Night of Terror

1

Three Weeks Earlier

"Come on, don't be like this," Sarah's mother, Pricilla, sighs in exasperation as she readjusts the rearview mirror again, a nervous habit of hers. "You both know that I couldn't afford our old house anymore after your dad remarried and stopped making his child support and maintenance payments on time. This move will be a fresh start for all of us. I really think you guys will like Autumndale."

"Who names a town after a season?" Sarah's brother Cayne grunts as he rips open a bag of chips, spewing crumbs down the front of his wrinkled gray t-shirt.

"Hey, I wanted some of those!" Grace, the obnoxious ten-year-old daughter of Pricilla's boyfriend, whines from the front passenger seat.

"Obviously someone who's snorted a few too many leaves," Sarah mutters in response to Cayne as they both ignore Grace. Sarah rests her forehead on the cool glass of the window.

"I'm serious," Pricilla's voice turns stern as she white knuckles the steering wheel to control her temper, "give the town a chance."

"Fine, whatever," Sarah's breath fogs up a small circle of the window and she uses her index finger to draw eyes and a mouth on the glass. Just a car length ahead Pricilla's boyfriend, Roberto leads their caravan of hopelessness toward hell or heartbreak, Sarah isn't sure which, but she knows that at least the sleek Mercedes leading the way is probably more peaceful than the tin can her mother is driving. Why they got stuck with her mom's boyfriend's kid all the way to their new home is beyond Sarah's understanding. It was the boyfriend's fault they had to move anyway.

"Besides," Pricilla continues ranting, not straining to hear her daughter's reply. "You are nineteen now, Cayne. I didn't force you to move with us. It's not my fault your father forgot to pay your tuition this semester."

Sarah wondered if her mother would ever stop blaming her father for everything that went wrong in their lives. For Pricilla Wildwood, placing the blame on someone else was easier than taking accountability for anything herself. Sarah supposed her mother had been pretty once. At thirty-five, Pricilla had been a teenage mother when Cayne was born and she often blamed motherhood for her blonde hair turning prematurely gray and her skin turning sallow. Because the pills she popped to placate herself couldn't possibly have anything to do with it.

"I used to look just like you," Pricilla tells Sarah often as she picks at Sarah's stick straight honey colored hair and glares daggers at her daughter's slim figure. "Your dad robbed me of my beauty when he got me pregnant."

Yet another thing poor old Mase Wildwood had done wrong.

Most days Sarah didn't blame her father for finding someone else and starting his life over. Let's face it, Pricilla was a fucking mess. Sarah just wished that her father had taken her with him when he left.

Cayne's raised voice pulls Sarah back into the cold, cramped car as he fights with their mother about all the things he could find fault for in his own life. Cayne is a lot like their mother, though his looks favor their mammoth six-foot-five, brown-haired, broad-shouldered father. They were both built to be athletes but only Cayne had achieved their shared dream of playing college football - until a white powdery substance found in his locker cost Cayne his scholarship. Their father had been so disgusted with his oldest child they hadn't spoken in months.

"How much longer?" Sarah grouses, effectively ending the squabble between her mother and brother.

"We're almost there," Pricilla snaps as she chomps on the sweet scented gum she'd stuck in her mouth fifty miles earlier. A pale pink bubble forms between her bow-shaped lips growing larger and translucent until finally popping audibly. "I know you're going to love it, Sare, Roberto says the new house is a town landmark. It dates all the way back to the founding over two hundred years ago."

"There's probably a graveyard in the backyard," Sarah mutters. Raising her voice and focusing on Grace's shiny black ponytail she adds, "And the whole house is probably haunted."

A low whimper escapes Grace's lips as she addresses Pricilla, "Are there really going to be ghosts in the house, mommy?"

Beside Sarah, Cayne growls angrily. It drove them both insane that Grace had taken to calling their mother "mommy."

"Knock it off, Sarah," Pricilla scolds as she glares at Sarah in the rearview mirror.

Sarah closes her eyes and wishes herself miles away, back in her old town wanting no more than to be back in her maybe-boyfriend Ric's bedroom playing guitar and seeing how far they could take things before his mother got home from her job at the local diner. Life could be so unbelievably unfair sometimes.

She must have dozed off because it isn't until someone - presumably Cayne - slams one of the doors and the motion sounds so sharp and sudden it reminds Sarah of a gun going off, that she jerks awake.

A second later Pricilla attempts to raise the hatchback of their beat-up SUV then giggles like a schoolgirl as she explains to Roberto that it is too heavy for her to lift.

Sarah rolls her eyes and throws the car door open. Sliding down and sinking into the soft muddy grass her mother had parked in Sarah studies the old house, unimpressed.

The house was a two-story early Colonial style house that had seen better years. Weren't homes on the National Registry of Historic Homes supposed to be well-maintained? Sarah was surprised a strong wind hadn't taken this one down back in the eighties.

White paint had faded to gray and flaked off in places reminding Sarah of flesh peeling away from bone in one of those zombie shows on television. There was no porch and the raised step leading into the house was a hazard. One step out the door and you'd drop about a foot to the ground. The red double doors leading into the house were the color of blood, not exactly warm and inviting; unless you were a serial killer.

Looking up, Sarah noticed that the roof probably leaked and the chimney was missing more than a few bricks. She shuddered at the idea of bats living inside the dark chimney. The front lawn was seriously lacking in curb appeal as well. The grass was oversaturated and yellowish brown, either from the early frost or neglect and gnarly trees blew in the breeze, their branches becoming like long, bony fingers aching to grab onto Sarah and tear her to pieces.

Swallowing hard against the strong sense of foreboding the house gave off Sarah wraps her sweater tighter around herself and clomps up the overgrown pathway to the house.

"Sarah, we had the movers set up your room for you. It's upstairs and at the end of the hall on your right. You'll have a wonderful view of the backyard and the trees." Pricilla's voice had regained its' cheerfulness, probably to give her boyfriend the impression that everyone was happy about the move.

Sarah shook her head and hopped up the step into the house without responding. Kicking her muddy knee-high boots off next to the door Sarah surveys her surroundings bitterly. Oh yes, they would all be so happy here, Sarah snorts. Maybe Pricilla could kid herself and her boyfriend, but Sarah feels as dead as the house appears.