PUBLISHED BY:
Darla Luke
Smashwords
The Haunted House of Thomas Creek
Copyright © 2010 by Darla Luke
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THE HAUNTED HOUSE OF THOMAS CREEK
by Darla Luke
The once-grand two story mansion sat on a knoll above the road as I rounded the bend on Thomas Creek Road. Large. Imposing. It was charred and blackened along the dingy white siding, like a well-used fireplace. Several main story windows were shattered, with an air of neglect that gave her the look of a soiled woman.
An imposing piece of black and yellow heavy equipment with a long, snout-like appendage out the back sat next to the grand old lady, looking as out of place as a hobo at a wedding. The backhoe was a bleak reminder that time was running out and I had to get in and out before the house was a pile of broken dreams and memories.
Eagerness overrode years of ingrained caution as I pulled the car into the weed-choked drive and parked near a detached shed that sagged along one side as if drunk on the thought that its glory days had all passed.
The engine ticked and cooled in the crisp spring air as memories flashed on fast forward. I'd ridden my bicycle passed this house many times as a child, always drawn to the husk of a house no longer a home.
Over the years only the bravest high school jocks would dare each other to spend the night – usually on Halloween. None made it to see daylight stream through the dirty, broken panes. They'd each come back to school with false teenage bravado and tales of screams and the crackling of a fire eating the main floor alive from the inside out.
Being the nerd in a school full of jocks and farmers' kids was hard enough to fit in, so I never spoke of the girl's face I'd seen in the upstairs window, fists clenched against the glass as a blaze raged behind her. As a ten year old, the sight had filled me with terror, almost felt like I was in there, pleading to escape a long-dead flame.
But today, this wasn't just a walk down memory lane. The infamous Thomas Creek Mansion was slated to be torn down tomorrow, instead of preserved like the old gal deserved. Hence my scramble to get permission to tour the place, to verify or squash the rumors once and for all.
The view up close was just as imposing and depressing as it was from the road. The grand old lady had delicate gingerbread molding along her porch roof and balcony overlooking the front lawn. I got out of the car and grabbed the duffle bag with the equipment I'd borrowed from Rusty, a friend and fellow paranormal enthusiast. The thought of this magnificent place reduced to a pile of worthless sticks sent a wave of sadness through me, threatening to swallow me whole.
Walking toward the house was fraught with danger as I dodged broken bits of concrete, glass and bits of rubbish littering the sidewalk. It took a lot of convincing to get the demolition company to contact the current owner, Byron Thomas – last living relative to the late Pearl Thomas - and hold off the demo until I could clear my schedule enough to come down. As an accountant for a small family-owned company, my days were filled with numbers and facts. I didn't want to tell them the real reason I just had to get inside, so I'd skillfully evaded the question, if I say so myself.