Wendy's Story

When a haunted house drives a woman to maddness

Wendy stood staring out her living room window. All the street lights had gone out. Fog slithered along the street, into yards, around houses and trees, faintly glowing in the dim light of the full moon. The day had gotten hot and muggy, requiring air conditioning to be tolerable. She’d shut it off when the temperature went down with the sun. Dressed in a long night gown, she crossed her arms wishing she had a fireplace. It felt like the chilled fog was filling the house through the window.

Wendy Rhodes was a retired Playboy bunny. When she married Paul Rhodes the girls at the club laughed, saying it sounded like a porn star name. She bought the house in this small town for it’s peace and quiet, and was affordable. For many years they had enjoyed the simple no rush life, then Wendy’s health got in the way. She couldn’t work anymore. Her husband was always angry, even hateful at times, neglecting their once beautiful yard, and Wendy herself . Blaming her for all financial problems, he spent more time at work than at home. The house felt like a prison with the walls closing in on her. When she would go to the store for groceries people avoided her, made her feel like an outcast.

Wendy backed away from the window. Fear set in from the nights eerie specters forming in the murky vapor. Turning away, the hair on her arms stood with a prickling feeling creeping up her back. The room appeared in a ghostly haze from a different time period. It wasn’t even the room. It was as if she was in the backyard by the big oak tree at the end of her property hanging over the old well. She always loved that tree but not the well. They covered it with a slab of wood, but that didn’t stop the stench of something dead, rotting over time. It didn’t smell all the time, oddly enough, but during the full moon it’s pungent fumes rose up, cascading across all the surrounding properties. Older residents, of this small community, said the property was cursed. But the younger generations believed the story, that it being haunted by evil, was an urban myth to scare children and keep them from going near the well.

A cloaked figure stood beside the tree, throwing a rope over the lowest branch above the well, then disappeared. At the end of the rope was a noose. Wendy felt sure she knew what would come next. When the cloaked figure reappeared, it stood where the noose couldn’t be seen. But when it disappeared again Wendy caught her breath in horror. Hanging upside down in the noose was a child, a boy, screaming and crying, swinging as he struggled to get free. Then the figure reappeared standing off to the side. Wendy froze, shocked, witnessing the terrifying act of this deranged killer as it swung. The boys head fell into the well leaving his body swaying at the end of the rope. Like a piñata that had just opened, blood spewed everywhere. Wendy tried to scream but no sound came, though it echoed in her head. Then, all was gone. Once again, she stood in her living room with tears flowing down her cheeks from such a gruesome vision. She fell to her knees grabbing her stomach as she gagged and screamed loudly. This time, echoing through an empty house.

Her mind raced uncertain what to do. A name came to mind. Professor CJ Tickle. A history of ancient cultures professor, at the local college who used to come into the club. He often spoke of bizarre cults and rituals. She was sure he could help, or hopefully, know someone who could. Wendy rushed to her computer. There had to be a way to find him. She entered his name and waited. As the page about him popped up the power went out. Sitting in total darkness she screamed again in fear of loosing what was left of her sanity. She didn’t dare speak of this to her husband. This was enough for him to put her in a mental hospital she’d probably never come out of.