The Sinister Realities of 113 Westcher Lane

Chapter 1
Here Again

113 Westcher Lane. I remember that house, the home that was my prison during my childhood. In fact, it was the prison of numerous children, many who met a drastic fate. The enormous mansion, which was still as ominous-looking as it did on the day I had first arrived, could have been mistaken for the face of a horrible monster, with its unlit barred windows, rotting wooden porch, and jagged edges.
My shoes were getting scuffed thanks to the dirty broken sidewalk, and, though a pair, made the sound of loneliness that echoed through the dark woods that surrounded me. The air was heavy and damp, and the mist engulfed me to the point where I almost could not see ten feet ahead of me. The stairs creaked beneath the weight of my full grown body, and threatened to give way any moment. But they did not, and I proceeded to the front door. The wet, yet still brightly colored, autumn leaves around me were so out of place with the dreary mansion, and served as a cruel reminder of the beauty of a blissful childhood that I had missed, thanks to the dank and dusty attic I called a safe haven.
A strange chill seemed to emanate from the structure before me, and I instinctively hunched my shoulders a bit as the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. Anyone would be able to tell that evil had found a comfortable home here. I could almost feel the spirits of the experiments that were created here creeping around me, and I believed for a moment I heard the moans of the children who lost their lives. I shook my head, and gingerly wrapped my fingers around the large knob. I knew no one would be inside, since it had long been abandoned about two decades ago. I knew because I was there when the police finally found this place and tore it apart. They set us free, at least the ones who were left, I should say. Why they never found it before? Well, the immense house on 113 Westcher Lane was hidden by miles and miles of forest, and anyone who dared to enter the trees was doomed to be lost.
The only one who knew the way through the maze that separated the mansion from civilization was Madame Isis, an old hag with very strong mystical powers and connections with the supernatural. She used her charms to avert any intruders away from the secret mansion. All of us kids called her the Siren, because it was her sweet voice that led us into the back of her covered wagon, unaware that such a beautiful voice could belong to such an ugly, horrible person. When the wagon was loaded, she carted them off into the woods, and the children would never be seen again. Adults, obviously, were immune to the tune, but children were not so lucky.
I could recall my mother telling me the story of a witch who lived in the woods that nabbed children and took them away forever, but to me (and her) it was just an old wives’ tale, something to make children behave. I thought that way until the alluring melody invited me to join its master for a midnight drive. I couldn’t help but obey, so unfortunately I was succumbed by the music. I had quietly stolen out the door, and headed straight to the source of the fountain of notes, the note that seemed to flow through one ear and out the other in a pleasing way. It made me feel refreshed, and kept my eardrums thirsting for more. And, before long, I was abruptly pulled out of the trance when she had stopped singing, and hastily tied me up. She spat at me and threw me into her wagon, filled with other scared children whose eyes were wide and round with alarm. Recently I’ve been guessing that the song rendered us to speak, because our throats refused to let out any screams, and our lips did not let if the slightest whisper pass.
The night was dark, the wind was cold, the ride was silent, and the air carried fear.
And soon we had arrived at 113 Westcher Lane, the house I was at yet again.
After having the flashback of my arrival, I zoned into what I was doing now; opening the front door. The large door, which was covered with an elaborate design, opened quietly and without much effort on my part. The light from outside immediately spilled down into the dark hallway, eager to eat away at its twin. I felt the stiff air as it eerily began to surround me, but I was not easily unsettled, and so I took a step inside. I reached deep into my pocket, and pulled out a thin flashlight, my only defense against the darkness that was ahead of me. I slowly closed the door until only a crack of the greedy light shown through.
My flashlight revealed a long hallway, with many doors an each side, and at the end two stairways; one leading upstairs where there were even more rooms, and the way up to the attic. The other stairs led down to the basement, where the Doctor resided. Down there was where he created monsters, and performed inhumane experiments. Just thinking of his face sent shivers down my mind, and made me more alert. I subconsciously looked down towards my hands. What was done to me is done. What I my hands did, they did. It is over. I did not want to suffer grief, so I pushed the thoughts out of my head, and continued to walk.
Childhood memories began to swarm into my head as I shined my flashlight to each side of me. Images, such as children scrambling up the stairs, running from room to room, flicked past my eyes, all kissed with sepia, and all went by in a distorted way, until finally I seemed to be staring at something more real. Directly across from me, a sickly looking man, with a weird light enveloping him, who was covered in chains and dressed in bedraggled garb, lifted his head to stare at me from the other end of the hall, his eyes lifeless, yet beckoning and sad, his mouth was hanging open, letting a lonely wail escape, which reverberated throughout the house. I did not know this man. I did not want to know his troubles. My mind registered fear, and I let out a small yelp.
And suddenly, the ghostly man was gone, and I was once again alone with the house. My heart was beating extremely fast. It took me awhile to regain my senses, and once I did, I raced up the stairs, skipping a few at a time. In fact, I tripped on the lip of one, and fell onto my hands on the top floor. I quickly got to my knees and fumbled around for my flashlight, which went out when it hit the ground. Adrenaline pumped through my veins as I crawled across the rough wooden floor, blindly searching for my flashlight in the direction that I heard it roll off to.
Finally my fingers brushed the handle of my flashlight, and my violently shaking hands struggled to hold it while I turned it on. The bulb flickered a bit before finally generating light. I sighed a sigh of relief, and felt a bit ashamed and foolish that I let fear take over my actions. I suddenly realized that I was right across from the attic ladder. I took a deep breath, grabbed the rung, which was at my eye-level, and began to climb up into the darkness. I poked my head through the hole in the attic floor, and hauled myself up into the dusty room. This is the room I was looking for. The item I came here for was up here somewhere. All I had to do was find it. I didn’t need my flashlight, since enough light filtered through small holes and a barred window. Looking around, memories rushed into my head of the times I spent up here crying, missing my mother, and talking in whispers with what little friends I managed to make. I did not miss my father simply because, back then, I never knew him. I happened to look up into a mirror that hung on the wall, and in it, instead of me now, I saw myself, a sad child, staring back at me. I jumped back, and what do you know, into an old desk. Maybe, I thought to myself, it’s in here. I searched through the draws, discarding random papers and pencils, and I was about to give up hope when suddenly my eyes spied a notebook. My notebook, the thing I had come back here for. My whole childhood was crammed in between the two leather covers. I opened the cover gently, because it was as old as its stains said so. Old-book-smell entered my nostrils. I turned to the next page, barely saving it from ripping. To my surprise, the writing was in neat cursive. I looked to the first entry, and began to read. The date read March 21, 1901...





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MarkS said...
Apr. 24, 2011 at 8:40 pm
Wow!  What an amazing story!  Chilling and very believable!  I will be sleeping with my lights on tonight!!!!
 
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