Flesh House (chapter two)

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
Conclusion of Flesh House

Submitted: March 26, 2009

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Submitted: March 26, 2009

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'All units be advised. Missing persons reports have been filed for Jack Emerson, Amanda Potts, Tom Bay, all nineteen years of age, last seen around the vicinity of vacant house on corner of Main and First. No contact has been made to parents. Central clear.' Officer Weeks picked up his radio. 'Unit 25 here, central. I'm in the area. I'll go ahead and do a drive-by. 25 clear.' 'Roger that, 25. Central clear.'

Officer Rob Weeks was nearing the end of his shift, thought it wouldn't hurt to take a quick look down Main, see if he got lucky and was able to spot them. It had been a routine day, a few traffic stops, nothing out of the ordinary. He was feeling good. Had just heard news a few hours ago from central that they got a call from his wife and central reported back to him that his wife was pregnant. She wasn't shy about news like that. When she got excited about something she would tell everyone. He couldn't wait to get back home, see her. He pulled onto Main, noticed a few people out running or walking their dogs. He passed the abandoned house, saw nothing, went to the end of the street and then swung around and came back. He shone his spotlight on the house. To him it looked the same as it always had. He parked out in front of it. He took a quick look at all the windows, spotted movement in one of the upper ones, one that wasn't broken, far as he could tell, and their was no wind. 'Central, 25 here. I'm here outside the abandoned house, gonna go check it out, over.' 'Roger that, 25. Proceed with caution.' He got out of his car and made his way to the front door.

The bright light shining in one of the windows got Tom's attention right away. He looked out the bedroom window, was careful enough to not let his face get too close to the glass. A police officer, and he was coming to the front door. "You're about to have a bad day, piggy." whispered Tom. He looked back over his shoulder, saw that Jack was still unconscience. He left the room. He would deal with Jack later. And besides he wasn't going anywhere, having been tied to the bed. "Hey. Quit your little bleeding house trick for a second. We have company." Tom said to noone, as if he was speaking to the air, or himself. But he wasn't. He was speaking to the house. "As you wish, Tom." He suddenly was in the mood for some bacon. He hurried downstairs, axe in hand, and waited by the inside of the door for the cop to come in.

Weeks slowly opened the door, had his flashlight in his hand, but not his gun. The door closed behind him, and that made him jump a little. He started to turn in a circle, had almost got the light on where Tom was standing, and that's when Tom charged. Weeks had 20/20 vision, and could see just as well at night as he could in the day, if not better, and he caught movement. A person was charging him, with something raised above their head. An axe. His flashlight had reflected the shape of the blade off the wall. His first reaction was to duck, to get as low as he possibly could, which was tough for him because he was 6'4". Weeks charged himself, and closed the distance between himself and the attacker, giving him no chance to attempt a swing. Weeks slammed his entire body weight into the gut of the assailant, knocking the axe out of hands, and him onto the floor. Weeks could see that he was much bigger than this person, but that was no excuse to take him lightly. With the axe on the floor and temporarily out of play, Weeks reached for his gun. Only it wasn't there. And he didn't see the other person either, at least not until the flash from the fired gun lit up his face, and then Weeks was down. Shot with his own gun. He did have his vest on, but it still hurt like a bitch. He lay still, though, and waited for the shadowy figure to make his next move. Tom approached the officer with the gun pointed at his head. Dead or not, he couldn't tell, so he was going to put another bullet in the pig's head, so he could be sure. Weeks waited until he saw the outline of this person standing over him, then he kicked out his leg in a sweeping motion, taking Tom down hard. Weeks heard the gun drop onto the floor, and he pulled out his night stick, was going to give this guy the worst beating he ever received, but he was gone again. How the hell was this guy so fast? Weeks began twirling around frantically, was continuing to stay low. He heard a creaking noise behind him, but before he could turn, the axe was slammed into his back with brutalizing force, and he fell face first to the floor, dying on the spot. Tom yanked the axe out of the officer with a sickening pop. He loved that sound. "Hey. How do you like your bacon?" He said again as if he were talking to himself. Then the house replied. "Extra crispy. Well done, Tom. Can we do Jack now?" It asked with a hauntingly, homicidal whisper. "Yes, we can. These walls look a little drab, though. Do something about that, will you?" And just like the grossest magic trick anyone had seen, the blood was back, pouring down the walls, raining from the ceiling, spilling litle pieces of moist flesh here and there. Tom took out a lighter, drained the fluid onto the dead officer's back, then lit him up the old fashioned way; with matches. As Weeks' body burned, Tom went up the stairs to finish off his buddy Jack.

Tom walked into the bedroom only to find that Jack was gone. 'What the hell?' he thought. 'How did he get loose?' The ropes were untied and left on the bed. Tom looked under the bed. Not there. Then from behind him, "Do you honestly think that I'm dumb enough to hide under the bed?" Tom whipped around, saw Jack standing in the doorway, holding the cops' night stick. "What are you going to do with that, Jack? Bludgeon me? I thought you were smarter than that. Besides, you have to account for this." Tom held up the axe, now stained with the blood of two victims, and soon to be three. "I know what's happened to you, Tom. This house has taken over you. It's not even a house, is it? Some vile, evil, unseen thing is using it as a conductor to draw in perpetrators and make them kill for it. The flesh house. I guess it's no urban legend after all. I can help you, Tom. We have to get out of this house before it kills both of us." Blood and flesh and bones and skin were everywhere now, piling up. Maggots had begun to spill out of the walls. "Tom. Kill him. Now." Said the maniacal, twisted house. And Tom obeyed, just like a good little puppet.

Jack ran down the hall and into the other bedroom. He shut the door and locked it. 'Great. Now what?' he thought. One way in, one way out. He went to the window and looked down. It was only a two story house. Could he jump? He looked around the room for something, anything he could use. He still had the night stick, but it wouldn't be enough. As long as Tom had that axe, he was as good as dead. Then Tom started tearing down the door with the axe, and it would be nothing but splinters in a few seconds. Jack ran over and stood next to the door. Tom had made a hole big enough to fit his hand through and try the doorknob, and as he did, Jack clubbed him with the night stick as hard as he could. Tom cried out in horrendous pain, but then he did something that Jack did not expect; he kicked down the door, and with his lightning quick speed, Tom tackled Jack, but the axe was not in his hands. Thank god for that. Jack had dropped the night stick as well, and now they were simply just rocking each other with fists flying. Teeth flew, blood was spattering everywhere, and it was also pouring onto them from the ceiling. What Jack did not know was that this was all the blood from all the previous murders. They had been happening here for years. This house, this unspeakable evil demon, whatever the hell it was, had been using kids to kill others for god knows how long. Jack had to end it. Innocent people were dead because of this house. Jack threw Tom off of him, then got up quick. He was standing right next to the window. Tom found the night stick and picked it up. "I'm sorry, Jack. Your time to die has arrived." "You killed Amanda, an innocent girl. And you killed the cop. The guy was just doing his job." Tears were forming in his eyes. 'Oh, you're going to cry. What a touching moment this is." Jack could see that he was getting ready to charge him. "Tom. Fight it. Don't listen to that voice. We can walk out of here, alive. Please." But Tom said nothing more. "Tom, kill Jack. Make me proud." Said the crazy, twisted voice. Tom ran toward him, but Jack moved, grabbed him by the back, and launched him out of the window. Tom landed on his head, broke his neck, died instantly. Jack fell to the floor, and started crying. That was it. His best friend was dead, and now he was going to destroy this house. He got up and ran out of the room, only to come face to face with someone holding the axe. Someone he knew. It was Chris. He wasn't dead. "What the...," and before he could get anything else out, Chris brought the axe down on Jack's head. "Well done, Chris. I certainly do love happy endings." Said the maniacal, evil, whisper. "What would I do without you?" said Chris to the house. Then he headed to the basement stairs, and disappeared into the darkness.


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