“enter hell here”

Warren’s Hollow, MO. It sat in the middle of nowhere amongst a handful of other small towns with the closest being seven miles away. The difference between the other towns and Warren’s Hollow is that the other towns were still alive. The world hadn’t passed by Warren’s Hollow like other ghost towns, created when the highways were built, or when the mines dried up. Death had come to the town and many believed it had never left.

In a matter of two weeks, a malaise ravaged the town. Anyone that hadn’t been afflicted by it abandoned the town. It was a mystery how the sickness arrived, but it worked its way through the town, leaving folks dead after simple flu-like symptoms before they fell into a bed ridden fever and die from dehydration.

Months later the town was cleaned up but no one was left that dared return. Some claimed the sickness was an act of God, others with more scientific thinking claimed it was some virus or disease, while a few spoke of a curse, a damnation by the devil himself. Whatever it was, the town stayed abandoned and the sickness was never seen in any of the neighboring areas.

Ricky hadn’t been through Warren’s Hollow in years. It hadn’t ever changed since he could remember. Everything had stayed exactly the same. Maybe that was the thing about death.

His old hand-me-down station wagon kicked up gravel and dust as it rolled along the main street, his head rubbernecked from house to house and business to business. Everything was stuck in a state of the past, everything except for the singular reopened business: a sordid motel that was pay by the hour. Three cars sat in the lot. Ricky was sixteen. He knew what was going on in there. Some of his classmates claimed to have spent an hour busy in one of its rooms, probably because that was all they could afford. If so, it had been long enough to down some beers and have some fun.

That wasn’t why Ricky had come to Warren’s Hollow. His passenger seat carried the answer: a flashlight and a can of spray paint for vandalism and theft. It really couldn’t be considered vandalism though if the property was abandoned, right? And if it’s abandoned, the theft of some petty little trinket was nothing. He’d debated it with himself before setting out. His newly minted license meant that he could be cool, but the only way he’d be accepted and allowed to go to the party that Saturday at Mike’s barn was if he had proof that he wasn’t chickenshit.

Everyone else had done it, Van, junior and kicker for varsity, had told him. Now it was his turn. He’d asked what he had to do. Mike, senior and popular, and as-before-mentioned Van described the ritual. There wasn’t much to it. Ever since Warren’s Hollow had been abandoned, the older kids had been visiting to “pay their respects” and get some souvenirs. That translated to spray paint something and take something from somewhere. Of course, with every trip the pilgrim that took it had a story to share too.

The grown ups never talked about the town. It was always the less mentioned the better. His parents would comment about it when they passed through it, normally saying that they needed to tear it down. His peers and the other youth though talked about it all the time and the stories that emerged from it whenever someone came in on a dare. Ricky never pictured himself as the one. Now, here he was.

The town might have been damned or haunted or whatever you wanted to call it, but the church was the epicenter of all the creepiest stories. As Ricky pulled up to it, the doors said it all: “enter hell here” in red graffiti.

While all the other buildings and homes in Warren’s Hollow had shadows and whispers mentioned, the visits to the church had feelings of something all around them. There was something greater there, more boding and ominous. They talked of a presence following them and watching. Some of the stories involved a ghost of an old priest that chased them off. The older teens called bullshit on those stories, but they came back with something from inside.

Ricky emerged from the car, armed with the can of spray paint. The setting sun cast an apt orange and red glow onto everything. If Ricky didn’t know any better, he was already in hell. A gust of wind kicked around him. His imagination, ever alert, told him it was the ghosts giving him warnings to turn back now. His logical brain ignored it and commanded his feet up the steps.

He reached the front doors. He tugged at a handle. Despite the sign, the doors didn’t budge an inch. His steeled demeanor relaxed at the thought the journey was over. He started back down the steps. The wind howled at him, begging for attention from the side. He glanced at it, the scream was coming from between the church and a house next door; the parish, Ricky recalled from his faded Christian upbringing.

There could be a back door maybe? Popularity; new friends; all of it hung on this. If he was going to prove himself, he couldn’t back out now.

As Ricky crept around the corner, he felt his nerves tense. He’d never broken in anywhere. He’d never done anything like this. His heart was in his throat, his skin was gooseflesh. If the front door had opened, it would have been trespassing, maybe, barely. This was him finding a way in by whatever means necessary. He wondered if the cops came through here. It wasn’t like there was anyone to protect or serve. He didn’t want to get arrested. He didn’t want to get scared by a ghost though.

He shook his head to snap out of it. He wasn’t some scaredy cat little kid anymore.

There it was: the back door, or maybe a side door, just a few yards away. Ricky raced to it. The quicker the better. The irrational fear that someone might catch him wouldn’t go away. He grabbed the handle and took a deep breath, but the door swung open without any effort of strength from him. He lets go and the door sat on its hinges, wide open.

Ricky entered onto a stairway landing. The sense of abandonment and lifelessness was reenforced by the mildew and coolness inside. The open door allowed in the modicum of light. His eyes, unadjusted, could just make out directly around him, the black hole that was the basement below, and the space up the stairs. The words on the front door echoed “enter hell here.”

It seemed the vandals had given reprise to tagging the spot. His eyes had started to readjust. He could see a basement hallway below him with a handful of doors, most with frosted glass windows in them. Looking up to the right was a room cast in faint moonlight. Something was tagged on the wall up there. If others had gone that way, maybe it meant that would lead him to the sanctuary. That’s where he wanted to go.

The stairs creaked loudly, echoing in the blaring silence. If he wasn’t alone, he’d be terrified, or at least more terrified than he was.

He reached the top of the stairs. A children’s table sat in the middle of the room. It wasn’t really quite a room. It was more of a space that appeared to be a makeshift Sunday school room multipurposed with storage. Choir robes hung disjointed on a rolling rack to the side. Crayons and supplies were scattered about on the floor. Children’s chairs were strewn about. It looked like someone had decided to trash the place, or had rampaged through it. He pulled out the flashlight and pointed it about the room. It fell on the graffiti: “Jordan loves Claire.” He felt a bit more at ease. It seemed normal and not like another warning of danger. He looked around. There were two doorways catty corner to each other and a small passage opposite them. He took the door farthest right.

The light bounced about a narrow hallway, short and twisted. It was a maze with more doors, albeit very straight forward. He peeked into the first one, the door slightly open, it was a library or study of some kind with couches along one wall. It’d been littered with bottles and other signs of debauchery. He proceeded on.

Another door revealed a nursery. An ancient looking crib sat in one corner while toys were scattered about. The flashlight caught a series of glimmering eyes. He jumped back, letting out a scream. He caught his breath and pointed the light back at the door. There they were, smiling cherubic porcelain faces lined up in a row on the toy chest. He cursed himself for it. Someone had too much fun with that for his liking.

He closed the door, finished with the exploration. If this was all that was there, the older teens were right about the priest ghost being bullshit. His own church in the dark had been creepy when he was all alone, and there hadn’t ever been so much as a bloody accident that had happened there. It made him almost disappointed enough to consider daring it to come out, if it was real.

Before going any further, he decided it’d be good to leave his mark. He pulled out the spray can and shook it. The bottle let out a hiss over and over. He checked over his work: “Van has a pencil dick.” He smiled. He turned back and followed the hallway back to the Sunday school room.

The passageway sat like a black hole. He would need to squeeze through it if he wanted to see where it led to. He shined the light into it. Altar equipment gleamed back amongst stacks of books and boxes. Shadows cast over the end of it. It looked like it went somewhere, but he couldn’t tell. Maybe he could check it out later. Or not at all.

Ricky opened the other door. The Sunday school room suddenly felt claustrophobic to the vast sanctuary that he entered. He looked out onto the pews all shoved about and together. Light from outside shined through dirty stained-glass windows adorning the high walls. Worship books were scattered about the floor with more beer cans and spray paint cans. Words and graphic images littered the walls about him. More than a handful had been in there. Ricky shuddered at an eerie aura from the abandoned house of worship. He’d decided he didn’t believe in God a long time ago, but that didn’t matter at that moment. In there, God was dead. If something came in, or already had, it could make that place its new home, because the previous resident was long gone.

Long dark shadows clung to the edges of the room. He looked out to the distant entrance in vain, unable to see the back wall. He was alone. He knew it, or thought it, but he felt someone or something watching him.

“Hello?” he called out.

No response, as expected. It was a relief in some ways. He wondered if he was wrong about god. He took another look, noticing the balcony. Either side was lined with massive garish pipes. An organ sat on the left-hand side up top. A round stain glass window backlit the handful of pews. Something else stood in the corner. Not something; someone: a figure, darkness in the dark. It could have been a statue hidden in shadows if it weren’t for an ever-slight movement.

Ricky went still. He pointed the flashlight up at the figure. It was too far for the light to reach.

“I see you up there,” He bluffed, “Who are you?”

His voice wavered with terror. The dread of every ghost story Ricky had ever heard filled his heart. He watched and waited. His eyes locked on the spot for what felt like an eternity. Still nothing. He must have imagined it and scared himself. He pointed the flashlight away. It was too bright in the vast sea of darkness. He turned it off and let himself go momentarily blind again. If there was a time for something to “get him,” it was that moment.

Nothing did.

His eyes readjusted again. The distant shadows gained definition. Noises echoed. He scanned the room as it came to life. Whatever was in there was watching him. He’d been careless.

He turned to the altar. Various things were painted behind it. It was a fight of good and evil. A peace sign faced off against a pentagram, vulgarity fought love. A large gold cross still sat in the middle of it. It gleamed ever slightly as if warding off the darkness in the rest of the space. Flower vases remained empty on either side, along with barren candle holders. A massive worship book rested open on the right side. Ricky approached it and peered down to look over the names, pleas and damnations scrawled in it.

Something CLACKED in the sanctuary, rippling an echo throughout. Ricky turned. His eyes flashed up to the balcony. It was empty, including a void space of light where the shadow had been.

Another CLACK. It sounded like it came from all around him. A second reverberated. It sent shivers up Ricky’s neck. He spotted a stairwell near the back. They probably led up to the balcony. It had to be where the footsteps were coming from. The watcher was on his way. Or its way, whatever it was.

The specter of darkness, a ghost, intangible. It could have been anywhere. Travelling over the walls, through the ceiling. It could have been right behind him. Something told him again that it wasn’t a ghost. He grabbed the book and slammed it shut.

More clacking. It didn’t quite sound like foot falls. It sounded like something animalistic. Something like a horse, or a goat. Ricky shook his head. He was scaring himself again. There was no way that it was something like that. It wasn’t a “that.”

Ricky looked toward the back. CLACK. The darkness clouted over the stairs. He could make out the shape of a figure clad in a dark coat and a wide brimmed hat. His mind seemed to paint the image, but he couldn’t make out the distinct outline in the darkness. It was as if they were one and the same. It stood for a second. It was watching him. CLACK. CLACK. It began to move. Faster. It accelerated into a charge. The sound was clattering hooves for sure. It was moving impossibly fast. It burst over the pews, charging at him.

Ricky jumped over the railing of the altar and threw open the door, darting through it. The watcher reached the pulpit, within tackling distance of the door and Ricky. Ricky slammed the door and threw the children’s Sunday school table in front of it. He stumbled backward, tripping over the chairs and fell onto the ground. Rolling over he crawled back toward the stairs. ‘SHIT,’ he remembered the book. It laid near the tunnel. He scurried over it. The door swelled. Ricky needed to get away. He grabbed the book and stood up. The door flew open. The watcher stood entirely filling the frame. Even at the short distance, his features were hard to make out. The shadows seemed to be a part of him. It; whatever. The hat, the shadows, a giant black duster coat kept any features hidden apart from fierce, foggy grey eyes.

It leaned in to slide through, its arm outstretched at Ricky. It was an inhuman distance of at least six feet. Ricky dodged the grasp of a clawed hand, stepping backward into the stairs, falling down them and crashing on the basement landing.

Ricky moaned in pain, he didn’t have time to feel it though. The watcher was descending. He pushed himself back up to his feet. He tried a door right beside him. It gave an inch but something was blocking it from the other side. He screamed in frustration, trying again. No dice. He gave up and hobbled down the short hall to the other three doors.

The one at the end opened. It was a small closet, barely large enough for him to fit into. It’d be his coffin if he tried to hide in it for certain. He turned to one behind him with a frosted window. It opened without trouble into a cramped stall of a bathroom. It’d be another death trap.

The clacking footfalls were over him. They were slow, but he needed to move fast. He turned to the last. It might lead under the sanctuary. He could get out through the front possibly. The frosted glass glowed with flickering candlelight from the other side. Something was on the other side. Ricky was out of options. He needed to get away from this monster. He grabbed the door knob and steeled his nerves.

He opened the door. A fire engulfed the room. It was a blaze hotter than anything he had seen. It cast the hallway in a brilliant orange light. Cloaked monk-like figures were in there. Their creaking necks twisted for their faces to greet him. Realization painted him with horror. His breath skipped and failed, he backed away, hitting the corner. A whelp escaped him, a whimper, a simple, “no.”

He grappled for the doorknob to the bathroom, finding it and pawing it open. The figures shuffled toward the door as a scream tore through the distant reaches of the basement toward the hallway.

The bathroom door opened. Ricky slipped in and pulled the door shut, gripping it closed. A storm of fury berated it from the other side. The knob rattled in his hand. It yanked open an inch. Ricky pulled it closed again and turned the lock. The shadows of the hording monks filled the door frame. Ricky backed away. Ricky’s eyes stayed glued on the door. The silhouettes performed a violent manic dance in the glow on the other side.

God is dead.

His mind raced back into those old memories of Sunday school for any bible verses he might be able to pull out.

He turned behind him. There was a single small window six feet up. It looked too small to try and squeeze through, but he didn’t have any options anymore. His feet wobbled on the toilet seat as he reached to jiggle the window open. It was stuck at around an inch.

The familiar heavy footsteps neared the door. Even cushioned by the carpet in the hallway, they commanded fear. They stopped in front of the door. It grew quiet out there. He turned to see the silhouettes dissipating amongst the clear goliath of the watcher’s. Ricky tensed and held his breath. A door squeaked and clasped closed on the other side. The silhouette of the watcher stood outside. Ricky sat silent. A rage built inside of him. The beast could bust through the door without any effort. Why wasn’t it?

“Though I walk through the shadow of the valley of death, I shall fear no evil. Your rod and your staff, they comfort me…” He chanted, just barely above his breath. It was the only thing he could remember. He prayed to a dead god it was enough.

He listened for the hooved clatter to leave, or the blackened claw to burst through the glass of the door.

The silence outside held. The form of the watcher held too. He continued his chant, but moved off the toilet onto the ground. He let out a breath and neared the door. He still couldn’t hear anything on the other side. The verse was working. Maybe. He squeezed against the floor, and strained to look under the crack of the door. Nothing was visible.

Ricky waited. He could be here all night, if he did. It wouldn’t matter that he broke curfew. It would mean he was alive if daylight came. How long would that be? Could he really last?

“Fuck this.”

He threw the door open. The figure stood there, motionless still. It wasn’t the watcher though, just a coat, a black duster and hat hanging on a coat rack. There in the hall. The orange glow had vanished. The hall was back in darkness. Ricky didn’t waste a minute though. He rushed out. Enduring the pain of his ankle, he rounded the corner and climbed up the stairs to the door on pure adrenaline. All the time, the book held tight against his chest.

Bursting out into the fresh night air, the door hung open. Ricky flew down the stairs as best he could and jumped into his car. Seconds later, the wheels tore down the street.

The backdoor hung open in the moonlit night.

A clacking of what might have been hooves ascended the steps just inside the door. It swung shut.