"Deacon Ash"

Chapter 2: Red Eyes

I inserted the key into the front door of the Victorian where I once lived years ago. With great anxiety, I turned the key and pushed open the heavy oak door, cringing as the hinges screamed for oil.

Nostalgia greeted me before I stepped in to the foyer. I could almost hear my late foster mother calling out to me, Seth Jennings you best wipe your feet before you step foot inside this house!

I did as I was told and swiped the soles of my work boots across the worn, faded brown welcome mat. When I crossed the threshold in to the house, I had instinctively looked to my right to find that the large oval mirror with gold trim was still suspended, its face coated with a thick layer of dust. I pulled the handkerchief from my back pocket and began to wipe it down. As I made each pass with the soft, white cloth, my reflection came to the surface. The last time I had looked into that mirror, I was a scrawny clean-shaven twenty-year-old with short cropped hair. The man that had stared back at me had filled out a bit, the black hair longer but neat. The once clean-shaven face sported a black goatee with speckles of gray. My eyes...the sorrowful gaze held in my brown eyes forced me turn away, ashamed.

Keeping the tears at bay, I cleared the foyer and walked deeper in to the house. The heels of boots touching down on the hardwood floor reverberated off of the hollow walls. As I made my way, I was taken aback with disgust. To say the house was filthy would have been an understatement. I had scanned the tarp covered furniture as I meandered through, recoiling at the thought of how much cleaning I would have to do. Cobwebs hung from corners and sconces, bouncing lightly in the draft that followed me as I passed.

I walked to the living room and guilt's cement wall had brought me to a sudden halt, impeding my passage. It was the place where my foster mother used to spend most of her time knitting. I knew that sooner or later I would return to the house, that very room. The ideal timeframe should have been when she had been stricken with illness. Her health had dramatically gone downhill and work had been my excuse for not coming home to care for her or visit. I pushed the thoughts from my mind and as I had become the norm, weaned the guilt from my heavy heart with other thoughts, this time the distraction of choice being the desire to settle in.

I left the living room and headed outside to retrieve my duffle bag of clothes from my Ford Bronco. It had been a long five-hour drive from Shreveport, Louisiana and I wanted nothing more than to unpack and unwind.

I paused a moment under the sky's dusk ambience, surveying the curvy dirt road leading to the town. The final stage of my trip back home had always been that road and at that moment I noticed how much it had changed. Its evolution had taken it from a wide route of travel where two cars could easily pass to a route barely able to contain a single vehicle.

The dirt road was not the only element of the familiar surroundings that had changed. I was drawn to the state of the nearby houses where neighbors once lived. One hundred yards in different directions of the Victorian those dwellings had long been condemned, shells of their former selves. Their demise had been furthered by neglect and weathering. The setting sunlight shone through gaping holes, piercing my retina, making me squint.

I proceeded to the Bronco, opened the driver's side door and reached across the seat for my duffel bag. I dragged it from the vehicle and looped it around my shoulder by one of the two wide straps. Before I made my way back inside the house, I locked both doors. The Bronco is an awful, white thing with major rusting that even a would-be thief in Shreveport wouldn't consider taking possession of and I didn't anticipate any such culprits coming to the area, but I didn't want to take any chances.

As I approached the rung of steps to the front porch, I heard an unnerving sound come from deep within the house. I had stopped and canted my head, listening hard. All was quiet. I looked back down the dirt road, considering that maybe the sound hadn't come from the house, but from the town. It was so quiet that the slightest of noises seemed magnified from only three miles away.

I returned to the house and closed the front door. Duffel bag on my shoulder, I walked the first floor, flipping on several light switches along the way, hoping that the caretaker had done his job. Although dim, the lights had come on fading away the shadows from the darkest places of the house except for the gloom at the top of the staircase.

I flipped the switch at the bottom of the stairs to remedy the problem. No light.

I began my ascent anyway and before I had reached the halfway point, an odd feeling came over me. It seemed as if someone were there in the shadows at the top of the stairs watching me. I tried to convince myself that no one could possibly be in the house but there was no denying the feeling that coursed through me.

"Who's there?" I called out.

No response.

"Better come out now or I'll put a bullet in you," I warned, voice more full of bass than normal.

And I would have done just that if I hadn't left my nine-millimeter under the driver's seat of my precious Bronco. Pistol or no pistol, I'd tangle with the trespasser, if need be. I considered running for it but changed my mind. I didn't want the unknown intruder to mistake me for a coward. I extended my arm and allowed the duffel bag to slide off of my shoulder and onto the steps.

Whoever was buried in the shadows had shifted, sending the smell of sulfur to my nostrils.

"I see you," I said.

In all actuality, I couldn't see a damned thing. Then I did see...something. Light red, perfectly round pupils. When the growling started they darkened to a deep crimson, targeting me like lasers on high powered, scope mounted rifles.

Trying my best to be inconspicuous, I had taken a step backwards to make the run for my pistol after all.

The pupils moved a few inches from their location, bringing the sulfur with them.

I gave it another shot at descending without making it obvious. It didn't work.

The pupils moved again...and moved...and moved toward me. Heavy footsteps followed, pushing the pupils in my direction with a purpose. The closer they got, the stronger the smell of sulfur had become.

Suddenly a full-fledged coward, I cursed myself for not having my pistol readily available. I had had my hands shoved inside my pockets, fishing for my keys to the Bronco by the time I had made it to the bottom of the stairs. I was in full sprint to the front door. Whatever had been watching me from the shadows had left the darkness and was coming for me. My subconscious had begged me to turn around to catch sight of what the hell was behind me. I ignored the ridiculous request. I had willed myself to run faster to no avail. Whatever was behind me was much, much faster.