December, 1927
“Some strange things went on in that house, that’s for sure,” the old cop said as he spat on the rain-wet ground.
The two uniformed officers, one a rookie, one a hardened veteran, stood on the frosty lawn at 14 Fox Lane, smoking Luckys and watching the bodies of two dead brothers being trundled down the sidewalk on squeaky-wheeled gurneys.
“Looks like they both took some kinda poison, from what the coroner says. Faces all black and swollen, green foam comin’ outta their mouths, sure sign of poison they say,” the older cop said, and he flicked his cigarette butt into a puddle of rainwater and turned to gauge the rookie’s reaction. The kid’s face was grim and pale, but so far he hadn’t puked.
“I know,” the rookie muttered. “I saw.” He puffed on his cigarette without inhaling.
“I’m thinkin’ we got ourselves a double suicide.” The older cop hitched up his belt and scratched thoughtfully at his stubbled chin. “Guess the boys downtown will figure that out for us though, huh?” He waved a hand under his nose, wafting away an imaginary stink cloud. “Shoo! I can still smell ‘em, can’t you? Been layin’ dead in there for at least a week, I’d say.” He glanced at the kid again, and observed with no surprise that his face had gone even paler. “Hey kid, you alright?”
“Sure.” The rookie nodded and turned away. “’Scuze me a sec.”
He headed for the side of the house, walking swiftly. Faint retching sounds followed.
“He’ll get used to it after a while,” said the older cop to no one in particular.
The double suicide at 14 Fox Lane was the main topic of conversation in Fiddlehead Creek, Washington for more than a week. The local newspaper featured a different lurid photograph of the tragic scene every day: the house itself, with the two policemen standing to the side; the coroner, leaning over the blanket-draped deceased and staring grimly into the camera; and a shot of the two brothers as they were in life, grinning and holding a stringer of trout between them.
Everyone had their own opinion of what had actually happened in the living room of that old house. Some claimed the brothers were terminally ill, and took their own lives to avoid prolonged suffering. Others thought that the deaths hadn’t been suicides at all and the brothers’ murderer was still lurking in the woods on the edge of town. Then there were the ones who claimed to have been there when the detectives had taken out box after box of mysterious items: paintings of demons, books written in strange languages, and dozens of skulls and bones from small animals. “It was devil worship!” they claimed in hushed voices, and a few of the locals took to walking on the other side of the street when passing by the house at 14 Fox Lane. Children made up stories about the ghosts they had seen peering out of the upper story windows, and a wandering vagrant once ran screaming into the local jail house, demanding to be locked up because the ghosts of the dead brothers were chasing him.
Eventually, as with all small-town scandals, the excitement died down, and people got on with their lives. The house at 14 Fox Lane was bought and sold several times, but no one really wanted to live there. It sat empty on its spacious lot, growing faded and splintery in the summer sun and winter snows while the Umatilla National Forest slowly reclaimed the property. Brambles and weeds took over the backyard, and the rose bushes grew wild, unpruned and uncared for. Pine needles sifted down through the lofty branches of the trees and formed a thick mat over the once well-tended back lawn. It was as if Nature herself wanted to conceal the secret that lay hidden there. Inside, the air grew stale and musty. Dust balls tumbled lazily across the once gleaming hardwood floors, trundled along by the drafts that found their way in.
Deep in the bowels of the house, veiled in darkness and the dust of decades, something slumbered, fitful and angry, waiting for the day when it would be set free.