Haunted house. It had the look. Ignored for years and years, set way back from the road, thick woods behind it. There had to be legends surrounding it, a big old decaying mansion like this. Intimidating, perhaps given a wide berth.
Inside, though, it was ordinary enough. Not much furniture left. The doors were chained shut, and the ground-floor windows still boarded up... so it wasn't attractive to intruders. That suggested a powerful myth in the town, a shared fear that kept the curious away.
Dust lay like a thick blanket. Many years since it had been disturbed. A tempting setting.
It's time for legends to be revived.
Not for a large number of the townspeople, for that would spur investigation. Interference. One believer, to start - given evidence, firm proof, of things too preposterous for the others to accept...
A new resident.
As the rooms are examined, a plan begins to gel.
At the back door, the padlock is cut off, and boxes float silently inside. A new padlock snaps into place.
Inside, a broom works briskly, moving by unknown means. Sweeping the dust from a second-floor room with front-facing windows, the old panes caked with dirt, reducing the moonlight.
An ancient feather mattress drifts up to the room, pausing in the stairwell to be beaten against the handrail, shedding chips and flakes of mildew.
The new supplies are checked, then slid into an adjoining closet.
Ready. All set to make a big impression. Now, for a subject...
From the attic's rear window, street lights can be made out past the thicket. A small subdivision -
And, as if on cue, a front door opens in a nearby house.
The man closes the door behind him, looks out, and ambles down to the end of the driveway. Looks down the street, takes a pull off the beer can in his hand.
He wears a t-shirt from the high school. That year's graduating class, which would imply he's been out of school, what, about three months. Tall, on the thin side, but with solid arms, thick legs.
Whoever he's looking for, hasn't arrived yet. Perhaps a diversion...
In the woods, across the street and between the houses, there's a fire. Ah - he sees it. A flame, darting horizontally. Not close to the houses, but moving too much to be a burning tree.
Staring at it, he takes a step or two into the street. It must be a torch or something, well off the ground. Too high. It movements aren't predictable, like a swing or a pendulum.
He crosses the street. Stops, peering hard...
And walks between the houses. To the treeline. Into the dark woods, looking up. The flame is further in, a good twenty feet up.
Six more steps, then eight. Ten. He stops, looking up again, and behind him. Possibly about to turn back -
The beer can is knocked out of his hand.
Cloth slaps his mouth, lays across his eyes. He rears back, twisting...
Hands take hold of his wrists, and more fingers seize his forearms. Then his triceps too. He yells, but it's muffled well. Trying to fall back, or to the side, he's pulled upright.
More cloth, at his hands - doing something -
Gloves. He makes fists, but his fingers are pried apart. Gloves being pulled on roughly.
Behind his back, his fingers interlock. Tight. He tugs, but they're solid.
And suddenly he's picked up. Squirming, trying to shout. His eyes are left alone, and he's being carried...
Toward the Cavanaugh place!
Over the wrought-iron fence, and the wild garden. Fighting hard.
More hands got a lock on his ankles, extending his legs. Every motion was neutralized...
To the door, now open wide.
Through it.
He's turned around, so he can watch the door close. He stops wrestling.
Chain, being pulled across the wood outside.
Locked in. He's inside the Cavanaugh house. and... chained. The door's chained shut behind him. Why?
The cloth is pulled from his eyes, and then the gag. There's a smell -
Cigar? A coal, moving... It is. A cigar, tapping against his teeth.
He flops around. But it hangs there, smoking. Waiting. Until he sags, and it taps again.
Breathing hard, suspended in the air - and looking thoroughly perplexed, he bites down the cigar.
Takes a quick puff...
He isn't getting this at all. Practical joke, maybe. A bad one. Except that fire in the woods was way up there, too far overhead. And whoever's got him four feet off the ground right now. Trouble is, there's no sign of anybody here. Just hands, holding him up.
The smoke, and the taste of it, are disgusting. He drops the cigar, and it stops falling about halfway down. Cruises back up. No way...
This is his third cigar. One at football camp, years ago. Most of another on prom night. Cigarettes weren't worth the crud they made in his throat. He got high a couple weeks ago, and on that road trip after graduation - maybe a half-dozen times overall. It made him cough, and overall he preferred a good beer buzz...
He twisted around, but the hands straightened him back out. Still up there, looking at the door. The smoke stings his eyes, and he drops the cigar again - and it's caught again, heading back up for the return trip.
Now he's mad. Fighting all-out...
But it's no good. Needing to rest. And here it comes. He can't break his hands free from each other. Throws his head around, but it tracks with him. So he chomps down on it, takes three or four quick drags, and throws it off to the side.
It hits the floor, bouncing -
The hands turn him around. He flails again...
Drifting down a hallway, to a set of stairs. Up, smoothly, despite his resistance.
Down another hall, and to the left. Open door.
A large room, barely visible. Grimy windows. No furniture except an old mattress on the floor.
He crosses the room, looking around wildly. Toward the mattress - over it -
Hanging there for a few seconds.
Landing.
He's set down gently. When he gets a whiff of the mildew, his head rears back reflexively.
His fingers slowly let go of each other - and more hands are on him, invisible, latching on to his arms and wrists. Rolling him over...
At least three hands are pinning each of his limbs.
"Welcome."
He jumps, and looks around wildly. "Wha?"
"How-do."
Struggling fiercely now. "You - what the... where are you?"
The voice, close to his ear somehow, almost whispering... "Do you believe in ghosts?"
After a few seconds he manages to stammer, "N-no."
Something presses - no, creeps on his stomach. Travelling down his sides, slow and heavy. He bucks again, and makes little barking noises. Staring at... nothing. Whatever he's feeling, it's invisible -
And it's roving.
Low whines escape from his throat.
He knows this can't really be happening. Time to puzzle it all out later - right now, he's gotta get up and get outa here first. So he kicks as hard as he can. His feet break contact with the mattress, but they're slammed right back down. And it feels like even more hands lock onto his shins.
Pull, turn, arch - and to his amazement, nothing works!
The unseen fingers crawl over his ribs. He snorts, tries to cut it off, and ends up laughing. That makes him mad, so he yells...
Flailing, with no effect. The grips on him are like steel.
Then he's laughing again. Can't stop. Hollering when he thinks of it. The fingers press in his armpits, squeeze the edge of his pecs, rub back down. He slams his head up and down, shakes it, tries so hard to twist...
All the way to his hips. Then back up, strong thumbs massaging the edge of his belly. Making him squeal. Moving back up to his ribs...
He has to get away.
But he can't.
Well, this has gotta end... sometime.
He's panting for breath. It takes him a while to realize the fingers are gone. When he tries to get up, the grips are still there, keeping him flat on his back.
Soaked in sweat. His eyes watered a lot too.
He has no idea how long they...
It seems like hours.
And he's still held down.
As soon as he's able, he starts to squirm again. They're not letting up -
Something else is changing. It takes him a few seconds to realize...
His shoe. Left shoe. The laces are loosening. It's pretty dark in here, but his eyes are used to it. Something he can't see is pulling his shoe open.
"No. Aw, shit," he pleads.
Pressure increases, and his shoe slides off. Instead of dropping, it floats up. And back, out of sight. Taken away.
His right shoelace is pulled. He flails, and yells... eventually, begging, as his socks are pulled off.
The grips get a solid lock on his limbs.
"Boo," the voice says, and then it snickers.
Soft fingers trace down the center of his left sole, making him yell.
More drag up his right foot. They loop and reverse, one moving up as the other moves down.
He shrieks. Weak and raspy, which shocks him. Then he starts to laugh again, whooping sometimes, hooting now and then.
Sometimes the fingers get a firm grip across one of his feet, squeezing - and he howls then. They're unpredictable, and they go right back to sliding around, now under his toes too, along the sides.
He twists and rolls his head until he's too tired to fight anymore.
Then he lays there and laughs...
...for hours.
31jan2001