The Junkie's House

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
A high school student is dared by his friend to enter the infamous "Junkie's House". A house currently being investigated by the police after a druggie overdosed before ranting that the devil had appeared to him the night before he took his own life. Is this story a product of rumors and campfire stories? Or does Lucifer himself roam the halls of the Junkie's House?

Submitted: November 15, 2016

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Submitted: November 15, 2016





Stephen Martinez and Oscar Guerra stood in front of the infamous “Junkie’s House” on a cold October night in a run-down neighborhood in Northern Utah. They looked up at the abandoned house and Stephen felt chills run through him as he felt the house staring back at him. Stephen looked away as regret dropped into his gut, making him uneasy. Suddenly, sneaking into the location of a recent death surrounded by tales of something paranormal for fifty bucks really didn’t seem worth it. Looking back, the two story house seemed to tower over them.

Tales and rumors surrounding the house have given it a notorious reputation. Two weeks ago a 35 year old man named Zachary Miller was said to have experienced something sinister the night before dying of a heroin overdose. The police report says Zach, or, the “Junkie”, had called his younger brother, 26 years old, mere hours before his unfortunate death. According to the younger brother, the phone rang at midnight, waking him up from sleep. Upon answering, he was greeted with ravings and ramblings from Zach on the other line. When he finally managed to calm down, he unloaded a story of a visitor in black that appeared inside his home the night before. He told him of a pale man, with a sunken face, in a black suit, a black hat, and a black cane had appeared at his bedside the night before at three in the morning. The man reeked of sulfur and decomposition and had two cold dead eyes, like two soulless pits of death. The man apparently engaged him into a conversation of death, as if he knew Zach’s end was close-by, before finally retreading to the basement, where he never came back up from. According to Zach, Lucifer himself gave him a visit at three in the morning.

Knowing all the addictions and all the personal problems Zach was going through, the younger brother dismissed the wild story as hallucinations of the drugs Zach was consuming, and went back to bed. The next morning, worried for his sibling, the brother went to Zach’s home to check up on him. He knocked on the door, waited about a minute, when no answer came continued knocking. After five minutes have passed with no answer, worry flooded the brother’s body as he found the door to be unlocked. He entered the home and searched for his brother, fearing the worst. Upon finding the bedroom and the bathroom empty, he decided to go down to the basement. The police report says he found Zach lying dead right in the middle of the basement floor, a needle stuck in his arm, caked vomit all over his front, and with his bloodshot eyes wide open. That’s when the 911 call came in.

The story of the death and experience of Zach’s misfortune spread like wildfire throughout Stephen’s High School, making the house, and the basement, a location of recent break-ins and vandalism. The police were forced to arrest anyone on sight, as the investigation was still underway, which only made the break-ins more daring. Stephen shook the stories out of his head and looked at Oscar, who beckoned Stephen to follow him. They ducked under the crime scene tape and made their way from the sidewalk in front of the house to side entrance. Stephen cringed at the crunchy fallen leaves he stepped on while making his way across the front lawn. They passed the driveway and stood behind a large bush that sat in front of the fence, dividing the property from the one next door. Oscar looked at Stephen, who looked back with a concerned look on his face.

“C’mon dude,” Oscar said, as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a fifty dollar bill,

Just go in for fifteen minutes, grab something from inside, come back out and it’s all yours.”

“How the hell am I supposed to go inside? I mean, I’m sure the police have this shit locked up tight.”

“Try a window or something. Look, dude, check the door, or some of the windows in the back; if none of them open, we’ll go back.”

Stephen thought about it, as thoughts of worry filled his head and dread fluttered in his stomach.

He let out an exasperated sigh, “Goddammit, fine.”

Oscar put his hand on Stephen’s shoulder, “It’ll be fine. Fifteen minutes will fly by quickly,” he assured.

“Look,” Oscar pulled out his cell phone and clicked the screen on, “It’s 11:35 right now. If you want, just come out at 11:45 and you’ll still get the money.”

With another sigh, Stephen nodded and headed for the door. Yellow crime scene tape formed an “X” on the door, a warning to anyone daring enough to break in. Stephen climbed the two steps and reached for the handle. He shivered as he held the cold door knob in his hand and turned. Locked. Big fucking surprise there, he thought. He turned and fumbled around the knob a couple more times, still locked. He turned around and climbed down the steps to make his way to the back yard. Oscar was busy on his phone, the bright screen illuminating his face. Stephen shook his head in disbelief when something big, black,and furry darted out from the bush across the lawn.

Stephen felt his heart skip and beat as he jumped a foot in the air, fear consuming his entire nerve system. Oscar cried out and jumped back, causing him to lose the grip on his phone, which in turn fell to the pavement. “Shit!” he cried as he bent down, picked up his phone and quickly stood up to look at what caused them both to lose their shit. A black Labrador was sitting on the sidewalk where they were once standing. Sitting with his head held up high, staring at the two teenagers. Its black coat gleamed in the moonlight, before it got up and calmly trottedaway, the sound of its claws scraping the sidewalk eerily echoing in the night.

Stephen and Oscar both turned to look at each other, a wide eyed shocked look on both of their faces. Stephen took a deep breath, calming down his racing heart. The dead silence of the night was suddenly interrupted by the loud click of the door behind them unlocking. Stephen slowly turned to see the side door ajar. He turned his head and looked at Oscar, who simply shrugged. Shaking his head again, he headed up the steps and peeked inside. A thick and musty stench met his nostrils, causing him to snap his head back and gag. Oscar let out a chuckle as he watched his friend gasping for air. After giving him a dirty look, Stephen held his breath, ducked under the police tape, then stepped inside the Junkie’s house.

 Once inside, he coughed and pressed the back of his hand against his nose and stared at the horror that is the kitchen. The cabinets had a thick layer of grime, grease, and mold. The cabinet doors were open, revealing broken plates and a possible rats’ nest in another. The sink was rusted, covered with hard water and even more mold. Broken and moldy plates covered the counter along with dead flies that littered the counter top. Used syringes and rat droppings were scattered all over the crusty and dust covered tiled floor. A dirty and old looking busted up refrigerator sat next to the counter, completing the image of a kitchen nightmare from hell. Feeling gooseflesh crawl along his skin, Stephen tip toed carefully, making his way out of the kitchen. Making sure he was nowhere close to touching the counter and was trying to make the least bit of contact with the kitchen floor as humanly possible. Feeling suffocated under the thick and heavy air, Stephen finally left the kitchen, but froze when a creak was heard somewhere in the house.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as his heart started pumping out terror throughout his entire body. Holding his breath, he stood still and listened for any more noises from within the house. It’s an old house, he reassured himself as nothing else was to be heard; old houses creak all the time. Finally deciding that he was scaring himself, he reached around his neck and pulled out a wooden rosary that was underneath his shirt. He held the cross in his fist, and exhaled deeply as his heart regained its normal speed. Feeling protected, he put the fistholding the cross over his heart and looked at where he was.

He found himself in the living room, or what once was, and was met with more displeasure. The walls had peeling wallpaper and were covered in taggings and graffiti of different colors. The carpet was gray with years of usage and had stains from improper in-house manners. The couch was torn and ripped with missing cushion seats and sweat stains on the back and arm rests. Next to it was a battered and old reclining chair made up of a multi stained ‘80s bright orange fabric that had seen better days. The coffee table in the center of the room had several porn magazines and even more used needles on top. Finally, a television set with a hole in the middle of the screen resting on a plastic milk crate, sat in from of the coffee table, overseeing the vile living room.

The entire house groaned, wood creaked and cried throughout the entire house. Stephen’s heart skipped a beat or two as fear seized his entire body and he closed his eyes. Frozen terror spread throughout his circulatory system, immobilizing him and leaving his limbs tightened and still. A low and deep groan came again as the house creaked once more. It was as if it wanted to communicate with him, wanted to tell him that he was within its grasp, to ignore all hope of mercy. Chest pounding, Stephen kept his eyes closed, not wanting to see unwanted movement in his peripheral vision.

But as suddenly as the creaking and groaning started, it suddenly stopped. The air around him was still, hell, the whole world seemed to be still. An unnatural silence and stillnesssurrounded him, somehow seeming worse than the creaking. He opened his eyes, and inspected his surroundings. He was still in the horrendous and pungent house, still in the living room. Nothing different, nothing amiss. But the stillness still unnerved him, sending his senses into alert. It seemed to warn him about something to come. Something so horrifying and imaginable, that staying here any longer will mean damnation. It was the calm before the storm.

Rosary still in his clutched fist, he planned to turn around and cross the kitchen and head out the door he came in. The threshold he crossed to enter this gateway into hell. But before he did, he looked around once more. The living room was still in the filthy mess it was in when he came in, but something caught his eye. Across from where he was standing was the front door, paint peeling with stains and grime decorating it. He could go out that way couldn’t he? He crossed the living room, avoiding any physical contact with anything, and unlocked the bolt on the door and turned the lock on the door knob. He grabbed the door knob and turned, it wouldn’t budge. Worry was when he tried again with no change, fear was when he heard the door and the wall around it tightening, and panic was when the lock on the door knob turned back and the bold on the door snapped back into place. He needed to leave, now!

Panting, sweating cold perspiration, and with his chest thundering, Stephen ran across the living room, passing a door on his right and a dark hallway that most likely lead to the bedrooms. He ran through the kitchen, kicking the used syringes he avoided the first time, sending them clattering across the tiled floor and smacking against the wall as they shattered. The kitchen door was still open, Stephen could see the driveway outside. He was about to get out! He breathed a sigh of relief as he felt the cold wind from outside and he reached out with a hand. The door swung shut, missing his fingers and he desperately tried to grab the door. It tightened with the wall like the front door did and Stephen heard the locks snap back into their place as he crashed on the door and tried the knob in a mindless panic.

ff, with no intention to budge.

“No! No, no, no, no, no, no!” he sobbed, realizing that entering the house was the worst idea he had ever made in his young life. He pounded on the door, crying out to Oscar who was still outside. Why couldn’t he hear him? Why wasn’t he turning the door knob on the other side? Why wasn’t he trying to help him? Trying to save him?

He stopped pounding on the door when panic caused him to choke on air and made him gag, having him turn away from the door and double over. He heaved and when nothing came out, he dry heaved again only to feel pressure in his temples. Nausea took over his stomach and fogged his head. He was sick. Sick with the thick air that surrounded him. Sick with the foul stench that assaulted his nostrils and invaded his sinuses. Sick to his stomach with the realization that he was trapped here. That the house didn’t want him leaving. That the Thing currently inhabiting this house didn’t want him to leave and spoil its sick amusement.

Stephen was still doubled over, hands on his knees, supporting his now trembling body. Nothing had come out from his empty stomach, nothing but dry heaves and some spittle. He could feel his temples pulsing from the pressure he put his body through. Some strands of saliva were falling from his still open mouth and landing on the floor along with droplets of sweat from his gleaming forehead. He straightened up, feeling lightheaded and woozy, and looked around. What was he to do now? Tears started to sting his eyes, fear and frustration overtook him mercilessly. He grabbed fistfuls of his hair and pulled as he screamed, hopeless and scared. He glanced towards the living room and felt all willpower leave his body and his eyes widen in horror.

Sitting there, with its head held high, was a black Labrador. The same black Labrador he and Oscar had seen outside, only now its eyes were blood red. Stephen felt cold, staring into the dog’s red eyes. The question of how it had gotten in did not cross his mind. By this point, all sense of logic and reason had now abandoned his mind. Nothing made sense and all logic seemed forgotten. There was no use for any sense of normality or any expectation of rhyme or reason when you had stepped into another plane of existence. The dog did not break eye contact and neither did Stephen. He didn’t want to break eye contact for fear of what this dog, this demon, might do if he did. He just stared into those infernal red eyes.

After what seemed like hours, the dog finally moved. It opened its mouth and licked its nose, exposing rows of needle like fangs. Then it pulled back its lips, showing the rows of what seemed like hundreds of white needles. But it wasn’t growling, or snarling for that matter, but smiling. The hellish thing was fucking grinning at him. Stephen stared back, not daring to move a muscle, not even blink. A great cold was creeping its way into the house. The thick, repulsive air that hung in the kitchen was being replaced by a freezing, dead draft that cut deep into Stephen’s flesh. After a moment, he was completely enveloped in a freezing grip that his breath was visible before his eyes. Calmly, the dog got up and made its way into the living room, its claws scraping and scratching against the carpet.

Stephen instantly felt something take over him. Thought and reason now seemed alien to him, almost forgotten. He felt a powerful urge to follow the dog, wherever it may be. He started towards the living room, panic and fright fleeing his body, leaving behind a need to follow the dog, the Thing. He entered the living room and saw the dog heading towards the door on the far right corner, the one he had passed when he was running back to the kitchen a minute ago. The door swung open, revealing some stairs that lead downward. He suddenly realized these were the stairs to the basement. Before the dog went down the stairs it looked back at Stephen and Stephen felt something tugging at his collar. It was his wooden rosary. It was lifting itself up in the air, until it was ripped off by and invisible hand. The beads went flying everywhere, clattering off the busted TV and the coffee table and landing on the carpet with soft thuds. Stephen paid no mind to this seemingly supernatural and violent action and just walked towards the dog, who was now out of sight down the stairs.

He moved through the cold air and stopped in front of the open door of the staircase. A strong smell of burnt matches, of sulfur, and decay came up from the stairs. The stairs went down into darkness. Darkness so abysmal that Stephen had never seen anything so pitch black in his entire life. Not even in the darkest of nights. The overwhelming urge of following the dog flowed through, Stephen, making his legs and fingers tingle with adrenaline. But somewhere underneath this surge of want, of need, lay a quiet voice of protest. This small sliver of sanity told him to go back, to not follow the Thing down the path of impending doom. But after a second, the voice was drowned out in the loud static of possession. Stephen went down the steps.

Stephen climbed down. Step, after step, after step, after seemingly endless steps. If this were a normal house, he would’ve gotten to the bottom level of the house in eight steps, ten steps tops. But this wasn’t a regular house, it wasn’t even in the physical plane. He was now in a twisted, inverted dimension of reality. He had left his world behind when he entered the house, now he was in this cold, abysmal staircase that lead down to Hell itself. Above him, the sound of creaking and groaning wood echoed throughout the silent staircase. But it sounded more like screams and cries of pain now. It wasn’t the house shifting or the wood creaking, the howls of hopelessness and pain of the damned are what he was hearing. He truly was in hell he realized as the screaming and howling filled the stairs.  After what seemed like an eternity, he finally felt steady ground when he arrived at the very bottom. He stood there, in the abyss, when a door creaked open in front of him, flooding him in a bright florescent light.

He was looking into a basement. What seemed to be a regular basement with nothing out of the ordinary. Some wooden shelves were at the very back of the room, packed with a wide assortment of everyday items. Boxes, a toolbox, old books and stuff of that sort. On his left were an old looking washer and dryer with a layer of dust on them. In the center of the room hanging from the ceiling was a bare light bulb that was emitting the white light that illuminated the whole basement. Well, except for one place. To his right, despite the bright light of the bare light bulb, there was a dark blanket of shadows that hid that part of the basement. Some invisible force reached out and grabbed Stephen, sending him flying forward into the basement.

Stephen stumbled, trying to stay on his feet when the door behind him slammed shut. The feeling of determination that filled his body when he was making his way down the steps suddenly left him. He was left with the feeling of hopelessness and despair that invaded his chest, causing him to fall to his knees and start crying. He lifted his head, looking through eyes that were filled with tears. Wet streaks gleamed on his cheeks as he turned his head and looked towards the darkness that inhabited the other side of the basement. He knew what was there, he knew the Junkie was telling the truth when he told his brother what he saw mere hours before he died.

“You shouldn’t be here,” a low voice croaked to his left.

Stephen jumped and fell to his side, turning his head with horror and bewilderment to the source of the voice. Coming out from behind the washer and dryer, a pale and scrawny excuse for a human being slowly made his to where Stephen was, sprawled on his side. The Junkie looked like a walking skeleton with a pale and translucent skin pulled tightly around its bones. It was shirtless, revealing a sunken stomach and very noticeable protruding ribs. It had on a very worn and dirty pair of jeans that were three sizes too big for it and were held up by a equally worn out and cracked leather belt. It had no shoes on. Its arms were two, thin twigs with visible green and purplish veins that crawled up its arms. Infected needle tracks were visible on his left arm. They went up from the inside of his forearm, five or possibly even six of them. The skin around them was dark red with a yellow crust caking the needle tracks. Its hands looked cracked and bruised, with some purple and red splotched across its knuckles and even fingers. But the worst was its face. The eyes had sunk in so much that they peered at Stephen from the shadows of its eye sockets. The skin was pulled back on its face so tight, that its check bones and jaw line stood out swords. Its thin lips were pulled back, revealing yellow, crooked and rotted teeth. And on top of its head was a mess of ear-length dark brown hair that seemed like it was plopped on the back of the skull, giving this walking corpse a receding hairline. But, with this dried up walking corpse, someone might expect its eyes to be some beady, dried up glassy eyes looking back at you. But what looked back at Stephen were two bright eyes, full of wonder, sorrow and pain.

Stephen stared back at the thing, unable to move. The thing got close and bent down to look at him eye to eye.

“What are you doing here?” it croaked, “You’re not supposed to be here!”

He reached over and grabbed Stephen by the shoulders, making his skin crawl with goose bumps.

“He’s gonna be here any second!” it cried at Stephen, “He took my soul and left me to rot in this purgatory for my sins, now he’s gonna take your soul too! Run! Get outta here! Now!”

Stephen struggled to speak, but his voice was gone and all he could manage were some choking sounds.

The room suddenly got colder and the smell of sulfur became overwhelming. A rumble came along, causing the walls and the shelves to tremble. The Junkie looked up at turned his gaze at the shadow across the room. Stephen saw his eyes grow with terror and his chin tremble in fear. 

“He’s here! You’re too late. You—too late, you’re—too late.”

He stammered the last couple of words, but he let go of Stephen and retreated back behind the washer and dryer. Stephen felt an overwhelming presence to his right and looked towards the darkness. Slowly, a tall figure emerged from the shadows. Stephen stood up and retreated back until he bumped into the washer and dryer. Fear held his body in an all-consuming vice grip. He no longer thought of Oscar or school or his family. The only thing that was on his mind was the primal fear that lives inside the human mind. The fear that leaves you helpless and frozen in horror.

Coming out from the shadows, the man in the black suit stood before him. His suit and shoes were abysmal black and the hands holding the cane were pale white, bony claws that resembled the talons of a predatory bird. The cane was long and black with a silver goat’s head at the very top, where the claws clutched it. He was standing underneath the light bulb, so his wide brimmed hat cast a shadow over his face. But Stephen could still sense the man’s eyes burning holes into his soul. Stephen saw two blood red eyes glow from the shadows of the man’s face. Stephen stared in horror as the man took off his wide brimmed hat and he stared into the face of damnation.


Oscar was outside, worried now. He pulled out his phone from his pocket and checked the time; 11:53. Stephen has been in there for more than 15 minutes now. All the while Oscar had stayed outside, waiting for him. Not one sound came from the house, it was too quiet. Oscar expected to hear Stephen’s footsteps from outside, but it remained as quiet as a grave. Not to mention Stephen had closed the door he went in through around five minutes ago. The click of the door closing made Oscar jump, almost dropping his phone again. But apart from that, everything remained quiet.

Hating himself for it, Oscar decided that it would be best if he went up to see what was taking Stephen so goddamn long. He crossed the driveway, and went up the three steps to the door. As he neared it, he thought he caught a whiff of burnt matches. He glanced toward the sidewalk, pretty sure that he saw that damn dog again. But it was nothing, not a dog in sight. He tried the knob and turned it. Sure enough, it was open.

© Copyright 2018 L.F. Loza. All rights reserved.

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