The old abode (standard:horror, 2178 words)
Author: Lev821	Added: Jun 23 2005	Views/Reads: 3796/2786	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
When an old house appears from nowhere, Peter can't help but explore.

He could only stop and stare. There was nothing else he could do at that
moment. He'd skidded to a halt on his bike, nearly going over the 
handlebars as he saw the abandoned house on one of his familiar trails. 
For 15 years he had ridden along this pathway, twice a week, and not 
once during that time had he seen the semi-detached, set back from the 
path, surrounded by the trees the route cut through. A well trodden 
path led to a rusty gate. Beyond a low wall there was an overgrown 
garden, a haven for rodents and insects. How had he missed it? he 
thought. All these years, and yet so prominent, so obvious. It was not 
as though it was hidden. Perhaps he'd been so intent and focused on his 
exercise that it had literally passed him by. Peter Benson was an avid 
biker. A cycling enthusiast, 39 years old, and a competition veteran. 
He'd won on a few occasions, and he was trying to win everything there 
was. The tour de france was his dream prize, and he supposed all his 
training was geared towards that. Anything he picked up along the way 
was a pleasant bonus. 

He forgot his exercise regime, and left the bike on the side of the path
and walked down to the gate. It creaked loudly as he opened it and 
walked through. He stopped and looked up at the house. It was in a poor 
state, in serious need of repair. The windows were opaque with grime, 
and the woodwork was split and fractured, the paintwork flaking away, 
the path cracked and overgrown with weeds. The roof was missing several 
tiles, no doubt they lay somewhere in the garden, victims of stormy 
weather. The front door was open ajar, as though the house knew he was 
coming, and was welcoming him. Yet it didn't seem particularly 
inviting, despite the weather being pleasant, the sun hiding behind 
wisps of cotton wool clouds, framed by an ultramarine sky. He walked 
the path and did not hesitate in pushing open the door, which protested 
at the lack of oil on its hinges. He hesitated before stepping inside, 
not knowing why, not understanding the slight tinge of fear now burning 
inside him. He entered and stood in the hall, silhouetted against the 
doorway. The carpet and wallpaper were worn and tattered, as though 
they had been there for years, which they probably had. Stairs led up 
to the left into shadowy gloom, as though the darkness itself was 
asleep. Doors to his left and right were closed, and the door at the 
back, leading to the kitchen was ajar. He decided to try upstairs 
first, partly to allay his fears, and prove to himself that there was 
nothing to be afraid of. It was simply a rickety old house, still 
furnished, still with a few framed pictures on the wall, of nothing 
special, foreign scenery and ocean liners. Silence hung in the air, and 
time itself seemed to have stopped here. As expected, a search of the 
upstairs rooms revealed nothing of any interest. A smashed bottle of 
whisky was spread beneath the front window, looking out onto the 
unkempt lawn. Each piece of glass had dust ingrained on it, and one of 
the windows was broken, as though something had been thrown from the 
inside, as there was no further glass scattered around save for that 
belonging to the bottle. Peter guessed that whoever was responsible had 
probably had a drunken mood swing. The duvet and pillow were also 
dusty, and looked delicate to the touch. Peter ignored it and went back 
downstairs. He decided to try the kitchen first, and it was when he 
pushing it open that he noticed that the front door was closed. Light 
beamed in through the grimy window above the door, but Peter knew that 
he had not closed it. He guessed that it probably simply swung shut of 
its own accord, nothing sinister or out of the ordinary. The kitchen 
door opened quietly when he pushed it, and again, he noticed nothing 
out of the ordinary. Upon the floor tiles lay a thick carpet of dust, 
amongst which there was a frying pan and a mug lying on its side. 
Nothing special. He was about to step inside when he heard snuffling 
coming from his left, then scratching, followed by a low pitched whine. 
Peter saw that it was coming from the door beneath the stairs. More 
whining and scratching caused him to think that a dog had been locked 
in there. He stepped across immediately and unhooked the catch. He 
pulled it open about four inches when something made him stop. His 
instinctive alarm was flashing inside his mind. Something about it just 
wasn't right. The scratching had stopped, and Peter backed away from 
the small door along the hallway. It opened a few more inches, and 
Peter stepped away to the front door, tried the lock, but it wouldn't 
open. He could only stare in horrified fascination at the blackness 
beneath the stairs, and wonder why fear within him was burning 
fiercely. Something began to emerge, slowly, like an animal emerging 
from captivity into new surroundings, for that was not too dissimilar 
to what it was. A snout, teeth, and eye sockets emerged, covered in 
transparent leathery skin. Peter stared as gradually the skeletal 
corpse of a dog came out, its skull hanging low, but those empty 


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