1

  25 years had passed after the unexplained disappearance of Evan Casper. Anyone curious about the story is invariably told to talk to Old Lea. Not only the last person to see him, but the only person to see him in the deranged state she claimed he was in. Lea wasn't yet against telling stories about the house. If you approached her she would give you at least a few minutes. Just as we find her now, she tells the story of the river and Evan's final day to an out-of-town wannabe journalist/detective. Guy named Fowler who'd heard about the house and thought he could easily unhinge the mystery that had plagued a town for over a century.

  "When I returned from the river, soaked and exhausted," Lea told the writer, "Evan said he didn't know me. Never seen me before in his entire life. And that I should get off his porch before he got his weapon. I like how he vaguely said weapon. Which weapon would he be getting? Who knows. Something conventional like a knife or a gun? Or a desperate and random weapon, like throwing a lamp or heaving a handful of dirt in my eyes? I didn't stay around to find out. He was gone the next morning and no one in Harrison has seen him since."

  The out-of-town wannabe journalist/detective who thought he could easily unhinge the mystery that had plagued a town for over a century took a drink of his coffee and asked Lea another question.

  "Do you think he's alive?"

  Lea avoided the question. "They didn't search for him very thoroughly. I know that not one inch of the Gilbert River was ever dragged. I requested a search of the river a few times. I thought it was likely he went back to get the box and drowned. Maybe he did send me after the box only for himself. I bet he was stewing over it daily, frantic to know what the dweller was doing that strange night at the river. I also thought it was likely that he simply moved out of town to escape the house. Didn't tell anyone so as to break all ties. I'm sure the unknown house was still eating away at him."

  "Have you considered other fates?" Fowler asked.

  "Such as?"

  "That something, or one, from the house got him."

  "Got him?"

  "You know, the dwellers took care of him. The one at the river knew he was being followed. Evan finally saw too much and they got rid of him. "

  "It's possible, but I don't think so."

  "I do."

  "You actually do? Or you think it'll make for a more interesting article?"

  "Bit of both," admitted Fowler.

  "Your exact type has been here before and learned nothing. More will follow. I've spoken to Investigators for over twenty years. Everything is a dead-end. Believe it, man."

  He didn't notice the way she said man. Lea was hip in her day, but her knowledge of hip culture in time probably ended with Charlie Parker and Jack Kerouac. Maybe Lenny Bruce. If the writer mentioned Hunter S. Thompson Lea would have had no shock of recognition.

  "That's true. But the newest investigator is always closer to solving the mystery. I'm working with the accumulative work of those who before me."

  Lea had also heard this sentiment before.

  "I don't usually voice my opinion about the house," Lea said, "I just tell the stories how they happened. Still, I've been worried. I want to warn you. I always thought the dwellers were harmless, but lately I've been thinking otherwise."

  "It wouldn't surprise me at all to find out they are dangerous Mrs. Glover."

  "You are the one who suggested they killed Evan."

  "Yes."

  "And still you pursue. Would you knock on the door and go in the house? Speak to them? Yes, they can speak. Many of them have been spoken to, yet nothing much is ever said."

  "I plan to eventually speak to them and go in the house if I can," said Fowler. "First, I have to talk to more people around town. The ones who have watched the house like you used to, or saw something extraordinary like what Evan saw down at the river."

  "There are others who used to watch the house. No one saw anything like Evan, that I can tell you."

  "How can you possibly know that? You said the house has been around for 140 years."

  "I can't know anything about what went on in those days, but for everyone living in the town of Harrison at the present, I can give you a good guess that Evan was given an extremely rare glimpse. An answer to the question that there is some ulterior motive going on with them. Intelligence, whether on a heightened level or not. You can speak to dozens of people around town. I bet none of them tell you they've ever seen the dwellers looking like anything other than droopy zombies."

  "What about this Tom?"

  "What about him?" Lea had hoped the conversation wouldn't mention Tom.

  "I heard he's among the most interested in the house."

  "That's right."

  "Besides Tom, is there anyone else you'd recommend I talk to?"

  "Not really. Tom's the only interview you'd need. He'll get you closer to the house than anyone."

  "OK, then. Thank you for your time," said the writer as he got up from his chair. "I won't take up any more of it."

  Lea tipped her mug of tea at the young writer.

  "One more thing," she said to him just as he opened the door of the cafe.

  "What's that?" he asked.

  "I don't think the dwellers are the only potential dangers around here. You watch out for Tom Pitkin. He's planning something."

  "Something?"

  "I don't know what, but I don't like it."

  "Fair enough," said Fowler. "I'll be careful."

  "You never asked where Tom lives."

  "Right, that would help...so?"

  At first she did not answer. "The people who used to tell me to stop obsessing over the house, like my sister Jodie, are the group I belong to now. I have long since joined the assembly of Those of Need to Forget the House."

  She paused, then answered the writers question in the most cryptic way imaginable. "Tom lives where the green ants dream." With that, Lea and the writer never saw each other again.

  2

  Fowler did not figure out what he assumed was a riddle. He eventually asked a few other people around town where Tom Pitkin lived. It was easy enough. Harrison had always been growing, but was still a small town.

  It was obvious by the NO TRESPASSING signs that Tom Pitkin was not receptive to visitors. Fowler ignored the sign and set up the driveway. Towering trees lined either side of the 1/2 mile drive. There was no visible life when he reached the farmhouse. It looked ancient. The paint, once a striking green, was now a collection of chips clinging to life before their inevitable fall.

  He parked the car and got out. Every footstep kicked up a cloud of dirt. This property was unusually arid compared to the rest of Harrison.

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  "Hello?" shouted Fowler.

  No sense waiting until I'm at the front door, he thought.

  The only sound was a few chirping birds and some very distant cars.

  "Hello?" he tried again. Nothing.

  Fowler progressed up the front stairs. Knocked on the splintered screen door.

  I'm definitely not barging in. Don't think I'll leave a note either.

  He decided the best course of action was to just come back another time. Fowler got in his car and receded away from the Pitkin farmhouse. No matter what had happened there he was already committed to visiting the house after sunset. The time was getting very close.

  It just would have been good to get some more info, he thought. Doesn't matter.

  3

  The first thing Fowler noticed when he got to the house was indeed how new it looked. Clearly a modern house. Anyone would have guessed it had built in the last year or two.

  He set up a stakeout position at the far end of the lawn.

  Nothing but watching tonight.

  A backpack of supplies ensured he could watch the house for as many hours as he wanted. Necessities and perishables mingled among entertainment in the form of computer magazines and a Walkman. Documentation was well-rounded out in the form of paper, photography and tape-recording.

  The only drawback to this well-planned stakeout was the fact that the night was freezing. Fowler figured he only had a couple hours in him. Which was fine.

  Always tomorrow night, and the night after that. The house isn't going anywhere.

  The house didn't look freezing. One of the only lights coming from inside was the orange glow of a fireplace. Smoke poured from the roof. Silhouetted figures occasionally hit the light.

  So they have to tend to a fire. Where do they get the wood?

  It was a valid question. Nobody Fowler had talked to had mentioned any deliveries or the chopping down of trees.

  Another mystery on the pile.

  "Isn't it strange?" a voice from behind Fowler suddenly asked.

  4

  Fowler had never been so startled. The voice shook him out of a hypnotic state.

  "Who are you?" asked Fowler, turning around.

  "Tom."

  "Pitkin? I went to your place earlier today."

  "I know."

  "You know?"

  "Don't get too many guests out there," said Tom. "Thought I'd hang back and wait for you to leave."

  "I see. And you followed me here?"

  "You're at the house is all. The house is a cross-roads."

  "A cross-roads for what? asked Fowler.

  "I'm not sure. It sets you on a new path though, if you're in the radius."

  "How do you mean?"

  Tom ignored the question. He stared at the window with the fire-light.

  "I was asking before 'isn't it strange'?" Tom said.

  Fowler agreed.

  For nearly a decade Tom had been known as the town-hermit of Harrison. Taking company less and less, he was then completely relegated to his own property and the house. Aside from the quick supply run of course. He looked hermetic, of the woods. He was driven. Full of fire. Tom wondered if it was dangerous fire like Lea thought, or simply the fire to live.

  "Listen," said Tom. "I'm here to storm the house."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I'm getting answers. Nobody is going to stop me."

  "What are you going to do?" asked Fowler.

  "Nothing other than to go in and ask some questions."

  "I ask questions for a living," said Fowler. "I also have a camera and tape-recorder."

  "I'm going in there," said Tom. "If you follow, I don't care. As long as you don't mess with me and let me run the show. I could use the evidence to be honest."

  "Yeah, no problem."

  "Now or never," said Tom.

  "Sure," replied Fowler as he retrieved his camera and tape-recorder. Both had neck-straps. He stashed his back-pack under some brush along the way.

  Fowler saw Tom also carried a back-pack.

  "What's in the bag?" he asked.

  "Nothing," replied Tom. "Just my lunch bag and thermos."

  They crossed the lawn towards the light of the fire. The invitation was a mirage with unwavering beckoning power over those two people.

  Fowler had no idea what he'd signed up for. He jumped in blindly. Utterly resolved to be the one who solves the mystery.

  The Mystery of the House, thought Fowler, starring The Brilliant Out-of-Town Journalist as The Only One Who Can Decipher the Clues.

  5

  The moment of crossing the lawn was eternal. No sign of life from the back porch. Tom placed his ear against the door. Nothing. Fowler expected him to knock on the door, forgetting his careful phrasing of 'storm' the house. It was when Tom violently kicked the door down Fowler realized he should have listened to Lea.

  Tom revealed a gun as the sole contents of the back-pack. He ditched the bag.

  "Hey man, what the hell are you doing?" shouted Fowler. "We're not gonna hurt anyone."

  "You just get that camera out," hissed Tom. "Pen and pad, or whatever. Don't do anything else."

  Fowler never got around to producing the tools of documentation. Too busy being worried about having to defend himself.

  "I'm gonna find them," said Tom. "You stay in the foyer. I'll herd them here."

  With that Tom set off searching the house room to room. Fowler was near shaking. Torn over whether to flee the house or wait for trouble. He looked around in the meantime. The house was very empty, but not empty. Occasional things scattered the vision. A couple folding chairs in the neighboring room. Unused coat-rack in the foyer. Around the corner Fowler spied the edge of a fridge.

  Empty, probably.

  He didn't want to stray from the foyer so he stepped into the room with the two chairs. An ornate, circular rug bridged the gap between chairs. A table revelead itself, atop which sat an old Victrola. There was a record cued up.

  Dusty as hell, thought Fowler. Guess they haven't changed albums in awhile.

  The needle sat over the third song. It was The House, The Street, The Room by a group called Gentle Giant.

  Fowler wanted to say something about how this was the strangest part of all. He was interrupted by the appearance of Tom and five of the Strangers. Two children, two adults and a senior. Looked like a perfectly ordinary family. What set them apart from normal folk was they stood emotionless in the presence of a psycho armed intruder. They silently awaited the outcome of whatever Tom was prepared to do.

  "I want answers!" ordered Tom. He waved the gun in front of their faces. "I don't know what you people are, but if you can die and if you don't wanna die then you'd better cooperate!"

  No reply.

  "Who are you?"

  No reply again. So this was Tom's big plan, to wave a gun around while shouting random questions.

  "Why isn't there any food or running water? Don't you people eat? Why do you need to keep a fire lit if you don't need to eat or drink?"

  Fowler was distracted. He ran his eyes over the corners of the room.

  "LISTEN TO ME!" shouted Tom. "I want to know how this house looks brand-new when no construction has been done!"

  Fowler was no longer listening to Tom at all. He couldn't even hear him if he tried.

  What's with that old Victrola? He thought, dazed. His thoughts were in slow motion. He moved a little closer to the music-machine. A tractor-beam filled his vision.

  I wonder if it even works. I wonder what would happen if I just dropped that needle right now. I wonder...

  Fowler spent what felt like minutes mustering up the will to reach his arm out and drop the needle. When he did, the record worked.

  At two minutes in there was the weirdest sounds. A flash of light. The next thing Tom remembered is the river.

  6

  Fowler was just about to leave when Tom finally regained consciousness.

  "Finally, man. I thought you were dead."

  "Where am I?" asked Tom, sitting up.

  He recognized the sight of Gilbert River before Fowler could answer. Trois Jumps loomed overhead.

  "The river? How did I get here?"

  "Listen," said Fowler, "You blacked out, or something."

  "What happened?!"

  "We went into the house. You pulled a gun and went completely psycho. Something you didn't say you were gonna do, by the way."

  "I did what I had to!" shouted Tom. He looked pitiful sitting in the mud.

  "Sure," said Fowler.

  Tom reached around for the gun but it was gone. "Where's that gun?"

  "I don't know," lied Fowler. "I think you lost it on the trek here." In reality Fowler had taken and buried the weapon.

  Tom moved in closer. "You better start having some clearer answers."

  "Or what?"

  "I don't have the gun but I can still out-fight you."

  "I'm trying to tell you what happened!"

  "Go ahead."

  "You had rounded up all the Strangers in the house," began Fowler. "Started asking them all these questions but they wouldn't say a word."

  "I remember all that! I'm asking how I ended up at the river!"

  "I noticed a Victrola with a record on it," continued Fowler. "It sounds crazy but I had to see if it worked. I don't know why but I just had to. As you were asking questions I drifted into a trance and dropped the needle. The moment the song started I snapped out my trance. At that same moment you went into an even more powerful trance."

  "Then what?"

  "You left the house and ran into the woods. I followed. You wouldn't respond to anything I said other than to rant about having to go look for what the Strangers buried at the river decades ago. Some box of junk. Said that Lea Glover had almost died trying to retrieve it from across Trois Jumps."

  Tom looked around and saw a mine-field of dug earth.

  "You crossed the river," said Fowler. "I never should have followed. Don't know how we both survived."

  "I dug all this?" asked Tom.

  "Yeah. Wouldn't stop. Drove yourself to exhaustion. I've waited a couple hours for you to wake up."

  "Didn't find anything?"

  "No."

  "Damnit," said Tom.

  "Look, you're awake. I'm leaving now."

  Tom didn't reply. He stood his ground. Waited for Fowler to leave before he kept searching for the box. Hours later, still nothing.

  They both made it back across the river that night. No fodder for the Sentry Guards. After all... everyone in Harrison had at some point crossed the Gilbert River.

  Tom's interest in the house didn't vanish cold turkey the way it had with Lea all those years ago. It did eventually wane into nothingness, but not until many more years of storming the house and digging for clues. After so long he just couldn't cross the river anymore.

  Fowler left the next day and never returned to Harrison. He saved his life by doing so. Only he never fully saved his mind. Part of his mind remained in Harrison thereafter. The richness of his brief experience coupled with adequate research gave him enough material to write probably the best ever book regarding the house. Self-declared non-fiction, Fowler's bizarre novel ended up painting himself as mentally delusional to a lot of people. To the fervent core of believers, however, his book influenced many trips to Harrison. Over the years countless people felt as if they got extraordinarly close to solving the mystery. No one ever got closer than Fowler.

  His book continues to be well-circulated. It serves to remind us that sometimes a mystery must go on forever. The few soldier on.