A Strange House in the Mountains
I have hiked those mountains a dozen times, never seeing any buildings or cabins. One night when the moon was waxing, almost full, I spied what appeared to be a building. No ordinary building, it seemed rather small yet, somewhat gothic; a lamp was burning beside the front door and danging from it were dried vines; Long sinewy specters dangling from every crevice and curl that adorned the building. In fact, the entire building was covered, from top to bottom in them.
I could swear it had never been there before but, where it’s located, I could have easily missed it, among the trees. It was getting dark rather quickly and I knew I would not get back to my campsite and that ring around the moon signaled rain, so I thought I might procure a place to bed down there; perhaps even get a meal. Finding no bell, I knocked on the door.
When the door opened, I felt rather bad for even thinking about a meal, for the man who answered the knock looked somewhat like a living skeleton. My first thought was to walk away; this man couldn’t possibly offer me a meal, as clearly he could barely afford enough food to eat, himself.
“I’ve been hiking and it’s getting late; I’m quite a way from my campsite and wondered if I might bed down here, as it appears that it may rain? I’ll be glad to pay you. I’m Jack, Jack Harned.” I offered my hand. He shook it and a chill crept up my spine, as his flesh was as cold as...death.
“Come in, please, I’m Ralph Braithwiate, you’re welcome to stay the night here, at no expense. Are you hungry?” He asked, rather cordially, as an eerie smile spread across his emaciated face.
“I...uh...” I couldn’t bring myself to take this poor guy’s food, “ah...no thanks, I have a couple of cheese sandwiches and a bottle of water with me. I’ll just eat that but, thanks anyway.”
“Suit yourself.” He replied. “You can sleep in the den, if you’d like; there’s a daybed in there that is quite comfortable.” He pointed to a dark room to the right of the foyer.
“Thanks, I promise not to be any trouble.” I replied and walked into the room. I heard no footsteps, as the gas lit lamp on the wall came on. Who uses gas lighting anymore? I wondered.
“It’s a bit chilly around here at night,” he said, “I’ll get a couple of blankets for you.”
I turned to thank him and saw that he was already gone. The place was gothic all right, everything in there seemed to be made of exotic wood, and it had old wooden paneling that looked mahogany. I went to the daybed, took off my backpack and jacket, and sat down. I was startled when he returned and said, “Here are your blankets, would you like me to start a fire?”
“Uh, no, I don’t think I’ll need one. It seems pretty comfortable in here and I have plenty of clothing; the blankets should be fine, thanks.”
“Where’s the bathroom?” I asked. “I’d like to brush my teeth.” I held up my brush and paste.
“Bathroom?”
“Uh, the toilet.” I explained.
“Oh, it’s out in the back.” Came the reply.
“An outhouse?” He looked at me strangely.
“Yes, I can show it to you.” He turned and I told him that it wasn’t necessary; I’d find it.
“Well, should you need anything, I’ll be upstairs. Just give a shout.” With that, he seemed to glide out of the door.
I must be seeing things, I thought to myself. I shoved my toothbrush and the paste back into my backpack, took a swig of water and laid down, covering myself with both blankets. My last thought before drifting off, was that it was a comfortable daybed.
“Aiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
A blood-curdling scream echoed through the old house, startling me awake. I leapt up, knocking the blankets into the floor. Something, clearly, had happened to the old man. Was there someone else in the house? I grabbed my bowie knife from my backpack and located the stairway to the second floor. Creeping up as quietly as I could, carefully adhering to the side of each step, so as not to make a sound, I made my way to the bedrooms. I looked slowly and carefully into each one; the old man was nowhere to be found and neither was anyone else. I could’ve sworn that the scream had come from within the house.
Making my way back downstairs, I found my way to the back door; I could see the moonlight glinting off the top of the outhouse shingles but didn’t see the old man. I stepped outside, walked part of the way around the house and still, no one was in sight, so I reentered the back doorway. I looked out of the front window, the den window and a couple of others, seeing nothing. I sat down on the daybed, gathering up the blankets and puzzling over what I’d experienced. Perhaps it was a bird, a peacock or something like it, that I had heard but where was my host?
I must’ve fallen back to sleep, at some point because, I awoke at daybreak leaning sideways on the daybed with my feet still on the floor and the bowie knife still in my hand. The house was silent, no footsteps or the smell of anything cooking, not even the smell of coffee. I pulled together my things and pulled on my jacket. I folded the blankets, left them on the daybed, and walked into the living room, hoping to find my host but there was no one.
In the kitchen, I thought I’d find him fixing his breakfast but again, it was empty. I noticed for the first time, the old iron pipe-stove. There was no refrigerator, no dishwasher, nothing modern, just antiques. Walking into the hallway, I called out, “Mr. Braithwaite! Ralph, I just wanted to thank you before I left.” There was no reply.
It was then that I seemed to be drawn to the stairway. Perhaps I should see if he’s okay, the sun would be up soon yet, he wasn’t awake. Again, I ascended, careful not to make any noise and startle him.
When I got to the landing, I peeked into the first room; no one was there, the bed was fully made, as before. I progressed on to the next room, again the same, empty.
That one at the end of the hallway must be his; I thought to myself and moved on towards it. When I looked in, I got the scare of my life. There, on the bed, lay a thin, half-decayed mummy; it was Ralph Braithwaite! Beside him, a female in the same condition. It must’ve been his wife.
I sprinted for the stairs and was outside in seconds. Heading for my campsite, I was determined to let the police know about the bodies. The strangest thing was that when the police helicopter I was in hours later, hovered over the exact place where the house should have been, I saw nothing but a woody landscape.
The next time I went hiking, was two years later. In a clearing, near where the house was, I saw a couple of other hikers coming towards me. When I reached them to introduce myself, a chill ran up my spine; it was the Braithwaites, only they were alive, in living flesh! I found it strange that Mr. Braithwaite, acted as though he’d never met me.
Copyright, 2019, M.L. Kiser
Comments