WRITERS' CORNER discussion

Part 1

The archaic house sat upon the hill undisturbed for nearly three centuries. The local town had dubiously named it Diabolus Domus meaning "Devil's Home" because of the mysterious entities entwined in its story. The paint that had once coated the house was long gone baring the original structure. Rotting planks of wood constructed the roof, several pieces having succumbed to the demands of the weather and created a gaping hole in its structure. A dirt path wound its way from the front porch, down a long driveway and to a large wrought iron gate that marked the beginning of the property. Tall grass and trees mixed with years of undergrowth lined the road and began to overgrow the land. Vines weaved around the iron bars only to entwine themselves once more and hang limply on either side of the gate. A thick chain wrapped around the innermost bars, and was held together by a foreboding lock, effectively keeping any unwanted visitors from coming in or going out.
As the tale went a man, who was to become the local undertaker, lived and died in this very house. It was said that every week on the day of rest he would lock himself away in that very building and practice all sorts of necromancy. With the corpses he obtained as a mortician, it was plausible that he conducted experiments on the dead. In the days before his own death, the undertaker was seen carrying a mysterious box. The contents could have been either newly acquired household supplies or ingredients to brew an evil potion. It was never determined which was the correct answer.

However, only days following his last appearance in town it was said by a traveling merchant that a large amount of smoke was seen billowing from the house. Upon being investigated, it was determined that building had caught fire. The official report called it a small explosion, started by toxic chemicals, that had been swiftly contained. Unfortunately, the inside of the house had been completely ravaged by the explosive fire. The morticians body was never found.

The death of the local undertaker was only the beginning of the supernatural tale. This piece of folklore was to be tested like all others to see if it had the makings of legend.

Part 2

Three boys of their teenage years made their way to the edge of the infamous haunted house. Two walked cautiously, their palms sweaty and eyes glancing in all directions. The third, Jason Lockford, sauntered his way to the gate, his strides hinted at arrogance. Upon reaching the gate, Jason frowned as he noticed the chain. Several tries at breaking it yielded no result; it held firm. Deciding instead to break the lock, Jason gave it a firm tug. Years of decay had made it weak and it gave way. He unwound the chain and pushed open the gate. He took a step forward into unknown territory, pausing to see what happened. He snorted derisively when the ground didn't swallow him whole. Grinning madly, he turned back to his friends who look terrified enough to flee.

"Come on." he said.

" I don't think that's such a good idea, Jason." replied the second boy as the third simply stood, scared speechless.

"What? Afraid of ghosts are you?" he taunted.

"No! Its just...we're trespassing and you know if I get caught again, that's it for me."

Jason grunted and turned to the third "You comin' with me?" The boy shook his head furiously and backed away.

Jason turned, making a rude comment under his breath and began up the path. Behind him one of his friends shouted they'd tell the cops where to find his body. The deeper he walked the path became darker and more ominous accordingly. Tree branches stretched their limbs, reaching for him. Shadows moved. He began to glance nervously around, the feeling of being watched ever present. The snap of a broken branch caused Jason to jump and wildly spin around, searching for the sound. Seeing nothing, he looked down. In a place with such a vast amount of foliage it was possible that he, himself had broken it. Eerily, however, the path in front him and behind him was devoid of all branches, twigs and leaves. For a path sheltered by nature it was unnaturally clean. Swallowing his fear and ignoring the instinct to run Jason continued his journey up the path.

Ahead, the forest of trees came to an abrupt halt and opened into a clearing at the back of which stood Diabolus Domus. Wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans, Jason glanced into the clearing glad to be at the end of the small but dense forest. His strides which were previously long and confident had been reduced to cautious fearful steps. Nevertheless, he found himself walking towards the house. It came as a surprise to even Jason when he went around back. He found himself stepping over and around various piles of dirt and upon coming to a particular mound he stopped. This one was different; it had a piece of stone with smooth sides and a rounded top sticking out of it. For such an old place, the stone looked relatively new. A cold gust of wind caused a slight shiver of his body and prompted him to look up and into the face of evil incarnate.

The man that stood in front of him was tall and had sharp features, white hair streaked with grey and pitch black eyes, darker than the night, which were glaring back at him. His own eyes wide with fear, Jason stood frozen and unable to move, to think, to scream for help. In an extraordinary feat, Jason was able to tear his eyes away from the ghoulish man and to flicker downward to the peculiar mass of dirt before him. What he saw was no consolation. It was at that moment he realized the small structure before him was a tombstone. Fear crept its way up his spine and entwined its long icy fingers around his heart. Beneath him he felt the ground shake. The tortured souls that had been subjected to the morticians experiments tearing at the Earth. Screams of pain and of agony filled Jason's ears as he read the inscription on the tombstone:


JASON LOCKFORD
January 5, 1995 - October 31, 2010

The icy fingers of fear constricted around his heart and he inhaled sharply. Fearful eyes traveled upward to once again meet the empty eye socket glare of the man who grinned a crazed and sadistic grin. The madman's lips curved upward to reveal cracked and rotting yellow teeth. In the distance sirens blared.