Through the cracks in the blinds I could see the holly bushes dance and shiver. The first icy drops of rain were plummeting lazily from the slate gray sky as the wind called out briefly in a breathy howl. Stark against the world in burnt yellows, vivid oranges, crimson reds and indigo, the leaves cascaded from the copse of bald cypress and sweet gum trees that separated the two front driveways of the southern plantation home. Behind the amber incandescence of my window, lost in the waning days of Autumn and my own melancholy morass, I regarded the landscape intently as the leaves chased each other across the yard like children.
Alone, I sat in the low glow of an antique cat desk lamp. Perched low, it's eyes blazed bright at me through green stones and it's dark iron tail curled up into a hook holding a Tiffany shade. A candle that smelled like a campfire crackled next to me, the glass collecting a black soot ring at it's top. I sipped a shot of whiskey and rolled the taste around on my tongue. In that moment, I realized that I couldn't smell the candle anymore; not unless I left the room and returned after some time had passed. It's amazing what we get used to. The senses subconsciously accept a constant stimulus and then seemingly shut down. Imagine if your vision became dim and foggy the more you looked at the same thing. I suppose, in a way, it does. Awareness can be a lazy mechanism when it thinks it's got it all figured out. Maybe that was where I went wrong? I could feel the focus of the dark thing in the corner behind me. I certainly didn't mean to let my guard down but it happened. It was all just... so damned easy.
"I should have killed myself when I had less empathy for everyone," I sighed to no one (to the shadow). How did all of this begin? In a childhood memory...
THE HOUSE IN THE TREELINE
Stained Glass Spider
He couldn't scream. His fists balled at his sides, his eyes gaping, mouth wide open and body taut in an immobile rictus; I could see his strained neck vibrating with jugular energy but all that escaped between snarled lips over picket fence teeth (some missing) was raspy pinched exhalation. His voice was locked in his throat. One step at a time, with metronome thunks, something was arriving from the pitch black of the second floor at a measured pace. We couldn't see it yet. We couldn't decipher any movement from the black of the stairwell. The flashlight beam would not penetrate the void passed the fifth step. It was like shining a light up into the night sky. I had abandoned the effort instantly, dropping the chrome torch as soon as I sensed a shift in the air. That was before the first thunk was audible. I was tuned in, a transceiver of fear receiving the alarm exuding from above. I don't even remember covering the ten yards through the living room, over the wax dripped pentagram, my hands yanking at the rusty doorknob. He couldn't scream. And I couldn't get the fucking door open. But it came down the steps all the same.
It had been a typical Texas summer afternoon. We could taste the humidity on our tongues along with the sweetgrass. Our mini-bikes lay behind us at the end of the miles long swath we had cut in the tall yellow reeds that carried to the horizon and beyond, where the end of our neighborhood squared off with nature. I slapped a mosquito off of my arm without taking my eyes off of the dilapidated box house shaded in the sparse beginning of the treeline in front of us.
Danny waved his hand continuously in front of his face, trying to keep the swarming gnats away. There was no relief from the sweltering sauna of the late afternoon. Sweat beading from his chubby cheeks and dripping brow stung his eyes. Pulling the bandanna from his back pocket and rubbing it into each socket roughly, I could imagine the squish and the light-burst in his vision. I could also tell he wasn't quite comfortable averting his gaze from the inevitable dare in front of us. "Satanists? No fuckin' way, dude," was all he could manage.
The worst part were the two trees that had grown through the front deck about six feet from the slightly askew and warped front door. Sitting in the middle of a large web between the trunks at eye level was a spiky legged black spider with gorgeous flecks of turquoise, yellow and orange shards on its plump body. It reminded me of stained glass on a baby's hand, if the baby's fingers were hairy needles. We were unknowingly worshiping at the altar of the haunted, the bellman greeting us with eight eyes and aggressive body language inherent in it's mere existence. Beyond the arachnid sentry I noticed that there wasn't much red paint left on the old door. The remaining splotches had darkened with age like old blood.
"Yeah, Satanists. It was in all the papers. They murdered somebody or something and got arrested, dumbass," I retorted.
Trying to be tough through frightened eyes, Danny turned and snarled, "Bullshit."
"Okay, then. It's bullshit. So, let's go in," I challenged with a nonchalant wave of my fingerless-gloved hand. With an exaggerated gesture, "After you. Say hello to your buddy there for me."
Danny was a tough stout kid from New York. His dad was a giant alcoholic troll with a Mario mustache, a bald spot that never had any hope of being covered by the long thick black wisps of hair remaining on his pumpkin shaped dome and a slurry yankee accent that, thus far, I was only able to translate every fifth word of. I imagined what it must have been like to grow up with Poppa Ogre. Danny puffed out his chest. He fancied that he was an eight year old Arnold Schwarzenegger but what he actually was, was chunky. He punched a hamfist into his palm repeatedly. "Eat shit," he said with a sideways glance.
I knew though. I knew the two things Danny couldn't tolerate. Pussying out on a dare. And Spiders. That horrendous arachnid perched between us and the entrance would have sent shivers up my spine were the holes behind the broken windows on the second floor not so black. Nothing could be seen in those holes. They were like hatches into deep space but somehow, not empty. Akin to the feel of electric current or static energy building before a shock, I felt a cold effervescent knot inside. Something was aware of us. Something up there.
Nah. That's silly. That's just imagination, the thing under the bed, the ghost in the attic, the boogieman in the closet.
Mustering courage, "I'll do it then. Pussy." I turned, ran back to the mini-bike, grabbed the long baton-like silver flashlight out of the rucksack on the handlebars and took a swig of water from my Dukes of Hazzard thermos. My heart was racing. I could hear it throbbing in my ears. I was adrenaline. My vision seemed to brighten and become crisp. The battered drab block-like structure of the two-story home looked like every haunted house I'd ever imagined; dilapidated, peeling paint and all. Before I could chicken out, I walked with purpose and ducked down, never taking my eyes off of the imposing doorman occupying the web, and rose on the other side. I was already on the first of the two steps leading up to entrance.
Danny's eyes were saucers. The spider hadn't moved. Maybe it was asleep. Do spiders sleep? "You're going through the door first," I told him.
"Maybe it's locked," he retorted.
I would have mocked him were I not concentrated on keeping the idea out of my head that the depth of the shadows in the woods behind the house were too dark for the blazing afternoon sun. "Maybe you're a chickenshit. Come on."
I could see Danny's hands shiver despite the oven breath of August summer. "There's no way around." This was more of a statement then a question.
Watching my friend approach and navigate his way under the eight-limbed nightmare in an awkward squatting dance that eventually turned into a stumbling crab walk cued up a circus theme in my head. Despite myself, I was soon holding my sides laughing.
"It's not funny, asshole!" Danny tried out indignation but couldn't hold a straight face either. Now that he had traversed the first obstacle in the gauntlet set before us, he joined me in laughter. Spiderzilla hadn't so much as twitched. The tension had seemingly dissipated.
We still had a couple of weeks left before third grade started, which seemed like two years to us, and we were on a bonafide adventure. We had conquered the stained glass spider and were preparing to enter a haunted house that was reputed to be the hangout of teenage satanic delinquents who had murdered a girl as some sort of sacrifice. The afternoon suddenly seemed downright magical and full of fantastic possibility. It then occurred to me that there were no signs of the cops ever having been there; no police tape cording off the area, no warnings against trespassing. Nothing.
Where were the sounds of the birds and animals, the insects? Where was the rustle of the trees? Standing on the porch, I got the stagnant feeling of being inside an invisible force-field. Everything was oddly silent and claustrophobic though we were outside. I realized I did not feel safe with my back to the door. Apparently neither did Danny as we both found ourselves contemplating the large doorknob. Our laughter was forgotten before the smile could even fade from our lips.
The atmosphere was heavy. The air seemed dense, like chewing milk. Without realizing it, I had lowered my voice to barely audible hushed tones. I whispered, "Your turn to go first."
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