sanctuary. I have never felt or seen anything out of the ordinary in the three years I've lived here. Ever since my husband died....”
Cole regarded her carefully. So, he wasn't the only one haunted by sorrow, he reflected.
"Maybe what got Reed was satisfied somehow," he said. "Maybe it left, moved on to ruin someone else's life."
"Maybe," Sherri echoed.
There was a long silence between them. A soft breeze swirled chattering leaves around the driveway. A wind chime at the far end of the porch tinkled a random song. Cole could smell spring around him, almost hear the new life pushing through the soil of the fertile, rolling hills.
"So, Mr. Sinclair," Sherri said. "Would you like to see inside?"
The thought of entering the house, no matter how beautiful, how safe it seemed, gave Cole the sudden urge to urinate. The porch was far enough for him, thank you. "But you've gone this far," a voice within him urged. "End it, Cole. End it once and for all."
"I do need to use the rest room," he said reluctantly. "I don't know about the rest of the house, but I suppose I could go that far."
Sherri stood and held out her hand. "Rest room it is, Cole Sinclair. And after that, well, we'll see."
Cole stared at her outstretched hand. It looked warm, inviting. He took the hand and stood.
Sherri smiled reassuringly. She was about his age, he guessed, a beautiful woman with a shadow of sorrow hiding behind her green eyes. His fear melted, and he found himself following her into the place of nightmares.
She chattered all the way, pointing out the antiques she had culled from antique shops and yard sales, the rarity of the embossed wallpaper. She told him of the complexity of adapting modern plumbing to a house that once had an out-house planted in the backyard.
Cole listened politely, trying to ignore the beads of sweat that gathered on his furrowed brow. His bladder complained sharply, and he hoped he would reach the bathroom in time.
At last they were there. The bathroom, like the rest of the house, had been meticulously remodeled. The doorknob was made of cut crystal that sparkled in the diffused light of the opaque outside window. The floor was a mosaic of white, black and pink tile that highlighted pretty flowered wallpaper. An enormous, claw-legged bathtub sat majestically along the far wall. The toilet was an antique, with a gravity-fed tank and pull-chain mounted on the wall.
Sherri left him. Cole closed the door and locked it. He stood over the sparkling clean toilet bowl and unzipped his faded Levis. The flow began. He sighed with relief and allowed himself the luxury of thinking more closely about Sherri Palmer. She was cute, he reminded himself. Cute and a widow.
Cole chuckled. "What are you thinking about?" he chastised himself. "You come here to face your worst nightmare, and now you're thinking about getting laid?"
His thoughts were interrupted by a quiet knock on the door. "Mr. Sinclair?" Sherri asked softly.
"Y-yes," Cole said, embarrassed that she could hear him doing his business.
"Excuse me for interrupting, but there is something I must tell you."
"Ah, can you wait a sec? I'm almost done."
"No, it can't wait," she said sternly.
Cole was taken aback by the harshness of her voice. Had he done something wrong? "What is it?" he asked.
"I know the truth," she said.
"The truth?" Cole repeated, perplexed. "I don't understand. He suddenly wished he wasn't standing there with his dick in his hand.
"I know what happened here that day," Sherri replied. "I know what happened to your friend, Reed. I know the truth. I know it all....”
Cole stopped urinating, and at that moment he wondered if he would ever piss again. What could she know? he asked himself. A panic began to rise within him, a panic that had carefully guarded a secret. A vile, dirty, secret.
Cole gulped hard. It was a joke, of course, he told himself. A sick, stupid joke.
"It's not a joke," Sherri said from behind the closed door.
Cole felt a chill ripple through him. Sherri Palmer had read his mind.
"None of this is a joke, Mr. Cole Sinclair," she continued. "Not then, not now. The house gets hungry, and when it's hungry, it must be fed. Nothing can stop it from this imperative. Over the years it's enjoyed many meals. First it was the fools who built this house on tainted ground. Those who thought they could break this land like a wild mustang. They paid the price in madness and death.
"Over the years there have been others: vagabonds, migrant workers, society's castoffs searching for free shelter. Later there were teenagers from the city looking for a secluded place to drink and have sex. Then it was me.
"We've been waiting for you, Cole. All of us. Especially your good friend, Reed. Just one, big happy family waiting for you to come home. Waiting for you to own-up."
"No," Cole whispered.
As the word left his lips, the room darkened. The inviting spring light defused by the beaded bathroom window turned a sickly gray. Cole jarred himself from his misery and frantically zipped up his pants. His trembling hand fumbled for the wall switch, but he couldn't find it. The wall switch was gone, and with it, so was the pretty flowered wallpaper. The wall had stripped down to rotted wood slates that gaped at him like jagged teeth.
Somewhere above him a moaning wind swept through the house. The pain of a hundred migraines bolted like lightening through Cole Sinclair's mind. He shut his eyes and was propelled back in time, back into the horror once again....
"Do you feel it, Cole?" Reed gasped, his eyes the size of saucers. He was standing in the middle of the empty attic. Sunlight filtered through uneven cracks in the roof and ceiling creating a cascade of light across his frightened face.
"Yes," Cole said woodenly from the doorway. He definitely felt it: the power, the hate.
A moan rattled through the attic, a deep clenching sigh as if a sleeping monster deep within the bowels of the house had awakened from a hungry sleep. The roof shuddered and the walls bulged with its breath. Reed's face, so full of the wonder just moments before, was now etched by a dawning terror.
"Cole!" he whispered.
Cole stayed at the doorway, unwilling to enter the room. "Come on, Reed!" he said, waiving him at him. "Let's get the hell out of here!"
"I, I can't move," Reed replied frantically. "Something's holding my legs."
"It's just fear!" Cole said. "Try, Reed. Try. We've go to get out of here before it's too late!"
Reed looked at Cole across the abyss of the attic, tears streaming down his face. "I can't!" he said. "I can't!"
Reed's panic unnerved Cole even more than the haunting itself. Reed had always been the rock of their relationship, his practical, brave nature an inspiration to the more excitable Cole. Reed's unrestrained fear was sending him a message: they were both in deep peril.
Reed held out his hand. "Help me, Cole! Come here and help me."
Cole wanted to help, desperately wanted to help, but found he couldn't. Terror had seized his heart. Goose flesh rippled through his trembling body. He could only stare at his friend, his pale face waving back in forth in a dismayed "no".
"This is its center, Cole!" Reed raved. "Its rotten soul. It wants us. It means to have us. It will have us! Help me, Cole. Help us. Together we can beat it!"
Reed's arms were wildly flailing about, as if they had become unhinged from his shoulders. Cole couldn't help himself. He turned and ran. As he flew down the stairs, he heard Reed speak his last words. "We were friends!" he wailed. "God damn it, Cole! We were friends! Friends....”
-4-
Cole Sinclair looked desolately at the doorknob. Its once inviting sparkle was gone, replaced by a black so deep it made him dizzy to gaze into it. It was a metaphor of his life, Cole reflected: dark, empty, and alone.
"I'm fucked," he mumbled. And what's more, he deserved it. Deserved it in spades. For Sherri Palmer had spoken the truth through the bathroom door. He had betrayed his friend. He had lived while Reed Moreno died, and for that he had to atone. Atone with his life, now, while he still had the nerve and the dignity to do what was right.
"We were friends," Reed said to him that day. The words screamed across the years, burned into his soul.
Cole forced himself to grab the knob. It felt warm and clammy as if it might melt in his hand, but it turned, and as it did a sort of eerie calm descended upon him. The decision had been made, and for the first time in years, he felt an uneasy peace.
Cole gulped hard and stepped into the hall. Sherri Palmer's yuppie remodeling job had vanished. The Rebero house had reverted to its former decayed glory.
Its killing glory.
The heavy smell of rain, mixed with the rot of termite infested wood filled Cole's nostrils. A bitter winter breeze swept past his unsure legs. It was as if he had been in the bathroom for months instead of minutes. Far above him loose shingles flapped crazily in a howling wind. The old house creaked on its sagging foundation like a dying elephant ready to fall.
Cole walked uncertainly down the darkened hall. His sense of direction betrayed him. He felt lost, confused. He could feel the house's hunger, its greed pressing on him like a weight. "Come and get me, motherfucker," he taunted. "If that's what you mean to do, come and get me now."
Cole listened as the wind echoed through the tortured hallways, and the rain beat on the time-weakened walls. And there was something else, something distant, something terrible. Somewhere within the walls that imprisoned him he could hear the desperate, muffled cries of those who been captured here. Then, just as he accepted his certain doom, he heard a familiar voice drifting among the others, a voice that had haunted Cole's dreams for an eternity. It was the young, sweet voice of Reed Moreno.
"Cole," Reed said. "You have come at last."
Cole turned and blinked hard. Reed was standing less than ten feet away, a golden highlight against the blackness.
"You're an angel," Cole said, his voice breaking. A voice flush with sorrow, repentance. "Oh, dear God you're a sweet angel."
Reed smiled. "I'm not an angel, Cole," he said. "Not yet, at least."
"Reed," Cole sobbed. "I wish I could take back what I did that day. You have a right to hate me. I was a coward. I've always been a coward."
Reed stepped forward as the house held its breath in greedy anticipation.
"There is no need for guilt, Cole," Reed said. "What happened was meant to be, that's all."
"But I ran, Reed," Cole said through his tears. "I could have helped you, but I ran....”
"You ran because it was your fate to run. The house chose me, Cole, not you."
The house rumbled as if disturbed by Reed's words of comfort. Boards ripped from the ceiling and plummeted to the floor like a toy thrown by a child in a tantrum. A last, solitary window shattered, sending shards of glass tinkling like demented bells.
Cole grimaced. "What is this place, Reed?" he asked with a shudder.
"It's a rift in the fabric between heaven and hell," Reed said. "It's like a volcano that ejects misery and death instead of rocks and lava.
"Cole, if you want repentance, the time has come. We've been waiting for you, Cole, all of us trapped here. I told them that someday you would come again and release us so that we might have our rightful peace."
"Release you?" Cole asked incredulously. "What can I possibly do?"
"Fulfill your destiny, Cole," Reed replied.
"But how?"
Reed smiled. "Something simple, something hard. Its name is fire. Destroy the house, burn its evil core once and for all. Set us free."
The house revolted. Behind Cole, the door to Sherri Palmer's bathroom exploded from its hinges, blasted against the outer hall, and splintered into pieces. Razor-sharp projectiles boomed outward like missiles. One grazed Cole's face as he fell sprawling to the floor, escaping decapitation by inches. Blood oozed from a gash across his cheek. Plaster flew from jagged craters left in the walls.
Cole waited then scrambled to his knees, his heart pounding, ready for the next assault. He turned frantically, his eyes searching for Reed, but to his dismay his friend had once again disappeared. Cole's heart sank, for not only was he now very alone, he discovered he was no longer in the hallway. He had been transported to the very heart of his nightmare, the attic.
Above him the storm howled, slapping the roof shingles up and down in a manic applause. The attic was filled with a spectral light that was nowhere and everywhere all at the same time.
Cole heard a creaking noise and looked up. Old man Robero's hangman's noose was dangling from the center rafter. Blood was caked onto it as if it had torn into the flesh of its last victim. The rope swayed hypnotically from side to side.
"Don't be afraid, Cole," Reed's voice whispered in his ear. "The house plays tricks. Don't believe it. Don't give in. Your fate is with life, not death. Your time has come, Cole! Stand and be true!"
The tingling sensation began just as it had so many years before as the house tried to lull him into submission. Reed's words filled him with renewed hope, but Cole knew that this was not the time to be standing still. If he had any chance of succeeding, he would first have to escape the house's grasp.
Cole tore his fearful eyes from the rope and bolted before the soothing current could turn lethal. He reached the attic door wondering if fate would help him once again. Ignoring the darkness, he hurled down the stairs, almost sprawling on the narrow landing. He lurched to his feet and stumbled down the hallway toward the main stairway.
As he swept past the doorway on his right, he saw a sight that would fuel his nightmares for months. It was only a glimpse, little more than a snapshot of two horned demons coupling on the filthy floor. One looked up as he passed. A thick, viscous string of saliva fell from its snout. It looked at Cole and smiled.
The stairs were undulating like a snake chasing down its prey. Cole didn't think; thinking would have only paralyzed him. He started down, gripping the twisting railing for support. The stairway growled under his weight. The boards of the steps ripped loose. Rusted nails snapped at his feet like fangs. Several dug into the tender flesh of his right foot making him howl with pain. Cole tap-danced his way down the stairs, thinking crazily about tetanus shots.
Somehow he made it to the ground floor, but he was still far from safety. Sherri had led him only a short way to the bathroom, but the downstairs he remembered had disappeared. He appeared to be trapped in the very bowels of the house, and there seemed no hope of escape.
Cole despaired, his mind twitched. Had he come all this way just to lose now? Would he be trapped in this nothingness between life and death forever? But though he feared the worst, he realized that the spectral gloom that surrounded him wasn't total. There was something, something dim and elusive, glowing on the tormented floor. He wiped the blood from his face and dared to look. There, on the floor, appeared to be the delicate scarlet footprints of a small child. Each tiny toe looked as if it had been dipped in shimmering blood, trailing off into the darkness.
Cole's eyes widened with hope even as his soul filled with sorrow. Whose precious, lost child made these prints? And what awful tragedy happened here? Cole shook away his morbid thoughts, and he began to follow this unlikely trail. Help for this forgotten soul depended on his freedom. The faint pleas of conflicting voices continued in his ears. Some called out his name and urged him on his desperate mission. Others screamed out in the fear, demanding he yield to the will of the house.
Outside, the storm raged. Water, or at least Cole hoped it was water, seeped from above him. Heavy, sticky droplets fell on his hair and face. Cole brushed them aside and continued on, wondering how much more of this he could take before his sanity left him forever.
The house upped the ante. On his right the outlines of glowing faces appeared, pressing out from the tattered walls like demented cookie molds. All were etched in bitter agony. Cole tried to ignore the faces, reminding himself they were nothing more than another trick sent by the house to kill his resolve. He bowed his head and concentrated on the footsteps leading him ever onward through the twisting labyrinth.
Eventually, the blackness lightened. The trail appeared to be giving way to an evil dawn. With each step Cole felt closer to freedom. The house, too, sensed he might escape its grasp. Behind him there was a bloody roar. Cole stopped, momentarily unable to move. Then he saw it. Charging up the twisted hall came a howling apparition, hurtling from the arterial depths of the house to halt his desperate flight.
The shape was roughly human, a demon swathed in robes of bloody scarlet and cobalt blue. A large hood hid all features except cold yellow-rimmed, nictitating eyes that glowed like satanic beacons. Its arms were extended, its gnarled fingers twitched sending coronas of arcing gold-blue sparks from the end of its long, splintered fingernails. It was lunging for him.
Cole screamed and scrambled forward. The smell of spent electricity mixed with the sweet fragrance of the hills. One more turn! One more turn and he would be free! But as his eyes began to fill with the blessed sight of freedom, he felt a solid tackle grip his legs. He had been caught.
Cole fell to the floor, hitting his head with a thud. Stars spun in his eyes. He felt numb as if he had been jabbed by a stun gun. He managed to turn and look. Bright laser eyes mocked him, long fangs sprang from a bulging mouth, hot sulfur breath enveloped him.
The apparition inched greedily up his body. Cole pumped his legs frantically, trying desperately to escape. Just when he thought all was lost, his injured right foot miraculously yanked free, leaving his blood-soaked running shoe in the creature's grip. Oblivious to the pain, Cole cocked his foot and with all his strength smashed it into the creature's face.
The phantom roared, not out of pain but of outrage. No one, no one, had resisted before. Once within its grasp no one had the will to do anything except piss in their pants and submit. And to make it worse, the phantom's roar had betrayed it, loosening its vice-like grip just enough for Cole to wrench himself free.
Cole took to his feet, careened off one wall, turned to his left and saw the front door looming ahead like a celestial gate. He literally flew through the tattered screen door and fell sprawling on the splintered wooden deck. Blood gushed from his torn cheek, his foot throbbed, but Cole got up again and staggered down the steps to the safety of the front yard. He collapsed to his knees feeling weak and beyond care. Would the creature follow? No, he thought not. It was as much a prisoner of the house as its victims.
Cole looked around, amazed by what he saw. Sherri Palmer's invitation to use her remodeled bathroom had occurred only minutes before on a cloudless spring morning. Now it was night and cold rain was pelting his face. How could it be?
Now was not the time to ponder. Reed had given him a mission, and he knew that if he were to live the rest of his life in peace, he had to complete it. Fire. How does one burn down a haunted house in the middle of a rainstorm? Cole had a cigarette lighter stuffed from in his dirty front pocket, but how could he use it?
He struggled to his feet, wiping his muddy hands on his pants. He stumbled around in a daze searching for anything that could be used as a fuel. Rain fell in an unrelenting stream. Everything was soaked. There was nothing to burn. He ventured timidly onto the porch keeping well clear of the front door and the terror that lay within. The porch was empty except for a few wind-scattered leaves.
From the inside, he decided. If he had a chance, the house would have to be burned from its dry inside. But how could he do it? How could he go back there without going mad?
Cole's eyes filled with tears, his shoulders sagged. He felt panic welling within him. He couldn't do it! He wasn't strong enough. He didn't have the nerve. God damn it, he wasn't man enough! He stumbled down the creaking front stairs, turned and faced the house. A bolt of lightening lit its crumbling whitewashed facade. Cold broken windows stared at him, mocking his cowardice.
"Sorry I'm such a loser, Reed!" he cried. "I'm sorry I can't help you!"
He stopped, his eyes suddenly wide as a wild, crazy thought burned into his mind. Could it work, he wondered. Cole Sinclair turned and ran into the night....
-5-
Innocent rain fell on the rolling California hills, unaware of the evil that lurked there. The house stood silently, disturbed only by an occasional clap of thunder, its cache of souls held firmly within. It had stood there like a festering sore for a hundred years and might well stand for a hundred more. No one dared tear it down.
Once, a young, aggressive builder by the name of John Palmer took an option on the land and planned a track of luxury homes for Bay Area yuppies on the move. One Saturday he brought his young wife, Sherri, to see his project. On the rise above the little valley he held his wife's hand and told her how they would level the old house to construct the road that would wind its way into the hills.
"But it's a beautiful old place," Sherri said.
John nodded. "It's had its day, Sherri and it's in the way."
Sherri dropped his hand and gaily ran ahead of him. She turned and looked at her husband, her summer dress blowing tantalizingly in the breeze, a wink of youthful lust in her eye. "Let's look inside," Sherri said coyly. "You never know what might happen."
No one ever saw them again...
...and the house still stood like a wooden Venus fly trap, and the wind still howled around it, and the victims still entered its poisonous folds never to return to the light of day. Until Cole Sinclair.
Off in the distance there was a crash as Pinto tore through the old wooden gate. Cole ran to the edge of road not knowing if the faded yellow car would still be there. He had lost all track of time and suspected time had lost track of him. Months could have passed as easily as hours since that fine spring morning that marked the beginning of this nightmare. His faithful Pinto might very well be gone, towed away to a wrecking yard, now nothing more than a tight ball of rusted metal. But to his relief the car was still there, waiting patiently to take Cole on its final ride.
The Pinto bucked up the gravel road, its nearly bald tires spinning crazily in the soft, rain-soaked ground. Cole gripped the steering wheel grimly knowing that success or failure was now in the hands of God and the Ford Motor Company.
He rounded the last curve. The house was just ahead glowing in the darkness. He swirled the Pinto through the mud so its rear end faced the porch. Cole rolled down both windows, pushed the car into reverse, gulped hard and gunned the ancient engine to a scream.
Cole looked into the cracked rear view mirror. The porch was directly behind him, beckoning like a gaping tongue. He popped the clutch, and the old car lurched back. When it encountered the first step, it paused only slightly before bouncing up the four steps to the porch.
The house's front door disintegrated as the Pinto plowed through it. Splinters of half-rotted wood flew off like an exploding Super Nova. Yellow paint scraped in long, claw-like scratches from the car's rear fenders. The Pinto slowed, but Cole knew he wouldn't have to go very far; just enough for the Pinto to reveal the fatal engineering flaw that had banned it from the highways of America.
The wheels spun madly, inching the little car farther into the entryway. Its flimsy rear bumper collapsed under the impact. The large rear glass window shattered. Underneath, its flimsy gas tank buckled until it finally burst.
Gasoline spilled from a four-inch break, filling the entryway with its pungent odor. At the same time there was a loud ping as the Pinto's engine hurled shards of metal through its insides. The car sputtered once then died.
Cole looked around fearfully. The aroma of gas was stronger now. He had to get out of the car. Once the vapors hit the hot undercarriage, there would be an explosion. He had rolled down the front windows to insure his escape, but he hadn't anticipated that the Pinto would come to rest smack in the middle of the doorway's oak jam. The massive pieces of wood, fashioned in a time when solidity was a virtue, mocked him like the iron bars of a jail.
"Shit," Cole said. He was trapped.
From behind him came a voice, "Cole?" it called.
Cole recognized the voice. It was Sherri Palmer. But when he looked into the mirror, it was not the pretty, inviting Sherri he remembered. It was her rotted corpse.
"Join us, Cole," she said as she approached the rear of the car. "Come and live with us--forever."
Though shaking with fear, Cole told himself not to panic. He leaned into the rear seat. The car was as messy as his life. Heaps of discarded Big Mac wrappers and old beer cans were strewn across the seat and floor. He fumbled around, searching for something that kept him company when he spent cold nights sleeping in the car. As he searched, Sherri drifted closer, her decayed skull smiling as if unaware of its condition.
Cole found it. Cold and black in his hand, the tire iron was like a gift from God. He turned, cocked his arm, and rammed the windshield, thankful for the long horizontal crack that already wandered across its surface. On the forth blow, the glass shattered. He braced himself against the seat, lifted his legs and kicked out the window.
Cole scrambled across the dashboard and onto the cold, yellow hood. The smell of gas made his head swim, but miraculously there had been no ignition. Cole rolled off the hood and onto the porch. He stood and faced the car. Fumbling into his pocket, he found the lighter. "Come on," he said, cupping it in his hand. He desperately flipped the ignition wheel. "Come on you son-of-a-bitch!" The lighter wouldn't work, not even a spark.
On the other side of the car, Sherri Palmer howled and began to climb over the wreckage toward him. "It won't work, Cole," she screamed. "The house is hungry once more. And it will feed."
Cole fought with the lighter striking it again and again, but still there was nothing.
Then Reed Moreno spoke to him one last time, whispering into his ear. "Run, Cole," he said. "Run now. The rest is up to God."
Cole dropped the lighter and ran. The gasoline was seeping across the porch, falling through the cracks, but a single long ribbon of fuel trickled across the splintered front steps, soaking into the dirt even as Cole stumbled off the porch. He ran a few more feet and collapsed to the ground, his mind and body spent.
For so many years the house had protected itself, even healing itself like some demented cancer. Nothing could touch it; nothing could deliver it serious harm--not age, not man. But when the first trickle of gas seeped into the heart of the Montezuma hills, another power took over. A power that had waited patiently for a chance to correct a grievous wrong.
Lightning does not fall from the sky. It leaps from the ground, arcing its charge of molten electricity to the heavens. That was what Cole saw when he turned his head to look. And as the spark made its celestial trip, it ignited the small puddle of gas.
Blue frame leapt up the steps like a tidal wave rushing toward the Pinto. It arrived just as Sherri Palmer stood on its dented hood. The explosion blew the corpse apart, sending chunks of spoiled flesh and bone in an arc across the porch. Cole scrambled back from the heat, holding up his hand to protect his eyes from the brilliance of the flame.
The house burned; burned fast. It was totally engulfed within minutes. Cole could hear sirens in the distance, fireman to the rescue, but he was glad in his heart for there would be no rescue of the Rebero house and the horror within it. It was gone for good.
Cole managed to stand. He staggered around the side of the house, the flames glowing in his eyes. He stopped outside what was once the house's room. His eyes widened. They were all in there, those who died. Oblivious to the holocaust that surrounded them, they were sitting around a long table, untouched by the flames, eating a grand, last feast. Sherri was there sitting next to her husband, a small child playing joyfully on her lap. Next to her at the head of the table was Reed Moreno: young, strong, ready to take life's final journey into the unknown.
For the first time since it all began, Cole felt at peace. Tears filled his eyes; tears of both sorrow and joy. Cole couldn't roll back the clock, but God had finally granted him a chance at life. And as he looked with awe and relief at Reed and his friends, they all turned in unison. They looked at him with joy on their faces and raised then glasses in a hearty toast.
It was over.
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