Once Upon a Murder

There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

That rule had stood for thirty years to the day.

Which is how we found ourselves standing on the back porch of the local murder house, out of view of the families trick-or-treating along the street. The full moon provided just enough light to guide our path and the appropriate ambience for Halloween mischief, on the thirty-year anniversary of the murders.

I stood for several heartbeats after attempting to pick the lock, hoping the attempt had worked, for pride’s sake, and praying it hadn’t, for obvious reasons. I would have spent longer debating my life choices, but Sophie nudged me, gesturing for me to try and turn the knob already.

Looking back at the group, dark and stormy eyes all fixed on me, wide with a strange mixture of anticipation and dread, I took a deep breath and turned the knob.

At first, I was relieved when it didn’t turn.

Then a loud click resounded through the yard and the door pulled from my grip, squealing sharply as it swung inward and opened a dark maw onto what looked like a kitchen. I told myself no one had been in the house for thirty years and silently convinced myself that I had pushed the door open without realizing.

We stood frozen for only a moment before pushing against each other to enter and Bradley turned on the flashlight, sending unseen terrors skittering into the darker recesses of the room. Dark stains of dried blood covered the floor, splashed across the walls, and as we watched with growing horror, began to drip once again from the ceiling as the flashlight guttered out and the door slammed closed behind us.

In the suffocating darkness, the air filled with screaming.