The Goth House [My attempt at an H.P. Lovecraft styled story]

The Goth House (owned by Giles and Ginger Goth) is an ante-bellum home with a shady past. The exact date of the original construction is entirely unknown since all deeds and paper work are lost to time but is guessed to have been constructed in the mid 1820s; the original owner is also a bit of a mystery.

Despite, or because of, the rural setting, local legends abound. The house had lain dormant for many years with no indication as to what had happened to the owners, and no one would stay long enough to inhabit it--though those who dared to make it home remained tight lipped as to why they abandoned it. Legends speak of an owner that--possibly original--was active in witch hunts and was subsequently haunted by one of the victims, or that the owner was a member of a cult that dabbled in black magic and human sacrifice. Admittedly, the black woodwork had done nothing to dissuade these rumors.

If there is indeed a haunting, it would be of no surprise if it is from a murdered family of the last documented owners. The husband went into a jealous rage when he found out his wife had been having an affair with his brother, which produced children. The husband chopped and hacked his wife to death but was merciful to the children and beheaded them quietly while they slept. He hung himself in the basement after he buried the bodies--the bodies were later disinterred and given a proper burial. There were persistent rumors that more bodies were buried under the mound the house is built on--bodies of the supposedly sacrificed--but none were found.

Because of the many decades of neglect, the Goths have to undertake a massive renovation project to restore the house to not only livable shape but to its former ante-bellum glory. No ghost sightings or disturbances have been reported by the Goths.

I was commissioned to write a short magazine article regarding the renovation project of the Goth House. Upon deeper investigations on the subject, I found rather disturbing facts surrounding the building. The house was indeed built in the 1820s, but there once stood another house on the mound. The mound was an Indian burial site that was knowingly desecrated by the founder of a now lost town of Brightfield during the 1600s; the citizens of a colonial village followed Chester Brightfield west to a new town, but were doomed to fail because of its isolation to outside thought.

Chester wanted to make a bold statement on his right to the land by building his home on top of the Indian dead. The house was modest in comparison to the house that stands there now, but it was lavish for its time.

I found a personal journal from around the time of the doomed town's founding that recounted the religious fervor that dominated the citizens. These citizens followed a form of Christianity that was so fanatical and fundamentalist in thinking that they saw the Puritans as hedonistic heretics. They had strict laws and were unafraid to kill someone by throwing stones if they committed an infraction; part of the reason why the town did not last was because almost everyone was killed for committing a real or imagined infraction. The Puritans were content to just punish someone for blasphemy, witchcraft, homosexuality, sloth, elder disrespect, or non church attendance, but these people brutally executed their own for such crimes.

Their fanaticism ran so deep that their god became unrecognizable. Little-by-little, they changed the persona of their god into something more and more demonic, and their demons and devils faded more and more into obscurity. Eventually, they were all led to believe that they were living in Hell.

The house on the hill became a sort of church where animal sacrifice was regularly performed. Soon, animal blood was no longer powerful enough to placate the anger of their wrathful god, so they resorted to sacrificing the newborns, which were born from the "special" virgins and the high priest--Chester. Many people defected when the newborns were being sacrificed and went back east; some however, never made it because such insolence was not tolerated.

The religious stranglehold that bound the citizens was only loosened when their leader, Chester, was found black and bloated in his bedroom only after an hour being with a virgin. Chester thought of himself as being immortal and thus did not install an heir to continue rule in Brightfield. Like lambs without a shepherd, the people wondered off and eventually settled in their old home town--never speaking of what happened.
Even as the buildings in Brightfield succumbed to decay and left no footprint of their presence, Chester's house on the burial mound stood strangely sturdy until a man by the name of William Barclay bought the property from the state in 1817. William tore down the house to build anew despite the pristine condition of the abandoned home--not a rot or weather damage could be found in the structure, but the house was simply too small for his grandiose aspirations. Could it have been all the spilt blood that preserved the house for so long?

William was a lonely man who had no immediate family of his own. He may have built a house large enough to allow a modest sized family to have a room for each of the individual, but it proved to be nothing more than a cavern to echo the steps of a lone person…but he was not alone. The diary of a friend and neighbor recounted how William's mental health was slowly deteriorating and displayed signs of great agitation. He would constantly hear the muffled cries of little children and the pleas of young girls for someone to stop or not do something; he would also hear footsteps roaming around the house when he was the only one there.

His friends eventually questioned his sanity and admitted him into an asylum. Despite the deplorable conditions of mental health hospitals of the time, he was able to regain his sanity well enough that the hospital and friends thought he was robust enough to return home.

A few months of neglect left the house in severe disrepair, so William spent most of his time working on it. He changed a few odd features to the house, which greatly disturbed his friends: the once white wood siding and the beautiful oak floors were painted black. When his friends asked him about the color change, he simply replied, "Reverence." Black seemed to be the new theme for the house, but it comforted him, so William's friends just passed it off as eccentricities.

Soon after finishing the repairs, William hosted elaborate parties at the house. He seemed chipper and happy, so everyone took it as a welcomed change in his personality; this was all to change when one curious little boy ventured into the unlocked basement. With little more than a lantern to guide his steps, the little boy stumbled upon a cache of rotting carcasses of wildlife and domestic animals. In fact, he discovered his lost dog hanging from the ceiling with a hook in its back and most of its skin peeled off. The little boy cried to his parents who then confronted William about the animal bodies. Since coming home from the asylum, he found that sacrificing animals to the spirits quieted the voices and noises--if only for a little while. He started out with just the wildlife, but then they were not enough, so he sought out people's pets for a substitute. He was seeking to transform into an animal, so he kept the skins of the animals and stitched them together to make a coat that would imbue him with powers that only animals can harness. William was promptly placed back into the asylum, never to be released.

The remaining but distant family members arranged for an estate sale to help pay for the mounting costs of William's stay at the asylum. They uncovered a cache of books and texts concerning the multiple occults of the world--many in languages foreign to the family. Many idols were carefully stored in the intricate boxes under William's bed and in the attic. Idols of strange and grotesque gods and deities concerned the family very little because they searched for some kind of diary, journal, or notes that would reveal insights on what was going through William's mind.

Of what little hand written notes they found, it was the translated texts that revealed how disturbed William was, for it was in his altered hand that the texts were written; no one believed William knew of any language other than his native tongue. The translated texts spoke of a subterranean deity that demanded regular blood lest it arise from its home to get the blood it desired. The texts went into detail on what happened if the sacrifices ceased; a Titan monster would emerge from its Hadean home and consume all those who bleed until its thirst was satiated. It also explained that the mound was reserved for the dead priests of the deity, and used as an alter for the blood sacrifices.

As for the families that abandoned the house, well, they did not remain silent. They all spoke of hearing strange chanting in an unknown language, visions of blood flooding the house, and dreams of--dare I say--an eldritch city inhabited by rotting corpses of the ancient dead. The families were driven mad when the source of the chanting and visions could not be found--that is the reason why that one family was murdered.

Jealousy was not the reason why the wife and children were murdered; that was just a cover story made up by the extended family to protect the memory of their departed. The husband and wife were driven mad by the chanting and visions. In their notes, they learned of how the unnamable deity was growing angry and was demanding more blood through their dreams. The wife volunteered for the husband to kill and dismember her--to provide as much blood as possible, and then the children were beheaded and hung upside down to allow for the blood to drip from their necks. The husband slit his neck, wrists and ankles while he hung himself to complete the sacrifice.

I tried to contact the Goths to warn them of the exact bloody history of the house, but they never answered my emails or calls. When I visited them, I could hear chanting emanating from the basement as I stood at the front door. I continued to rap at the door until Ginger finally answered the door. As I spoke with her, I realized that it was her and Giles’ voices that I heard chanting. She glared at me and half-heartedly nodded as I gave her the warnings. When I finished, she shut the door on me without saying goodbye.

It only dawned upon me after leaving the premises that I could have been a blood sacrifice. I warned the police to keep an eye on the Goths and pay particular attention to any missing persons, but they dismissed me as having an over-active imagination. I fear for the lives of many people, but I fear there is no way I can prevent the inevitable.

Their marriage is but a sham. Yes, they are indeed married, and have the legal documents to prove it, but they are not a married couple—there is no love betwixt them. I have seen their wedding photos, and sure they look happy, but there have been signs from day one that the marriage was just a ploy to distract the ever inquisitive eye of the traditionalist community who shun cohabitation. Their interpersonal interactions in public are neither loving nor cold, but what one would expect to see among co-workers.

I have stalked the movements in their house for some time and noticed how distant they were from each other. Ginger held reign over the master suite while Giles was relegated to one of the guest bedrooms. They never sat near each other or did anything as a team, except for worship, and always kept their distance from one another. They almost seemed like magnets of the same poles, pushing against one another. Through my binoculars, I have not seen any flinchings of affection being exchanged. I have begun to feel sympathy for Giles. They may be cold in bed but they will hunt small animals together in the surrounding forest of dead trees.

Every other day, Ginger requests that Giles build a little more onto the house; first, she wanted a room built in the basement, then she wanted a half bath installed on the first floor, then next she wanted a room built in the loft. He just gives off an exasperated sigh whenever she has a new request.

Ginger is definitely the leader of the house, and it shows through when hunting. I am left with the impression that she is the puppet master in this relationship, and he is just doing her bidding; I am not even sure if he wants to participate in her cult. If he is just building up her house and singing her chants without any physical benefits, then why has he not left? Has she a spell on him?

“Mystery deepens as reclusive couple are as of yet to be located. The Goths were considered to be an eccentric and reclusive couple, but reports came in months ago about the seeming disappearance of both Ginger and Giles Goth. Authorities attempted to contact the couple and have officially classified them as missing persons. Early reports of occult related activity were dismissed as rumor but later resurfaced as authorities inspected the home and found numerous books and paraphernalia related to the occult. Authorities are still investigating every lead.”

As sensational as a newspaper will make anything, they kept quiet on the true horror of the story. The Goths have indeed gone missing, but the strangest is their house—it has changed. I used to play in the abandoned house when I was a child, so I remember what it was like before the Goths renovated it; it looks as though no one has touched it save for a few small personal affects.

I dared to venture back into the defunct house. Was I dreaming what I saw? Was I dreaming the distinct foeter of mould and rotting wood? Did I dream the squish of water drenched rugs beneath my shodded footsteps? Were not the upholstery stained with blood from drug abusers? The oddest aspect was the library remained by-in-large intact. I tried not to lament the millions of dollars they sunk into the house just for it to revert. Could a specter of time and space have reclaimed the crumbling stairs?

The basement beckoned me with a cool breeze, but I feared what lay beneath my feet, so I dashed up to what I thought would be a comforting upstairs. The rooms reeked of detritus as moldy mattresses sat in the rooms where mind voyagers would spread out, but nothing was amiss from my memory except for a prominent winding staircase leading up to the attic; I remembered I had once broken the fragile string pulling down the latter to gain access to the attic. The stairs were crumbling and bellowing beneath my weight, but I was astonished by the impeccability of the attic ballroom; every piece of wood was the same as when I joined in their last public Halloween ball. There was not a single bit of dust resting on the intricate pipe organ.

I walked towards the mantel to check the clock and was given a start when the Victrola suddenly played a song (“I Like the Way You Smile At Me”). It was a curious event since it needed to be powered on to play, but my overriding caution and fear swayed me to leave the room.

I cautiously made my way down the stairs and took in a deep breath—it was time for me to investigate the basement. I had always had a twinge of fear whenever I walked past the basement doors, but now it was more palatable than ever before. My hands trembled as I pulled open the door. A gush of wind sighed passed my face as a breathy moan softly cried in the distance. With little more than the light creeping through the windows I inched my way forwarded into the darkened descent; I firmly clasped the chipping banister for support.

An irritating pinch on my thigh reminded me that I had a lighter stashed deep within my pocket, so I pulled it out as I reached the landing to light my path. The dim light barely illuminated a path of dirt trodden concrete moving from a large room and semi circling into a wall. The lambent amber glow showed the heavily rusted hinges of the wooden door that recalcitrated any movement, but I forced my weight upon it and the door swung open violently; I nearly tumbled into the detritus and gore that laminated the retched and barren carpet. I lifted my eyes as I repostured myself and glanced upon a bed sitting ensconced into the corner; I dared not venture towards it for the acrid foeter of metal deluged my nostrils as I encroached closer and closer to it.

I stumbled into the piano, hitting the lower keys, as I stepped back away from the bed and felt my way for the door. A cold chill ran down my spine as I had possibly adumbrated my own demise in the bass notes of a hollowed out instrument that used to sing lively melodies.

The oppressive air forced me from the room and pushed me along the path into the wall. Instinct urged me to run—run—but the power was too great for me to resist. What in all of magisteria was I being forced into? As though not under my control, my feet led me straight into the wall as I braced myself for a painful impact, but it wisped away like a puff of smoke. Brightly before me laid nine alters to eldritch gods and beings that I had only read about in my eruditions into the occult when I was a teenager but subsequently shunned; all daises rested upon points of an unknown symbol. In the midst of the daises sat a bucket of blood for their spirits to feast upon.

Was it their own? My question was to be immediately answered as I glanced up to the upper corners. Free hanging feet twisted around in the air, and as my eyes moved farther and farther upwards my repulsion grew stronger and stronger as I felt the strong sensation that spirits of the Goths were staring down at me from their nooses.

I bolted out of the basement and glided over the ground as I shot off the property. Whatever became of their fate will now be left up to themselves.