Some Kind of Haunting

Thomas Bishop lived by the phrase curiosity killed the cat only, unlike the rest of the world, Thomas lived by the entire phrase: curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back. It had led him to plenty of places a thirteen-year-old didn't belong. Scottie King's "haunted" basement, Leonard Ramnke's grandmother's creepy attic, and the fallout shelter under the Cradle Cliff library had all been subject to his investigations. The Chesterton family farm was no exception.

It's got a demon. That's why Gail Chesterton killed her family, Randy Pescadero had told him during study hall because, no matter how unwittingly an investigator comes into the profession, as Thomas had, they all needed a contact with their ear to the ground. An old church lady, a fast food loving computer nerd, or a Randy Pescadero. Talkative to a fault, Randy found ways into any conversation regardless of invitation or want. The Chesterton family farm and its "Incident", as it was always referred, was engrained into the minds of everyone in town and, through no fault of its own, had managed to become a place of high school dares, hazing, and make-outs for the promiscuously brave teenagers who weren't satisfied sneaking in bedroom windows or steaming-up the backs of cars. They said that it yanked her soul right out and crawled inside. Pastor Mike says that's what demon's do because they want to hide from God. I bet that demon is still hiding out there too. That's why no one wants to buy the place.

It was four days since that study hall conversation and Thomas hadn't been able to stop thinking about it. He imagined showing up in full battle gear just like the Frog brothers from the Lost Boys movie and showing down with whatever dark entity dared to show its face. Thomas smiled. Scottie's basement was haunted by a bunch of old pipes, Leonard Ramnke's grandmother had a strange affinity for old-timey puppets, and the fallout shelter was just a fallout shelter. To date, Thomas had not yet seen a ghost, goblin, ghoul, demon, or creature and his insatiable curiosity had started to morph into skeptical obsession.

There has to be something, he thought to himself as he pedaled his way down the old gravel road to the Chesterton home, there has to be. Bright red signs warned him about trespassing and that if he could read the sign he was already in someone's sights. Fear prickled at the back of his neck as he kept his eyes glued to the bend in the road. Brush and trees covered the yard like an organic fence offering only a rough view for anyone coming towards it and, despite himself, Thomas half-expected something to pop out and grab him like one of the old movies he and Randy had watched at their last sleepover.

Sunset had passed and when Thomas rode into the gravel driveway it struck him how alone he actually was. The world seemed to be compressing in on him as he hopped off the bike and walked it to an old oak tree close to the house. It was a gnarled old thing with names of fly by night lovers etched into its bark accompanied with crude drawings of what carnal activities may or may not have lain in wait.

The house itself had seen better days, with the windows smashed and spray paint illustrating the walls. Thomas took in the smiley faces with devil horns, 666s, and corpses riddled with bullet holes with mild interest. They were silly nothings that only added to the pulpy mythos that surrounded Gail Chesterton and her family. Stories, Thomas had learned, were almost never the truth. He walked up the old porch and was thankful there was no wind to knock the broken kitchen door against the house.

"Hello," he called, peeking his head through the doorway. Like the outside, everything inside had also been wrecked looking more like the remnants of a Viking pillage than a hangout spot. Clothes littered the floor, what furniture hadn't been destroyed was turned over, and a condom hung from the sink. "Any malicious killers making sandwiches with ground teenager?"