The Horror of the High Wind House

Officers McCabe and Smythe sat in their patrol car. They were familiar enough with each other to be comfortable with silence. McCabe, a wannabe foodie, enjoyed the last of his wife’s ravioli. Smythe, a self-styled intellectual, looked out across the windshield. He focused on a random spot in the inky black horizon. He stared at nothing in particular, just like he had been trained to do so many years ago in boot camp. 

The radio call interrupted both men. 

“You boys win the prize call of the night. Possible break-in at 415 North Shore Drive. Don’t keep the little lady waiting.” 

Sergeant Hetzel never bothered with formalities when making radio calls. Everyone knew he was close to retirement, so they gave up trying to correct him. 

“10-4. We are en-route. ETA in six minutes.” 

McCabe snickered at the unnecessary professionalism of his older colleague. 

“Hey, someone has to do it right around here,” Smythe said. 

“Nobody has done a damn thing right on this island for hundreds of years,” McCabe said with finality. 

The black and white patrol car made a series of small turns before finding the flat dirt road that led to 415 North Shore Drive. The house stood alone, flanked by a parking lot.

The caller stood outside of the house in her all-white pajamas. Her disheveled hair and lack of footwear made both officers understand that this was a serious call—a call made during a panic. 

“Please, help. I think somebody is in my house.” 

“Where are they?” McCabe asked with a sense of urgency. 

“I think down in the basement.” 

“You ‘think’ or do you know for sure?” 

“I don’t know. I hear weird stuff every night, but this time it was so loud and scary. Please! I really think there’s a prowler down there.” 

“Okay, just calm down. We’ll go take a look. You can stay here or sit in the car if you prefer.” 

The woman just stood there and continued to shake. Smythe, the senior man, took point. He and McCabe moved through the house slowly, making sure to clear every room they saw. Given that the house was a massive edifice and full of rooms, closets, and off-kilter alcoves, this took quite a long time. When they were finally done, both men were damp with perspiration. 

“I don’t think anyone is in here,” McCabe said. 

“We still gotta check the basement,” Smythe added. 

McCabe moaned and complained about the size of the house – four stories tall with several apartments on each floor. He also noted how dark it was inside, the overhead lighting failing to illuminate the many deep patches of gloom. 

“You know what this place was, right?” 

McCabe shook his head. 

“Used to be an insane asylum at the turn of the last century. Back then they thought lobotomies and icepicks worked to unscramble sick brains. From what I heard, they turned out a lot of vegetables in the years the place was open. Also abused kids and female patients. One guy, I don’t remember what his name was, was known all across the island as Dr. Satan. Crazy, right?” 

“So how did a home for lunatics come to be the home of some mainlander?”

McCabe, a lifelong islander, used the derogative term for those from outside of the island. It was obvious that the frightened tenant wasn’t a pure local given her lack of the distinctive island brogue. 

“Well, first they tried to turn it into a regular hospital. Then, when I was growing up, it was a home for unwed mothers. Back in those days it was shameful to have a baby out-of-wedlock, so wealthy families from Prince Frederick or Leonardtown would hole up their wayward daughters here until they gave birth. Then the unwanted baby would be put up for adoption in Baltimore or D.C. When that fizzled out, I guess they turned it into apartments.” 

“And she lives here all alone? Pretty nuts.” 

“Yeah, I agree. Maybe it was her cheapest option. I wouldn’t live here, that’s for sure. The guy that trained me, the late, great Captain Brock, hated this place with a passion. Called it the ‘High Wind House’ because of all the false alarm calls they used to get out here. Nurses and others would call about prowlers or burglars, but Captain Brock always said the true culprit was the high winds coming off the Chesapeake.” 

“Any other spooky tales you want to tell me before we finally go down into the basement?” 

“The only other thing I ever heard about this place was so ridiculous that Mrs. Lewis gave me a D- on a class project for repeating it. The guy who built the first home on the island lived right here. His name was Lord Insoll. An English Catholic and a friend of the Calvert family. Came to the island and built a plantation in the 1660s. He got rich fast, then just as suddenly the locals burned down his house and drove him back to England.” 

“What did ye ole Lord Insoll do?” 

“Stories say he was a tyrannical master to his slaves. Kept them chained up in his cellar. Starved and tortured them for his own sadistic pleasure. May have even been a local rapist, ravaging black and white women alike. Sixth grade me did not focus on that though, but rather on the legend that Lord Insoll was a psychotic war vet who had laid waste to most of Bohemia and Germany during some religious war. His best friend and partner-in-crime was a fallen Catholic priest who cursed him after some double dealing involving property, a castle along the Rhine. Supposedly turned Lord Insoll into a werewolf. Would go a long way toward explaining why we have so many damn dog attacks here.” 

Smythe laughed at the absurdity, but McCabe didn’t. The island did suffer from particularly vicious dogs, after all. Just last week, he’d responded to a call concerning an elderly woman who’d nearly had her leg torn off by a pack of feral hounds in the woods. 

“Alright. Enough campfire stories. Let’s clear the basement and go home. We’ve earn our money tonight, partner.” 

Smythe took point again and led McCabe down to the first floor, past the entrance, and past the tiled kitchen. In a tight hallway, on the right-hand side, stood a black door. It had not been painted black, but had rather turned black over time due to mold, rust, and peeling white paint. It smelled dank like an ancient root cellar. Both officers scrunched up their noses in disgust. 

“God,” McCabe said, “I hope the rest of the basement doesn’t smell like this.”

“It probably does,” Smythe chuckled, slowly prying open the door. 

Cautiously they descended into the cavernous space on steps that were nearly rotted through. The immense size of the basement bothered both men. Each corner turned at a sharp angle. There were many empty rooms, small, forgotten cells all covered in dust. Without speaking to each other, both men realized that some of the more dangerous inmates must have served time down here in solitary confinement.

Following the beams of their flashlights, McCabe and Smythe finally came to the end of the basement. Another blackened door. This one opened up into an expansive room with high brick walls. For some inexplicable reason, the concrete floor was colder here than anywhere else.

“Check out the walls. They’re leaking.” 

Smythe pointed his flashlight at the rivulets of liquid coming from the crevices in the masonry. At first it appeared to be simple water, but after smelling a sample which made him gag, he feared that it was some kind of sewage. 

“Remember to wash your hands before we leave, you sicko,” McCabe said. 

“The crap is in my nose now. God, it smells so awful. What does that lady eat?” 

“That is powerful stuff, man. I can smell it too.” 

Both officers erupted into coughing fits. McCabe used his forearm to shove Smythe away. He warned him to keep that rotten water all to himself, but the stench only grew stronger all around them. 

Through wet eyes, Smythe noticed the odd patch darkness in the far corner of the room. Somehow it appeared even blacker than the unlit room itself, and even darker than the starless night outside. 

“Hey McCabe. Look right there.” 

McCabe followed his partner’s finger. 

“You see that, right?” 

Rather than reply, McCabe raised his pistol and shouted “This is the police!” in the direction of the black mass. Smythe raised his own gun as well, but there was no response. 

Then, without warning, all ambient noise ceased. The silence was the opposite of calming. At the same time, the intensity of the awful stench grew inside their noses, forcing Smythe to double over and retch. McCabe steadied himself by leaning against the nearest wall.

As they tried to compose themselves, the strange black mass seemed to draw nearer. It moved as if animated by some elemental force — neither animal nor human. When McCabe and Smythe looked up, they watched in horror as the mass began to expand and swallow up everything before them, the spreading darkness threatening to envelope both men. 

Bright flecks of crimson light appeared within the black mass, serving as a backlight to the deep darkness of its indefinable shape. Both men saw different things within it.

Smythe saw a series of endless gateways – large, hoary arches framing cyclopean scenes that reminded him of ancient churchyards. He remained transfixed as they projected toward him, replaying the same scenes over over and again. The more he focused on the images, the more he felt convinced that the infinite sea of arches was as real as anything he’d seen. 

What McCabe saw was far more personal – a mass of festering black worms and maggots feasting on a woman’s corpse. It looked like his wife, although Miranda McCabe’s perpetual smile had been replaced by a ragged gash of yellowed teeth and putrid flesh. With each bite, the vermin grew bigger and blacker.

He tried to kill the awful image from his mind by unloading his magazine into it. Smythe swiftly followed suit. The crack and boom of their .40-caliber rounds sounded like an artillery barrage within the cloying space. 

Their shots had no effect, and the mass continued its advance. The atrocious stench worsened as well, prompting McCabe’s typically iron stomach to empty out its contents in a hemorrhagic flood. Both officers were forced to their knees in semi supplication. Their sweat, tears, vomit, and noseblood commingled on the cold concrete in a palette of sheer horror.

Without thinking, Smythe reached into his uniform and down past his white undershirt. He grabbed hold of his small golden crucifix, tore off the entire necklace, and desperately flung it at the unholy black mass.

And with that, the oppression suddenly ceased. The room remained as dark as before, but the mass of vast blackness had evaporated instantly.

“What the hell was that?” McCabe asked. 

“I think exactly what you just said. Hell.” 

“What was that you threw at it?” 

Rather than answer, Smythe stood up, balanced himself, and slowly staggered out of the room. McCabe followed after him. The men kept quiet as they doubled back through the basement and up the rotten stairs. The first to break the silence, Smythe, only spoke after theyd made it outside of the house entirely. 

“A crucifix. I threw my cross at it.” 

“It was…evil?” McCabe asked. 

“Who knows? But the trick seemed to work.”

The younger man drank in the cool night air, while Smythe took a seat on the porch steps, slowly pulling himself together. The joy of making it out of the basement alive was written on both of their faces. But McCabe’s face turned sour just as quickly when he realized something else.

“Wait, where’s the tenant?” 

“What?”

“The tenant? Where’d she go?” 

The woman was nowhere in sight. 

“C’mon, she couldn’t have gone far. We have to go and find her.” 

The officers piled in their cruiser and hit the gas.

Neither bothered to ask where they were going. Smythe drove down the dirt road and back out onto High Street, the main thoroughfare on the island. They paid no mind to the low fog that had presently begun to accumulate on the road before them. They were far too concerned with finding the missing tenant, wherever she’d run off to. 

They found the night strangely empty. Even High Street, home to several townie bars with their own booze king regulars, was devoid of all life. Even the streetlights glowed dimmer than usual. It was so unsettling that McCabe pulled up the cruiser’s shotgun from the center console and cradled it in his arms like the world’s most dangerous toddler. Smythe busied himself with the radio. He called several times for Sergeant Hetzel, receiving no reply. 

Again, just as in the basement of the High Wind House, a deep, despairing silence suddenly filled the cruiser. Smythe tried the radio again but found only static. As the car slowly crawled to a halt, the two men observed their increasingly darkening surroundings. Mere moments passed before the jittery McCabe couldn’t take it anymore, stepping right out into the thick of it.

“Hello! Is there anyone out there? We’re searching for a missing woman!” 

Nobody answered McCabe. Smythe stayed put in the car, giving him an eye-level view of the fog all around them. It grew in height and density as McCabe continued his pointless calls for help. Smythe watched in horror as the grayness slowly faded into black. The old familiar fog, a daily presence on the island, now seemed a menacing miasma.

Meanwhile, Smythe had lost McCabe up ahead, but he could still hear him calling out for help. He exited the cruiser with his pistol raised and a fresh magazine in place. Using McCabe’s voice as a guide, he began moving parallel with his partner, following him into the darkness as well.

“Phil?”

McCabe’s use of Smythe’s first name came as an obvious warning that something was very wrong. 

“Yeah?”

“I think there’s something out there, but I can’t quite see what it is.” 

“What do you think it is?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe a person. Maybe it’s the tenant.” 

“Or maybe it’s that thing from the basement.” 

“I was just thinking that. You got another cross?” 

“No. You?” 

“Nope.”

“So what do we do?” McCabe asked. 

“We move onward,” Smythe replied. “It’s really all we can do.” 

“Okay. Slow and steady now, alright?” 

“Yeah.”

Gingerly they began to walk forward, as if the ground beneath them were as fragile as ice. Occasionally, one or the other would catch something familiar deep within the fog. The light of the Sunoco station sign. The faint rattle of the ice machine outside of the Island Getaway Motel. The two of them walked for what felt like hours, seeking what it was they could not find. 

Then came the sound of the wind. An ominous, dull roar that stopped them both dead in their tracks. McCabe racked his shotgun and gulped.

“What was that?” he whispered.

“Listen!” Smythe hissed in response. 

The sound of the wind grew stronger and stronger until it resembled a pack of howling dogs. And yet, the cool night air remained just as calm as could be. Somehow, the noise seemed to be coming from within the fog itself.

Strange shapes began to materialize in the darkness, canine forms melting into existence before their very eyes. Both men lost their last strands of sanity before the first fangs were even bared.

Holmes Again

“Mister Holmes, I’m glad you’re here.”
“Always warming to be appreciated, constable. Fortunately, Doctor Watson and I were in the neighborhood sampling gutter whores. What have we here?”
“Seems this man, what was lodging here, has met his untimely end, head removed and all.”
“Good Lord, Holmes, what a ghastly mess!”
“Indeed, Watson.  Let’s see….hmm, quite a bit of blood loss, no sign of struggle. Do you notice anything unusual, Doctor?”
“Head’s gone, just as the constable said.”
“Watson! The man’s head is gone! I believe this to be…murder.”
“Great huge knockers! How do you do it, Holmes?”
“Years of training, Watson. We must examine the clues. Look, there’s a brown substance on the floor.  Doctor Watson, what do you make of it?”
“Well, let me peruse a small sample. It’s still warm…interesting texture…pungent aroma…can’t quite place it. Taste always tells more…yuck! That’s horrible tasting stuff! Holmes! It’s horse shit!”
“Just as I suspected. It’s all over the streets of London. We’ve got it on our shoes. The killer came from outside of this building!”
“Amazing, Holmes.”
“Of course. Now for the weapon…the fiend! He used a P.T. Barnum fat lady!”
“But, Mister Holmes, how can that be?”
“I propose, constable, that the killer, in his cunningly crafty plan, drugged a very bulky, huge P.T. Barnum fat lady, brought her here, placed the victim’s head between her massive thighs, and in tickling her with a feather, caused her to contract her fleshy legs, thus snapping the victim’s head clean away from the torso.”
“Egad, Holmes! Not the dreaded fat lady cunt snatch!”
“Watson, must you continually utter those ridiculous remarks of astonishment? There should be a great deal of gold or jewels missing from this flat,”
“But, Holmes, look about you. This man obviously was a pauper.”
“A clever ruse to throw us off, Watson.”
“The killer redecorated?”
“The working of an insane mind, Watson. But, he missed one thing. Do you see the opened book across the room?”
“What about it?”
 “A clue, man, a clue. After the attack, the victim must have desperately struggled to reach the book to leave a clue as to the identity of his assailant.”
“Holmes, the wanker’s head was removed. Wouldn’t that be difficult for him?”
“Yes, Watson. Such determination is to be admired. Aha! Nothing is marked on the pages to which the book is opened. So, the book, itself, being opened is the clue. Opened? Opened? I’ve got it! Watson, what else is opened?”
“The door to your room at the asylum, I hope.”
“Yes, Doctor Watson. And ‘door’ rhymes with ‘stevedore’. Stevedores load trunks onto ships. Trunks are also found on elephants. Elephants live in Africa. Africa has jungles. Jungles have pygmies. Watson, do you see?”
“No, but I haven’t been smoking the same thing you have.”
“He’s telling us that the killer was a small man.”

Knock, knock

“Hello, what’s all this?”
“Mister Holmes, this is Mister Angus, he collects the rent in this building.”
“Thank you, constable. Mister Angus, you appear to be a small, putrid, cream puff of a man. What’s your business here?”
“What? You can’t hear? I collect the rent. My uncle owns this boarding house. Inherited it, he did, before I was born.”
“There, constable, that’s your man!”
“How’s that, Mister Holmes?”
“It’s all clear as a cow pie in Hereford. Gentlemen we have uncovered a diabolical plan for murder.  Mister Angus arranged for his uncle to inherit this building before his birth, which allowed him to secure the position of rent collector avoiding undue notice, knowing that, one day, his intended victim would be hauling treasure into this very room. What say you to that, Mister Angus?”
“Go stuff yourself! It’s all lies! Lies!”
“Proof positive! The first sign of guilt within a sick mind is denial! Your denial has sealed your doom, Mister Angus. Justice will be served. Constable, take him away!”
“Thank you, Mister Holmes. With evidence as strong as what you’ve given us, he’ll be hanged, without need of a trial, within the hour.”
“Another crime solved, eh Holmes?”
“It feels good, doesn’t it, Watson? It’s starting to rain. We forgot an umbrella.”
“Maybe there’s one in the closet. What? Holmes! There’s a rather large man, covered with blood, in the closet. He has a meat cleaver in one hand and a head, recently severed at the neck in the other. My good man, what are you doing in there?”
“I chopped the bloke’s ‘ead off. I like killing, I do. Kills them where I finds them.”
“Holmes!  Here is the murderer, not Mister Angus!”
“Nonsense, Watson. The poor fellow probably just wandered into that closet by mistake.”
“Holmes, you egotistical fruitcake! They’re going to hang an innocent man. We must tell the police that we were wrong!”
“Steady on, old thing. We could NEVER do that.”
“And, pray tell why not, Holmes?”
“Elementary my dear Watson. To admit we were wrong would be….damned un-British.”
“I say, Holmes! I hadn’t thought of that. You’re right, again.”
“Rue Britannia, Watson.”
“Rue Britannia, Holmes.”
“Now, let’s go do those tarts.”

Road Dog

John was an over the road truck driver. He had a wife of 15 years named Kim. He would be at home one week out of the month on average. Kim worked part time as a receptionist at the Douglas Firm, and as a server on weekend nights at The Starry Eye Saloon. When they first got married, it was difficult for John to leave out on a run; but now, it’s as if he couldn’t wait to get back on the road. That’s when Kim decided to take a job waitressing on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night at the town’s most popular strip club. 

Kim was getting ready to go into work at the club on a Friday night when she called John. 

He answered in an annoyed tone, as if he was being bothered, “Hello?” 

“Wow, you answered.” 

“Yeah, I’m about to lay down. What’s up?”

“Just wanted to talk to you for a minute before I go in. Where are you at now?”

“Huh? Yeah, umm, I’m outside of Dallas. I have a few stops out here and a few in the city, then I’ll be headed west.”

“Well, okay. The club job is paying well, but Jim is still flirting with me.”

There was silence, and Kim swore that she heard a female’s voice and giggling.

“Hello?” Kim said, in an agitated yet concerned tone.

“Umm, yeah, I’m here. Sorry. What did you say?”

“Jim keeps saying I’m wasting my talents waitressing. That I should be stripping. He said I have too good of a body not to. It’s making me feel uncomfortable.”

“Look, if he thinks you have what it takes, I say go for it. We could use the extra money. But don’t do anything to jeopardize the job you have now. Jesus, Kim. Do I have to hold your goddamn hand through this too?”

“It’s just that I don’t….”

“I need to get some sleep. I’ll call you in a day or two,” he interrupted.

John hung up the phone, laid back on the pillows in his sleeper, and continued getting what was said would be, ‘the best head outside of Dallas’. At that moment, John could not argue with such pristine logic. She was good. Hell, she ought to be, John thought. She’s had enough practice. Plus, the missing teeth never hurt. He worked one up, and blew it right to the back of her throat. John gave her the twenty dollars she requested, and a beer for the road to cleanse her palate. 

Kim was having a rough night. There was a feature dancer in town from Dallas, and the club was packed with horny guys with big cowboy hats and even bigger belt buckles. She was running from the bar to the stage, back to the bar, and to the private rooms all night. A fella named Jimbo in one of the private rooms offered her $1000 to go home with him, which she kindly declined. Kim knew that her relationship was probably past mending, but she wasn’t going to be the villain in this movie. 

She was out back on her only break of the night smoking a cigarette, when the feature dancer came out and asked her for a light. The two chatted while they smoked. Kim envied her confidence, and the dancer’s curvaceous body made her slightly jealous. The subject of home life and men came up. The dancer told Kim that she traveled so much, that having a normal relationship was out of the question. Kim spoke of John, and how he was hardly ever home. She opened up about his infidelity as well, and the two verbally crucified the trucker. Kim returned to the grind, and the dancer to grinding.

John woke and made the few pickups outside the city and headed to bustling Dallas. He had been there before, and absolutely detested the traffic. John inched and weaved through a web of highways and exits, and made all of his pickups by 6 p.m. He was ready for a shower and a six pack. He had a long haul ahead of him to California. John liked the girls at the truck stops in California. He thought about all the good times he had with the Mexican girls out there. He hoped that he could find his favorite though. She was a stacked black girl, with big tits and a huge ass, that he had seen a couple of times in the past. John loved her enormous ass, and how it completely engulfed his cock in the reverse cowgirl position. He was getting hard just thinking about it.

John pulled into the truck stop around 7 p.m. It was packed, but he finally found a spot near the back. He got his change of clothes, wallet, and toiletries, and headed to the showers. After his shower, he got dressed and went into the main store area to get him some beer. John wanted nothing more than to down a few brews and pass out watching his Gunsmoke DVD.

As he headed to pay for the beer, a sexy blonde in a summer dress caught his eye. She was looking at the roadmap section near the register. While he was in line, they made eye contact a few times and John made his way toward her.

“Well, hey there cutie. You’re looking for a map I see. Are you and your husband lost?”

“Oh, no. I’m not lost. I have GPS on my phone, I’m just looking at these brochures of attractions and places to see nearby. I’m just casually making my way to my sister’s place in Arizona. I haven’t had the problem of a husband in quite some time. Thank God.”

They both laugh and continue small talk about the weather, how terrible fast food is, and the huge statue of a weiner out by the road. John wanted to make a dick joke then, but thought it would be inappropriate, so he put a kibosh on that. She surprised him, when she said, “If you have even half of that, then I’m going with you.”

John gave her a devilishly carnal grin, and said, “You might just have to find out. Hell, what’s your name?”

“Sorry, I’m Liza,” she said, as she extended her hand toward John.

He took her hand in his and said, “Liza. That’s a beautiful name.”

John held her delicate hand and could not get over how soft it was. He looked down at her perfectly painted nails and back up at her flawless smiling face and said, “Hell, Liza. I have all this beer to drink, and no one to drink it with. Would you like to have a few with me and continue this?”

Liza looked around as if she was contemplating saying no, but with a burst of exuberance, she said, “Get that pint of Jack Daniel’s there, and you have yourself a drinking buddy.”

John got a fifth of Jack and they headed to his truck. John walked behind Liza and watched her ass sway with every stride she took. He stared at her sexy golden legs. Her sun-kissed skin shimmered in the brightness of the store’s large overhead lights on poles. John was used to the company of average to below average women, but Liza was leaps and bounds above them all, and most of all, she wasn’t a lot lizard.

They arrived at the truck and John unlocked it and got in. He grabbed her hand to help her up, and couldn’t help but notice the absence of a bra. Her sundress scrunched up in the front, exposing her exquisite, bronzed breasts. Once inside, John showed her around his tiny, traveling apartment. She told him it was quaint and homey. John opened them both a beer and poured some whiskey in his coffee mug. They drank and talked about John’s job, his life on the road, and his failing marriage. John found it easy to talk to Liza. He thought, she’s a beautiful woman, and she actually listens to me.

With the fifth about half empty, Liza turned to John and said, “This whiskey is making me hot.”

“You want me to turn down the a.c. a little?”

“No, that’s alright. I know what I’ll do.”

Liza stood as best as she could in the tiny space, pulled her sundress up over her head and tossed it at John.

“There. That’s better. You don’t mind do you?”

John looked up and down the sexy, bronzed female form in front of him and said, “Hell no. Not at all. Mind if I join you?”

“I was kinda hoping you would. Here let me help.”

Liza moved close to John on the tiny twin bed and began undressing him. As she unbuttoned each button on his shirt, she would kiss from his neck and down his chest. She pulled his pants down and continued her kisses downward. John laid back and Liza bobbed and licked. She crawled up toward him and mounted. Liza’s warm wetness enveloped him completely as she took him all in.

Afterwards they laid there, sweaty and exhausted. He told her to stay with him for the night, and in the morning, he would get her contact info so he could keep in touch with her.

When John woke the next morning Liza was gone. He figured she’d just gone inside to get some coffee. He noticed a piece of paper with some writing on it, and hoped she left her number for him. John wiped the sleep from his eyes, picked up the paper and read it.

John, I had a blast last night. Thanks for the drinks. Jack makes me a little wild, so sorry if I hurt you. I have to confess that our meeting wasn’t as random as you may have thought. My dancer friend told me about you. She let me know where you would be, and said that I should show you a good time. I sure hope you enjoyed yourself.

P.S. Your wife wants a divorce. Also, you should never judge a book by its cover. You might want to go get tested. Liza