Haunted Horror 3rd Place

Old Richard
By Andrew Hughes

            “What do you mean you don’t want to go in anymore?” Sarah said. “This was your idea!”

            They stood on the cracked asphalt bathed in muddled darkness. The only light came from the last working street-lamp on the block, four houses down. In front of them, Old Richard’s house loomed like a monolith obscuring the crescent moon.

            “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Paul said. He tried to keep his voice from wavering, but the words still came out in a pathetic, shivering pitch. This outing was a joke to everyone else, his sister, her friends, and her boyfriend, Jason, but not to him. He was the one who’d done the research. He was the one who’d read every horror novel in the town library. He was the one who believed.

            Jason shot Sarah a surveying glance before kneeling down and placing a hand on Paul’s shoulder. “Come on man, you can do this. You’re the one who knows the Ouija board and the stories.” He leaned in close and gestured over his shoulder at Sarah’s friends. They stood a few feet up the block, huddled together with their arms crossed. Their silhouettes reminded him of a murder of crows.

“You’ll be the hero of the night. Go scare the pants off ‘em.”

            Paul opened his mouth and shut it again. He’d always wanted to hang out with the older kids, and this was the first time they’d invited him somewhere. He wanted to be cool. He wanted to be liked. But he couldn’t ignore what he’d seen when they’d walked up. The silhouette of Old Richard in the upstairs window wearing tattered overalls and leaning on a cane. He’d been smiling with broken teeth.

            “What do you say, buddy?” Jason squeezed his shoulders. “Want to be the hero?”

            “I don’t-” Paul swallowed, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I don’t think it’s safe.”

            Jason studied his face with genuine concern, but before he could respond, Sarah’s arm swooped down like a guillotine, snatching Paul’s satchel bag full of flashlights and tarot cards.

            The force of the pull rocked Paul back on his butt, and Sarah stared down with disgust.

            “You’re a fucking loser,” she said, then turned and walked through the rusted gate and up the stone pathway overgrown by grass and weeds. Her friends followed close behind, squealing with fabricated terror, the kind people had when they sat down with a blanket and popcorn to watch a slasher flick.

            They weren’t really scared. Not enough.

            “Wait,” Paul said under his breath, not loud enough for anyone but Jason to hear.

            “Don’t worry.” The older boy squeezed his shoulder before standing up. “I’ll keep an eye on them. Go ahead, you can go home.” With that, he followed Sarah’s posse through the gaping front entrance, shutting the old wood door shut behind them.

            Paul sat on the sidewalk and waited, kneading the grass that had squeezed through the cracks.

            His heart pulsed, and he shivered despite the warmth of the summer air. He strained his ears and longed to hear the sound of laughter from within the old house. Once or twice he thought he heard it, although it may have just been the faint breeze curling the leaves of the roadside oaks. He stared straight ahead at the front door, the wood almost completely stripped of its white paint and waited for it to swing open, waited for Jason and Sarah and the other girls to come pouring back out. 

            From within, he heard Sarah’s voice, high pitched and full of unintelligible mirth.

            Paul let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Maybe he’d imagined the specter. Maybe he’d gotten all worked up over nothing.

            Movement flashed in the corner of his eye.

            He didn’t want to look, knew what he would see, felt his heart tearing free from his chest cavity as he turned his head toward the upstairs window.

            Within the cracked glass, Old Richard stood bent over his cane. Behind his wire glasses, his eyes glowed bright with glee, his smile wide.

            Paul felt cold sweat beading on his forehead.

            Sarah. Jason. Oh, no. Please, no.

            The old man raised one hand from his cane and brought a bony finger to his lips, mouthing, shh, before turning and hobbling into the depths of the house.  

            Paul scrambled to his feet and stumbled to the gate, his hands stretching out to grasp the rusty metal. He had to go in. He had to save them.

            Then, he pictured Old Richard’s face again and that ghastly, horrible smile. The same smile his grandfather had had in the nursing home when the young, pretty nurse came to give him a bath. A smile that stunk of carnal desire. A smile of a dying man’s perversion. Even at ten years old, it’d made him feel funny, and now, as he stood at the entryway to something terrible, the thought of it made his knees quiver.

            Inside the house, something crashed to the ground with a shatter that hung in the air.

            Paul pinched his eyes shut and bit his lip. He could feel warm wetness on his crotch.

            Then, the screaming began.

            Paul turned and ran home, his eyes stinging with tears.

            The next time he saw his sister was in broad daylight, when he and his parents stood behind police tape and officers carried out her body on a stretcher. Even beneath the white sheet, he could tell that Sarah wasn’t whole anymore.


--- Sixteen Years Later ---


            Midnight struck as Paul drove into Oakville. It’d been over ten years since he’d last set foot in the place. His parent’s had long since moved away, but everything looked the same. Same old rundown Mapco on the corner. Same old sleepy houses with the lights out. Same old cracked asphalt that led him all the way to Old Richard’s house.

            He parked on the curb and got out.

            The breeze was still, and a full moon hung suspended over a thin wafting of clouds. He sniffed the air. A faint scent of rot carried itself across the overgrown grass. Everything else might have stayed the same, but this place had grown even more decrepit. All the paint had been stripped off, leaving nothing but bare boards, some of which hung from rusted nails that refused to support weight any longer. The corroded fence had buckled in spots, and the path to the sagging front porch was completely obscured by tangles of dead weeds.

            Movement flashed in the upstairs window, and Paul looked up.

            Old Richard stood leaning on his cane, his face ghastly white, the unpleasant smile already spread beneath his withered lips. He raised a shaking, arthritic hand, and waved.

            Paul stared, unperturbed.

            Richard turned his wrist and curled his fingers toward himself, beckoning.

            Paul pulled his backpack from the passenger seat of the car and started up the walkway. Before he set foot on the dilapidated porch, the front door creaked open. Without breaking his stride, he stepped inside.

            The rotting stench burnt his nostrils as he entered the foyer. All around, decrepit furniture sunk into the floor like animals trapped in a bog. As the door creaked shut behind him, he reached into his pocket and turned on the flashlight.

            The house was laid out just as it had been in the crime scene photographs. Family portraits on the walls, a plush couch across from an archaic, boxy television. A chandelier of cheap spangled glass hanging from the ceiling. Everything was in its place, except now, a thick layer of rot covered it all.

            The clicking of Old Richard’s cane sounded from up the shattered staircase.

            Paul walked further into the house, the flashlight beam swinging from wall to wall. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling, their arachnid occupants fat off flies drawn to the smell of spoiled flesh.

            Above, the clicking sound moved. He stepped into the kitchen.

            The cupboards hung open, the doors sagging on worn hinges. Shattered dishes covered the floor.

The clicking sound was just above him now, traveling slowly down the upstairs hallway.

            Suddenly, it stopped.

            Paul stepped out of the kitchen and started up the stairs. The steps buckled beneath him and he outstretched his arms, grasping the walls, the flashlight beam drifting erratically across the ceiling as he ascended.

            He emerged into the long hallway. If he went right, he knew he’d find the bedrooms. The site where Old Richard had butchered his own children and wife. And if he went left…

            A whistle sounded through the closed door at the end of the hall, shrill as a teakettle but as weak and airy as the rest of the house. 

            Paul tugged the straps of his backpack taught, and walked to the door. When he reached out and twisted the doorknob, the whistling stopped.

            So this is where it happened?

            For a moment, a faint familiar voice urged him to stop. The same fearful utterance that had held him back on the sidewalk all those years ago, but this time he stomached it deep within himself. He’d sacrificed too much to turn back now. College, his relationship with his parents, a normal life.

            Paul pushed the door open and entered the recreation room.

            All of the furniture had been shattered and broken, piled against the walls to clear a space in the center of the room where a noose hung from the bare rafters. Beneath it, his old possessions had been strewn about like children’s toys. Tarot cards. Newspaper clippings. The Ouija board. His old satchel bag laid in the center of the mess. 

          As he stepped closer, his boots squelched on the hardwood. He looked down and saw the pool of blood. In it, bloated maggots curled and squirmed.

          The whistle sounded from an open closet at the end of the room.
When Paul pointed his flashlight toward it, the beam flickered and died.

          “The little brother,” Old Richard croaked. “He came back.”

          The cane clicked in the depths of the closet.

          Paul pulled off the backpack and set it at his feet.

          “Back to avenge poor little Sarah.” Another click. “And what’d he bring? A backpack?” Rasping, airy laughter echoed from the closet, ending in a phlegmy cough. “Rich. Very rich.”

          Paul knelt down and unzipped the bag.

          “It’s been a long time since I’ve had a visitor.” Click. “I’ve been so very…” The darkness of the closet seemed to morph, and in the faint moonlight sneaking in through the cracked ceiling, Old Richard stepped into the living room. Meek and shriveled, the overalls hung to his barren frame by tattered denim strings. His yellow, cracked teeth were bared, “...hungry.”

          Paul reached into the backpack and felt the book, running his fingers down the worn leather binding.

          “But you’re not my taste,” Richard growled. “You’re much too old and much too unafraid.” He took one more step and leered over his cane. “So what brought you in, Paul? Did you come to take revenge? Come to rid this house of me?”

          “Yes.”

          Richard laughed, doubling over with the hacking expirations. After a moment, he wiped his eyes and leaned forward. “How amusing. Let me guess. Have you brought fire? Are you going to burn me out?” Richard took a few steps closer. Click. Click. Click. “Or is it the holy bible? Another exorcism? Oh, how they tickle.”

          “No.” Paul shook his head. “You’re much too embedded for that.”

          “Have you heard, Paul? Have you heard what happened to me? They came to my house,” Richard growled, his voice growing to a yell that filled the room. “Dragged me out of bed and hung me from the rafters!”

          “Yes,” Paul said, standing up with the book. “After you butchered sixteen children.”

          “Oh, I didn’t just butcher them,” Richard said gleefully, his teeth grinding together. “I tricked them. Then I beat them. Then I tore them to pieces and ate what looked appetizing. Just like I did to your sister and her little friends.”

          He took another step closer. Click. Paul could see pieces of festered gristle hanging from his blackened gums.

          “They hung me from the rafters, and I came back.” Richard took a step closer to Paul. Click. “They tried to burn down the house, and I blew out the flames!” Click. “They sent a priest to exorcize me, and I tore out his heart!” Click. “So what is it you’re going to do, Paul?”

          Only a few feet separated them now. Paul could see Richard’s long nails tapping anxiously on the head of the cane, awaiting the pounce and the tear, the warmth of flesh and blood.

          “It’s been a long time since you killed my sister,” Paul said. “And I would have been back sooner, but I had to prepare. I traveled a long way searching for a solution. Egypt, Italy, Asia. Ancient, tainted places.” He opened the book. “Out there, a lot of people tried to talk me out of my research. They called me a lunatic. A sociopath.” He began to flick through the brittle pages. “But I was stubborn. I persisted.” He found the page with the razor blade tucked in the crease like a bookmark. “Because I knew I’d never be able to move on. Not if your ghost still haunts this dump.”

          Richard’s eyes flooded with panic, and in an instance, he tossed the cane aside and leapt, but it was too late. Paul ran his finger along the razor and warm, sticky blood flowed across the seal. The book vibrated and leapt from his grasp, spinning on the floor, mushing the maggots and splattering the blood. Tendrils of red and black flames sprung from the pages, hurling Richard back against the wall where he cowered as a massive clawed hand emerged.

          “You’re a madman,” Old Richard sputtered. “A Satanist.”

          “And you’re a cannibal and a murderer,” Paul said. “Nothing but a speck compared to the real evils of this world.”

          Paul watched as the demon grabbed Richard in a bone crushing grip and dragged him, screaming back into the pages. Then, when the book had closed and the room had grown dark and quiet once again, Paul thought of Sarah and cried. 


Andrew has been writing for the past decade. His short stories have appeared in Sanitarium Magazine, Sinister Smile Press anthologies, and on the No Sleep Podcast. His fantasy novella, Children of the Arc, was published in 2023 by TWB Press. He currently lives in Arizona, working as a middle school English teacher, and mediating heated debates between his roommates, a Maine Coon cat and the world’s most rambunctious husky.
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