Unchained

It was time. For thirty years, the events of the past and the room where they took place hung over my head like the dreaded pendulum in Poe’s classic tale, The Pit and the Pendulum. I always thought that the further away I got from the evil room, both in distance and time, the horrifying events which happened there would fade away into oblivion. My choices were I could continue lying to myself the way I had been for most of my adult life, or I could take a stand and repair my broken life forever. I was being ridiculous. There was only one choice: face my fears and move ahead with my life.

I left the hotel mentally prepared for my meeting with destiny. The sunlight bounced off the rocky Maine coastline, causing the ocean to shimmer with light. The picturesque fishing villages I passed through while traveling along the coast road offered a welcoming vibe. The sights and sounds of seagulls and ocean waves crashing onto the shore worked to soothe my jagged nerves during the beginning of the trip. As I got closer to my destination, everything changed.

The sky shifted from bright blue to dull gray as the leading edge of an approaching storm blew in. This transformation mirrored my mood as what I was about to do became all too real. Off in the distance, framed by ominous dark storm clouds, was what I hoped would be a brief stop and not my final destination. One of the little voices in my head timidly pleaded for me to turn around, insisting I was on a fool’s journey. A second voice, bolder and with forceful determination, commanded that I continue the mission to its completion, no matter what the outcome.

I was greeted by the sound of gravel crunching under my tires as I turned into the badly maintained driveway. It led to a ramshackle Victorian-style mansion. I imagine when it was first built, the house with its wrap-around porch, rooftop widow's walk, and commanding view of the sea must have been impressive. Today, only rats, birds, and spiders are proud to call it home. For one summer in my childhood, I called it home to.

My parents had been in the market for a summer getaway and were referred to this place by a friend of a friend. They couldn’t believe how cheap the house was renting for and scooped it up before someone else did. It wasn’t until several weeks after we moved in that we heard about the stories of murders and cult worship that were tied to the place. My father, determined not to let such scuttlebutt ruin his summer, ignored the warnings and held his ground. No old wives' tales were going to ruin his family’s summer fun.

It was three weeks later when my younger brother and I found it. We were exploring a section of the house the family hadn’t been using when we stumbled across a locked door. Our curiosity got the better of us, and after several tries, we broke the old, rusted lock apart. The door creaked open on rusty hinges, revealing a staircase leading up to another floor. We were both excited, but for different reasons. I wanted to rush upstairs and see what we had found, while he wanted to go get our parents because he was worried about the stories we had heard. It took some teasing and belittling, but he eventually followed me.

The room we entered gave off an immediate ominous vibe. There were weird pictures painted on the walls and floor. One of the floor drawings looked like a multi-sided star. There were unlit candles positioned at each point. This was too strange even for my thirteen-year-old brain, so I yelled to my brother that it was time to go. He agreed and ran across the star towards where I was standing, but never made it. Upon reaching the center of the star, a chasm opened in the floor, and he fell headlong into it.

My parents, the police, and the fire department searched for him for several days. No one believed my story of what happened, at least not in public. Privately, a few said they weren’t surprised. One person versed in the dark arts said my brother could possibly be retrieved in thirty years. That’s why I’m here today, thirty years to the day from when the event happened.

I climbed the rickety stairs, stopping in the doorway. A chill ran through every inch of my body as I surveyed the room. The only thing different was a thicker layer of dust on the floor and many more spiderwebs hanging from the ceiling. I cautiously walked around the perimeter of the pentagram, lighting each of the candles. My footprints were visible in the dust as the candles illuminated the room. Now I called his name and waited.