The House On The Dead End Street
by Dustin LaValley

When I was a young boy, merely the age of 10, my eldest brother had taken to sharing the story of the house on the dead end street with my friend Robert and I while passing on our walk home from the cinema.

"It’s been empty for years, I heard that the father had murdered his family, then hung himself one fall night. Now their ghosts live in the house, making sure no one enters."

The story became a favorite to tell during school lunch, adding more puffery to the murders during each telling.

Soon, children would come running, out of breath, talking of how they had just seen the ghost of a headless woman in one of the house’s windows. It wasn’t much longer before lost bets and triple dog dares involved entering the house. Kids came back to the street corner with tales of how they saw the ghosts or the bloody axe. Of course everyone knew that they were lies, nobody had the gull to go on the property, let alone actually go inside.

A rash of missing person reports bore down on the small town near the end of that year. Older boys and girls would leave home at night and then never return. If I remember correctly, there had been three missing by that year’s winter holidays.

Months passed and the excitement of a haunted house ceased; unlike the disappearances. Although at smaller numbers and greater intervals, there was still some unknown cause stealing the children.

High School was a difficult time. My life had been plagued with social anxiety and broken mirrors. It became ever more complicated to exit familiar surroundings and journey to unfamiliar grounds filled with unrecognizable faces. To set me adrift further into uncharted seas, my parents moved our family across state. I was to attend the local university and gain new relationships with persons who were presented to me as beneficiaries to my future.

Only a few weeks into my freshmen year, I had attended just one class, once. Those people were horrifying; completely unlike my friends back in the old neighborhood.

I was placed in psychiatric treatment, after the first appointment I never returned. I never liked psychiatrists, and never will. There were heated arguments between my parents and myself when I mentioned returning upstate to live with Robert. We were to share an apartment, work fulltime and continue school at the local community college.

I pulled up to Robert’s apartment (which would soon be mine also) and every flea that infested my life came to its end. I was home. No more anxiety attacks, no more problematical thoughts of not fitting into any repugnant social group, and the end of the abiding itch.

On the proceeding morning, Robert introduced me to his manager at the lumberyard; soon after, I had a job. From there we drove to the college and registered for the upcoming fall semester.

Robert had already invested in furniture and appliances, so the only items I brought were clothing, films, and cds. During my trips out to the car for my belongings, I heard him speaking on the phone numerous times.

My old buddies from high school joined us that night at the apartment. There was Bobby, Jack, Ronnie, Robert and myself. These were the boys I used to hang with everyday and almost every night. Never doing much, but always having a good time doing whatever we were doing.

The five of us reminisced for hours accompanied by two large pizzas and a case of beer. Reliving our childhood pranks and games. The memories and laughter began to die at about midnight, until Ronnie mentioned the house on the dead end street.

Apparently, the house still stood vacant, and still no person had entered despite tremendous curiosity. As part of my return home celebration, it was decided that the group would become the first to enter the house since the murders.

The car was left on the corner and we approached on foot, flashlights in our hands, and Robert possessing a crowbar. On the porch it was agreed that Robert and I were to go in through the back, then let the others in through the front door.

Holding both our lights, I shined the beams onto the lock as Robert took one swift downward swing with the crowbar, busting the rusted padlock, allowing the orange-brown colored chain to slip to the grass. Inside, the kitchen was not much of a kitchen at all. What were left were counters, a sink and cabinets, all discolored and warped by time and neglect.

I stood in what I believe was once the living room as Robert left to retrieve the three others. Everything was covered with white bed sheets, coated in thick layers of dust and cobwebs. Not much different than what I pictured it to be. Walking towards me, Robert spoke.

"They’re gone." He said.

That’s all I can remember from our brief conversation, but that’s all that’s important. They were gone, forever.

To tell the rest of my story brings great pain and sorrow, for what happened that night still horrifies me. I was to search the house while Robert looked outside. I began upstairs, where I found nothing but a fungus filled bathroom and two dusty bedrooms.

Opening the basement door, I was overpowered by a stench so strong that my eyes stung and watered. As I descended the stairs, my flashlight caught a large object in the rear corner; a headless heap of bones and mangled flesh formed a hill of corpses. I began to scream, but vomit forced its way out. At that very moment, as I knelt on the cold cement, spitting up, something overtook me. I blanked out.

Sitting on the steps, staring at the bloody axe at my feet, I cried. There they were, Ronnie, Bobby, Robert and Jack. Decapitated. Piled upon one another topping the carcass pile. And I sat with a dripping axe and no recollection of my fresh actions.

After an extensive and nerve-racking investigation, I was placed in Pine Crest Asylum, a psychiatric hospital. With the missing period in the death crammed basement performing breathtaking shows during my attempts at slumber, insomnia has contentedly taken refuge inside my head.

©2002 Dustin LeValley