standing are a tall stone chimney on the right side and a small portion of the far wall. In front of us is a hole cut sharply into the ground. It looks like a giant knife blade reached down and sliced out the earth. The basement walls are built of flat stones laid without any mortar. Laid well, I guess, considering they’re still holding up long after the wood above them has rotted away. A single white birch tree grows straight up from the bottom of the cellar.
My heart pounds, but I don’t think it’s from fear. This is a discovery, our first real discovery, considering we already knew about the Hawthorn Trees and the offering stone. I jump down a slight, stony incline until I’m level with the house.
“Ronnie?” I ask. “I seem to remember you mentioning this in the story a few years back. You haven’t brought it up in a while. Why don’t you tell us again?”
“I can’t,” he says. “Not right now.” He wipes his hand across his brow, and I can see his fingers shaking. He’s had this place woven into the story for years. Sometimes he includes it, and sometimes he doesn’t. But I’m not sure he ever really believed in it. Now he’s face to face with it, and he can’t deny it.
“I think now is the perfect time,” I insist.
He keeps to the edges of the boulders and doesn’t walkup to the foundation. I don’t think he can. “Okay,” he mumbles. “This is the Horror House. I mean, uh, it’s really called the Hora House. I heard about it from Stucks, who heard about it from his dad. I went to the town hall and the library and looked up a little about it. I found out that … uh, Stucks? Can’t I tell it at the next fire?”
“Come on, Ronnie,” I laugh. I want him to say it, if for no other reason than to try to freak out my cousin, who has probably heard about the place from her own dad.
“Well, the Hora House was built in the 1940s by Daniel Hora, who was a guy from New York who’d made it big in the … in the …”
“Hat business,” I say. I don’t know if it was hats, but I don’t want Ronnie to get stuck.
“Yeah, hat business,” Ronnie continues. “He wanted a cottage way off in the country, so he had one built deep in the woods. That’s where this path comes from. It’s what’s left of the road he had cut through the woods to reach the house.… It’s just the way I’d always imagined it to be.”
Emily keeps circling around the foundation, peering down into the bottom.
“He had a wife, and one weekend they wanted to get away. But he got held up at the … uh …”
“Hat shop,” I say.
“Yeah, so he sent his wife on ahead to meet a car at the train station. He showed up later that night, long after dark. As he approached the house, he heard laughter from inside.”
Robin goes pale. This was worth it all, all the bugs and the sweat and the blood, worth it all just to see that look on her face.
“Turns out that in the few hours she was left alone, the wife had gone completely insane. Completely. Spent the rest of her life in an institution, babbling about a monster that appeared out of the mist. Claimed that hollow-eyed little children danced in circles around the cottage while she went crazy inside. Daniel Hora never came back to the cottage. And when people asked him, he told them that the earth in these woods was cursed and that no one should ever walk there again.” Ronnie turns away, unable to look at the house anymore.
“And now,” I add, “the foundation of the Hora House forms a stone pit.”
“Like the Pricker Boy’s stone pit?” Vivek asks. “Uh, um, but you’ve got a bit of a time-line problem there.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, the Pricker Boy was ‘born’ around when? A hundred years ago, so Ronnie says. But then hat man built his cottage in the 1940s, right?”
“So?” I ask him.
“So you’re making it fit because you want it to. The Pricker Boy couldn’t have lived in a stone pit that wouldn’t be dug for another fifty
My heart pounds, but I don’t think it’s from fear. This is a discovery, our first real discovery, considering we already knew about the Hawthorn Trees and the offering stone. I jump down a slight, stony incline until I’m level with the house.
“Ronnie?” I ask. “I seem to remember you mentioning this in the story a few years back. You haven’t brought it up in a while. Why don’t you tell us again?”
“I can’t,” he says. “Not right now.” He wipes his hand across his brow, and I can see his fingers shaking. He’s had this place woven into the story for years. Sometimes he includes it, and sometimes he doesn’t. But I’m not sure he ever really believed in it. Now he’s face to face with it, and he can’t deny it.
“I think now is the perfect time,” I insist.
He keeps to the edges of the boulders and doesn’t walkup to the foundation. I don’t think he can. “Okay,” he mumbles. “This is the Horror House. I mean, uh, it’s really called the Hora House. I heard about it from Stucks, who heard about it from his dad. I went to the town hall and the library and looked up a little about it. I found out that … uh, Stucks? Can’t I tell it at the next fire?”
“Come on, Ronnie,” I laugh. I want him to say it, if for no other reason than to try to freak out my cousin, who has probably heard about the place from her own dad.
“Well, the Hora House was built in the 1940s by Daniel Hora, who was a guy from New York who’d made it big in the … in the …”
“Hat business,” I say. I don’t know if it was hats, but I don’t want Ronnie to get stuck.
“Yeah, hat business,” Ronnie continues. “He wanted a cottage way off in the country, so he had one built deep in the woods. That’s where this path comes from. It’s what’s left of the road he had cut through the woods to reach the house.… It’s just the way I’d always imagined it to be.”
Emily keeps circling around the foundation, peering down into the bottom.
“He had a wife, and one weekend they wanted to get away. But he got held up at the … uh …”
“Hat shop,” I say.
“Yeah, so he sent his wife on ahead to meet a car at the train station. He showed up later that night, long after dark. As he approached the house, he heard laughter from inside.”
Robin goes pale. This was worth it all, all the bugs and the sweat and the blood, worth it all just to see that look on her face.
“Turns out that in the few hours she was left alone, the wife had gone completely insane. Completely. Spent the rest of her life in an institution, babbling about a monster that appeared out of the mist. Claimed that hollow-eyed little children danced in circles around the cottage while she went crazy inside. Daniel Hora never came back to the cottage. And when people asked him, he told them that the earth in these woods was cursed and that no one should ever walk there again.” Ronnie turns away, unable to look at the house anymore.
“And now,” I add, “the foundation of the Hora House forms a stone pit.”
“Like the Pricker Boy’s stone pit?” Vivek asks. “Uh, um, but you’ve got a bit of a time-line problem there.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, the Pricker Boy was ‘born’ around when? A hundred years ago, so Ronnie says. But then hat man built his cottage in the 1940s, right?”
“So?” I ask him.
“So you’re making it fit because you want it to. The Pricker Boy couldn’t have lived in a stone pit that wouldn’t be dug for another fifty
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