Hell Within -- Chapter Three: The House -- Scenes 1&2

Chapter Three: The House

-1-

"Mr. Mize will see you now," the receptionist said.

Ben looked down at the lady sitting behind the antique wooden desk with her bee-hive hairdo, and thick, black framed glasses.

He felt as though he’d stepped through a time-warp.

Lakewood Village was a sleepy town, with most of the buildings and businesses built in a style that was consistent with the thirties, forties, and fifties.

And this office, with it’s brown, vinyl couches, stand ash trays, and wooden desks looked as though the inspiration for its design had come directly out of a mid fifties version of Better Homes and Gardens.

Ben stood up from the couch where he’d sat for the last fifteen minutes and stretched the stiffness out of his back. And an old man wearing a pair of khaki dress pants, a white shirt and a red tie appeared out of the hallway behind the desk and approached Ben with his hand outstretched.

"How do you do?"

Ben shook his hand, and suddenly he didn’t feel so grim anymore.

Steve looked him up and down. "Tell you the truth, I’m a bit surprised that you made it out here this early. Gainesville’s a hell of a haul."

Ben shrugged. "Not like I had anything better to do."

The smile faded from Steve’s face. "Havin a little marital trouble, eh?"

He shrugged.

"I was married 53 years," Steve said. "Given the number of divorces I handle every year, I’d say I was pretty goddamn lucky."

Ben looked down to the floor and massaged his head.

Steve nodded as if he’d gotten the picture, and then he looked down at his watch.

"Well, I’m sorry I can’t stick around, but I’m due in court in 20 minutes."

He handed Ben a brass keychain with five keys on it. Ben studied it and then looked back at Steve.

"Those are your house keys. Get to know the place and when you come back on Monday, I’ll tell you about the rest of the will."

"My father owned a house in Lakewood Village?"

Steve shook his head. "Your mother did; the Lancaster Family has been around here for years."

Ben squinted at him with confusion.

"You have the look of your mother."

"You knew them?"

Steve smiled. "Well, I should say so. Your father practically put me through law school."

"Did the car crash happen in Lakewood Village?"

Steve frowned.

"Car crash?"

Ben nodded. "The one my parents died in? My mother was driving?"

The doubt on Steve’s face turned into a knowing smile, and he looked past Ben toward the door leading out to the parking lot.

"Well, that’s an interesting representation of the truth."

Ben gave him an interrogative look.

Steve shook his head. His receptionist came up behind him holding a khaki blazer and a tired leather briefcase. Steve took both items and looked back at Ben.

"I’m running late. We’ll talk on Monday."

Ben stared at him blankly. Thousands of questions flooded his mind all at once, and he hadn’t the slightest idea which one he should ask first.

"I’ve had my secretary type up some directions to your house," Steve was saying. "If you need anything before Monday, my office number is printed on the letterhead."

Steve extended his hand again, and Ben shook it.

"It’s truly a pleasure to meet you, and I’ll look forward to Monday."

And before Ben could get a question out of his mouth, Steve headed for the door, but just before stepping outside, he stopped as if remembering something particularly important, and turned back to face Ben.

"And when you do need that divorce lawyer, you could do a lot worse. I was taught by the best."

Ben opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, Steve was out the door.

-2-

Ben’s day only grew stranger.

As he turned on to the rough patch of asphalt that was Van Durr Road, his mind still reeled with questions about his parents. If his parents hadn’t died in a car crash, how had they died? What had Mize meant when he’d said that the car crash was an interesting representation of the truth? Why had no one ever told him about a house in Lakewood Village?

But soon his uneasiness was replaced by contentment. A cloudless autumn sky hung above him and the oaks on both sides of the road stood tall reaching into the sky with many fingers. From time to time, a breeze would sweep through the woods causing a swelling sigh to sweep through the treetops.

A half-mile down the road he crossed over an old-fashioned covered bridge with a gentle brook passing below. Time was frozen here.

Not far from the bridge two bell towers of black stone rose above the treetops. Then the trees peeled back away from the road revealing a trophy house hanging back behind the gray trunks of trees five hundred feet off the road.

Its towering black façade jutted five stories from the earth and was at least three hundred feet wide, and it was sandwiched between twin bell towers with pointed roofs that peeked over the trees. From behind each bell tower extended long three-story wings that bent at perpendicular angles encompassing the front yard.

A few feet further and the broken remnants of a cement driveway appeared along with a mailbox prominently displaying the numbers 4153 Van Durr Road.

Ben stopped his car in the middle of the road and took the directions from the passenger’s side seat and compared addresses. The numbers were identical.

Now he didn’t know what to do.

This’s got to be a mistake.

He plucked his pack of camels from its place between the emergency brake and the console, and lit up, and then he looked back through the barren trees at the house.

And there was a profound sense of wrongness about it. It was so beautiful it was ugly -- so intricate that it was otherworldly -- so massive that the Titans might have built it. It reminded him of a cathedral -- something in the contours of the towering façade evoked an almost unsavory feeling of reverence.

"No way."

Not knowing what else to do, he backed his car up and turned up the bumpy driveway, drove through a long patch of trees and landed in a cul-de-sac in front of the house. He got out of his car and shut the door tossing his cigarette away.

An eerie calm surrounded him. The dense acres of barren trees reached into the sky standing motionlessly as if frozen in stone. Not even the sound of a stray leaf scraping across one of the jagged, grown up shards of cement that was once the driveway broke the silence.

A kind of squawking from above broke the silence and along with it Ben's trance. He looked up to find a cloud of black birds flying in a V formation above the mansion.

He smirked.

This's someone's idea of a joke.

But his curiosity won out. He rounded the RX-7 and climbed the steps to the four-door entrance. Then he clasped one of the thick, black-iron knockers and rapped on the door.

As he waited, he noticed a faint carving of what appeared to be a coat-of-arms on the doors -- a carving that years of weather had mostly worn away.

The door cracked open and a fusty sigh, like the last breath of a corpse, rushed out of the house.

Behind the door, a shadow of a man stood just out of the sunlight. Ben squinted at him, trying to make out the features of his face, but he could tell nothing about him.

"Can I help you?" the man said.

Ben frowned.

"I’m looking for a house in this area. . . ."

"I’m afraid I’m no longer familiar with this area."

"This’s such bullshit," Ben said, half way to himself, looking down the left side of the house.

"Perhaps if you tell me who’s house you’re looking for?"

"Apparently mine."

The man leaned forward still not far enough for Ben to make out anything other than his shadow.

"And what is your name, sir?"

"Ben Eaton."

The man stood up straight and backed out of sight opening the door wide.

"Welcome home, Mr. Eaton, I'm Tom Freeman, the caretaker of your estate."

Ben didn't know what to say. He stood frozen with his feet firmly planted into the stone landing just outside, staring dubiously into the dark expanse before him. But the shadow calling itself Tom Freeman said nothing more, and not knowing what else to do, Ben stepped through the ancient threshold into the cold and musty space that was the foyer of the mansion. And Tom closed the door behind him.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness inside, but when they did, a powerful feeling of dèjá vu gripped him.
Directly in front of him was a grand archway dressed in a gold curtain leading into a wide hallway of stone walls -- walls as black as the exterior, lit only by candles in silver sconces.

Guarding this archway were two mahogany end tables shrouded in dust and cobwebs. The objects on each seemed vaguely familiar.

A thick, leather-bound book with guilded pages sat on the left table with a feather pen that must have once been white draping over the top of it. And on the right, an old tabletop regulator sat between two ceramic figures – one man and one woman. The pendulum of this clock had long stood still, dusty spider webs hung off it, and its hour and minute hands hung eternally frozen on the numerals III and VI.

Tom walked around him like a drill sergeant inspecting his men. He was a tall, regal-looking black man with a ruddy complexion who stared at him through wire-framed glasses. And there was a glint of fatherly approval in his eyes as he looked him over.
Ben shifted his weight from foot to foot trying to decide on the proper pose.

"It took me years to find you," Tom finally said, standing face to face with him, his voice echoing profusely. "It wouldn't've taken so long if that attorney weren't so incompetent."

He turned away from Ben with his arms folded behind his back and a far-off look in his eyes.

"The last time I saw you, you were so small that it must've taken every ounce of energy in your body to cry. Now you look more like a Lancaster than your mother ever did."

"You knew my parents?"

Tom's eyes narrowed shrewdly. "Your mother, Jamie, was quite an artist. Such a gentle soul. Some of her work still hangs about the house if you’re interested."

Ben scratched his head.

"So what about you," Tom said. "Are you married?"

"For the moment."

"Do you have children?"

"No."

"Should you change your mind, many a fine youth has come from here."

Ben looked at his feet and shook his head.

"I don't think I can afford this house," he admitted.

"Did the lawyer not tell you about the trust fund?"

Ben glared dumbly, and Tom frowned.

"It's not my place to meddle in your financial affairs, but your inheritance includes a trust fund worth more than enough for you and your wife to live like kings the rest of your lives."

Ben shrugged. "I only talked to him briefly. I'm supposed to go by his office later."

"What did you say you do?"

"I'm an assistant manager at the Gainesville Publix."

"Interesting," Tom said uncertainly as if he had no idea what Ben was talking about. "Would you listen to me ramble? I'm sure you have plenty of questions."

Ben shrugged and glanced around.

"How old is this house?"

"That depends on what part of the house you're speaking of. Its oldest parts date back to the early 16th century. The newest, aren't much more than seventy."

Ben frowned. "I don’t even think the state of Georgia was settled until the 1700s."

"History is an edited version of the truth. Actuality is much messier."

Ben gave him an interrogative look.

Tom laughed. "Well, you've come a long way. I'm sure you'd like to settle in, so I'll show you to your rooms. And if you're hungry I can make something to eat."

(Continue to Scenes 2-)