Wind whistled through broken panes of glass. The window frames shook in their loose moldings. The front door hung ajar, the hinges sprung, the knob barely attached. The backdoor was completely missing.
The exterior needed painting, new shutters and some patch work on the old slat board walls. The roof leaked, sieve like, when it rained hard. A good snow would cause it to collapse. Animals were nesting in the damp attic and the abandoned second floor.
The basement held water. Only about six inches deep, but deep enough to hide obstacles. The main floor needed the most love and attention. The walls were cracked. Wallpaper peeled in strange patterns and hung like rotting flesh from the walls. All the boards in the hardwood floors creaked. The linoleum in the kitchen was cracked. The kitchen was caked with dirt, dust and only God knew what else.
The animals that used the rest of the house refused to journey to the first floor or the basement. They could sense there was something wrong with it.
The living room contained some broken down furniture, a fireplace full of ashes and an area rug that looked ancient. It was the rug the panicked the animals. Strays that wandered onto the first floor quickly turned and ran when they encountered the rug.
The house had been vacant for decades. However, the teens didn’t come there to party or make-out. The townsfolk didn’t talk about it except in whispers and then only when pressed.
A group of paranormal investigators had attempted to stay the night and root out the source of the house’s power. They attempted to reveal its. It had lasted an hour. They left half their equipment behind in their fearful fleeing.
The house’s secrets were safe once again, to be whispered about by townsfolk who could still remember. For teenagers to giggle nervously about when they dared each other to approach it.
The horrors that had happened inside were unimaginable. All caused by the infernal rug that took prominent location in the center of the living room. No one had dared to flip it over and find out if the rumors were true. The investigation into the deaths of six women on the rug was brief. It had been written up as mass suicide, but the coroner had told the sheriff, off the record, that the cause of death was fright.
The townsfolk believed that as long as the rug stayed in place, the evil couldn’t escape. The evil that had frightened six women to death while they played with a Ouija board on a dull night, while their husbands played cards in another room.
The husbands had heard the screams. None had talked since. Most were committed to mental institutions. Only one lived in town still. He was maybe sixty years old, but he looked much older. His hair had turned white that night. He had aged at least twenty years. His ability to talk was gone. The doctors put it down as traumatic stress. They had attempted to help him, but it hadn’t worked.
Now, he had a group of old timers with him. His mouth opened. His eyes closed.
“I’m going to tell you what I saw that night. Never seen anything like it before. There were ten lords of…” his voice was rough after decades of not speaking. His eyes flew open. His face turned white. He pointed into the road. The group turned. A tall man in a dark coat with a hat stood there. No reason for alarm, it was just Bill, the local eccentric. He’d moved in about the same time the women had died.
The group turned back to the man who didn’t speak, waiting to hear the tale. His eyes were glazed, his gaze fell on Bill. Drool fell from his mouth.
“He’s not breathing!” One of the group shouted.
Bill walked on, heading back for his house, just a few doors down. He wondered what all the commotion was about.
This is a work of fiction; any resemblance to persons living or dead is completely coincidental.