Open House

There was the forest, all still and tired. The road ran round bends at a frightening pace. In the midst of the stillness, always, he saw it from car windows. The trees that spun by always parted just before the curve – the last one before you cross into New Jersey – and deep in the rock it was set. A small crooked house called Hell, complete with small sign attracting drivers. It was ancient and broken, somehow still intimidating. They never pulled off (his parents driving in the front seat, his knees on the back seat, elbows wedged atop rear-window ledge) and there was no road leading to it. It stuck out in the middle of the forest, and was only ever briefly visible. It did not seem like a place people could get to, so why advertise?

It was Lisa who had the idea to go. In his parents back yard, he placed his head on her lap and listened to her tell a story about a cave behind her house, deep in the woods.

“Janet... gosh, Janet couldn't have been more than... ten? Yeah, wow, she was ten, so I couldn't have been more than... eight? I think that's right, yeah. I had just finished second grade, and Jan had a great fourth grade. That was so long ago, I had these terrible pigtails, and would always get my dress ruined running around the woods behind my house. And those pigtails! They were such a problem, I'd always come home with things tangled in their ends. So by the time we'd gotten to the cave, I'd already pulled a couple of spiders out of their ends. I knew my mother was going to kill me when I got home, so I didn't care what I did next. And I dragged Jan along with me to this cave, I was awful to her. I told her that I needed someone to come with me in case I got swallowed up, so she could tell mom and dad in case something happened. But all I wanted was to be cruel to her because she was my older sister and so quiet, and I just wanted her to be wild with me. She was miserable, scared of the woods and even more so of the cave that was in front of us. She made faces every time I pulled a spider out of my hair, and only stood next to me because I insisted she be there in case something happened.

“Of course, I had already been in the cave before. I had scoped it out and found it to be pretty shallow, but it did drop off about five feet pretty near the entrance. I planned to have her wait outside as I walked forward and dropped into a hole I knew about, higher than my head, and I'd scare her real good. It went so well too, we were standing there, and the mouth was covered in webs and big fat spiders, so I took a stick I found and cleared it, brandishing the torch in her direction, making her squirm. And I told her to stay close, real close, but outside cause she was scared already. And I walked into the entrance and I fell like I planned.

“I screamed as I did it, really sold it, as only an 8 year old could. And I cried at the bottom of the hole for her to get mom and dad, that I'd hurt myself and there was blood, I just wanted to scare her. It felt so good to get the better of my older sister. But she immediately started crying. I remember poking my head above, just so I could see, I strained my little arms, and saw Jan running furiously between the forest's edge and the cave, she was so frustrated she couldn't be in two places at once, terrified of leaving her little sister to die in a cave, too conflicted to get our parents. She ran sprints, tears streaming down her face, crying incoherently to me that I should be strong, I can't die, she'll be right back. Eventually, she curled up on the ground and sobbed. She shuddered and shook on the ground so torn up about leaving me to die by myself while she got our parents. She couldn't let me die alone, she kept repeating it, and I crawled up out of the hole and sat beside her rubbing her back till she calmed down. I told her I was right next to her and I was fine, that I was sorry, but she just laid there, crying. I never left her and when we made it back, I told my parents that I had fallen and Jan had been very brave and saved me. We took our last bath together that night, she still hates me for doing that.”

“Jesus” he breathed. “Do you still know where that cave is? Do you want to go back?”

“God no”, Lisa said forcefully. “I mean, I would never want to go back. Thats one memory I don't need to revisit. There was never any mystery there, except why I wanted to be so cruel, and I still don't know what came over me. I never did anything like that again. But I was a child, and children can be ruthless and awful.”

“Not me” he smiled, “I've only ever been tolerable. Steady, unsurprising me.”
Lisa punched him playfully in the arm.
“OK Mr. Milquetoast, I know you're lying.” She gestured with one hand all around her.

“This place must have been incredible as a kid, I know there are some great places you explored around here. This land is old.”

“All land is old.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I know what you mean, but there wasn't much around here I hadn't seen after a year of

being old enough to explore. It just, well it just keeps going, lots of hills with berry bushes and small creeks, really nothing too incredible. But, there was one place I've always wanted to go, that I only ever saw.”

“We should do it. Borrow the car and lets go.”

There aren't many roads in Upper Black Eddy. And at one point, it makes more sense to cross into New Jersey than it does to drive straight through Pennsylvania. And right after you cross the Delaware again, that's where you find it. Cross the bridge and go from forest to forest to forest, it's all the same trees no matter which state you happen to be in, it goes on continuously interrupted only by roads and map-lines. That crossing from New Jersey to Pennsylvania puts you right in Upper Black Eddy, away from the town by a couple miles, but right up against a stone cliff. Trees cling to its side, and the face rises high above the road on the left. But when you go around the corner, you see it, where the forest parts and there, through the trees, you can glimpse the windows.

“There! That's the sign!” He nearly jumped when he saw it. He wasn't sure it had ever been real, all those times he passed by. How could it be? Seeing the sign made him swallow and blink. He began to sweat. He could feel the trickle down his back, still in the cool car. It was uncomfortable and he longed to be out and moving.

They pulled over a little down the road – the guard rails ended and there was some space along the side to park. The two walked hand in hand on the shoulder. No cars came their way and the trees parted perfectly overhead, giving the impression of a dappled tunnel, like they built the roads beneath great green waves. The air was warm and hummed with the sounds of bugs. He couldn't tell what time it was without the sun, but already fireflies danced around in the trees. Somewhere, far off, a fire burnt and the smell made him think of the fall. A chill ran down his spine and he gripped Lisa's hands tighter.

He helped Lisa over the guard rail. A little ways ahead was the sign. Sure enough, he hadn't imagined what it said.

“Welcome to Hell. You weren't kidding.”

“I thought I must have invented it. I mean, I was just a kid when I came through here last. But I was so young, I don't even know if I really knew what Hell was, so why would I remember this?”

“Because it's odd? Isn't that reason enough? Oh wow, look.” Lisa had gone over to the sign itself, her face close to the wood and white paint. “Take a look at this!”

He walked to the sign and did like Lisa did, put his face right next to the top edge of the sign. Sure enough, it was covered in carvings. “You do realize, this is just from wood-beetles right? I mean, this sign has been here for so long, I'm sure its rotten.”

“No, no”, said Lisa. “Look, right here, this is too geometric for a wood beetle, this, I recognize this, isn't it Greek?”

“Let me see that.” He pulled out his glasses from an inner coat pocket. The carvings were faint, as if they came from beneath the surface of the wood, which, to his amazement, was still quite smooth. There was no lichen or moss growing on its surface, as if the sign were new. Beneath it, no plants grew within a meter. Sure enough, the carvings were geometric. He recognized symbols and letter, but could make no judgements. Upon the face of the sign that read “Welcome to Hell”, he saw more carvings. He ran his fingers across the paint. The carvings were raised.

“Feel this.” he said and grabbed Lisa's hand harder than he wanted. He forced her fingertips along the surface, and looked at her expectantly. “Did you feel those?”

“I... I know that pattern... I've seen ... felt it in church. It is a tree, I know that. Its a tree!

But, stylized, and interlocking, like I've never seen, like it is many of these trees connected, but I've only seen them one at a time. I think it has to do with the angels in heaven, like this?” Lisa picked up a stick from the ground and drew in the dirt. It was a lopsided hexagon, with circles where the lines met.

“How is there no moss on this thing?”

“Maybe it gets cleaned? The paint almost looks fresh. I'm sure this little house out there belongs to someone. We should go see.” Lisa turned and ran into the woods. She giggled. He stayed and stared at the sign a moment longer. A moment? The air was hot and the breeze feeble. He felt the surface of the sign again, felt the raised circles and followed their patterns from start to finish over and over, top to bottom.

From the distance, Lisa called, “Are you coming?” He turned and followed her into the forest. There was only one path, and since he heard her voice from within, he followed. She sounded impatient. How long had he been looking at the sign? He couldn't see the sun to tell the time, and the fireflies were out. But the forest was warm and generally bright, it couldn't have been late.

Into the woods he followed the path. Grapevines lay tangled around him, making high banked walls of dense leaves. The grapes were green and sour. He picked the end off a vine and put it into his mouth. It was sour and bitter, but made him calmer. There were thorns around his feet, so he stepped high. All the spiderwebs had been cleared ahead of him.

Strange, how the house was so far away from the road. From the car, it couldn't have been more than twenty yards from the guardrail. But now that he was on the path towards it, it was much further. Perhaps, it was a regular house, and the distance made it appear tiny? Was it a trick of perception? An optical illusion? He still hadn't seen or heard from Lisa. She must be ahead, exploring.

There was a deep valley. On the other side was the house. It still looked tiny, but he could see it better now. It was built right into a large mound of stone. The rock behind it made the house appear much larger than it was, and made the house stand out. Even from across the gap, it looked strangely intimidating. But Lisa was not on the other side, that he could see.

He slid down the hill towards the base of the valley. A little water ran across its floor, collecting leaves on its slow journey nowhere. He splashed through the puddles it formed, and felt a sudden chill as if that drop of sweat on its eternal journey down his spine had just froze, trail and all. He stopped and looked up at the hill. It was steep, he had to find a way around. Lisa must have gone around too. He couldn't be far behind. It was darker now at the bottom of the valley, and colder too. All his hair stood on end. It smelled of leaf-rot and a strange breeze pulled him backwards with icy fingertips. The valley sloped down to his right. Lisa must have gone around to the right too.

He followed the stream, never dead beneath the fallen leaves, until the canyon parted. The stream continued on, down the gulch. To his left, there lay another path. It looked wide enough for a car, but un-drivable. It was covered with tree roots. As it sloped upwards, the path on either side was lined with trees from above. The walls of this slot entrance were all roots, and he tripped more than once. He ran his fingers along the roots and found them to be smooth. The cool breeze came from the top of the root ramp.

The plateau was flat. The trees on this side were tall, old, and there was little underbrush except the dense carpet of clover. The whole of the ground sparkled an incandescent emerald – the fireflies had infested the clover, the whole carpet shimmered to their dance. It was still cool on this side of the gulch. To his right, against the rock, was the house. To his left, the gulch. It looked much farther than it had from the other side. Still, he couldn't find Lisa. The house lay in front of him. He moved towards it, weaving between the trees. He hummed softly in the silent thrumming forest; the insects were unquiet in the evening light.

Two stories? Three? It was clearly Victorian – the spire said so. But it was bent in the middle, like the mountain was folding it in two. The front door, though, was built at that angle, the wood unstressed and aligned perfectly. The windows too, were strangely offset. Had there been glass in their frames, it would have had to be cut like a rhombus. But there were no cracks, the joints were too good. The house was not being folded, it fit a hole perfectly, like whatever crack existed had begged for the house to be put there. It needed to be filled. The mountain ached.

The rock in which the house was set was much wider and taller than he had thought too. Everything, about this place, had seemed different from the street, and even from the other side of the canyon. The whole place, it seemed, defied his original thinking, as if on purpose. He walked to the front door of the tiny house and turned. The trees, from the door, lined up to make a set of avenues, a sort of bar pattern across the face. He could see clear to the road. It felt so close. He turned toward the door.

It opened effortlessly. The hinges didn't even creak, and the strangely sloped door parted without any fuss. There was no lock. The house had three stories and he had to stoop to enter. It was very dark inside. There were no fireflies or spiders. The floor was freshly swept. The first floor of the house was shallow. On the back wall were cupboards. To his left, a sitting room. There was no furniture, only black wood. It was clean and the wood shone in the sunlight trickling through the trees.

He put his hand on the doorway, but took it back immediately. He pulled out his glasses. Sure enough, all over the door, that same pattern, all over the wood, covering every inch. He followed it down the door frame. The pattern continued seamlessly across cracks. All the angles were right. It was everywhere. When he took his hand away, he checked his fingers. They were black from the wood. Dry and ashy, but there were no scorch marks. Like there had been something on top of it all – wallpaper? - all over the house, and only that burned away leaving its residue. The whole house was black, inside and out. There was no lichen, no moss.

To his right, another room, and behind it, a kitchen. He stepped inside the house, forced to crouch from the low ceilings, and realized the true depth. The whole bottom floor was an optical illusion. It all sloped upwards, into the rock, and carved with care, to appear deep. In fact, the whole space couldn't have been more than five feet deep. The sitting room to the left was similar. It could have housed a chair, but only for a small person. The room to the right, however, actually seemed to have an exit.

He stooped beneath a beam and went right. There was a table in there at one point, but it had fallen apart. He looked at the ceiling. The pattern continued. He checked the table. The pattern continued on all surfaces inside. Everything was scorched. His hands were black with soot. The kitchen was an illusion too, just covered in the same elaborate carvings, but there was a small door off to the far right. It was no larger than a child, and even then the child would have to stoop to get in. This doorframe was also crooked. The door within lay crooked. He tugged at the handle.

Sure enough, soundlessly, the door opened revealing stairs. Already crouching, he got to his knees. He put his head close to the doorway. He might have been able to get his shoulders in, but it was too shallow for him to turn and go up the stairs inside. He would never fit, could never go up those stairs. Would they lead to a room, even? It seemed the whole house was built in unnatural angles and proportions, there could be no way the second floor was any more true than the ground. With his ear to the door, he felt the breeze pull him in, and push out again, slightly warmer. The cool air came in, the warm air pushed out and he froze listening.

The sun was going down, clearly now. The fireflies were still out, and the whole forest seemed aglow. Inside the house, light seemed even darker. The black walls soaked up light with a ferocious hunger. They were soft sponges expunging any clarity the fireflies might give. He had no flashlight and had to rely on his eyes. Could he get up those stairs? He lay down on his side and grabbed the doorway. It was small, but he could do it. He was broad but flexible, he could force his way in. Why build a doorway if you can't go into it? Why build a second story if there's nothing up there? Why build this house at all? He was gripped with an unnatural desire to know, to know it all. He had to do it, he had to get up there to see. Something, something had to be hiding up there, what was this pull? What was this push and this pull, the constant back and forth of breath, why build a house with a second story at all. Why build a first. Why build a crooked porch, a sloping deck, perfectly wedged wood all black with burn, it fit together so well. Why build the crooked porch, why build the matching windows, why build a second floor – could he climb in? He wedged himself into the doorway, he scraped at the black walls with his nails to drag himself further. It was, maybe, two feet deep. The stairs themselves seemed to taper and slope, like they disappeared, but there was light, it must have lead to the second floor. Was there a third? Would he get to the second? Was there a third? Why build a first? He pulled himself closer, he could make the turn – his stomach was past the frame.

He turned. His body mostly outside; his arms all inside, in front of him. They groped and felt about, clung to the wood of the stairs and strained. His nails clawed into the wood, sinking deep into the soot covering everything, all along the stairs. And even without much light, he could see the carvings all around him, on every surface. He could feel them with his palms, they sunk through his shirt and through his hair, on the ground, through the soles of his shoes, against his pants, the pattern continued endlessly along. Wherever he touched the house, he could feel it. With his nails, he thought he would scratch it away, but it was always there, raised.

He pulled with both arms, but the stairs were clearly narrowing. They tapered to almost nothing at the top. Was it a six inch hole? Was it six inches tall? Why build these stairs, why build these damn stairs that go no where, can I get my hand through that hole. Is it bigger than I thought, why build a third, why build a second, why build this staircase, it must have been built elsewhere. It must have been built elsewhere and placed here as a stopgap, there was nothing here, and then someone built this on purpose, to fill the void. Someone built this on purpose, but why build a first or a second when you can't reach the third, and the second, it is so close. His whole body crammed now, only his ankles outside of the chamber. He was not big but not small. His head, was crammed on all sides, the walls pressed in but he only wanted to press on.

His finger reached the frame, they reached the frame, and he could feel the push and pull with his arm hairs and neck hairs, he felt it creeping down the stairs beside him, could feel it running down his back, the breath, a lovers lips, the smell of leaf rot so close within his nose. It was sweet, hot and cold in turn. His fingers made it past the frame of the door, his hand continued to pull, his feet disappeared behind the frame of the door.

Could there be eyes back there, deep in the forest? Is that what the feeling is, piercing the silent forest. The loudest sense, you are being watched. It disturbs the soul. To have eyes – and you know they are eyes – on the back of your neck is a strong feeling. We can feel each other's gaze, it is heavy and purposeful. To feel that, and search unsuccessfully for the source, is frustrating for a spirit, and makes the body strain the senses. You expand outward, you put forth feelers and try to find those eyes. Within the trees? In the bushes? Behind the wall? Are those eyes in the back of the forest? Do they look from the crooked windows in the second floor and gaze longingly at the road? I know they are looking at me. I try to look back.

Lisa was back at the car, waiting for him. She couldn't tell the time of the day because the sun was obscured, but she checked in the car earlier. It was still early when they arrived.

She found the path easily, but didn't go down. She wanted to wait for him to walk, but after they saw those carvings on the sign, he became engrossed in them. So she walked back to the car. He has a habit, she knows, of getting over focused on things. She has seen him gaze with reverence at tiny things happening naturally. Perhaps it was really just beetles and their strange pattern fascinated him. She said she was going back plainly, he would catch up.

But it had been a while, and it was getting darker. It would be time to go soon if he didn't finish looking at the sign. She walked back to the post. He was gone. It still read, “Welcome to Hell”.

“He must have gone ahead without me...” she mumbled to no one in particular. The path was not straight and the walls were high and tangled. But the path was clear, like it had been walked recently. There were no grapes or berries, though their vines were everywhere. They cut at her ankles and grabbed at her shorts. She made it through the thicket, and to the edge of the gully.

It was not deep so she slid down the edge to the floor and the creek. It was cold at the bottom, and she instantly grabbed herself tightly. There was a cool breeze that pulled her downhill, but, she figured, it would be better to go up the sloping valley, towards a way up. Lisa walked against the creek and the smell of leaf rot. She skipped over the puddles on the floor, and kicked up no leaves as she went.

The valley ended abruptly. In front of her was a natural wall. The creek crept down its sudden face, oozing down the center and onto the soft floor. Here, it smelled strongest of leaf-rot. Under the overhang, there were many small skeletons of birds, all lined up. It must have been a bobcat's lair. To her right, were some stones that lead to the ledge above. Lisa climbed – she was no stranger to the forest.

It was so different from her woods though. This forest intermingled with itself. It was dense and warm in a different way, humid and aglow from the fireflies. She remembered her forests much sunnier, with tree branches always at her level. There were always pine needles on the floor and if she fell, they'd get stuck in her hair. There were caterpillars in her forests, hundreds in the fall, and she would pick them off trees by the dozens. Her forests were sunnier, there was always sun, always a breeze. These were so different. Still bright, but the shadows were longer. Things smelled more intense. The rocks were covered in lichen, and insects clung to the cracks. The tree-branches were bare.

Lisa scrambled up the boulders and hoisted herself to the top. The plateau looked out over the gulch. It was much deeper than the climb up seemed, and much farther across. She looked back across the gulch and saw where she slid down. It must have been fifty yards behind her at this point, she had walked so much further. How did she not notice?

She turned but stopped immediately. From her vantage, the trees completely blocked the way. She had to walk around the edge of their placement to see the rock, the reason for their journey. There really was a tiny house out here. “How queer” she said to no one in particular.

It was a black house. Wooden, but black. There was a porch and a Victorian spire, and what looked like three stories. But the whole thing was... wedged. It was folded, on purpose almost. Or was it the mountain doing the folding? No, it couldn't have been, the doors, she saw from a distance, were too well built. Though the house was obviously ancient, and the wood black from fire, there were no cracks. There was no mold, no moss. The whole house was clean and fresh. Burnt, but crisp.

Both sides of the deck sloped down to meet at the doorway. The frame was also at an angle. There were windows on both sides. The ceiling couldn't have been more than five feet. She would have to hunch if she wanted to get inside. Lisa walked to the porch and looked at the house. She put a hand out to feel the doorframe. She felt the pattern, knew it immediately. It was hot, the whole house felt hot. She walked up to the room on the left and looked inside the window. It was so small inside, and shallow. The walls, still black, couldn't have been more than five feet away. She walked to the other side and peered into the window.

This side, was covered with intricate carvings along the back wall. They were so exact, but from that angle, she could tell that it was an illusion. It was all an optical illusion, the little house was some side-show project forgotten in the woods. Perhaps there was a carnival that came through this way at some point long ago. They built it or left this house in the woods. A weird attraction for people to gaze at. But it was so detailed, so intricate, she had to look inside.
All the walls were black with soot, and her fingers came away grey when she rubbed

them together. Incredible, she had to enter. She had to tug at the front door. It did not slide open easily, but how could it from water warping and its age, so she tried harder, and it relented. The hinges squeaked through rust and she thought the door might fall. But it swung open finally, and she squeezed into the front room. “My god, these cupboards, they're so detailed! But from any other angle except from the front door, you can see how shallow this room is, how little there is. It would only ever work once, and then the house would be solved, some attraction this is!” She walked to the other room, with the broken table and the kitchen carved on the back wall. She kicked one of the table legs, and it shifted. The whole room shone with light from outside, reflected off the soft carbon.

Lisa yawned. It was getting late, she could feel it. So where did he go? And why was there a second story to this house, when it was so obviously shallow and complete with this one? Was the original craftsman so anal? Couldn't it have remained complete with one story? Apparently not, it had to continue, according to the original builder. She pitied those who worked with him on this strange project. In the corner, the little door rattled.

Surprised, Lisa knelt to investigate. The door rattled, and she put her ear up to it. It was no larger than a child, she supposed if she had to, she could make it through. She had narrow shoulders and hips, she could make it through any tight crack. She pressed her ear close. She felt the pattern and shuddered. She held her breath. She listened through the door. She heard scratching and wheezing. Soft scratching, far away. Above her. She pulled away and put her ear instead to the wall above. The carvings made it difficult to tell, there were so many scratches she could barely keep track. Was there some animal trapped back there?

She went outside and picked up the biggest stick she could find.
Lisa went back inside, armed. She stood by the carved wall. She would open the door and release it upon the room. Kneeling, she would be protected by the door and the stick in her right hand. She could face even a boar, if she had to. She knelt, and put her hand on the small knob of the door. She tightened her grip and turned the handle.

The door flung open, against her wishes. Inside, a writhing mass of flesh had collected. She lashed out at whatever was inside it. She took her stick and gave the wriggling collection a good whack. The hit drew a deafening howl and forced the thing to recoil inside the doorway. Again, Lisa mustered her courage and faced it. She took her stick and wound up. This would be the death blow.

A howl came from behind the wall. He was yelling stop.

The two lay on the ground outside the house, chests rising. Lisa sat up, grabbing her knees. She panted hard. He lay sprawled, constantly expanding, gasping. His nails were all broken and splintered. His whole body was black with soot. His right hand was covered in scratches, knuckles torn up and fingertips gnarled. On the back of his right hand, the same symbol was carved. Neither spoke. He held his right hand with his left. The hand throbbed and bled. It was dark, and they walked back to the car. The whole forest was cold, and they hugged themselves while walking single-file. It was quiet in the forest, and the road was no different. He stepped over the guardrail and so did she, without his help. It was quiet on the road, and they knew they had a long drive back. It was dark, and neither felt like talking. The house lay still behind them. As they got in the car, they both felt a heavy gaze on their necks.