Fright Bites - Anthology

There's Something Wrong With The Wyses. by Nyhterides

There's Something Wrong With The Wyses. by Nyhterides

In Noir Valley, there's a house on a hill. The hill is called High Crest; it used to be nothing but a cluster of pine trees 'til the late 1970s when bulldozers showed up and created a huge bald spot on the hill. No one spoke about the de-housing of thousands of woodland creatures. It was the 70s, no one cared.

Builders worked around the clock. Within 18 months, a large grey stone manor appeared. High pillars extended from the ground and loomed up towards the sky passing through a balcony created to represent the crow's nest of a pirate ship. The tops of the twin pillars were topped with black stone horses that glared at whoever may be heading up the walkway with their black eyes. Each mouth of each horse was grotesquely carved to look as though the statue was in pain or enraged. Windows were sparse, the few we saw always had red drapes pulled shut.

It was the largest house in Noir Valley, hell, it was the largest house any of us had ever seen. Used to our modest accommodations, the house on High Crest hill was a sight to see, even if it did chill us to the bone.

A road was paved over the gravel one we used to drive up to the then-woods during our teen years. The pine-filled hill had been the perfect place to get high and get laid. Nowadays, you could only drive up to a certain point before a gate greeted you. The hill was encircled by a monstrous wrought iron fence. Over time, ivy grew around the fence and coiled around the bars.

In the corner store, people gossiped about what sort of family had moved up there. I sensed their curiosity when they spoke of the silent, chilling house.

Sharing beers on the porch, my buddies would look up towards the house and swear it must be some eccentric weirdo's living there. The way George went on, you'd think he was convinced the people living in the house was more alien, less human.

"I ask ya, Mike, how many folks have seen them in the last five years?" George took a swing from his beer "There's something wrong with the Wyse place. That house ain't right. That family ain't right."

His comment should have sent a chill down my spine, but all it did was electrify me and whet my curiosity even more. I thrived on listening about the Wyses. I felt a sick hunger on days when I did not hear news of the strange family. I spent many 3 AM's driving up the hill, standing in front of the gate, reaching out to the wrought iron. But not once had I caught sight of them.

George was right, only a handful of people had ever seen any of the Wyses. Ol' Stan had seen the mother and daughter a few months after the house had been built. Said they were tall and willowy, moving across the street like phantoms with their pale skin and pale hair. He said he felt as though some unGodly creatures were looking at him when both women turned two sets of eyes blacker than coals his way. He swore they stared clear through his soul. Ol' Stan told us how he tried to be friendly and even though he felt uncomfortable in their presence, he offered them a smile. Yet the women turned swiftly, their long black dresses swishing around their skinny ankles, and fled like two magpies towards the shadows.

Once, maybe two or three years ago, one of my neighbors, Jackson, had seen the daughter wandering down the main street at half-past eleven. He was on his way home from having a few beers at 'Synerz's Bar' when the girl appeared out of nowhere. He nearly ran her over with his truck when she stepped out into the middle of the road. Jackson said she must have had an angel looking out for her for he had been thisclose to turning her into roadkill.

"Kinda better they keep their distance, and we keep ours, Mike."

I would never tell him or anyone, but I didn't want to keep my distance. I wanted to know who the Wyses were. On Halloween that year I finally met them, for that was the day I died.

* * *

Perhaps they were waiting for me, longed for me as I did for them. Perhaps that's why when I reached the gate it was open. I needed to no convincing to walk onto the premises, down the pathway that ushered me through a maze of white rose bushes, right to the door. Thorns dug into my skin when I reached out to touch a tiny bud; they cut and bled. Droplets fell upon the snowy petals and stained them red.

"We have been waiting," I heard them say.

They arched their flowery heads to me and smiled. I saw tiny teeth within the petals, when I lifted my boot and stepped on them, I heard tiny bones break. From the roses' stems, blood began to drip and pool around my feet. Small cries filled the air, little sounds of anguish that secretly pleased me.

Before I could kneel down, scoop up every broken flower, the front door opened.I knew I should be apologizing for the flowers, but I couldn't form the words. My tongue felt like a caterpillar, thick and strange in the hollow of my mouth.

"We have been waiting," the daughter said.

Ol' Stan was right, she did look like a phantom, with her pale, translucent skin and ethereal hair. I walked into the house as though a magnet was pulling me. The soles of my boots left blood stains and crushed flower stains on the floor.

The door slammed. When I turned to face the daughter, I noticed she was joined by her mother and a handful more people. They circled me like wolves getting ready for the kill. Their eyes bore right into me, blacker than anything I'd seen before. Their skin was crawling, tiny beetles squirmed under their flesh, worming their way out through nostrils and ears.

I screamed when they reached for me, insects dripping from their fingertips. The daughter opened her mouth; flames danced where a tongue should've been. Her teeth were long and sharp, snapping at the air. I backed away, falling into the arms of the mother. The smell of rotten flesh and ancient graves greeted me. I felt her sandpaper tongue glide across my cheek.

A voice boomed, telling them to stop and they scattered like mice. From the top of a winding staircase, he came. His long black robes fluttered around him like a pair of wings. His hair fell to his waist, and when he cupped my face, I saw that his eyes were a summer blue.

"Do you know who I am?"

I wanted to tell him folks whispered about him and his family, calling them strange and odd and not right, but I could not.

"You could say I am a collector of sorts." He ran his finger over my cheek.I shivered. His blue eyes brought me to life.

My heart began to thud, I felt it in the marrow of my bones. I'd never felt so exhilarated. When he touched me, I felt electric.

"What do you collect?"

"Souls. You never made it up the hill, Michael." Sirens began to wail in the distance. "Your car hit a tree. You were killed on impact."

I pulled away from him in disbelief. He led me up the stairs, to the crow's nest, where I saw two police cars and an ambulance parked next to a Trans AM, my Trans AM! Metal was wrapped around a tree; smoke plumed from the hood. I felt my heart drop to my knees when two paramedics hovered over my body.

"I'm-?"

"And you are now mine."

"Is this...Heaven?" I was a good man; my sins were small and few. In church, we were taught that if you followed the Good Path, you'd end up in the Kingdom of Heaven. But the preacher never mentioned a Heaven where the walls tried to breathe you in, and gruesome entities watched you with dark, hollow eyes.

"Are you God?" I asked, feeling a surge of heat waft up past my toes, inching over my thighs.

He smiled wide. I saw long sharp teeth, a forked tongue. "The greatest trick I ever pulled was not convincing the world I didn't exist" Black-clothed arms held me."The greatest trick I ever pulled was convincing the world that there is an alternative."

The walls began to moan, the demons came, crawling to us on all fours, their maws opened grotesquely as if their jaws had been crushed. Mother and daughter looked up at me a bouquet of white roses in their grasp.

"There is no God?" I shivered.

The house trembled with the words. "I am God."

***