The Malborn House

The Three Rules to Avoiding the Malborn House: To Be Given to Each New Resident of the Longfellow Neighborhood

1. Do not walk past the Malborn House after dark.

The Malborn House sits right on the corner of 7th and Court, and yes, the neighborhood council is aware that that is the most direct route into the main section of the neighborhood, especially for kids coming back from school or the park. But new residents must make sure that they never walk past the Malborn House after the sun has set. Even if the sun has only just begun to sink, find another route. It doesn’t matter if you’re running late for dinner, or if you’ve been stuck at that light on Muscatine for what feels like an eternity—yes, we all know that light is unreasonably long—and are just eager to get home. It doesn’t matter if you’re going to miss curfew and your mother is going to give you a good tongue lashing and ground you.

Do not walk past the Malborn House after dark.

Fine another route. Go around the block. Attached is a map of several suggested routes to major sites in the neighborhood as well as your own house that will keep you safe at night. If you live in any of the houses adjacent to or across from the Malborn House, the neighborhood council recommends that you either do not leave your home after dark or that you make sure any place you need to go is accessible from your back door.

2. Do not step on the square of sidewalk at the end of Malborn House’s front walk.

Like any other house on the block, the Malborn House has a front walk leading from its porch down to the main sidewalk. A gate (the council apologizes for the rusted state of the metal, but we can’t seem to find anyone willing to fix it up no matter how much money we offer them) separates the lawn and the walk from the rest of the neighborhood, but that sort of fence was not made to contain what lives within the Malborn House. As such, the council advices that new residents take care to avoid stepping on the sidewalk square at the direct end of the Malborn House’s front walk. You’ll notice as you walk past, that this square is several shades darker than the rest of the sidewalk. None of the council members are entirely sure what has caused this, but the change began to occur only a few months after Malborn House was abandoned in the 70s.

The council recommends a simple elongated step to bypass the cement square or you can skirt around it in the grass—though make sure you are on the side closest to the road rather than next to the gate.

3. Do not listen to any voices you might hear.

Many of our residents have reported hearing disembodied voices as they walk past the Malborn House. You may hear simple, innocuous things like people saying hello or asking you how your day was. Do not, we repeat, do NOT, under any circumstances respond to these voices. Responding to them gives them power.

You will get invitations to come into the house or to play or to come have tea. People may beg you to help them by opening the gate because they are being held captive by bad men, and you may hear screaming or shouting or even the dull thud of a fist hitting flesh. On rare occasions, residents have heard the death cries of a young child. Do not listen. Do not respond. Do not open the gate. And definitely do not go into the house.

A Child Walks Home Alone

The Masons moved into 1322 Court Street three months and five days ago for what the mother called “a change of scenery” and what the father called “a damn inconvenience.” They lived four doors down from the Malborn House and were, of course, given the neighborhood pamphlet the night they moved in. Samuel Tussy of the neighborhood watch passed it along, ringing their doorbell and giving them his gap-toothed smile as he handed the tri-folded piece of paper over, saying “Make sure you give a good, thorough read through, and welcome to the neighborhood. We’re glad to have you here. Nighty-night.”

The Masons read the pamphlet and tossed it on the counter.

“I can’t believe you made us move here,” the father said. He dropped his empty whisky glass into the sink.

In a week, it was time for little Ella Mason to start school, and her mother drove her to Longfellow Elementary School just as the bell rang, the children marching off the colored dots and into the brick building under the watchful eyes of their teachers.

“Will you be there to walk me home?” little Ella Mason asked as her mother leaned across her lap to open the door.

“One of us will be,” her mother promised. “Hurry along now. I’m late for work.”

Little Ella Mason hopped out of the car, waving, and joined the flow of children pouring into the school.

When the day was done and the final bell had rung, little Ella Mason skipped out the doors and sat on a bench beneath a sprawling oak tree to wait for her parents to come pick her up. She tugged on the end of one pigtail, banging her heels against the bench leg, watching other parents hug their kids and lead them away by the hand.

“Are your parents coming?”

Little Ella Mason looked up to see her teacher, Ms. Evans, standing beside the bench, bent over with her hands on her knees so she wouldn’t tower over little Ella Mason so much. She smiled a soft smile.

“Yes,” little Ella Mason said. “Mommy said one of them would be here.”

“Do you want me to wait with you?”

“No. They’ll be here.”

“Where do you live?”

“1322 Court Street.” Her mother had made her memorize the address the other day, in case she ever got lost, and now little Ella Mason could recite it on command.

The soft smile flickered off Ms. Evans’ face for just a moment. “Near the Malborn House?”

“The what?”

“Listen, Ella.” Ms. Evans’ crouched down before little Ella Mason and clasped both her hands in her own so that little Ella Mason had no choice but to look her teacher right in the face. “Wait for your parents. Promise me you won’t walk home alone.”

“I promise,” little Ella Mason said.

“Good.” Another teacher called Ms. Evans’ name from the doorway, and she squeezed little Ella Mason’s hands a little tighter before she left. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

More and more of the children walked away with their parents, and yet little Ella Mason remained on her bench, watching the street, waiting for one of her parents to turn the corner and come hurrying up to her. But the only things to come (that came?) to little Ella Mason were leaves, swirled by the breeze.

So little Ella Mason stood, grasped the straps of her blue backpack, and walked off down the street.

~

The Malborn House sat on the corner of 7th Avenue and Court Street. For the most part, it was unremarkable. The off-white paint peeled at the edges. Some of the shingles had slipped off the roof. The gutter was bent in the middle, pulled down by the weight of a clump of wet leaves. Its screen door hung, just slightly, off its hinges, and a rusted fence surrounded the lawn which grew in tangles around the fence and the base of the old oak tree, and threatened to swallow up front walk.

As little Ella Mason skipped past it, a stiff wind plucked at her clothing, whipped her hair around her face. Hello, child, the breeze whispered, and little Ella Mason paused, her toes just on the edge of a slab of sidewalk that was darker than all the others.

“Hello?” she called. The wind whispered in the trees but did not answer her.

Little Ella Mason continued on, jumping the dark square just to see if she could, and shouting greeted her as she pushed open the door of her own house. “Working late my ass!” her father bellowed into his cell phone.

“Hi, Daddy,” she said.

He barely glanced round at her. “Hi, sweetheart. Snack’s on the counter.”

“Where’s Mommy?”

“Why don’t you take your snack to your room and watch some TV?”

~

Would you like to play with me? the wind asked the next day as little Ella Mason walked home alone, hopping all the cracks so she wouldn’t break her mother’s back.

Little Ella Mason stopped before the Malborn House. The screen door listed open, the black of the front entry yawning out into eternity.

I’m ever so lonely.

Little Ella Mason glanced down the street at her own house. Neither of her parents’ cars were parked in the driveway.

Won’t you play with me?

“I should go home,” little Ella Mason said, gnawing at her lip.

When’s the last time anyone played with you?

The wind rattled the gate, got tangled in the grass. The branches of the tree creaked overhead and stretched their shadows out across the lawn and little Ella Mason’s face.

I’ll play with you.

The clasp on the gate was rusted shut and refused to open no matter who little Ella Mason shook it. “It’s locked,” she said, her gaze cast towards the ground and just a little bit blurry.

Hop the fence. We can’t play if you don’t.

Little Ella Mason clambered over the low, iron fence, the wind shivering down her back as her feet touched down on the other side. She danced up the tilted front walk and the sagging porch steps and right through the open screen door which then banged shut behind her.

Double Dog Dare

Jack didn’t like being told what to do which, of course, meant that his friends just had to double dog dare him to do something stupid just about every other day because everyone knew you had do what you were told once you’d been double dog dared.

School was let out early that day because it was so hot, and Jack’s building didn’t have air conditioning. To him, there was no better feeling than tumbling out the doors an hour early, even if the sun did pound down on the back of his neck hot enough to burn and the air was wet enough to swim in. He whooped as he caught up to his friends at the big rock on top of the hill—their after school meeting place since they were in first grade.

“What should we do?” Damien asked. His blonde hair was already damp with sweat, but he didn’t look like he cared. After all, early outs meant no parents to pick them up and walk them home—though Jack thought being in third grade meant he was more than old enough to walk himself home.

“Creek?” Alex suggested, stuffing the button down shirt his mom made him way into his backpack and showing off his Spiderman tee.

“Let’s go,” Jack agreed, and the three of them set off, running down the hill, swerving just in time to avoid crashing into another group of kids from their class. They cackled as they sped away, the other kids shaking fists after them.

At the corner, Jack, Alex, and Damien slowed. It was only because the sixth-grade crossing guard had somehow beaten them there and was holding out her arms for them to wait. Jack rolled his eyes at his friends. They were old enough to cross themselves, thank-you-not-so-very-much.

After what felt like forever, the sixth-grader let them cross, and they dashed across the street. The streets were quiet because none of the grown-ups wanted to come out in the heat, and even the bugs that droned by did so lazily, as if they couldn’t be bothered.

The creek wound through a park not far from Damien’s house, and on the way, the three of them passed by the Malborn House. They stopped by the fence, just like they always did. “I dare you to touch the fence,” Alex said to Damien.

Damien rolled his eyes. “Piece of cake.” He slapped his hand down on one of the metal bars to the side of the gate and gave it a shake, flakes of rust fluttering to the ground. “I dare you to throw a stone at the house.”

Jack felt a little queasy as Alex hunted around for a good, round rock to throw. Alex and Damien’s families were pretty new to the neighborhood, but Jack’s parents still lived in the same house his mom grew up in, and Jack had heard them talk about the Malborn House. His mom had even heard the voices calling to her, asking her for help. She’d probably tan his hide if she knew they were playing near the house like this.

Alex found a stone, wound up, and threw it as hard as he could. It hit the side of the Malborn House with a thud that fell flat through the air like a belly hitting water from too far up. Jack winced. A second later, the house groaned, the sound rumbling out from somewhere deep inside, and Jack swore he felt the ground tremble.

Both Alex and Damien turned to look at him, matching smirks on their faces. Jack eyed them a little nervously. “I dare you to go inside,” Alex said.

“Come on, guys,” Jack said. “My mom would ground me until college if she found out.”

“What are youm scared?” Damien drawled.

Jack shoved him. “No, I’m not!”

“Then do it.”

“No!”

“I double dog dare you,” Alex said, smirk widening.

Well, crap. Now Jack had to do it. Never mind what his mom would do to him or that he hated being told what to do. Those were the rules of the double dog dare.

“Fine,” he said, glaring at his friends.

“You have to go through the door, halfway down the hallway, and stand there for fifteen seconds,” Alex said because any proper dare had rules to make sure you did it right.

“Fine,” Jack repeated.

He climbed over the gate—everyone knew that you didn’t open it no matter what—and stalked up the sidewalk, pausing before the screen door to throw his friends one last scowl. He took a deep breath. He wasn’t scared of a stupid house. He pushed the screen door open, coughing in the dust that danced through the front hall and flooded his nose. Four steps took him to what he judged to be halfway down the hallway, then he turned around to face the front door. He could still see his friends waiting outside the fence.

He started to count.

By five, there were chills going down his spine. By seven, he wished he’d never met Alex and Damien. By eight, he knew this had been a mistake. Fingers of wind whispered across the back of his neck even though the dust hung thick and still in the air.

Ten…

Something was laughing in his ear, but when he twisted his neck around, there was nothing there.

Eleven…

His legs trembled to bolt for the door, but he had to complete the dare or else be branded a wuss for the rest of his life.

Twelve…

There was definitely something behind him, but he somehow knew that if he looked, then the thing would have permission to eat him.

Thirteen…

So close now, he prepared to run towards the door.

Fourteen…

There was something breathing down his neck, something reaching for his shoulder.

Fifteen…

Jack bolted towards the door like a runner out of the gate. A gust of wind slipped past him, laughing, and slammed the door shut in his face. Jack crashed into it, pounded his fists against the wood, crying out for help. It did no good.

Far Too Late

“Katy Jones, Urban Myths Uncovered.” I flipped my wallet open to reveal my badge to the befuddled old man who had opened his door to me. I had made the badge myself with a Xerox copier and my friend’s Photoshop application, but the man didn’t need to know that.

“You’re the one who’s been calling me fifty times a day,” the man said. Despite the fact that it was only eight in the morning, he was already dressed in a tweed jacket and tie.

I flashed him my best journalist smile, the one meant to put interviewees at ease. The man also didn’t need to know that I had spent a long time practicing said smile in the mirror, much to my wife’s everlasting eye roll. “Yes, sir, and I apologize for the early hour, but I do desperately need to talk to you. May I come in?”

“I already told you over the phone and by email that I’m not talking about that house. It doesn’t need to be in some magazine where all the young and foolhardy kids can read about it and then think that they should come investigate it. Good day.”

The man shut the door in my face before I could stop him.

I wrinkled my nose but stomped back to my car. There were other ways to get the information I needed. The old man lived on the opposite end of the neighborhood from the Malborn House which he was so keen to protect, and I drove slowly through the quiet streets. Most of the houses were painted light, pastel colors, the lawns crisply mowed, and flower bushes in full bloom softened the edges of the houses and driveways.

I parked four doors down from the Malborn House. It was the only structure that didn’t fit the picture. No matter the truth of its so called “hauntings,” the Malborn House seemed a whole lot more truthful than the rest of the neighborhood. The shuttered windows looked to me to be weeping, water stains dragging down the peeling paint to the ground, and the long, drooping branches of the oak tree reached out over the rusty fence as if searching for a hand to hold onto.

My feet ached to take me down the sidewalk to the Malborn House as I stepped out of my car, but I turned another direction instead, knocking on the door of the house I was parked in front of.

A woman with a severe blonde ponytail opened the door, her eyes flicking from my face and back down to the Blackberry in her hand. “Can I help you?”

“I sure hope so!” I said, grinning at her. The badge stayed in my pocket. I didn’t want to scare her off—though I doubted she would have noticed it even if I’d shown her. “My partner and I are thinking of moving into the neighborhood, but we wanted to talk to some locals before making any decisions. May I come in for a minute?”

In truth, my wife was lying in a bed two states over with tubes coming out of her, and there was nothing I could do to help her. Not even hold her hand.

I shoved the thought back and continued to smile up at the woman until she finally shoved her Blackberry into her pocket and stepped back. “I suppose I have a few minutes before I have to be at work.”

“Great! I’m Katy Jones, and you are…?”

“Henrietta Mason.”

I followed Henrietta over to the kitchen island. A child’s sweater was draped over one of the stools, but there didn’t seem to be any sign of the kid.

“What’s the deal with that battered house at the end of the road?” I asked, leaning my elbows against the counter.

Henrietta rolled her eyes. “Local superstition. They gave us a pamphlet and everything when we moved in.” She rifled through a stack of papers shoved against the wall and slid one across the island towards me.

I picked up the paper and unfolded it. A very serious block of print stared back at me. “The 3 Rules for Avoiding the Malborn House: To Be Given to Each New Resident of the Longfellow Neighborhood” read the title.

“Oh my,” I said, making my eyes wide. “Have you ever experienced any of these things?”

Henrietta snorted low in her throat. “Of course not.”

“Do you follow these rules?”

Henrietta shifted her eyes away from mine and didn’t answer. “Where is my daughter?” she said instead, frowning towards the staircase. “Ella! Get down here. It’s time for school.”

No one answered.

“She must have spent the night at a friend’s without telling me. Or she told her father, and he couldn’t be bothered to mention it to me.” The woman’s eye twitched as she mentioned her husband.

“I should get going anyways. Can I keep this?”

Henrietta nodded and went back to her Blackberry, apparently unconcerned that she didn’t know where her daughter was.

I let myself out of the house, the pamphlet shoved in the back pocket of my jeans. I found myself standing before the Malborn House, just off to the side of the gate.

Help me…

Just the faintest of whispering, so quiet I wasn’t sure if I had just imagined it.

Please…it hurts…

This time, it was my wife’s voice, and though I knew her to be in a hospital in Indiana, it didn’t matter because she was inside that house, and she needed my help. My legs were long enough to step over the rusted-shut gate, and I bounded into the Malborn House, slamming the screen door open. A dust caked hallway met me, the sun grey and watery where it slanted through the cracks in the shuttered windows. The very air seemed to have a great weight, seeking to push into the warped wood of the floor.

Come quick…

I ran down the entry hall, following the sound of my wife’s voice, bursting into a small room that was empty but for a child’s blue backpack. “Emma!” I called, spinning around, searching, heart thundering, because my wife was in trouble and she needed me. “Where are you?”

Before it’s too late…

I sank to the ground, unable to bear the weight of the air and the dust and the silence all around me. Because it already was too late. And it had been for a long time.

It Will Never End

It’s late at night, and the moon is new, so there is hardly any light to lead you down the street towards home, and though you’ve read the pamphlet, like so many others before you, you decide that it doesn’t apply to you because it’s so late, and you just need to get home.

So you walk past the Malborn House. You don’t even bother to cross to the other side of the street.

The streetlight flickers and dies as you walk beneath it, and darkness swallows you whole, shadows spreading and deepening from the base of the gnarled oak tree until they’ve wrapped themselves around your legs, and you stop dead in your tracks, ice sliding down your spine.

Something has its hooks in you. You feel them dig right through your skin into your bones. You cannot pull away. You turn towards the Malborn House, and your hand reaches for the gate, opens it. Something laughs as it whizzes past you and down the street, free at last. Two lights gleam through the shutters on the windows, and in their gaze, you step into the lawn, the pavement seeming to drag your feet towards the front door without you moving them.

Then you’re inside the Malborn House, and the dust all around you tastes like apples and paper and something a little like rot. You’ve got your feet back, but no matter how hard you rattle the screen door’s handle, it refuses to open. The pounding of your heart is all around you, seeming to bleed from the patchy walls.

You move deeper into the house because you don’t know what else to do, and you’re hoping to find a broken window. The very walls whisper to you, laugh at you, tell you to go left, no, go right, come find me, I can give you everything you’ve ever wanted. You stuff your fingers in your ears and try to block them out. It doesn’t work. They are already in your head.

You turn a corner. You turn endless corners. The Malborn House is a maze of empty corridors and barren rooms, far larger than it appeared from the outside. You do not find a single exit, but a rickety, wooden staircase takes you to the basement. It is the only place you haven’t gone yet, and the whispering is louder here, practically shouting, until you feel as if you will go deaf if you do not follow its instructions.

There is hardly room for you to walk around the basement as it is a rabbit’s warren of forgotten things piled on top of each other in moldering, meandering walls. You pass a blue backpack. A journalist’s wallet. A Razor scooter. A bag of marbles. A book on Neuroscience. A pile of records.

The deeper you weave into the stacks, the older the items get. A World War Two jacket. A leather briefcase. A porcelain doll. Dust coats every item, and the weight of all those stacked on top crushes the ones at the bottom to bits. You do not know how long you’ve been wandering. There is no end in sight.

All these things.

All these lives.

All these memories.

To fill a hole that isn’t there.