From Ash

1

Iused to be a dispatcher for the county fire and police, and there I learned that the county holds auctions for items and property confiscated during crime events. These auctions weren’t publicly advertised (I only knew of them because I was a dispatcher) so the crowds were always the same group of law enforcement, firemen, and pencil–pushers like me.

Most of the time, the stuff was just cheap jewelry, weapons, household items, and so on; or it would be super weird, like a velvet painting of an Elvis–looking, kinda Asian Jesus Christ rocking out on the xylophone. Every so often there’d even be big-sale items, which drew the largest crowds – like cars, or the time they put up a gaudy boat named The Pussy Dragon.

And it was during one of these large–sale auctions that I came to buy my first house; a house that I’d also helped seize.

It all began with a spike in heroin overdoses.

It was apparent from the day it started, even to me as a dispatcher. One day it was quiet and then, suddenly, ambulances were racing all over the county to help unresponsive people in even the strangest of places. This lasted for weeks (it even made the national news) and we were able to help save a good deal of people…though not everyone made it back. My county gets its fair share of emergencies, usually burglaries or DUIs, domestic disputes, house fires, etc. – but this was the first time several jurisdictions had to join together with the FBI in order to stop it.

Dispatch only became aware of the case when detectives, working together with two senior FBI agents, were confident they’d located the source of the heroin – a house in a wealthy suburb square in the center of the county – and I was on the line to update the separate jurisdictions holding the perimeter.

SWAT approached the house.

The first explosion told us it wouldn’t be easy.

The second reinforced the idea.

Then came thunderous gunfire, louder and more vicious than any I had ever heard before.

As much as I don’t like giving drug dealers and mass murderers’ credit, the operation inside that house was incredibly well orchestrated. The explosions were landmines that had been strategically placed in the front yard—but that was only the beginning. They were equipped with an arsenal and even had mounted a 50cal machine gun to a wall in the garage, and they opened fire immediately. The backyard was also a nightmare of hidden barbwire that tripped additional explosives while several suspects were unloading cover fire. The beginning hours were pandemonium. Houses up to a mile away were evacuated. The garage was so well fortified that Homeland Security had to assist; they imploded it with a tiny cluster bomb to prevent further damage to nearby houses. The other suspects were killed in a gunfight soon after – none of them surrendered. And the drug–trafficking operation inside was so carefully constructed and subversive that it could have gone unnoticed forever, if not for the fact that their heroin was apparently thirty times more potent than anything else available.

Jump to over a year later, when the successful raid had been mostly forgotten, and the beautiful, two–story house was put up during an auction with a low turnout. I’d already been saving up for a down–payment on a house for quite some time and had been in contact with lenders to establish my price range – so when I saw a house for sale, in a wealthy neighborhood, 60% below market value, I sweat and prayed and quickly bid…and I bid alone. Turns out, since four officers had lost their lives on the property, it was tradition for them not to buy it – and no one else wanted anything to do with it.

So, I found myself with a new house.

The crime scene had been professionally cleaned before the auction but there were still property issues, obviously: the garage had to be rebuilt, the septic tank had issues, the bullet holes would have to be patched and repainted, the wooden kitchen cupboards needed replacing, and on and on—but I didn’t care. I finally had a house. That’s all that mattered. And I was moderately handy so fixing it up wasn’t much of an issue…at least, not in the beginning.

I immediately noticed there was an issue with the tap water, which I hadn’t been made aware of before moving in. Since the house had been practically abandoned for a year, and the septic tank was having issues, I thought they might be linked and didn’t think else about it. I scheduled a plumber to check the water pipes and drank bottled water in the meantime. It wasn’t until the cleaners came out to fix the septic tank that I realized I may have made a mistake…

Tank…no clean… the one cleaner kept telling me. (He spoke little English, so we had a bit of a rough time communicating, and the other cleaner had vanished.)

No clean? I kept asking.

Eventually, their boss had to call me as an intermediate.

It’s not that the septic tank needs cleaning, their boss told me, then paused.

Then what’s the issue? I had to almost encourage him to tell me.

The tank isn’t working because of the contents inside it. We can’t clean it. It needs replacing, he told me.

This came as horrible news to me since a new septic tank was extremely expensive.

What? Why?

The boss couldn’t give me a straight answer and, at first, I thought he was trying to rope me into unnecessary expenses…but I would get my answer soon after.

The plumber showed up later that same day to fix the water-main and he turned on the faucet to find the water a greyish color. It stank, too, almost like sewage. Weird, he told me, eyeing the dirty water suspiciously. He explained to me that normally it was rust or dirt, but this wasn’t either; in fact, he had no idea what it was. When I asked if it could be a result of the septic tank not working properly, he shook his head. Definitely not, he said. Maybe if you drew from a well, but you don’t. Septic and water pipelines are completely separate.

The plumber checked the pipes throughout the house but, when he couldn’t find an issue, he explained that he would have to come back with more tools to dig up the piping behind the house.

So, I spent the first night in my new house completely alone and without lights (as the electricity had yet to be set up) or water, which meant no toilets either. Luckily, first thing in the morning, the plumber returned and dug around in the backyard for the water line. I was in the kitchen, replacing cabinets—when I heard him scream. I quickly ran into the backyard and found the portly plumber, pale and wide–eyed. The hammer was still in my one hand, which I forgot. The plumber saw the hammer—then he took off in a sprint to his car parked around front. I didn’t chase him; in fact, I was too confused to do anything other than freeze in place and gape at the hole. He had dug an impressively large hole in the dirt, and I walked over and peered in. There was a pipe that had been dug out and the plumber had wrenched the pipe open…and, from inside, he dislodged what appeared to be a nest of dead black spiders.

It creeped me out, of course, and it stunk to all get–out, but it wasn’t so scary that I’d run. I got a bit closer since the spiders were long dead and grabbed a nearby stick and began poking at them – when I realized they were all somehow connected, their bodies rotted together. Further perplexed by this, I used the stick to try and drag it entirely out of the pipe—but it was stuck.

So, I half climbed in the hole.

The smell was overwhelming, like a port–a–potty on fire, but I covered my nose with my shirt and rolled up my sleeves. Up close, I could tell it wasn’t dead spiders that I was looking at. The black clumps looked like congealed oil. I carefully bent down and leaned forward and slowly reached my hand inside the pipe. And that’s when I felt something hard, something else connected to it. I pulled and it broke free and I pulled the rock–like clog and tossed it aside. There was something else in there so, slowly, I reached back in…farther…farther…trying to get at the rest, but I had to tilt down…farther…farther… pushing my hand so deep that my whole arm was inside…and that’s when I noticed something.

The chunk I had removed from the pipe, it had a black, decomposing lip. And teeth, one with a filling. The black clumps weren’t a nest of spiders or congealed oil; it was hair. Long black hair that belonged to a cracked apart skull. And I had just yanked a piece of the jaw. Skin was still clinging to bone, like gooey flakes of old cake batter.

The police were never able to identify the woman we found in the waterline. They weren’t even certain how half of a skull had even ended up there. They just assumed it to be a remnant of some human trafficking that had gone on there, but their theory was vague, and I never got much more about it. Apparently, in the year the house had been in police custody, not a single person had used the water. To make sure there weren’t any further issues, the borough paid to replace my septic tank so they could search it, too.

That night, in the candlelight of my bedroom, I began to doubt my choices. Half a skull in the waterline, who–knows–what in the septic tank, and I was even hearing weird creaking noises in the walls. It was probably just the house, normal creak-and-crank sounds that all houses made, but coupled with half a decomposing skull in your backyard, anything can become scary.

I had a rough time falling asleep.

First thing the next morning, my phone woke me up.

It was a familiar voice.

You got a minute? the local Sergeant asked.

Yeah, what’s up? I groggily responded, rubbing sleep from my eyes.

Is everything alright? he inquired, a tinge of worry in his voice.

Kind of a strange question.

Uh, yeah, I replied, fully awake.

I need you to gather your stuff. Two squad cars are on their way to pick you up. I asked him several questions but the only real answer he would give me was, We’re gonna put you up in a hotel for a short time.

It wasn’t until I refused to leave my house without a reason that he answered more completely.

We have reason to believe that you’re not alone there.

2

…the fuck? I asked, wiping the haze of sleep from my eyes.

Everything will be fine, he repeated twice in a patronizing tone, like he was dealing with a rambunctious child. Just gather some things and step outside. But stay on the line with me, okay? He was using a pretend–calm, one I was quite familiar with – working in emergency situations as a dispatcher, it’s imperative to seem calm, no matter the situation – but knowing that didn’t make it any less horrifying when on the receiving end; in fact, I would have rather heard him scream. Acting as if nothing was wrong made the fact that something was wrong all the more glaring, all the more chilling, all the more real…

Floorboards creaked.

I dropped the phone and froze with a stupid expression on my face.

The sound came from somewhere on the second floor, but I couldn’t place where exactly.

Sirens in the distance. The screech of swerving tires in my neighborhood.

pit–psssssh…pit–pssssh

It was approaching the bedroom door – a step, then the sound of dragging…

A step, then the sound of dragging…

I whimpered, naturally; then, slowly, I turned to the doorway.

The sight was a gut–punch, bone–deep.

Oh God… I mumble–groaned.

It wasn’t a hulking threat that was approaching—no, this was worse.

This was so much worse.

The person was naked, that I noticed first, but it was so emaciated that I couldn’t tell their gender or even their age. The body was hairless and taller than a child, about 5’8, and their skin was an unnaturally yellowish brown, but I couldn’t tell if it was caused by jaundice or dirt, or both, or worse. Their right arm – it caused my breath to catch in my throat, choking me (the first time in my adult life that I actually gasped). The right arm was missing below the middle of the bicep; in its place was a hunk of gore, skin dangling black and rotting. It was an old, festering wound, long infected. Both eyes were open, but the sockets were empty. The stain of running blood had tattooed itself down both cheeks. The poor creature was blind as it lumbered forward.

One step forward, then a drag of the back-right leg…

pit–pssssh…pit–psssssh

The calf muscle was missing from the right leg.

The police were able to catch my escape in all its glory as they rolled up, both cruisers parking in front of my lawn:

I blindly grabbed and threw whatever object was nearest to me at the window to break the glass – but, sadly, the object happened to be a pillow and it bounced off the glass without any damage whatsoever. I ignored this failure and instead threw myself out the second floor window, landing on the slanted awning that hung over my front door—which I then tumbled down, falling a good thirteen feet into the grass with a loud, breathtaking thump.

Miraculously, the only thing injured was my pride – as it quickly became a running joke between local officers and fellow dispatchers for months.

(Remember when Richie threw himself out that window?

Don’t pull a Richie.

Dispatch, we got a situation here. Should I jump out the window?

The Richie Tumble even became a motion where you just pretended to roll in place.

Let’s skip through the next week with tidbits:

The police found the one–armed, no–eyed victim laying in my bed and immediately transported her to the nearest emergency room. She was an adjunct English professor from a college three states away, and she had been declared missing for several months. I visited her in the hospital after a few days, just to pay my respect. She’d been through so much that her brain was mush, they told me, and her tongue was gone – so she had no ability to communicate and no means to explain what had happened to her.

Her condition may have been the worst of the situation and all but, in a close second, the police were unable to tell me where the hell she had come from. There was no blood, not anywhere. There was no evidence of her hiding in the crawl space, not that she had the mental capacity to do so. It was as if, one day, she just mysteriously appeared on the second floor of my house.

True to their word, the county put my up in a mediocre hotel while they continued to scrub the house. The FBI returned with their resources but, again, they found nothing and, again, they disappeared into the night. Detective Hernandez was assigned to work as an intermediate between me and the active case. He was hesitant to provide me with much insight into the situation, but I managed to at least get some information:

The septic tank had evidence of multiple, partially digested human remains – that is to say, pieces of human bodies had passed through the digestive track of another human and were then deposited in the septic tank – and it was recent enough that the bacteria hadn’t enough time to break it all down. All of this meant that a cannibal had recently used the toilet – until it broke, which looked to be recently. So, the cannibal (or cannibals) had been eating people and using the toilet even during the year my house had been in police custody. (The DNA of the waste, however, didn’t match the woman in the hospital – which was strange and unnerving but weirdly glossed over.)

I was in the hotel for a short period while police ensured that my house was completely vacant before allowing me to return. The septic tank had been replaced, the electricity had been hooked up, the water main was unclogged so that each tap worked fine (though I continued, for a time, drinking bottled water)…and, for the first time, it was starting to feel like an actual house.

I was hesitant to be alone but, as I was in a town with zero friends or family, I didn’t have much choice – so I slept with the light on and spent as many hours out and about as I could. I didn’t have a lot of cash on hand at the time but the money I did have went toward amenities and furniture. And, over time, the house started to feel less menacing and more homely.

It’s bizarre what I managed to forgive and forget within a month.

Also bizarre: my first real order of business as a homeowner was to sign up for an online dating service. It didn’t take long before I began meeting women at a bar nearby bar called Rex’s, where we’d grab dinner and a few drinks (often with the last bit of money I had), and then I would offer to end the night at my house. For all intents and purposes, I became rather whore–ish – partially because I could but also (maybe subliminally) because I didn’t want to be in the house alone, and this was the easiest way to have company.

As far as I could tell, everything was normal with the house…until one night, soon after, when I was at work and received this call:

Alpha–one–one–zero–one, what’s your emergency?

The voice was male and deep, and he breathed heavily into the receiver.

Someone’s gonna get murdered.

What’s the location of your emergency? I asked, taking notes.

Six Twelve Silvia Circle.

That’s my address, I corrected him; my immediate reaction was to think he was mistaken.

I know, the voice replied.

And then the line went dead.

3

In any emergency call, the line is traced.

When tracing a call, first the signal connects to the nearest cell tower, and that tower connects to a satellite, which then gives a specific GPS coordinate within maybe 40 ft. of the caller; however, the satellite never had enough time to pin–point the location of the call, so we only found out that the cell tower ping for the call was made within a 2.1–mile radius that included my house – so, while it was close, most of the town fit within that radius.

The caller could have been anywhere local, even the dispatch call center.

The phone number was through a Verizon carrier but a rep for Verizon said the number had been defunct for some time, and that was all they’d say. (Verizon wasn’t even legally obligated to release that much, as no real crime was committed, and the call could’ve been construed as a mistake.) And, when it didn’t happen again, the police were also forced to write it off.

Can’t chase the sound of a voice, they told me. (I tried, though; I listened to the recording of the incident so many times that I started hearing that deep voice everywhere – even to this day, it’s in my dreams.)

Surprisingly, in the month after the ominous call, life became quasi–normal. There were no further police interruptions, veiled threats, decomposing body parts, or emaciated victims. My shifts at dispatch were in three 12–hour days followed by four days off – which can feel like forever sometimes, especially if you’re alone in a two–story, mostly vacant, previously horrifying suburban house. To fill my spare time, I started driving for Uber to get out of the house, as well as make extra money on the side. Little by little, piece by piece, I filled my house with more – more furniture, more art, more flourishes, anything that could make it more welcoming. I got side–tables and two couches from Goodwill, ordered framed posters of my favorite movies (Goodfellas, Adaptation, Predator), vases with fake flowers, and more, including a large, scratched up flat–screen from a shady person on craigslist (guess I still hadn’t learned discounts come at a price).

And, as usual, I would meet women online.

There’s a bar near my house called Rex’s (luckily, it was also the only bar in the area to have Pantera on the jukebox) and it was the perfect place to meet new people, always half–full and quiet–ish until 9 p.m. – then all hell would break loose and the heavy metal would blare. The loud noise always made a good excuse to leave. Some nights it didn’t work out; other nights did, and my date would come home with me.

This was how I met Kay…

The day started with a swipe–right on a beautiful, dark–haired woman. A conversation followed, which led to an exchange of phone numbers, further conversation, and plans to meet up at Rex’s. She was early and smelled of licorice. I was timid, with a sense of humor. Things were going well until Rex’s decided to blast their heavy metal early, around 7 p.m. on a day when the sun didn’t set until 8:30 p.m. I invited her back to my house, but she batted me off and, instead, I walked her home as the sun set. It was…nice, for lack of a better word; not world–changing or explosive or dramatic, not a hilarious meet–cute we could tell as an anecdote at parties.

Which was different, at least for me.

The evening was pleasant, quaint, and the conversation was organic. We weren’t trying to impress or judge; we were just talking. She was sweet and inquisitive and something about her made me more honest and forthright than I normally would have been. I’m not a dishonest person but I tended to be guarded, especially with people I’ve just met – but with her, it was just…easier. (I didn’t, however, mention a single goddamn fact about my house yet – that’s not first date material, no matter how relaxed the conversation.) And the night ended with a peck on her cheek.

My Kay…

It’s with a deep, sorrowful sigh that we head back into dark territory:

It all began (again) on the night of our third date, after she agreed to come over and watch a movie. I told her the stories about the house on the second date; why it had been confiscated by police and the evidence that had been found after I moved in. In telling her about the woman with the missing arm (who seemingly appeared out of thin air), I spared the grisly details – but still got the point across, that my house didn’t exactly have a normal history.

Surprisingly, the more I told her, the more interested she became – to the point that I had to (politely) request we talk about something else, as it all still made me a bit queasy and nervous at the time (and even to this day). But once she came over, and we got comfortable on the living room couch, the conversation about the house resumed:

Do you think your house is haunted? You know, because of all the bad juju? Kay asked before I could even turn the television on. Her voice was soft and a bit high pitched, like it might come from someone extra tiny.

‘Bad juju’? Is that a technical term?—and what should we watch? I replied, trying to Netflix my way out of the situation.

Whatever you want, Kay dismissively answered before returning to the subject. Like, did you ever wonder if maybe it isn’t a person doing this awful stuff? Maybe the bad people did awful things here and now the house is haunted because of it.

The house isn’t haunted; if anything, it’s evil.

My answer had been an attempt at humor, but the thought made Kay’s eyes light up—and then the house creaked.

What was that? she gasped, more curious and hopeful than afraid.

I explained to her that the house was always making noises like that and, even though it still creeped me out, I had come to accept that it was normal. Houses creak, pipes bustle, windows rattle – and this house had seen its share of issues and rebuilding, which only added to it.

The house creaked again – a slow, short rrrp.

Kay looked me dead in the eyes.

My parents owned a ranch house and it was all wood…and I never heard any sounds like that.

I swear I felt my face turn pale.

A slow, wry smile crossed Kay’s lips. Wait, do you think there could be pounds of marijuana in the walls?

No, I shook my head, police went through each and every wall, from what they tell me.

Yeah but they also missed a bunch of stuff, right? She thought a second and then looked around the room, examining the walls. There’s only one way to be certain – we’re gonna need a hammer and a stethoscope.

There was a long, silent pause…

Are you…you’re joking, aren’t you?

Kay laughed; and so was her sense of humor. Then she asked me for a phone charger and yanked the remote from my hand and started flipping through the Netflix options. I had an extra charger in my bedroom, so I excused myself and ran up the stairs—only to stop halfway. There were droplets of a black liquid on a stair – and it wasn’t until I wiped it up with my sleeve, mistaking it for dirt, before I realized that a) it was still wet (and therefore fresh) and b) it was sticky and c) it wasn’t black but stained my white sleeve a dark, brownish red. I tried to smell it but couldn’t, and I didn’t dare taste it. Then I heard something so unsettling that my knees wobbled…

A child’s giggle.

And then a shadow dashed into an empty room on the second floor.

Fuuuuuuuuck… I groaned, mortified.

What’s wrong? Is it a ghost? Kay joked from the living room.

In response, I exhaled for about a minute – until both lungs were bare pouches inside my ribcage and then some. My eyes had closed the millisecond I saw something move but, as there weren’t any nearby windows to pull a Richie (…not that I would have, exactly…), I once again froze with a stupid expression on my face.

And this is the point where I feel obligated to tell you:

I’m usually the guy screaming at the movie screen when Mr. or Mrs. Peripheral Character is an idiot for investigating the strange sound in the dark house.

Sure, I could’ve jet straight back down the stairs and grabbed Kay (or not, even) and made a run for the front door…but the thought didn’t occur to me. It seems silly, I understand; and I’m not claiming to be some heroic tough guy. I don’t claim to be brave. And my thought process was simple: there’s a fucking child in my house?—is it a fucking ghost?—no, can’t be…ghosts aren’t real! ghosts aren’t real…ghosts totally aren’t real, though. right?—ghosts aren’t real…and maybe I misheard the sound, maybe it was a cry that sounded like a giggle—maybe someone else is up here, wounded – Lord knows the last person was…—there’s a beautiful woman downstairs—I really, really like her—I really, really don’t want to freak her out. (I also pussied out so hard the last time, jumping out a window to avoid an injured woman, that I just couldn’t do it again – especially not if it turned out to be an injured child this time.)

So, I climbed the steps, one…by one…by one, only my right eye partly open as the way my head was turned made it the eye farthest from the back room (as if that helped ). I moved as if sneaking. Whoooooo…? I sort of culled, owl-like, before my voice broke. I couldn’t even really finish the sentence, Who’s there? because I was so scared.

I reached the top and stepped over another small pool of black liquid. It was sundown outside. There was still enough ambient light to see fairly well, but I turned on the hallway lights anyway—and then felt light–headed when I noticed the unmistakable print of a small, bloody hand just under the light switch. A handprint with only a thumb and two fingers, spread wide apart.

Whatever just created this handprint had only done it a few seconds earlier.

Alpha–seven–six–eight, what’s you’re emergency? Franny answered when I immediately called the dispatch line.

Franny, get any nearby officers to my house asap, I whispered.

Who is this? she asked, though I could tell she was smiling; then I was briefly muted as she radioed a nearby officer to my house. (Brief history: She and I had met at Rex’s one night, and we had our own moment, and, in the end, maybe she was trying to torture me a little.

I would’ve deserved it, if that was the case.)

I hung up the phone.

rrrp…

The creak came from inside the empty room on the second floor.

I quickly ducked into my bedroom and turned on the light and grabbed the first thing I could– but again it was a goddamn pillow. This time, however, I was still so scared that I didn’t let it go; I just hugged it and went back into the hall and approached the back room.

I turned the light on in each room I passed. The spare bedroom. The bathroom. The overhead bulb in the closet. I left each door open, too.

And then I approached the open door at the end. It was an empty room I hadn’t begun filling with furniture yet. (Even the spare bedroom didn’t have a bed.) The curtains were closed, and the hallway light only lit a small area of the room, so it was darker—but there, in the back corner, stood a child-like figure. It was wearing a hoodie, no bigger than 4’10 –but when I turned the light on, there was nothing…just another pool of dark liquid in the back corner.

The puddle was still spreading out, as if it had just been made.

Sirens rang out in the distance. The screech of swerving tires in my neighborhood. The police were closing in. I moved to investigate the puddle in the back corner as they pulled up on my lawn—and then, they got a familiar sight.

But this time – I swear – something fucking pushed me out the window.

And just before it did, it giggled.

4

Coming to, I could hear Not again, and Goddamn it, Richie. It came from the approaching officers as they walked over. Officer Wright had a gut and ugly hair, and he radioed for an ambulance. Officer Reinhart had a bushy ‘stache and tight, eager eyes as he drew his gun and headed towards the front door. (I spoke with them on a weekly basis, while they were on patrol.)

There was a pretty nasty gash in my right forearm from the glass, and the wind had been knocked out of me, but I was otherwise okay. I’d been holding a pillow but lost grip as I rolled down the slant of my roof and fell. It landed on me as I tried to sit up. Officer Wright told me to stay down until the ambulance arrived and asked me to describe the situation inside. I