The Girant House

Davis had explored dozens of old buildings in his time. He justified it as exploring the decrepit buildings. He took pictures and videos to post to the ‘net where he had a decent following. Of course, that paid the bills but didn’t keep a man in meth and crack. So the buildings he chose always had something more than amazing pics.
The Girant mansion was no different. Reportedly, the old gothic mansion was abandoned for decades. Also, those in the know suspected a large cache of hidden cash left by its former owner.
So on a stormy night in May he stood on the step of the crumbling building taking pictures. He flicked his video recorder on and started his spiel. “Hey all! Here I am at the legendary Girant building. This mysterious place has been abandoned for 30 years. The last owner James Girant disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Rumor has it prior explorers never returned,” Davis laughed. “We’ll see if that’s true tonight. I’ve done no prior exploration so what’s inside will be as much of a surprise to me as you.” he waved his arm at the camera, and clicked the camera to his hat.
“Let’s find a way in,” he shouted over the roaring wind. He started with the front door, which was 7 feet tall and made of solid oak. Jason tugged on the handle but was unable to budge it. “Seems we’re locked out,” he stated, then slipped a lockpick from his pocket. “That’s never stopped me before,” he took the camera down so he could wink at the audience and replaced it.
Davis bent over the simple lock and began digging around in the keyhole, and after a time it clicked. “Works every time,” he yelled. He slammed a shoulder into the heavy door and it burst open. He yelled as he tumbled onto a splintered ash floor, surrounded by darkness.
He stood and cracked an emergency light and held it forward to show an opulent grand hall. A solid granite fireplace seemed to hold up the bowing plaster walls. Piles of peeled paisley wallpaper covered the floor. The room was topped by a beautiful tin ceiling. He mentally reminded himself to get his restoration buddies to come reclaim it. It was worth thousands of dollars at least.
Despite himself, Davis felt a little uneasy. He was sure he was hearing whispers. A faint stench he wasn’t familiar with set his nerves on edge.
“This is amazing!” he said, able to lower his voice now that he was inside. Davis began his exploration of the house. He wandered through kitchens with valuable silverware and serving dishes. There were 2 studies, and a shelf in one held several first editions of famous works. Some were waterlogged, but all were valuable. He would make a profit even if he didn’t find the supposed treasure.
The further he went, the worse the smell got. The whispers seemed to be calling his name. Everything in him told him to leave except his greed. Greed always won and he dug deeper.
He wandered up the stairs, looking around to keep the audience entertained. “Let’s see these bedrooms. So far I’m not dead, but we’ll push our luck,” he laughed again. His first light was fading so he tossed it to the floor and drew out a new one. The first two bedrooms were boring but had some lovely 19th century tapestries he could sell. His numbers for the place were up to around $10,000 dollars.
As he entered the large master bedroom his camera let out a screech and exploded. He yanked it off, burning his hand as he threw it to the floor. Stomping it out he looked around but jumped as moaning sound called “Ddddaaaavvviiisss”
“Who’s there? Is this Buildingfinders?” the group was a rival to his site, and they worked to preserve buildings. They had cost him tons of money. They documented and restored buildings, rather than pillaging them. It made him sick.
There was only a whistling in the air, no answer. A horrible smell filled the room, like out beef. Ignoring it Davis growled, and pulled a small pistol from his jacket. He was going to get those bastards out of his hair once and for all. He noticed a small pile of something beyond the expensive 4 poster bed. Slowly he approached, a feeling of dread filling him.
As he closed in, something seemed to grasp his ankle. He dropped like a rock, slamming his head hard on the floor. The chemical light rolled out of his hand. Davis muttered under his breath, looking up to see the face of Jason, head of the Buildingfinders. Congealed blood covered his pale face, which hung at an awkward angle from his limp body. His eyes were wide and his mouth frozen open in a soundless scream.
Davis scrabbled away, his scream echoing around the decaying, yet opulent room. As he gained distance what he saw made him scream. The whole mound was a pile of bodies of explorers like himself, stacked like cordwood. A pool of black blood had formed under it, and flies buzzed around the pile.
Davis turned and emptied his stomach on the floor, retching long after he had nothing left to bring up. “Davis is it?” came a voice from the doorway. Jason yelled and pointed his gun at the door.
In the doorway stood an ancient man, his scrawny body wrapped in a crimson robe. His fingernails were sharp and his fingers were caked with blood. “You have invaded my home. I’m afraid I can’t let you leave,” stepping forward, the door slammed behind the man. He flexed his bloody fingers and walked towards Davis.
“Go to hell,” Davis yelled, firing his gun awkwardly. The clip emptied in seconds, the majority missing but 3 bullets struck the old man in the chest. Blood bloomed, creating dark stains on the robe.
The old man glanced down. “Interesting, I didn’t know I could still bleed,” he looked up and smiled. His canines shone white in a mouth where the other teeth were rotted and black. Davis kicked away and got to his feet. He swung his head around wildly and spotted a window. He was on the second floor, but it was his only hope.
As swift as he could, Davis charged the window and slammed through the glass. The plate glass shattered into a thousand little knives, tearing his body to shreds. Glass pierced one eye, blinding it His vision in the other was a blurry red. He watched with fear and relief as the ground approached. A few feet from the ground he stopped. He struggled, his vision fading completely as he felt himself rise.
In moments he felt a thin hand clasp his throat. Daggerlike nails were tearing into his shredded throat. “You won’t deny me my due, my unwanted guest,” the voice sounded faint to Davis. The pain of the glowing canines felt far away as his mind drifted into darkness.

Published by Robert C Hartwell

I live in Northeastern Vermont in the US. I am currently working towards becoming an author. I am the proud father of two great kids.

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