VI
...
The crisp chill of late fall had set in, the cool breeze weaving lazily through people's bones. Matthew tightened his sweater around himself as he stared at the house in front of him. Beside him was Alfred, in a thin shirt and cargo shorts, because he believed that the weather was never truly cold unless there was snow on the ground. Matthew was generally of the same principal, but facing the house in person again was enough to run shivers through him.
They had arrived fifteen minutes earlier than had been arranged, due to Matthew being incredibly jittery about the meeting. It was a bright Sunday morning, and Alfred had spent a considerable amount of it griping about how early they had to wake up. In the end, Matthew's constant insistence that this was a rather important matter got Alfred out of bed, even if the latter grumbled the entire time.
Alfred fiddled with the baseball hat he was wearing, yawning loudly. "Christ Matt, couldn't you pick a later time?"
"He said it would be best to come at this time." Matthew replied quietly, and Alfred gave him a weary glance.
Alfred had arrived the night before, tired but happy. Even Arthur lost some of his initial stiffness upon seeing Alfred again, and the three of them had a peaceful dinner. When Matthew brought in an extra quilt and pillow for Alfred, they exchanged a bit of banter before Matthew took a deep breath in and asked Alfred if he would come with him to see an old house in the woods. He explained he was just curious about the house and the owner had allowed him to have a look through. Alfred frowned, having not heard of the house before, and questioned Matthew's intentions. Matthew had never been good at lying to Alfred, who could see right through him sometimes, and came to the compromise of giving a more in depth explanation of how he had gotten lost in the woods and had stumbled upon the strange and fascinating house.
The rest he would tell Alfred later, after they had seen the house.
"Name's what? Gilbert?" Alfred asked and Matthew nodded. "Sure he's not on some most wanted list?"
Matthew punched Alfred lightly on the shoulder, giving a mock-exasperated sigh. Alfred had been vocal with his reservations about going around in strange houses with unknown people, but Matthew had deflected him over and over again.
"If he is," Matthew sighed, thinking of the one thing that would get his brother to shut up about it. "Then you'll be there to protect me, eh?"
"What if I don't want to?" Alfred snorted, but Matthew could see the little puff of his chest that showed his brother's ego had been slightly boosted. Matthew wanted to add on that his brother's presence actually provided him a significant amount of comfort, but he'd never live it down if he said it outright.
"Then you're as useless as you look." Matthew stuck his tongue out at his brother, receiving a slap upside his chin for his efforts. Alfred pulled Matthew's beanie down over his face in retaliation, as Matthew failed to push away his brother's hands.
"But I'm serious, Matt." Alfred said solemnly as he held the cloth over his flailing brother. Playing on the school baseball team had its advantages over working at a general store. "You shouldn't run around with sketch people."
"He's not... I'm not running around with him." Matthew gave a muffled protest. There was a distant crunch of leaves, and Alfred let go of Matthew to look at who was there. As Matthew pulled off his toque, a posh black vehicle rolled up to the fence and a car door slammed as Gilbert stepped out of his car. He spotted Matthew and Alfred, and frowned at the two before raising a hand to acknowledge them.
Gilbert unlocked the padlock and pushed the gate, allowing it to creak open enough to let his car through. Both Matthew and Alfred straightened themselves up a bit from their slouch as Gilbert got out of the car.
"Hard to wait at the gate, eh?" He asked, raising his eyebrows and toeing his car door shut with worn out sneakers.
Matthew opened his mouth to apologize but nothing to came out; Alfred nudged his side to get him to shut his mouth and offered a simple "Sorry" without any explanation.
Gilbert grunted in response, digging into his jeans as he climbed up the porch. He pulled out a small pocket flashlight, and motioned for the two to follow him. Matthew tried to match his brother's nonchalant stride as they stepped into the dingy house. The familiar musk hit Matthew's nose and he shuddered at the familiar creak of the floorboards.
"You two wait here." Gilbert commanded, flicking on his flashlight. The lack of door allowed a decent amount of light in, but not enough to fill the entire house. Gilbert headed towards a door under the stairs that Matthew hadn't noticed before, and with a little bit of effort, he pried it open. He disappeared down the stairs, leaving Matthew and Alfred standing there.
"Wow." Alfred commented. "Of all the dumps, Matt."
"I find it interesting." Matthew muttered, and they heard a tinny tap tap tap click from the open basement doors.
Something started to whirr, and as if the house had slowly lumbered out of sleep, lights slowly started to flicker on. A faint and low hum started to fill the air as dim white light swept over the house.
Seeing the house in so much light was a bizarre experience for Matthew. With its light wood paneling, stained and rotting floorboards, and peeling green wallpaper, the house looked almost normal. Almost pathetic.
"Interesting, huh?" Alfred said, voice with a tinge of amusement. "This is quite the shithole."
"But it's my shithole." Gilbert materialized beside them, having taken care of the lights. "Since I'm the one who's stuck with it."
"Lucky you." Alfred replied, and Gilbert gave a small grin. "I'm Matt's brother, Alfred."
"Gilbert." The man inclined his head slightly towards Alfred. "You got a fascination with old houses too?"
"Not at all," Alfred replied easily, and matched his grin with Gilbert's. "Just came here to keep Matt company."
The attention snapped back to Matthew, who was watching the two with a slight hint of nervousness. There was a short moment of silence then-
"Well, then you can follow me." Gilbert said, tilting his head towards the kitchen.
It was silent as the trio trudged through a battered down kitchen, Gilbert pointing out mundane things like the boarded up windows and the beat up wooden table and the stove that hadn't been used for thirty years. A thin layer of dust sat over everything, and the thick smell of mold was still in the air. It was unremarkable as far as houses went, and Alfred decided to point that out. Matthew just shrugged at that as they went into the empty living room, the musk following them.
Whatever illusions of a normal house the hall and the kitchen had provided so far was completely shattered by the living room.
"Pride and joy." Gilbert muttered as the three entered, getting a low and grim chuckle from Alfred.
The light in the room was a dusty yellow instead of a white like the rest, and Matthew felt like he had stepped into a set of a horror movie. It looked like it had been scorched thoroughly; a thick, aged smell of burnt wood an iron hung in the air, as if the scent of whatever had caused this had been preserved. There were thin marks scattered across the wood of the charred floor, and Matthew willed himself to not think of scratch marks. The green wall paper was burnt and peeling, and Matthew swore that the black scorch marks were covering up thin lines of red.
"Someone set fire here twenty years ago." Gilbert shrugged, as Alfred took it upon himself to wander the room. Matthew stood rooted the spot, staring at the floor as Gilbert spoke to him.
"Yeah?"
"A man dragged his brother and father in here. Killed them, set the place on fire." Gilbert shrugged it off, as if it was a particularly bland and uninteresting story. Matthew just stared at the man, about to say something until his brother interrupted him.
"Was this the only room that was on fire?" Alfred frowned, looking at the boarded up windows. "Nothing else in the house looked burnt."
"Got lucky," Gilbert shrugged and gave a lopsided grin. "There's not much to see here. Let's go upstairs, yeah?"
Matthew, who had been too busy staring at the marks all across the floor, gave a small and jerking nod.
"I'm staying down here." Alfred said, voice sounding slightly far off. He was still staring at the boarded up windows, still frowning. "I want to look around the first floor more, if that's alright."
"Yeah, just don't break anything." Gilbert replied with a light tone, and tilted his head again, this time towards the entrance of the living room. "Shall we?"
Matthew pressed his lips; going upstairs would probably mean going up to the room with the painting. But so far, nothing in the house had triggered anything within him. He couldn't feel the actual fear that had come from the dreams, he couldn't feel the dread. The house seemed very benign; a very anti-climatic feeling was already settling within him.
"Are you sure you don't want to come up, Al?" He asked quietly, and Gilbert chuckled beside him.
"Scared of me, kid?" Gilbert had a tinge of dark amusement in his voice, and that was when the first hint of unease started creeping in.
Matthew schooled his expression into something blank, looking over to Alfred. He didn't really want to be alone with Gilbert (that being the entire purpose behind Alfred coming along) and maybe he had seen enough of the house. There had been nothing remarkable, and really, nothing that had been reminiscent of whatever that thing that haunted him in his dreams was.
Matthew remembered reading an article about people and their fears; it had been a shitty article that he had to use to source on an equally shitty extra credit essay, and the only useful information he gained out of it was that some people were brave (or stupid) enough to look their fear right in the eye and tell it to fuck off.
Matthew shook his head, giving a small smile to Gilbert.
"Let's go."
He didn't know if he was being brave or stupid, so he settled for something in between.
He was just being curious.
The upper floor looked to be in slightly better condition than the bottom floor, but the damp and mouldy smell was stronger.
"Apparently this used to be a really nice place." Gilbert said idly, picking off a piece of peeling wall paper as they walked upstairs. "Real gem, and all that."
Matthew stayed silent, paying more attention to the creak of the stairs under his feet. The last time he had come up this way, he had been in danger. By association, he felt a slight bit of panic bubble within him and it was the first of many negative emotions that'd hit him as they made their way upstairs.
"But you don't care, do you, kid?" Gilbert said, looking over his shoulder and grinning at Matthew as they reached the top of the stairs. "If I were you, I'd have taken money over a stupid house tour."
"I..." Matthew croaked, but couldn't make up his mind on how much to tell this relative stranger. "I... I saw something interesting here."
Gilbert stilled for a fraction of a second, before straightening up a bit.
"Bet you did." He muttered under his breath, and then spoke again in a louder voice. "There are three bedrooms up here, a washroom, and a study. "
Gilbert turned to fully look at Matthew, eyeing him over before raising his eyebrows.
"I bet there's only one place you actually want to go, right?"
Matthew thought to avert his eyes; instead, he locked gaze with the older man. With a small amount of courage, he searched Gilbert's face, as if his expression could say how much he knew. In return, Gilbert stared back steadily, the corners of his mouth drooping downwards.
"You don't like the house, do you?" Gilbert spoke, tone quiet. "That's not what you came for. I've been watching you this whole time; I don't think you've listened to shit all that I've said today. There's only one thing on your mind right now, isn't there?"
Matthew blinked, slightly taken aback. "I'm- I'm sorry?"
Without warning, Gilbert grabbed Matthew by the arm. He yanked him forward, hissing at Matthew to be quiet when he let out a sound of protest. Gilbert pulled Matthew in till they were nearly nose to nose; his expression was foreboding and nearly angry.
"What the-" Matthew tried to yank his arm away, and found that the other's grip was too tight. A hand was clamped down onto his other wrist. He was about to yell for someone, Alfred maybe, and Gilbert shook him before he could.
"Look," The older man barked in a low and commanding tone. "Look up at me, Matthew."
The way Gilbert said his name was eerily familiar to the sneer the man from Matthew's dreams used, and Matthew balked a little on the inside.
"Let me go," he insisted, and was shaken again.
"Look at me!"
"I am!" Matthew snapped back, voice uncharacteristically angry as the strong hold Gilbert had on him almost bruised. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
"What's wrong with you?" Gilbert hissed in return. "You're the one that came back to this place."
"I-"
"Don't fuck with me, kid, I'm not stupid. I know what happened when those punks chased you in here. And I know you hauled your scrawny ass over here once before that too."
Matthew fought his will to go slack in Gilbert's hands with surprise. The older man continued, eyes constantly darting behind Matthew as if to check for someone.
"When something bad happens to you, you avoid the place." Gilbert let go of a wrist, and ran his hand up Matthew's arm, resting it on his shoulder. "When something bad happens to someone else as well, you forget the place."
And then suddenly, the his hands were off him. Gilbert ran a hand through his own hair before digging both of them into his pockets.
"Well," he said, voice eerily casual and steady. "Let's get a move on, eh kid?"
Matthew stood there, gawking slightly. Warning bells were going off in his head; he knew this kind of sudden personality change was dangerous from personal experience.
(Knew that one person could beat you in cold blood one moment and be begging for forgiveness the next. Knew that if it could happen with your own father, it could happen with a stranger.)
The kind of dread he had been expecting upon entering the house had finally started to settle in.
"I changed my mind." Matthew said steadily; the other man froze. Without turning on Gilbert, Matthew slowly stepped backwards down the stairs. "I don't need to see the floor upstairs."
He eyes Gilbert's back carefully as it tensed up, and was prepared to turn around, yell for Alfred, and run. The man slowly turned around on his heel, face bearing some unreadable expression.
"I don't blame you, you know." He said, voice low. "This place... it has a way of haunting people. The bastard made sure no one would ever forget him."
Matthew felt the dread tug lightly at his stomach again. He lingered for a second, wondering who exactly 'the bastard' was. He didn't stay for an answer.
"Thank the fucking lord," Alfred groaned as he downed half his steaming hot chocolate in one gulp. "That house was shit."
Matthew said nothing, picking at a fray on his sleeve as they sat on the park bench. Without looking back, he had marched down the stairs and told Alfred that it was time for them to go. Alfred looked relieved instead of surprised, eager to get out of the house without question.
Gilbert never came downstairs.
"I don't know what freaked me out more. The house or that creep that owns it." Alfred gave a dramatic shudder. "Fucking weird eyes too. Like yours, except they had red in it."
Matthew hummed.
"There was nothing behind those eyes, Matt. Nothing. No soul."
That earned Alfred a light punch in the arm and a chide to stop being dramatic, and sparked a whole different set of worry within Matthew.
That night the two brothers camped out on the old, worn, and comfortable couch in front of the small T.V set in the living room. Alfred had brought a horror movie which Matthew actively groaned against because he knew a scary movie meant that Alfred would spend the entire night in Matthew's bed, thoroughly terrified and extremely paranoid.
(And it would be terribly inconvenient if both of them held any form of fear; Matthew still had to tell Alfred about the house and the dreams and how he had the strongest urge to just go back to the godforsaken place.)
Arthur had left the two alone, sitting upstairs in his study and poring over bills instead. Alfred had spent the first fifteen minutes trying to figure out how to work the VCR, while Matthew gently teased him about getting too used to the city life. After Alfred had successfully smothered Matthew with a couch cushion, Matthew stalked off to the kitchen to make popcorn.
They had settled in, one large bowl of popcorn in between them as they watched a B-grade movie on a haunted mental asylum. The first half hour was generic enough, with a nosy journalist coming in to investigate strange happenings. Matthew was about to doze off, mind a million different places, when an old woman on the screen started droning on about the history of the asylum.
"Y'think the guy's gonna turn the house into some kind of hospital?" Alfred nudged Matthew, awakening him from his slight stupor.
"Hmm?" Matthew yawned, reaching for some popcorn.
"The house we went to today. Do you think the guy's going to turn it into some mental asylum?"
Matthew looked at Alfred, blinked. Looked at the television, blinked. The old woman had started to whisper to the journalist about the devious things that had taken place in the house prior to its conversion.
"No," He replies, watching the old lady lean in and hiss.
"Gutted it out with a flame, he did. Right after he shot his father for getting that man from this place. Said he didn't need any doctors poking about his brain."
Alfred let out a loud snort at that, nearly upending the plastic bowl of popcorn. "Looks like your friend's been watching the same movie as us, Matt."
Matthew shrugged, popping a few kernels in his mouth. "He looked like he was telling the truth."
"He looked like he was full of shit." Alfred muttered, and Matthew gave him a curious look.
"But you got along well enough with him."
"So?" Alfred yawned slightly. "I get along with everyone, Matt."
They fell into an easy silence, Matthew watching the movie with passive interest. His mind kept flitting back to the morning at the house, and what Gilbert had said about the painting in the study.
It's got a way of haunting people. The bastard made sure no one would forget him.
Matthew knew that fear was necessary at this point; fear would prevent him from going back to the house and the painting, fear would prevent him from doing something stupid. In the study, Matthew had felt a presence literally crawl through his skin, feeling and testing him. Something had caught his interest there, and fascination was outweighing fear by a fraction.
Maybe he didn't need to go back, but Matthew was sure he wanted to.
"You couldn't give me a million bucks to go back to that place," Alfred said through his mouthful of popcorn as if he had read Matthew's thoughts. "Shit gives me the creeps."
"Yeah?" Matthew looked over at his brother, who was watching the screen with intensity. Matthew was tempted to tell Alfred what had happened between him and Gilbert in the house; at the same time, he wanted to keep his brother safe and away from the house and everything associated with it. It already felt like a mistake, bringing him there this morning, even if Matthew couldn't put his finger on the exact reason why.
"I mean, fuck. It would drive me insane." Alfred tipped his chin towards the T.V, where the woman in the movie sat on a cot in a desolate room. Her hair was long and unkempt, her arms bruised, and her knuckles white from gripping her hospital gown so tightly. "Would you want to end up in one of those loony bins?"
Matthew forced a small chuckle at that and remained quiet through the rest of the movie.
When he went to sleep that night, Alfred hogging up most of the bed, he didn't dream of the house. He dreamt of nurses, hospital gowns, being strapped to the bed and sedated in his tiny room as he continued to scream about houses, fires, and the pale man from the painting who wouldn't leave him alone.
Stay away from places you don't know, kid. They have a habit of being able to find you again.
(But when Matthew woke the next day, he felt an inexplicable need to go back to the house. Maybe it was because he still had things he wanted answered. Maybe he thought he could find them in the peeling wallpaper, the rotting wood, the study upstairs.
Maybe, he thought as he swatted a fly off his bedside table while reaching for his glasses, something had truly caught his fascination and was overshadowing his fear.)
