The Prisoners.

Sherry loved walking in the back woods; finding old places, forgotten spots, abandoned buildings and not just because of the opportunity to catch spiritual activity (though that was her MAIN goal) Sherry simply loved old things; old books, papers, furniture, bridges buildings, music...you name it. The mustier, more rickety or ancient, the better.  She felt at home, comforted and relaxed by its past energy. Somehow it felt safe and slow which was just what she wanted in this day and age of "instants". 

Wandering through the brush and off the beaten path, she discovered a trail of rock near a dried creek bed.  It lead her back amid the ravenous rhododendron and cloying ivy to a hulking empty home fighting to stand tall in the middle of nature's recall of the land it once claimed. The home must have been dashing at one time, with its majestic bricked front pillars now loosely grabbing at a flaking, rusted gate. The walkway continued up to a slouching arch covered porch that looked like a worn out shawl draped around the warped bent shoulders of the old home herself; a brick block with four chimneys, intricate carved wood doors splintering like dry cracked lips and black empty window-eyes that sadly stared out at the forest creeping toward it; inside it; to spoil its once stunning glamorous figure.

Inside she found scabs of wall paper, open wounds where vandals had broken the old dame's structure and bones.  Once decadent dark mahogany was now painted, scratched or sun faded.  Pocket doors sagged and lolled less impressively than she imagined they did when a family dinner or banquet was had back in the day. Sheeted furniture sparsely haunted the rooms; the ghosts of more comfortable and peaceful times. She sighed and clicked the recorder she always packed and began to speak to the house; hopeful for some company.

Carefully walking through, she felt changes in temperature, though she could attribute them to the weather outside. She felt skinny little tendrils of fear race along the back of her neck and thought she saw something cautiously following her out of the corner of her eye but she dismissed this of course to nerves and her overactive imagination...with a hint of wishful thinking.  The scratching, no.. it was more like clawing was just a varmint. Yes. That was it. She whispered to the house. She was sorry it was so neglected. She spoke kindly, asking questions to whomever was around...

"Were you happy here? I'm sure it was a lovely home.  Is it okay that I am here? I don't want to hurt anyone. I'm not here to damage anything or take anything. I just want to look.  If I am intruding, please let me know ... please give me a sign..."

Something crashed on the floor above her. Her heart sought refuge in her throat and her breath left her in the dust altogether. She stood for a long moment and listened for the scratching to continue because in her mind that was just it... a critter knocked something over. Her pulse thrummed between her ears, her chest complained at her holding her breath for so long. Then the wind picked up, the jagged filmy curtains began to shoo her away. Her ears pricked at what she thought were voices. She accommodated her lungs once again and rather than tempt fate, she thanked the house, its occupants and said she would be going.  She did mention coming back to visit.

"Perhaps just on your pretty porch...."

Another thump, this time from the floor below.

Sherry did her best to calmly walk out and down the path as if leaving a friend.  Her knees felt like hot rubber springs and her spine tingled.  Once out the gate, she felt better at a modest run, glad to get home.  That night, listening to the recorder she confirmed it; voices. They were jumbled and soft but they were there and seemed to be trying to answer her.  Ecstatic, she made her notes and began to research the area.

The house certainly was a grand old biddy in her day.  It was owned by a successful, though suspected imbalanced shopkeeper, Percival Franks. By his picture, he was a tall man with light hair and piercing light eyes with sharp distinguished jawline and nose; undeniably handsome. His wife Zula, was a dark haired lovely with deep mischievous eyes that crinkled at the corners.  Her mouth was full and pretty with a gentle smile.  According to record, she kept the store in top shape and balanced books despite his torturous mental and physical cruelties, as the town speculated.  Their son, Joseph was a bright lad and the picture pre-tragedy showed a boy of about six with a shock of thick curly dark hair and an open smile. Sherry grinned back and touched the boys cheek.  Following was a bleary snapshot of their daughter, Alice, who was only eleven at the time of the incident. Her hair appeared mousy, her features plain and smeared by the photograph. Her eyes were small, beady and yet captivating; like those of her father.

Plagued by insanity, Percival, it was supposed, beat and abused his entire family. Often Zula and Joseph had cuts or bruises on their faces.  Alice was always seen in long sleeves and frequently noticed to limp.  Though visited many times by police, no one in the home spoke against the man and ultimately, nothing was ever truly done to aid the Franks family until it was too late.  One night in what was believed to be an uncontrollable rage, Percy, it appeared, sliced his young son from ear to ear so deeply that the baby was almost decapitated.  Little Joseph was found in his high seat at the table, his head barely attached to his body and drooping backwards at an unnatural, gruesome angle.  Zula had tried to run from the madman but only made it as far as the pocket doors leading to the library.  Here, it appeared from photos, he pounced, smashed her head repeatedly into the mahogany floor until she lost consciousness. From there, the deranged monster used the blade from his son's slaying to hack and remove as much skin as possible and fill the waste basket next to her quilting chair.  And then there was Alice. It was suspected that she hid upstairs inside one of the dormers' seat cupboards. The young girl was discovered bloody, half starved and shaking only after an exhaustive search of the property and home when townspeople noticed the business had not opened and no one of the family had been seen in two or three days.  Percival was never found and assumed to have run off. Alice, never recovered and as Sherry discovered was still alive in a home for the "unfortunate" sponsored by relatives lucky enough to stay far out of her father's crazed grasp.  Sherry gulped information and took notes until she thought her fingers would bleed.  Then she copied the address of the asylum where Alice was being cared for.

It was a bitterly cold morning as she stood in front of the sterilized building Alice now called home.  After many phone conversations, letters and just a handful more of white lies, Sherry had painted herself a distant relative and gained access to the lone survivor of the Franks' tragedy.

Alice had not changed much. Her face was still plump in the cheeks, her hair was still mousy and limp.  Her eyes were vacant, though sherry noted they would have been a vibrant green had she any spark of life left.  Instead, the thirty year old sat in a drab grey institutional pantsuit with a pale yellow afghan around her slumping shoulders in a room of noncommittal browns and blues while humming a song Sherry couldn't quite hear and rocking back and forth.

Sherry told her of the weather; of things going on in the world and even of lunch that she would have. Then she mentioned the house; that she had been there, visited, spoken to the it and planned to go back.  She asked Alice if there was anything she wanted to convey... a message...

Alice did not respond or react.

"All right then. I'll come back another day, shall I? We'll visit again." She clicked off the recorder, smiled at all the nurses on her way out and made a beeline for the house in the wood.

With a little more defiance, she pushed through the decayed toothy gate and paused on the porch as she had promised.  Sherry reintroduced herself, asked permission and sauntered in.  She then told of her visit. Described the girl and asked if the gentle daughter was missed. Sherry confessed that Alice had suffered greatly by the tragedy, asking if there was remorse.  The answer was a thump and a long set of scratching above her. She followed the sound up the dark sharp staircase and found herself in a long hallway; bedrooms, a parlor, an office and another case upstairs... to the dormers and attic where Sherry found a playroom and what looked like a roughly constructed miniature gallows.

"What a ghastly existence." she muttered to herself, running her hand along the knotted wood. She noticed a bench the children must have had to kneel on while imprisoned.  Closer inspection revealed tiny digs and niches in the bench left by grain. The pain must have been indescribable, unbearable. The scratching continued on the floor below her.  Quickly she raced down the steps and searched but found nothing. The air began to feel heavy and smell like rancid burned sugar. Sherry called out and asked for proof or response. Only the scratching; like digging.  The sun began to dip deep into the trees and Sherry, although brave, was not foolish enough to stay after it set. She said goodbye and went home to listen to the recordings.

The voices were growing louder and more definitive in both response to her questions and clarity.  Sherry replayed and filtered them until she thought she at last heard:

"Are you sorry for what happened here?"

"yes"

"Do you miss Alice?"

"never. help me."

Certain she had found the family and they all were taking turns speaking to her, she quickly made another call and set up an appointment to meet with Alice. 

But nothing would change during their many visits over the next several weeks.  Alice would sit in her chair, usually by the window and rock back and forth while humming. Sherry became comfortable with the woman, reaching out to touch her sleeve or comfort her while asking about the tragedy.

"You are so brave. You are very strong to think to hide from your father. He must have been horrible."

At this, Alice stopped. Sherry prodded but received nothing more from the woman. Having become friendly with the staff, she now paused on her way out for a refreshing two-way chat. She learned from these brief encounters that no one ever came to see the catatonic victim, but the bills were always paid.  The oldest staff members who recalled the family tragedy said that night was the worst they had ever seen.  The girl had been brought in with wild eyes wide as saucers and covered in blood and bits. She was shaking like a leaf and kept putting her fingers to her mouth ~ to stifle a scream they imagined after what she must have witnessed at the hands of her father. she never spoke again. She could be lead around, fed like a child but no reaction ever came from her.  They feared for the longest time that her father would come, to claim her but that talk had long since been silenced.

"He had to answer to Someone." was the end of the conversation.

Back at the old house, the scratching became almost a greeting for Sherry, following her down the halls always remaining out of site. sometimes it was quick and jittery as if writing or trying to communicate and other times it was long slow and lazy as if it was just trailing along, watching. The shadows hovered closer but never stayed long and the EVPs were more clear but soft. They sounded more like a residual haunt because of their repetition:

"Stop."

"Please, no."

and the screams. 

All of them sent icy scrapes along Sherry's flesh and kneaded a heavy lump in her chest; for the family to have suffered so horribly because of that man's sickness.

Then came the call that Alice had gotten an infection. Sherry couldn't see her until she was well.  Instead she went to the house and updated the daughter's condition.

"Are you sad? What if she doesn't get better?"

To listen to them later made her nauseous. 

"No."

"Die."

Although she tried, Sherry couldn't get in for her visits. Alice was deteriorating. The woman had refused to eat and was simply wasting away.  Frantically, Sherry sped to the house and confronted it.

"She will die. It's what you wanted all along you horrible excuse for a human being! You will pay for your sins."

The house seemed to rumble and stir with her anger. The scratching inside the walls became grittier as if trying to get out and get to Sherry rather than playfully chase her or communicate.   There was thudding and screaming from the lower floor and above her came a laugh that froze her blood.  The shadows that had enjoyed eluding her hovered now growing darker and more menacing.  The voices came in eager hisses like a room full of people wanting to share the gruesome secret all at once. Sherry covered her ears and backed away from the thickening black mass in front of her.  It had grown to quite the size... a tall man perhaps? It began to take shape.  As she floundered backward and fumbled toward the door she noticed for the first time a shape in the library; on the floor.  Glancing through to the kitchen, she noticed another figure much smaller as if... sitting in a high chair. Mentally Sherry began to unravel.  she dashed out the door and raced along the path, her arm snagging on the jagged metal gate.  Her lungs burned as they groped for air. Her mind cried out for her legs to carry her faster;  back to her car, back to her own house, back to the living.

She did not visit for more than a week. The voices she recorded had been too terrifying to replay. In fact, she boxed them up and put them in her closet. Most nights Sherry slept with the lights on. She no longer liked to be alone.  She stopped inquiring about Alice's condition, but the call came anyway. Her distant cousin Alice Franks, sole survivor of the savage murder so many years ago, had died due to complications of pneumonia. Sherry sat quietly and mourned for the poor woman and prayed that she would find peace. She was notified of the burial plans and was the only attendee. A small flat stone with her name was placed in a back plot at the oldest corner of the town's cemetery where Sherry placed a small potted gardenia.

It was almost a month later that Sherry finally felt brave enough to go back.  She wanted to tell the house goodbye; pray that all souls had been set free and were able to move on. The day was brilliant and warm as she wound her way through the brush and  up to the gate. It seemed angrier now; ready to snap and bite.  The porch scowled as she approached, the window eyes daring her to approach once more. As she always did, Sherry introduced herself, explained her purpose and stepped inside.  Not much had changed in the passed months. A little more paper peeled away, the corners looked darker and the air felt thicker, more charged. the floor groaned under her feet announcing her arrival.  From upstairs came a soft thud and a light scratch.  Sherry was mildly comforted.

"Well, hello. It's been a long time."

scratch

"I wanted you to know she's gone. Alice. she died." Sherry wandered around to each room.  The shadows shifted and followed behind her.

thud.

"Percy, you killed her. It took a lifetime but you finally killed her."

There was a loud thump and a scurrying like running feet.  

"Joseph? Zula?"

The scratching seemed to crawl up the stairs toward the bedrooms. Sherry followed.  At the top, it became emphatic and harsh; trying to get out.  She knelt down along the hall where it was most pronounced. The thump was so loud that she was knocked off her haunches. She touched the wall.  It was warm and she felt the digging against her hand. She pushed at it.  It thumped and banged. Then the wall bulged and fluttered and gave way.  Sherry fell into the plaster and wood buried almost all the way to her shoulder.  There was a groan and a shudder in the foundation.  Sherry instinctively grabbed at the first thing her hand clutched; soft small, she pulled out a handkerchief with the initials PF embroidered on it.  

Without warning, there was a screech; high and gravelly accompanied by the sound of running up the stairs, toward her. Fear clenched Sherry's stomach. She curled in tighter and awaited the intruder's appearance. Sure this would be the end, she sucked in what she was positive to be her last breath to scream and give one sudden attack before attempting to get passed the devil, down the stairs and hopefully out the door to freedom. Then clear as day she heard a man's voice.

"NO!"

"STOP!"

"PLEASE NO!"

As she looked down where her arm had fractured the wall, a hand flopped out between the boards, dressed in a long sleeved man's business shirt.  In front of her on the floor was a black pool taking shape; a man, dragging himself along the floor, scratching, digging. Trailing him was a dark smudge.  Up the stairs came a quick short shadow swinging something above it's head wildly. Sherry watched in horror as the form of a young Alice jumped into view and attacked the longer shadow; of her father.  With glee and eagerness, she wielded a blade, hacking and laughing until her father stopped moving. When it was over. she smoothed her hair and cocked her head, smearing a crimson ribbon along her cheek and down her pasty dress. She giggled again and took another swing.  The body absorbed the blow without complaint. Then Alice smiled, got up and began to bury her not so crazed father in the wall. 

Sherry watched the grotesque movie play on before her. It hadn't been Percival at all. For so many years, everyone assumed Zula, Joseph and Alice had been victims of a mentally infected, brutal father.

They were all wrong. The prisoners belonged to Alice.

With a last, hungry glance in Sherry's direction, the young girl dragged and crammed her father's body in to a hole she smashed in the wall and began to rebuild.  It must have taken  her a couple of days.  Sherry sat frozen, watching the truth of the Franks' tragedy play out in front of her like a chilling snuff film. When at last the little demon was finished, she wandered up the stairs to await discovery. Certain the show was over, Sherry stood and slowly descended the stairs, walked out the gaping front door and down the walk.  She pulled the snaggled gate closed, leaving behind the troubled house and the secrets it swallowed.

Well, this is it. I've gutted, rewritten and now rid myself of this stubborn piece.  It's not  bad considering all I've done to it. But those are secrets of the notebook... not to be shared... ha.
I like the twist ~ works better than what I had at the beginning, believe me. So thanks for hanging in there with me. Writer's block stinks but thanks for the encouragement and help along the way. You guys are fabulous.  I do hope you enjoyed it and maybe even got a little case of the heebie jeebies.  Creepy is soooo fun.

Until next time, be good to yourself. Thanks for visiting. It's always nice to spend a little time with you.