Gray House

The Gray House had been abandoned long ago. Everyone knew that.

Everyone also knew, or so they said, that something special lay waiting within the rotting walls of the old artist’s house.

It was that treasure which drew Conner, Greg, and Donovan to the house on a cold night in January.

They snuck in, sensibly, through the broken window, searching very slowly and very carefully. As they kicked away beer cans and broken bottles, Conner commented how lucky they were that their parents had a belated New Year’s party to attend,

“If that snowstorm hadn’t hit, then it wouldn’t have been rescheduled,” he mentioned giddily.

“Now that treasure is all ours for the taking,” his brother, Greg, agreed.

“I’m not so sure about this, guys,” Conner admitted. “Wasn’t that Gray guy a little crazy.”

“Beats me,” Donovan shrugged. “He died years ago so I never met him.”

“W-well, how do we know the treasure is even real?”

Suddenly, Greg let out a long, low whistle.

“Hey, you guys better come check this out,” Greg said. “I think I found his ‘stash.’” The boys followed their friend into a large round conservatory. Broken boards lined the glass walls, and the disheveled stacks of old canvas made it clear it was once a private studio.

“I wonder why these things are still here,” Donovan muttered, turning over one painting with his foot. It was a red and black menace of an abstract painting. “Weren’t the supposed to get more valuable after he kicked the bucket?”

“Not necessarily. He may have been one of those old ‘has-beens’ or ‘never-was’s,” answered Greg. He observed a large pastel still-life, one that was decorated with rotting flowers and giant bugs. He raised his eyebrows. “Or maybe ‘too gruesome’ in his case.”

“This one seems okay,” said Conner. He cocked his head to one side and studied the only painting anyone had bothered to hang:

A black metal door, ornately decorated, seemed to shine slightly under the light of his flashlight. Conner blinked, for a moment half convinced that the silver handle had glinted in the light. His friends joined him and briefly studied the door.

“Neat,” Greg said. “Now let’s get back to it.” With that he led the way out of the studio, and the boys continued their adventure through the house.

“Nothing in here!” called Donovan from the kitchen.

“Nada!” Greg whispered from the den.

“Nothing ye – wait a minute…” Conner knitted his eyebrows together as his companions joined him in the stairway. They followed the beam of light to a black, ornate door hanging against the wall.

“Wasn’t that painting downstairs before?”

“It looks like it’s part of a series. See! That door looks different – it’s opened a crack.”

“Huh… this guy had a weird sense of humor.”

“C’mon, we still have to check the upstairs.” They then hurried on their way and searched the bedrooms one by one.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me! There’s another stupid door up here!” Greg called from his room. This door, however, black and ornate, was opened a little wider, allowing the viewer to peer deeper into the darkness beyond.

Each boy commented how this -guy was definitely a freak… while trying to mask their own growing sense of dread.

“You know,” Conner mentioned as casually as he could. “I think Mom said she was going to try to get home early tonight.”

“Yeah,” Donovan agreed. “It is getting pretty late.”

“We might have better luck later, when there’s more light,” Greg commented, already heading back down the stairs. Soft white light bounced ahead of them as they hurried – and then froze instantly at the sound of a low, gurgling growl. Against his better judgement, Donovan followed the noise, his eyes falling upon the black door once again. This time it revealed four long, decaying fingers gripping the door from behind. A single red eye gazed out at him from the depths of the picture. Just then the painting growled again.

“Did you guys see…?”

“Go, go, GO!” Greg hollered, yanking his brother by the sleeve. They sprinted down the stairs and back towards the window they entered. They stopped dead in their tracks when they noticed the painting that had suddenly appeared on the wall right next to their escape: the door opened wider, an entire reaching for them… the red eyes had grown larger and more malicious. The boys screamed and spun around to charge the front door. They nearly sent it flying off its hinges as they burst outside into the cold January weather, and the growling turned to a frustrated scream as they fled back down the street.

Now Conner, Greg, and Donovan swore up and down to each other that what they saw was real – and would always remain their secret. For one thing, their mothers would kill them if they knew they had snuck out that late. And for another thing, who in their right mind would believe a story like that? And lastly, once the house was torn down a few weeks later, they decided there was nothing left to worry about. Conner had even forgotten it about months later, when he walked in the back door from hanging out with the boys.

“Honey!” called his mother, “I need your eyes! Can you come in here for a minute?”

“What’s up, mom?” he asked, joining her in the living room.

“I picked up the prettiest thing at the flea market today and… Conner! What’s wrong?!” she screamed as he fainted on the spot.

The black door to the old Gray House hung prominently on the wall behind the couch, a gleeful chuckle echoing from its depths.

END