The Abel House

One

You know, when someone tries to convince you that something is good for you, it usually is not good for you. Truth is, it’s good for them—them being, whoever is spitting the lies, whoever is weaving the story. Them could be anyone—anyone at all—but for me it was my mother.

Mom claimed I needed a change of scenery, but that was bull. The fact was that I most certainly did not need a change of scenery. I loved the city! I loved everything about it! And besides, what did a “change of scenery” even mean? It was defined as moving locations… so why couldn’t we go to Long Island for the weekend? Why did she have to send me to Oregon? To live with Dad?

And yes, so I didn’t hate my father, but we hardly even spoke. He was estranged. And weird. He often got so caught up in something that he would forget about everything else in his life; now he was obsessed with hotels. Particularly—having one.

Despite not having a business degree or knowing anything about running a hotel, he wanted one. And if he wanted one, that meant that he was going to have one.

He had found this really old house up in Oregon that he’d been in the process of restoring for the past few months. Dad had bought it cheap because everyone else had pretty much given up on it, but not Dad. Dad was freaking crazy.

The house was big—I’d seen pictures—with maybe thirty rooms and fifteen baths. Dad, in his emails, explained that it had first been the mansion of an oil tycoon, and then later an orphanage. Apparently the orphanage closed down in the 60s for some reason, and no one had been in the house since. Interesting stuff, but I hadn’t asked my dad for a history lesson. I just wanted to see where I was being shipped off to. And this was to Oregon. To an old, old house.

Jeez.

This really was rock bottom. Why couldn’t my mom just have put me in military school like a normal parent? That would’ve been better. At least there would’ve been other kids around. Stuff to do. In my case, there was nothing. Not even neighbors; the house was located ten miles from the closest town.

The town previously spoken of, Cape Mary, was one Dad used to live in. When I was younger, I would come visit during the summer. It was a barren, cold place with little entertainment. Because of my boredom, Dad and I went camping often—all the time, actually. I loved it… running, catching lightning bugs, fishing, setting tents. The woods felt like my home.

And then there was a gap in my memory. Blackness. A question mark. And the camping stopped. Dad moved away, Mom wouldn’t let me speak to him often, and Dad and I drifted apart. There was never a direct explanation as to why. Maybe I had just grown up.

But now, he was back at Cape Mary, after nearly ten years. Back to Oregon. Back to the start.

I shook my head at the cursed fate that awaited me. Oh, cruel Oregon. It was pure torture to live in the city bliss of NYC, to witness nirvana, only to have it ripped away, to be forced to live in Cape Mary.

Was this even legal? Was this not child abuse?

Mom had primary custody. If I called the courts, could I get out of it?

Maybe it will only be for the summer, I thought, pointedly ignoring the man snoring next to me on the plane (I had no idea how he even managed to find comfort in these stiff plane seats). And then, in August, I’d be back in New York. I could convince my mom that I’d cleaned up my act in three months, right?

Right?

I mean, I wanted to, I had to fix myself, but… what if I couldn’t? What if making oneself better was an impossible sort of saying, created by the devil himself? What then? Would I just be stuck in Cape Mary?

The man next to me shuffled in his sleep, and I scowled even deeper. He smelled. I hadn’t thought this could get any worse. And yet…

He then let out a small, yet pleasant sigh. This drew my attention.

I stared at him intensely, a bit confused. Very confused. I didn’t get it… How was he in such a deep slumber? How was he not displeased at being crammed in a tight spot? How was he okay with all of it?

Desperately, I searched for an answer by comparing the two of us. What was the difference? Why was he better? Was it because he was a man? Because he was bigger? Fatter?

Older?

A disturbing thought then hit me—maybe I had to live for a very long time in order to be happy.

I dismissed that instantly. What was wrong with me, getting all sad like that? I was supposed to be angry. I was angry.

I am angry, I affirmed to myself, and spent the rest of the six hour plane ride stewing in silence. How dare my mother do this? How dare my father live in Cape Mary? How dare they take me from my friends, from my life… how dare them.

Even when we landed, I was still pissed off.

After grabbing my carry-on, I stomped out of the terminal and down to luggage claim. People stepped out of my way; I heard things being muttered about me. I was too mad to care. I just wanted to be out of this stupid airport and to have this punishment done and over with.

It took a bit of navigating, though I managed to find my way to baggage claim on my own. Upon getting there, I took note of the fact that my belongings were not on the conveyor belt. And this had me clenching my fists. Where were they?

“Hey,” I said to some lady standing by me. “Is the New York luggage coming next?”

“When did you land?” she asked.

“Just now.”

At this, she shook her head. “You aren’t next then. Me and the rest of the Baltimore flight have been waiting for our things for the past twenty minutes.”

This did not improve my mood, but I tried not to take it out on her. “Great, thanks,” I said, turning away.

The area around us had gotten pretty crowded by then, with all of the New York people coming in. I had a bit of a problem with small spaces, so I stepped back and away from everyone, going to sit in the corner. There was no point in standing right by the conveyor belt. My things wouldn’t be here for what seemed to be a while.

This really sucked.

“Reagen!”

My entire body went still at the sound of my name. No. No way. God was testing me. I could not deal with him right now. Nope. Not after being taken from New York, not after that six hour flight, not after having to wait for my luggage.

I made a quick decision and pretended to not have heard the call and put on my headphones. I wasn’t the hugest fan of rap, but it could be loud, and it was the first thing that showed up in Pandora, so I pressed on that.

soothing cuss words of Jay-Z quickly filled my ears, and I let out a sigh of relief. If I couldn’t hear my father, then he wasn’t here.

Someone touched me and forced the headphones off. My father’s face appeared in front of my own. “Reagen!” he said.

I smiled thinly. “Hi.”

Instead of helping me up, Dad took a seat next to me. “Hi,” he greeted. “Am I late? Your mother sent me the flight times.”

“You aren’t late.”

“Great! Awesome!”

“It sure is,” I said and spared a glance at him.

My father was a slight man, all skin and bones. He was tall, too, which made him look even thinner, and that wasn’t a compliment. He was very awkward and always wore clothes that were too big, which made it seem as though he had inherited his clothing from an older brother, but I didn’t have an uncle, and I was well aware that my father bought his clothing in such a way.

He had a long and slim nose, which hooked out at the end; it looked a bit like the beak of a crow, or a curlew. He wore gold-colored spectacles that always hung on for dear life at the edge of said nose. His eyes were constantly wide open, like he was looking at something magnificent, and they were dark brown.

Something that was new to his face, which had come since the last time we’d met, was a dark mustache. It was a scruffy sort of thing that then had a few crumbs stuck in it. I found, immediately, that I did not like it. I wanted for him to shave it off.

Unfortunately, for me, I had inherited a few of my father’s features; I had his eye color and his bad vision, but I wore contacts, I was very slim and tall, but I made sure to buy things that would suit my figure, my nose was a little longer than usual, but it was nothing like my father’s. Thankfully, I did not have his mustache.

Apparently Dad had been studying me as well because he said, “You look different.”

“It’s been a year,” I told him.

“I know, but still. You look different.”

I considered his words. “Good different?” I asked.

“Good different,” he affirmed.

At this, I nodded and glanced back at the crowd. “They’re backed up on luggage,” I informed him. “They’re stuck on the past flight.”

“Oh, okay. So how do you like Oregon? What do you think about coming to live here?”

In horror, I realized that my father was attempting to speak to me, and that he expected responses that were longer than one sentence. I had to stop this. “Dad,” I said. “Why don’t you go try and wait by the luggage conveyor? I’ll stay back here.”

He nodded, springing to his feet. He seemed very overeager; he probably just felt guilty because he was never around. “Sure thing,” he said. “I’ll come over when I’ve got it!”

“Take your time,” I said to him, but my dad was already gone.

Thank God.

I put my headphones back on but changed the music channel to something a bit lighter. I figured I had maybe ten minutes to myself before my dad returned, and I needed to calm down in that time.

So I tried counting—that didn’t work—and I was about to start meditating when—

“Got it!” my dad called, parting his way through the crowd as if he were Moses. He carried my big suitcase in his arms successfully, and I stood to meet him. I was frowning. It only felt like he’d been gone for a few seconds.

“Let’s go,” I said with a sigh, pulling along my carry-on.

He nodded and waddled with me behind him to the airport exit. The weight of my suitcase was crushing his thin frame with every step, which I could tell through his hissed breaths and pained face. I almost didn’t say it, but I felt guilty, so I reluctantly opened my mouth. “Dad,” I said with a sigh. “It has wheels. You don’t have to carry it.”

He paused, surprise flickering over his face, then, a moment later, dropped my luggage. I cringed at the loud noise it made on the floor, and at the attention the noise drew to us. I didn’t like people staring at me.

Quickly, I showed my dad the handle and put the thin bar into his hands. Miraculously, he comprehended how to grip the handle and how to tug on the suitcase. Once he understood what to do, we were out of there. Thankfully.

When we made it to his car, I noted that he still owned his crappy SUV, which was terrible for the environment. I’d told him to get rid of it years ago, but he insisted he needed it.

“This is bad for the environment, you know,” I said to my dad as he loaded my things in the trunk.

“I know,” he said in a let it drop tone.

My lips pressed together thinly, and I climbed into the front seat. He joined me soon after.

“How long is the drive?” I asked.

He considered. “Maybe forty minutes. Don’t look so glum—it gives us time to catch up!”

“Yeah, I’m going to listen to music,” I said, placing my headphones back onto my ears before he could protest. I was being rude, but I was too angry to really care. I blamed him for this—for all of this.

I felt his gaze on the side of my face, which I pointedly ignored. The car started moments later, and soon we were on our merry way.

I observed the land out the window as we drove. If I had to pick one word to describe it, it would be this: Green. Trees were everywhere, and where there weren’t trees there were shrubs and bushes. Everything was growing crazily, all over the place.

It was bizarre to see. The only trees I had been around recently were in Central Park, and those were neatly trimmed for best viewing experience. It was nothing like this. Needless to say, I was going through a bit of a culture shock.

I hadn’t been to Oregon since I was maybe five; Dad was always moving around to suit his weird compulsions—he moved to a crappy apartment in LA for his surfer phase five years back, he moved to Maryland for his crab fisher phase two years ago… the list went on and on. He could never stick to one thing for long. He just moved here nine months ago, and I hadn’t visited.

Turning up my music, I closed my eyes to block out the trees. I tried to force myself asleep, but I only stayed under for a few minutes at a time; I was too alert and bothered by everything going around me. Soon, I found myself blinking and refocusing on the world.

Through the windshield, I saw a break in the trees up ahead, and this caught my attention. I took my headphones off. “Is this it?” I asked. “The house?”

“Yeah,” he said.

In anticipation, I tensed for the turn. I was nervous and excited to see the place in person. Mad, I reminded myself. I was mad, too.

We turned onto a long, paved driveway. I sat forward in my seat to get the best view to take it all in.

My new home—temporary home, I corrected myself sternly—was a very large and Victorian structure. From what I could see, there were at least four floors with around five to ten rooms per floor. Of course, this was just a rough estimate, as I had yet to enter.

The house was made of brick and said bricks had colored slightly with age but appeared solid all around. The front door was crimson red and had a fancy, large knocker placed on the dead center of it. It stuck out sorrily.

Looking upwards, there were many windows with white panes. They were old and cracked a little and I had the sense that my dad hadn't had the time to restore them yet. I wondered what else needed to be fixed.

The outside was pretty enough. There were rose bushes planted all about, and I could tell that they were new by the fresh soil sticking out by the low stems. The red roses matched the door and helped make it seem less out of place.

There were also many trees sprawled about. The house was surrounded by a thick forest on all sides, leaving little area for a yard. The only place where there wasn't any vegetation was the long, winding driveway.

To the right and back a bit, there was a large shed, and this was colored a dark grey. I assumed Dad put his tools in there. It was big enough to hold a car, though, and so I couldn't help if more was housed inside. I wanted to ask, but I managed to stop myself and refocused on the manor.

I had to acknowledge that there was something ominous about this place—for chrissake, it seemed like something out of a horror film. There was something eerily familiar, as well.

“Have I been here before?” I asked as we continued up the driveway.

“Why would you say that?” Dad replied.

“Just a feeling.”

He glanced at me, then back at the road, quickly. “Well, you haven’t been here before. But you’ve seen it in pictures.”

“Yeah… that’s probably it.”

We cruised to a stop at the top of the eternity-length driveway. There was a loop paved by the house, so we could turn around easily and never had to back out of said driveway. That was good; I could imagine my dad getting into a bad accident without this feature.

Dad turned off the engine and then let out a little sigh, causing me to peer at him. He stared forward.

“I think you’ll be happy here, okay?” he said.

“Okay,” I replied tensely.

I thought that he wanted to say something else, and he actually began to, but my dad quickly changed his mind and said instead, “Let’s get your stuff inside. I’m sure you’ll want to unpack and get all set in.”

“Sure,” I said, holding my phone tightly in one hand while opening the car door with the other. Part of me noticed my dad go around to the pack to retrieve my suitcase, but I didn’t go to help; I was too preoccupied staring up at my new home.

I couldn’t explain why, but it felt different to be looking at it from outside of the car and out from behind a sheet of glass. The sight of the house made something churn in my stomach… and it wasn’t exactly a bad churning, just a churning, a turning of emotions and thoughts that I couldn’t quite understand.

Once again, familiarity hit me, and I wondered why that was. I couldn’t remember ever having been here, but it really, really seemed like…

“Reagen,” Dad said from behind me, startling me out of my thoughts.

I turned, snapping, “What?”

He frowned at the attitude and handed me the house key. “Can you help me with the door?” he asked, eyes falling to my baggage.

“Fine,” I said, walking up to the house, ignoring how the churning intensified as I moved closer. I stepped up to the front door and slid the key into the lock, turning and with a click, opened the door.

Slowly, I entered, moving to the side to hold the door open as I observed my surroundings. It was clear that some remodeling was being done—there were tarps and tools all over the place, and a ladder off in the distance. To the right of me was a big staircase that went up to what seemed like at least three more levels.

The floors were old and wooden, and the walls were currently painted a sad blue. There was little to no furniture where I was right then—probably because of all of the work my dad was doing to the area—except for a small table right by the staircase.

The foyer led into, from what I could see, three separate areas—one in front of me, one to the right of me, and one behind me, leading to the left area of the house. I was a little excited to see where everything led to and to do some exploring, but I was careful to hide it as my dad finally got in and shut the door behind him.

He set my suitcase up against the stairs and then held his hand out, waiting. “Keys,” he said.

I handed them over, watching him place them on the table I’d noticed before. “Big place,” I commented as his back was turned. Then, curiously, looking to see if there was an echo, I shouted, “Big!”

There wasn’t an echo, and I was just loud. So I felt pretty stupid.

My dad turned around with a frown. “Indoor voice. You don’t need to scream.”

Well, he was right, but I didn’t like him telling me what to do. Why was he trying to boss me around, anyway? What gave him the right? “That is my indoor voice,” I replied with narrowed eyes.

He sighed and raised his hands to rub the bridge of his nose for a few seconds. When he was done, he gave me a hard stare. “Look, I know that you’re upset to be here, but you’ve got to behave yourself.”

I turned away, rolled my eyes, and mouthed quietly to myself, you’ve got to behave yourself.

If he saw what I did, he didn’t say anything. What he did say was, “How does a tour sound?”

“Sounds fine,” I replied. “But I’m a little tired.”

“It was a long flight,” he said.

“Yeah.”

Dad hesitated for a moment—filling us in an awkward silence—before saying, “Let me show you this floor, then I can take you to your room. I can show you everything in more depth later on, after you’ve slept.”

I nodded and followed him forward. My dad was walking now into the north area I’d seen before, which led into a kitchen. I looked around for a bit at the nice table and chairs and old, yet hardy, cabinets. My earlier sense of adventure had quickly faded, and now tired disinterest drifted over me as I took everything in.

I watched my dad show me where the spoons were and how he stored the pots and pans. I made remarks, timed correctly, such as, “Cool,” and, “Okay,” as he spoke and moved about—even though I really wasn’t listening to anything he was saying; it was a talent I had learned throughout the years of my mother lecturing.

He took me into another area, which was the dining room apparently. He then showed me the living room and then took me to a library without any books. “I’m still buying them,” he had explained to me sheepishly.

“Cool,” I said again.

He must have known I really didn’t care because he said that he wanted to show me my room. I followed him up the stairs to the next level and down the hall. He opened the door, allowing for me to step inside.

My eyes went wide, and the ghastly churning came right back to my stomach, except I knew what emotion it was this time: Disgust.

Oh, no…

The room—that is, the room that I was supposed to sleep in for the entire summer—was all pink. As in, everything—the walls, the rug, the bedding, the dresser. It was pink.

“Do you like it?” my dad asked nervously from behind me.

I couldn’t even pretend to. “It looks like the inside of a stomach!” I exclaimed in horror.

Unable to believe it, I walked forward, grasping the pink desk chair, forcing myself to understand that it was real. It was real! It was solid!

“I thought you liked pink,” Dad said.

Turning to meet his eyes, I saw that he actually looked a little hurt. I tried to tell myself that he must have worked hard to put this room together, but I was too overcome with shock to really care. “Yeah, when I was nine!” I cried, moving away to get another look at the tragedy before me.

Oh, God.

I moved onto the bed and took a seat, feeling the plush, pink blanket under my hands. This was cruel and unusual punishment. Mom had to have told him how much I didn’t like pink and set this whole thing up.

Dad shuffled his feet, drawing my weary attention. “Well, uh, I’m real sorry, Reagen,” he said. “I didn’t know.”

“I’m tired,” I replied pointedly, angry that he had created this cell for me. I wanted him to leave me alone.

“Right,” he said quickly, nodding. “Right. Well, I’ll, uh, be downstairs.”

Dad left the room and shut the door behind him, leaving me to deal with the disgusting scene around me. It was just… I couldn’t think of a word to describe it all. I shook my head as I took it in.

Even the alarm clock was pink!

A sudden sense of exhaustion overwhelmed me. My body was tired from the flight, tired from the drive, tired from dealing with my dad, and tired of the emotional trauma I had just endured.

I kicked my shoes off with a bit of effort and crawled under the… ugh… pink covers. My eyes shut, things went dark, and I pretty much instantly went to sleep.

I had a terrible dream.

In this dream, I was in my new, pink bedroom, lying in my new, pink bed, when I heard a noise. It was distant and faint, but a noise, granted, and it startled me into sitting up and straining my ears. It came again; it sounded desperate and pathetic, and it sounded like it belonged to something living—but barely living. On the verge of death living.

At first I was too scared to get out of bed—and it was warm under my covers, anyway—but the noise kept going, getting louder and louder, and I came to realize that it sounded distinctly like someone crying. Finally, too concerned to ignore it any longer, I pushed my blankets aside, stood up, and exited my room. I shut my door quietly behind me and slowly but surely began to follow the noise.

The floorboards creaked mercilessly under my weight, but this didn’t deter or even cause me to pause in my task. Now that I was out of the bed… Well, it was like I was possessed; I couldn’t stop walking. Something was pulling me towards the cries.

I went down the old stairs, hands clasped tightly on the railing, to prevent myself from falling. My ears started to hurt a little from all of the wailing; the sobs weren’t stopping and rather became louder as I drew near. As I traveled down the staircase, I wondered—who was in the house? How had they gotten in? What had happened?

For some reason—again, it had to be some form of possession—I didn’t feel at all worried, or as though I should call the police. I didn’t feel threatened. I was only mildly curious as to who it was that was in here and why they were so sad.

Upon reaching the first level, the cries led me to the front closet of the house. At least… I assumed it was a closet; Dad had never actually opened this door for me when he was showing me around, and it was shut firmly now. What laid inside was unknown to me.

When I approached it, I instantly reached for the knob—but before I could even touch it, the door flung open! With a small gasp, I saw that the closet wasn’t empty and that there was someone sitting in the corner, in the dark. It was a sorry sight of a human being, one which hurt my heart; the person’s soul seemed to be so broken that they held their arms tightly around their body, attempting to keep every limb together. Trying not to lose any more parts.

It appeared to be a girl that was weeping, which I could tell from long, curled blonde hair and laced night dress. A young girl, I believed, by her size and by the high pitch of her voice.

For a few moments, I could only stare, and then I took a deep breath. “Are you okay?” I asked finally and quietly.

The girl stiffened, but she didn’t look up; she kept her head securely tucked into her arms. I heard her cries drift off. She didn’t respond.

“What happened?” I went on. “Are you okay? Are you all right?” No response again, and so I stepped forward an inch, and then finally—

“Why won’t you help me?” she whispered.

I didn’t really understand what she had said at first. I thought that maybe I hadn’t heard her correctly. But, under a few seconds, I pieced the words together and inquired, “What?”

“Why won’t you help me?” she repeated into her arms, a little angrier. “Why won’t you help us?”

“Help you…?” I echoed. “What are you talking about? Are you okay? Do you need me to get someone?”

She was quiet for a few seconds—enough for me to feel unsettled—and then she finally began to lift her head. With her face clear, I could see a small circle in the smack center of her forehead. Blood dripped out of it swiftly, smearing down her face, into her eyes, and down her cheeks onto her night dress.

It was a gunshot wound.

Immediately, I gasped, stepping backwards and putting my hands up, trying desperately to put distance between the two of us. I knew that I should want to help her, should go right up to her and give her a hug and call the police, but she couldn’t possibly be alive with such an injury. And so she had to be dead, now. She had to be dead.

I was terrified out of my mind, and maybe she could tell. The little girl scowled at me and began to shake her head. As she did this, I noticed that there was half of her skull missing on the back of her head. Brain clung to blonde hair, which was reddened from blood… I couldn’t believe it, but the front of her face was actually better to look at.

After a few more seconds, she finished shaking, and she took a step towards me. Again, I took a step back.

She took a step forward. “Why won’t you look at me?” she asked.

I couldn’t respond I was so afraid—afraid of this little dead girl, who had to be eight years old at the most. I couldn’t help it—for crissake, she was dead. The only instinct my body could act upon was flight. I had to get away.

I moved backwards once more.

She put her hands on her hips and stepped forward.

“Please stop,” I said and went to move back, only to find that I was pressed up against the staircase.

The girl was right up in front of me with narrowed eyes. A foot shorter, yet still intimidating. She asked, “Why are you trying to get away from me? Why won’t you help me?”

“Please leave me alone! I—I don’t know how to help you,” I managed.

“Yes you do,” she said with miserable eyes. “You know exactly what to do, but you won’t let yourself do it. I won’t let you forget about me.”

I couldn’t respond any longer; I had nowhere to go, and my mouth suddenly refused to work. I could only watch her face contort in such anger.

She had expected a response, and, now that she hadn’t gotten it, she was furious. “You can’t get away from me!” she screamed and stomped her foot immaturely. “You can’t get away! You can’t!”

Her entire body turned red from blood as she chanted and yelled at me. “You can’t leave! You can’t get away!”

“Stop! Stop, please!” I cried, but she didn’t listen. Her mouth opened widely as she let out a shriek and jumped on me. My head hit the ground and—

And I woke up in a hot sweat in bed. I sat there with a racing heart and wide eyes, desperately trying to forget my dream—because all dreams could be forgotten so easily. But this dream would not go; it clung to me like wet clothes on dry skin.

Everything that had happened, everything that that little dead girl had said, everything that I had said… It was all so clear. It was scorched into my mind. It felt real. Had it been real?

No, that was impossible. That kid had been dead. It was a dream. It had to be a dream.

I couldn’t get out of the bed for a few minutes. Maybe ten, twenty. I kept waiting for my heart to slow down and for my breathing to become regular, but it wouldn’t. Eventually, I calmed; I had to calm, or else I would have died from hyperventilation.

And when I was calm, I tore the sheets off of me and exited the room as quickly as I could. My bedroom felt like poison. I thought that maybe if I got out of there, I would be able to forget what had happened.

I darted down the staircase, one hand on the rail to keep myself from falling. An extreme, if not fatal, sense of déjà vu overcame me as I walked, and when I got downstairs the sense had intensified to making my heart race once again. I knew why; this was exactly what had happened in my dream, and I was scared that what had happened there would happen in real life.

With a deep breath, I told myself to calm down. I was acting like a child, and I knew it. To prove this to myself, I gave myself a task, to look at the closet where the little girl had been. When I did that, I would be able to see that everything was all in my head.

So I ignored the unsettling feeling in my gut, and I looked over at the door from my dream. At the sight of it, my eyes widened, and my mouth went dry, and my hands turned clammy, and I thought for a very serious, very long moment that I might actually be sick.

The door was open.