Even from a distance, Timothy Ghast could see that the house on the hill was no ordinary house. The sight of it conjured up in his mind something he had read years ago in an old Sherlock Holmes mystery: there is more crime, cruelty, and terror in the remote and isolated houses of the country than in any big city. This place on the hill looked as if it had seen all of that and very much more.
He knew now that it had been a mistake to try to make it to the next town, but he had wanted to make it to Chadron Springs before stopping for the night. He was driving home from law school for Christmas vacation. It was the 23rd of December and he only had about two hundred fifty miles to go. Then, within sight of the house on the hill, his car stalled in a snow drift.
He had lost his race with the the huge blizzard that had come sweeping across the great plains. That storm, predicted to be one of the worst in years, was just getting started, gearing up to smash anything in its path. The wind was howling wildly and driving icy pellets of snow ahead of it as Ghast got out of his stalled car. One look served to convince him that there was no chance of budging the vehicle. Besides, the drifts were getting higher almost by the minute. It looked like he had lied to his mother...he would not be home for Christmas.
Since there was nothing he could do about it, Timothy put it out of his mind. He was not the type that looked back and cried over spilt milk. He prided himself in always looking ahead and looking life straight in the eye with confidence and logic. He quickly decided that he had to find some shelter and that the car was not the place. This storm was supposed to be carrying a lot of snow, 10 to 15 inches was the last prediction, which meant they had no idea how much snow might fall. That was a catch-all for "unknown, but a lot." It could be 25 inches. And here, that much snow could mean twenty foot drifts. Staying in the car and being buried alive was an option he quickly dismissed.
As Timothy looked up at the house through the driving snow, it occurred to him that it would have made a perfect haunted house for Halloween and wondered idly for a moment whether the kids in this area used it as such. There was, of course, no way he could know that no one in this vicinity would go near the house on the hill for love or money.
The house stood alone like a shunned pariah and there was not another for miles in any direction. The highway wound within a hundred yard of it, but even in good weather you could sometimes watch this road for an hour without seeing a single car. The nearest town, a village of slightly more than seven hundred people, was thirty miles away. Like a vulture waiting for someone in trouble, the house looked down on the road.
The house had been built in the classic American gothic style, and gave the impression that no one who had lived there ever had any fun whatsoever. It was tall and gaunt, but its once prim lines were now warped and twisted. It was horribly weathered and looked like a thing that was rotting slowly inside. All the glass had long ago shattered and crumbled out of the windows. Even the lightning rod on the roof was broken and hanging crookedly.
The people who had built it had eventually lost everything in one of the cyclical depressions of the early 20th century, and like them, the house had grown grim and wretched in crushing poverty. It had added a gruesome line, a deformed detail, for every depravity committed within it's walls. And it had known so very many. Madness and torture, rape and infanticide, suicide and multiple murder. One of its occupants had even repeated the ancient and accursed words found in that most rare and dammed of all books, the dreaded Necronomicon. That man of evil had committed unspeakable sins in an attempt to bring forth something terrible into this world. Because of his own insanity, he had not totally succeeded.
But evil did live. In the house on the hill.
Timothy Ghast knew only that he needed shelter from the storm and the house seemed to promise that. A dull glow in the western sky reminded him that it was time to move. The sun was going down fast and in a half an hour it would be dark. And this night would not be fit for man nor beast. He climbed back into his car and pulled on his heavy winter coat. He smiled at the pile of gaily wrapped presents lying on the back seat and thought of his brothers and sisters. Tomorrow, one by one, they would all begin to arrive at his parent's house. That house would fill with laughter, and the noise of children and grand-children, and the smells of delicious food. But by tomorrow night, he would be the topic of all discussion. Where was Timothy? Had he been in an accident? Was he safe? By midnight, his father would be calling the Highway Patrol.
Timothy shook his head to clear it of all such thoughts. For him, this Christmas had so far been a disaster, beset with one problem after another. And now, he was stuck in a snow drift. Oh well, the first rule of any disaster is to survive it. Ghast unzipped his duffle bag and put the flashlight from the glove compartment into it. That was followed by the still almost full thermos of coffee and the pack of powdered doughnuts he had bought during his last gas stop. After pulling on his gloves, he got out of the immovable car, locked the door, and began to trudge through the snow up to the house on the hill.
The empty windows leered at him like the black sockets of a skull as Ghast fought his way forward against the screaming wind. His cheeks were quickly sore from the driven snow. He struggled for air, turning his head sideways to get away from the strangling blast of wind. His legs soon felt like lead, but he pushed on. There were already six foot drifts that he had to scramble through and over. At last, with a final burst of effort, he fought his way out of the snow and onto the little porch which dominated the front side of the house. For a long minute he stood there gasping for air and leaning heavily against the ornately carved but very worn support post.
From his wind-sheltered vantage point, Ghast looked back at the way he had come. His footprints were already being filled in with snow. He could just barely see his car yet, a little drop of red in a field of white. Soon it would be just another wind-carved dune in a desert of snow. Within an hour, not more than two, there would be nothing visible to show that he had been here. That thought bothered him for some reason.
Although it was inconceivable to him someone would actually be living here, just to be on the safe side Timothy pounded noisily on the door. "Hello?" he called out. "Is anybody home?" There was only the howl of the wind and the sound of the house groaning softly to itself. He turned the doorknob and pushed, first lightly, then harder. Cracking free of ice, the door gave in and opened with a screech. Ghast peered into what once must have been the living room of this house.
The old style pink and silver flocked wallpaper was faded and huge patches of it had been ripped off the walls. Where it was gone, the plaster had mostly fallen away to reveal the skeleton of rotting timbers below. The ceiling was ten feet high and here too there were assorted holes and cracks. A crumbling, sooty fireplace stood to one side of the room. What once must have been a beautiful wooden floor was now covered with dust and debris: plaster, scraps of paper, some scattered leaves, a couple tumbleweeds, and even the twisted, shriveled body of a dead rattlesnake. There was a little drift of snow where it had swirled in through a window, but Ghast noted with satisfaction that the north windows had been boarded up with warped plywood.
Taking the flashlight out of his bag, Timothy Ghast flicked it on and followed the stab of light into the dark heart of the house on the hill.
An hour later he was relaxing on the floor in the living room. He had started a crackling, spitting fire in the fireplace by using wood from some old furniture he had found in one of the rooms while exploring the place. There had also been a moldy old blanket which he had put up over the open window to keep some of the wind and cold out. By closing the slightly warped door to the bedroom, he had managed to make this room almost comfortable.
For it was in the bedroom that he had found his most unpleasant surprise. There was a hole in the floorboards and there appeared to be some sort of hallow underneath. At first glance he thought that it was full of ropes, all tangled together. Only when he looked more closely did he realize that it was snakes. Hundreds of snakes, all wrapped around each other and twined together. He had panicked for a moment. And then he realized that this was a nest. They were cold-blooded creatures, hibernating together for warmth. Timothy remembered from a biology class that their nests were normally deep in the ground, or in caves. The window in this room had somehow remained unbroken and it was a natural shelter. As he hated snakes with a passion, he found a grim satisfaction in carefully walking around the hole and breaking the window with his elbow. This was one room that he wanted to remain very cold. After he had closed the door, he had even sealed the bottom crack with several old rags that he had found.
Now, sitting at the fireplace and looking at the bedroom door in the dancing light, he decided that it had been irrational for him to the seal that crack with rags. On the other hand, it did make him feel a lot better. So sometimes, irrational might be okay. The snakes must have an affinity for this house, or else they would not have a nest here. Timothy decided that under no circumstances could he ever force himself to set foot in this house again.
But for now he was reasonably warm and content. He had heated a cup of coffee and eaten half the doughnuts, thinking they were the most delicious doughnuts he had ever had ever tasted. Now he settled back and relaxed before the fire, smoking his last cigarette. He thought he had done quite well and gave himself a mental pat on the back. He had some doughnuts left and had even found an old candy bar that he had bought last week in his coat pocket. He had gathered up enough wood to keep the fire going for several days. Water would be no problem. He might get a little hungry, but he was going to survive with only moderate discomfort. In fact, it was kind of exciting, a real life adventure.
He flicked the cigarette into the fire and followed it with enough wood to keep the fire going till morning. Using his duffle bag as a headrest, and pulling his coat over him, he thought of a cute girl he had met at a party just before finals. Jennifer was her name. Very pretty in a quiet, understated sort of way, and with captivating dark eyes. He made up his mind that he was going to call her. Smiling, he fell asleep.
Timothy Ghast awoke with a start and for several seconds he could not figure out where he was. Then he remembered and wondered what had awakened him. Suddenly, he sat up like a bolt! It was pitch black and there was not a sound anywhere.
The darkness was heavy and oppressive, as if there were not a single ray of light anywhere in the world. It had an inky, clammy feel to it that seemed to cling to him, that seemed to crawl over his skin and wrap itself around him. He had not been afraid of the dark since childhood, but there was something malevolent about this blackness. An unbidden thought came to Ghast's mind: the darkness of the grave!
Neither was there the slightest whisper of a sound. When he had gone to sleep, the storm had been wailing like a wild beast trying to tear the house down to get at him. And the house had been creaking and groaning before its fury. Now there was nothing. The complete silence was deafening.
It was as if his eyes and ears no longer functioned in the lurid stillness of a supernatural night. He suddenly realized that he was holding his breath and consciously forced himself to resume. It sounded loud and ragged in the stillness. Then he froze, a chill running up his spine.
The sound that reached his ears was that of a heartbeat. It began so low and softly that for a moment Timothy thought it was the sound of his own heart. But the beat grew and Ghast realized that he was no longer alone. There was something else here with him in the dark.
As the beat became louder and louder, the young student felt his flesh crawl and cold knot form in the pit of his stomach. He reached for where he though he had put the flashlight. His hand missed it and knocked it away. He heard it roll across the floor.
The terrible beating would not stop, but kept on pounding its cardiac rhythm into his brain. Louder and louder, until it was a thunderous booming that seemed to come from everywhere. From the house itself. The floor. The walls. The ceiling. Everywhere! Ghast covered his ears, but the sound was as loud as ever. The air around him seemed to vibrate with each horrible bump in the dark. The heartbeat was closing in on him, pushing him down, trying to smother him.
He could stand it no longer. He jumped to his feet and ran to where he thought the door must be. And right into the arms of something awful in the dark!
It was cold and wet and slimy. It put its arms around him and began to claw at him. Its slavering, growling maw was at his throat. Its breath was hot and stank of putrid death.
Ghast struck out blindly with all this might. He felt one blow land and, with a horrible scruntch, go right into the thing. It was as if he had hit a completely rotten melon. Only one that was squishy and filled with squirmy things inside.
Timothy screamed. And fell to the floor.
The thing was gone. There was silence. It happened with a incredible suddenness. One moment the air itself was reverberating with that terrible heartbeat and an awful horror was clutching and clawing at him in the dark; the next moment there was nothing. Only his scream seemed to hang in the air.
His own breathing was the only sound he heard. It was quick and frightened. What was going on here?
Almost below the threshold of hearing, the heart began to beat again. It started softly, but became louder with each beat. And there was light.
"Oh, my god," whispered Ghast.
The walls, the floor, everything was bathed in red light, a light that seemed to come from within the house itself. And in the dim red light, he could see the blood.
There was blood everywhere. It was coming from the walls, running down in little rivulets of red. It was dripping from the ceiling, a shower of red rain. He was splattered with it and where he had put his hand down it looked like a gruesome finger painting. The floor was covered with it as if this were a slaughterhouse, all red and warm and thick and sticky blood.
He had been on a kill floor in a slaughterhouse once. The floor was red. He remembered the big eyes and mournful bellows of the cattle. The bolt-gun pressed against the head. The bang as compressed air shot the bolt through the skull and into the brain. The shuddering collapse! And the blood welling, pumping out of that hole. The critter was dead, but it's mighty heart did not know it yet. The blood had kept on coming! His brother had laughed at him as Timothy had gotten violently ill.
A shudder of revulsion passed through him now at what he saw.
With every beat of the heart, getting louder and louder, the room bulged and contracted. The walls, the floors, the wood, the fireplace, it all acted as if it were made of some living, supernatural material. The house was alive, beating with a massive heart. Bulging and contracting. And bleeding.
From each creek, each hole, each crevice, there flowed blood. Gushing, squirting blood. The house was hemorrhaging out of a thousand wounds. It was an inanimate object, it had to be dead, but yet it was pumping blood out of every hole. Bulging and contracting with each thunderous boom of a massive, stubborn heart that would not die.
Timothy clung to dear life as the floor tossed and heaved like a waterbed gone mad. Bulging and contracting. He was enveloped in a river of blood. From a large hole in the wall, there pulsed an artery of red that surged over him like a tidal wave. He was gagging on it, choking, blood streaming from his mouth. He felt his stomach wrench and the hot gorge rising in his throat. He tried to yell or scream, but only a strangled sound came out. He bent his head, overcome with the dry heaves. One wretched spasm followed another as his stomach twisted and churned painfully. Finally, he succeeded in regaining control and lay there gasping. After a moment, he noticed that the room had changed again. He looked up slowly, tears streaming from his eyes.
The room was brilliantly lit now. It looked new as if he had been taken back to a time when the house was young and innocent. The wallpaper was fresh and bright. Several handsome kerosene lamps blazed brightly. The furniture, however, looked out of place. It was all old and rough, much of it apparently hand made, as if the original furniture had been sold off to cover ever mounting debts.
And there was not a trace of blood on anything. It was all gone, except for the revolting taste left in his mouth.
There was a sound next to him and he turned his head. A woman was lying there. She was obviously pregnant. She looked as if she had once been very beautiful. But the hard times had changed her. She was now worn and tired-looking. Although she could not have been old, the years of struggle and hardship had eroded first her beauty, then her spirit.
She was dying, having been stabbed in the chest. The entire from of her old-fashioned simple brown dress was stained red with her blood. Her eyes were begging Timothy for help. She was trying to say something, but only a low gurgle came out. Her bloody hand quivered as she tried to reach for him. Then, with a death sigh, she relaxed totally and her hand fell to the floor. But her eyes remained open, staring at him even in death.
"You be her lover, Samuel?" screamed a hoarse, furious voice behind him.
Ghast whirled about. There stood a tall, gaunt man, holding a bloody carving knife in his hand. He too might once have been handsome. But now he was emaciated, hard, and mean. His eyes were ablaze with a raging madness. His face was twitching with emotion. His long, thin arms were shaking, the muscles standing out like leather cords. The knuckles were white from his insane grip upon the knife.
"What? What do you mean?" asked Timothy with utter astonishment. His mind was whirling, trying to figure out what was going on. He could only gape at the thin man. "Who are you?"
"Her husband, Samuel!" the man shout wildly. "So you lay with my wife, did you? Well, now you can possess her for all time. IN HELL!" He pounced on Ghast like a savage beast.
Timothy had time to gasp. Then he felt the long blade stab into his chest again and again in explosions of white hot pain. The thin man kept on hacking at him. The pain! Clutching his hands to his chest, Timothy collapsed to the floor. He grimaced in agony, grinding his teeth together. Waves of blackness rolled over him and beckoned him to the long, long sleep.
He lay still for a long time. There were no further attacks. There was only a deep dark silence. But gradually he became aware that the room had changed again.
The kerosene lamps were gone. It was semi-dark now and there was only the flickering light from the fireplace that was still going strong. All the furniture was gone. Everything was back to way it was when he had gone to sleep. The wind was howling outside again. It could all have been a nightmare, except for these burning stab wounds in his chest that were leaking away his life's blood.
What had happened? Had he taken part in a heinous crime committed here long ago, playing the part of an illicit lover named Samuel? Was the house doing this? Or was he going insane? Had the tortured souls that lived and died in this house taken over its structure, its very shell? Did they come back to reenact their foul deeds? And add new ones?
He tried to rise, thinking he should try to bandage his wounds, but gave it up as being too painful. Thinking he would wait and gather his strength, he hung his head and looked blankly at the floor. Suddenly, his eyes grew wide with mounting horror.
"No," he pleaded, shaking his head. "Oh, no. No. Please. No!" He began to sob softly.
There was no puddle of blood where he had been bleeding. Each red drop, after it fell, was absorbed into the floor of the house. It was drinking his blood! It had sent its ghosts to wound him and now was drinking his blood. He watched with growing horror as each drop vanished, as each drop was sucked into the wood without leaving a trace.
Timothy Ghast, pale, dying, tried to scream, but nothing came out. The house on the hill was killing him and there was nothing he could do about it. Not even scream.
He heard the horrendous beating begin again. But very softly this time. Over it he heard a woman crying. It was a heart-rending sobbing that containing all the sorrow, sadness, and misery in the world. So piteous was it that it brought a tear to his eye. Would his mother cry for him this way?
The beat grew louder. The giant heart was busy pumping away his blood. Timothy wanted to fight it, but he was so tired. And the warm waves of darkness kept trying to pull him down. He hung on as long as he could.
And then he let go.
It was three days before the authorities found his car. But they never found Timothy Ghast's body. They told his grieving family that he must have gotten disoriented in the storm and died in the drifting dunes of snow. They said they would probably find his body in the Spring when the snow melted.
They didn't find it then either.
The house on the hill is a little uglier now. One of the porch post is broken and because of that the porch roof sags at an odd angle. However, it still beckons to unwary travelers on this lonely road in the middle of nowhere, promising shelter from the wild storms that rage through the heartland, promising a safe place to stop for the night.
It waits.