Nightmares of the Past
Chapter 3
A Halloween-Fic by Agent S7
7:32 PM
Rain spattered on Professor Utonium's white lab coat, cold and unforgiving. He glanced back at Detective Shirley, still in the cab. God, he could use a drink. Just a few moments ago he had been scared shitless by some kind of ghost.
(Hell no. Not a ghost. No such things as ghosts. Fiction. Skeptical. Stay skeptical. Couldn't explain hallucinations.)
And what had happened to the so-called excorcist…
(Fuck. No fuckin way it can't be real it can't have killed em no fuckin way)
Shirley climbed out from the cab and looked at him straight in the eyes. "What happened?"
"Nothing," John Utonium replied unconvincingly.
"You're fuckin' kidding me. You look pale as a goddam ghost, man!" Shirley shouted.
"I told you, nothing happened!" John shouted viciously. Shirley glared at him, unconvinced.
"Fine."
The two of them stopped and looked up at the Believe House. Years had obviously taken their toll. The thing was falling apart. It stood there like a broken down monument to nothingness, the fading cyan paint flaking off in various places. The glass windows were cracked and broken and he could have sworn he had heard something hiss. Something…something about the place made Utonium's blood run cold. (No. Not real. Skeptical mind…)
"So. Let's go in."
"Nice place," John uttered sarcastically. The place had a sort of Victorian flavor to it, a stale, unfeeling appearance that turned one's stomach over. A faded rug with faded carnation designs on it sat under the two investigator's feet. A once-grand staircase lead forward, up into the dark second floor. "So tell me, detective. How exactly do you know that these people died here?"
"At first the house was sold to civilians. But…they all died shortly after. Usually mauled. Then, when we declared the house to be unsafe and forbade people from entering, we started to find the victims on the doorstep, year after year."
"Damn."
"I still remember—god—I still remember one of the kids who found the body. It was on the doorstep of the house, like I said. He came in and just started to cry and cry…I'm never going to forget that day."
"Well, now that we've told our tragic tales, how about we get moving?" John asked. Shirley shrugged.
"Fine. But be careful."
"Sure," Utonium replied. "If I see Casper I'll tell you," he muttered bitterly.
Shirley turned her head and for a brief instance John worried that she had heard him. But…no. "You take the hallway to the left, I'll go right," she said. John Utonium nodded and the two walked away from each other.
UTONIUM'S STORY
The dark floorboards creaked with every step he took down the long hallway of pictures. The portraits were old and somewhat eerie, each with wide and cold eyes that seemed like they were watching him eternally. Every picture had a name under it, the name, he assumed, of one of Mike Believe's relatives. John Utonium had never suspected—for a single instant—that the Believes were rich enough to afford such a large (though decrepit) house.
Sweat ran down his forehead and he licked his lips again, succeeding only in getting them wet. (I could use a beer.) But he shrugged the thought off.
(Professor John Utonium—what are you doing here? You came with a crazed police detective to investigate what is probably—nothing!) That's it. Lie to yourself, he thought. What could kill three nearly invincible children?
The Professor stepped forward again, and heard two creaks on the floorboards. (Two.) He raised his left foot and stepped again, sweat running down his forehead. Nothing. John began to walk again.
There was a hiss, like a vicious snake preparing to attack. And that's when the Professor began to run.
SHIRLEY'S STORY
The room Shirley stood in was a fairly pretty room, old but with a beautiful and haunting charm. It was lit by a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, with dozens of shining glass crystals. The blue, pale, peeling wallpaper displayed designs of some faded plant with wild pink petals jutting out and the bare floor creaked.
(A piano.)
A grand piano sat in the corner. It had been ages since she had played one. She could hear the song her husband used to play. Beethoven's Ninth. And she would dance and they would kiss and she could hear it playing right now!
And her husband would sit at the chair next to the piano and smile and whisper how much he loved her. And she would stare at him, sitting on the piano, covered in blood, whispering "help me" and (oh my god what the hell?) gagging and this never happened but it was happening now and she could see his green eyes, or rather eye, the other was upturned and (OH MY GOD!)—
He was gone. Her heart thumped quickly inside her chest. What the hell had just happened? Nothing had happened. Nothing had ever happened. (All a dream it's trying to trick you kill you make a mistake and you die and) she walked out of the room, her eyes wide.
John Utonium slammed the door behind him, panting. Shirley stood in front of him, staring at the grand piano in what was almost a trance.
"Detective…are you okay?" Utonium asked in a shaky voice. Shirley blinked and shook her head.
"I'm…not okay god I'm not okay. We need to get out of here. This was a bad idea in the first place," she said quickly. There was a creaking and both of them suddenly felt lightheaded.
The doors they had entered through on the east and south were gone. There was one to the north…and that was it.
And the Professor suddenly—desperately—wanted a drink.
7:57
END CHAPTER THREE