The House on Cherry Lane

To the untrained eye, Cherry Lane presents itself as comfortably dull, completely lacking in remarkability. The paved road stretches on, bland and bare, bordered by an unoriginal assortment of uniform brown homes and manicured lawns. Tree branches sway in boredom, sending lazy, dancing shadows onto cars below. There is the occasional slamming of a door or chirping of a bird, but otherwise the air is still.

Cherry Lane appears ordinary in every sense of the word; but those who decide to stay a moment longer, who let the scene nestle itself in their minds, are met with something else. There is a feeling buried somewhere. Under layers of trimmed hedges, polished windows, and painted fences, the street echoes an unyielding sense of emptiness. Farther down the barren sidewalk there is a feeling of being frozen in place, met with an understanding, finally, of what had bred that unsettling sensation.

It is not uncommon for people to stop at the thirteenth house on Cherry Lane and stare. They stand transfixed, perhaps assuming that, under their watchful eye, the house would not dare to swell forward and swallow them. Indeed, the house does not move and instead stands defiantly. Passersby hesitate a moment before they wander off again, all too eager to forget the blemish left on their otherwise unremarkable afternoons.

It is the thirteenth house of Cherry Lane that commands our attention most. Whereas the houses to the left and right boast orderly gardens and lush, emerald lawns, in the thirteenth house there are only dead things: withering vines, the skeletons of grass, and dry weeds. The outer walls, once a pristine grey color, now reveal paint that is bleached and peeling, varieties of dark green mold embedded in soft wood. While the windows of neighboring homes compete to gleam spotlessly, bordering on invisible, they are outmatched by the thirteenth house, where in the window frame no glass sits. Instead, fractured shards lay scattered below the windowsill, accompanied by the perpetrator: a fist-sized stone that had found its way from the front yard.

An empty house was the perfect target for teenagers that fancied themselves risk-takers, though their courageous rebellion was only executed from a distance—rocks thrown through windows, trash scattered on the front lawn—as if some fundamental survival instinct forbade them from setting foot on the property itself. That instinct is certainly due, at least partially, to rumors spread about such establishments: tales of hauntings, murders, and serial killers. The sort of nonsense expected from children. Nevertheless, there is an unspoken rule on Cherry Lane: do not approach the thirteenth house. General sensibility has persevered all but once, an occasion which has left a lasting mark: the first few letters of a vulgar term scrawled on the door with dripping red paint. The young artist seems to have forgotten to finish the word, although I suppose it would be ignorant of me to assume it was intended to be dictionary, diction, or perhaps even dice.

I have dedicated a great deal of time to establishing one undeniable fact: everything about the thirteenth house on Cherry Lane warned people to stay as far away as possible. And so it is certainly surprising when a young, spirited man is introduced into this lonely and decaying environment.

He enters with the sudden and thunderous swinging of the front door, which creaks meekly in response. Sunlight streams into the room, a structured mass of rotting wood, and a rat scampers across the floorboards. Any sense of power the man gained from the initial theatricality is lost to his scrawny presence in the doorway, made smaller by a loose-fitting t-shirt and baggy beige shorts. He holds a blue duffle bag in each hand. Greasy shoulder-length black hair is messily tied up into a bun, his face flushed pink and glossy with sweat. If first impressions are of any significance, the words most fitting would be: clueless, careless, and rather dense.

The word impatient should also be added to that list, which I now assume to be ongoing, as he hardly takes a step forward before letting his duffle bags crumple to the floor. The door is left open. He crouches and unzips one of the bags, submerging a long arm, his body leaning forward as his shorts slide further up his leg, mercilessly revealing more pale and clammy flesh. At last, his arm emerges triumphant, hand clenching a dull block of technology. He holds the camera in one hand and flips open a display screen with the other as a green light begins to blink. The man smiles, lips parting to reveal unnaturally white teeth, his cheeks crinkling and eyes blank.

“Hi guys!” An uninteresting and lackluster start to conversation. His voice has the same wailing cadence of children screeching for sweets, or perhaps the scratching of a chalkboard. He continues, “Jay Watkins here, and this is day one of my stay at Thirteen Cherry Lane, sometimes referred to as Wallace House.”

Jay takes a moment to adjust his grip and continues: “Wallace House is a local legend of sorts. Rumors about this house have been floating around since the owner died in the 80s—tales of noises late at night and figures in upstairs windows. Maybe they are just rumors, but there’s a chance that they could be something more…” Jay speculates dramatically, his eyes bugging outwards and his voice trailing off in feigned suspense.

As Jay walks, the camera leads at arms-length, recording everything within eyesight. Jay walks across creaking floorboards and passes the staircase, which stands resolutely opposite of the door. He reaches into one of his pockets, pulls out a yellow candy, and pops it into his mouth, the plastic wrapper fluttering onto the wooden floor. The living room is nothing more than a mess of lumpy furniture, tattered carpets, and a fireplace lacking an alarming number of bricks. The kitchen is hardly better, with moth-eaten floral curtains and a rusting sink, and the dining room is equally decaying; there is a table slanted so steeply downward that one of the legs appears to be missing altogether. Satisfied, Jay turns the camera back towards himself and walks towards the main doorway.

“Now that I’ve given you a quick tour, you can see that the house is in absolutely horrible condition. Not that the decorations could have been called stylish even decades ago.” This criticism is most definitely uncalled for, especially from a man wearing unsightly beige shorts and a sloppy, greasy man-bun.

“Now I figure I’ll give some more backstory on the house. Though there are no records of its construction, there is information on its most recent owner Anthony Wallace.” Against all odds, Jay becomes even more uninteresting as he takes on the incredibly monotone voice of an underpaid small-town news reporter. “Wallace was born in 1915 and died in ‘87. He is most widely known for his books Darkest Corners of Our Minds and Underneath the Floorboards, as well as some other shorter horror stories. Little is known of his personal life, other than a divorce in ‘68. His marriage ended badly, and he is quoted saying that the only thing that mattered to him was writing. Ouch. He also was apparently a major recluse. His temperament has been widely discussed, and he was known for repeatedly lashing out at his fans. In short, he was a relatively successful but pretty dreadful person.” Jay takes a moment to inhale deeply and collect his thoughts, taking a few steps towards the duffle bags and snatching another yellow candy.

Allow me to interrupt here with a more accurate description. Though he appears to have done his research, Jay clearly lacks the comprehension of a true scholar and missed some crucial points. Firstly, Wallace was known for dozens of award-winning novels and stories, including The Bloody Wolf, Neverending Shadow, and Delayed Reflections; those stories, at least, are also deserving of a mention. It is truly unfair to define Wallace’s career by only two of his works. Secondly, he did not divorce because of his so-called “temperament”— the decision was mutual. Thirdly, and perhaps most significantly, Wallace was far from a dreadful person. In fact, most would probably agree that he was  the opposite of dreadful. He simply didn’t get the opportunity to prove it as the vast majority of his time was spent doing far more important things like writing award-winning novels.

Jay returns his eyes to the camera lens and stiffens his arm, a blank smile returning to his face. He continues:

“But the most important part of his story is definitely the end. You see, in the last few years of Wallace’s life he didn’t release any books. Although he was physically healthy, one night he died suddenly, in his sleep.”

This is true. His death was considered a shock to everyone.

“Rumor has it that when he died he was writing something, or trying to write something, but didn’t quite know where to start. When they found his body in his office, pages were spread across the table, none of them more than half full, and all of them scribbled out. He died unable to do what he cared about most: write.”

Here, Jay’s insights become grossly inaccurate. It is unacceptable to accuse a writer of being unable to do something which they have dedicated their entire life to, and Jay’s uneven speech and unoriginal sentences provide no grounds for judgement. Perhaps if Jay had spent his life on more productive activities, instead of waving a camera about, then he would better understand the depth and intricacies of Wallace’s writings.

“And so local legend says that his ghost haunts this place, Wallace House. He still had a book to write, and so his soul was too stubborn to leave …. ooOOOOooo spooky, I know.”

As far as ghost stories go, there could be worse ones. There could certainly be better ones too, as it is much more interesting if such stories include events like murder or never-ending quests for revenge. If anything, Jay’s story lacks the most important element of a good ghost story: suspense. This story isn’t terrifying or mysterious, there is no fallacy in Wallace’s behavior: a good novel is always worth the wait, even if the wait is longer than expected.

“Personally, I think that sounds like bullshit, so I am ready to bust this myth—I mean, out of all the things to get trapped in an old house for, an unfinished chapter or two isn’t at the top of my list. I mean, I even read one of his books for research, and it’s not like the world is missing out on anything…”

Again Jay demonstrates his unbridled, unrestrained stupidity. He speaks with certainty yet lacks understanding of the very content he speaks of. Sweat trickles from his hair and down his nose, and upon closer inspection it is clear that something is caught in his teeth: a piece of lettuce, perhaps. His shirt has several stains, and I assure you that the mere concept of his shorts are sin enough on their own. This man is revolting in the most basic sense and has no right to insult an author for writing beyond the reading comprehension level of a tenth grader, which is no doubt a hurdle Jay has yet to pass. The fact that such a man, a greasy, ignorant man can say such uninformed things is beyond my grasp. In fact, I will not permit it. Jay is dull, dumb, and his words are blatant lies. He stands within this house and tells uninformed lies, slandering a name which created countless works of priceless literature. He is idiotic, foolish, and simple minded. And I will not permit it. I will NOT. I will NOT PERMIT IT–

Crrrrrrrrrr….

The front door, mindlessly left ajar by a careless Jay, shifts slightly. The hinges groan as the wood seems to will itself onward as if guided by an invisible hand, and the door swings forward a few inches. The house seems to whisper before becoming dead quiet.

Jay stands there dumbly, camera in hand, eyes glued to the rotting door. His feeble mind is undoubtedly having trouble deciding whether this is something worth reacting to. He compromises, holding the camera towards the door and uneasily states:

“The wind moved the door a bit.” His voice fails to convince even himself. Jay lets out an artificial laugh. “Sorry guys, I guess I’m jumpy today. As I was saying, rumor has it that Wallace died trying to write a novel. And uh, he reportedly died at his desk. And so I figure, if we want to, you know, find out if this is real or not. That’s where we, uh, that’s where we need to look….”

His eyes are drawn towards the staircase, pulled by an unknowing force against all better judgement. The staircase, like all elements of the house, is old and rotting. As he stands he feels a cool breeze, a whisper almost, something upstairs willing him forwards. His eyes twitch, glued to the darkness leading upwards. Jay knows where he has to go, but not if he has the will to do it. Surprisingly, he takes one step forward. And then another.

At first it is questionable whether the staircase will support his weight; the first step groans and sinks lazily. But it holds. As does the next one, and the next.

“Hopefully I won’t die, guys,” he laughs dryly as he continues up the staircase.

Jay reaches the top and finds himself swallowed by darkness. He takes his phone from his pocket and presses a button. Harsh white light shines across layers of dust, and spiders retract into cracks in the walls and gaps in the floorboards. At one wall sits a wooden desk, its feet carved into sturdy claws, positioned next to an unfurnished wooden chair. Across from Jay there is a shelf of books, each displaying the same red leather cover. They are the only part of the house that has escaped age, and their crimson spines glimmer alluringly.

Jay slowly walks towards them, carefully placing his feet on the creaking floorboards. With his phone securely nestled under his arm, he extracts two books from the shelf, sending up clouds of dust. He then walks over to the desk, sits in the chair, and sets the books on the dusty wooden surface. He opens one. The first page reads:

A Thrown Stone

To an inattentive eye, Cherry Lane seems dull and comfortable, lacking somewhat in remarkability…

Jay scans the first page and appears uninterested, perhaps it is beyond his reading level. Regardless, the writing stops after half a page.

Jay opens the second novel.

Midnight Painter

To the uninterested and untrained eye, Cherry Lane presents itself as uniquely unremarkable.

Again, Jay’s eyes dart across the text in a quick skim, quickly becoming bored.

But as he closes the second book, his eyes are drawn to something else. On the desk rests a third crimson book. Jay cannot recall it being there before, but convinces himself of a lapse in memory. He should know better by now, but I am not surprised.

He flicks open to the first page and shines his phone light on the paper. It reads:

The House on Cherry Lane

To the untrained eye, Cherry Lane presents itself as comfortably dull, completely lacking in remarkability…

Again, nothing seems to demand his attention, although it is certainly his taste that should be questioned and not the content itself. Jay hardly absorbs the text, which is certainly unfortunate, for if he had taken the time to read it properly he could have understood the situation far sooner. But he does not want to take the time and, unlike the previous novels, this one lasts multiple pages. So Jay flips through the opened novel, skimming it right to the end, unaware that there are many things he should hope he never finds.

He impatiently flips to the last page. It seems to be an incomprehensible mess of ink, but as he watches the liquid begins to swirl. The ink collects itself into a thin line and weaves in and out, until it becomes…

…. one fluid sentence, ever-expanding, squirming across the page in a single fluid motion. Jay stands and watches, transfixed. There is something beautiful about it, something mesmerizing. But as he stands and sees his own name spelled out across the page, he releases a timid yelp and…

… slams the book shut. In his sole act of sensibility, he turns on the spot and bolts towards the stairway, not caring to look back.

He does not see the shadow of a figure in the chair, a dull outline of a skeleton, skin clinging to bone. He does not see a hand gliding across the page, the book reopened. He does not see the head turn towards him, eye sockets empty and flesh rotting. And he does not see my smile form as he disappears down the stairway, floor groaning behind him.

Jay grabs his bags and sprints outside, shoes slamming against the pavement. The sound of his car sputtering to life echoes through Cherry Lane and he skids away. The thirteenth house is quiet once more.

He ran away, and it is unfortunate; his story could have been the most interesting yet.

Megan Hermann is a sophomore Narrative Studies student at USC with minors in Cinematic Arts and Game Design. Much of her time and sanity is spent bringing stories to life from her ever-growing list of writing ideas. She enjoys writing, petting dogs, playing Dungeons & Dragons, and singing along off-key to ABBA music.