My New Residence

I resided in 253 Dead Man's Lane in a little town in Delaware about a year ago. I can't recall the name. But it is the setting for this narrative. There's a reason it's called Dead Man's Lane, I've realized. I no longer reside there. Because of the incidents that transpired at my prior apartment, I am currently residing in an undisclosed area. I don't want them to figure out where I am. I hope this makes sense.

The town was really small, with just one stoplight, so little that if you blink while driving past it, you'll miss the entire town, which was ideal for me. It was a nice respite from the rush and bustle of city life, which had gradually depleted me to the point of fatigue. So, when my supervisor informed me that our firm was downsizing and that I would be let go, I cheerfully accepted the severance pay and went on with my life.

I grew up in a tiny town, so I was familiar with the peace and simplicity it provided, and I want to return. So, while sitting in my large city apartment, I took out my laptop and began searching for small town life, houses for sale, and other such terms. I came to an ancient Victorian mansion that was erected in 1859. It was stunning. Two stories, a balcony, a front porch, and a very little room at the top of the house with an octagon shaped window. For some reason, I'd always wanted to live in a house like this, so it was like a dream come true. The price wasn't horrible; in fact, it was rather reasonable, even inexpensive by certain standards. So I dialed the number listed in the advertisement. I made plans with the elderly guy on the other end to come look at the house three days later.

When we arrived at the house, it looked just like the photo in the advertisement. Except for one minor element that the advertisement omitted. The home stood alone in the center of a massive dirt field. There are no trees or shrubs in the area, only a dirt field. At that time of year, a farmer should have had corn or anything growing in a field that large, yet there was none. This struck me as strange. Aside from the home, the only item in the field was a single electric pole with lines flowing from it to the house and a transformer on top. The roadway was at least a quarter mile long, with other little roads branching off of it and leading to other portions of the field before returning to the main route. One road encircled the entire area.

house. It seemed to take an eternity to get there. Once there, I met an elderly man who introduced himself as Bernie, Benny, or anything with a B in it. I'm not sure what happened. He stated that he was the owner of the house and that I was welcome to look around. When I inquired whether he was coming in, he got pale and responded, "No, I'll wait right here, thank you." That, in retrospect, should have been a red flag. An owner who would enter his own home. Red Flag Warning!!!! But I was naive, so I ignored it and went into the home by myself. Given the dirt field surrounding it, I anticipated it to be run down and unclean, but to my surprise, it wasn't.

It was spotlessly clean. Completely equipped and resembling something out of a magazine. I walked through each room in amazement of its splendor. Except for the little chamber with the octagonal window. I couldn't discover a door or a stairway that led there. This, too, struck me as unusual. And then there's the basement. I've never been a lover of basements, so I decided I'd go check it out sometime. So, what's the big deal? It's a cellar. I met the elderly guy outside and we negotiated and agreed on a price; he informed me that everything in the home was included in the purchase, subject to one condition. There could be no furniture taken from the house or transferred to another portion of the house. Everything must remain precisely as it is. You may utilize any of the appliances, books, and similar items. However, they must be restored to their current location. You may add to it, but nothing can be taken away. Given that all of the furniture and other items were from the Victorian era, I decided not to get rid of them and agreed to this requirement. I'm going to skip the bit about going to the bank and getting financing and all that nonsense. In any case, no one really cares.

Moving day was an exciting day for me. I finally obtained the house of my dreams, I recently began a new career, and I'm back to my peaceful existence. I left all of my furniture and belongings at my former apartment, simply bringing my clothing and toiletries with me. I believed the next guy or female may benefit from some of it. Anyway, I ran into the elderly man at his residence. I'm simply going to call him Mr. B. because I can't remember his name. I subsequently discovered that Mr. B. and his wife of 43 years, Isabella, lived just two streets away. I never had the opportunity to meet Isabella, and I wish I had. He was a retired steel mill worker. His body told the story. He was ancient, but the man had muscle. He had acquired the house 30 years ago on the exact terms that he had informed me. He had never lived at the house. According to him, his wife was deeply concerned by it from the moment she saw it. He had already attempted to sell it several times. But the transactions constantly fell through for one reason or another. Until that time. Mr. B gave me the keys. As he did so, he grasped my hand firmly, drew me to him, and murmured something into my right ear. "Beware of the rain," he murmured quietly. "There's a reason he said it to me," I realized afterwards. He then hung his head and went away slowly. I'm not sure how he knew, but he did.

My first few weeks in my new home were rather unremarkable. The weather was pleasant, with a gentle wind. I even opened a few of windows upstairs to let some fresh air in. I had inquired about opening the windows with Mr. B. He replied that was OK because they were a part of the property and not personal belongings. As a result, I left them open for a few days. Because the house was already equipped, I hung up my clothing on my first night, which took all of 20 minutes. I kept my shampoos and other toiletries in the master bathroom, which was nearly as spacious as my bedroom. Then we headed to the grocery shop to get some food and beverages. I can't recall the name; it's not really relevant. I spent the remainder of my time going through each room and viewing what the house has to offer. A week or two later, I discovered the door that led to the small chamber with the octagonal window. I decided to create my bedroom out of a secret door panel placed in the room's closet. Something urged me to push on the back of the closet for some unknown bizarre reason, so I did. The door swung open, showing a spiral black metal stairway leading to the chamber in question. By today's standards, it was a very small space approximately the size of a walk-in closet. In that room, there was an old desk directly under the octagon window, with a standing lamp to its left.

Old wood boards for the walls and ceiling. The floor seemed to be fresh new hardwood. So I decided to make it my office, where I would write. Because I had a beautiful view of the dirt field from my window. What better location to get inspiration? By the way, that's a joke.

The remaining rooms in the house included five bedrooms, a large kitchen, a parlor, a living area, three full bathrooms, a study, and a basement. Oh, that cellar. I decided to go check it out one night since I was bored and needed to do something. That was a terrible idea. I'm not kidding when I say the basement was eerily quiet. The basement door had little holes all over the borders, top, bottom, and right side of the door, as if it had been nailed shut at some point. The steps leading down to the basement were ancient and unstable, and they were likely to collapse at any minute. Unlike the rest of the house, which was spotless,

like I said in prior paragraphs The basement, on the other hand, was not. There was dust, grime, and cobwebs all over the place. It had an odd odor. I had no idea what it was at the time, but I do now. Along the far wall, there were five dust-covered file cabinets; to the right, there appeared to be two metal surgical tables covered in white sheets; and in the middle of these tables, there was a small stand with a large glass container with tubes running out of it and some sort of pump machine behind it. Knives, gloves, and masks were strewn across the floor. It seems like no one had been down here in a long time. I dashed up the stairs and slammed the basement door as soon as I could. And I never went back down there. What exactly was that location? A month or so had passed. I couldn't get what Mr. B. spoke to me on the day I moved in out of my thoughts all these time. So I truly miss coffee every morning when sipping my coffee. Anyway, I'd check the weather app on my phone to see what the forecast was for the day. It was going to be partly overcast with a 60% probability of rain that day. Okay, now we'll see what we have to be terrified of. It began to rain at 4 p.m., as predicted by the app. It wasn't for long. But that's how it all began.

As I was working in my office, the rain began to pour. Almost immediately, I began to hear music, not today's music, but orchestral and large band music. It couldn't be a car because I didn't have a radio up there and I was in the middle of a field. I began to be concerned. Where did it come from? I climbed down the spiral staircase to my room while it was still playing. I entered the hallway and went to the room across from mine. It came to a halt as soon as I touched the doorknob. And so did the rain. That was strange, I thought. It had to be my imagination, the rain striking the gutters generating acoustic music noises throughout the home. Something. There has to be a purpose behind this. After a time, I forgot about it and went about my business. I ran into Mr. B. in the hardware shop a few days later. When I informed him what had happened, he didn't appear astonished; instead, he just remarked, "I tried to tell you," and then went.

Two weeks later, the day that changed my life forever occurred. I was at the office. I'd gotten a job as an assistant manager at a nearby department shop. The income wasn't as fantastic as it had been at my prior position, but it wasn't as stressful. During my shift, a stranger approached me and inquired, "You own the old Bennett property out on Dead Mans Lane, don't you?" I was hesitant to respond, but I eventually responded, "Sure, yes I do." He was a huge man, a biker.

I'm in my fifties, with long gray hair and tats. "You're braver than I am; I wouldn't go near that spot," he remarked. "I hope you discovered Jesus, because you're going to need Him." That day's journey home seemed unnerving. Everything that had happened was beginning to affect me. I was tense. Going home makes me nervous. That strange basement, after what this person said, what Mr. B. said, and the music thing. I was tense. I was so tense that as I stepped in the door, instead of putting my keys on the shelf near the entrance, I placed them on the floor. I hurled my keys, shattering a tiny porcelain ballerina knack off the shelf. Oh my gosh!! I exclaimed loudly. Something has not only been relocated, but it has also been broken. There was no way to restore it. Then I realized what it was. A slow growling sound like a ferocious beast coming from the basement entrance, then the kitchen, then upstairs, then everywhere. I couldn't stand it any longer. I clutched my head and knelt on my knees. stooping into the fetal position "Stop!!!" I screamed. Stop!!! I apologize. Please halt!!!" It didn't end there. It became very noisy. I could see the basement door open fast and then crash shut from the floor. We're doing it all the doors right now. Except for the front door, which stayed shut for some reason. A very chilly air blew right through my body. Every light in the house was flickering on and off. both on and off I was able to get to my feet. I'm sprinting down the corridor into the kitchen. The main floor bathroom door sprang open, slamming into me and sending me backwards into the corridor. I slipped and fell on the ground. I must have had a concussion because the next thing I remember is waking up on the floor to the ringing of my doorbell. Over and over again, buzzing. Except for the humming, everything was quiet and tranquil. The buzzing quickly escalated into a banging on the front door. I gathered my courage and stood to answer the door when I heard, "Nick, Nick, I know you're in there, Nicholas!!!!, answer the friggin door." I hurriedly opened the door to see Mr. B standing there, shivering and sweating, not the collected guy I remembered. "There's going to be a pretty big storm, and we need to get out of here." I can't let you stay here alone in good conscience; we have to go now!!

The storm clouds moved in quickly. At a never-before-seen rate. Thunder began to rumble. I explained to Mr. B. that I had shattered a knickknack. In his panic, he exclaimed, "That's the least of your concerns, let's leave." The rain began to pour heavily. As the storm raged on, lightning shattered. That music began to play again, but this time Mr. B heard it as well. Then what occurs next appears to be something out of a horrible horror film. Mr. B. appears to be drawn into the home. Almost knocking me down in the process, as well as sliding him across the floor and throwing him into a table against the neighboring wall, The table leg was broken, causing it to tumble to the floor. Something else has broken. The front door smashed so forcefully that it completely shattered the front two windows. Allowing rain to enter the home. I dashed over to see whether Mr. B was all right. "It's too late, son of a b*tch. "We're never going to get out of here now," Mr. B said angrily. The roaring began again, but this time it seemed to be directly in front of us. I felt a severe burning sensation on my left arm and lifted my sleeve to check what it was. I noticed three scratch marks, one of which had blood trickling from it. Mr. B. grabbed his neck, and when I lifted his hand, I noticed the same three scrapes, only this time they were all bleeding. It's a nasty bleed. The home is starting to come to life. He yelled. We must proceed upstairs. When a lightning bolt struck the electric pole outside, the home went dark. Now that I'm in complete darkness, I can hear that music and that snarling. And we're both bleeding. I quickly took out my phone and turned on the light so we could at least see. Mr. B's phone was shattered in the collision. I switched on my lamp. Only to discover the cellar door slowly opening on its own, the growling becoming louder, and what appeared to be a black mass of goo spilling out the basement entrance and speeding towards us. I yelled, "Watch out!" and grabbed Mr. B. I grabbed his arm and yanked him out of the way, narrowly evading the sludge. We dashed up the steps in a frenzy. What should have been 20 to 25 steps became 30 or 40. Mr. B., this home is alive. Yelled. Finally making it to the summit. I shone the light along the second-floor hallway of doors. The corridor seemed to be longer than I recalled, with additional doors that I had never seen before. As though the house was alive, the walls were extending and shrinking. There was a crimson material present. Include them for all I know, flowing from the roof down the walls, resembling blood. My room was at the far end of the hall. Mr. B and I dashed towards the final door on the left. This is my room. We ran and ran and ran. And just as the crimson ooze was about to touch the floor, I arrived at my bedroom door, grabbed the handle, and rapidly opened it, hoping to see Mr. B. standing behind me. hw, on the other hand, was not. I'm shining my light down the corridor. That seemed obvious to me. He was about a fourth of the way to the door, trying to run as quickly as he could but going nowhere. It was as though he were jogging on a treadmill. The crimson material spilled down onto the floor and made a beeline towards Mr. B. Give me your hand, I yelled. I reached as far as I could with my hand. Mr. B. added his. However, it was too late. The crimson material got into his sneaker. 'Mr. B.' As the liquid began to burn him, he screamed in anguish. The scent of burning flesh permeated the corridor. Mr. B. burst into flames when more of the chemical reached him. In my brain, I can still hear his screaming. I just lasted a few seconds before it vanished, as did my companion. Mr. B. had left.

I dashed into my room. I could see what looked to be flames from my bedroom window. When the lightning struck the pole, the transformer must have caught fire, burning the home as well. The outside of the home was on fire, but not the interior, and the rain was having no effect. What on earth is this place? I returned my light to the chamber, Shadows in the shape of persons appeared in the walls. Some are short, some are tall. Then the voices began:

Women: I'm freezing!!!! Mommy!  Help—Me!!!, says the old guy.

I dashed up to my office, which was the only place left to go. I could see rain pouring down and lightning bolts lighting up the sky from my window. The voices persisted. Down below, I could see that the rain had come down so hard and fast that it had washed away all the earth in the field, exposing bone remains all around the home. Then it dawned on me. Oh my goodness!!! This was a funeral home built on cemetery grounds, not a residence. They have to have taken down the headstones and left the bodies. That explains everything. In disbelief I took a step back, my back collapsing into the wall and falling down into a sitting posture. My phone had shattered on the floor. The light occurred to be shining on the room's entryway. I murmured to myself, "I don't know," "I don't know." I noticed a dark mass in the shape of a human slithering through the doorway and over to me out of the corner of my eye. It shrieked a horrific cry before reaching out with its hand like a thong, as if to choke me. As the shadow blanketed the room, I shouted and covered my eyes with my hands.

Someone, somebody saw the flames and called the fire service. I learned from my landlord and police officers that when they discovered me, I was in the basement, laying on one of the tables and murmuring to myself. I don't remember any of that. Mr. B's corpse was never found. I relayed my tale to the cops and a man dressed as Judge Judy, and they all looked at me as if I was insane. I AM NOT MAD!!!

I like my new apartment. It’s kind of small, like a studio apartment. I got a bed and a dresser, a nightstand and a lamp. Best of all, the rent is free. I don’t have to work anymore!! My neighbors are nice, a little quirky if you ask me, but nice none the less. Theres a tv that we share in the living room, a game room where we gather and play cards and ping pong and games of that sort. I have my own bathroom, which is nice. Food is included, it’s mostly just mush However, it is still food. Security is strict here; there are cameras everywhere, and there ARE regulations. If you violate those regulations, the landlord will relocate you to a much smaller apartment with no windows, but will provide you with this extremely nice jacket that allows you to hug yourself. That clothing is appealing to me. Every day, a group of wonderful ladies come over and leave us small white pieces of candy. They can be different hues at times, but they are generally white. They can even arrive at night. Oh, I have to leave now. It's time for bed. I'm ecstatic. We'll go outside tomorrow. Goodnight!!!