Condemned

The decision to move to upstate NY hadn’t been an easy one. It started when my wife Patricia brought it up to me as I lay convalescing in a hospital bed. Ten plus years I had walked the beat in the sleepy, seaside town of Belmar, NJ. Ten years of breaking up college parties, domestics, and the occasional purse snatcher. After all that relative peace, I hadn’t expected to get jumped and have my knees shattered by some tweakers in the middle of a midnight robbery. Here I was, though. Career decidedly ruined, painkillers not working as well as I would like, with a wife talking about uprooting our family to someplace “safer”. I wouldn’t be telling the truth if I said that, at that moment, I agreed to the idea just to shut her up. I was in pain. Not thinking clearly. In the end, consent laws may protect you from testifying when under the influence, but they mean less to nothing to an upset woman with a small child whose husband could have been killed. So, to the wonderful world of Zillow she went.

The place she found was pretty spectacular. A two story four bedroom colonial, close enough to the nearest city to commute, far enough away for peace and quiet. Even our seven-year-old son Tyler was excited about a larger room and new friends. We closed by the middle of spring, and Pat found a job teaching at the local elementary school. The only hiccup was that, per Tyler, it was illegal to own a large piece of land and not have a dog. We adopted an old retired K-9, a Malinois named Poirot. Things were going to be fine, a fresh start. The four of us were headed for a quiet, peaceful life.

When we got there, the realtor was more excited to see us than really felt comfortable.

“Mr. and Mrs. Flores!” He said with that beaming, fake smile salespeople throw on to try and appear human. It always freaks me out, how someone you assume has a normal life outside of their job still comes off like a robot mimicking people. “Welcome to your new home!”

Patricia and he exchanged pleasantries as the movers pulled up and Tyler ran off shouting about picking his room. Poirot and I, however, were distracted. Looming towards the edge of the property was an old barn. It hadn’t been in the pictures, and frankly,gave me the shivers. I wasn’t alone. Poirot arched his back and growled at it. As Pat turned mid-conversation, the realtor broke his happy facade for a brief moment, seeing our discomfort, but quickly got it together.

“Betcha he smells some raccoons or stray cats in there.” He said with that icky, oozing fake charm. “I wouldn’t worry about it. But also, don’t go in there. I’d talk to a contractor about demoing that old thing. It’s over two centuries old. Probably should be condemned.”

I muttered something in the way of agreement. Time went by. Eventually I settled into the new place. The stairs with my cane was a bit rough, but other than that, our lives became a content day to day. My pension more than covered us for the time being due to cost of living differences. Still, I kept finding myself staring at that old barn every once in a while. Poirot? He wouldn’t even go near it.

Things kept getting weirder as time went on.

As part of my rehab, I was told to get a hobby. I decided to try gardening. Started building myself a little greenhouse in a spot about fifty yards off of the barn. Started. I had rented a backhoe to dig up so I could make a foundation, because digging with my legs would have been a non-starter. A half-hour after breaking ground, something caught my eye in the dirt pouring from the bucket. It was a small box made of lacquered wood, with obvious degradation from being buried a long time. I took a break and brought it into the house. Pat looked delighted, her mind probably filled with images of buried treasure, as I told her I found it and put it on the table. We opened it with baited breath.

It was a skeleton. An infant’s skeleton. To me, it seemed warped. There were two odd bumps on the forehead, and it didn’t have the right amount of fingers and toes. As I tried to examine it, Pat had gotten really grossed out and demanded I get rid of it. I did, and coming back inside, I half-joked about maybe having my abuela and a priest come and bless the property. I was seriously uncomfortable. Turns out accidentally defiling an unmarked grave puts your mind into horror movie territory pretty quickly. Pat, though, focused on the joke half of the statement.

“Right, Miguel!” She said in between bursts of laughter, with that tone of amusement and invincibility that comes from being raised white and middle-class in suburbia. She cleared some tears from her eyes as she calmed down. “After that we can have a shaman come up from the res and ward off evil spirits.”

It was clear that conversation would go nowhere. I left it alone and tried to go through my day. The sight of the skeleton still burned in my brain, though.

It was two weeks after that that things took an even more strange turn. I came home from a day of fishing with the new neighbors to find Poirot tied outside, looking sad and defeated. I went inside to ask Pat why, and found her sitting at the kitchen table , pale and sweating, looking through a large book.

“Pat? Corazon?” I said as I walked up. She didn’t even bother turning to me. “Why is Poirot outside? What’s that book?” She shook her head, still not looking at me.

“Decided to check out the barn. Found this weird book. Damn dog wouldn’t stop barking since I brought it in.” She said, quietly but still somehow manic. I edged closer and put my hand on her shoulder. She jolted, as if snapped back to reality, and looked at me.

“Sorry…” She said, getting up and holding the book as if it were a diary. It had a covering made of some kind of odd colored leather, awkwardly stitched together, seams running randomly. “I’ll get rid of this. You can let Poirot in. I just had an off day… I think waiting for my new job to start in the fall has me a little stir-crazy.” She walked out of the room and up the stairs. I sat there, trying to wrap my mind around what just happened, for minutes before finally walking out and letting Poirot off the lead.

That night, I woke in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. Nightmares are common for people who have been through my type of trauma, my doc had said. Tonight, however, I didn’t dream of my attack, or the claustrophobic setting of the hospital. I dreamt of that skeleton. I frantically felt around the bed in the dark. Call me what you will, a snuggle after a nightmare centers me. Makes me feel like everything is okay. It always works… When Pat is there. That night, she was missing. I fumbled for my cane, and made my way downstairs. After searching downstairs, I looked out and saw her. Standing motionless. In front of the barn. I walked out to her slowly, a feeling of dread absorbing me.

“Hon?” I asked, the fear creeping into my voice more apparently than I intended. “ Wh-... Whatcha doin’?” She again didn’t turn to me, just began speaking.

“I… I heard something calling to me…” She said. I maneuvered in front of her, and she simply stared, almost catatonic.

“Okay, babe… Let’s go back inside…” I took her hand and led her back. She resisted at first but came after a moment. “There we go… Tomorrow I’ll check out what’s up in there…”

At that moment, she ripped her hand away and had a burst of energy.

“NO!” She snapped, quickly calming down when she saw the alarm on my face. “No… It’s not safe… I’ll call a contractor about having it torn down tomorrow…” I gently moved forward and took her hand. She allowed it. We walked back to the house, and I gave the barn one last over-the-shoulder glance before heading in for the night.

The next morning, Pat was feeling under the weather. She insisted she didn’t need a doctor, just rest. The bags under her eyes would have been check-in at an airport, so I decided to listen to her and take Tyler out for the day. We went to a movie, had lunch, checked out the local comic shop. It was fun.

If I had known it was my last day with him, I would have done more.

We got home, and Pat was still resting, so I ordered a pizza. Poirot seemed oddly quiet, didn’t even register that the delivery guy was there. I didn’t think about it at the time.

Thinking back, I missed so much.

I had the nightmare again that night. Again, I woke to find Pat missing. This time, though, my gut told me something was wrong. As I left my room, I saw footprints. Blood. Coming out from Tyler’s room. I took a look in, and vomited. I made my way through the house, and saw Poirot still lying in the same spot. I approached and looked at his food bowl in the dim light. There was some kind of pellet in it. I looked over at the counter and finally noticed the open container of rat poison. My mind reeled, and I looked around, grief and anger desperately searching for the salve of answers. Outside, a light shone. A light from within the barn.

I entered the barn a few moments later, having moved as fast as I could. Inside, at first, was a normal barn. Dilapidated stalls and decaying bundles of hay. Towards the back, though, was a different story. A storm cellar door was open, and the light was coming from it.

Down the cellar stairs, a large, roughly hewn basement was there. Symbols covered the walls, and what felt like thousands of candles burned. There, in the center, was Pat. She stood before some kind of altar, that strange damn book open in front of her on it. In her hand was some type of dagger, dripping fresh blood. In front of them was a… creature. It was mostly human, but had eyes and horns like a goat, with a furred chest and large arms and massive, clawed paws. She spoke to it reverently.

“I have sacrificed as commanded, Lord Belial…” As he smiled at her in response, I felt a blind rage overcome me. She killed our dog. Our son. For this… monstrous thing. I rushed at her, yanking the knife from her hand. She turned and clawed at me, and I instinctively thrust the dagger forward into her chest. The thing smiled wider, staring holes into my soul. I backed out and stumbled towards the door. I brought a candle with me. The hay had enough dry spots to make good tinder. I then set the house on fire, too. I was waiting when emergency services showed up.

Unfortunately, having a bloody knife in your hands is not a good impression. They put the fire out and found the bodies. Determined cause of death: stabbing. No evidence of a cellar in the barn’s remains. Just a broken cop with PTSD who snapped and killed his family. The papers called me “DeFeo Reincarnated”. No one believed my story. Now, I’m sitting here, writing it out as I wait to be executed. I can’t help but laugh.

Condemned. Just like that barn should have been.

See you in hell, monster.