Funhouse of Horrors by Jazan Wild

Author:Jazan Wild
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2015-09-07T04:00:00+00:00

Recluse, Freak. Weirdo. Famous.

Those are just a few of the words that rattled my window at night, always pressing, knocking, trying to get in. Usually, the whiskey keeps them at bay. It sure helped the months pass, no matter how slow the days might be.

I’d stopped writing the column altogether. Now, instead of twelve little deadlines every year, it was just one big one, the House of Horrors novel. And I did that under protest.

Each fall I filled with dread when the make-shift pumpkin patches sprang up around the city. Because just as the leaves were turning a perfect shade of candy corn, Scratch would show up. And here we go again.

It’s another Halloween and as always there’s no shortage of ghosts wanting their stories told. Here I am once again in the middle of nowhere. No family, no home, no treat-filled candy bowls; just endless trees, winding roads and another letter…

Dear Mr. Stone,

In York, Pennsylvania there’s a place known as “The Seven Gates of Hell.” Legend has it that years ago there was a mental hospital located just off a private dirt path, near Toad Road.

The hospital has since been torn down because so many people have been drawn to this location. It is rumored that one night long ago all the patients escaped into the woods and a bloody onslaught occurred.

Several brave souls have tried to test their fate

Down the path to the Seven Gates

But none have made it past gate five

None have made it out alive

No one’s ever seen the haunted asylum’s remains

Yet every night they hear the woods cry out in pain

All have turned back fearing the worst

None have ever entered this House of Horrors…

Maybe you could be the first!

Toad Road was a real sweet treat to find. As I drove along, endless signs greeted me, all letting me know I’d found the right place:

Buzz Off!

Keep Out!

Enter and Die!

Private Property!

When I reached the head of a narrow path, I looked at the letter again, as if it was going to tell me something new. Turns out, it did. There was a post script on the back I hadn’t noticed before: P.S. Oh yeah, look out for the local police. They don’t like visitors.

“Shit! Now you tell me?”

Not one, but two, police cars appeared, as if from right out of the woods. They blocked off Michelle, front and back, so I wasn’t going anywhere. From behind the spinning red and blue lights, I heard a voice over the car’s loudspeaker:

“Put your hands ups! This is private property, or can’t you read?”

Once I complied, two patrolmen, silhouettes in the headlights, came out, guns drawn. Their size tested the limits of their shirt-buttons, especially around the stomach.

“What are you doing out here, Slick?”

I sure hoped there was some charm left in a pocket of my old leather jacket, ‘cause it looked like I was going to need it. “Whoa, whoa, gentlemen! I’m just a novelist looking for a story. I write about, shall we say, the living impaired. I was told a few restless souls wander these woods.

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