Welcome To My Home.


Banned - What an Asshat!
Welcome To My Home.

It was, and always has been, the sheer image of that house, standing alone and at the end of our road, that at once I feared, loathed, loved and worshipped. The house itself was not menacing, it was a simple, three stories, old style plantation home, with the large white columns and big, blinking windows. I was ten then, and at ten years old the entire world is at once a scary and beautiful place. Everyday I road my bike to that house, and everyday I sat just in front of the plain, no-frills iron gate, and I watched.

I watched because I knew that the house itself was watching me. 1313 Ever Houser Lane was staring at me from behind big, red shutters. It was watching me, waiting for me to take that last step, go beyond that gate. At ten, I was not quite brave enough. My friends would tease me, "Joe," they would laugh "man, you need a hobby." But the house was my hobby. I knew every detail, every last boy that had lived there, and I also knew what had happened to them. So, here I was, again, only now I was nineteen, and I sat in front of that damned house with a car, instead of my bike. The car was barely dignified enough to be called that, and I had it packed down tight with my life, ready to make my break out in the real world.

You can imagine, after nine years of sitting in front of that house, not being quite brave enough to go in, not being quite smart enough to turn and run, is exactly how I felt. Well, if you can't, I am going to tell you. At that particular moment I felt the house was calling to me, it did not want me to leave; I could hear it crying for me. The house was going to miss me something terrible.
I stepped out of my car, and lifted a smoke to my lips. I didn't really like smoking, and I never actually inhaled, but all the boys in those days would smoke, and so I felt it was my right and privileged of being a man to do so.

Anyways, the iron gate itself had always been locked with a singular massive rusted bolt lock, and there was no key that I had ever known. Except I knew the house knew I was leaving for good. I stepped to the gate, taking one long drag (but not inhaling) of my smoke, and let it curl around in my mouth and out my nose. I stared at the gate, because I knew the house wanted me in. It took a moment, but the gate began to creak and groan, and the sound was terrible. The sound was like a thousand squeaky wheels churning at once, and the lock fell to rusted, broken piece on the ground. I shook with fear and excitement, Oh; I wanted to go in, so badly.

I opened the gate just enough to squeeze through, and in those days I was thin, so it did not take much. I crossed the weed filled garden, scattered with broken statuettes, some of which I swore were grinning at me. The door was open by the time I took the porch steps, one at a time, breathless. I was so thrilled, I could feel myself being drug into the house, each step coming quicker than the last, and in seconds, I crossed the threshold.

Inside the house was as any other house should be, I expect. Except that the furniture was covered with dusty white cloths, and every mirror was broken, every window boarded up in a quick, messy fashion. Something large and slimy slithered across my sandals, and something else chattered and moved in the shadows.

Before I knew what was happening, the door behind me slammed shut, and all became dark. When I awoke, the house was bright, the furniture was clean and there were no shadows. I had slept a very long, very dear time.

And now you are here. You did what I had done, so very long ago, and heard the voice of this house, calling and pulling at your soul. Come in, and let me show you its treasures. Do not be afraid, I promise this will not hurt for very long.

You must feel now what I felt then, my hands ice cold and bloated, wrapping tightly around your throat, all those dreams of your future slipping away. Do you know the story of this house? I expect that you do, you know that long ago, this place was a home for wayward boys, boys like you and me. You would also know the story of one boy, one quiet bright eyed boy, who murdered every last person living here. But, you read that in the library, so it really doesn't seem real to you does it?

You see, it was not the boy; oh the boy did not murder those people. It was the house, and the house has secrets, so very many secrets. The first secret I will tell you would be that so very long ago, when I opened the door and stepped across the yard, a man just like me waited and watched. He was bloated like I am now, and his eyes were bleeding like mine are now, his face was a mass of contorted, smashed and bloody gore, just as mine are. Maggots and spiders crawled from hole in the side of his face and writhed through his eyes and nose and mouth, and like I do, he chewed them, or sometimes, simply swallowed them whole. He smelled like vomit, and rotting meat. hopefully I do not smell quite that bad. What is worse, what really sent the fear into my heart and eyes just like yours, is that in his hand he held something very thin, very large, and very black.

Much like this item, a crowbar of sorts, I would imagine. And like I will do here in a moment, he took the crowbar and lifted it high into the air, bringing it crashing against my skull. Are you crying? Really, a boy your age should not cry. In my day, we never cried. What is wrong with the youth today?