Welcome Home, Dear...

                          

There, on a steep hill in the Highlands of New England, lurched a handsome old house. It’s siding was a fading whitewash on cedar plank shingles. The shutters of the house swung freely in the cool morning winds, some teetering back and forth, their rusted hinges groaning together in a maudlin chorus that called to weary travelers.

 

Ages ago, this house stood as a bustling train station. There was evidence of this history strewn about the decaying property, but none as clear as the abandoned, rusting train tracks that lay silently unused among the grasses and overgrowth that had crept in to reclaim the steel rails for the land. Many souls had passed through this old house. Many happy souls, many hurried souls. It wasn’t until the popularity of passenger trains began to decline and the rail line was shut down, that this house saw its share of angry and disturbed souls.

 

But even today, that seems like ancient history. Today, even the ghosts of West River Station seem to have moved on. Now only sat a rotting house with peculiar architecture, its only companions on the property were the silent, rusting tracks, and a babbling brook at the rear that seemed to converse endlessly, in a desperate cry for attention. To the right of the long gravel driveway that leads up to the station-turned-home, was another path leading to a rundown chapel, the sad appearance of which made the neighboring house look almost inviting.

 

It was on a drizzly morning in 2014. Nearly 30 years since the last inhabitants had lived on the property--when a white, unmarked cargo van climbed the path. Behind the wheel was a nervous young doctor. She took in the view of the property as the van crept closer and closer to the massively ornate stoop that led up to heavy oak double doors. She noticed that one of the doors had its beautiful stained glass window partially smashed out, as if with a small stone. She had always loved the appearance of stained glass, and felt saddened by the sight.

 

The van finally reached the top of the drive and, after rolling to a stop; she put the vehicle in park and let it idle. It was then that she finally turned to her silent passenger and spoke. “We’re finally here, Michael. Are you ready?” Michael simply nodded and gripped the handle of his suitcase tighter. His face seemed paler than usual to her, but this wasn’t much of a surprise. She noticed him holding onto the suitcase, as she unbuckled her seatbelt and motioned to exit the van. “Wait,” Michael said has his hand suddenly snapped into motion, grasping her wrist. His knuckles looked as white has his face, his grip tightened on her. “Can we wait another moment?” he pleaded. The good doctor nodded without hesitation and she could feel him loosen his grip.

 

The two sat there silently for another few minutes. To break the awkwardness, the doctor pointed in the direction of an unpainted picket fence that stretched across the south side of the property, just before the tracks. The fence was built to a point, but then suddenly stopped in the middle of the property, unfinished and beginning to yaw and droop. “Look at that fence, Michael,” she observed, “Any idea why it’s unfinished like that? It looks so sad.” Michael snapped out of his daze and looked with her. “Father and I were working on that before I left.” He said. “We really ought to finish it. It’s unsafe to play near the tracks. We were going to paint it white. I think I’d prefer red.”

 

Another tense moment passed in silence. “Okay Michael,” the doctor said with a sympathetic sigh, “Are you ready now? We can’t sit in this van all day.” Michael simply nodded and unbuckled his seatbelt. The two opened their doors and stepped out together. The doctor helped Michael up the stairs with his heavy suitcases, until they finally stopped on the landing at the top.

 

Before them stood the overbearing double doors; the rounded tulip design that was embedded in the glass looked like the judgmental eyes of a giant. The doctor felt uneasy by this and had decided that she did not want to enter this place. But she was, of course Michael’s doctor, and would enter the house if he needed her to.

 

He put her worries to rest when he spoke. “Thank you Doctor Fraser for taking me this far. I will be okay on my own from here. I have a lot to do.” The good doctor let out a quiet sigh of relief at this, and pulled a brown file folder from under her arm and handed it to him. “Here is a copy of your file, Michael. I believe it will help you to put your memories in order. Also in there are all of the deeds and titles to the estate, and other legal mumbo jumbo. But you should hang onto it.” Michael took the file and smiled. He then reached out a hand to shake with the doctor, but instead was greeted with as big of a hug as the small woman could muster. The embrace was quick and firm.

 

The doctor then stepped back and held him at arms length. She returned his smile now and said, “Listen Michael, it’s been a long time since you’ve been home. If you need anything---” But Michael cut her off there, “I have your number.” He said. “Thank you Doctor Fraser…for everything.”

 

He waved as he watched the white van roll down the steep path and out of sight. Now he could finally return home. He unbuttoned his white dress shirt and reached for a chain around his neck. The chain had a collection of keys of varying size, style, and age. He removed the chain and found the key to the front door. He stood for a moment and gazed at the key, his eyes then shot to the keyhole below the big brass doorknob that had begun to discolor with age and neglect. He motioned now to insert the key---But wait---He was certain that he heard footsteps on the other side of the door. Michael’s hand began to tremble as the key slowly met with the hole. He took a gulp of air as he turned it hard, remembering that the lock always had a way of sticking. Two hard twists and the lock made a dull, thudding click. He reached for the tarnished handle now, but paused when he heard a faint whisper in his ear. “Welcome home, dear...” he thought he heard it say. But the voice was distant and strange. He thought it could be nothing more than a faded memory.

 

Enough was enough, Michael turned the knob and shouldered the door open finally, when he stepped inside the foyer of the rotting old train station, he was pleased to find that everything was exactly as he had left it. The stairs to his right were beautifully polished and clean. The ornate runner that covered each step was in perfect condition. The stunning crystal chandelier was lit and cast beautiful prisms of light around the entranceway. He set down his suitcases and walked into the dining room. There a meal had been placed out for the evening. Silver antique candlesticks were lit, and the table was set with fine china for five people. The meal was a typical Sunday feast that his mother would prepare after church each week. The family would gather and enjoy one another’s company. Michael was pleased to see that little had changed since he left.

 

Michael turned to enter the kitchen, but was abruptly stopped when a woman swooped by with a steaming-hot gravy boat in her hand. It was his mother of course, the hem of her favorite summer dress floated weightlessly behind her. Her elbow grazed his, causing the file folder under his arm to drop and scatter on the ground. He bent over to pick it up. And as he did, his mother apologized. “I am so sorry dear. Supper’s almost ready, why don’t you go upstairs and get clean? You’ve been gone an awfully long time, and it looks like you could use some freshening up.” Michael just smiled at his mother--such a pretty woman, such a loving woman. And he always loved her too, with all of his heart. She was the most important woman in his life. She always knew the right thing to say. “Of course, Mother,” Michael replied, “I’ll take my things up to my room first.”

 

Michael turned his back, gathered up his things, and headed up the stairs. As he climbed, he passed the portraits of the family that had hung on the wall since he was a child. The first picture was of his grandfather and grandmother holding hands as they leaned together against a stone fence. They looked so happy, so in love. Next was a portrait of his father and mother. He stopped on the middle step of the giant staircase to appreciate the portrait. For some reason, the picture had a thick layer of dust that obscured most of the image. Michael took a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and began to wipe it away. What he saw when he removed the dust covering, made his head swim as if he were suddenly drunk. His knees buckled, and he groped out for the stair railing to catch his balance.

 

The picture was of two rotting corpses that only vaguely resembled his parents. The man who could not have been his father, had a gaping hole where one of his eyes should be. His throat was slit, and had a layer of dried and crusted blood that had stopped just below the wound. The woman corpse who was dressed like his mother, and had hair like his mother, gazed into his eyes with dead emotion. Her jaw had been smashed off, and now only part of it hung from its hinge. The rest of her face was a deep and bloody void. Before he could fully compose himself, he heard the voice of his mother say, “Be quick dear, dinner’s almost ready!”

 

Michael spun around and leaned over the heavy wooden railing. His breathing was out of control now. He was sure he was about to pass out, when he saw his living mother at the bottom of the stairs. “What is it dear?” she asked. “Hurry now, your father will be back in any minute.” Michael stood stunned, staring at his mother. But then scrambled to recompose himself. “Yes, of course, Mother.” He straightened himself up and lifted his suitcases again. As he started to climb once more, he glanced at the photo of his parents yet again. Now they were sitting beside one another in the photo. Very much alive now, all smiles and happiness.

Lastly, before reaching the top of the stairs, he passed a photo of himself seated with his younger brother. “Stephen…” Michael had whispered to himself before finally turning down the hall and toward his room.

 

When he approached his room, he saw that the door had been open a crack. He pushed it open further. The hinges gave an unforgettable creak that brought back memories of childhood. He laid down his bags on his bed, and smiled when he saw the old Captain Kangaroo comforter that he had loved so dearly. To his left, on the nightstand was his old baseball glove. A flash of a memory came to Michael. He remembered playing in little league with this glove---with Stephen.  He held up to his nose to take in the old familiar odor left by the oil he used to keep the glove from getting stiff.

 

Just then, he was snapped from his reverie when the door creaked again. Startled, Michael dropped the glove to the floor, and turned. A strange, but familiar man stood in the doorway. His boots were covered in mud. Slung over his shoulder was a spade caked in dirt and clay.

 

“We never could get this door to stop creaking, eh Michael?” The man said. Michael blinked, and then knuckled his eyes to try and clear his vision. The man was just a boy now. His boots had changed to cleats, and his spade had turned into a baseball bat. The boy was in a little league uniform, his hat spun around backward. Michael laughed a relieved---almost fanatical laugh at the sight of the boy. “Stephen,” he said, “It’s great to see you! Wanna play baseball after supper?” Stephen the boy just shook his head slowly. “No Michael,” the he said, “I have to show you something. Can you come with me?”

 

“Of course,” Michael said, “but Mother wants us downstairs for dinner.”

 “Mother can wait. It will only take a minute, Michael.”

 

Stephen took his hand and led Michael down the stairs and out the door. They then walked by the half-completed picket fence where a man was digging a posthole in the ground. “Hello father,” Michael had said to the man. But the man just wiped his brow and kept on working, as if he hadn’t heard anything. He was wearing a red handkerchief around his neck. “Come now Michael,” Stephen pulled him by the hand toward the path leading to the old chapel. “I have to show you something.”

 

The two continued up the path, and toward the chapel. The path was mostly overgrown now and hard to stay on, but they kept on walking. Stephen seemed to know the way rather well, and so Michael allowed him to continue leading. They finally reached the old, decaying church and climbed the stairs.

“Do you remember this place, Michael?” Stephen asked with a sinister, boyish grin across his face. “Yes, of course I do." Michael said. "It’s always been abandoned. We used to play in here. It has always given me the creeps.” Just then, the ten-year-old boy that was Michael’s brother reached into his little league shirt and pulled out his own necklace with his own key. He put it into the Chapel doors, and a second later they were inside. The room was dark, but Michael could make out the rotting, overturned pews and pulpit that made up the church. Random shafts of coloured light filled the room just enough to see. 

 

Michael turned to his kid brother, but standing there now was only the man with the muddy boots and muddy spade. He spoke in a low voice, as if in respect for the dead. “You know Michael,” he said. “It took me a long time to find them here. I had to spend the last twenty-five years behind bars, first. But once I was free, I knew where I could look. Something just came to me while I was locked up. I somehow knew this is where they would be.” Michael stood trembling, his mouth agape. “What do you mean?” He asked, frightened. “Who the hell are you? What are you talking about!” The man just shook his head and said. “Come on, let’s go to the basement. I have to show you something, remember?”

 

The man took him by the hand and walked Michael up to the pulpit, and then down a single flight of carpeted stairs. They landed on a concrete floor, with a rotten door built with knotty planks. The man pushed it open, and flipped a light switch. A single hanging light bulb flickered to life in the center of the room. The smell of dampness and decay had filled Michaels nostrils. It was almost unbearable. Up ahead was a single wooden table. The floor it stood on was dirt now. Sitting on the table was a faded, yellowed newspaper. It was opened to a story that read:

 

STEPHEN PIERCE FOUND GUILTY FOR MURDER OF PARENTS. BODIES NOT RECOVERED.

 

Michael didn’t understand…He knew that something had happened in this place, and he remembered being afraid…He remembered being found in the back yard by policemen…He was lying in the brook…He was cold and wet…Why was he found there…? Was it to wash away the dirt…? The blood…? He couldn’t remember…It took him years to regress and remove these memories…He remembered his brother being found, too…His brother was covered in blood and crying…Michael remembered being taken away to a hospital…He didn’t see his brother again.

 

Michael turned to the man, and spoke. “I---I don’t understand.” The man who was his brother laughed heartily, hysterically. “I think you do, Michael. I tried to save them from you. But I had the history of bad behavior. I had the history of violent outbursts. You were just the quiet one. No one ever thought it could be you.” Just then he handed him the spade. “Here, Michael. I still want to show you something.” The man guided Michael over to the far side of the dirt-floored basement. “Here, dig. I did most of it for you.”

 

Dazed, Michael stepped into the shallow pit that the man had started, and began to dig. It only took a few minutes to hit something. Michael handed the spade back to the man, and fumbled for a zippo lighter in his pocket. He flipped back the cover, and struck the lighter. The small flickering flame was enough to light up the pit before him.

 

Michael fell back on his hands in horror at what he saw and began to weep. The pit, as it turned out, was a grave. The body of a woman in a modest summer dress, now rotted and decaying, her jaw almost completely smashed away. Beside her was the corpse of a man in garden clothes. Where his eye should have been was a gaping, dark hole, his throat had been slit. Michael knew then what he had been shown.

 

He turned to claw his way out of the grave. His fingers scratching, and pulling at the dirt, trying to find purchase, trying to get away from this horror, this death. This…This LIE!

 

He then heard the ten-year-old voice of his little brother. “Ah-Ah-Ah. Oh no you don’t” The voice said. Michael looked up and saw the boy standing there in his little league suit. The baseball bat was raised over his head. “I think you should spend some quality time with Mother and Father."

 

The baseball bat was a spade now. The boy was a man.

The man swung down hard, and Michael’s world went black.

 “Welcome home, dear…”   

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

As always, all criticisms welcome. If you notice any grammatical issues, or you think it's crap, or if you actually like it, please let me know in the comments. And be sure to check out my other submissions, too!

Reviews

[Nusquam Esse]

I actually liked this quite a bit. It wasn't exactly completely unique, but not cliche either. I liked the play with how the past and present existed as one. Only real suggestion would be to use a different word than 'pretty' to describe the nurse/doctor. I dunno, it somehow felt weird to me. I enjoy dark stories, often writing them myself, so it should come as no surprise that I enjoyed this.

[Butterfly_Kid]

You're right. I changed her from pretty to nervous. This is only the second story I've written that I would call "Horror". So, in terms of originality, yeah...I get that it isn't the first time this sort of thing has been done. But as an exercise, I was happy just to get through it. Thanks for the comments!

[Andrew Leister-Frazier]

I must have been stupid when I wrote that previous review. Your writing is fine. In the context of all your writings on Writer's Cafe and from your comments to me I know now that you write for the fun of it. There's a spirit to your writing and I don't feel comfortable giving it a number out of 100. When I read your writing just for enjoyment and not with the mindset that I need to critique every little thing and deciding how many points to give it out of 100 it is almost always an enjoyable experience. I will say this, I have read every story some more than once. I do it because I enjoy it.

[Jennie Baron]

I decided to check out your writing, having gotten your friend request, and hit upon the story since I'm more of a fiction writer myself. You did a splendid job of blending visions and reality! Very polished except for some grammar, punctuation, etc., that's easily fixed, although I read with an emphasis on the content.

[RP Mazarelli]

I was blown away ... great writing. You should submit it to Ëllery Queen".

I took the liberty to provide minor edits ... keep up the good work ...

Edits ...

1. teetering back and forth (vs. fourth)
2. It was on a drizzly morning in 2014---nearly thirty (30 generally we use numbers for anything over ten) years...
3. Michael turned to enter the kitchen, but was stopped when his mother swooped by with a steaming-hot gravy boat in her hand.

At this point I would modify the text slightly to make the moment more dramatic … perhaps something like … Michael turned to enter the kitchen, but stopped. A woman swooped by with a steaming-hot gravy boat in her hand. His Mother. The hem of her modest summer dress was floating behind her ... (but in your own words)

4. The man, his brother laughed heartily, hysterically ...
5. He then heard his younger brother. Once again a ten year old boy ...

I would also indent the dialogue to help it standout ... Once again a great read!!!!

[Raymond Federle]

Well done! An enjoyable read! :)