Mr Pendleton

Mr Pendleton
By Saul Hudson

On the corner of Dorchester Road, where Maple Street juts into it at something of a peculiar angle, stands the Pendleton house. It towers over much of Dorchester Road and its adjoining street and casts long, gaunt, shadows upon everything it touches. The house seems to protrude out of the ground at a queer angle. It’s tall and ominously shaped and boats a rather decorative front porch, facing out towards the sweeping curve of Dorchester Road proper. Its windows are netted and each net has long since faded to a dirty and dusty gray. There’s ivy creeping over the windows, slowly winding towards the shingled roof where, once settled, it would surely begin to undo much of the architecture. Everyone agrees that the Pendleton house is a scary place, even in daylight.

            “Go on,” Matt said with a dry, little, smile. “I dare you.”

           There was silence, reserved silence. Joe was about to say something dumb, something harsh, something lily-livered, when he thought better of it and clamped his mouth shut again. He turned towards the house, swallowed hard, and absently scuffed the tip of his new trainers against the uneven sidewalk.

            “Unless you’re chicken.”

            “I’m not chicken,” Joe finally said. “I just don’t think it’s such a good idea. It looks kinda dangerous.”

            Matt shrugged his thin shoulders, keeping the smile firmly set. “I knew you couldn’t do it. I knew it.”

            “I could if I wanted,” he said. “I just don’t think it’s such a good idea. I could hurt myself and then there’d be hell to pay.”

            “You’ll be fine, trust me. I’ve done it a hundred times before, there’s nothing to it. All you’ve got to do is watch where you put your feet, and you’ll know which ones are the bad ones and which are good ones just by looking.”

            He supposed he could do it. Yes, of course, he could do it. And he also supposed it would only take a second. “And you’ll wait here while I do it? You won’t go anywhere without me?”

            “I promise.” The smile was broader and sharper than ever. “So, are you going to do it?”

            “And all I’ve got to do is knock?”

            “Exactly. Three times.”

            “What if he answers? What if Mr Pendleton’s home?”

            Matt blew out a heavy stream of air between his braced teeth, despairing. “There’s not been anyone in that old place for almost twenty years, according to my dad. Anyway, think about it; when was the last time you saw anyone come or go from this place that wasn’t trying to sell it?”

            Joe thought about this for a long moment. He couldn’t actually remember the last time he had seen anyone in or around the place except for the occasional realtor that came from time to time to replace a cracked, broken, or defaced LETTING or FOR SALE sign. If he happened to believe any different, then it was only because his mind wanted to play tricks on him.

            Even so ...

            Even so ... he didn’t like the idea. Worse still, nor did he like the idea of Matt talking out of turn at school. They’d laugh at him for sure; the older kids would make a laughable legend of his cowardice, and Mary Scott, the pretty girl in his third period math class, would never want to be seen with someone who couldn’t even knock on an old door of a very empty house.

            “Do you think it’s true?” He asked suddenly. He wasn’t looking at Matt anymore. “About what he did to all those kids? And how’d you think he got rid of all the bodies?”

            Matt shrugged. “Who cares? He’s long dead now anyway.”

            His head snapped up. “You don’t know that.”

            “I do.”

            “How?”

            “My dad told me the whole story,” he said in secretive kind of voice. “I know what they did to him – and where they buried him. Don’t worry kiddo; you’ve got nothing to worry about. Art Pendleton has long since gone.” He craned forward to within an inch of Joe’s ear, and said, “They burnt him. He’s buried in an unmarked grave in the old Hannah Park cemetery.”

            Deflated, Joe made his way through the wrought iron gates and along the pale, slightly moss covered, path which snaked gently towards the house. He trod carefully to make sure he didn’t trip on the debris which poked unobtrusively out of the rambling witchgrass. After only two dozen steps or so, he climbed the four rickety steps leading on to the porch.

            The boards creaked and groaned beneath him. His shadow seemed very long and very large on the porch. To the left of him was a small wicker chair and table, beneath which a cluster of bones belonging to several small birds gathered dust.

           This is where he used to sit and watch the kids. This is where he used to pick who he wanted.

            Don’t think about that.

            He probably even dreamt how he’d snatch them up too; so nobody knew they were missing until it was too late.

            Stop it. Now.

            You know what they used to call him, right, Joe? Right? They used to call him the tall man. Except for the kids – they used to call him whatever he wanted them to call him.

            Joe shuddered. It was another lie. Another trick that his mind decided to play on him. He didn’t know any of that for sure.

            “Well? What are you waiting for ... the end of the world?” Matt boomed.

            Joe glanced over his shoulder, frowning.

            And maybe he’s not dead at all, Joe, have you thought about that? Maybe he’s just ... hiding. Biding his time until –

            “No,” he muttered, as much to himself as the bones close to him. “He’s dead; Matt said so.”

            He brought his hand up, hesitated, and knocked.

            Knock-knock-knock.

            The wrapping of his knuckles sounded like gunshots in his ears. His heart stalled as something hot and heavy rolled in the pit of his stomach.

            He was about to turn and run, he even heard Matt urge him back, but before he could bring his feet to pivot him around he was sure he saw something beyond the door shift; shadow separating from shadow.

Then, sound. The gentle swoosh-swoosh of slippered feet on well trodden carpet.

            And there, caught in the doors stained glass window, Joe saw the outline of a very tall figure and very dark figure making its way towards him. He blinked hard, twice.

            Didn’t I tell you it he wasn’t dead? Didn’t I tell you?

            Panic flared deep within him. His heart pound a thunderous, galloping, tattoo against his chest. His bladder felt incredibly full.

            And still Joe Chambers remained rooted on the front porch of the bad house. From the corners of his eyes the shadows seemed to creep and crawl around him ... growing more oppressive by the second as thickly knitted tendrils of shadow curled for him. He couldn’t move despite willing his legs. Then he felt something wet and hot run down the inside of his legs, and he knew.

            Joe turned back to the street just in time to see Matt peddling away from Dorchester Road as if his life depended on it. He wanted to scream but couldn’t. A moment later, his feet rooted in shadow, the door swung open on ill oiled hinges and jangled his already fragile nerves.

          “A visitor,” a sternly spoken, slightly raspy, voice said. “I don’t get many of those these days.”

            Joe looked towards the man, barely able to contain his morbid curiosity. He thought of all the stories he’d heard over the years, all the missing children who’d turned to lore and legend, the faces he’d been assured had been printed on milk cartons, and he thought of the dares he’d refuted as a much younger boy. And he wept.

            “How stupid you are,” Mr Pendleton said, softly. He leaned forward, breathing the scent of death into Joe’s nostrils. “I’ve been waiting a long time for someone to come to my door.”

            A line of thick spittle formed at the corner of Mr Pendleton’s mouth, balled, and fell onto his chin as he formed a crooked, toothless, smile.

            Joe begged; Joe cajoled, and Joe wept as the man seized him by the wrist and drew him into the old house, screaming.

            Nobody heard Joe Chambers scream that afternoon, and nor did they hear the door slam as he was hauled inside. Stranger still was the fact that nobody, least of all the early evening dog walkers, seemed to notice thin wisps of blue/white smoke spiralling from the chimney as the furnace of number 48 once again fired into life.