There is a house in Rosewood. It is located at 806 Wheatwood Road. Now Wheatwood Road is located in West Rosewood. It connects with Tecumseh Ave; a major roadway that runs through the city.
806 Wheatwood is an old decrepit building, though it’s glass window panes seem to be regularly cleaned. The walls are covered with cracked and pealing white paint. A rusted wind chime whose bells must have disappeared many years ago, hangs above a burgundy door. The roof is made of slate and numerous shingles are missing.
I pass by 806 Wheatwood every day as I head to the cafe located at 800A Wheatwood. I’ve never truly looked at it. My eyes tending to glaze over, focused on fueling my caffeine addiction.
I’m not sure what it was that captured my attention on Tuesday, January 27th but I stopped to look at the place. It was a cold day and a light dusting of snow clung to the grass. As I looked at the aging building I could have sworn that I saw one of the curtains move. As if someone brushed them as they passed by the window. Odd, the house was supposed to be abandoned.
For some bizarre reason I decided to investigate. I stepped up to the door and tried the brass knob. To my surprise and amazement the door swung open. As I stepped inside I could see that the house was completely empty. The only light was that which streamed in through the gaps in the drapery. The floorboards creaked below my feet as I stepped into the living room; or at least the room that I would have designated as the living room.
There was a fireplace built from grey bricks. I gouged a line into the dust that had collected on the mantle piece. I wiped it on my jacket.
Next I moved into the kitchen. The floor was tiled, cracked, and faded. The sink was coated with a brown film and the refrigerator door hung ajar. The stove was blackened and what I can guess was mold occupied the corner.
From the kitchen I found my way into a bedroom. The bar that held up the stained curtains had fell from the wall and lay crumpled underneath the window. There was a trunk of dark-stained wood in the corner. As I opened it, dust flew into the air causing me to cough. My sputtering halted as the dust settled.
Inside I found various framed photographs. They were relics of a time long passed. They depicted stern faces of people long dead. I set them aside and continued my search of the trunk.
Wrapped in a silk cloth, I found a human skull, sans jaw. I looked into the cavities that had once held eyes. Something about being in this crumbling house, holding a jawless skill felt oddly poetic; Shakespearian if you would.
Underneath the skull was a tome bound in black leather. Its pages were not paper, but instead canvas. The calligraphy was gothic in style, though I could not make out the words, nor did I recognize the language. I thumbed through the pages, admiring the beautifully illuminated artwork. There were diagrams and charts; renderings of strange plants and unknown beasts, and detailed drawings of human anatomy.
I heard a creak behind me, and as I turned to look I saw a figure of anthropoid outline, standing in the doorway. It must have stood at at least eight feet tall. It appeared as a black mass, void of color. It was if light simply did not exist in that space.
The tome fell to the floor with a thud. I let out a scream. A scream that was muffled, as if my ears were at the bottom of a lake. I blinked and it appeared in the room, it’s head brushing the ceiling. I threw my hands up as if to push it away, but my hands passed through it. It grabbed my throat with its shadowy tendrils. I felt myself being lifted off the floor. My vision began to fade. I was falling… falling… falling….