Old Man in an Abandoned House
Part 1
As the child disappeared inside the house I knew someone would find a way to blame me. Sure, the boy's twin brother had witnessed the event and his sister had only been a couple of feet ahead, but when the child failed to return for dinner I knew the story would be constructed with me as the villain. Nothing of the like occurred before that strange lady arrived in town, they'd say. That lady who'd been babbling about a man stealing her sister was not right in the head. Who knew what she might have done to little Timmy? On top of everything else I did not need to be considered psychotic.
Vacationing in the sleepy town of Mabelspire had been a mistake. Escaping the big city with its endless litany of drama and stress had been an attractive notion. The cynic in me had kept a running commentary of everything that could go wrong. None of what I'd considered had come close to reality. Diana had failed to return from her morning run. The very activity was an obsession that had puzzled me since its inception in late high school.
“Cardio's good for you,” she'd said while removing her jogging shoes. Getting up early has always been the bane of my existence so why someone would voluntarily choose to begin their day before work dictated was beyond me. Still, it obviously made her happy and she did look good for someone in her late thirties. Diana looked refreshed and happy after her runs. I found myself focusing on those recollections as the hours ticked by and she did not materialise.
When she missed our lunch date I could only think of worst case scenarios – kidnapper employed by a human trafficking ring, sicko with a deranged fetish, hit and run on a deserted rural road. At least I'd have closure if it was the latter. I'd gone to the local police who'd been contacting me every so often with an update. Nothing of note had yet been reported. In desperation I'd turned junior detective, walking every street in the small community, talking to neighbours who had and hadn't already been contacted by the police. As the day wore on the pitying looks had become too heavy to bear so I'd walked for over and hour down Smith's Road until only trees and corn were witnesses to my frustrated tears.
Some people credit God or fate with luck and intuition. I'm not concerned with origins, only results. The sun was low on the horizon when I approached the edge of Mabelspire, exhausted and ready to give up on life. Just before you enter the east side of town sits a two-story brick house. At one point in he past it had been a showpiece with white picket fence, painted gables and extensive gardens. That legacy was at least a decade old, fence rotted, gables sagging and gardens overgrown. I've not been one to believe in haunted houses or mourn crumbling 19th century architecture but this derelict building had me thinking about both.
Diana loved old houses. When she and her husband had split she'd bought him out to retain their turn of the century house, a move few in our family had supported. Despite the financial burden and constant repairs, Diana had managed to keep the place. Her love for old houses was one of the reasons we'd chosen Mabelspire as our getaway spot. It was semi-historic, not known for any particular contribution to the local economy, but contained many specimens from the railroad era 'when homes were built to last not to sell', Diana'd said.
As I gazed on this sad reminder of a forgotten era I found myself morbidly considering what would happen to Diana's beloved money pit if my worst fears were realised. Our brother might want it but it would likely be sold, demolished and replaced with one of the modern houses my sister so despised. As I was considering how I might retain the property – renting was an option, perhaps some farmer might be interested in the small acreage around the house – my idle examination of the abandoned house became more focused.
The gate that had once provided entry to the property was hanging on only one of its hinges, the lower half partially submerged in the earth. A device looped over one of its posts is what had caught my attention. Stepping cautiously, I approached the fence and soon had the object in my hands. A Fitbit. Turning it over, my suspicions were confirmed by the initials 'D.E.V.'
“Diana Eveland Vorganthus,” my voice was rusty from all the talking I'd done. Hearing it in the silence of the twilight sent a shiver down my spine. One hand was on the smartphone in my pocket. I should have called the police right away. This was, after all, a potential crime scene, but I was too excited to consider waiting for professionals a viable option. Instead, I clutched the Fitbit in my right hand, took a steadying breath and followed the subtle imprints of running shoes into the lonely structure.
Part 2
Diana and I agreed on one thing about old houses – they were well constructed. Although this one had been unattended for a good length of time, the floorboards only marginally complained about my weight. The thin beam of light from my smartphone illuminated dust-laden furniture, piles of trash and peeling wallpaper. A built-in bookcase held row after row of dark volumes, several flattened on the floor, disturbed by some rodent or natural event. The hall I'd passed through to enter the living room held one small closet, empty hangers glinting in the remaining daylight.
I'd seen enough horror movies to learn the lesson that you always left yourself an escape route so I'd braced the door open with a rusty umbrella stand before moving deeper into the house. The silence was beyond eerie. Every step I took disturbed a cloud of dust. “Diana?” I'd called once before spending half a minute choking on the air. As I peered into the kitchen, empty bottles and looted cupboards adding to the forlorn atmosphere, I began to question my rationale behind entering the building without alerting the police. If Diana was here she might be trapped or unconscious after a fall through to a lower level. Going in unescorted was the last thing that would help her, particularly if foul play was afoot.
In the rapidly fading sunlight, I dialed the Station and reported my findings to the officer on duty. “Don't go in the house,” was the first thing he said. I thought better about responding that it was too late for that. Having assured me that the force would be there in ten minutes, he hung up. Even the lack of a disembodied voice made the dilapidated space around me feel more empty. Hearing a human voice had made the silence heavier, more oppressive.
Branches were brushing up against the outside of the house, a low wind whistling through cracks around the windows, doors and paneling. Perhaps connected to or separate from the air movement, creaking noises occasionally echoed through the bare rooms. Shaking myself, I ignored the growing sense of unease, assured that this was just an abandoned house. Soon the atmosphere would be mitigated by company.
Now that the police knew where I was I felt more comfortable exploring farther into the structure. I was already inside after all. Instead of entering the kitchen I moved into a side corridor leading to another entrance. An open staircase to the second story stood proudly in the space, its solid-wood banister casting subtle shadows on the far wall. I decided to ignore the closet under the stairs, confident that Diana would not have been able to fit.
Jiggling the door handle only revealed that it was locked. Acknowledging that this was odd I turned and pointed my light up the stairs. An old man's face was caught in the beam, his eyes sunken, frowning mouth heavily creased. Rather than crying out I froze, eyes locked on the figure standing halfway up the stairs. I couldn't see much more than his face due to the poor lighting but he appeared to have been watching me over the railing. The prospect was more disturbing than his sad appearance.
“Hello?” I tried, finally managing to overcome the fear paralyising my voice. He could be a hobo, my rational mind stated.
The man did not acknowledge my words, continuing to gaze at me from his perch. The slight shaking of my hand revealed that he was dressed in a weathered brown suit, corduroy perhaps, accented by a pale tie. I'd nearly gathered the strength to try speaking again when a car door closed nearby and a voice calling my name sounded from the front of the house. The disturbance took my attention away from the stranger. It had only been a second or two but when I turned to look for him again the stairs from top to bottom were bare. Unsettled and anxious, I rushed back through the rooms and into the blinding headlights of a police cruiser.
“Miss Vorganthus,” Officer Smith's voice was stern. When my eyes adjusted to the brightness I could see that his posture was as intimidating as his tone. The resemblance to my disapproving father was less annoying than it would have been in any other circumstance. Given how jittery I was I actually found his gruff attitude comforting.
“Did Officer Stanley not tell you to stay out of the house?”
Deciding to play meek and desperate, I sheepishly stared at his shoulder. “He did, Officer Smith, but I saw someone in the house and thought it might have been Diana.”
He moved toward the building, fingers looped into his belt. Is it the uniform that makes cops swagger? my cynical mind-voice wondered. I was thankful for his presence more than I wanted to admit. There was likely an entirely logical explanation for the old man in the abandoned house but I couldn't help being afraid in the ominous setting.
Officer Smith told me to wait outside while he investigated. I watched the beam from his flashlight, which lit up whole rooms as he passed through them, move from the ground floor to the stairs and then, more slowly, the upper story. When he returned almost twenty minutes later I was bouncing up and down to keep warm, anxious for his report.
“If those are her footprints-.”
“They are,” I insisted.
“Then her tracks have been obscured by yours.”
Chastened, I swallowed back an angry response, the exhaustion that followed making my despair palpable. “So you didn't find anything?” I finally managed to ask.
“No.”
I told him about the old man I'd seen and he confirmed my suspicion that it had likely been a vagrant who'd escaped while we'd been talking. In short, it was another dead end. Officer Smith took me back to the bed and breakfast where Diana and I'd been staying, assuring me that his men would continue investigating.
I took sleeping pills and managed a few hours of semi-restorative slumber. Despite this assistance, I was walking the streets of Mabelspire again before any natural light had begun making an appearance. The action was cathartic, it had no other purpose. I'd done as much as I could but idly waiting was also not an option. Even if it was an illusion, I was going to pretend to be useful.
Inevitably, I found myself outside the abandoned house where I'd found Diana's Fitbit. It was the only place where any clue had been discovered so my desperate mind insisted that there was more at the location. The police would be conducting a more thorough investigation in daylight but the cynic in me suspected that nothing would be found. Standing next to the post where the device had been hanging, I examined the sunken structure more closely. The gate hadn't been moved in a long time, Diana wouldn't have had to move it to get into the house. Officer Smith must have rubbed against the left side since it had not been leaning toward the house when I'd first seen it.
“She placed the Fitbit down, why?” I asked the empty air.
That was the source of the disturbance in my belly. It didn't make sense. If she'd been snatched by someone the Fitbit would not have been so carefully placed. She wouldn't have needed to take it off just to look at the house – so why had she? Diana'd only ever taken the devise off to shower. For some reason, she'd made a point of removing it here. Despite the chastising voice in my head, I entered the house again. Just inside the doorway, I could see into the living room and a portion of the kitchen. A window at the end of the hall revealed the brightening sky.
Moving straight down the hall instead of right into the living room brought me to a door on the left. It opened with only slight protest. A study, I thought, noting the ponderous solid wood desk and upholstered chair with what looked to be a rotary base. Three filing cabinets were tucked along the left wall, a thin table beside them. Another built-in bookcase loomed over the desk. Confident that I could use the large window behind the desk to escape if anything funny happened, I closed the study door behind me and stepped up to the filing cabinets.
Almost all of their drawers were locked, one at the top on the far right being the sole exception. Cautiously, I slid the creaking contraption forward and peered inside. Papers – rows of folders and papers, each section I touched letting out a cloud of dust. Curious to see what I could discover, I extracted a collection of pale, fragile leaflets.
Ew, legal paperwork, I groaned inwardly. They're not all about one individual or even the property. The more files I looked through the clearer it became that the previous owner had been involved in real estate transactions. Only when sunlight glinted off the surface of my phone, nearly blinding me, did I realise how late it'd gotten. I'd better head out, don't want to get told off by P.O. Smith, I thought.
Returning the documents to their drawer, I took another glance around the room, the forlorn appearance bringing back the despair I'd thus far managed to overcome that day. The door let me out with the same protest it had made previously, then I slowly walked through the hallway and out into the front yard. I stood there until the police cruiser with two officers arrived ten minutes later.
I didn't recognise either of them but they both gave me sympathetic looks as they entered the derelict structure. Their movements were practiced, ritualised and professional. This, the feeling being in the old study had elicited, and the fact that it'd almost been twenty-four hours since Diana had gone missing, resulted in silent tears running down my face, restrained sobs wracking my body. Nearly three hours passed before the officers told me what my depressed mind had already surmised. They'd found nothing. No sign of another identifiable clue, no suspicious circumstances, no hope to keep my spirit alive.
Their report was meaningless. Words meant nothing now. They'd continue looking but the chances of finding her unharmed dwindled with every passing moment. Someone gave me a chair, told me to go back to the bed and breakfast. I said I'd stay right there. Eventually, I was left alone, seated in a lawn chair, watching the day pass over the abandoned house. Townspeople walked around me, gossiping, expressing consolation and optimism. I said nothing.
What sort of world is this? I asked myself, angry at it and my powerlessness. What world gives us happiness only to wipe it out so completely? Diana had been a ray among the dreariness of day-to-day monotony. She'd puzzled me with her impractical choices and love for the fantastical but I'd loved her for those traits. I'd never really realised it, but Diana'd given me hope for this fucked up, messy world. With her gone... what was the point of pushing on?
Part 3
The boy was perhaps five years old. He and his twin brother had been escorted by their texting sister who was twice their age. She interrupted her digital communication to express stilted sympathy for my situation. I quickly diverted the conversation to her and her brothers. I'd had more than enough of talking about my circumstances. It was during this exchange that one of the twins entered the abandoned house. It was late afternoon with barely an hour of daylight left and now another person connected to me would go missing. The thought was so unlike me – the boy'd gone in not five minutes ago, yet I was certain that he, like Diana, would not come back.
“Your brother shouldn't go in old houses,” I said to the girl, voice monotone. My energy to care about anything was depleted, leaving only a numb acceptance of injustice.
“He'll be fine, always on flights of fancy.” She strode up to the front door, obviously not wanting to get any closer than was absolutely necessary, and shouted for him to come out. Robin was his name. The other boy was standing idly near an overgrown rose bush, kicking stones.
“Tristan, go get your brother,” the girl demanded, her attention returning to the chiming phone in her hand.
“No!” The boy responded irritably.
With a dramatic sigh, the girl looked at me. “Boys, they're bad enough at this age.”
“I'll go in and look for him.” I must have sounded eager because the girl's left eyebrow raised suspiciously.
“I'm not sure that's a good idea, it may fall apart.”
I approached as she was giving the building a disapproving look. “The police have been through without incident, I'm sure I can safely locate your brother.”
“Ok.” Stepping back, the girl moved closer to Tristan and scanned her phone's screen once more.
I thought about advising them not to follow me but could see from their body language that neither would. Both had already moved closer to the street, Tristan now kicking the rotting fence post. What is it about some people? I asked myself, once more entering the structure. Why did Robin go in when his siblings are afraid to? Why did Diana remove her Fitbit to do the same thing?
Cream and pink light was dancing across the discoloured walls, the now familiar sound of a tree scraping an outside wall echoing eerily throughout the vacant house. I'm familiar with the main floor, if I don't see Robin here I'll try the upstairs, I decided. Sure footed strides took me through each room then to the base of the staircase at the side door. I waited several minutes before putting a foot on the bottom step but no matter how hard I looked I could not see a sign of anyone. While ascending I was struck by how quiet the house was, even the outdoor noises dulled by its walls, my own movement eliciting only occasional squeaks and cracks.
The upstairs turned out to be just as lonely as the lower. Two large bedrooms and a bathroom were almost completely bare, one bed toppled on its side, the other sagging and heavily stained. The smell of mold pervaded, dark walls and ceiling indicating that the roof leaked. The bathroom sink was in pieces, toilet and sink more yellow than white. I had not expected the house to be capable of depressing me further but it had successfully managed to.
“Robin?” I called, overcoming the desire to keep my voice down. I circled back through each room, opening whatever closets I came across, but there was no sign of the boy.
People don't just vanish! Barely resisting the urge to kick the toppled bed, I tore my hands through my hair, utilising the deep breathing I'd learned in college to keep myself from breaking down. I'd seen the boy come inside and I was not leaving until I'd found him!
As I was heading toward the staircase a shard of glass caught my eye. Another, smaller shard, lay off to its left and another beside it. Against the bedroom wall was a dense collection of broken glass and a decaying wooden frame. Nudging the item with my foot I saw that there was, indeed, a picture beneath the mess but when I'd managed to pry it loose the image was so weathered I couldn't make out anything beyond the fact that it seemed to be a portrait.
Letting the picture fall to the floor, I trudged down the stairs and headed in the direction of the kitchen, determined to turn the place upside down. I paused by the cupboard under the stairs to turn on my smartphone's light. What natural light that remained was quickly fading. As it burst into life, the pale luminescence revealed track marks on the old floorboards. I'd seen such marks around all the doors, scraped into the floor from years of use, but these... these were different.
“No, he couldn't,” stopping myself mid-sentence, I moved in front of the narrow door and grabbed the knob. The piece of wood shifted but would not budge. When I relented the pressure, the sound of wood grating on metal became audible. Sure enough, just below the knob, was a small key hole.
“Just like a kid to get himself locked in a cupboard. Hey!” I said, banging on the door with more force than was needed. “Open the door, Robin! It's time to go!” Apparently, my day was determined not to get any better. After nearly three minutes of hammering and shouting there'd still been no response. “I know you're in there, I'll find a way in.”
The thought that I might have imagined the age of the cupboard track marks briefly crossed my mind. I hadn't slept well in nearly three days, I was stressed, I was grieving, all perfectly valid reasons why my thinking might be impaired. Still, I couldn't deny the certainty of my instincts. My rational mind usually functioned completely on its own, although I was prey to the occasional emotional outburst. To me, istinct was in the same league as superstition and primitive survival – not for the modern woman. Then again, wasn't this a situation that might mean life or death for the boy? Perhaps archaic instinct could be of some use.
Where would you keep a cupboard key? When it did not appear to be anywhere near its door I moved into the kitchen. Perhaps the cupboard had been a food storage. Ten minutes of looking revealed nothing useful in the decrepit old facility. I returned to look at the problem door, wracking my brain to identify potential storage spots. I did not want to search the whole house if I could avoid doing so. My feet carried me into the study where I searched the desk drawers and underneath the large object. At least I can probably break the door down if I need to, I determined.
Getting more frustrated by the minute, I halfheartedly dusted myself off and moved to the filing cabinets. The single unlocked drawer loudly protested being opened, the same manila files staring up at me. I looked through these yesterday, I told myself, letting my hands rummage through the contents anyway. Shoving the paper to the back, I trailed my left hand along the gritty bottom, encountering paperclips, staples and...
My breath caught. Ever so gently, I moved my fingers along the groove in which I'd felt the cold item. A couple of seconds later I'd felt its jagged edges again, my index and thumb carefully gaining purchase before extracting it. There, between my dirty fingers, was a small key, nearly black with age. I couldn't help doubting the chance – it made more sense that this nondescript key belonged to the desk or other cabinets. Instead of checking, I walked out of the study, knelt in front of the door under the stairs and raised the key.
Something heavy fell on the second floor. Jumping back, I fell and dropped the key. Resisting the almost overwhelming urge to get the hell out of there, I retrieved the key which had almost been pushed under the door by my foot. Violently, I shoved it against the keyhole. When it didn't fit I made a loud noise of frustration then realised I couldn't get it in because my hands were shaking. The air felt so cold, my paranoid mind convinced that the temperature change was connected with whatever had fallen upstairs.
Forcing my breathing to even out, I held my left hand steady with my right, phone trapped between them, and pushed the key in. A shake and twist later the metal ground together and a 'clicking' noise sent a rush of relief over my skin. Securing the key deep in my pant pocket, I stood, refusing to look to either side for some irrational reason, and opened the door.
A rush of cold, dank air brushed my face. Shivers wracked my body in response, teeth gritted to prevent chattering. The space was so tight my shoulders touched either side of the frame as I crawled inside, head bowed low, angling the light ahead. After several feet a narrow staircase going down appeared, the darkness getting deeper although I'd never have believed that possible. Descending the stairs very slowly and carefully, I rotated the phone to either side, although there appeared to be nothing but empty space in all directions. When my feet finally hit floor I was standing in a brick cellar.
Bending slightly forward to avoid hitting the wooden ceiling, I peered about. There were no windows to illuminate the depths. Thankfully, there was a wall only a foot to the left of the stairs. Using it as a guide, I moved along the exterior of the space, feeling eerily compelled to remain silent in case I woke some resting monster in this dark nightmare.
When something pale came into the beam from my phone I froze. All thoughts about this expedition being a waste f time fled when I realised what I'd seen was a human hand – a hand that was wrapped around a bundle of clothes. A bundle of clothes that looked remarkably like a child.
I held my breath, shaking light quickly passing over the rest of the body. “Holy shit,” I said out loud, blood freezing in my veins. Dropping to my knees, the hand not holding my phone grabbed the woman's shoulder, pulling her up from the filthy floor. “Diana!” I cried, mind shutting down as tears rushed over my cheeks. “Please, dear God, don't do this to me!”
Desperation to rouse her made me drop the device. Dragging my sister into my arms I held her cool flesh against my chest, the bundle rolling away from us with a weak groan. Nothing mattered beyond the dead weight in my lap. The familiar scent of my partner in crime, occasional antagonist but always beloved consumed me, grief trapping sobs in my exhausted chest. Through my disheveled hair and bleary eyes I thought I saw someone standing over my phone, their face half-formed in the dim light.
Lips trembling, I squeezed Diana harder, willing her to be alright. Soft, warm breath against my neck shocked me into looking down at her, one hand smoothing the mud from my sister's face. It felt like an eternity had passed before her eyelids fluttered then opened revealing deep brown pupils.
“Diana,” I whispered.
“Mia,” she replied, the name void of inflection.
“Oh, Diana.” Fresh tears were welling in joy and relief, bringing new life into my worn limbs. “Can you move?”
“I... don't...” she tried to reply.
“Don't bother, I'll call for help.” As I reached for my phone I realised that the bundle she'd been holding was Robin, the boy blinking as through he'd been sleeping.
“How did you?” I started to ask him.
Apparently afraid of getting in trouble, the child instantly muttered an explanation. “I jus' wanted to see the house. I knew there was something special down here, I was gonna be right back...”
“It's ok, Robin, hopefully your sister and brother are still waiting but I want you to stay right here.” I watched him as I dialed the police station to ensure he obeyed, gently shifting Diana to more fully rest in my lap.
“Officer Smith. I need you to come to the abandoned house immediately. I've found her. Bring an ambulance.” We only waited ten minutes for help to arrive but the darkness made the period feel timeless. Now that I had two previously lost people around me I felt safe. I'd found them, everything was going to be alright. I kept Diana talking, just small words since her throat was parched, but her sense appeared intact and she was obviously relieved to see me.
“Why did you come down here?” I demanded, some of my anger returning.
Weakly, Diana rolled her head in Robin's direction.
“For him?” I clarified.
Shaking her head in the negative, she said. “Same reason.”
“But it was locked... why did you not come out again?”
Diana shrugged. “Don't know. Just... felt needed.”
“Needed?” I scoffed. “I need you, don't ever do this gain. Don't go anywhere without someone, alright?”
Smiling sheepishly, she nodded and I place a kiss on her forehead.
“I love you.” I whispered against her skin.
“You too.” She murmured, footsteps sounding on the floorboards above.
“Here they come, you'll be ok.” The statement was for my benefit more than hers but I was so relieved to get out of that horrible place. Officers had to break down the door which had locked behind me although later inspection revealed that it could have been opened from the inside. Diana was suffering severe dehydration and hunger but had almost completely recovered by the end of the week. Robin was reunited with his family. Diana and I were given star treatment by the bed and breakfast owners, police department and local mayor who stated that the old house would be torn down for the safety of the community.
Diana was sad to hear this but in a detached way. Before leaving Mabelspire we stopped to look at the place, neither sure exactly what had transpired there but thankful it was over. Over the years, when we met at gatherings or took trips together, we would inevitably discuss the ordeal, unable to fit it into our otherwise orderly lives.
“You know Mia,” Diana said one evening outside a cafe, wine glass in hand, watching traffic pass by. “I think the house was lonely.”
“Lonely?” I asked incredulously, taking a sip from my own glass.
“Yes. It wanted people inside it again, that's why me and Robin were compelled to go in.”
“Into the creepy-ass basement?”
“Like a heart, it took us into its heart.”
“You're crazy,” I said affectionately.
“Well, what about the old man you saw?”
“You mean the hobo? Thankfully he had nothing to do with it. If he had, you might have been in a worse state.”
“I bet he was a ghost,” Diana mused, “probably a father who'd quarreled with his son and wanted to make it up to him. So, you know, he lured people inside, hoping one of them would be his son.”
“Sounds like a good story, you should write it.”
We laughed together, content to let the mundane and mysterious co-exist. I didn't think she was right, nor did I believe she was crazy for suggesting the possibilities. Since her disappearance and rescue I'd not felt quite the same about life. I knew how the world worked, my reason never failed to deliver results, but there was something else at work as well, something that didn't fit with my previous view of the world.
Perhaps people like Diana were who created it, perhaps they were just more aware of it than the rest of us. I didn't want to understand it, but knew there was something a little odd about my world. Terrifying, insidious, exciting, pervasive, inspiring – life is full of more passion than I'd once thought. That was something Diana and I now both agreed on.
As the child disappeared inside the house I knew someone would find a way to blame me. Sure, the boy's twin brother had witnessed the event and his sister had only been a couple of feet ahead, but when the child failed to return for dinner I knew the story would be constructed with me as the villain. Nothing of the like occurred before that strange lady arrived in town, they'd say. That lady who'd been babbling about a man stealing her sister was not right in the head. Who knew what she might have done to little Timmy? On top of everything else I did not need to be considered psychotic.
Vacationing in the sleepy town of Mabelspire had been a mistake. Escaping the big city with its endless litany of drama and stress had been an attractive notion. The cynic in me had kept a running commentary of everything that could go wrong. None of what I'd considered had come close to reality. Diana had failed to return from her morning run. The very activity was an obsession that had puzzled me since its inception in late high school.
“Cardio's good for you,” she'd said while removing her jogging shoes. Getting up early has always been the bane of my existence so why someone would voluntarily choose to begin their day before work dictated was beyond me. Still, it obviously made her happy and she did look good for someone in her late thirties. Diana looked refreshed and happy after her runs. I found myself focusing on those recollections as the hours ticked by and she did not materialise.
When she missed our lunch date I could only think of worst case scenarios – kidnapper employed by a human trafficking ring, sicko with a deranged fetish, hit and run on a deserted rural road. At least I'd have closure if it was the latter. I'd gone to the local police who'd been contacting me every so often with an update. Nothing of note had yet been reported. In desperation I'd turned junior detective, walking every street in the small community, talking to neighbours who had and hadn't already been contacted by the police. As the day wore on the pitying looks had become too heavy to bear so I'd walked for over and hour down Smith's Road until only trees and corn were witnesses to my frustrated tears.
Some people credit God or fate with luck and intuition. I'm not concerned with origins, only results. The sun was low on the horizon when I approached the edge of Mabelspire, exhausted and ready to give up on life. Just before you enter the east side of town sits a two-story brick house. At one point in he past it had been a showpiece with white picket fence, painted gables and extensive gardens. That legacy was at least a decade old, fence rotted, gables sagging and gardens overgrown. I've not been one to believe in haunted houses or mourn crumbling 19th century architecture but this derelict building had me thinking about both.
Diana loved old houses. When she and her husband had split she'd bought him out to retain their turn of the century house, a move few in our family had supported. Despite the financial burden and constant repairs, Diana had managed to keep the place. Her love for old houses was one of the reasons we'd chosen Mabelspire as our getaway spot. It was semi-historic, not known for any particular contribution to the local economy, but contained many specimens from the railroad era 'when homes were built to last not to sell', Diana'd said.
As I gazed on this sad reminder of a forgotten era I found myself morbidly considering what would happen to Diana's beloved money pit if my worst fears were realised. Our brother might want it but it would likely be sold, demolished and replaced with one of the modern houses my sister so despised. As I was considering how I might retain the property – renting was an option, perhaps some farmer might be interested in the small acreage around the house – my idle examination of the abandoned house became more focused.
The gate that had once provided entry to the property was hanging on only one of its hinges, the lower half partially submerged in the earth. A device looped over one of its posts is what had caught my attention. Stepping cautiously, I approached the fence and soon had the object in my hands. A Fitbit. Turning it over, my suspicions were confirmed by the initials 'D.E.V.'
“Diana Eveland Vorganthus,” my voice was rusty from all the talking I'd done. Hearing it in the silence of the twilight sent a shiver down my spine. One hand was on the smartphone in my pocket. I should have called the police right away. This was, after all, a potential crime scene, but I was too excited to consider waiting for professionals a viable option. Instead, I clutched the Fitbit in my right hand, took a steadying breath and followed the subtle imprints of running shoes into the lonely structure.
Part 2
Diana and I agreed on one thing about old houses – they were well constructed. Although this one had been unattended for a good length of time, the floorboards only marginally complained about my weight. The thin beam of light from my smartphone illuminated dust-laden furniture, piles of trash and peeling wallpaper. A built-in bookcase held row after row of dark volumes, several flattened on the floor, disturbed by some rodent or natural event. The hall I'd passed through to enter the living room held one small closet, empty hangers glinting in the remaining daylight.
I'd seen enough horror movies to learn the lesson that you always left yourself an escape route so I'd braced the door open with a rusty umbrella stand before moving deeper into the house. The silence was beyond eerie. Every step I took disturbed a cloud of dust. “Diana?” I'd called once before spending half a minute choking on the air. As I peered into the kitchen, empty bottles and looted cupboards adding to the forlorn atmosphere, I began to question my rationale behind entering the building without alerting the police. If Diana was here she might be trapped or unconscious after a fall through to a lower level. Going in unescorted was the last thing that would help her, particularly if foul play was afoot.
In the rapidly fading sunlight, I dialed the Station and reported my findings to the officer on duty. “Don't go in the house,” was the first thing he said. I thought better about responding that it was too late for that. Having assured me that the force would be there in ten minutes, he hung up. Even the lack of a disembodied voice made the dilapidated space around me feel more empty. Hearing a human voice had made the silence heavier, more oppressive.
Branches were brushing up against the outside of the house, a low wind whistling through cracks around the windows, doors and paneling. Perhaps connected to or separate from the air movement, creaking noises occasionally echoed through the bare rooms. Shaking myself, I ignored the growing sense of unease, assured that this was just an abandoned house. Soon the atmosphere would be mitigated by company.
Now that the police knew where I was I felt more comfortable exploring farther into the structure. I was already inside after all. Instead of entering the kitchen I moved into a side corridor leading to another entrance. An open staircase to the second story stood proudly in the space, its solid-wood banister casting subtle shadows on the far wall. I decided to ignore the closet under the stairs, confident that Diana would not have been able to fit.
Jiggling the door handle only revealed that it was locked. Acknowledging that this was odd I turned and pointed my light up the stairs. An old man's face was caught in the beam, his eyes sunken, frowning mouth heavily creased. Rather than crying out I froze, eyes locked on the figure standing halfway up the stairs. I couldn't see much more than his face due to the poor lighting but he appeared to have been watching me over the railing. The prospect was more disturbing than his sad appearance.
“Hello?” I tried, finally managing to overcome the fear paralyising my voice. He could be a hobo, my rational mind stated.
The man did not acknowledge my words, continuing to gaze at me from his perch. The slight shaking of my hand revealed that he was dressed in a weathered brown suit, corduroy perhaps, accented by a pale tie. I'd nearly gathered the strength to try speaking again when a car door closed nearby and a voice calling my name sounded from the front of the house. The disturbance took my attention away from the stranger. It had only been a second or two but when I turned to look for him again the stairs from top to bottom were bare. Unsettled and anxious, I rushed back through the rooms and into the blinding headlights of a police cruiser.
“Miss Vorganthus,” Officer Smith's voice was stern. When my eyes adjusted to the brightness I could see that his posture was as intimidating as his tone. The resemblance to my disapproving father was less annoying than it would have been in any other circumstance. Given how jittery I was I actually found his gruff attitude comforting.
“Did Officer Stanley not tell you to stay out of the house?”
Deciding to play meek and desperate, I sheepishly stared at his shoulder. “He did, Officer Smith, but I saw someone in the house and thought it might have been Diana.”
He moved toward the building, fingers looped into his belt. Is it the uniform that makes cops swagger? my cynical mind-voice wondered. I was thankful for his presence more than I wanted to admit. There was likely an entirely logical explanation for the old man in the abandoned house but I couldn't help being afraid in the ominous setting.
Officer Smith told me to wait outside while he investigated. I watched the beam from his flashlight, which lit up whole rooms as he passed through them, move from the ground floor to the stairs and then, more slowly, the upper story. When he returned almost twenty minutes later I was bouncing up and down to keep warm, anxious for his report.
“If those are her footprints-.”
“They are,” I insisted.
“Then her tracks have been obscured by yours.”
Chastened, I swallowed back an angry response, the exhaustion that followed making my despair palpable. “So you didn't find anything?” I finally managed to ask.
“No.”
I told him about the old man I'd seen and he confirmed my suspicion that it had likely been a vagrant who'd escaped while we'd been talking. In short, it was another dead end. Officer Smith took me back to the bed and breakfast where Diana and I'd been staying, assuring me that his men would continue investigating.
I took sleeping pills and managed a few hours of semi-restorative slumber. Despite this assistance, I was walking the streets of Mabelspire again before any natural light had begun making an appearance. The action was cathartic, it had no other purpose. I'd done as much as I could but idly waiting was also not an option. Even if it was an illusion, I was going to pretend to be useful.
Inevitably, I found myself outside the abandoned house where I'd found Diana's Fitbit. It was the only place where any clue had been discovered so my desperate mind insisted that there was more at the location. The police would be conducting a more thorough investigation in daylight but the cynic in me suspected that nothing would be found. Standing next to the post where the device had been hanging, I examined the sunken structure more closely. The gate hadn't been moved in a long time, Diana wouldn't have had to move it to get into the house. Officer Smith must have rubbed against the left side since it had not been leaning toward the house when I'd first seen it.
“She placed the Fitbit down, why?” I asked the empty air.
That was the source of the disturbance in my belly. It didn't make sense. If she'd been snatched by someone the Fitbit would not have been so carefully placed. She wouldn't have needed to take it off just to look at the house – so why had she? Diana'd only ever taken the devise off to shower. For some reason, she'd made a point of removing it here. Despite the chastising voice in my head, I entered the house again. Just inside the doorway, I could see into the living room and a portion of the kitchen. A window at the end of the hall revealed the brightening sky.
Moving straight down the hall instead of right into the living room brought me to a door on the left. It opened with only slight protest. A study, I thought, noting the ponderous solid wood desk and upholstered chair with what looked to be a rotary base. Three filing cabinets were tucked along the left wall, a thin table beside them. Another built-in bookcase loomed over the desk. Confident that I could use the large window behind the desk to escape if anything funny happened, I closed the study door behind me and stepped up to the filing cabinets.
Almost all of their drawers were locked, one at the top on the far right being the sole exception. Cautiously, I slid the creaking contraption forward and peered inside. Papers – rows of folders and papers, each section I touched letting out a cloud of dust. Curious to see what I could discover, I extracted a collection of pale, fragile leaflets.
Ew, legal paperwork, I groaned inwardly. They're not all about one individual or even the property. The more files I looked through the clearer it became that the previous owner had been involved in real estate transactions. Only when sunlight glinted off the surface of my phone, nearly blinding me, did I realise how late it'd gotten. I'd better head out, don't want to get told off by P.O. Smith, I thought.
Returning the documents to their drawer, I took another glance around the room, the forlorn appearance bringing back the despair I'd thus far managed to overcome that day. The door let me out with the same protest it had made previously, then I slowly walked through the hallway and out into the front yard. I stood there until the police cruiser with two officers arrived ten minutes later.
I didn't recognise either of them but they both gave me sympathetic looks as they entered the derelict structure. Their movements were practiced, ritualised and professional. This, the feeling being in the old study had elicited, and the fact that it'd almost been twenty-four hours since Diana had gone missing, resulted in silent tears running down my face, restrained sobs wracking my body. Nearly three hours passed before the officers told me what my depressed mind had already surmised. They'd found nothing. No sign of another identifiable clue, no suspicious circumstances, no hope to keep my spirit alive.
Their report was meaningless. Words meant nothing now. They'd continue looking but the chances of finding her unharmed dwindled with every passing moment. Someone gave me a chair, told me to go back to the bed and breakfast. I said I'd stay right there. Eventually, I was left alone, seated in a lawn chair, watching the day pass over the abandoned house. Townspeople walked around me, gossiping, expressing consolation and optimism. I said nothing.
What sort of world is this? I asked myself, angry at it and my powerlessness. What world gives us happiness only to wipe it out so completely? Diana had been a ray among the dreariness of day-to-day monotony. She'd puzzled me with her impractical choices and love for the fantastical but I'd loved her for those traits. I'd never really realised it, but Diana'd given me hope for this fucked up, messy world. With her gone... what was the point of pushing on?
Part 3
The boy was perhaps five years old. He and his twin brother had been escorted by their texting sister who was twice their age. She interrupted her digital communication to express stilted sympathy for my situation. I quickly diverted the conversation to her and her brothers. I'd had more than enough of talking about my circumstances. It was during this exchange that one of the twins entered the abandoned house. It was late afternoon with barely an hour of daylight left and now another person connected to me would go missing. The thought was so unlike me – the boy'd gone in not five minutes ago, yet I was certain that he, like Diana, would not come back.
“Your brother shouldn't go in old houses,” I said to the girl, voice monotone. My energy to care about anything was depleted, leaving only a numb acceptance of injustice.
“He'll be fine, always on flights of fancy.” She strode up to the front door, obviously not wanting to get any closer than was absolutely necessary, and shouted for him to come out. Robin was his name. The other boy was standing idly near an overgrown rose bush, kicking stones.
“Tristan, go get your brother,” the girl demanded, her attention returning to the chiming phone in her hand.
“No!” The boy responded irritably.
With a dramatic sigh, the girl looked at me. “Boys, they're bad enough at this age.”
“I'll go in and look for him.” I must have sounded eager because the girl's left eyebrow raised suspiciously.
“I'm not sure that's a good idea, it may fall apart.”
I approached as she was giving the building a disapproving look. “The police have been through without incident, I'm sure I can safely locate your brother.”
“Ok.” Stepping back, the girl moved closer to Tristan and scanned her phone's screen once more.
I thought about advising them not to follow me but could see from their body language that neither would. Both had already moved closer to the street, Tristan now kicking the rotting fence post. What is it about some people? I asked myself, once more entering the structure. Why did Robin go in when his siblings are afraid to? Why did Diana remove her Fitbit to do the same thing?
Cream and pink light was dancing across the discoloured walls, the now familiar sound of a tree scraping an outside wall echoing eerily throughout the vacant house. I'm familiar with the main floor, if I don't see Robin here I'll try the upstairs, I decided. Sure footed strides took me through each room then to the base of the staircase at the side door. I waited several minutes before putting a foot on the bottom step but no matter how hard I looked I could not see a sign of anyone. While ascending I was struck by how quiet the house was, even the outdoor noises dulled by its walls, my own movement eliciting only occasional squeaks and cracks.
The upstairs turned out to be just as lonely as the lower. Two large bedrooms and a bathroom were almost completely bare, one bed toppled on its side, the other sagging and heavily stained. The smell of mold pervaded, dark walls and ceiling indicating that the roof leaked. The bathroom sink was in pieces, toilet and sink more yellow than white. I had not expected the house to be capable of depressing me further but it had successfully managed to.
“Robin?” I called, overcoming the desire to keep my voice down. I circled back through each room, opening whatever closets I came across, but there was no sign of the boy.
People don't just vanish! Barely resisting the urge to kick the toppled bed, I tore my hands through my hair, utilising the deep breathing I'd learned in college to keep myself from breaking down. I'd seen the boy come inside and I was not leaving until I'd found him!
As I was heading toward the staircase a shard of glass caught my eye. Another, smaller shard, lay off to its left and another beside it. Against the bedroom wall was a dense collection of broken glass and a decaying wooden frame. Nudging the item with my foot I saw that there was, indeed, a picture beneath the mess but when I'd managed to pry it loose the image was so weathered I couldn't make out anything beyond the fact that it seemed to be a portrait.
Letting the picture fall to the floor, I trudged down the stairs and headed in the direction of the kitchen, determined to turn the place upside down. I paused by the cupboard under the stairs to turn on my smartphone's light. What natural light that remained was quickly fading. As it burst into life, the pale luminescence revealed track marks on the old floorboards. I'd seen such marks around all the doors, scraped into the floor from years of use, but these... these were different.
“No, he couldn't,” stopping myself mid-sentence, I moved in front of the narrow door and grabbed the knob. The piece of wood shifted but would not budge. When I relented the pressure, the sound of wood grating on metal became audible. Sure enough, just below the knob, was a small key hole.
“Just like a kid to get himself locked in a cupboard. Hey!” I said, banging on the door with more force than was needed. “Open the door, Robin! It's time to go!” Apparently, my day was determined not to get any better. After nearly three minutes of hammering and shouting there'd still been no response. “I know you're in there, I'll find a way in.”
The thought that I might have imagined the age of the cupboard track marks briefly crossed my mind. I hadn't slept well in nearly three days, I was stressed, I was grieving, all perfectly valid reasons why my thinking might be impaired. Still, I couldn't deny the certainty of my instincts. My rational mind usually functioned completely on its own, although I was prey to the occasional emotional outburst. To me, istinct was in the same league as superstition and primitive survival – not for the modern woman. Then again, wasn't this a situation that might mean life or death for the boy? Perhaps archaic instinct could be of some use.
Where would you keep a cupboard key? When it did not appear to be anywhere near its door I moved into the kitchen. Perhaps the cupboard had been a food storage. Ten minutes of looking revealed nothing useful in the decrepit old facility. I returned to look at the problem door, wracking my brain to identify potential storage spots. I did not want to search the whole house if I could avoid doing so. My feet carried me into the study where I searched the desk drawers and underneath the large object. At least I can probably break the door down if I need to, I determined.
Getting more frustrated by the minute, I halfheartedly dusted myself off and moved to the filing cabinets. The single unlocked drawer loudly protested being opened, the same manila files staring up at me. I looked through these yesterday, I told myself, letting my hands rummage through the contents anyway. Shoving the paper to the back, I trailed my left hand along the gritty bottom, encountering paperclips, staples and...
My breath caught. Ever so gently, I moved my fingers along the groove in which I'd felt the cold item. A couple of seconds later I'd felt its jagged edges again, my index and thumb carefully gaining purchase before extracting it. There, between my dirty fingers, was a small key, nearly black with age. I couldn't help doubting the chance – it made more sense that this nondescript key belonged to the desk or other cabinets. Instead of checking, I walked out of the study, knelt in front of the door under the stairs and raised the key.
Something heavy fell on the second floor. Jumping back, I fell and dropped the key. Resisting the almost overwhelming urge to get the hell out of there, I retrieved the key which had almost been pushed under the door by my foot. Violently, I shoved it against the keyhole. When it didn't fit I made a loud noise of frustration then realised I couldn't get it in because my hands were shaking. The air felt so cold, my paranoid mind convinced that the temperature change was connected with whatever had fallen upstairs.
Forcing my breathing to even out, I held my left hand steady with my right, phone trapped between them, and pushed the key in. A shake and twist later the metal ground together and a 'clicking' noise sent a rush of relief over my skin. Securing the key deep in my pant pocket, I stood, refusing to look to either side for some irrational reason, and opened the door.
A rush of cold, dank air brushed my face. Shivers wracked my body in response, teeth gritted to prevent chattering. The space was so tight my shoulders touched either side of the frame as I crawled inside, head bowed low, angling the light ahead. After several feet a narrow staircase going down appeared, the darkness getting deeper although I'd never have believed that possible. Descending the stairs very slowly and carefully, I rotated the phone to either side, although there appeared to be nothing but empty space in all directions. When my feet finally hit floor I was standing in a brick cellar.
Bending slightly forward to avoid hitting the wooden ceiling, I peered about. There were no windows to illuminate the depths. Thankfully, there was a wall only a foot to the left of the stairs. Using it as a guide, I moved along the exterior of the space, feeling eerily compelled to remain silent in case I woke some resting monster in this dark nightmare.
When something pale came into the beam from my phone I froze. All thoughts about this expedition being a waste f time fled when I realised what I'd seen was a human hand – a hand that was wrapped around a bundle of clothes. A bundle of clothes that looked remarkably like a child.
I held my breath, shaking light quickly passing over the rest of the body. “Holy shit,” I said out loud, blood freezing in my veins. Dropping to my knees, the hand not holding my phone grabbed the woman's shoulder, pulling her up from the filthy floor. “Diana!” I cried, mind shutting down as tears rushed over my cheeks. “Please, dear God, don't do this to me!”
Desperation to rouse her made me drop the device. Dragging my sister into my arms I held her cool flesh against my chest, the bundle rolling away from us with a weak groan. Nothing mattered beyond the dead weight in my lap. The familiar scent of my partner in crime, occasional antagonist but always beloved consumed me, grief trapping sobs in my exhausted chest. Through my disheveled hair and bleary eyes I thought I saw someone standing over my phone, their face half-formed in the dim light.
Lips trembling, I squeezed Diana harder, willing her to be alright. Soft, warm breath against my neck shocked me into looking down at her, one hand smoothing the mud from my sister's face. It felt like an eternity had passed before her eyelids fluttered then opened revealing deep brown pupils.
“Diana,” I whispered.
“Mia,” she replied, the name void of inflection.
“Oh, Diana.” Fresh tears were welling in joy and relief, bringing new life into my worn limbs. “Can you move?”
“I... don't...” she tried to reply.
“Don't bother, I'll call for help.” As I reached for my phone I realised that the bundle she'd been holding was Robin, the boy blinking as through he'd been sleeping.
“How did you?” I started to ask him.
Apparently afraid of getting in trouble, the child instantly muttered an explanation. “I jus' wanted to see the house. I knew there was something special down here, I was gonna be right back...”
“It's ok, Robin, hopefully your sister and brother are still waiting but I want you to stay right here.” I watched him as I dialed the police station to ensure he obeyed, gently shifting Diana to more fully rest in my lap.
“Officer Smith. I need you to come to the abandoned house immediately. I've found her. Bring an ambulance.” We only waited ten minutes for help to arrive but the darkness made the period feel timeless. Now that I had two previously lost people around me I felt safe. I'd found them, everything was going to be alright. I kept Diana talking, just small words since her throat was parched, but her sense appeared intact and she was obviously relieved to see me.
“Why did you come down here?” I demanded, some of my anger returning.
Weakly, Diana rolled her head in Robin's direction.
“For him?” I clarified.
Shaking her head in the negative, she said. “Same reason.”
“But it was locked... why did you not come out again?”
Diana shrugged. “Don't know. Just... felt needed.”
“Needed?” I scoffed. “I need you, don't ever do this gain. Don't go anywhere without someone, alright?”
Smiling sheepishly, she nodded and I place a kiss on her forehead.
“I love you.” I whispered against her skin.
“You too.” She murmured, footsteps sounding on the floorboards above.
“Here they come, you'll be ok.” The statement was for my benefit more than hers but I was so relieved to get out of that horrible place. Officers had to break down the door which had locked behind me although later inspection revealed that it could have been opened from the inside. Diana was suffering severe dehydration and hunger but had almost completely recovered by the end of the week. Robin was reunited with his family. Diana and I were given star treatment by the bed and breakfast owners, police department and local mayor who stated that the old house would be torn down for the safety of the community.
Diana was sad to hear this but in a detached way. Before leaving Mabelspire we stopped to look at the place, neither sure exactly what had transpired there but thankful it was over. Over the years, when we met at gatherings or took trips together, we would inevitably discuss the ordeal, unable to fit it into our otherwise orderly lives.
“You know Mia,” Diana said one evening outside a cafe, wine glass in hand, watching traffic pass by. “I think the house was lonely.”
“Lonely?” I asked incredulously, taking a sip from my own glass.
“Yes. It wanted people inside it again, that's why me and Robin were compelled to go in.”
“Into the creepy-ass basement?”
“Like a heart, it took us into its heart.”
“You're crazy,” I said affectionately.
“Well, what about the old man you saw?”
“You mean the hobo? Thankfully he had nothing to do with it. If he had, you might have been in a worse state.”
“I bet he was a ghost,” Diana mused, “probably a father who'd quarreled with his son and wanted to make it up to him. So, you know, he lured people inside, hoping one of them would be his son.”
“Sounds like a good story, you should write it.”
We laughed together, content to let the mundane and mysterious co-exist. I didn't think she was right, nor did I believe she was crazy for suggesting the possibilities. Since her disappearance and rescue I'd not felt quite the same about life. I knew how the world worked, my reason never failed to deliver results, but there was something else at work as well, something that didn't fit with my previous view of the world.
Perhaps people like Diana were who created it, perhaps they were just more aware of it than the rest of us. I didn't want to understand it, but knew there was something a little odd about my world. Terrifying, insidious, exciting, pervasive, inspiring – life is full of more passion than I'd once thought. That was something Diana and I now both agreed on.
