My neighborhood is a simple neighborhood. I have lived here , in this same house my whole life. Around the time I had turned 18, my parents moved away, and left me the house. I have stayed because, well, there is nowhere better. Or so I thought. Never any break-ins, muggings, shootings, none of that. All of the people are very polite, and always eager to help you with anything. Just a quiet, and simple place to live.
Directly across the street from my house, sits an old abandoned house. 6085 Garner Road. Although, it has been abandoned for quite some time, you could never tell, just by looking at it. Lawn cut, not a weed to be seen, garden full of vibrantly coloured flowers. Shingles in perfect shape, no paint peeling anywhere on the house. The old place is obviously cared for, but nobody knows who in fact keeps it looking so stunningly perfect. I’ve always thought that maybe it was the old owners, although, I have never actually witnessed them doing anything to the place in years.
Before it’s abandonment, the house was owned by a peaceful looking elderly couple. Mr, and Mrs. White. They did not live there, they merely rented it out to people. The Whites were the picture perfect elderly couple. Always smiling, and holding hands. Mr. White was a chubby man, about 78 years old, if I had to guess. Bald head, plagued with age spots. Bushy, white as snow eyebrows. Glasses with an orange frame, and thick lenses. Always dressed in his best jet black, tailored suit. Mrs. White, on the other hand, was the opposite. Although, the two do look to be about the same age, Mrs. White has a full head of blonde hair (I suspect it may be a wig.) No glasses. Maybe contacts? I’m not sure. Thin as a skeleton. Usually dressed in jeans, and a t-shirt. They are so cheery all the time, that in a weird way, that I cannot explain, it is kind of off putting, kind of creepy. I would be gazing out my living room window, when they would drive up to see that all was well at their house, and, just the way that Mr. White would turn his head and smile at me from a distance would send shivers up my spine.
Over the course of my lifetime, I have seen many families come and go in that house. There is nothing strange about that, being that it is a rental. What is strange, however was the tenant’s behaviour after living in that house. Each family that moved out, became completely silent. They would pack their things in the U-Haul, and never say a word. The locals would come to say their goodbyes, and get no response, just a black stare back at them. It has fascinated me ever since I witnessed it for the first time, when I was about 8 years old. As a 24 year old man, it was finally time for me to conduct my own investigation.
When I thought it was dark enough outside to creep on over there, without being spotted, I grabbed my flashlight, and made my way across the street. There was no way I was going to try to gain access through the front door, too many prying eyes from the neighbors. So I opened the gate to the backyard as quietly as I could. You know, I could swear that doors and gates creak much louder when you do not want them to. I pushed the gate open, grinding my teeth, as it squealed like a pig, hoping none of the surrounding houses could hear. Once that nerve racking experience was over, I made my way through the freshly cut lawn to the back door. To my surprise, it wasn’t locked.
As nice as the outside is, I cannot say the same about the inside. The place was absolutely trashed, with smashed glass all over the floor, obscene messages scrawled across the walls in what appears to be red spray paint, dirty mattresses everywhere, a few syringes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that homeless people once stayed here, but they were gone by the time I was there. As soon as I closed the door behind me, I was hit with a piercingly cold wind. I blew it off as being the wind from the closing door, and proceeded into the first room on my right, the kitchen.
I was met with a smell of mould. You cannot see it, but you know it is there. I looked around the room. “Pretty basic looking kitchen” I thought. 70′s style tile flooring, wooden cabinets, darkly stained. A large solid oak table, a few chairs scattered around the room. A fridge, an oven. There were a couple things that did peak my interest, however. Above the oven, on the wall, was a big, flaming pentagram, drawn, again, in red spray paint. I dismissed it as more vandalism, courtesy of the homeless. I was ready to move on to another room, when on my way out, something caught my eye. I noticed a reflection of my flashlight, radiating off of something silver inside the oven, through the window on the oven door. I became pretty curious, and walked over to check it out. I opened the door, and peaked inside. It was a pan, with tinfoil covering something inside. I went against everything my gut was telling me, and decided to see what was under there. What I found greatly intrigued me, yet, at the same time, deeply disturbed me. I lifted the tinfoil to find, inside the oven, just… a pizza. A regular pizza. But, on top of the pizza, was a note. It read: “Smells good, don’t it boy!? It’s just too damn bad you can’t open the sweet little mouth of yours, now ain’t it?” I started to shake with nervousness, thinking back to the silenced tenants. My palms began to sweat like faucets. All I could manage to utter was “What the hell went on here?”
I quickly regained my composure, and carried on into the hallway, straight out of the kitchen. “damn, this looks creepy,” I muttered to myself. The hallway was dark, much too dark to navigate without the help of my flashlight. The carpet was stained with too many different substances to count. The roof had been leaking, and the carpet was soaked. Walking on it felt like walking on a wet sponge. Walls covered in various graffiti tags. I shone the flashlight straight down the hallway, and noticed a single light bulb dangling by a string, off of the ceiling. The dark, abandoned hallway, dangling light bulb. I had to laugh a little bit, “It’s like standing on the set of a horror movie.”
I started down the hallway. There were 3 rooms in that hallway. I entered the first room on my left, which happened to be the bathroom. The bathroom was in rough shape. I could not venture too far into it, because of a lack of trust towards the strength of the floor boards. From where I was standing, at the door, I could see that the toilet had been ripped off the floor, and put in the bath tub. The liquid inside the tub, that the toilet was surrounded in, looked to be a mixture of many different bodily fluids. I felt like I was going to vomit. There was a sink, and a mirror above the sink. Typical bathroom. The mirror had been smashed, however. Inside of the sink, was a butter knife, with what looked to be dried cement on it, but I could not be sure. Too far away. I thought nothing of it.
The events that took place in the next few minutes, still haunt me to this day. And, I am now a 34 year old man. No, “haunt,” is too weak of a word. The very thought of my experience horrifies me. Keeps me up at night. I continued straight down the hallway. Just before I reached the next room, something stopped me. Not physically, no, but I was stunned. Emanating from the room to my right, was the sound of someone whimpering, like a wounded puppy. I did not know what to do! “Should I check it out? Should I turn around, and run as fast as I could out of here? But what if it was a hurt child? I could not leave someone so helpless in that place.” After standing there, frozen, for a solid 2 minutes, I had decided to check it out. I stepped inside the room.
This room was odd. Unlike the rest of the house, this room was perfect. Clean, organized. The walls were a light brown, with no graffiti on them. Hardwood floor, with not a scratch, or scuff on it. There was a small desk against the back wall of the room, with nothing but a an old typewriter on it. In one corner, was a bookshelf, filled top to bottom, with books, and magazines, all neatly aligned in rows. Throughout the room, there was also a bed, and a small nightstand beside it. One more thing was in this room. In another corner, was a large cabinet. Inside of that cabinet, was the source of the whimpering. The few short seconds it took me to reach the cabinet, felt like hours. I grasped the handle, biting my tongue out of nervousness, and swung it open.
The second the door opened, the whimpering stopped. There was an extremely pale, and anorexic man huddled up in a ball inside, wearing nothing, but tattered shorts. I could not see his face. I asked, “Sir, do you need me to call someone?” No response. The man stood up, and turned to face me. I was met with an unsettling, and all too familiar blank stare. He made direct eye contact. But, this man, was not like the others! This man had a hole cut out of his cheek, blood still dripping from the wound. I noticed now, that he was still holding the knife. “Was this what he was whimpering about? The pain?” It looked like he planned to use that as his mouth. He stepped out of the cabinet, still staring at me. I took some steps back. The man calmly walked out the door, and into the hallway, not looking back. I considered following him, but I did not want him carving me like a pumpkin on Halloween!
I knew right then, and there, that I needed to get out of there, that instant. I looked out into the hallway. I could see that that the man had left a blood drop trail, leading towards the exit. I sure as hell was not going to go that way. I decided to run down to the basement, and climb out through the window. I ran to the end of the hallway, which was a door to the basement. I swung open the door, and raced down the stairs, being carful not to fall through the old things! I looked around with my flashlight for an open window. Before I made it to a windows, I found something on a big wooden table in the middle of the floor. It was Instructions, and crudely drawn diagrams, showing how to use concrete and a butter knife to “Silence heavens for eternity,” as the pages said.
I remembered the knife in the upstairs sink. I got so scared, I ran over to the side of the room, to a big plastic sink, and threw up in it. As I vomited into the sink I noticed, about 7 more concrete covered knifes in the sink, I was puking in. I frantically looked around for an open window, and noticed 3 unopened bags of concrete, and a wheel barrel beside them. I tried to ignore it, as I found an unlocked window. I closed my eyes, and strained trying to open the old window. Just as it budged, and began to slide, I opened my eyes. There in the window was the grinning face of Mr. White staring back at me! The same grin from when he used to see me in the window. I jumped back startled. Mr. White giggled, as he pulled the window all the way open. He stuck his head through the window and said “You’ve seen way too much boy, better close that mouth of yours!” He was chuckling, like a maniac. Just as he was about to stand up, and presumably crawl in the window, the chuckling stopped. He stopped. Then, I noticed a trickle of blood dropping from one of his nostrils. He fell to his side, and I had a clear view. It was the man from upstairs! He had used his knife to stab Mr. White in the side of his neck. The man then continued to cut a hole out of Mr. White’s cheek. I vomited for the second time that night, right on the floor in front of me.
I darted up the stairs, and through the house to the main door. I unlocked, and opened the door, only to be standing face to face with the pale man again, only this time, he had jammed Mr. White’s cheek into his hole. He was no longer holding a black stare, he was smiling. I pulled together all the courage I had left, and pushed him out of the way. I ran across the street, and into my house. I quickly ran to my window, to see if he was still there. He was. He was staring across the street, grinning, just like Mr. White used to. I closed my curtains, and vomited for the third and final time that night, before passing out on my floor.
The next morning I awoke, and all was normal. Mr. White’s corpse had been taken somewhere, I assume by his killer. Except, things will never be the same for me again. Every time I glance out my window, I am scared to see the grinning face of that man. That pale, murderous man. I can no longer sleep, without the aid of heavy sleeping pills. I will never cross my street again.
Credit To – Matthew Hutchinson