Young Writers Society

“The House up on top the hill is none a thing to trifle with dear boy.” The eager old miser imparted with a dark smile; a smile full of wisdom, but not just that. – Something lay beyond the wisdom and the age, something more sinister. Something as old as time; hinted in the grizzled wrinkles of the miser’s face, but what?

- Fear…

“Well I was just curious as all.” I manage to saw after a moment of silence. He simply nods.

“Just be careful boy, we all know what curiosity did to that cat. Lord knows what it will do to you.” He coughed and took his morning paper from my hand.

I continued silently on my paper route drowning in my thoughts. Every so often I would glance over my shoulder, letting my gaze fall upon the old wooden structure. Whose face a dull brown in color after many years of being uncared for. Being perched atop a grassy hill, there was a long winding gravel path that leads straight to the porch. By the time I had finished my route, the final paper I was to deliver was to that very house.

I slowly made my way to the cold iron fence that sat at the bottom of the hill. The sun as it was beginning to set behind the large home; cast an enormous shadow over the street.

The mailbox that I had been instructed to put the paper into was a polished, gleaming red. The tiny handle to open the flap resembled gold; I can remember that it was always cool to the touch even on the hottest day.

I can’t however remember meeting the man who lived in the old house up on the hill. The roster didn’t list his name, only his address. No one remembered when he applied for a paper delivery, the oldest worker (who was well into his sixties), could not recall him signing up. He was always just there…

Who wasthis man? And what about his house struck fear into the old miser? I thought for some months about approaching the house and ringing on the bell. Perhaps it was just another old man who liked to be alone with his thoughts. But what if it wasn’t?

. . .

For quite a while after that I would think nothing of the house, but I often found myself thinking about it deep into the very back of my mind. The image just sat, marinating in my psyche, haunting me.

Calling me.

For months, I wasted, contemplating and thinking! Scenarios and senses! Such paranoia! For What?! A house up on the top of a hill! Such a simple home, but what?! It’s essence, it mocks me! Why? Why does it want me?!

My life became a blur; nothing held substance anymore. I would awake from a waking dream, standing in front of the cold iron fence – my gaze locked on the old wood structure. My school turned to dust, my family and friends dissolved into nothing.

Every turned slowly, and then halted…

. . .

I was awake again, my vision sharpened. The world comes into focus around me; I can make out individual blades of grass swaying in the wind. I light from the sun burn my eyes at first. My hearing heightened; the sound of the house’s verberous call was overlapped with the sounds of birds flying. And the sound of a man mowing his lawn in the distance.

It takes me a moment to realize where I am, usually I will awake standing outside the iron fences perimeter at the bottom of the hill. But now, to my surprise; I am standing [inside] the fence. My feet are planted firmly to the earth a mere two feet into the fence-line.

My blood freezes and boils in the same instant, it rushes around my body and makes me dizzy. It feels like I’ll fall over, but I don’t. In fact, I can’t move at all.

Every neuron in my brain is firing at the same time telling me to leave, but nothing happens. I stand as still as a stone carved angel for what feels like hours.

And then a single noise breaks through the silence, the noise itself is unrecognizable; but it thunders across the sky and under my feet.

And in the moment; the single second after this mysterious noise, I take a step…

NO! I have to turn around! What is happening?!

Nothing I do can stop the movement. I’m a prisoner in my own body. It’s a hollow shell with my soul hanging out limply; I’m observing the scene from above. I can hear the gravel crunch under my feet.

crunch…

crunch…

crunch…

I’m slowly snaking up the path toward the waiting porch. When my feet reach the wooden deck, the boards creak under the pressure. A low squeak that was strangely welcomed, as opposed the gravel that sounded not unlike the crunching of bones.

The porch was barren, nothing on the top of the old wooden boards from decoration. The door, unlike the rest of the house; looked furnished. It was a deep brown mahogany, smooth to the touch with a small golden door handle. A small, worn copper plate housed a stained white doorbell button.

Unconsciously, my hand rose toward it. I try and fight back for minutes, but I’ve all but stated that resistance is futile.

Finally pushing it, finishing the electrical circuit; a long, three toned bell rang out. The sound jumped and vibrated though my body. In my ears, in my head, in my very essence it quivers.

The world darkens, my entire life flashes in front of me eyes in an instant.

Another noise; the same from before, still unrecognizable. Resonating through the air and the creaking boards beneath my feet. An invisible voice whispering my name.

Reaching out to me...

My hand comes from its resting position from my side, toward the shining gold. It rests on the handle, its cold chills my hand and the rest of my body to the bone. Millennia pass in the time between the seconds, entire civilizations rise and crumble to dust as I wait with my hand on the handle.

At first I assume the door is locked, but then, I hope. I wishit to be locked. So I can shun its very existence from my mind. So I can be free of this curse.

.

The handle turns, and I open the door…