Come
by Jeff Brown © 2006
It sat on the corner, tall and ominous, just as it had for all the years of its existence. Each brick was in the right place; each board, each window and sash; each door had its perfect niche on the house. The porch, the steps, the roof, even the yard, all had its place; all had its purpose, each piece holding its very own soul.
The passers-by all stop and look, intrigued by its unique structure. It was square like most other houses, two stories and an attic, complete with a window of its own. The doors, three of them, all solid oak. The window panes were all an off white color while the red clay bricks had that dusty ancient look about them. The porch seemed like keys from a piano, or, maybe more appropriately, teeth in a mouth; the steps were like its tongue; the windows like eyes peering down on the world.
Those who stop and look at the house all hear its beckon call and see its doors open, its windows light up. Then they disappear inside, never to be seen again.
"It is haunted," the children say. Some even dare to stand on its porch, but few go inside—of their own accord.
They've tried to burn it down but it would not burn. They tried knocking it down but it would not budge, the brick not giving way, no matter how many times the wrecking ball crashed into it. It has become eternal, this structure of red clay and wood with its blackened heart and many souls.
But, it is not the house that catches my eye, but the tall tree behind it. I can see it looming over the roof, its leaves brown and orange and yellow as if it were fall, even though it is the middle of the summer. It is the tree, though most people do not listen. It is the tree.
I first noticed the tree when I was walking by the house and heard its call.
Come. Come.
It was a hollow voice that cried out for me to enter, but it wasn't coming from the house. I shook my head and listened.
Come to me, now.
Then I saw it—or him—swinging from the tree; his neck broken; his head at an odd angle; his face swollen; his eyes bugging out from his skull; his purple tongue dangling from between swollen lips. The young black man wore only a pair of overalls. No shoes. No shirt
underneath the overalls.
Come.
It was the black man who called out and he straightened his head to look at me. He raised both of his dead arms as if reaching for me.
Come.
Fleeing, I ran. I told anyone who would hear me what had happened. They called me crazy, nuts, a fool.
Then more people began to disappear, mostly children, and the structure was to blame. Or, so that is what they said. They couldn't tear it down. Preachers prayed over it to no avail. Those who were brave enough to walk inside and pray and call out the demons were never seen from again.
"It's the tree," I tell them but they don't listen.
The young black man laughs at me in my dreams. He taunts me, yet I do nothing.
Then, it happened. Four days have passed since my baby brother disappeared from the steps of the house. It had been a dare—go up to the house and knock on the door. Those that were there when it happened cried of the porch opening up and swallowing him as if taking him into the depths of Hell.
"The house is evil," they cry.
"It's the tree," I say. Again, they laugh at me.
I stand across from the red clay brick structure with its horrid face of windows and doors and steps and boards and bricks.
Come.
I hear the call, but not from the house. This time I don't run. I stay. I go. But, not to the house. I encircle it, stopping near the tree. The hanging dead man looks down on me, his eyes bugging from their sockets still. He smiles. I've come to him.
"It's the tree," I say just before swinging my axe downward.
***
Come.
I speak these words along with the other souls in the house. We are waiting. We are hungry.
It wasn't the tree.
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