Short Horror Stories

Murder House

Most sincere thanks to my talented sister, Elizabeth, for helping me edit this story. It takes a village.

Happy late summer reading!

HRH

~~~

Ana supposed this was one of those either brave or insane moments and she thought she was leaning more towards the insane side of things.

Breaking and entering in general was a pretty stupid thing to do and Ana was not a stupid teenager. Breaking and entering into the house of a serial killer was just nuts.

Still, she'd been curious about this creepy old Victorian home for as long as she'd lived in this neighborhood.

Everyone called it the Murder House and the weird man who lived here alone was generally thought to be dangerous. But he was a free man, how much of a serial killer could he really be?

Ana thought he was probably just a lonely, misunderstood person, not unlike herself.

Ana pushed some of her black curls absently off her shoulder. It was the height of summer and the stuffy old Victorian was sweltering.

There hadn't been that much to see so far, just a bunch of musty, outdated furniture.

The crystal chandeliers were dusty and some of the furniture had plastic covering it. If it wasn't for the updated appearance of the kitchen and the flat screen in the living room Ana might have thought the place was abandoned. The yard outside seriously needed pruning; the lilac bushes were getting out of control.

The outside of the house was a dull, faded pink and inside everything was pretty much the same color. It was enough to drive anyone bonkers after a time. Didn't the owner know living in an all-pink room would make you insane? Ana had done research on how pink used to be the color of prison cells back in the 70's until enough of the inmates went bananas from it. Now they used that horrible 'soothing' sea-foam green color.

Ana was done with the downstairs so she took the creaking, winding steps to the second level, her senses on high alert.

She clutched her notebook to her chest like a shield as she got to the landing and turned left down the long hallway, poking her in head in through various doors.

More dusty pink and plastic.

It was like a creepy old lady Barbie dollhouse.

A sound came from up above, a subtle creaking noise, and she froze and glanced up. It must have come from the attic.

It took a lot of door-opening to find the entrance to the attic and when she did she moved as quietly as she could up the stairs. This staircase was dark and narrow and when she got to the top she hesitated, gazing in at what she saw.

The owner of the house, Jeffrey Roarke, stood in the center of the attic, beside an operating table. A body lay still and dissected upon it.

Ana must have shifted her weight or something because suddenly the man looked up from his work and they stared at each other with equally wide eyes.

Hers were bright blue; his were faded blue like a pair of over worn jeans.

She continued to clutch her notebook to her chest and he continued to grip the scalpel in his left hand, but she noticed the hand had begun to tremble.

"I'm sorry for barging in." She finally convinced her voice to work. "And I'm sorry to disturb you, I can see you're working. I was just..." she took a deep, shaky breath and smiled. "Just so curious."

The man blinked at her as if she was an apparition he half-expected to disappear soon. "H-how did you get in here?" He asked softly. He had a low, sweet voice with a charming southern accent. It was thicker and more syrupy, containing more of a twang than his neighbors. Maybe he was from Georgia, the state south of them.

"Your back door was unlocked. I just walked in." She admitted. "You don't have to worry about me, Mr. Roarke. I won't, like, tell on you or nuthin'. Like I said, I'm just curious. I'm a writer, you see, and I like to research my stories in great depth. I really get in the trenches, per se. It's what will eventually set me apart from all the other great authors, one day."

Jeffrey Roarke continued to stare at Ana like he'd never seen anything like her before. And indeed, he probably hadn't.

Ana offered him a reassuring smile. "I don't judge you." She nodded at the cadaver on his table. "I'm interested in what you're doing. How you operate; both literally and figuratively." She chuckled nervously.

"You, uh, you wanna write? About-about me?" He stammered.

"Uhm, well, I won't use your real name, obviously. I'll change all the details; how you look, where you live, things like that. But your modus operandi; your technique, and most importantly, what drives you. These are the things I'm interested in writing about."

Ana took a tentative step closer. "Maybe one day we can even be friends. Jeffrey. May I call you Jeffrey?"

The man slowly inclined his head and Ana's smile brightened. "I'm Ana." She didn't extend her hand to him, though, as his were bloody.

"You're not afraid of me, Ana?" He whispered in disbelief. He looked and sounded as though he might cry at any second and she hoped he wouldn't. Ana had never been overly comfortable with emotions.

Emotions got people hurt or killed.

"No, Jeffrey. I feel like I can trust you. Like I've known you a long time already. Do you know what I mean?" Her eyes took a little tour of the attic room.

It wasn't large and it was mostly empty. There was a rocking chair by the furnace and some boxes marked 'Fragile' stacked in the corner. There was a little mirror and sink basin where he must wash up. Plastic covered the floorboards and even parts of the wall. Newspaper clippings covered the one little window.

It was oddly cool in here, probably the coolest room in the house. It seemed to be well-ventilated because the smell of blood and cleaning chemicals was fairly faint.

Ana had always liked the smell and even the taste of blood. It didn't make her squeamish like it did for most kids, girls especially.

She turned back to study Jeffrey Roarke, who was watching her right back.

He was tall and heavy-set. Maybe 6'3" and probably pushing 300 lbs. His hair was a dull color and lay flat to his head. His skin was pale with a pink pigment beneath it. His face was round and not what anyone would consider threatening.

If anything he seemed pleasant, boyish.

It was odd to think he was in his forties.

"I don't think I really want you to write 'bout me." He told her in his slow, drawling way.

"Alright. I understand." Ana said, holding up her free hand to show her peace. "If I swear not to tell another living soul may I visit you sometimes...to observe? Also, may I perhaps have your permission to write about you...after you die?"

He met her eyes with his washed-out blue ones. "Yes, I suppose that would be alright."

Ana smiled inwardly.

Easy enough then, she just had to study his ways long enough to learn them herself, then when she was ready to write the book...she'd kill him.

The End