Best Entry in Poetry

Before that summer day I thought I knew what death was. Until then I had two notions, both based on fantasy. The first came as I watched my Catholic grandmother receive the last rites from our parish priest. Watching him anoint her desiccated body, I learned that death was a ritualistic affair, heavy on symbolism but lacking a human touch.

The other view was the result of horror movies. My friend Pat was an “aficionado of the genre,” and almost every Saturday from the time I was seven we would watch the classics like “Nightmare on Elm Street,” “Friday the Thirteenth,” and all the other gut-wrenching gore-flicks we could get our hands on.

I only got in trouble once when it came to horror movies. But it wasn't for watching them. When I was eleven years old I invited my brother Danny, then only eight, to watch “Hellraiser” with me and Pat. He had nightmares about creatures ripping him apart with hooks and chains for a month. After the beating I got from my father, I never invited him again.

My dad's a big supporter of corporal punishment. He keeps an ivory handled wooden brush in the top drawer of his dresser. I once snuck into my parent's bedroom to get a closer look at it. The wood was rough and newly stained brown. The handle was smooth, weighted, and cold to the touch, the bristles hard and stiff.

Like every other day that summer, me and Danny were home alone, and as usual I was bored. With Pat gone to camp, there were no horror movies to watch. So I decided on the next best thing: we'd go to the woods.

The woods were all that remained of a huge forest that had once been the entire neighborhood. We lived about a mile away from it, and every day on the bus to and from school we would pass under the shade of the trees. Kids at school always said that there was a haunted house at the center, and being the horror movie addict that I was, I decided it was time to see if the rumors were true. It was almost July by then and I was quickly getting cabin fever. So I grabbed Danny and set out for a little excitement.

Half an hour after leaving the house we were hot, sweaty, and short-tempered. I was starting to think this was a bad idea.

“Too bad we didn't bring any water,” Danny said, then added, “So where is this house?”

“It's ‘sposed to be in the middle of the woods.”

“How much longer ‘til we get there?”

“Not much longer,” I said.

And it wasn't much longer. As we rounded the curve in the road I pointed and said, “Look, there it is.” We crossed over the blacktop and headed into the dense undergrowth. It seemed the further we headed the thicker the trees got. The sun peeked through a few cracks that Mother Nature had left behind. “It must get really dark in here,” Danny said, and I was thinking the same thing.

We walked along a rough path through the thicket, our eyes peeled for poison ivy or bramble bushes. Danny led the way, using a stick like a machete to force his way through. We felt like we were on the Lewis and Clark expedition.

“Bill, what's that?” Danny asked.

I pushed past him, and looked on at a small clearing in the forest. An old house, the paint peeling off the sides, stood guard over the area. “That must be it,” I said. Clearing my throat, I pushed aside the last few branches and headed towards it.

It was completely boarded up, the windows latched tightly shut. Two-by-fours had been nailed across the front door, and the porch steps leading up to it had long since disintegrated. We stood there for a few minutes, just staring at it. Shingles from the roof were scattered everywhere.

“Are we going in there?” Danny asked, pointing, the fear in his voice readily apparent.

I jumped up on the porch, the wood creaking under my feet. “What, you scared?” I asked with a laugh.

“No,” he said hesitantly.

“Then let's get this door opened,” I said as I yanked at one of the boards that had been nailed over the frame. It was moist and slimy to the touch, and came off with ease.

Within moments the door was cleared. Preparing to deliver a roundhouse kick, I backed up to get a running start.

“What about the doorknob?” Danny asked.

“You really think it'll be unlocked?” I replied. But I relented and gave it a try.

“I'll be damned,” I said sheepishly as the knob turned and the door squeaked open. I shot Danny an evil look as he started to laugh.

We walked through the doorway, our sneakers leaving ghost-prints on the dusty floor. All the furniture had been covered with what were once white sheets, long since turned to a sickly brown by dust. It was obvious that no one had lived here for some time.

“Let's check out the kitchen,” I said, pointing to the room opposite the staircase.

Our eyes were quickly drawn to the old Formica table at its center. It was covered in dust, yet still had service for four, complete with plates, cups, and utensils. There was even a water pitcher.

“Why is it still set, Bill?”

“I don't know.” We stood there, staring at the table, mesmerized. But then we heard the noise.

“What was that?” Danny yelped. It was coming from upstairs. It sounded like there was someone, or something, moving around up there. A shuffling, like a corpse was being dragged across the floor. Then a dull thud. Suddenly things felt a little too much like the horror flicks me and Pat would watch every Saturday night.

I stared at Danny, my feet glued to the floor. Time slowed down, and everything was in slow-motion. I watched Danny's lips slowly form words that I could not comprehend. I felt him grab my hand, my legs moving excruciatingly slow, my shoes producing a dull hollow sound every time they hit the floor. It was like I was swimming in molasses.

As we ran towards the door, the noise from upstairs grew closer. At that point I became aware of two things: that my mouth was open and I was screaming, and that the floorboards were creaking heavily under our combined weight. A dull thought suddenly raced through my mind — the wooden floors were just as rotten as the boards we had pulled off the front door.

I got to the doorway first and shot through it like a cannon ball. Danny was a few steps behind and I could hear his voice, telling me to slow down. Then I heard the cracking of wood.

I turned around to see Danny, hanging there. Floating on the air. Looking at me. Then he started to fall, down, into the darkness, through the floor that had given way. Screams echoed in the air, reverberating through my skull. Then a dull thud. I turned and ran, my legs pumping furiously. I ran until my lungs ached. I ran until it hurt. I ran until all went black.

I woke up in a hospital bed. My parents were standing over me. “Where's Danny?” I asked. They were silent. “He's OK, right?” I asked. I looked at my mom, saw the tears in her eyes, her hand clutching the hat that Danny had been wearing when we left for the woods. I didn't understand. Danny was OK, I thought. He had to be. If this was my personal horror movie, it couldn't end like this. “It's probably just a broken leg,” I said. “Just a break.”