My teen years were really rough for me. I grew up in a tiny town in Connecticut, one that was only a few miles across, and half of it was covered by a thick forest. I didn't really have any friends, and I was plagued with a sense of not belonging. I know what you're thinking. You're assuming I'm talking about the typical outcast, depressed kid. It was more than that. I remember feeling homesick all the time, even when I was sitting in my own kitchen looking out the windows at the expansive hills in the backyard. I'd be filled with a longing to go home, but I didn't know where that home was. By all accounts, my mother's home was where I belonged. I would hang out with the other kids from school, and wonder why I couldn't form a connection to them, no matter how hard I tried. It felt like I was a ghost to them. They would notice me in rare, fleeting moments, but they'd forget me in the next.
This sense of not belonging caused me to skip school a lot. I would slip out through the side doors of the old brick building and disappear into the vast woods next to my high school. There was a town reservoir nearby where all the other delinquents would go to get high and try to get lucky. I went sometimes, but usually just wound up drunkenly lying on the ground, staring up at the treetops. I always liked how the sunlight would filter in through the leaves, speckling the ground with geometric patterns. It wasn't much fun.
One day, bored and drunk on cheap vodka, I decided to go explore the woods. Looking back, it probably wasn't the smartest thing for a teenage girl to do, but I was never great about decision making. I got up, left the reservoir, and headed off into the woods alone. I walked for nearly an hour, weaving through the pine trees and birches, listening to my footsteps as leaves and twigs crunched under me. I stopped for a moment in a large clearing and heard someone behind me call my name. Turning, I saw Tim, the skinny dropout that always hung around the reservoir. He was a little bit of a metalhead, little bit of punk, and a whole lot of stoner. I liked him well enough and he was always nice to me, so I smiled and waved back.
“Finally caught up to you!” he laughed, his goofy grin showing a little too much of his gum line. “Whatcha doing?”
“Nothing really. I got bored over there and just wanted to explore a little bit. Wanna come with me?” I asked, hoping for the company. Besides, he knew the woods better than I did, and could find his way back out if we got lost.
Tim nodded and glanced around the woods, then looked at his watch. “We have a few hours before school gets out. I found something really cool near here a few weeks ago. I think you'd like it. You like old buildings, don't you?”
It was true. I did. I had a little bit of a fascination with old buildings, abandoned warehouses, and boarded up homes. I'd done urban exploration quite a few times, before I even knew what it was called. I guess he noticed the excitement on my face and he grabbed me by the sleeve of my hoodie, to lead the way. I followed him deeper into the woods, wondering what he'd found. He seemed so excited that it was contagious. I found myself hurrying alongside him, eager to see what he found.
We eventually came to an old path in the woods, where the dirt was packed solid from footsteps, but the grass and wildflowers obscured it from view. It hadn't been used in a long time. Tim led the way down the path. After two more minutes of walking, we came upon a sight that filled me with confusion.
You know those old colonial style homes that you see in the historic parts of New England? The ones with huge windows and a balcony above the front door? One of those sat right in the middle of the overgrown woods. The gray exterior was flaking and peeling, and the red paint on the front door had faded to a dull brown color. I looked up at the massive house and tried to guess how many rooms it had (at least eight from what I could see), then glanced over at Tim.
“Isn't it cool?” he paused, waiting for me to respond. Once I nodded, he continued, “It seems like it's abandoned. I've been out here a few times, but I've never seen anyone here. There's never any lights on, and I haven't seen any cars or anything.”
“You couldn't drive back here anyway.” I said, noting how close all the trees grew together. “I wonder how old it is.”
“I'm not sure.” he looked up at the windows on the second floor. “You think we can get in there?”
I scoffed. I wasn't about to go in there. While it was a gorgeous house, something about it filled me with apprehension. Something about those old windows wasn't right. It felt like the house was watching us with its giant glassy eyes. I felt my stomach sink as Tim went up to the front door and knocked loudly.
“Anyone home?” he called out and knocked again, harder this time. The force of his hand must have triggered the old latch, because the door swung open a few inches. Tim stopped and gestured for me to join him on the porch, that goofy smile plastered on his face again. I hesitantly crept over to him, still paranoid about the windows watching us. Unfazed, Tim stuck his head in the door and called out “Helloooo!”
When he got no response, he opened the door the rest of the way and stepped inside. I followed him, only because I was too afraid to stand outside alone. Once inside, my fear dissipated almost immediately. It was just a normal house with ugly brown and green wallpaper and a thick layer of dust covering everything. The sunlight coming in through the windows made everything look warm and cozy. I sighed in relief, realizing I'd been overreacting. If anyone was here, or came home, we'd simply explain that we were exploring. We were both minors and our city was pretty safe back in the early 2000s, so we didn't have too much to worry about. Worst case scenario; we'd get in trouble for breaking and entering or trespassing.
We headed down the hallway and toward what appeared to be a living room with red couches and large barren bookshelves. Tim went to the connecting kitchen and started rummaging through the pantry and cabinets, while I drew a smiley face with my finger in the layer of dust covering the old tube television.
“Holy fuck. Dude! This place has electricity.” I heard him yell.
I joined him in the kitchen and saw him with the refrigerator door open, the yellowish light from inside spilling across his face. “Is there any food in there?” I asked, feeling uneasy again. “If there's electricity, someone must live here.
“No, there's nothing.” he closed the door and shrugged. “I think maybe this is a summer home. Some rich old people probably own it.”
“Could be.” I mumbled, not entirely satisfied with the explanation. Old people generally don't buy summer homes out in the middle of the woods and leave the electricity connected when they are away.
We went through the house, peeking into the rooms branching off from the hallway. There was a small study with a heavy desk, and a bathroom with a dingy standalone sink. There were two that were locked, though. Tim offered to pick the locks, but I convinced him not to, because I didn't want anything damaged in case there really were owners that would return eventually and he wasn't good enough to do it without messing up the locks or the paint around them. We reached the end of the hallway, where a spiral staircase led up to the second floor.
I lingered at the bottom, still uneasy. Something was going to happen, but I didn't know what. Tim went upstairs, and I listened to his footsteps above me for a minute before following him. The stairs were creaky, but sturdy, and the iron railing felt slightly sticky as I climbed them. At the top, there was a hallway almost identical to the one below, except instead of the front door, the left side opened up to the balcony. I slid open the glass door to the balcony and called back to Tim that I was stepping out for a cigarette. I heard a quick “okay” from the other room as I stepped outside. As I settled onto the floor and leaned against the glass door, I began to think about how great it would be to live somewhere like this. The house was a little weird, but it was rather lovely. I could imagine my books filling up the bookshelves in the living room, and the bathroom had one of those claw-foot bathtubs. I'd sit outside and write in the afternoon, while watching the forest below. It seemed so peaceful. I wouldn't have to deal with other people if I didn't want to and I could do whatever I wanted.
I must have dozed off at some point, because I woke up still sitting against the glass door. I panicked, wondering how long I'd been asleep, but told myself it couldn't have been long, since Tim hadn't come to get me. He was probably still exploring inside. I reached into my backpack and pulled out the Lucky Charms watch I always carried on me. It was made for small kids, so the band wouldn't fit my wrist, but I liked it enough to keep it in my bag. The display was blank. I cursed under my breath, mad that the battery had finally died, and stood up to find my buddy.
I went inside and called Tim's name, but didn't get a response. Jerk. He probably wandered off again and couldn't hear me. I went to the beginning of the hallway by the stairs and opened the doors one by one. Each one was a bedroom, with varying amounts of furniture. Three of them were fully furnished with beds and dressers or wardrobes, while the other two were nearly empty, with only a small table and a lamp in them. I continued down the hallway, calling Tim's name, until I got to the last door. If he wasn't in here, I'd have to check downstairs.
I opened the door, but the windows were covered by thick curtains that only allowed in a sliver of sunlight. I was hit with a strong metallic odor, a scent that was meaty, iron-like, and warm. Blood, I realized, feeling my stomach knot painfully. I fumbled around in the dark, sliding my hand along the wall to search for a light switch. I found it, clicked it, and screamed at the sight before me.
Jim was sprawled out on the floor next to the bed, his chest and stomach ripped open, intestines oozing from the gaping wound. There was so much blood. It covered his clothes and nearly every inch of his body, as well as a large portion of the beige carpet. His face was frozen in an eternal expression of fear, his mouth open in a voiceless scream. His eyes were glazed over, fixed at a point on the wall. Following his sightless gaze, I looked at the wall and saw the words “Welcome Home” written in gore.
I stared for what seemed like forever, locked in place by fear. I couldn't breathe, and my head felt so heavy. After I finally regained control of my body, I bolted for the stairs and rushed down them, nearly stumbling. I couldn't think. What the fuck had killed Tim? Why didn't I hear anything?
I made it to the front door and escaped outside, running as fast as I could toward the reservoir. It was only when I reached it and saw no one there, that I realized it was getting dark out already. How long had I been gone? It had been daylight when I woke up at the house. I found my way to the high school, and to a payphone across the street. I struggled with the idea of calling my mother or the cops, but what the hell could I tell them? That I went into a creepy house with my friend and fell asleep and now my friend was dead? How could I explain that? Instead, I walked home, crying my eyes out and hid in my bedroom until I calmed down.
After that incident, I was traumatized. I couldn't sleep because I was haunted by the sight of Tim ripped open and splattered all over the room. I never told anyone what had happened until now, because I was afraid that revealing it would make it all real. At least if I didn't tell anyone, I could pretend I imagined the whole thing. Tim was filed as a missing person and his mother thinks he ran away. The other kids from school think he overdosed on pills. None of them had seen him follow me into the woods.
Yesterday marked fourteen long years since Tim's death. I've mostly gotten over the pain of seeing his body, but I'm still bothered by two things. When I think of the message that was scrawled on the wall, I know whatever wrote it left it there for me. I don't even want to think of what purpose it had. The worst part is, that in the wee hours of the night, when I think about that house, I feel that same melancholic homesickness that I felt as a child, only now, I know where my home is.
Submitted September 08, 2016 at 02:10AM by Nancybugx6 http://ift.tt/2ce2fxs nosleep
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