House of the Damned

Frank sighed a little, and although he was right in front of me, I couldn’t feel any air moving.

“Look, Karen, I’m not a psychologist, okay?”

“I know, but you’re the only one whose opinion I can ask,” I insisted.

“You have a point, but still. I can’t help you on that one. It’s your decision to make.”

“I…All right, fine. And there’s one thing I wanted to tell you. I found some letters…from the woman. I’m going to try and track down her husband.”

His voice became quieter, filled with something close to disbelief. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m telling you, though, it’s a dangerous thing to do. It’s not because of your age or anything, it’s just that…” His voice trailed off, and he regained it a moment later.

“What’re you planning to do with her husband, anyway?”

“I…I was hoping to bring him here. They’re supposed to…well, if she gets what she wants, she’ll leave. And you won’t be stuck here anymore either.”

Now that I’d spoken my plan, it didn’t sound very well thought-out. How was I supposed to convince a man who might live hundreds of miles away to come here, a place he would obviously recognize?

And what if he was already dead? What then?

Then there would be no hope for Saint Joan’s Orphanage, would there?

I could still hear his steady breathing, but once again Frank seemed to be thinking about something. Then—

“I’ll do what I can to help you. That’s all I can promise you, but it’s not much. You do realize that if her husband figures you out and what you know he might get rid of you?”

I flinched. “It’s not any worse than what’ll happen to the orphanage if she kills all of us.”

“True.”

There was nothing else to say for now, so after a murmured “Bye,” I waited until all was silent in the hallway outside and then hurriedly left.

So now I sat back down onto the edge of my bed, not even bothering to get comfortable before snatching up the pile of faded letters and picking up where I left off.

The next letter was different. Unlike the others, which had four neat creases apiece, this one was crumpled like it had been balled up and messily reopened. I ran my palm over the back of the final one, realizing it had the same texture.

September 13, 1958

Dear Joanna,

As much as I hate to admit it, even I have to say that I don’t feel safe in this house anymore. Gregory…he doesn’t seem to be the person I thought he was. He keeps having awful fits of temper, and I don’t know how to stop it. I try to remain quiet, as I have told you, but it hasn’t worked.

Last week he went out to the bar for a longer time than usual. I was already asleep in bed for a while when he came in. He was staggering badly.

This time he didn’t yell or scream…he just had this look in his eyes that frightened me more than anything else that’s happened to me so far. It was as though he was possessed by the Devil himself. And what he did to me then…I’m sorry, but I can’t bring myself to write it down.

I am terrified of him, Joanna, I truly am. I thought things would get better, but they aren’t. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I am trapped within my own house, I truly am…everything I do, Gregory monitors me. Since three days ago, he locks me inside the kitchen during the day and sometimes forgets to let me out at night to go to my bedroom. The alcohol has taken a permanent toll—he is always either drunk or sleeping it off.

Gregory told me I can’t send letters anymore, but I’m going to try to trick him…it’s foolish, I know, but I may need to send for help soon and I need someone to tell…when I give him the bills or thank-you cards to mail, I will be slipping this inside. I only pray that he doesn’t find it. If the envelope seal is broken when you get this letter, you’ll know.

Sincerely yours,
Clara Blair

The paper had been crumpled up after being taken out of the envelope…this letter had never reached its receiver.

It began to make sense why Clara was so filled with rage and hatred after all these years. It must have been awful enough to be trapped in a house, let alone have to spend decades and possibly eternity within its walls that brimmed with those memories.

And what was it she had said in the third paragraph? And what he did to me then…I’m sorry, but I can’t bring myself to write it down.

Had he beaten her? Drugged her while she was still half-asleep? Raped her?

I decided not to think too much about this last particular detail. Nevertheless, I wouldn’t put it past Gregory to have done any of those things.

Cringing slightly for her, I turned to the final letter. This time, Clara’s handwriting was not rushed, but shaky and thin. It only covered a few lines.

September 27, 1958

Dear Joanna,

I need your help. Gregory truly is not what I thought he was. I fear for my life, Joanna, I’m ready to state that. I don’t know why he’s doing this, why…maybe the worst people in the world, the most cruel…they don’t need a reason for the things they do.

Send for help, I am begging you. I don’t know the address of anyone else besides you who has a chance of it. Please…if you know somebody, anybody nearby, tell them where my house is and to call the police.

I don’t know how much time I have until he does something to permanently hurt me.

If you ever do something important for me, let it be this.

Clara

The note ended there.

I picked up the pile of papers and moved over by the pillow so I could recline at the front of the bed and think.

It was clear that her husband had found her last two notes initally. But for some reason he didn’t tell her he had found the second to last one she wrote—otherwise she wouldn’t have tried to send the last one.

Why do that, though? If Gregory did blow up at every little thing, this gave him an opportunity to do so to Clara for telling someone else about what was happening at Everett Mansion.

Maybe he figured that Joanna couldn’t or wouldn’t want to seek help for Clara. Or he just enjoyed reading the narration of Clara’s slowly growing fear of him as weeks passed.

The latter almost certainly was true, I realized. That was why he kept all those letters.

But that raised another question.

How did he get them?

Did Joanna not really harbor much affection toward Clara? She did say if you ever do something important for me, so it didn’t look like Joanna cared much about her relative. Maybe she sent them to him.

So Clara was just writing empty letters. Letters that didn’t do anything for her. And now she was dead, trapped in the house that was owned by the man who killed her.

I wondered for a moment what things would have been like if Joanna had come or brought the police. Maybe then Amanda wouldn't have a dead brother and that band wouldn't have fallen apart. Or maybe one of the family's descendants would have lived here and we'd be somewhere else.

But it did no good to wonder. I knew the reason why this woman was here.

So what was I supposed to do now?