House on Country Lane

For those who enjoy a thrilling ghost story this one is for you.

I wrote this book more than five years ago now. It chronicles the story of a house built during a dark time on the frontier of American society. A used for dark purposes by dark people. Six stories bring the darkness within this story to life as they cover more than 150 years of events in the old farmhouse.

For those that live in the town that eventually subsumes the old farmhouse the property is a byword for bad luck and danger – no one in their right mind sets foot on the grounds. For those who move into the house a fate worse than death awaits. In these stories you’ll find madness, ghostly presences and a struggle between the forces of good and evil that will save or destroy the entire world.

I wrote this for a younger generation, remembering my own fascination with horror books as a boy. From the age of 8 or 9 I began to read scary stories and was always thrilled when one could send a chill down my spine. Some of the best stories from that long gone time are still with me. Feeling that the youth these days are coddled too much I decided to bring back the young adult horror story. For those interested in tales like this the first story is laid out below.

Darkness Follows

1889

   Midnight had come and gone and still the lone figure in front of the old farmhouse stood still and silent. The moon rode bright in the sky, illuminating the farmyard full of weeds with the scraggly trees growing haphazardly about the grounds. The farmhouse had not been occupied in more than a decade despite the large tract of land that it rested upon and the growing needs of the rapidly expanding town that had sprung up over the last half century. The residents of the town spoke in hushed tones when they turned their words towards the old farmhouse. It was ill-omened, a place of darkness and evil. The townspeople kept away from the house and its grounds, sometimes going well out of their way to avoid even nearing the old country lane. Still the town grew, every year moving closer and closer to the old farmhouse and its grounds.

   The farmhouse was a rambling, rundown old structure. Built over several generations, as was common in the 17^th and 18^th centuries in the colonies, it was a maze of rooms and corridors, with many dead-ends and out of the way rooms where one generation or another had just tacked on needed space. The porch covered the entire front of the structure, curled around the west side and spread itself across that wing of the house as well. Most of the windows were boarded up, those that weren’t gaped darkly with broken panes of glass like jagged teeth waiting to sink into something, or someone. The yard stretched eerily in the night; the dry, brown plants mocking the verdant growth just outside the farms dilapidated fence. The trees leaned drunkenly, with skeletal branches that should have long held green leaves reaching for the sky.

   The history of the farmhouse was not unknown, quite the opposite: it was local folklore. The original house was built in 1638 by a man named Gladswell. A bachelor and a taciturn man by nature he spent very little time among the few other homesteads that dotted the county at the time. He had staked out a small plot of land and had lived off of it until he died in the early 1660’s. For several years the farmhouse had stood abandoned and desolate until a middle-aged woman known only as ‘Glenda’ had shown up and moved in. Like Gladswell before her she was rarely seen by others in the county, even those in the nearby town that had sprung up almost never saw her. It was rumoured that she was a relative of Gladswell in some way – a niece or granddaughter come to claim her estranged relative’s land and house.

   Less than two years after arriving and laying claim to the house Glenda was found hanging from one of the trees near the country lane that passed in front of the farm, connecting the newly growing town to several of the homesteads in the area. The young woman that found Glenda swore between hysterical sobs that when she approached the tree Glenda had swung around to face her, smiled, and very clearly said, “This isn’t the end.” The young woman, named Lucy, stubbornly insisted that the incident had taken place just as she described right up until the day she died – exactly one year after finding Glenda’s body hanging from the tree. The doctor was unable to determine the cause of death. One morning her mother had gone in to wake the unusually late rising Lucy and discovered her dead in bed, a manic grin plastered across her face. On the wall beside the bed were four words written in what appeared to be blood: This isn’t the end. Lucy bore no wounds, and where she may have gotten blood to write on the wall was as much a mystery as her death.

   Again the house was empty. Dormant, it waited patiently for its next owner. Over the next century and a half almost a dozen families moved into the house. The lucky ones moved out very quickly, convinced that an evil presence infested the house and its grounds. The unlucky ones were found dead – ripped apart in the most gruesome manner and left scattered throughout the house and its grounds.

   By the early 1800’s no one could be found to purchase the house and the residents of the nearby town wouldn’t go near the grounds. Once again the old farmhouse on the country lane was empty, desolate and despondent. By this time the town had grown far beyond is humble beginnings and the edge of town was slowly creeping up on the grounds of the old farmhouse. Land to expand was needed and at some point you couldn’t let old wives tales frighten you from claiming the good land that abounded alongside the old country lane. There were always those who were willing to take a small risk, such as living closer than was thought wise to the haunted house just outside town, when a large gain could be had.

   Years passed and the old farmhouse fell into ruin. The walls sagged, the roof had fallen in and the foundation cracked and split. No one went near the grounds and the stories from the past became stories and myths used to frighten wayward children into behaving. And yet, every time something strange and slightly chilling occurred the townsfolk would turn suspicious eyes towards the old house alongside the old country lane.

   Then, in the early summer days of 1889 the residents of the town became aware that something ominous and frightening had happened: there was a resident once again in the old farmhouse. The resident was never seen nor heard, but the people resting in their homes not far from those myth-shrouded grounds knew that something was different. Sounds emanated from the gaping front door in the dark hours of the night, missing items from nearby households could be seen lying in the yard or on the porch of the farmhouse and some of the townsfolk living closest to the farmhouse claimed to have seen strange lights filtering through the boarded up windows after the sun had slipped below the western horizon. A malevolent feeling permeated the town and the odd little events of mischief and malice that had been so rare before suddenly became commonplace.

   The people were afraid.

   No one would venture onto the grounds to reclaim the items that had gone missing from their homes, no matter how valuable. The townsfolk began to hurry home when the sun began to set and to avoid going out after dark fall for fear of what waited in the night. Children were kept close and parents traveled in groups when leaving home. Nightmares of darkness and death afflicted the residents of the town in greater and greater numbers. The name ‘Glenda’ was heard in hushed whispers once again. There was only one place to turn to in their hour of darkness and so the people in their once sleepy town beseeched the help of the church to rid them of the evil presence that had taken up residence in the old farmhouse.

    And so the doors of the Faith opened and a warrior was sent out to do battle with whatever evil had laid claim to the farmhouse and its grounds.

   Father Maxim stood outside the farmhouse, well within the grounds as the night slowly ground on towards morning. For hours he had watched the house and the eerie lights that could sometimes be seen flickering inside. When he had first arrived the previous evening it had been his intention to enter the house immediately and search out the cause of the town’s discomfort. He had not really believed that something evil lurked within and had arrived in complete confidence that if something was wrong with the house he could identify and deal with it quickly. But with his first step past the rusted gate and into the yard he had realized how mistaken he was in his confidence. He could feel the attention of whatever waited within. An amused malice washed over him in waves, the evil feeling pulsing like a black heart, growing stronger as the night deepened.

   The priest stood as still as stone in the yard in front of the house, waiting for the light of morning to stretch out it’s golden fingers and illume the old house before him. While he waited he prayed.

   Nearing the end of his prime years he was no longer young but still as hale and strong has a young bull. He had spent his years instructing his congregation on how to follow the path to Heaven’s Gates, stamping out impiety and temptation wherever it reared its ugly head. Twice during his time in the church he had been asked to participate in exorcising evil from young, innocent members of the congregation. The first time he had been very young and had walked away from the experience deeply disturbed – in his mind there was no doubt that what had plagued the young woman was not a devil or demon, but insanity. Tied to the bed frame she had ranted and swore, bargained and threatened until hoarse and out of breath. The exorcism had proceeded ‘by the book’ as far as Father Maxim could tell, with the end result being a disturbing series of images invading his sleep over the next few weeks. The young girl had continued to carry on as before until one night, several months after the ‘successful’ exorcism, when she had freed herself from her bonds, climbed onto the roof of her family home and leapt to her death in the yard below. By that time Father Maxim had learned that her father’s family had a long history of mental instability. The church claiming the successful exorcism of a demon had always bothered him but having such little influence with his superiors he had kept his misgivings to himself and tried to carry on as best he could.

   The second time had been years later after some much needed maturing had taken place within the mind of the young man who had witnessed the distress and mental decline of the young lady who later killed herself. That time it had been harder to disregard the possession of the 7-year-old boy requiring the help of the church.

   His parents had locked him in the cellar – a tomb-like hole in the ground with only the one massive oaken door leading in or out. In hushed whispers they had told the two priests that their son, Ezekiel, had been a normal, happy child until two weeks prior. At first the change came on slowly and the parents thought it nothing more than a phase the boy was going through ‘as children do’. He would wake up in the night screaming in a cold sweat, repeating again and again that something was in his room watching him, wanting him. Over the next few days Ezekiel had stopped eating or going outside to play. He had become drawn and pale, sickly. Then he had started to speak in a tongue neither of the parents had ever heard before. His eyes would flame with hatred when he looked at them and he would utter the most awful things when his mother would try to feed or clean him. Several days before he had attacked her during one such instance with the knife his mother had brought to cut his meat with. A laceration on her right arm had required stitching and the boy’s father had decided to lock him in the basement once the knife had been wrested from him and he was under control once again. That night strange sounds akin to chanting, only in a voice much too deep for young Ezekiel had been heard coming out of the cellar. It was then that the parents had sought the help of the leader of their church.

   The hours that followed Father Maxim entering that cellar would stay with him through the days and weeks and years that followed. Darkness had settled on his soul that night, a darkness he had never been able to entirely banish. In time he found some solace in his work – guiding and teaching the people of his congregation about the work of the Lord. But in the dark of night sometimes he could still hear the screams and denouncements of the strange voice that had issued from Ezekiel’s mouth that day in the dark cellar.

   Eventually the older priest, Maxim’s mentor, had gone to dwell with God and Maxim had taken over the leadership of his church. He loved the work, his people and his Lord and had flourished over the years. Until three days before when a telegram had come asking for a priest to travel out to one of the small villages in the countryside to deal with a haunted house.

   Now, standing before the dilapidated house, he felt with a strange tremor the same fear he had felt years ago, just before walking into the cellar that held young Ezekiel.

   A moment later a loud BANG issued from within the darkened house and a pair of wings could be heard lifting out of the tree on the left of Father Maxim and flying off into the night. The prayer escaping from the priest’s mouth never faltered or lost its cadence. He would not be driven off by whatever force waited within the farmhouse nor would he let it see fear or uncertainty in him. He had come here to do battle, and if he was not as prepared as he should have been he still had every intention of doing the duty for which he had been summoned.

   “…waiting…for…you…”

   The coarse disembodied voice was so unexpected that Father Maxim stopped praying and looked around the yard.

   “…inside…waiting…come…priest…”

   In the yard outside the farmhouse it was the middle of summer – hot, humid and breathless. Inside Father Maxim it was the deepest winter on the Antarctic continent. A ball of ice had formed in the pit of his stomach, sapping the will or ability to do anything except stare in terror.

   “…ha…ha…afraid…priest…?”

   The voice was completely unlike the one he had heard talking through Ezekiel years before but the same fear accompanied it. Father Maxim took a deep breath and summoned his failing courage.

   “I’m not afraid of you spirit! Be gone! Leave this realm in the name of the Lord – Jesus Christ!” The loud words were swallowed up by the darkened farmyard as if they had never been uttered. Yet there was a difference to the feel of the presence observing him – the amused malice had slipped aside to reveal the unbridled hatred beneath it. Father Maxim could feel it throbbing all around him and a thought occurred to him – whatever it was that had taken control of the farmhouse was angry because it was afraid! He could fight this demon and what was more – he could win.

   “You have no power over me and by morning’s first light I will have cast you out of this house and this realm. Flee now lest you feel the wrath of Almighty God!” His confidence growing Father Maxim took several steps forward, almost to the porch that stretched in front of the farmhouse.

   “…by…morning…”

   Again the voice issued forth seemingly from the air all around the priest.

   “…by…morning…you’ll…be…dead…” A dry, slow cackle followed the words and once again a loud BANG echoed within the house. “…come…meet…your…doom…Maxim…”

   The use of his name startled Father Maxim so much that he took a step backwards before he realized it. How could this demon know his name? There was power in names, a lesson Father Maxim had learned long ago, at an almost unbearable cost.

   “It was because I couldn’t discern its name. God didn’t find me worthy enough to impart that knowledge to me.” Maxim looked up from the small crumpled figure resting in his lap at his friend and mentor. “I wasn’t strong enough.” Maxim had never before seen tears in his teacher’s eyes, Maxim himself was weeping unashamedly.

   Lying in Maxim’s lap was the lifeless body of Ezekiel.

   Upon entering the cellar the battle to save the young boy had commenced. Prayers meant to drive the demon from the young boy’s body and the invocation of God’s name had indeed driven the demon from the Ezekiel, however, with its waning strength the demon had taken the life of the boy it possessed.

   Father Maxim watched as it had happened. In the shifting light of that cellar he had seen a shadow detach itself from the boy. It almost could have been his imagination: the flickering apparition was so translucent as to be almost invisible; it was a shimmer similar to what you see above a fire on a bright sunny day. It was as this shadow was drifting slowly away that the unthinkable had happened. As the shadow was retreating it had reached out, back to the boy and pulled something bright out of the body it had so recently occupied, a white shadow as it were, a counterpoint to the dark shimmer that was already dissipating. And then the two had faded away, leaving behind the two priests with the now lifeless body of the boy they had come to save.

   Long years later Father Maxim still remembered the dark shimmer that had come from the body of young Ezekiel and what it had done to him. Standing in the yard before the old farmhouse in the dead of night Father Maxim couldn’t help but recall the terror he had felt at seeing that dark shimmer leave the child, it was a terror he had never thought to feel again but he felt it now creepy up his spine like a claw of ice, freezing his will and sapping his courage.

   A low cackle filled the air of the farmyard. Feminine, hoarse and hoary the laugh had unforeseen effect on Father Maxim – he became enraged. How dare this being laugh at him and his pain? How dare being terrify the township and those who lived here? Hefting his bible in one hand and the large crucifix he carried in the other Father Maxim squared his shoulders and stepped forward, onto the porch and the across it and into the house.

   The darkness was not absolute in the farmhouse but the play of shadows and filtered moonlight had a more sinister aspect than if the house had been black as pitch inside. Looking around Maxim saw the rotted, broken furniture that had been left by those who had once lived here. The front room had once upon a time been the main living area of the small farmhouse that Gladswell had built – entry hall, kitchen and sitting area were all served by the cavernous room that Maxim had stepped into. Everywhere he looked the priest saw broken and discarded refuse. The only pieces of furniture that seemed to be intact were the large wooden kitchen table to his right and a rocking chair placed beside a window to his left.

   The rocking chair slowly rocked back and forth at a steady pace.

   There was no stirring of the air in the farmhouse and the chair made no noise as it slowly rocked back, and then forth. Letting his rage run free Maxim looked around the house and shouted out to the house, “Is this supposed to frighten me? Is this all you have?”

   When he turned back to the chair there was a woman sitting in it. She was old beyond measure with a mostly bald pate and long wispy strands of hair hanging from the sides and back of her head. Her skin was darkened and rotten with age. She wore no clothing and her breasts were shallow and sunken. As his eyes met the dark pits where her should have been a deathly rictus grin spread across her dry, thin lips. “No priest. Much more awaits you here.” A dry rasping laugh escaped her breathless body. Suddenly she flew out of the chair directly at Maxim, her hands outstretched and grasping for his throat. “MORE AWAITS YOU THAN YOU COULD EVER IMAGINE PRIEST!” As Maxim brought up his hands to ward off the attack the apparition faded into mist and disappeared.

   Slightly shaken the priest blew out a long breath he had not known he was holding and looked back at the now still rocking chair. As he watched for any sign of movement around him he heard, for the third time, a loud BANG from deeper in the farmhouse. He took one more moment too look around the main room and then walked towards a door to his right that led into a long corridor that traveled in the direction that the sound had come from.

   The hallway had no windows of its own, shrouding it in a darker gloom than the room that Maxim had just left. A pair of door facing each other on either side of the hall led to small bedrooms pressed up against the main room of the farmhouse. Maxim took a quick look in each, nothing but empty wardrobes and the litter of collapsed ceilings endured his quick scrutiny, before continuing on. A parallel hallway intersected the one he was in, running through the west wing of the farmhouse. It was from that direction that Maxim thought the sound had come from but he hesitated before continuing on.

   “Afraid priest?” Once again the voice filled the air around his head, a disembodied and source less rasp. “You’ve come to take me from my home, but you won’t succeed. Darkness follows you and it’s that darkness that will set me free in this world.” Again the low cackle reverberated through the house. “Darkness has followed you your whole life hasn’t it? Yes…yes, you know of what I speak. The terror always waiting beneath the surface, the constant failures in your life that need not have been, like your failure with Ezekiel. You failed his parents, failed your calling in life and failed him. You watched his soul taken away to spend eternity in darkness and pain and YOU DID NOTHING!” The last words whipped out so loud that the house shuddered. Dust and small debris fell from above covering Maxim in a dry dusty shroud.

   “I did everything I could. I didn’t know enough to save him then, but I’ve learned spirit – learned enough to banish you from this world and back to the hell you clawed free from. Prepare yourself demon – your time here is at an end.” Taking the corridor into the west wing he walked with long, sure strides.

   He was walking towards what he thought was the source of the sound he had heard when another voice reached his ears. “Father…please…it’s so cold…please…help me…” Father Maxim stopped dead and looked to his left. There, set back several feet from the hallway, a stairwell descended into darkness. The voice that had beseeched him from that cellar was the voice of young Ezekiel, spoken in the other cellar long ago in the few moments that the exorcism had seemed to be working.

   Speaking the same words that Father Maxim heard coming from the cellar before him now.

   A lone tear tracked its way through the dust and dirt that covered his face as his lips parted, “If you have him here demon there is no force in Heaven or Hell that can save you from what I’ll do to you.” He whispered.

   He turned to the stairwell and began his descent. Light fled almost as soon as his foot touched the top stair, leaving him blind as he went towards his dreadful confrontation.

   He felt his foot come down on packed earth and knew that he had come to the bottom of the stairs. Still he could see nothing.

   “Are you ready to see the face of death…priest?”

   The voice was louder in the dark of the cellar, more noticeably feminine. If I only knew the name of this demon… Father Maxim thought. If I could just name it I could draw it out and banish it. Something about the thought tickled the back of him mind, something he had heard when learning about the town and the house he had been asked to come to, something about the history.

   Glenda

   He had it! “I know your name spirit! I know how to defeat you and drive from this place for all time!”

   “HAHAHAHA. You know NOTHING fool!” The voice boomed out of the dark, shrieking in malicious glee but Maxim was undaunted.

   “I know who you are and I name you – GLENDA!”

   Silence, true silence in the dark, came. Maxim could feel the presence of the spirit drain from the air around him. He had done it! He had beaten back the dark spirit of the woman who had killed herself on these grounds long ago.

   Father Maxim raised his hand and wiped sweat off of his brow, turning to depart the cellar, depart the house and depart the town.

   Suddenly the air thickened and Father Maxim felt as if he was being squeezed in a giant fist.

   “FOOL! YOU KNOW NOTHING, HAHAHA!” The echoing crash of the voice dripped derision and hatred but what froze the good priest where he stood was the sound – it was no longer the sound of an old, hoarse woman. It was the voice that had issued from Ezekiel, a deep, gravelly, otherworldly voice. “TURN AROUND AND MEET YOUR DEATH PRIEST!”

   There was a sound behind him in the dark and Maxim turned to meet the threat. Out of the darkness a white figure, a woman with demonic features, came sailing, fingers outstretched and reaching for his throat. Father Maxim raised his hands to ward off the attack, he felt the cold wind as the hands passed through his arms and then he felt the fingers, strong as steel, clench around his throat.

   And darkness followed.