Verdigris covered the ancient bronze doorknocker and knob, just as thickly as rust coated the wrought iron fence that surrounded the property. Spanish moss hung from the bent boughs of ancient oaks amid waist-high weeds. The flagstones that once lead to the now sagging porch were upturned and blanketed in thick red mud.
The little white paint that remained was peeling off, the boards underneath it having long ago faded to a nondescript gray. Broken windows, like hollow eyes stared balefully out, across the overgrown grounds at Harper Street.
The street had been a major thoroughfare in its day, but that day had passed with horse-drawn carriages. It now sported a few ramshackle buildings that housed a pool hall, an adult bookstore, and other less savory enterprises. Even the hookers and drug addicts averted their eyes when they passed the house, and none of the inner city's denizens could have been induced to jump the gate and enter the old house for neither love nor money.
The current population knew nothing of the house, its age, purpose, or grisly history. They only knew that it was a bad place, from whispered rumors and, perhaps, collective memory of the evil that had been done there in a grim past that laid beyond living memory.
Mary Carter, curator of the city's historical sites register and amateur historian, did know about it. At least, she knew as much as could be garnered from the surviving records and accounts of the Halloween night, back in 1803, when the house's terrible secret had been discovered. She sat in her black Camry, pouring over the back-taxes and liens on the property. There was no owner; the last member of the Hobbs family had died with no heirs back in 1923. Strangely, the taxes had been paid religiously by an unknown person up until 1993.
Although she doubted the veracity of the rumor, it was thought that the city's Point Hill Church had been making the payments. In '93, the last priest had passed away. Rather than send a replacement, the Diocese had simply sent the remaining congregation to the New Church in Goshen, and sold the old building to the City, a minor transaction in their huge cost-cutting plans for the region.
Mary put her hardhat and safety goggles on. She went back to the trunk and retrieved her tool belt, clipboard and the foot-long Maglite. The house was clearly a historic site, but as so many over the past years, the city hadn't been able to fund restoration, and had ultimately allowed decay to win. But thanks to a grant from the History Channel, the department was flush with cash, for once, and she immediately thought of this place. She would have to make a preliminary inspection and give an estimate on what it would cost to restore, and if her estimate wasn't too exorbitant, her boss, Sandra Veers, would retain a construction company for a detailed estimate.
Mary was very careful and watchful as she approached the ancient gate. This was one of the worst areas in town, and muggings were commonplace. A gang called The Lords had taken over recently, and all kinds of crime had skyrocketed. Unlike many gangs, this one was racially heterogenous; the only thing that distinguished members was the number and types of crime you could commit. According to her friend over at DSS, each of the fanciful tattoos they wore signified some act of violence or theft. In the case of the house, that criminality worked to her advantage, since no one had ever inquired about buying it for development after the payments stopped and the city had seized it.
The gate was held shut with a thick stainless steel chain and heavy-duty padlock. From her pocket, Mary retrieved the key, and with only a little fuss, the lock gave.
As she stepped onto the grounds, a chill passed through her that made her raise her shoulders. The street outside became almost hazy, as if she was looking at it through a bubble. Turning to the house after wrapping the chain back through and relocking it, she felt herself being watched. Again she looked at the broken windows and saw them as empty eye sockets staring back at her. A vague sense of danger set off alarms in the back of her head and, for a moment, she had to fight an unreasoned urge to flee.
Two hundred years ago, this very night, a masked ball had turned to mayhem. The surviving accounts were confused, incomplete and filled with more innuendo than facts. Dark hints and half-spoken fears colored the accounts in the city's archives. Mary had made a study of the events for her postdoc, but had never visited the place. Along with her inspection, she hoped to be able to solve some of the mysteries her research had uncovered.
A quick round of the grounds showed the signs of long neglect, but even the overgrown gardens were in tolerably good shape and the landscaping shouldn't run to more than two or three thousand dollars. The foundations weren't made of concrete, but were actually set on uncut and unmortared slabs of granite. Mary was surprised to find the beams in good shape, with no sign or ants or termites and almost doubted her senses when the level showed the old place was perfectly plumb, even though she found a good bit of dry rot in the old jousts and the wraparound porch sagged in places.
The door opened to her touch. A chill breeze blew. It seemed to come from inside the cavernous entryway and foyer, but she convinced herself it was just an evening breeze off the river. The wood floors were made of old oak, tongue-and-groove boards. There was a dark stain, just this side of the foyer, and Mary stooped to examine it.
Half-remembered lines from a newspaper account came to her head.
'Donald Morgan's body was found just inside the door, he had been stabbed multiple times...'
With a loud banging noise that echoed through the old rooms, the door slammed shut. The reverberation made it seem as if all the doors in the place were being slammed, especially upstairs. Mary whirled, but there was no one there. A skittering noise behind her made her whirl again, but there was nothing there, save the dark stain and cobwebs. Her heart beat wildly and her breathing was labored. Mary forced herself to breathe deeply, and even though it was still evening and the sun shown through the windows, she withdrew the Maglite and clicked it on. The powerful beam of light cut through the dimness and illuminated even the darkest corner. Mary exhaled heavily and wiped her brow with the back of her arm.
"This place is creepy," she said aloud. Her words sounded muted, as if she was speaking into a surgical mask. She started to turn back to the stain and then paused. Turning slowly, with a puzzled look on her face, she stooped and banged the butt of the Maglite onto the floor. There was a sharp smacking sound, but what started her heart racing again wasn't a sound, but the lack of one. There was no echo at all.
***
Theodora Hobbs sat at the vanity and daintily dabbed at her lips. The music from downstairs wafted up the grand stair and to her room. On the bed, the shriveled remains of Matt Hoskins, scion of one of the city's oldest merchant families, rested. His trousers were around his ankles and his face was twisted in an expression that was either ecstasy defined, or agony on a level beyond human comprehension. Theodora's bloomers lay on the floor and her pussy still oozed a combination of her own lubricant and her late lover's seed.
