As promised, to celebrate surpassing 25 followers (thanks to each and every one of them!) I present to you this week an old short story that I wrote but never published waaay back in the fall of 2001. Enjoy!!!

Parlor Games


I’ve spent the better part of my life wondering about just one night. Sad but true. I remember it like it was yesterday. We were just freshman out looking for a good time. It was supposed to be a laugh. It was supposed to be only a game. It was never supposed to work like it did.

Enough cryptic description I suppose, if you’re here then you’ve paid your two bits to hear a good yarn. I shan’t disappoint. Just be advised, in the tradition of great stories, only the most unbelievable parts are true.

Before I get to my tale though, you need to know a little history. Please don’t gloss your eyes over like that, if it makes you feel any better you can consider it backdrop for the story and I promise to be as brief as possible.

The year was 1970 and our town was preparing for the sweeping changes that autumn would bring. For the first time hundreds of matriculating college students were set to descend upon us. With the construction finished, Geffen University was going to be opening its doors to students for the first time.

And with the university and the students came the fraternities, following like a tail on a dog. As the leaves turned Sigma Ki took up residence on Brown’s Hill in the retrofitted old courthouse. This will be the setting of my story. But in 1970 it was the setting of another story. In early November of that first year, police descended upon Sigma Ki in a raid that is still remembered by many around these parts.

A frat boy flipped his lid—too much LSD the police alleged—and went on a killing spree inside the building. He wiped out a third of the fraternity’s members, about 12, before police subdued him with a hail of gunfire.

Thirteen were killed that day. Are you superstitious? The fraternity was closed, the building abandoned, and life went on. Over the years the building decayed but was never torn down because it was declared a landmark.

But after what happened in 1970 it wasn’t a landmark that people visited anymore. The police chief of our town closed the investigation by reporting that no drugs were found in the boy’s blood. He was at a loss as too why he flipped out and killed so many of his friends.

The whispers must’ve begun about that time that the building itself—the place—was evil. Ten years after the incident, when enrollment at Geffen was just recovering, the revelation came out that the boy wasn’t a fraternity member.

People were outraged by the fact that the now retired police chief hadn’t discovered this fact in 1970. He maintained that it wasn’t important if he was a member or not. But people began talking, concocting their own stories about this lost boy.

I’m going to assume that it was about this time that fact and fiction got too intertwined with each other, making it impossible to separate them. Stories of him being the devil incarnate, or a townie that was rejected for admission, or a nerd taking revenge upon his tormenters ran rampant around the town.

For their part, anyone who was there in 1970 and survived refused to talk about the incident. They gave their accounts to the police once and never spoke about it again. And so imaginations ran wild much like yours must be right about now.

You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you all this and what it has to do with my story, am I right? Well, imagine for a minute growing up amidst all this. What do you think it would do to you as a child if you were told the house on the hill was a place of evil and off-limits to you?

Curiosity grows over time until you can do something to satisfy it. I’d have been better off to just forget the whole thing, but I couldn’t and in the end I didn’t. This is where my story begins.

There were five of us in the autumn of 1995 when we decided to venture up on the hill. Five went up and without ruining my story I’ll just say that five didn’t come down. It was Halloween and the streets were full of kids in devil masks, vampire teeth, Spice Girl costumes, and only God knows what else.

The air had a bite to it that night. It was chilly in town but it was downright freezing on the hill. I’ll spare you the cliché and tell you right now that it may have been dark but it was not a stormy night.

As I said before, the five of us were freshman at Geffen. Greg Hansen, Tommy Bartello, and Melissa Jackman grew up in our town. Randy Schur and Jessica Wright came from other parts of the country. As to who I am, you’ll find out in due time.

Tommy suggested we spend Halloween on the hill, said it would be creepy cool. Tommy could talk you into jumping off a cliff. Randy brought the game. Greg and Jessica protested bringing it into the courthouse but were vetoed by group pressure.

We should’ve listened to them.

Once inside we were all afraid. Not of ghosts or stories but of faulty construction. Let’s face it, twenty-five years of neglect can turn a building into a deathtrap. Unfortunately we put aside our good sense and climbed the rod iron staircase.

We went one at a time, worried that anymore weight would collapse the flimsy structure. On the third floor we did some exploration. Curiosity again can be so persuasive. I’m ashamed to say that I was the one who found the perfect spot to play the game.

In its time the room must’ve been a bedroom, but not much of that remained. Huge holes stared at us from the walls; holes we imagined were put there by the lost boy’s rampage but more likely were put there by time.

We broke out the candles but all we had were scented ones and to this day the smell of jasmine turns me off. With flickering light we sat in a circle and Randy brought out the Ouija board. The game we were going to play was raising spirits. Creepy cool as Tommy said. A laugh Randy joked before we got down to serious business.

Ten fingers were placed on the glass, two from each of us. Greg, being a spiritual guy, recited our incantation to the spirit of the lost boy. The hardwood floor creaked under us as he chanted. Only from our weight we told ourselves.

His voice echoed in the room while the candlelight flickered on his face casting a menacing shadow upon him. Convinced that he had made contact he asked the first question. Nothing heavy really, just are you here?

Slowly—as I recall the glass always moved slowly under our fingers—the glass slid down from the middle of the board to point to YES.

The air became electric for us. I can’t speak for the rest but I know at this point I believed we were just pulling our collective chain; that nothing was with us in that room. We were young and it was Halloween, who doesn’t like to be scared?

With the YES staring us in the face, creepy cool Tommy asked the next question, a sort of confirming the spirit type of question. Did you kill twelve students here?

The glass didn’t move from the YES. At this point the skeptic could easily dismiss the answer by saying it was already on YES and no movement can hardly be considered as proof of contact. I’d like to say we were skeptics and that’s why we continued, but I can’t.

I know some of us believed it was all a joke but some of us by their faces said that they believed we’d made contact. Jessica asked the next question, a tougher one to fake. What is your name?

Slowly the glass moved from the YES to the B to the R to the A to the D to the Y. The glass gave us a name of Brady, harder to fake because if it was being pushed what are the odds of all five of us spelling the same name?

Skepticism began to run out at this point. I asked the next question of Brady, why did you kill those students? Without a word of a lie chills ran through me at this point. The question was so charged with energy and I was so worked up by that point. Slowly the glass began to creep away from the Y.

It ever so meticulously swept from one letter to the next that it would be impossible to believe that anyone was pushing it, the motion was just too smooth. In the end the message Brady gave us was I WANTED TO.

We stared at each other for a long time at that point. Those of us who believed from the first YES were panicked and the rest of us were catching up. The way I saw it either one of us was really trying to scare us or we weren’t playing a game anymore.

I wanted to believe one of us was playing a sick prank on the rest of us but then the glass began to move again without having been asked a question.

Slowly the glass laid out a question for us, ARE YOU SCARED? I couldn’t pry my eyes off the board, I remember hearing someone say it wasn’t funny anymore. Shrugging off the question, Randy pushed the glass to NO.

I think he felt it was a show of strength, of defiance or bravery. I don’t think it was any of these things. The glass slowly spelled it out for us—YOU WILL BE.

We were shitting at this point. Even if it was all a prank, we’d had enough. Most of us anyway. But Randy was spurred on by the threat.

He nudged me at that point and told me he had the question. He asked did you kill anyone in this room? I was mostly out of my head at this point but I remember that the glass didn’t move. It just sat there on the E. Randy smiled at that, said to us that the prankster apparently ran out of answers. I said let’s get out of here and got no dissenting comments.

We took our fingers off the glass and it whipped around. We looked at each other to confirm what we had just seen. I mean think about it, the glass moved after we took our fingers off it. On its own it moved! Impossible right? We came to the conclusion that we were imagining things until it moved again. Not slow this time, but lightning fast.

It spelled out six letters for us: NOT YET. At that point the candles snuffed out dropping us into the moonlight. Some of us began to whimper, and not just the girls.

I heard Tommy say let’s get out of here and like everyone else he didn’t have to tell me twice. We left the board behind and went for the staircase. Tommy led the way and got four steps down before it groaned. I pulled Jessica back before she could follow.

I can still remember the look in Tommy’s eyes that instant before the rod iron bent and gave way. The best way I can describe it is pure surprise. Plummeting two stories with the wreckage he landed hard on the concrete below. Even from our vantage point we could tell that his neck was broken.

I’ll remember the screams forever. We had just seen our friend die. But it was worse than seeing him die; it was knowing why. A malevolent force killed him; Brady killed him. We were through playing with him but he wasn’t through playing with us.

We backed away from the landing and stared at each other, willing each other really to come up with an idea. I suggested we find some bed sheets and tie them together to climb down. Randy scoffed at the idea, but he had nothing better so my idea won out.

I suggested it would be faster if we split up. I know what you’re thinking because it’s most likely the same thing my friends told me. Splitting up is never a good idea. In every horror movie ever made the monster always strikes when you split up. But like I told my friends, this isn’t a horror movie and the faster we get out the better.

Out of options, they agreed and we split. How I wish they hadn’t listened to me. I went down the hall in and out of bedrooms looking for sheets that hadn’t decayed to threads. I only found two sets stored in the closet of one of the last of my bedrooms. I knew they’d only stretch one flight and I hoped the others did better.

Back at the landing I set to work tying what I had. When the others made it back with three more sheets I thought it might just work, we might just make it out alive. Except one thing, as the time dragged on Randy never showed up. Looking at Greg I knew we shared the same thought. Neither one of us wanted to spend anytime searching for him.

Callous, yes, but we were afraid for our lives. Still though we couldn’t leave him. So after finishing our rope we set off down the hall. Coming upon the bedroom where the game started I felt a chill. An honest to goodness chill.

Before we even went inside I knew he was in there. We found him amidst our screams hanging by a bed sheet above the board. His skin was blue and we knew we were too late. I heard one of us shout look and point to the board. It might’ve even been me; I was so out of it by then.

Whipping around the board with surgical precision the glass spelled out JESSICA YOU ARE NEXT.

She screamed as you can imagine and I tried to offer comfort to her with my embrace. But she was shaking so badly I knew the only comfort for her would be getting her out. The same could’ve been said about me.

We left the room and Randy’s body hanging above it, and made our way back to our rope. Lowering it we saw it reach to just above the ground. We would have to jump the last few feet but it was definitely doable. All that remained was would the sheets hold?

One at a time we tested them by climbing down as far as they stretched and then jumping. It held for the first two of us without so much as fraying a bit. But as Jessica got halfway down to us, the knot holding the sheet to the landing unraveled.

I watched her grab at air for that split second before gravity took her and swallowed her screams. She hit in front of us with a sickening thud only to be covered by the bed sheets that had failed her.

We bolted for the front door and found it locked on the outside. We knew. Brady was loose again after twenty-five years and this time he wasn’t going to let anyone out alive.

Kicking the door it shook in the frame but wouldn’t open. Frantic we backed up and rushed it. Smashing into it together we busted it open and fell outside into the night. Scurrying to our feet we ran from the house on the hill.

That’s my story. That’s the night I wonder about. What? You want to know more huh? You want to know what happened after that. Most of all though you want to know who I am.

Well, okay I guess. We ran all the way to the police station that night and mumbled some coherence of a story to them. They descended upon the house like they had done in 1970 and found Jessica and Tommy where we said they’d be at the base of the fallen staircase. Upstairs they found Randy still hanging by the bed sheet.

But they didn’t find the board. The board has never been found and no one has ever believed what we said happened that night. The police said it was all a sequence of tragic accidents brought on by the age of the place and the imaginations of excitable youth.

I suppose that if I hadn’t been there I’d believe that too. A staircase collapses, a friend grief-stricken over it commits suicide, then a knot unravels. Nothing paranormal there.

But remember what I told you when I started, only the most unbelievable parts of my story are true. Now I’m finished.

What? Oh, you still want to know who I am or do you already know? If you’ve been paying attention you do. All right, if you don’t know pay up another two bits and I’ll tell you again. Here we go. There were five of us in the autumn of 1995…