Jocelyn

I feel something hit my face. It doesn’t feel rough, like a slap – it feels more like a playful tickle, the kind Mr. Tibbles, my cat, would give me if he was trying to get me to wake up. I try speaking, but everything hurts.
“Mr. Tibbles, stop it,” I say hoarsely, trying to brush him away but finding only air. I feel something hit my face again.

“Mr. Tibbles, I said stop!” I moaned. And, of course, something hits my face again. “Mr. Tibbles, I’m go-,” I stop midsentence.

Something isn’t right. I try to get off my bed, but I realize that I’m on the floor. What’s going on?! Something hits my face again. I tilt my face towards the sky and finally the last piece of the puzzle clicks into place. I’m not in my bedroom, that’s for sure. I’m on the floor, at school, in the rain. How long have I been passed out? My ribs are sore – do I have any broken bones? I brush my hair out of my face, and I feel something hot and sticky. Great, not only have I been lying here passed out in the rain for an indefinite amount of time (it could have been days for all I know), not only do I feel like I’ve broken every bone in my body, but now my nose is bleeding too? For a moment I consider the oh-so-inviting prospect of just lying down and going back to sleep, but I decide otherwise. I begin trudging the slow 2 miles or so back to my house, using my cane to test the wet, soggy ground. The walk feels like it’s uphill all the way.

Jocelyn

I woke up and immediately regretted it. I carefully extended my arms above my head, feeling my way around. This time I was in my house, no doubt about it. I had a vague recollection of staggering home, bruised and soaking from the rain, and letting myself in the house. I heard footsteps coming towards my door. I listened carefully – was it Mom or Mr. Tibbles? Please be Mr. Tibbles, please be Mr. Tibbles... I thought to myself. Demonstrating the knack I seem to have for never having things go my way, in walks Mom.

“Sweetie, you’re awake!” she cries, rushing over to me. “Are you okay?” she asks, her voice practically dripping with concern.

“Yeah Mom. I’m ok,” I said in what I meant to be a robotic monotone. I tried not to let too much annoyance seep into my tone, but her question bugged me more than I let on. Why was she so worried, so overprotective? It didn’t seem to do me much good, now did it? I didn’t bother to argue my point, because she would just deny it and say, as usual, that she was “doing what was best for me.” As if to prove that I didn’t need her help, I got up, resisting the urge to limp or even to wince, and went to the living room. I didn’t feel much like listening to TV, but anything was better than staying put in my bedroom and getting interrogated by Mom.


Kiana Kombs (Jocelyn’s Mom)

I sighed and sat down on Jocelyn’s bed. Before something actually did happen, I didn’t believe that kids could be so cruel to someone for something they couldn’t help. So what if Jocelyn was different? She can’t help being blind, anymore than other kids can help being tall or short or girls or boys. I want to help her, but she just shuts me out, pushes me away – like she thinks she can do a better job managing her problems, her life even – without me or my help. She’s always wanted to be so independent, ever since she was a little girl, but how can I leave her alone? I would never tell her, but ever since the accident that left her father dead and Jocelyn blind, I’ve always thought of her as the stereotypical blind girl – helpless. I would like to think that, just like when she was little, she wanted – no, needed – my help for everything. I know she’s 16, but taking care of her is what gives my life a purpose – I feel like without her, there’s no reason for me to be alive. With Jocelyn’s father gone, she’s the only thing I have left. Even with the limited contact we have nowadays, I don’t know what I would do if I lost her.

Jocelyn

Mom walked into the room. Outwardly I was silent, hardly even acknowledging that she was there, but inwardly I was screaming. I didn’t want her help, and she knew it too, so why did she try? I know it seems like a silly thing to get so worked up about, but I just can’t stand it. Ever since I was little I wanted to be independent. Mom knows that. I never wanted anyone’s help, but there’s an obvious difference in what you need help with between when you’re 5 and when you’re 16. It’s not a big deal when you’re 5 and you can’t do things yourself. When you’re 16, you want to be able to do what you want to do, and you want to be able to do it by yourself.

Thinking about this was just making me more frustrated, so it was probably irrational of me to blow up at Mom so quickly. “Jocelyn,” she began, “I can
he-“ “NO!” I cut her off. I grabbed my cane and stormed out the door. Mom must have been freaking out, thinking about “poor, helpless, blind” little me out there all alone in the “big scary world,” but I didn’t care. My anger blurred all my thoughts together until I could hardly think straight.

However, one thought did eventually manage to cut through: I’m blind. Regardless of how angry I am, I’m not invincible. So I walked to the only place I knew I could get to safely: Dead House.


Narrator

Dead House – that was what the people in the neighborhood called it. It was built in the 1940’s, just like the rest of the houses in the vicinity. There was really nothing architecturally different about Dead House than any other house on the block, in the neighborhood even. They all looked roughly the same, save for the different colors, but even those had worn to roughly the same shade over the years.

The one thing that did set Dead House apart from the rest was its location. Or rather, the rumors about its location. Now, rumors should always be taken with a grain of salt, seeing as the rumor mill has not proven itself to be an accurate purveyor of events. But Dead House rumors seem to be an eerie exception to that rule.

There was something special about the land Dead House was built on. The scientists who used to study it didn’t know what it was, but they had some ideas. In the 19th century, several plots of land in the neighborhood were rumored to be great spots for archeological digs. The land Dead House was built on was one of those spots. According to the evidence from another nearby site, in about 400 B.C. there was a technologically advanced tribe living in the area.

Things had gone relatively smoothly on other digs; the archeologists went in, dug for a month or so, and were done. But when the dig at Dead House began, strange things started to happen. The scientists would go in, take some notes on the area, and leave. The next day their notes would be missing, and when they tried to recall what they had written down, they would find that their minds were as blank as if they had never even seen the site. Sometimes things would go missing, and reappear maddeningly in a place the scientists were sure they had already checked. But all of these happenings were relatively innocent, mere child’s play even, considering what started happening next.

When the actual dig commenced, something, or someone, wasn’t happy about it.

On the day the scientists began the excavation, they brought their cameras with them. They knew the digging process was rather destructive, and they wanted to be able to document the site before they touched it. There were only two scientists that day. As they took their shovels to the ground, they heard a slow creak, almost a moan. They figured it was just the wind blowing in the trees. Having rationalized the event, they continued their dig. Only a few moments later, they heard the noise again, and this time they were sure that there had been absolutely no wind. Now the scientists were getting a bit frightened, but they had orders to dig, and they needed the grant money, so reluctantly they continued. The creaking noise came again, and one of the scientists panicked. He dropped his shovel and tried to run out of the site as fast as he could, but he fell after only a few feet.

The other scientist, who had managed to keep his cool, went to see if his partner was okay. When he saw him, he felt as if all the air had gone out of his lungs. Staring up at him, lifeless and blank-eyed, was his partner. There was a huge blood spot spreading from the middle of his shirt.

With shaking hands, he lifted up his partner’s shirt. He couldn’t believe his eyes.

There, on his partner’s stomach, was a huge gaping hole. It seemed like it went all the way through to his back. The wound was obviously fresh. But the most shocking part was that there was no one and nothing for miles around that could have caused the wound. Yet there lay his partner, with a huge hole in his torso. What could have caused the wound?

The scientist was torn between his desire to get out of the site and save himself, and the sense that it would somehow be selfish and disrespectful to his partner to leave.

As the he sat there, debating whether to stay or to leave, a message appeared right before his eyes. It was written in plain English, on his partner’s arm. The scientist could barely breathe. He had no choice. He turned and ran out of the site. He never looked back.

The message was: “This shall be a lesson, and you shall be the teacher. Should your people ever return, we should not be so kind. Consider this a warning.”

Jocelyn

The walk to Dead House was about 4 miles, but I didn’t mind. I had so much going through my head I hardly even noticed I was walking. It’s a good thing I knew the route so well.

Thinking about Dead House brought back such memories—of when I could see, of when I had friends, of when Dad was alive. When I was maybe 10, my little group of friends and I were really into spooky stuff. We loved reading scary books, or watching scary movies late at night so that we couldn’t fall asleep for hours. But it’s a totally different thing when you’re reading about something or watching it on TV than it is to actually be there. To live it. We wanted to be like the people in the movies, investigating, never knowing if something evil was hiding behind the corner.

Then we found out about Dead House. It was if all our 10-year-old dreams had come true. Sure, it was just a rumor, but who knew? It could be real, and the uncertainty would only make it more exciting! We decided that we should definitely go investigate. We thought, “How could we miss a chance like this?”

But, we were 10. And in a group of 10-year-old girls about to enter a supposedly haunted house, someone is bound to chicken out. And as fate would have it, someone did—every time we planned to go. These off-and-on dates continued until we were about 12.

That’s when the accident happened. The car accident the left me blind, and my dad dead. I was so depressed for a long while afterwards. It was like a double blow - only did I lose my dad, but I lost my ability to see. Suddenly, “I’ll never see him again” took on a whole new meaning. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I grew distant, and soon enough my friends weren’t talking to me. I became a loner, and I never wanted anyone’s company. That’s when the bullying started.

I suppose the only one I can blame for that is myself. I pushed everyone away. I could have still had friends. But now I’m clearing all thoughts of the past from my mind. I have reached Dead House. And for the very first time, I’m going in.

Narrator

It’s hard to describe how Jocelyn always just knew that she was at Dead House. Every time she walked by it, she just got a feeling. It could be described as an aura, not necessarily evil, just different. When trying to describe it, she often said that it was comparable to the feeling you get when you meet a new person – you feel like you just know their personality, even though you can’t say how.

Narrator

Jocelyn walked slowly up to the door. She knew how to get to the house by heart, but she had never actually gone past the front gates. She tested every step with her cane before she walked.

When she finally did get to the front of the house, she put her hand out to feel for the door and almost fell. She was expecting something to lean against, something solid, but she found nothing but air. She didn’t find strange at all, after all she hadn’t seen Dead House since the accident – over 4 years ago. The door could have easily been taken down from an abandoned house in 4 years, couldn’t it?

She continued walking, unaware of the door, ever so slowly, ever so quietly swinging shut behind her. In the back of her mind, Jocelyn knew that something was wrong. But she pushed the thought to the back of her mind. She didn’t care. She was going in.


Jocelyn

I didn’t feel right. There was a terrible sense of unease hanging over me, but I didn’t know why. All of a sudden, I felt a searing pain in my head. I thought I was going to die. The pain was worse than anything I felt before, but still I couldn’t leave.

And then I could see.

It’s impossible to describe the amazing sense of euphoria that came over me. I felt as though I could fly. It’s as though ever since the accident, I’ve been living with a cloud over my head, a constant reminder of what I’ve lost. My blindness caused me nothing but heartache. And now I could see.

Nothing could compare to the feeling, and I would have loved to just stand and look at things, but I came here to explore. To fulfill an old childhood dream. And I would do it, no matter what it took.

Narrator

“I can see.” That was the only thought going through Jocelyn’s head. She hardly even paid any attention to what she was doing. And she certainly didn’t pay any attention to the four dark shadows, hardly visible, following her along the wall.

But suddenly, her excitement faded. Her original sense of unease was back. She felt like someone was following her, but when she used her new vision to look behind her, she saw nothing but an empty hallway. And then she looked at the wall.


Jocelyn

My eyes have to be playing tricks on me. After all, I haven’t seen anything in years. I tried looking away and looking back, but they didn’t go away. I stopped walking and turned around. Had someone followed me into the house?


Narrator

Jocelyn’s mouth froze in an O of horror as The Boys materialized before her eyes. The tall blonde boy with green eyes smiled. “Remember us?”


Jocelyn

This couldn’t be possible. They can’t just appear out of thin air! Then I remembered where I was. I racked my brain for information on the house. What was happening?

The Boys

“We’ve been waiting for you.” I waited for her reaction. I knew it would be one of surprise, of shock. Not that it mattered. Nothing could change her fate. It was predicted. One might say she was predestined to enter the shrine. I should feel pity, but I do not. We warriors are trained to guard the shrine of our god, Ziquar. We must let no one pass. We are sworn to protect.

We let them off with a warning. They have known for centuries not to come near Ziquar’s Earth Home.

And this time, we shall not be so kind.

Jocelyn

They were gone as quickly as they came. I didn’t know why I saw them. I assumed it must have been my brain creating them, as they vanished without a trace.

By now my anger at my mom had long faded, and I was a bit freaked out about the encounter with The Boys. Besides, I was psyched to tell my mom about getting my vision back. I headed back to my house. The walk felt like it only took a few minutes, I was so excited about telling Mom the good news.

I got back to my house. For some reason, I got a sense of unease, much like the one I got at Dead House. But this is my house. I should feel safe, right? I ignored the feeling and kept walking.

“Mom, Mom!” I called. There was no reply, but I knew she was home. She must be asleep. Normally I wouldn’t wake her, but this was a special occasion. I’m sure she’d want to know what had happened. I went into her bedroom.

Jocelyn

I felt like my heart had stopped. No. This couldn’t be happening. I wanted to think it was a dream, and that I would wake up and everything would be ok. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t. I knew this was real. My life was just one sick, twisted saga of tragedy.

My mom lay there. She could have been alive, except that she was completely pale, as though all the blood had been drained out of her body. Her eyes were lifeless, just staring straight up at the ceiling.

On her stomach, etched in blood, was the message:

“You were warned.”

I put my hand over my mouth and looked away to keep from throwing up. I began to cry. How could what should have been the happiest day of my life – after all, I could see again! - be ruined by this? I wiped the tears out of my eyes and steadied myself. I had to get help. Maybe things would be okay after all.

I ran out of my house and down to my neighbor’s door. “Help!” I shouted, hoping someone would come. Their car was in their driveway, so I knew they were home. “Please, I need help!” I called again. My panic turned to anger as I knocked a third time. Were they ignoring me? I didn’t have time for this. I tried the door knob, and to my surprise it opened. I didn’t have time to consider why that might be as I ran inside. I stopped short as I saw the youngest daughter, Amy, lying on the couch.

“Amy? Are you okay?” I whispered, though I knew she wasn’t. I reached out to her but withdrew my hand when it connected with her arm, which was ice cold. “No, no, no!” I moaned. I had a sinking feeling that it wasn’t just Amy and my Mom, but I didn’t want to stay and find out. On my way out of the house, I caught sight of myself in the mirror.

I was a monster.

Pale skin, red eyes. Rotted teeth and skin so thin you could see my skull through it. This is what I had become. I killed these people. I knew the story; I should have never entered the house. I sank to my knees, unable to support myself under the weight of what I’d done.