Prompted: Locked in My House by Supernatural Means
Image provided by @nicolafioravanti.
A reader submitted the following prompt during 2024’s 24 Hour Writing Challenge. I couldn’t complete the essay before the challenge ended, but as promised, I am attempting to do so now.
The following is a work of fiction.
Hours before, we were at an AMC Theater near our house. Religiously, we watched a movie every Sunday night. What began as a weekly ritual with a small group of fraternity brothers while in college, had morphed into a tradition that could not be missed.
On any given Sunday, you might have caught us watching an action movie, a comedy, or another film that was sure to garner award attention. Every so often, we watched a horror film or a movie with enough tension to test every ounce of my strength.
On this Sunday evening, we had just finished watching Paranormal Activity. It is a film I will never forget.
Back in the safety of a two-story home that I shared with Joe and Matt in some tree-named neighborhood in Edmond, OK, our home suddenly felt like the enemy. After a terrifying film centered on a place that should provide safety and security, the thought of trying to fall asleep alone in my bedroom was the last place on Earth I wanted to be.
Outside my bedroom, we had turned the upstairs space into a den filled with comfortable couches, our DVD collections, books, video game systems, and our television. Afraid to fall asleep, we collectively decided to watch television until our eyes became so heavy that we must surrender to sleep.
For hours after the credits rolled on our Sunday tradition, we mindlessly devoured television and tried to convince ourselves of the truth. What we had just experienced was just a movie. Nothing more.
Joe was the first to throw in the towel. As he walked down wooden stairs with heavy steps, he carried exhaustion with him. After a quick visit to the restroom, it was obvious that any worries he felt would soon surrender themselves to sleep. If this house was going to get him, it would have to rouse him from a deep slumber. With final words echoing from the bottom floor, “goodnight and good luck,” he closed his bedroom door.
As the clock flashed one in the morning, Matt and I found ourselves losing a battle with our imaginations. Of all the years I lived with Matt, he was famous for his ability to fall asleep during almost any movie or television show. It didn’t matter how intense or engaging Matt would fall asleep. Tonight, I was secretly hoping to follow his lead and steal some of his spotlight.
With Matt stretched out on the couch and me in a rocking chair, another hour floated by. I checked on Matt. He was out like a light. He had won and found a way to silence his imagination. For his sake, I hoped those intrusive thoughts wouldn’t work their way into his dreams.
Alone and still wide awake, I turned off the television and headed to my bedroom. It was 2:30 in the morning. I turned on my TV, turned down the volume, and decided to do my best to allow the white noise of the Home Shopping Network to send me to sleep. As I got under my covers, I heard Matt begin making his way down the stairs. As he did, I set the timer on my television for 90 minutes. Surely, I would be fast asleep in 90 minutes.
After 90 minutes, my television finally turned off. In the late 2000s, I owned a flat screen television, but it still had the same tube technology that was found on older models. Sometimes, the plastic encasing the back of the television would get so hot that the plastic would make a loud popping noise as it began to cool. It didn’t always happen, but when it did, it was bound to startle. On this night, of all nights, it did exactly that.
With a thunderous pop, my eyes opened to a dark room. It was my house, but something felt drastically different. Outside my bedroom window, a cloudless night had grown dark, cold, and eerie. When I laid my head on my pillow, the moon was shining brightly, like the undimmed lights of oncoming traffic. Now, the moon was absent and missing in action.
Outside my wooden bedroom door, I could hear the faint sound of hissing. In a fit of confusion, my mind leaped to the slithering of snakes. With my ear pressed against the door, I could also hear the low roar of a bear and the chaotic buzzing of bees. If someone had thrown in grasshoppers, all that I fear in the animal kingdom would have been found beyond the barrier to my bedroom in some sort of Noah’s Ark from hell.
On the plains of Oklahoma, in the suburbs, in our house, on the second floor, I knew my imagination was holding me hostage. All I had to do was open my door, and my over-active mind would quiet itself. With every ounce of courage I could muster in that moment, I turned the knob.
Opening my door, I found a house enveloped in darkness. The shades were drawn on every window. Curtains were pulled tightly. It was impossible to distinguish the shape of objects. With the edge of the stairs just a few feet from my door, I was frozen in place and unable to move. But I had to move. I had to go downstairs and figure out what was going on. Anyone who has ever watched a horror movie knows upstairs is not a place you want to be.
As I lurched forward, I felt the handrails. Stabbing in the dark, I finally made contact. With a white-knuckle grip, I took carefully coordinated steps down the staircase. Step. Pause. Step. Pause. Step. Pause. As I planted my feet on the fourth step from the top, countless candles started to burn in unison. As if God had muttered, “Let there be light!” Our house was now washed with dancing flames and the glow of flickering light. Stunned, my body absolutely refused to move. Searching feverishly in the space for some explanation, I looked toward our brick fireplace. Standing resolutely, holding a single candle in each other's hands were two individuals. From head to toe, they were covered in black. With black hoods covering their bowed heads, I let out a scream. It was the only thing I could do at that moment.
As the echoes of my screen reverberated off the walls, the animal sounds started to fill the room again. This time, they were louder and coming from every angle. I did the only thing I could think of at that moment. I did the thing we always make fun of when we see people do it in horror films. I ran back up the stairs. Back in the relative safety of my room, I put everything I could grab in front of the door. I wanted to barricade myself from the chaos just beyond my door.
With my entertainment center blocking the door, I threw every loose item in my room against the door. I felt like a sandbagger preparing for a once in a lifetime flood. Cowering in a naked corner, my mind was racing and overcome with ideas. How do I get myself out of here? The second story window seemed like an option, but I was worried about the fall. I decided that would be an option of last resort.
Rapidly thinking through the inventory of my room, I thought about the placement of knives gifted to me as a kid. Where was my dad’s buck knife when I needed it the most? Searching my closet with reckless abandon, opening every shoebox, I heard a pounding on the door. A deep voice from outside said, “Nathan, your hour of reckoning is near. Open this door and meet your fate.” The voice was like a baritone, but gravely like someone who over indulged in whiskey and cigars.
Ignoring the voice, my search continued. With the lid removed from a bright orange Nike box from my childhood, I held a buck knife in my hand. With a speed I have never before possessed, I removed it from its leather case. Now, I felt evenly matched and prepared to meet whatever might be waiting for me on the other side of the door.
As I drew closer to the door, the animalistic sounds began to die down. The soundtrack dramatically shifted to babbling brooks and crickets. My house was now engulfed in white noise meant to help someone sleep or meditate.
Utterly confused, I removed the items blocking my door. Aware that this might be a trick to lure me from the safety of my fortress, I held the knife open and at the ready. I might meet my maker tonight, but I wasn’t going to do so without a fight.
As I pushed the entertainment center back into its place, I carefully opened the door. As I did, the sound of laughter began filling the downstairs living room. The animal noise was gone. So was the white noise. This laughter was concentrated. It sounded like it was coming from the people standing near the fireplace, but it also sounded like they weren’t alone.
Stepping into the abyss, my eyes were drawn downstairs. The men in robes were no longer hiding behind hoods, and they were no longer alone. They were joined by a small crowd of fraternity brothers. With the faces of my roommates meeting my eyes, I looked up and down at their robes. I had been had. Diabolical forces had joined together to play on my worst fears.
I didn’t know whether I should be angry or amused. Confused, I sat on the top step and put my head in my hands.
For years, I told my roommates how I thought your own home could be the scariest thing in the world. With a simple Sunday tradition, they devised a way to make my childhood fears come alive. That conversation and a horror movie were all the spark they needed. Their prank was an explosion.
With my roommates and friends surrounding me in the upstairs living room, I could only chuckle and say, “You got me. You really got me.”
Be good to each other,
Nathan
As a member of the factory, you are taking a stand for human powered creation.
