Short Story

The house proudly perched on the top of the hill.  Although the street itself was quiet, eerily devoid of people, the road that snaked alongside it hummed and moaned with the throb of traffic.  To the casual observer hurrying down the street on their way to work, or to catch a bus, there was nothing at all extraordinary about this house. If there was anything, anything at all, that might be described as ‘odd’ then the more perceptive of people might notice its strange, perhaps sinister stillness.  Nothing in or around this house moved:  curtains did not flutter in the gentle spring breeze; birds did not perch on the ancient chimney, and the black iron gate remain resolutely closed. 

Howecer, the house was most definitely cared for.  While the windows may not have sparkled in the sun, they were not grey with dust or grime.  The lawn appeared neat in a suburban kind of way, and no tiles hung loose from the roof.  Yet, this house was not lived in.  It did not breathe life like those surrounding it.

Jackson Burns stood at the bottom of the palid, grey stone path.  His cold blue eyes appraised the house before him.  He stared at the house and tried, but failed, to ignore the ripple of fear that snaked its way up his spine.  He sighed.  He knew that this is where he’d been asked to go.  This was a placed he needed to go.  Still his legs would not move.  His thoughts drifted to Father Joseph and the promise he'd made,  and like a man condemned he made his way up the garden path.

They key turned easily in the lock.  He wiped his feet..  He went in.  He felt the rush of fresh air  enter with him and upset the equilibrium.  The new air from outside mingled with the old, stale smell that was typical of a house left empty and alone for too long.  Jackson’s breath hung in the air in little white whips, and he tightened his coat around his neck as he moved further into this strange house. 

Climbing the stairs with bones that felt like iron posts, he remembered Father Joseph  handing him the key to the house and whispering the tales he’d heard.  The old man was dying, but had one last request of the private investigator.  The urgency with which he had spoken, and the fear that lay beneath his frail and faltering voice had convinced Jackson that this was a request he could not ignore.  The church was long since in his past, but he would not abandoned those who had helped him. 

Lying in his large bed, the priest had seemed more like a child than a seasoned man of the cloth.  He was propped up with countless pillows and cushions, and several thick blankets lay on top of his weakened frame.  Jackson could see the life draining away from his friend, and felt a flicker of guilt that it was only now, and under these circumstances that he was visiting his friend. 

‘Go to the house for me; I beg you Jackson.’  He paused long enough to breathe deeply into an oxygen mask, sucking hopelessly at the last embers of his life. 

‘There’s something there.  I am sure of it.  The things I have told you.  You need to see to…’

Again interrupted.  This time by a hacking, shaking cough that filled his eyes with tears and  his mouth with bile.

‘You need to…’

His eyes implored Jackson, finishing the sentence.

‘Okay, okay, old man.  I’ll go. I’ll check.  It’ll be nothing’

The grip the priest had on Jackson’s arm loosened, leaving white imprints on Jackson’s wrist.

‘Thank you.’ He wheezed, closing his eyes.  Their conversation was done.

Jackson reached the top of the stairs.  White doors stared indifferently back at him.  He moved towards the only room with an open door.  It was sparsely furnished:  single bed, a rocking chair that had seen better days, chintz carpet, rug and curtains.  He pulled his coat tighter still.  He moved around the room looking for a sign.  He knew now.  He knew the old man had been right, but he would not, could not leave until he… that’s when he saw it.  Slowly, reluctantly, he moved to the window.  In the far left hand corner of the upstairs bedroom window lay a small, child-like dusty handprint.  Jackson rested his own hand against the glass over the handprint that remained perfectly intact on the other side of the glass.

Then the curtains leapt into life.  Flames flickered and danced from the hem up towards the ceiling.  Jackson sprang backwards feeling the malevolence coating the walls like kerosene.  The rocking chair began to vibrate frantically as it too spawned white hot flames.  He felt rather than heard the hissing of the flames follow his steps as he thundered downstairs, reaching the exit just as the TV ruptured into a thousand pieces.  The door slammed behind him, and he hurtled down the path, pausing for a moment at the gate, to look once more upon that hand print sitting in the corner of the window.  The bay window exploded, firing shards of glass like shrapnel in all directions.  A sliver pieced the skin just below his eye, and blood ran from the open cut.

Jackson Burns turned once more from the house on the hill, fishing his phone from his pocket as he did so.  With trembling hands, he dialled an old number from memory.  It was answered almost immediately.  No common courtesies were uttered, no pleasantries were exchanged, ‘It’s back.’ was all he said into the mouth piece.

 'It's back.'