Darrow House

I needed an escape. Life in the city was beginning to take its toll. I just wanted a place to get away. So, I settled on a small, colonial style home in Kinsman, Ohio. Population: 1,900.

Perfect.

The house was nice. Far nicer than anything else in the town. Beautiful shake siding, pale blue but not faded. Shutters on either side of each window in a magnificent white that practically glowed. It was modest. Quaint.

Perfect.

It seemed as if it had been taken care of. Some of the appliances were even updated. The kitchen had been remodeled, fresh hardwood floors throughout. It was odd to me how cheap it sold for. But, then again, property values in this part of the country were much lower than the city I'd come from.

I had everything off the truck and inside the house in a matter of hours. I didn't have much, just a bedroom set, small dining room table and a desk and computer for work. Working from home can be nice, but it can also be a bit lonely. The living room seemed barren, though. I made a mental note to look into getting some more furniture.

It wasn't until my third day in the house that I noticed it. There was a smell. Something like smoldering wood. But I couldn't find where it was coming from. The fire inspector came and looked everything over. He said he didn't notice the smell and that everything was in order.
I know I could smell it.

Over the next couple days, I began to notice odd noises, usually at night. It was something like an incessant tapping against a window, or maybe a wall, in the living room. It was only barely audible from my bedroom on the other side of the house.

Tap, tap-tap, tap.

It was rhythmic, almost soothing, if it hadn't been for the fact that I had no idea what was causing it.

Maybe old pipes? I thought to myself. These old houses made all sorts of odd noises that some city folk like myself weren't used to. I decided to investigate.

When I walked into the living room, the tapping suddenly ceased. There was nothing at the window that I could see and nothing out of place around the house.

As I began to move back to my bedroom, I noticed it start back up, louder this time. So loud and heavy I could feel it vibrating through the soles of my feet.

I stopped in my tracks and turned around.

Then I realized something. The sound wasn't coming from my window, or my wall. It was coming from beneath the floor.

That couldn't be right, though. The house, as far as I knew, sat on a solid concrete slab. There was no crawl space. There was no room for anything under the floor. But it persisted, seeming to taunt me as I made the connection.

I ran to my small, half put together tool box and grabbed a hammer. I brought it down, hard against the planks of wood, tearing up the walnut flooring in a mad dash to find the source. Splintering, cracking wood flew off of the floor and through my living room as I smashed hole after hole in the floor. Finally, I was through.

What the...

On the other side of the floor was a long, darkened staircase. At the bottom was a simple, white door.

Nope Nope Nope, I thought to myself, knowing full well that what lie beyond that door was definitely something I didn't want to see.

I left my house that night, choosing to stay at the local, ratty Motel 6. Nothing would have been able to convince me to stay there after seeing that.

The next morning, after waking and heading down to the lobby for some "continental breakfast," I decided I'd head back to the house. All my belongings were there. On top of that, I'd only just closed on the house, I couldn't abandon it.

As I made my approach, stepping up the winding pathway to my front door, I felt the uneasy tightness of anxiety squeeze my chest. My breathing became shallow, my heart thumped rapidly in my chest and a bead of sweat formed across my brow.

I reached for the silver doorknob, noticing the slightest tremor in my movement. I took a deep breath, closing my eyes and inhaling through my nose, holding for a moment and exhaling.

I opened the door, stepping into the foyer. The scent of burning wood lingered in the air, just as I'd grown to expect upon entering the house.

The floorboards creaked beneath my feet as I took slow, echoing footsteps through the house. I rounded the corner, into the living room.

The claw hammer laid on the floor, next to the area I'd torn up the night prior, but to my surprise the hardwood was in immaculate condition. Not even the slightest scratch.

I was puzzled, looking at the floor with my head canted sideways like a dog. I scratched the crown of my head in confusion, looking around for any sign of life in the house beside myself.

I walked through, checking the small area. There was only 1 bedroom, 1 bathroom, the kitchen, living room and a small storage closet. I was alone.

It was at that point that I realized I needed to do some research into this house. I needed to know what was going on. I needed confirmation on whether or not I could stay.

I found my way to the Trumbull County records office. After speaking with the clerk, she directed me to a section of historic records specific to Kinsman.

The area was open to the public and contained what few substantial news articles came out of the town, all converted to microfilm, electronic land records dating back to the early 1800s, plat books and building plans. This was where I'd find my answers.

I spent most of the day scavenging the old articles.
I found that the town was originally explored in 1799 by John Kinsman.

According to documents from the historic society, there have only been a couple of significant figures and a handful of monuments in the town. There's the Kinsman Free Public library, the Kinsman cemetery, a doctor whose old estate had been converted into a hotel and event center and then one man that the town seemed to be almost too proud of, Clarence Darrow: lawyer and activist.

Clarence made a name for himself by presiding as the defense attorney on the Leopold and Loeb murder case back in 1924 as well as the Scopes "Monkey" trial in 1925. His octagonal childhood home still stood in the small town and had become a bit of a historic landmark due to its civil war era architecture.

I wasn't sure why, but this man felt significant. It felt as if something about him was hidden. Something important. I knew that I would find answers, or at the very least my next clue, if I went to that house.

After making the trek back to Kinsman, I pulled up to the old historic building. The yard was large, and the home itself was set back a decent distance from the road.

A handful of large maple trees were sprinkled through the yard. The home itself was pretty, but nothing special in my mind. Sure, it was octagonal which was unique, but it didn't strike me as particularly breathtaking.

It was adorned with white wooden siding and a red shingle roof. The home was two stories, with a classic wraparound porch. There was a small brown plaque with raised gold lettering by the road that read "Darrow Octagon House." I took a moment to read through it, noting that it stated what I'd already read in the public records office almost verbatim.

I looked over to the house again and could see a man standing in the second story window. He appeared to wear an old style suit, and had a thick black mustache across his upper lip.

It was a startling sight at first, sending shivers down my spine as I stepped out of my truck and began to make my way up to the front door. When I saw a jolly smile stretch across his face and an eager hand reach up and wave excitedly, I let out a sigh of relief as well as a slight chuckle, telling myself to get a grip.

The man quickly scurried away from the window as I made my way up to the front porch. There was another brown plaque, with an inscription that showed Clarence Darrow's name, date of birth and death and a brief history about him.

I stepped onto the porch after quickly skimming the sign. The man I'd seen upstairs, staring creepily out of the window quickly whipped the front door open and greeted me.

"Good day, kind sir!" He said in a faux old English accent. "My name is Archibald Fretwick and I would like to welcome you to the Darrow House."

He stepped aside, extending his arm out to his side and allowing me to enter the property.

"Hello," I said sheepishly as I stepped past him.

The inside of the house was just what you'd expect from any historic landmark. Preserved furniture, old journals and other items behind glass cases.

The mustached man, who's accent came and went, gave his best attempt at guiding me on my tour. It was lost on me, however. I still failed to see any historic significance.

"So, newcomer, where do you hail from?" He asked, continuing to keep the act going.

"I'm, uh, actually new in town." I said. "Just moved in down the way. Over on [REDACTED]."

He looked at me for a moment, quizzically. He brought a hand up, twirling the extravagant tip of his walrus mustache and raised an eyebrow.

"Interesting," he said, continuing to stare. "Where about on [REDACTED]?"

His accent had faded into a New England, almost Bostonian, diction.

"Uh..." I hesitated. "[REDACTED]?"

The facial expression changed in an instant. It was as if he'd seen a ghost. His hand fell from his mustache, his eyes went wide and his jaw hung agape.

"Is there something wrong?" I asked after a moment of uncertainty. He'd just been staring and it was beginning to feel a bit uncomfortable.

"Do..." he started but halted himself. He appeared to be in conflict. His brow furrowed for a moment and he let out a quick sigh. "Do you know about that house?"

It sounded like the start to your typical urban legend, but I quickly bought in. It was too much of a coincidence to pass up. There was no way he could know that's why I was here in the first place.

"Is there something I should know?" I asked, trying to maintain a nonchalant guise.

The man looked around for a moment, as if to make sure no one was listening. He crept in, uncomfortably close to me and brought his voice down to a whisper.

"Well, rumor has it Clarence used to own that place," he started. His tone had a conspiratorial nature to it. "He used his position as one of America's most prominent lawyers to have all the records redacted."

"Okay?" I questioned, unsure of where he was taking this.
"Yeah, people say he would return every few years and use that as a 'vacation home.'" He made air quotes as he said that. "I heard he was using the house as a private crematorium. They say he would lure criminals down to the cellar, tell them it was his 'private office.' Then, he'd torture them. Burn them alive when he was done."

He turned his head again, as if he was sure someone would walk in at any moment to put an end to his insane ramblings.

I felt my heart beginning to race. I remembered that smell. That horrible scent of burning wood and ash, that unending tapping all through the night. Fear began to flow through me, holding me tight. I felt my limbs beginning to shake in horror.

I think Archibald noticed, because he quickly began to back-pedal.

"Uh, well..." he hesitated. "This is all speculation, and the historical society has done all they can to put an end to these nasty rumors." His over-the-top accent had returned. "We believe it tarnishes Mr. Darrow's legacy."

He began to walk toward the front door.

"Now if you will please excuse me," he swung it open and stood by. "I have business to attend to."

I stood there for a moment, awestruck. I couldn't move. No matter how hard I tried to force my legs to take me through that door, they refused. I felt the shakiness growing more apparent.

"Sir, please. I really need to get going." He said, reiterating his point.

I took a deep breath, attempted to force my limbs to steady, and stepped off. I walked by the man without so much as a glance, knowing full well that if I stopped it would be near impossible to move once again.

I made my way to my truck, whipped open the door and jumped inside. I sat there for hours, unable to fathom what I was just told.

If my suspicions were correct, I had a legitimate haunted house to deal with. The thought made me cringe.
Ghosts weren't real. I knew that. But after hearing what that man said, I'd begun to doubt everything I knew.

I looked back at the house, one final glance before I drove off. He was back up in the second story window, just as before. He stared at me, but where he had once had a look of happiness and surprise, he now had a haunted, somber expression painted on his features.

I started my truck and drove home. Back to the place where I had only one choice. I needed to go into that hidden cellar.

I armed myself with a Bowie knife, a gift from my grandfather before he passed away, and made my way to the living room.

Just as before, the hammer laid resting next to the place where there had once been a gaping hole in my floor. The mystery of how it was repaired was still at the forefront of my mind, but it was also shrouded by the paralyzing fear of what I would find below.

Reluctantly, I forced myself onto my knees and began hammering away. I tore up board after board until I was left with that cement staircase leading down to a pale white door.

I gulped, feeling my breath beginning to escape me. I could hear the dull thud of my heartbeat thumping away in my eardrums.

I put the hammer down and secured the Bowie knife in my grip. I slowly began to descend the staircase, step by step. I made my way down, arriving at the door. I looked back, up the stairs and into the safety of my home.

I cautiously reached my sweaty palm toward the doorknob. It was black and metallic, warm to the touch. This struck me as odd, but then again this whole situation was.

I turned the knob, which buckled for a moment before releasing the latch. As I pushed the door open with a creak, the scent of burning wood combined with cooked meat filled the air.

I swallowed a thick knot that had begun to form in my throat and continued pushing the door open.

It was dark, but there was a soft flickering light coming from the other side, coupled with the sound of crackling fire.

I winced as I stepped through, expecting the worst. My eyes slowly adjusted, taking in any and every form of light they could until I was finally able to make out shapes.

The room was small, probably 8 feet by 8 feet. It was made of solid cement, from what I could tell. In the center of the room was a column that appeared to also be made of cement.

Hanging on the wall directly across from the door was an assortment of medieval looking medical instruments. Bone saws, tin snips, clamps and clasps of all shapes and sizes. Leather restraints, chains and even some rope.

I looked to the left, where a wooden table sat at a steep angle. Two sets of metal shackles, one at about arm height and one closer to the floor, were attached to the table.

Next to the table was some sort of furnace. It emanated a pale yellow light that cast the room in a dim glow that seemed to grow brighter as my eyes adjusted.

I looked to my right, where I was confused to find a door. Unlike the door I'd just come through, this one appeared to be more fit for a dungeon entrance than a residential cellar.

I took my first step, into what I assumed to be the torture chamber. My wobbly legs wanted to collapse beneath me, forcing me to fight to maintain control. The dread grew in my stomach, tying it in knots.

I walked around the room for a moment, examining the blood soaked table, charred column and the warm furnace. It was as if this room had been used recently. I turned my gaze toward the mysterious door.

My heart told me not to do it. To just go back to my truck, get in and drive far away. But my mind overpowered, curiosity driving my actions.

I stepped to the door, grabbed hold of the handle and pushed it open. A cool breeze rolled into the room as the door swung to its fully open position. There was a long hallway, lit every 10 feet or so my old style wooden torches.

Against my better judgement, I called out into the corridor.

"Hello?" I yelled, my voice echoing for a few seconds before finally dying in the distance.

There was no response.

"Hello-oh?" I yelled again, my heart begging me to quit while I'm ahead.

I saw a shadow appear in the distance. It seemed to be walking in my direction. My eyes went wide, my bladder emptied itself in my pants, blanketing my lap in a coating of warmth.

Another shadow appeared next to it. Then a third, and fourth. Before I knew it, there was a crowd all slowly, menacingly, walking toward me.

I turned, ready to run for my life but was cut off by a large, burly man with a greying goatee stepping into the chamber from the door I'd unearthed previously. He looked familiar but I couldn't quite place him. I inadvertently shouted, startled by his presence.

"A little birdie  told me you had some questions about your new place..." he said through a grumbling voice.

I turned once again, losing my footing and nearly slipping. I quickly regained and began running toward the crowd. I halted about halfway between the approaching mob and where I'd left the burly man who now seemed to be making his way into the hall.

"You can't escape!" He shouted, continuing to progress toward me. "We will continue Clarence Darrow's legacy. The things he's done for the world are tremendous and his work MUST continue!"

I was unsure if I should continue down the hall and face the mob drawing nearer or take my chances with the behemoth man who seemed so familiar.

Even his crackling voice was familiar.I looked back at the large man once again. Where had I seen him? He wasn't the clerk at the records office, not the man from the Darrow House...

Then it hit me: the fire inspector.

"As the head of the Kinsman Historical Society, it is my DUTY to ensure Mister Darrow's work continues. YOU WILL NOT STOP US!" His voice thundered through the dusty, stone walled passageway.

He wasn't armed, that I could see. I couldn't say the same for the crowd approaching, having only been able to see silhouettes. I decided to take my chances with the single man.

I turned and bolted towards him, heading in the direction of the cellar. I was ready to get the hell out of there. Ready to drive away and leave this place behind. I'd seen all I needed to.

As I approached, he reached out for me with a grunt. His large frame meant he moved a bit slow, and I was able to duck. He seemed to be prepared, however, meeting my evasive maneuver with a counter measure of his own.

He threw his leg out to his side, sending my feet fumbling over his tree trunk sized appendage. I toppled over, landing on my stomach. I maintained control of the knife as I went down, ensuring I wouldn't push the blade into my own body.

I laid on the ground for a moment. His footsteps slowed as he stepped up to me. Once he stopped moving, I took the shot.

I whipped around, flailing the knife out in front of me. I felt the blade slow as I dragged it across his body. Skin tore beneath it and the man let out an inhuman howl as the blade slashed across his stomach.

I jumped to my feet and bolted out of the hallway, into the cellar and up the stairs. I could feel the man hot on my tail, as if he was reaching for me. As if I was just out of his grasp.

I continued running, taking no time to look back. I wasn't going to give this town it's opportunity.

I ripped my truck keys from my pocket, fumbling with them as I jumped in. I put the key into the ignition and turned. Without fail, as if the machine knew I was in a hurry, it refused to start. A second attempt did the trick and the truck started with a rumble.

I saw the man running out of the house, blood soaking his now cut shirt. His brow was parallel, fury causing him to strain. Every vein in his face was bulging.

I threw it in reverse and floored it, peeling out of the driveway and smashing into a vehicle parked in the street. I didn't pay any mind, though. I needed to get out of there.

I blasted down the street, careening past the lake and out onto Main Street. A group of people began to emerge from one of the buildings, the headquarters of the Kinsman Historical Society. They sprinted out to the road as I passed, yelling something that I couldn't make out.

I drove to safety, not stopping for hours to do so much as to even use the restroom. I needed to be sure I was safe.
After losing track of time, I finally realized I needed to stop. I pulled off the road, staying in my truck with the doors locked. I couldn't trust anyone.

That the cult known as the Kinsman Historical Society had been using my house. They'd been playing judge, jury and executioner right below me. That tapping, rhythmic and somewhat soothing, had been them doing God-knows-what.

That burning smell... it was people... They were burning them alive, right under my nose.

That tunnel that ran beneath my house went east, it seemed to be about 400 or so yards long. That would have made the ending point right below the Darrow House...