Nate Fitch
Maggie Li stood on the worn-out porch of the old house, her gaze fixed on the large doorframe. A screen door was the only barrier between the main door and the outside world. She eyed the entrance with a mix of curiosity and unease, a knot of anxiety forming in her stomach.
The screen door was ripped at two corners and frayed at others. The main door, painted a faded brick-red, was cracked and chipped, showing signs of weathering. Both doors were coated with old lead-based paint and had clearly seen better days. They would need a fresh coat of paint, a task she added to her mental to-do list. Having a list made her feel organized, and organization brought her comfort.
As she pulled back the screen door, Maggie’s slender fingers curled around the rusted brass knob. A shiver ran down her spine as she touched the icy-cold metal. Startled, she yanked her hand back and let out a small yelp.
“Jesus, Maggie! Are you okay?” A young, blonde woman in glasses hurried over to the porch, three duffle bags in tow. Dropping the bags onto the patio, she reached out to examine Maggie’s hand.
“I’m fine, Cheyenne. Just got a shock from the doorknob, that’s all.”
Maggie waved away Cheyenne’s outstretched hand. The cold hadn’t hurt her, it had just taken her by surprise. Another young woman appeared behind Cheyenne. Dressed in athletic gear, the African American woman tied her hair up with a scrunchie, hands resting on her hips.
“What’s wrong with the door? I hope it’s not broken. I need to eat and shower. It’s hot as hell out here.”
Maggie shook her head at the woman’s question.
“No, Dominique. It’s not broken. Just really cold to the touch.” Maggie rubbed her hand against her blue Penn State sweater before stepping back.
Cheyenne gave the door a once-over before reaching out to try the handle herself. Just as she was about to touch it, a voice from behind the three women made them all jump and scream in fright.
“Ye best be gone by sundown. God does not want ye here.”
The man was dressed like a pilgrim, his body covered from neck to knees in black wool, save for his black leather boots and stovepipe hat. His head was bowed, eyes hidden behind the wide brim of his hat. A long, tattered black cloak, caked with mud, was draped over his shoulders. In his right hand, he held a long walking stick.
The three women stared at the man in confusion. Dominique was the first to find her voice.
“Can we help you, sir? Where did you come from? Is there a historical reenactment happening nearby?”
The pilgrim sniffed the humid air and grunted in disgust. “Be still thy tongue, witch. Ye will not twist my soul with thine words of poison and deceit!”
Dominique crossed her arms and cocked her head to the side, shooting her friends a confused look. “Did he just call me a witch?”
As Dominique moved to step off the porch, her friends reached out to hold her back. Before she could reach the first step, the pilgrim lifted his head, revealing his face.
Empty eye sockets stared back at the three women, blood trickling from the tear ducts. Maggie screamed in terror as Cheyenne fainted on the porch. Only Dominique stood her ground, staring back at the pilgrim’s hollowed eye sockets.
The pilgrim raised his walking stick and pointed it at Dominique and Maggie. “Ye will be gone by nightfall. The three of thee. Lest there be a wrathful punishment from God, this is thy last warning. Ye will not receive any quarter here on this hallowed ground. Be gone lest ye be sacrificed to the lake.”
He turned his gaze toward the lake on the other side of the hill from the house. “Many like ye have been sacrificed to the lake. She grows hungry for flesh and blood. She will have her due, be tonight or some other. Now be gone, ye blasted devils!”
As Dominique and Maggie turned to help Cheyenne, who was still unconscious, a chorus of cawing crows erupted behind them.
Cheyenne’s eyes flew open at the sound. Pushing her glasses back onto her face, she propped herself up on her elbows to see a swirling mass of black wings.
The crows scattered into the afternoon sky, leaving the three women staring in horror at the spot where the strange man had been standing. The pilgrim was nowhere to be seen.
“What happened, guys? I think I saw a man dressed like the Quaker Oats guy, but like a nightmare version. His eyes were gone. Blood was seeping from his eye sockets, and then I blacked out. Please tell me that was just a weird, fucked-up dream. Dominique, Maggie, was that a dream? Or a nightmare?”
Cheyenne looked to her friends for reassurance, but all she got were pale, shocked faces.
“No, that wasn’t a dream. He was real. At least he seemed real to me. Empty eye sockets and all.”
Dominique helped Cheyenne to her feet with a quick pull.
“You guys, that can’t be real. No one can walk around with bleeding eye sockets like that. There has to be a logical explanation. Maybe it’s the lead from the house? The paint looks old enough to be lead-based. The humidity could have stripped lead particles from the wood, and we might have inhaled a toxic amount, causing us to hallucinate.”
Maggie tried to rationalize the bizarre event. With each word, she grew more confident and less scared. As she finished her explanation, she turned to her friends and gave them a reassuring smile.
Cheyenne coughed, adjusting her glasses as she did. “Maggie, I don’t want to be a buzzkill, but the odds of us all having the same hallucination are pretty much zero. I mean, I know you’re pre-med and all, and I know you’re smart. But I just don’t think that’s possible, okay?”
Dominique let out a snort. “I’m glad you said it, not me. That weirdo was as real as they come. Crazy clothes and everything. We need to get inside and call the cops or something.”
Maggie’s confident expression quickly faded, replaced by a look of fear and uncertainty. Cheyenne nodded in agreement with Dominique, turning to open the door to the house. They picked up their backpacks and a couple of duffle bags from the porch, then filed into the house one by one.