from the private notes of the late Prof. Wm. Rhodes

Some people swore that the house was haunted. That is merely the flaccid conjecture of superstitious and unimaginative locals, conjecture based merely on the house’s forsaken appearance- the way it sits far behind a wrought iron gate in the shade of an ancient maple tree, dense ivy creeping along the sagging roof and choking the glassless windows. There is little wonder why the house inspires such rumors, for it is quite unpleasant to look at, though, in all the years that I lived next-door, I’ve never known anyone besides myself and, perhaps, the strange, old man, to ever set foot in that awful place, and I fear that only I know the terrible truth regarding what lurks behind those walls, for I suspect that the old man has been dead for some time.

He appeared quite sick when he last came by in the summer to tend the lawn as he had done with diminishing frequency, and when I pleaded with him through the gate to let me hire some help, he ignored me as he always had. When he was eventually done- well near dark- I watched from my window as he labored to return his mower to his truck and secure the front gate with its heavy chain and padlock. He did not give the house so much as a backwards glance before he drove slowly and haltingly away. After that, the lawn was allowed to grow taller and wilder than ever, nearly overgrowing the conspicuous pile of red bricks that have lain heaped just outside the front door since they were first deposited there however long ago – presumably leftover from some previous effort to restore the house. Despite several official complaints to the borough by the neighbors, the old man never returned to attend the blighted property.

The package appeared sometime after that. For days it sat on the cracked sidewalk, wrapped loosely in brown paper with very little tape holding it together, but it wasn’t until the day of a brutal thunderstorm that I took pity on the object and took it into my own home. It had no postal mark, no names or return address; it bore only the address of the house written by a feeble hand. The sodden wrapping came apart in my hands and I only needed to lift one corner to observe the contents.

Inside was only this: a queer, leather bound journal of dubious vintage and a great ring of keys which I recognized at once to be the one that the strange old man carried. I set the book out to dry and while I was paging through I observed that it was hand written in a language that I didn’t recognize, but it was clearly the product of much effort for it contained copious notes and graphs the meanings of which, at the time, I could only scarcely fathom.

Once the book was sufficiently dry and the storm passed, leaving behind it a cold, autumn fog, I let myself onto the deserted property using the keys. I was surprised to discover that the front door wasn’t locked at all, but the purpose of the remaining keys-of which there were many- soon became apparent. In the outermost wall of the living-room was a formidable wooden door, like that of a castle, and braced with several heavy latches and locks that matched the apparent antiquity of many of the keys. Other locks appeared to be quite modern and recently installed. Strangest of all, however, was the fact that the door was unseen from the outside, for surely I would have noticed since it would face my property.

At the time, I foolishly thought the door to be nothing more than an unused entrance since covered over on the outside, but the nature of the locks confounded me. Curiosity got the better of me and I committed myself to removing the locks, but mercifully, I never completed that task. That day ended with me miles away at a railroad, carefully placing the keys, one by one, onto the tracks to be obliterated, my mind reeling from so much gin intended to soothe my strained nerves.

The journal now sits on a shelf in my library beside many of my own composition, having spent the last several years attempting to decode its mysteries. But I have taken great pains so that nothing of what I have discovered should ever be seen by anyone, for it would surely be their undoing, as it was mine. I’ve gone as far as to acquire the house legally and now I personally attend to its upkeep and to keeping away curious passersby, though there are seldom any. I have even found a use for the bricks by erecting a wall concealing that frightful portal, feeling that they were intended for that purpose anyway. Sadly, the rumors involving the house and the strange, old man have expanded to include me and they often confuse the two of us. I live an exceptionally private life these days, but that is just as well. I would never dream, so long as I live, to allow anyone learn of what I nearly encountered all those years ago, that unspeakable terror that clawed and shook the door, too impatient for my hand to throw the final latch. Nothing was ever the same after that.

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