The town square of Ellis, charred brick and mangled civilization, sat quiet and desolate as it had for twelve years. The stores overflowed with potato chip bags and old souvenirs, promising a “beautiful view in stunning ELLIS, VERMONT” or “the pride of the Civil War in ELLIS, VERMONT.” The Town Hall, sitting at one end of the square, once had pearly white marble. It was now the color of the darkest of nights. If you were to enter that building, you would find an old mahogany desk changed into a pile of charred wood and ashes in the center of the lobby.
But Ellis wasn’t known for its desolation. It was known for its people.
Standing on all the sidewalks and street corners, in line at every grocery store, and sitting in the booths of every diner were the citizens of Ellis. Their faces were twisted and gnarled into grotesque expressions of absolute terror, their arms and legs bent into impossible directions. The skin on their muscles had long ago evaporated and turned to dust along with their eyes that used to sit in their skulls, but their bones and muscles had instead hardened and turned to stone. The people of Ellis had, almost all at once, turned to the statues of Ellis.
“Mr. Benton”
That raspy, horribly cold voice again, coming from the man standing with his umbrella. He was a few yards away, but that voice made me feel like he was crawling over my body, slithering his way deep into my soul.
I gulped and nodded, and he turned East towards 181 Parkerdale Avenue.
Walking along the cobbled streets of Ellis, it’s hard to escape the feeling of being watched. The cold faces and non-existent eyes of the statues seem to watch you as you hop along. It’s a perpetual chill, even in the heat. Your body never feels used to it, and it only gets worse as you approach Parkerdale Avenue.
Once, twelve years ago, Parkerdale Avenue was a residential neighborhood. White fences sat proudly facing the street, not as a guardian but as a gateway. Children played hockey in the streets. Cars drove slow just in case the boy from next door forgot to look both ways. The smell of fresh pie wafted out from Mother’s window. The sound from radios playing the latest in pop music filtered out into the fresh air. And, at dinnertime, Fathers would return from their work and greet their wives with a kiss. They’d say “Oh honey, you didn’t have to go through all this trouble for me,” before rushing through prayers and digging in.
That was, as I say, twelve years ago.
Now, the neighborhood sits lonely and dejected, just like the rest of the town. The once-proud white fences sit lopsided, lazily slouching towards the street. The cars sit dusty, some burnt but many just unused, in the driveways. Baby strollers sit on the sidewalks behind stone mothers. I wouldn’t dare look inside any of them. Ellis had died many years ago. It wasn’t reanimating. It wasn’t returning like Frankenstein’s monster. Sometimes even I needed to remind myself of that.
The worst of all, though, was 181 Parkerdale Avenue.
It stood imposing at the end of the avenue. Dark black steeples and gables pierced the sky from all directions. Bay windows stood as imposing figures, glaring down onto the street below. There was no white fence here, no gateway. There didn’t need to be if the purpose was truly to keep out unwanted guests. The kids would never have walked up to the door at 181 Pakerdale Avenue, not even for Halloween or if they smelled a particularly delicious apple pie. A gentleman caller would turn tail if he caught a glimpse of that awful house. Even twelve years ago, when it was inhabited like the rest of the avenue, 181 Parkerdale Avenue would have driven any sane person away from it.
Because 181 Parkerdale Avenue was, in a word, haunted.
To be fair, I had never seen a Ghost there. I know there is one-- we call her Sonia-- but I couldn’t verify what she looks like. Or where she is. Or too much else about her. I don’t think the Man from Nagai could either, though I would never risk starting a conversation with him about her. Or about anything else to do with this ritual.
181 Parkerdale Avenue was not to be taken lightly, though. Although there may not be a gateway at the front, this was itself a gateway. It kept us in and other things out. And Sonia, wherever she may be, and her home was useful for that. We just needed to use them properly.
The Man from Nagai was already slithering up the stairs towards the giant front door of the house as I woke up and jogged to follow him. Producing a key to the door and turning it open, we were about to go in when he turned back towards me and put his index finger to his mouth. As always. I wasn’t sure if this was part of the ritual or not.
I nodded-- as always-- and he crept into the entryway of the house. Sighing, heart pounding a little, I stepped inside.
The house, unlike the rest of the town, was alive. Electric lightbulbs glowed from their sockets on the walls and ceilings, illuminating the crown molding and dusty wallpaper of 181 Parkerdale Avenue. A refrigerator in the kitchen hummed, and coffee dripped down into a pot sitting on the machine. The chairs and couches sat dusty, but the television they sat in front of blinked to life, and Steve Herring from ANC News announced the winners of last night’s baseball game.
The Man from Nagai sat down in front of the television, and I sat beside him. Mumbling something inaudible, he produced a gold letter opener from his left pocket.
“You know what to do.”
I grimaced and placed the tip of the letter opener against my left thumb, drawing blood, before passing it off to the man beside me. He did the same, and then we both smeared our blood across our other palm.
“We want forgiveness and compassion for our transgressions, and we wish to once again use your power,” he said, slowly, his monotonous voice echoing through the living room of this horrible house.
“We want the truth and righteous protection that you may provide, as we bind and Tether ourselves to your will and trust in your guidance. We wish that you protect us and give us strength, and guide us to those who may shepherd the flock. We ask that you forgive our enemies and slay our friends if that is what is necessary. We ask that you be our sword and our shield. Believe in our Ghost.”
With that, he nodded towards me, pushing me to join him.
“Believe in our Ghost”
From the walls of the house came a murmur and a sigh. The walls themselves seemed to inflate and deflate as the sound emanated from within. The studs creaked and groaned, creating a cacophony of bangs and rattles from all around us.
“Please ensure our survival,” the man droned, “Please help us see the light and truth. Please make us warriors, if that is necessary. Please make us peasants, if that will please you. Please give and take as necessary. Believe in our Ghost.”
“Believe in our Ghost.”
“Allow us power, and bring about the justice of a new world. Believe in our Ghost.”
“Believe in our Ghost.”
And, as I said that, a shriek rose from deep within the bellows of the house at 181 Parkerdale Avenue. The walls split and crumbled. The plaster fell from the ceiling. The windows snapped and broke into thousands of pieces of glass. The wooden studs disintegrated into kindling. The roof broke apart and caved in.
And then, just like every other time, it all stopped and rearranged itself. And suddenly the Man from Nagai and I were sitting in front of the tv playing Steve Herring’s news report.
The man stood up and walked towards the door, before turning and looking me straight in the eye.
“Our job here is done.”
