Sometime in Winter, 2012:
Similar to all good slasher films, this story begins with
two intrepid explorers in their early twenties roaring down a country road
towards an uncertain destination. How I got conned into such a trope is a
simple matter of how badly I wanted to see the movie Red Tails (A poor
decision), and how I didn't want to go alone. Overall it may appear that I was
getting the short end of the stick, but at the time it seemed like a pretty
sweet trade (Damn you George Lucas!)
What I had bargained to do was escort my friend to an
interview location for our college newspaper. The thing I didn't know was: A.
The interview would be taking place someone’s house(Not a public place), and B.
This man’s house was in the middle of the sticks, surrounded by nothing but thick
forests and fields (leaving nowhere to run).
It is also necessary to mention that the interview my friend
was doing was focused on an alleged haunted house in Bellingham… We were
batting ten for ten on horror movie stereotypes that day. The only pitfall we
managed to avoid was splitting up at the haunted house to search for clues. No,
rather than going into the abandoned house we drove around the outside and examined
it from a safe distance. Long story short, long-range circling does not provide
enough information for a news story, and she needed more.
After many phone calls and what I can only imagine to be
journalistic wizardry she got a man via e-mail who claimed to have lived in the
house at one point, and who agreed to the interview. The catch of course was
that in order for us to interview him, we would have to go to his cabin in the
damned woods…
As we drove down the dusty gravel (Paved concrete for the
most part) roads of Blaine my fears of being murdered, stuffed, and mounted on
someone’s wall grew. I’m not sure how much I bitched on the ride there about
how “Sketchy” things were, but I can guess that it was quite a bit. What I had
been assured was a fifteen minute drive, ended up closer to about forty-five.
By the time the car turned off of the main country road we were deep into the territory
of what I can only assume was hill people.
When we turned off the main road I was surprised to find
that most of the houses looked normal. I felt my anxiety about the whole
situation begin to melt away. Maybe he’s
just an eccentric old recluse, living in a perfectly normal house, with no
intention of murdering anyone and eating their skin. Wouldn’t that be nice.
“That’s the house number!” She said, pointing to the one
house with a winding drive, that led through large iron-wrought gates, flanked
on both sides by gnarled oak trees. Their branches reached down like claws,
warning visitors not to step through the ancient gates; lest they be torn apart
by ravenous tree people (I've been told they prefer Treeple).
“There’s no way. There is absolutely no way that we are
going in there!” She didn't seem to be too unnerved by the situation, which
considering the ominous nature of the drive before us seemed a little strange.
However the gate was open as if expecting visitors.
Terrified and slightly aggravated I turned into the drive.
As we passed beneath the canopy of oak branches I noticed stone busts jutting
out of the tall grass on both sides of us. “You've got to be F&^ing kidding
me. Those are tombstones! This is a god damned graveyard! We are not going to
interview a man who lives in a graveyard! What if he traps us and feeds us to
zombie pirates?!”
While this may have seemed unrelated, I can assure you it
was not. I had recently watched Scooby Doo on Zombie Island, easily one of the
best films ever made, and was terrified that I would be trapped by some Cajun
voodoo priest and killed or zombified. All of which are legitimate fears when
you’re driving through a graveyard to meet an eccentric old man who used to
live in an allegedly haunted house!
In any case, none of my whining or moaning would do anything
to deter my friend. She was determined to interview this dude, and so we
continued our drive. At the end of the small road stood a squat, one story
house with vines creeping up the sides. One of the windows glowed orange from a
light inside, casting an imposing silhouette of a man on the curtains.
As we parked the booming barks of two attack dogs (Medium
sized pooches) filled the air. Springing from the house like lightning, these
two killing machines leapt off of the front porch and immediately surrounded
the car. This is it; I’m going to get
eaten by Cujo. Luckily for us, their owner followed them out shortly and
called them off the attack.
He was nothing like I had expected. Rather than the creepy
old hunchback, or the willowy vampire king, he was merely a small,
white-haired, and well-dressed man. He reminded me of John Hammond from
Jurassic Park, and so I kept a lookout for raptors or other deadly beasts of
the extinct variety. He called for us to come inside, and while I protested, we
ultimately ended up following him in from the front door.
Now while I expected to find the inside of the house adorned
with gas lamps, and unsettling oil paintings…. THAT WAS EXACTLY WHAT IT WAS!!
The walls were cluttered with portraits of family members and pets long since
dead, all illuminated by the flickering lights of old-timey gas lanterns
(Filled in with bulbs now).
“Hello, I’m Edward.” The man said in a kindly voice, that
did nothing to hide the air of malice that I was so sure was hiding just
beneath his bushy white beard. I shook his hand and introduced myself, but
still felt as though murder was imminent. After introductions he led us into a
small sitting room, which of course was adorned with stained glass, large wood
bookcases, and more oil paintings.
“Would you like some sausages? I rolled them myself this
morning.” My friend, luckily had the excuse of dietary restrictions, but unfortunately
I wasn't quick enough to find an excuse of my own, and soon found myself eating
the no-doubt-poisoned sausage. They came arranged nicely on a silver platter,
and tasted terrible.
Slowly the tension inside of me began to fall as there were
no zombies busting through the floorboards, and no angry poltergeists tossing furniture.
The interview began, and I sat awkwardly, watching the ancient paintings,
making sure that their eyes weren't moving. You can never be too careful.
The interview culminated in Edward saying that he didn't
believe in ghosts and thought that most of the myths surrounding the mansion he
used to inhabit were just that, myths. After the interview he showed us around
his house. Every room was packed wall to wall with precious works of art from
all over the world. One of the hallways was made entirely of stone, and had
little alcoves carved out for lighting. It was unlike anything I had ever seen.
From large statues of Chinese dragons, to maps of old
England, the man had everything. I wish I had taken pictures, but my phone was
dead from using the GPS to get there. Edward spent around thirty minutes
touring us around, and then we said polite goodbyes and left. Overall one of
the craziest things I have ever experienced.
In the end, neither of us were murdered, there were no
voodoo rituals, and we made it out in one piece. Red Tails sucked the big one,
and was by no stretch worth nearly getting eaten alive by cannibalistic ghost
people or attack dogs. However the experience is something I will never forget…
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