Billy Thomas and His Aunt

Every Wednesday after school, Billy Thomas would always visit his great aunt Mildred. She lived in the house the local kids called “The President’s house”. If you asked why they called it that, nobody could answer you. Some might say “because it’s white” or “because it’s so big,” but nobody really knew the answer. It’s what it had always been called, and nobody really cared why.
As mentioned before, the house was very big. It was four stories and stretched from one end of the large property it sat on to the other. Though it was white, you could only just barely tell. The paint was peeling and completely gone in most places. The porch was rickety and had holes that held a darkness so black that you would think it was a pit that went on forever. The lawn, and the rest of the property for that matter, was dirt and weeds, with twisted objects that had once been a child’s playthings strewn about, slowly being consumed by the pesky plants.
Inside, the house was a labyrinth of rooms and halls that twisted and turned. Each room was decorated with furniture that seemed too old and fragile to hold the layer of dust that had settled upon it. The wallpaper was peeling and yellowed. The ceilings were cracked, and if somebody moved around on the floor above you, plaster dust floated down and settled in your hair. The whole house smelled musty and old, and was rumored to be haunted by the ghost’s of Mildred’s grandparent’s, who had built the house from the ground up in 1890.
Mildred Thomas, a small woman of 80, was the sole resident of the house. She never had visitors, save for Billy. She was a wrinkled woman with almost no teeth and thinning, gray hair. She always wore a black dress that hid her feet and was always hunched over a black cane. The local kids called her a witch, claiming she practiced sorcery and witchcraft. They also claimed to hear her late at night, chanting strange words in another language.
Her great-nephew, Billy, was the only one brave enough to go anywhere near the house she lived in. As far back as any of the local children could remember, twelve year old Billy had gone to that house every Wednesday afternoon to visit Mildred. He was a pimple faced, scrawny boy who wore specs almost as big as his face. He came from a bad family. His dad was a drunk and his mother didn’t seem to care if he came home or not. His great aunt seemed to be the only one on God’s green Earth that cared for the kid.
Every day at school, Billy was the target of constant bullying. Swirlies, wedgies, you name it; He got it every day during school. Everywhere he went, taunts and jeers followed. He took it all in silence, but inside he fumed and boiled. Every insult brought him closer to his breaking point. He was like a stick of dynamite with a short fuse. All this dynamite needed was someone stupid enough to light it, and that idiot just happened to be the school’s biggest bully.
Billy was walking to his Aunt’s house after school when they grabbed them. Three figures jumped from a bush on the side of the street and tackled him to the ground.
“Hold him down.”
“He’s struggling George, give me a sec…”
“Hold him, I said!”
In moments, they had Billy’s arms pinned. Billy opened his eyes, which he had squeezed shut when he was attacked, and looked up into the faces of George Cornella, Matt Storel, and Kevin Windry, three of Billy’s worst tormentors.
“Well, look who we have here,” George said with a wicked smile. “It’s the four-eyed zit monster going to visit his witch aunt.”
Billy remained silent, and George frowned. Flipping his long red hair from his eyes, he looked to Kevin, then to Matt. After a moment of consideration, he got to his feet, then told Kevin and Matt to get Billy up. George’s cronies did as they were told, pulling Billy up roughly by the arms so that he let out a small squeak. This small sign of pain brought George’s smile shining back.
“So,” he said in a voice that showed the pleasure he was getting from this, “we finally get a sound out of the silent suckwad.” He turned as if to walk away, then whipped back around and punched poor Billy in the gut. Billy let out an “oomph!” and then quieted, his head lolling to one side. After a moment, he brought his gaze back up to George.
“Does it hurt, Billy-Boy?” George asked him in a harsh whisper. Kevin and Matt sniggered, still holding Billy’s arms. Billy looked up at George, smiled, and stuck his tongue out at him. This enraged George.
“Raaahh!” screamed George, and he punched Billy square in the nose. Blood gushed down Billy’s face and down his yellow hoodie. His eyes filled with tears, and his glasses went all askew. George snapped his fingers, and Kevin and Matt dropped Billy’s arms. Billy fell to the ground in a crumpled heap. Matt, Billy, and George began to walk away. They had barely walked fifteen steps however, when they heard a voice from behind them.
“G-George,” Billy said as he climbed to his feet, “George, I got something to tell ya,” he said.
George turned around to face Billy. “What’s that, nerd?” he asked menacingly.
Billy smiled. “E-Eat s***, buttmunch.” He said. George stared shocked, then glared. He clenched his fists and said “You’ll regret saying that, nerd. Let’s get ‘em, guys!” George and his cronies began chasing Billy down the street.
Billy sprinted towards his aunt’s house at the end of the street, his tormentors in hot pursuit. He reached the gate of the house and burst through it, ran across the dead lawn, up the porch steps, and through the door, not even bothering to close it.
“Get back here, nerd!” George shouted. He began to walk across the lawn to the porch after Billy. Halfway there, he turned back towards his friends, who were still at the gate entrance.
“What are you guys waiting for?” he asked.
“We ain’t goin’ nowhere near that place George.” Kevin said.
“Yeah,” Matt agreed, “that lady’s a witch or something.”
George sighed and slapped his forehead. How could these idiots believe those stupid rumors? There was obviously no such thing as witches. His friends were complete morons!
“Fine then, cowards,” he yelled angrily, “I’ll go get him myself!”
With that, he turned and ran through the door, slamming it shut when he was inside. George found himself in a dusty foyer. The walls were peeling and cracked. On them hung paintings of Mildred’s grandparents and their friends and associates. There was a large, dusty chandelier hanging from the ceiling. He looked around the foyer curiously. To both sides, long hallways with doors all down their length stretched away into darkness. In front of him, a large spiral staircase twisted up to the next floor.
George took two cautious steps forward, then stopped. He tried to figure out which way Billy had gone. He was about to take the hallway to the left when he heard a sound above him. It was someone walking on the second floor. George looked up and plaster dust settled on his face. He wiped it away, then walked quickly to the staircase and began to ascend them. They creaked and groaned under his feet, and more than once George wondered if they would hold.
They did hold. When he reached the top, there was a door. He opened it and found himself in a room devoid of any decoration except for a table in the center. On each of the three walls in front of him, there was a simple wooden door. George walked to the table. There he found a manila envelope sitting on its dusty surface. Labeled on its front was his name. he picked it up, undid the fastening, and opened it. Inside was a note which read:
Dear George,

I see that you have chased my great-nephew into my humble abode. He tells me that you have tormented and insulted him constantly since you two met. He also told me that today you and your friends beat him up. I wish that I could punish you all, but since you were the only one foolhardy enough to come into my home, I will have to punish you enough for three. For this, I have set up three tests for you. Billy tells me you are a dim one, so they are rather simple.
Before I ramble, let us get on with the tests, hm? Test number one. In front of you are three doors. The premise to this test is simple. You choose a door. One holds the entrance to the next room, the others… well, you’ll see what the others hold if you choose the wrong door. Good luck George.









Sincerely,





Mildred Thomas
PS: Don’t bother trying to escape, the door to the stairs locked automatically when you shut it.

George read the letter again. What did this mean? How could the old hag set up “tests” so fast or know that he was going to come up the stairs? He went back to the entrance to the staircase and tried the door. Locked, just as the letter said it would be. He turned around again.
“Great,” he said grouchily, “now I gotta go through this funhouse just to beat up a nerd. I gotta learn to control my temper.” He walked back over to the table and re-read the letter, then looked around at the doors. Which should he choose? He pondered this question for several minutes. He walked to the left door, reached for the handle, and stepped back. Then he walked to the door to the right. He grabbed the handle and opened it. He walked into a another room, just as bare as the one he had just left. Again, there was only a table and an envelope. He walked to the table and opened the new envelope. The note inside had only two words: Incorrect door. George laughed.
“Oooh, I picked the wrong door,” he said, snickering “what’s gonna happen to me? What’s gonna happen to poor Geo-“
He was cut off by a creaking noise. He turned just as the door closed. His smile faded and was replaced with a frown. He walked over to the door and tried to open it. The knob wouldn’t turn. It was locked. He kept jiggling the knob, and pushing, but the door simply would not budge. George was just about to try to kick the door down when he heard another sound behind him. It was a scraping noise. He turned. What he saw terrified him. The wall opposite to him was moving closer. It moved toward him slowly, inching its way across the room. George turned and began hitting his shoulder against the door. Over and over he struck it, but it didn’t budge. He turned back again. The wall was halfway across the room now. He turned to the door whimpering. He began to kick it over and over again. He was running out of time. in a couple seconds the wall would be pushing against his back.
He kicked the door one last time. this time it flew inwards, revealing the blank room with three doors. He rushed inside. He heard the door slam shut behind him on its own. He sank to his knees and sat there, catching his breath and trying to slow his racing heart, which was galloping like a racehorse. When it slowed and his breath was caught, he tried to make it to his feet. He made it up, then walked over to the table. On it was another envelope. With shaky fingers, he struggled to undo the fastening and open it. Inside was a note in Billy’s distinct cursive handwriting. It read:

Dear George,





Hello, my tormentor. Did you enjoy the little surprise my aunt left you? I am glad you escaped it though. This is simply too much fun to kill you so quickly. So, I feel it is my just duty to tell you which is the correct door. That way, we can have some more fun! The door that you are looking for is the one opposite to the door that leads to the stairs. Go through it to the next room, where your second test is waiting for you.
Sincerely,

















Billy Thomas
George looked up. The center door looked back at him, as if it was waiting. George walked to it and stopped. How could he trust Billy? For all George knew, there was a monster on the other side waiting to maul him! But, what if this letter was telling the truth? If it was, then he could go through the door and be that much closer to leaving.
He decided to trust Billy. He walked to the door and opened it, getting ready to slam it shut again should anything spring out at him. But nothing did. The door led to a dark, foreboding and thankfully empty hallway. There were no windows at all. At the other end of its length there was a door. Other than that, there were no doors either. He began walking down the hallway, the wooden boards creaking under his sneakers. As he got closer to the door, he began to hear a small sound that was getting louder and louder. It sounded like scratching, but he couldn’t tell for sure what it was. As he moved down the hall, he realized the sound was coming from behind the door.
By the time he reached the door, the scratching had become very loud. George didn’t want to open the door, but knew he had to. He couldn’t turn back, after all. He grabbed the knob and turned it slowly. He opened the door with equal slowness, and looked inside. Instantly he slammed the door shut. That hallway on the other side had been moving all around, as if it were alive! George backed away, and that was when he heard Billy’s voice.
It came from all around, yet there were no speakers in the hallway. It just came from nowhere. He sounded happy, and as he laughed he said: “ah, ah, ah. That is a big no-no, George. We can’t have you backing out of the fun now, can we? Open that door, or ill send something real nasty to make you. How does a couple dozen zombies sound hm? Or perhaps a troll?”
George quickly walked back to the door. “Uh-huh, that’s what I thought, George.” Billy’s voice said in a satisfied tone. Then it was gone, as if it had never been there. He opened the door again, and this time he walked in. When he touched the ground on the other of the door, he heard terrified squeaks and felt warm fuzzy things around his feet. He looked down and saw why he had thought the floor had been moving. Every inch of it was covered in large, gray rats. They scurried this way and that, climbing over each other in their hurry. One got close to George and bit his leg. “Ow!” George yelped. He kicked the rat, which went sailing through the air and into a furry, gray sea.
Then George ran. He went straight for the door on the other end of the hallway, crushing and kicking the rats as he went, covering his ears with his hands so he wouldn’t hear their squeaks of pain and agony. The rats were everywhere. They dropped on him from the ceiling, climbed up his legs from the floor, jumped at him from the walls. They all seemed to want to ride him away, like he was a horse at the fair and all the kids decided to ride at the same time. he wanted to swipe them off, but if he did, he’d hear the squeaking, and he couldn’t bear that. Let them bite him, or wriggle down his pants or up his shirt. Anything at all, except for the squeaking. If he heard it anymore then he had to, he would go crazy.
Finally, after what seemed like hours of being bit and scratched, he made it to the end of the hallway. He removed his hands from his ears and grabbed the knob of the door, wrenched it open, jumped through and slammed it shut. Then, he did something he hadn’t done since he was six and had been spanked for punching his little brother in the nose: he fell in a heap on the ground, and bawled his eyes out. Tough George Cornella was crying like a small child that had crapped in his pants on the playground. What made it worse, he could feel someone watching him do it. And he knew that was. That nerd Billy Thomas. The one who’d caused this. And that made him angry. He stopped crying and got up. Yes, Billy had caused this. If he’d just stayed down instead of getting up and talking back, this wouldn’t be happening. He looked around the room. There was a door on the other side, and that was it. No table with a note, no other doors to choose from, just that one. George walked to it and wrenched it open, his anger burning inside of him, ready to explode out at anything that got in his way. He found himself in a large room with windows all along the wall to his left. He looked out and saw it was evening, the sky a dark purple with pink at the fringes. At first he thought he was alone, but then a figure stepped out of the shadows on the opposite end of the room. The figure was small but somehow powerful, as though it commanded respect. George squinted but still could not see who the figure’s face in the dim light. But he did not need to. the figure spoke, and it confirmed the suspicions George had already had about who it was.
“Hello, George.” The figure said.
“Billy! You ready to have your teeth knocked in?” George said.
“No, but I am ready for my revenge on you.”
“Haven’t you gotten enough revenge already? And didn’t your aunt say there were three challenges?”
“She did. And there are three challenges, George. The third is standing right in front of you.”
George lost it. He just about fell on the floor in gales of laughter. “You? You’re the third challenge? Little Billy Thomas?”
“Yes, George,” Billy said quietly, “Yes I am. And if you can get past me, you may leave. But I don’t think that’s going to happen. You see, my aunt used her magic to set up your first two challenges, but I have something much more simple in mind. And more lethal.” Billy held up his left hand. He held something shiny in it.
“What’s that.” George asked with a laugh, “a toy or some-” George stopped. He grew cold. The shiny object in Billy’s hand was not a toy. It was a pistol.
“Billy what are you planning to do with that?” George asked, barely keeping his voice from trembling, “you’re not gonna shoot me are ya? Not old George, your good buddy!”
Now it was Billy’s turn to laugh. “Buddy?” he said, laughing “you’ve tortured me since the first grade you cowardly sonuvabitch! And your saying were buddies?” Billy began circling around towards George, coming from the right. George began circling towards the left. Halfway around, Billy stopped, still pointing the pistol at George. George stopped as well, his back to the windows.
“Come on Billy,” George said. He was close to crying again, and his voice was shaky. “I never did anything that bad to ya.”
This got Billy laughing again. “Nothing that bad? Nothing that bad? You and your moron friends nearly broke my frikin’ nose today. In the fourth grade, you broke my arm at recess when I wouldn’t give you my lunch money. In third grade, you busted my glasses and gave me a black eye just because you felt like it. You’ve done those and a thousand other things to me in the past years, and none of that is that bad?!”
He began advancing on George. He fired a shot at him. It zipped past George’s ear and broke the window directly behind him. George kept backing away until he could feel the window ledge on the back of his legs. Billy stopped, the gun aimed directly at George. The next shot would definitely not miss its mark. Billy smiled.
“Goodbye, George.” He said, and pulled the trigger.
The bullet slammed into George’s shoulder, and the force of it made him fall backwards and out the window. He had been on the fourth floor, the highest in the building, and when he hit the ground, he died after five agonizing minutes. He had hit the walk coming up to the house, and that had cracked open his skull. Any normal person would have died instantly, but to this day people will swear on their lives that George was alive for at least a few minutes, because Billy and his aunt would not let him die right away. No, they wanted him to feel that pain as his brains oozed from his skull and his neck and limbs snapped like twigs. Brittle, dead twigs.