Sometimes, you do unexplainable things. That’s the excuse I give for why I actually went to the haunted house invitation. The house stood on a lonely hill, its gaze looking gloomily over the entire town. It was well known that the house was haunted and people stayed away from that steep forbidding hill.
It was January 7th when I received a strange invitation in the mail. I was eighteen and in my second year of college. I opened the letter with apprehension, because I very rarely received mail, besides my bills. I read through the letter, and then looked up to the arm of my couch, where my cat was sitting lazily. I looked back down at the letter dubiously and recited it out loud to make sure I read it right.
Dear Sir,
You have been invited to attend a party on the evening of January
9th. The party will be held at 7 Hilltop rd. and you will be my guests
until Sunday morning. Be there at 4:00 in the evening.
Sincerely,
James H. Conrad, Jr.
I raised my eyebrows at my cat who was watching me with a no nonsense air. He blinked slowly and narcoleptically at me, and then rolled onto his side.
“Why not go,” I said, to no one in particular, “I might enjoy a little get together. So what if it’s in the haunted house. I never believed in that kind of stuff anyway. I guess I should pack.”
Besides packing clothing in my battered green backpack, I packed a Beretta 9.mm pistol and rounds for it- In case the house was haunted. I also brought a book, flashlight, and my battery powered alarm clock.
After finishing school the next day, I determined that my best friend, Roger Applegate, had also been invited. We talked nervously during our lunch break, looking nervously around every now and then, as if we were guilty of some crime.
On the morning of the 9th, we rode out of the town and up the hill on my motorcycle. The day was sunny, but even the sun couldn’t cut through the general gloom of the house. We walked warily up the stairs and rang the bell tentatively, as if a horde of angry demons would leap out at us. Although I never held much stock in the common belief that the house was haunted, it did have an eerie feel about it. Several seconds later, the door swung slowly open, revealing a short, fat, man in a suit.
“Welcome, come in. Some of the guests have already arrived. Follow me,” he turned and walked away, beckoning us to follow. We stepped cautiously over the threshold. The foyer was surprisingly comfortable, open and airy, revealing the large dining room and the parlor. We walked into the parlor, where three other people were sitting on various sofas and chairs. The short, fat, man, who I assumed was the butler, introduced Roger and I to the other guests.
“This is Adam, Marjorie, and Jason.” The man seemed pleased that he remembered their names.
We introduced ourselves, and found seats. The short, fat, man waited for a moment or two, and then left the room, presumably to get Mr. James Conrad. Roger and I were soon swept up in a conversation about the old house and I began to see many of its admirable qualities. Yes, it could use a little bit of remodeling, but whatever stories about ghosts and demons were obviously not true, because I felt perfectly comfortable and none of us had been attacked yet.
Several minutes later, Roger left in search of a bathroom, and I began walking around the living room, looking at some of the books on the bookshelf. I looked up, startled, as I heard a howl down one of the hallways. I turned to see Roger racing back up the passage, yelling his head off.
Finally after several minutes, and a shot of Brandy I found under the end table, Roger calmed down.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” he said, his voice on the edge of hysteria.
“Why?” I asked, uncomprehendingly.
“The house. It’s haunted. I almost got attacked, but I fended them off with a chair.”
“Roger,” I said, shaking my head, “what are you talking about?”
He was about to answer, when he squeaked in terror. I looked up, and saw an ugly horrid, demonic specter standing over me, its lips slavering with hunger. I let out a yelp, and leaped to my feet, hauling Roger along with me. The other guests were pressed up against one wall, looking on in horror.
I reached into my backpack and pulled out my .9mm, which I began firing at the apparition, shouting BLAM! Every time I fired. Finally, I ran out of rounds, and threw the gun at the thing. It went right through it and clattered onto the floor in the hallway. I back up to the wall with the others as the specter approached slowly and menacingly, growling, slobbering, and snorting as it went. We slid slowly along the wall, our eyes never leaving the patch of misty whiteness in the center of the living room.
We ran to the door and yanked on it, then banged as the ghost slowly crept closer. We heard a car pull up outside and we began making even more racket then before. Whoever it was walked up the stairs and opened the door, which had been locked from the outside. There stood the other two guests. We burst out of the house and slammed the door shut in the ghost’s face, locking it tightly. We raced to our respective vehicles, and took off, each person trying to be the first to get away from the house.
So, the house was and probably still is haunted. I intend never to return.
Love ya, Shades.