Author’s Note: I wanted to tell a story that would challenge the traditional horror story, which, at least in American culture, is often used to reinforce values that young people are expected to fulfill without question.
“It’s like a tombstone.”
Jason cracked his gum and peered through the wrought iron gate as the school bus pulled away. Olmstead House sat on the rise, partially obscured by icy naked oaks and snowy thickets.
“Yeah?” Derek ran a thumb along the teeth of his house key. After his punishment for losing the first key, he attached the second one to three linked chains: a Pirate Parrot tag from his mom, an Allegheny Mill penlight from his dad, and a Pokéball chain he won in fourth grade for getting the highest score on a math test. If he was lucky, Jason would invite him over. He could have dinner with his best friend’s family and stave off using his key a couple more hours.
“Uh-huh. Look—“ Jason had sprouted early and stood a full head taller than the rest of their sixth grade peers. Now he draped an arm around Derek’s shoulder and pointed through the gate.
“See there, where the roof stands above the trees? And the windows? They could be letters being worn away, couldn’t they? Now turn—“
They pivoted to look down the hill. Jason held Derek’s threadbare coat to steady him. “Main Street ends right here at the gate.”
“Or begins,” Derek corrected. “It’s how you see it. It also tees into Ridge, so maybe it doesn’t end at all?”
“The name ends, Derek. It becomes something else.”
“Okay. I was just saying.”
Jason rolled his eyes. “Sure. Now look—”
They surveyed the bleak downtown. Cinder-caked snow piled on the sidewalks. The display windows of Lena’s Clothier had been painted over. Casey Drugs was boarded up. Derek’s mom waitressed second shift at The Fine Diner until they shuttered last August. Within a week she abandoned Derek and his father. The Dollar Mart, a desperate survivor where Jason’s mom worked day shifts, sat diagonal from Casey’s. Few pedestrians—mostly bank employees—shuffled along the five block stretch. Weeds reclaimed blighted, empty lots. Cars spewed toxic blue fumes as they passed. Not every streetlamp lit up; darkness crept into the corners of Coleridge.
“See, everything on Main Street is dead or dying. It’s like the oldest graves at St. Francis’s. The stones crumble. The words get worn off. They fall over. The grass grows high until somebody mows it. Our town is weedy and abandoned, too, and here—“ He motioned back to the Olmstead House. “Here’s the tombstone.”
“I think you should be a writer.”
“My dad wants me to play football. I hate it,” Jason admitted, then fished for another topic. “Is your dad home tonight?”
“It’s Friday.” Derek slipped off a mitten and chewed a nail. “He’ll be at the bar until late.”
“You want to do something fun?”
“Is it inside or out? I’m getting cold.”
Jason flashed his mischievous grin. “Kinda both.”
“Huh?”
“Go home, drop off your stuff, and meet me back here in an hour.”
“Why?”
“Trust me.”
Forty minutes later, the boys met on Ridge Avenue, both trudging uphill toward the gate. Derek panted from the exertion. He preferred to curl up with a horror story instead of climbing icy hills in the dark. He pulled his hat down tighter.
Jason’s backpack humped off his shoulders, stuffed to bursting.
“What’s in the bag?”
His best friend ignored him. Instead of continuing toward the gate, they descended the hill. Derek half-trotted, half-slid. Where the fence angled into the woods, Jason left the sidewalk.
“Are you serious? My sneakers are already soaked.”
“Just step where I step,” he suggested, already three steps into a drift.
“Why?”
“Because I can get us into the mansion.”
Derek gaped. “Really?” He tried to match Jason’s long strides, often falling short but never wanting to lag behind.
After following the fence deep into the woods, they arrived at a gap where a section had fallen inward.
“Remember the story about the couple who tried to break in?” Jason asked.
“The one they tell at the library every Halloween? Of course!”
Jason nodded and clicked his flashlight, illuminating his face from below. “It happened just after Netta Olmstead died. She bequeathed the house to itself, and people came snooping from around the world. The couple claimed to be relatives. They snuck in right here. But Netta had placed a curse on the house, and nobody ever saw them again.”
Derek rolled his eyes. “I’ve read The Shining, Jason. You’ll have to do better. Lead on.”
Jason clicked off the flashlight and climbed over the fence. It creaked under his weight, collapsing into the snow.
“Damn,” he barked and fell over with a laugh. Derek traversed it much more easily, helped Jason up, and dusted him off.
The pair picked their way through the woods. Raspberry thickets scratched and tore at their coats. Burrs caught one of Derek’s laces and covered his shoe in a cluster. Jason accidentally let go of a low branch too quickly; Derek ducked to avoid getting whipped in the face.
“Watch it!” he snapped.
“Sorry.”
They emerged on the drive just below the house. Weather and disuse had reduced the paving to rubble, but that only made the walk easier.
“No ice,” Jason observed. “Less chance of falling.”
They stopped when the house came fully into view.
“Whoa,” Derek said. “I didn’t know it was so big. It’s huge.”
Jason laughed at the way his friend’s mouth hung open, the way his eyes grew wide. “Like the Overlook Hotel?”
Derek nodded. “Kind of. Not as big—but big enough.”
The house was chiseled gray stone, three stories high with a slate roof. A dozen windows were spaced evenly across the front face, with a large wooden door and small porch at the center. Thirteen windows spanned the second floor width. Five dormer windows marked a third floor.
“No lights on. Guess nobody’s home,” Jason joked.
“I half expected somebody to peer down at us from one of those upper rooms,” Derek admitted. “That’s how it always goes in the movies.”
The boys climbed the half dozen steps and looked back through the trees toward town. A few lights twinkled below.
“You can’t see how bad it is from here,” Jason observed.
“It feels like another world.” Derek shivered. “So how do we get in?”
“Well, According to Mr. Blundt at the public library…”
“…the house is locked against anyone but a true Olmstead.”
“You know my mother’s maiden name?”
Derek shook his head.
Jason smiled and reached for the door handle. It rattled, resisted, then opened with a crack that echoed through the trees. He swung the door wide.
“Pull out your penlight and follow me.”
The foyer connected to a central hall, with a staircase halfway back. Two sets of doors stood on each side, with another door at the rear.
“This way.” Jason turned toward the first door on the left.
“How do you know?”
“Trust me.”
They paused to study a portrait hung between the doorways. A high-collared man with a large nose and thick eyebrows glared down at them.
“Coleridge Olmstead,” Jason said. “Town founder. Lumber and coal baron.”
“He looks as grouchy as his statue in the park.”
Jason nodded and turned. A severe, thin-lipped woman stared back from the portrait on the opposite wall. Derek yipped.
“That’s Leonetta Olmstead. The last owner. She swore that no one but a true Olmstead could ever live here again.”
“She doesn’t look a thing like you,” Derek noted.
“No? I guess not.”
“Your mom is really an Olmstead?”
Jason smiled and guided Derek into a drawing room. The floorboards creaked and groaned under their steps.
“I have to pee,” Derek announced.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Go back into the main hall, past the stairs, and through the back door. There’s a back hallway. The first door is a bathroom.”
“Where are you going?”
He motioned to the next doorway. “I’ll be in there.”
Derek eyed the doorway dubiously.
“You scared?” Jason asked.
“How do you know so much about this place?”
He chuckled. “I’ve been up here before. Now get going. I’ll wait for you in the next room.”
Derek scurried through the central hall, keenly aware of the eyes that seemed to watch from both sides. The washroom was outdated but somehow still functional. He set his penlight on the sink. Halfway through his business, he heard the tap of footsteps directly overhead.
“Jason, you jerk…” he began.
The footsteps ceased.
He rushed to finish and flushed quickly. The footsteps returned at a quicker pace.
“Oh, you’re such a—“
The door flew open. Derek screamed. Jason stared back at him, then down at his open pants.
“Come on!”
“Hold up—” Derek fumbled with his fly.
“No time for that!”
Jason yanked him out of the room. Instead of going back the same way, they ran down the back hall into a walk-in pantry with a spiral staircase.
“Is this a joke?” Derek asked. A heavier pair of footsteps joined the first. Muttering voices echoed downward. Jason pushed Derek ahead into a black and white checkerboard kitchen. While he slammed and latched the pantry door, Derek finally zipped up.
“What are you stopping for?” Jason snapped. “Go!”
Mobs descended from above, their footsteps thunder, their susserations insistent, growing into growls as they descended both staircases.
“I don’t believe—“
“Believe!” Jason said, pelting into the dining room. He slammed the door and shoved a chair under the knob to bar it shut.
Derek did the same with the drawing room door, catching a flicker out of the corner of his eye. He turned to find candles lit at the fireplace end of the table. Two places had been set with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Cokes. His favorite sour cream and onion chips. An Almond Joy above the plate.
He glanced over at Jason, who was trying to pull the window open. The crush of footsteps and angry voices surrounded them. Someone pounded on the kitchen door.
“We gotta get out.” Jason shook with panic.
The doors rattled. The muttering became audible. They called for Derek.
“I thought you were an Olmstead?” he hissed, eyes widening in fear.
“I am!” Jason pulled at the handle, but the window wouldn’t budge.
“Then why are they freaking out?”
“I think—cause I brought you in. They said—”
Derek glanced at the candlelit table, then at Jason. The doors creaked and groaned under pressure. The backs of the chairs snapped as they buckled. He remembered Netta’s curse.
“They said only family, right?”
Jason nodded. “I’m gonna break the window.”
“Wait.” Derek pulled Jason’s sleeve and took out his keychains. He detached the Parrot and Pokéball rings, and slipped the rest back into his pocket.
“Take it apart.” He handed over the Parrot then stripped the Pokéball charm from the ring.
“Quick. Gimme your hand.” Jason wiped his sweaty palm on his hoodie.
“Now!” Derek grabbed Jason’s hand and slipped the ring on his finger. It hung loosely, but it stayed. Jason stared at it stupidly, as if it was something new.
The doors bounced and cracked under the pounding. Voices shrieked Derek’s name. Called him an outsider. A trespasser. The drawing room door bowed inward.
“Quick! Now me!”
Jason fumbled the band, nearly dropped it, but slipped it around Derek’s ring finger as the kitchen door splintered down the middle.
“Do you?” Derek asked.
They locked eyes. Jason’s were wet. He nodded.
“I do.”
“Good. So do I.”
The chair blocking the drawing room door exploded, shooting splinters of wood across the room. Jason threw Derek to the floor and fell on top of him as shrapnel blew holes in the walls and shattered a window.
The door hung open, askew.
No one was there.
They stood up, checked for injuries, and pushed the battered kitchen door back to free the splintered dining chair. Nothing awaited on the other side.
“Put it back,” Derek said. “Just to be safe.” He blocked the drawing room door with another chair.
“But we need to get out.”
He shook his head. “This is my first date. Ever. I’d at least like to have dinner before we run for our lives.”
Jason’s laugh verged on hysterical. Derek joined in. From portraits and mirrors across the house, the Olmsteads waited, watching.
Nicanor Abbott 