I stumble backward, losing my grip and slamming both legs into the pokey bush. Who was that? And why didn’t they answer the door?
The thorns on the bush grab onto the pantlegs of my jeggings, snagging them but thankfully only poking through in a few spots. When I let go of the rail, I have black paint chunks and rust stuck to my palm to match the white paint. There’s no way I would be able to say I wasn’t here.
The unevenness of the sidewalk feels like a weird welcome relief to my feet as I stand there and wait for the person to come to the door. They’re for sure going to come out and yell at me for peeking in their window. As I stand there waiting, I can’t hear anyone moving inside the house. Did they go and hide? And I just didn’t hear them because I was making so much noise myself when I slammed into the bush? As much as I want to look again, I just keep standing on the sidewalk.
Moments go by and still nothing. I try to listen very carefully as I make my way back up the steps to the front door but all I hear are my own footsteps and my own panicky breath. I rap three times on the front door and wait.
Nothing.
How can that be? Are they really just hiding from anyone who comes to the door??
A part of me wants to just get back in my car but another part of me wants to break into the house. So, I compromise with myself and decide to peek in the window again. I walk back down the front steps, around the bush and wiggle in between the bush and the house. My foot goes back up on the step’s side edge, wrap my one hand around the railing and lean. Once I get past the glare, I can see them. They’re still standing there! They’re still facing me too. What in the absolute hell is going on?
“Hey!” I tap on the glass, half expecting them to run, but surprised when they don’t do anything. I tap harder and longer on the glass. “Hey! I need to talk to you!”
Nothing.
No movement.
Ugh! Are they the lone winner of freeze tag?
I hop down and walk around to the side of the house. There’s got to be another window or something that I can see through. Thoughts creep into my head. Maybe they were so still because they hung themselves and that was their final resting place. No way would they just stand there like that without any movement. Not even a flinch. Of course, maybe they did flinch, and I couldn’t see that much through the tiny hole in the paper.
I pass by the side of the house that I already checked out earlier and make my way to the backyard. It’s a walkout! This house just looks like a small ranch from the front, but the back has a big deck off the main floor and underneath is a door to the downstairs walkout basement.
My feet skid their way down the hill, and as my body leans to keep from rolling down the hill, my left hand skids against the dirt and grass too. I get the cool factor of having a walkout basement, but this seems extreme. The ground rises on the other side of the door as though the walkout basement was an afterthought. Did someone have to dig all of this out? The only part of the walkout basement that shows is the white steel door with a yellowing glass window that nearly reaches the doorknob. Hmm, that’s odd. Glass doesn’t usually yellow like that.
Once I get upright again and brush my hands off, I walk up to the door. The “glass” is actually not glass. It’s something like a thick plastic. Plexiglass? Why would someone put plexiglass in place of glass? Unless they couldn’t afford to replace the glass because it broke from something. Or someone. Maybe Blake got kicked out and the bank locked him out when they foreclosed on it, but he broke back in to hang himself in the living room.
At least the plexiglass window makes it easier for me to break in.
I check the doorknob first to see if it’s unlocked and then I don’t have to break anything, but the knob doesn’t turn. Looks like my plan b just became my plan a. The yellowing plexiglass flexes beneath my hand at the smallest bit of pressure. I’m afraid if I press any harder that the plastic will shatter and that’s not what I was going for. I was hoping to be able to just pop the plexiglass out of the frame so I could put it back in when I leave.
Whoever put the plexiglass in the frame did a good job. I search for any kind of gap that I could get my fingernail under to flip it out of place but it’s straight all the way around. No gaps at all.
Ugh.
I’m just going to push a little on the bottom corner by the lock. Maybe that’ll work. As I press my thumb on the plexiglass, I hear the crack before I see it. Before I can take my thumb away, a spiderweb of cracks streak across the plexiglass but it still stays in place. When I place my hand against it and press again, I feel it bow before finally breaking at the corner where I started. The hole is just big enough for my hand to fit through and unlock the door.
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
The knob turns all the way now when I try to open the door and the latch clicks as it releases its grip on the frame. I can feel the butterflies in my stomach as I take a step into the basement. The house is silent. The bank must’ve turned off as much as it could because the air conditioning hasn’t been running. The air is stale and musty making me feel like I need to cough but I choke it back. I really don’t want anyone to hear me if there is anyone alive in the house.
The light from outside makes its way through the yellow plexiglass just enough for me to see that every wall down here is a different color. It’s like Blake got a deal on the sample containers of paint and used them all. Once I make my way past the initial opening, I see some shelves on the wall near stairs that go upstairs. As much as I want to just go upstairs and see what the body up there is all about, I feel like I need to double this basement down here so that no one can sneak up on me. I am by myself, after all, so I don’t have anyone else to back me up. Or even look out for me.
This was a bad idea. What was I thinking?
Well, I’m already in here, might as well keep going.
There’s a lot of shadows down here, and piles of cardboard boxes. Even though I don’t want to look in the shadows, I know I must. I walk toward the breaker box that’s next to a small window. Thankfully, the small window is still glass, so it lets in quite a bit of light and my eyes have also adjusted to the darkness. Once I get to the breaker box, I can see behind the pile of boxes, and no one is behind them. The shadows in the corners are better seen from this point of view too, and unless someone is dressed all in black, it doesn’t look like there’s anyone else down here.
One of the boxes is open on the top. There’s something poking out that looks like fabric. Carefully I walk over to the pile of boxes, watching to make sure no one in the shadows was just a good hider and is going to jump me. I breathe a sigh of relief when I still don’t see anyone yet.
There’s at least ten boxes of various shapes and sizes piled up. The one that’s open has some sheer frilly fabric sticking out. I reach in, pinch the edge of the fabric, and pull on it. A pink ruffly negligée comes out.
Odd.
When I look inside, there’s more “clothing” that looks to be in the same genre. Some of the other boxes aren’t sealed with tape and curiosity gets the better of me. The flaps on a box about two feet wide by two feet tall are bent like they’ve been folded together and pulled apart more than a few times. I stick my finger underneath the edge and lift it up. The cardboard box easily gives way revealing a box full of adult toys.
Um. What exactly was Blake Randolf into?
Another box has a wadded-up sex swing and yet another longer box has a light on a tripod. Was he making movies here?
I decide that I really don’t want to see in any more boxes. Who knows what else there is, and if I happen to find something, or someone, that would’ve made him skip town, I don’t want to have to answer any questions. Yes, sometimes ignorance is bliss. Plus, the more I look, the more creeped out I get so I’m just ready to move on. All of those “monster in the closet” childhood fears are coming back and now it’s monsters in the shadows and monsters in the boxes that are getting to me.
I just need to go upstairs.
The steps to the upstairs are dark wood, quite a comparison to all of the random blues, green, and pinks that are painted on the walls. The only thing that’s painted a somewhat normal color is the white shelves on the wall. The bank would probably make more money on this property if they just hired someone to come in and paint all the walls a nice neutral color. But nobody asked me.
The steps squeak beneath my feet as I tiptoe up them. I stop between each squawking step and listen. The house remains silent. This just makes me believe even more that whoever that is up there is probably dead.
Once I reach the top of the stairs, I see that Blake painted every wall upstairs just like he did downstairs. Each wall has its own color. I walk through the small galley style kitchen and can see a bright green room with pink zig zags down it. I know writers are artistic, but this is not what I think people were referencing. At least he’s not afraid of color. Not sure if that’s a good thing. Maybe he should be a little afraid of it. Or maybe he shouldn’t be allowed to paint.
As I look around, I can’t imagine him making adult movies here. There isn’t any room that I’ve seen so far that would even remotely look normal in a movie. It all looks like a bad acid trip. Maybe he wasn’t making movies. I know he was writing erotica. Maybe all of that stuff was props for referencing scenes in his book. Maybe it’s not even his. Here I am, assuming that all of it is actually his but maybe it’s his friends. This is his friend’s house after all.
I finally find my way to what looks like the front of the house. The living room is an L-shape which is kind of awkward. I can see the brown paper taped to the big picture window and the small piece of paper that fell down so I can see inside. The light coming through that tiny hole is a beam shooting across the room and landing on something pale. Almost white. My brain can’t fully process what it’s seeing because of the darkness but I’m guessing it’s the body I saw staring back at me.
I want to say “hello” but that’s how people get killed in those scary movies. Instead, I pull out my phone and switch on the flashlight. As the light moves across the dark wood floor, it hits the pale white feet of someone standing right where the beam of light is hitting.
Feet! But they aren’t moving. And they definitely aren’t dangling.
I shine my light up to the ceiling and I don’t see a rope or even anything that a person could hook a rope onto to hang themselves. I lower my light and see the head, but it’s not right.
It’s pale white like the feet too.
I walk up closer to the window in the living room. My finger finds a piece of tape attached to the brown paper and I pull hard. Sheet after sheet of brown paper fall from the window letting in the outside light. When my eyes adjust, I’m shocked to see it.
“A mannequin?!?”