Key To The Past

When they arrived at 4416 Oak Lane, what they saw was a __shock⚡ to their system.

The house...

See? The rumors weren't true.

Yay.

In all its glorious squalor, it was exactly as they remembered it.

They hadn't been here in almost two decades, but the house hadn't changed a bit, except it was grimier and, if possible, shabbier.

There was a triangular overhang above the concrete slab porch. One of its thin pillars was missing.

Wind chimes hung down. A couple cinder-blocks were stacked up; who knew why?

The windows showed scrunched-up curtains inside.

The dwelling was so timeworn, two different outdated means of TV reception could be seen: an antiquated Direct TV dish mounted on the roof and coils of Comcast cables hanging down near the foundation.

The numbers for the address were in red, white, and blue; and there was a wooden American flag above the garage door.

They parked in the vacant driveway, astonished to see even the old basketball goal was still there.

They knew nobody was home.

They got out of their car, carrying flashlights.

As they started for the front door, motion detectors on the porch caused a burst of illumination, startling them.

Changing direction, they hurried around the side of the house, dashing into the dark.

The crickets were rhythmic, like they were chanting in groups.

yes-yes

no-no

yes-yes

no-no

It was 1:27 AM. There was only a single light on in the neighbor's house next door. Someone up late watching TV? Just a nightlight?

Regardless, they wanted to be quick & slick about breaking & entering.

They turned on their flashlights only when they reached a wire fence, with its gate half off its hinges.

They went through the gate with some effort, then darted to the rear door of the house.

The grass was heavily overgrown, more than ankle high. Two trees on the property were aflame with autumn's hellish colors. Around the trees were drifts of leaves in sorry need of being raked.

There's no way this is going to work.

Don't be such a pessimist. They had no reason to suspect we'd ever be back.~

~ And just look at how negligent they are! You see this yard?

I see. This place is a nightmare.

She would have a conniption if She could see it.

No, She wouldn't! She didn't give a damn what this place looked like, any more than She cared what we looked like. Remember how shaggy we'd get because we rarely got haircuts?

I liked my hair long.

Denial is a defense mechanism. And nobody is more defensive than you.

They pulled open the aluminum storm door, putting it behind their butts, stepping up to the wooden back door.

They couldn't tell if the handle was the same or not.

You're shaking.

I know.

You want me to do it?

No.

He slipped the old key into the old lock.

With no resistance, it turned, and the back door was opened.

They both gasped.

I don't believe it.

I told you it would work!

After a stiff pause, they went inside.

They found themselves in the kitchen, where they always ate. The house had no dining room.

Memories of so many meals came wafting back, filling their sinuses with phantom odors. They smelled mornings' mandatory bacon & eggs, and suppertime's Italian concoctions, with lots of garlic.

She prepared everything exactly to His liking. She loved Him so much! And He loved Her!

You're delusional. ~

~ He hated Her and She loathed Him. Yeah, She was in cahoots with Him. I think She admired His wickedness!! But She was also afraid of Him. She never knew what to expect. He was utterly unpredictable!~

~ And He kept secrets.

What kind of secrets?

You don't remember the night He sat right there at the kitchen table and threw milk on Her?

What?!?

He worked both jobs...

School teacher by day, factory worker by night; I remember.

And He was always so tight-lipped about what He was doing. She thought He was having an affair! And that one night when he came home—

What night?

—She cornered Him here in the kitchen. We walked in on the fight just as it escalated. They were both crazy mad.~

~ She was hysterical, bawling like a big baby. She kept yelling at Him. ~

~ And He was so pissed! His cheeks were as red as His hair.

His hair was actually rusty... not red.

He was sitting at the kitchen table with a gallon of milk in front of Him. He deliberately poured a glass and then he just threw it in her face, drenching Her.~

~ She shrieked from surprise and went to grab a dishtowel to dry Herself off. But She kept yelling at Him. ~

~ He just sat there silently and poured another glass of milk.~

~ When She turned around and was still screaming, calling Him names, He threw more milk in Her face.

What was She saying?

Something indignant. Accusatory. I don't remember exactly. ~

~ I just remember Her crying and screeching so loud She scared the cats... and I vividly remember Him throwing glass after glass of milk at Her.

That's not exactly violent.

What would you call it?

Maybe it is like you said. Maybe we were all traumatized.

Who said we were all traumatized?

Not me.

Creeping through the kitchen, flashlight beams hit the doors that opened to the laundry room on the right and to the attached garage on the left. Both those locations were (relatively) innocent. They had no reason to worry about what happened in either place.

The smells emanating from the garage were even stronger than the aromas of hoary meals.

That's where She grew pots of catnip, and tomatoes.

That's where He parked his Dodge and grew sinsemilla.

They entered the living room, stepping off dusty hardwood floors onto ratty carpet. The furniture was hidden in shadows, covered by cotton sheets that created rectangular ghosts.

The ceiling fan was ringed in spiderwebs.

Suddenly...

OW!!! That hurt!

What'd you do?

Bumped into that chair—!

—always did that—

I can't see!

Say that.

They agreed to turn on the hallway light, thinking the risk of alerting neighbors was nil.

The overhead dome was unusually dim— like it had a low wattage bulb. The end of the short hall was murky.

Holy crap! do you see this?

The first door on the right was to what they called "the small bedroom."

It was their room.

That door had a gigantic padlock on it.

What the f...?

Of all rooms, why would it...?

They were hit with a deluge of voices, grumbles stacked atop whispers. "...never deserve any..." — "Beg for it." — "... not getting away with..." — "WAKE UP!!" — "It's time." — "... for you own sake..." — "What lays here, stays here."— "...your duty..." — "...your dirty... "—"...my donkey d..." — "I revel in it!"— "Do you want to eat tomorrow?" — "Pick your poison, punk." — "My house, my rules." — "...more than one way to skin a cat..." — "Fetch me another beer, bitch dog."

<-the sound of s_plinteri n g->

<< murrrmurrrs became BELLOWS >>

"You SHOULD be afraid!"—"YOU EVER DO THAT AGAIN, I'LL KILL YOU!"—"DON'T TEST ME, BOY!"—"TAKE YOUR MEDICINE YOURSELF, PUSSY, OR I'LL INJECT IT!"—"GODDAMN UNGRATEFUL SPOILED-ASS HORROR FROM HELL!"

"ACT LIKE A MAN!"

—"WAKE UP!!!"—

The cacophonous yells created trembling echoes that rattled into the locked door before scuttling down the hallway toward darkness.

I might have heard Him say some of that before—

Might have?

—but he wasn't... really... like that. All those nasty-asstys have been edited together somehow— misplaced, out of context.

Edited by who? Are you accusing me?

Of course not!

Breathing with open gasps, his closed heart drumming, he gave the door handle a hard pull.

The lock was unyielding.

It's weird that this room would be closed to us.

He shook his head.

It makes no sense.~

~This was our Safe Space.

We had no safe space, not even...

They turned around to look at the bathroom, which was directly across from their blocked bedroom.

They tried that door, but it wouldn't open either, despite there being no visible padlock. It was like it was locked from the inside— as if someone was in there.

Overlapping sounds burbled through cellophane-thin walls...

<gurgling> <gasping> <coughing> <grunting> <splashing> <crying> <flushing> <choking> <sputtering> <retching> <laughing> <jeering> <screaming> <wailing> <face being slapped> <ass being spanked> <fighting not to drown> <violations> <deprecation> <humiliation> <praying> <begging for help>

<<splintering & more {s*p*/*i*n*/*e*r_i_n_g}>>

1 - 2 = -1

At the end of the short hall were two doors.

The room on the right was the biggest, intended as the master bedroom. Its scarred, smudged door displayed a multicolored feather taped atop a Tarot card.

Death.

They used that as His Accounting Room. He conducted Business in there.

Business. Yeah. Right.

It was off limits to us. We were never inside there.

Oh really.

He was chilled, remembering this door had a faded plaque on the other side of it, a quote from The Tempest, reading,

⚡“Hell is empty and all the devils are here.”

You saw the mean men who went in there. Dare I say they were sadists, one & all?

No. Don't you dare say that.

Do you remember Reverend Marshall?

He squirmed.

We hardly ever went to church.

Church came here. The second Saturday of every other month. The "good minister" even brought his daughter with him a couple times. They called it "Poker night"! You remember!

What happened those nights was none of my business.

That's what He said.

You're so dramatic.

They gave sermons!~

~ Blasphemous shit!

He flinched, remembering lurid fragments from those speeches.

Scowling, stubbornly refusing to accept that they were ever in that room, they moved on to the final chamber.

This was where two larger-than-life personalities shared a king-sized bed.

There was a dark aura pulsing from this closed room.

The door handle was probably brass, but it glittered like gold.

We came all this way just to be thwarted. I know it. All the other ones were locked. This one will be too.

Works for me. Let's find a Taco Bell that's still open and head home.

No. We have to at least try it.

Then try it.

Will you open it for me?

Um... no! You're the one who instigated this madness!

You're the one who found the key going through that box of old photographs. It's your fault!

Hey! I was ready to throw it in the trash the instant I found it! You stopped me!

It's our history!

It's our past! There's a difference!

Open the door! We both want to know if she knew!

Of course, she knew! She was dumb but she wasn't stupid!

We need to put an end to this, once and for all!

Then open the goddamn door!

I can't. I want to... but I can't!

That's because you know that's where the worst of their acts took place. That's where they conspired.

They heard Her in there— grunting, whimpering, cackling, pleading— worshiping Him like a paid whore.

They heard Him too— chortling, threatening, plotting, degrading— snarling at Her like a wolf with its hackles raised.

"It's our little secret," He warned.

"Always and forever," She vowed. "I swear it."

She cackled like a lunatic, Her laughter getting louder and louder, until it transitioned with stutters into an earsplitting>>splintering->scream.

It doesn't matter. It'll be locked. We'll never know for certain.

Ending the senseless debate, they grabbed the handle and turned it.

It wasn't locked.

There was a click and the door opened a fraction of an inch. In that instant before he yanked it shut again, he heard his own name.

They Both were taunting him.

The memories exploded like an oil strike inside this head. He tried to cap them, to dam what surged from his damaged heart, but all the brutal mockery gushed through him like geysers.

The padlock on his bedroom fell to the floor.

Every lock clicked.

Every door swung open.

Covering his ears, he fled the house chased by mysteries that had never been enigmas at all.

⚡____________⚡

The next morning at 8:08 am, when the owner of the home at 4412 Oak Lane opened his windows to let in fresh air and sunshine, he noticed a car next door, parked where no car should be. He thought it odd, but he was barely awake, and his dog didn't care.

He took the German Shepherd out back to do her business. Almost immediately, his self-appointed protector started barking.

This time, it wasn't the usual. It wasn't a squirrel.

A stranger was lying on the ground where the condemned house used to be.

The dog-owner immediately called 911.

When the paramedics arrived, the 'intruder' {former owner} was found on the empty lot, lying in a pile of weeds, shivering, talking to himself through chattering teeth.

He was clutching an old house key.

The only other things the authorities found on him were a flashlight and the key to his Buick. He wasn't carrying his RFID wallet, or his cellphone, or his satchel. Everything modern had been left many miles away at his apartment.

When he was ultimately identified, it was confirmed he had no known history of serious mental illness, although he had been to therapists many times throughout his life.

If he had any genetic proclivity for a personality disorder, it could never be determined.

All his family were long dead.

⚡____________⚡

The day after the aggrieved man was taken to the hospital, one of the paramedics who went on the call told his wife, "He was saying really weird shit. And I swear, it was like he was talking in two different voices—one scared— the other angry.

"First he was pleading and then he was making demands to open something."

His wife confirmed, "That is weird."

⚡____________⚡

The house at 4416 Oak Lane had been torn down fifteen years ago.

When a breeze was blowing from the right direction, the neighbors could sometimes smell catnip, tomatoes, and sinsemilla.

⚡____________⚡

In the facility, the arguments continued, night after night.

There were never locks on any of the doors— not to keep Him out— not to keep us in. We were only prisoners because we were too cowardly to leave.

We were young. They were our caregivers. There was nowhere for us to go.

That's what He said. They made us think we were trapped.

We expected Her to help.

And did She?

~~

_______________Bolt ⚡

This was

The Shape of the Thing.

⚡