The Warning

by

Pepper L. Bauer

The elderly farmhouse, perched on top of a tree covered rise, created a dark silhouette, blotting out a portion of the sparkling expanse of the Milky Way spattered across the crisp, fall, night-time sky. On the horizon an orange harvest moon hovered, too sleepy and plump to rush upwards.

Inside, Joan Farna sat slumped in her favorite recliner reading a book. She had just finished putting her two sons, Chris, and Earl, to bed and now it was time to relax.

Joan stretched sore muscles and thought about the hectic week that her family had finally completed. They moved into this magnificent old farmhouse from their apartment in the city. The place had languished empty for five years, and took a lot more work to whip into shape than anticipated, but the results were worth it. Satisfied, she looked around her. "I love this house!"

Joan’s husband Paul was a long distance trucker. He had to leave that afternoon and drive cross-country, but she felt very comfortable in her big dream house. The trees rubbing the eaves sounded like voices whispering and the creaking of settling wood reminded her of footsteps, but intellectually, she knew better. She smiled contentedly. The strange noises only served to make her new house quainter.

Suddenly, an ear-piercing scream shattered Joan’s serenity. Instantly, she realized it came from her sons’ room. Struggling out of the recliner, she raced up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Breathless, she flung open the bedroom doors and peered into the murky darkness. She could make out the forms of her children sitting up, ramrod straight in their beds, crying.

Joan rushed to the nearest bed and threw her arms around her son Chris. "What’s the matter?" she asked holding his shuddering form close. Earl climbed out of his bed and scurried over to Chris’s bed; climbing up and clinging to his mom like a baby monkey. Joan hugged them both and rocked. "It’s O.K., I’m here."

Chris mumbled into his mom’s chest between sobs. "I saw a head on my pillow. It was real old, and it..it..talked to me." A fresh spasm of hiccups and tears interrupted his story. Joan patted his back. He continued. "It said to get out of this house." Earl nodded vigorously. "I saw something too."

Joan tried to calm the boys, but both refused to sleep upstairs in their bedroom. It was too late to argue, so she let them sleep downstairs in the living room.

The next morning dawned vibrant and clear, a perfect Halloween day. Joan scurried around getting the boys ready for school. With their lunches, Halloween costumes, books and other daily necessities to gather, the family nearly forgot the excitement of the night before.

Joan waved at the departing school bus and turned to enter the farmhouse. Ginger, her beagle, always at her heals, refused to come inside with her. "Come on girl, treats!" she coaxed. The little dog ignored her, ran down to the barn, and sat just inside the door. "Must be new house nerves," Joan thought. "She’ll get over it."

Around ten o’clock in the morning, the big old-fashioned doorbell chimed loudly cutting through the stillness like a knife, giving Joan a start. "Quit being childish", she chided herself. Peeking out the peephole, she saw her neighbor, Amy, holding a coffeepot and a plate of rolls. She pulled open the door and invited her inside. "I’m the welcome wagon," Amy laughed as she stepped over the threshold.

Joan took Amy on a tour of the house, and then they talked all morning. Eventually Joan mentioned the strange nightmare her son experienced the night before. She noticed a strange look on Amy’s face. "What’s wrong?" she queried.

Amy squirmed in her seat. "Don’t you know about Mr. Beatrix, the previous owner of this house? He slept in the same bedroom your sons sleep in. His bed was in the exact same spot Chris’s is in. He died in that bed five years ago today, on Halloween." An involuntary shiver ran up Joan’s spine.

Amy continued, "Did you know he built this house himself, by hand, and had a very strong attachment to it? He always said he would never leave this house and no one else would ever live here. That’s one reason it sat empty for so long. Everyone around here is a little leery of it, and when outsiders looked at it, they never felt comfortable. Everyone was surprised when you moved in."

Amy smiled, and took Joan’s hand. "Surprised, but glad. Come over to our house tonight. We’re having a Halloween party for the kids. There aren’t many places they can go trick or treating out here in the country, so we always host a party. It should be fun, and Chris and Earl will meet new friends."

"O.K.", Joan smiled. "We’ll be there."

The Halloween party was great. Joan, Chris, and Earl had such a good time, they stayed longer than they meant to. Walking home across the adjoining field hand in hand, they smelt the heady fragrance of wood smoke in the autumn air. They all took deep breaths. Life in the country was wonderful.

Joan and the kids entered their home and turned on the living room light. Everything was quiet. Too quiet. The Grandfather clock ticking in the hall seemed unusually loud. It sounded like the pulsating lifeblood of an animate object.

Joan shook her head. "Quit imagining things," she told herself.

"Time for bed, it’s late", Joan ordered the boys as she took their coats and hung them up in the hall closet. "I won’t sleep upstairs Mom", Chris said determinedly. "Me either", Earl echoed.

Joan looked at her children’s serious little faces. They were all going to have to sit down, and talk about the nightmare they had last night, but not tonight. It was very late, and the boys needed to be in bed. "O.K., you can sleep in the living room again, but don’t make a habit of it."

"Yah, Mom. You’re the greatest", the boys yelled as they scurried to make their beds on the couch.

Later, as Joan watched her sleeping boys in the living room, she sniffed and noticed that the smoky smell had permeated the house. She thought of Ginger out in the barn. The dog just wouldn’t come inside. She tried all day to tempt her in with treats, but the stubborn little beagle just whimpered and went further back into the building.

Joan shrugged as she prepared for bed. She couldn’t understand it. It wasn’t like Ginger to act so strange.

An hour later, Joan woke with a start. What woke her? The house was strangely silent as though it were holding it’s breath and waiting for something. "For what?" she wondered sleepily.

Joan turned over, stretched, and lazily took a deep breath. Suddenly she was wide-awake and gagging. Smoke! Lot’s of it! The house was filled with smoke!

Joan rolled over and fell out of bed, banging her elbow, as she tried to jump up and run. The sheets were tangled around her legs and they tripped her as she tried to escape. "Chris!" she screamed, "Earl, run!"

Stumbling down the steps in the smoke, Joan reached the living room, felt for the boys, grabbed them by their hands, and yanked them towards the front door. She felt like she had a blanket over her head; she couldn’t see a thing. "Don’t panic, don’t panic", she whispered to herself. She had to stay calm for their sake.

After what seemed to Joan like an eternity, they lurched out the door and into the front yard, coughing and retching. Drained, they collapsed to the ground, their legs too weak to hold them up.

The young family lay panting in the cold, wet grass, crying as they watched their new home burn. It was totally engulfed in flames. The blazing timbers shrieked and roared. With a shiver, Joan realized the noises sounded like someone in extreme pain: or grief. She wrapped her arms tighter around the boys; the act of hugging them helped dispel the overwhelming feelings of loneliness and loss she felt in the air.

The next week was one big blur. Joan contacted Paul, and he rushed back to find that his home was a shell, and his family was safe, but scared. The Fire Marshal investigated the fire, but could find no definitive cause. It was a mystery.

Joan felt she needed some kind of closure. On a chilly November morning, while the children were in school, and Paul was back on the road, she headed to the farm by herself. She had an intense urge to go inside the remains of her house.

Joan stood outside the scorched skeleton of her beautiful dream-home and took a deep breath. She was afraid she’d start crying again. Bracing herself, she carefully slipped in through the charred doorframe. Little bits of blackened charcoal rained down on her head. She nervously brushed them out of her hair.

Joan gingerly walked on the brittle floor. "This is really stupid"’ she thought to herself. The floorboards were riddled with blackened holes, resembling moldy Swiss cheese. She had to be very sure of her footing.

Joan spotted the family Bible on the floor. The table burnt all around it, but the Bible seemed untouched. She picked it up and brushed it off, sticking it under her arm. On the wall a paint-by-numbers picture of the Last Supper hung unscathed, the apostle’s eyes watching her progress across the kitchen. Goosebumps tickled her arms and she shivered. "I’ve got a bad feeling about this."

Joan stepped from the kitchen into the living room, nerves taut as a bowstring. She looked up; involuntarily gasped, and stopped, her heart threatening to pound it’s way out of her chest. There was a giant, ragged, hole in the floor, right where Chris’ bed had been upstairs. The bed fell through both the upstairs floor, and the first floor, and crashed into the basement.

Joan hugged the Bible to her chest and swayed. She closed her eyes and played back scenes in her mind. Chris crying about the head in his bed and it’s warning. Amy's story about the old man and his beloved house.

Joan opened her eyes and stared up at the opening in the ceiling; then inching forward, she peered into the fissure that led to the basement. She thought she could see the remains of her child’s bed in the darkness, and something else. There seemed to be something in the bed.

Joan carefully crouched over the hole, trying to get a better view. Angling for position, she thought she might be able catch a glimpse of the thing in the shadows. All of a sudden, a scream ripped from her throat, and into the frigid air, as she realized that the object in the bed was the smiling head of a little old man.