The air is hot and dry. And still. Yet watch how the curtains sway in that room above the breakfast nook. I’ll tell you what makes those ragged drapes dance: spirits, dark and tortured.
Hold my hand, my dear, as we walk the grim halls and rotted rooms of Bone Home.
No, my love, the house is built of wood and nails, wire and glass as houses often are. The name comes from the man who built this magnificent dwelling. In 1904, Edward Bone carved a clearing in these beautiful pines and built his family a home. Old Edward Bone was a distant cousin to my grandma. By a strange stroke of luck and diminished family bloodline I now hold the deed. A logger by trade, he knew the wood and used only the best. Edward Bone took nearly every piece of handcrafted furniture and stacked it in some hideous monolith the town’s folks burned. Before we enter, see there where the grass is blackened even after a century worth of snow and sun. Now into the house itself we venture. This door was handcrafted by artisans long dead and never recognized. It whines and creaks when we open it, but it has done its duty and kept the elements out. We can leave it open if you like, but I think it will be futile; they like the door closed. Why allow a breeze if you can’t feel it on your face?
To your left, my dear, are the dining room and kitchen. If you look at the dismal gray paper where it still clings to the walls, you can make out the faintest tint of the dark autumn yellow of sunflowers. How cheerful it must have been. Broken dishes and a feeling of nervousness that hangs in the air and clings to your skin are all that remain in the kitchen. The morning sun shines through this big window, and the family would sit at this table to eat breakfast and greet each new day together. No, my dear, blood dries brown. I don’t know what has left the smeared black stain across the table top. Although, I can show you century-old blood if we go back to the foyer.
See, my love, they closed the door when we went to the dining room. Before we go upstairs, see that dark blotch. A bloodstain. A deep, old bloodstain. Edward Bone took a bailing hook to his oldest daughter, Catherine, and gutted her right where you are standing. She bled out here. She lay in a puddle of her wet innards until her blood soaked into the floorboards and caked to her pale face. Catherine hates this foyer now. She lives in the cellar where her young blood dripped. I can show her to you if you want. She sits and rocks in the corner trying to keep herself together.
Okay, my dear, there’s more to see, so we’ll just keep moving. The stairs creak and moan like the dead, but they’ll grant us safe passage to the rooms up here. Notice how the pictures still hang on this decrepit wall. Look closer and see how the images are blurred and burned behind the flawless glass. I’ve stared into the distorted eyes of the images and I feel them screaming in my head, so, please, limit your glances.
Yes, my love, more blood awaits atop the stairs. Such wonderful tools those loggers used. Edward Bone caved in his son Simon’s skull with the five-pound hammer that he used to knock stubborn branches from downed logs and then stripped him naked like a cedar here in the hallway. Shush, my dear, there is Simon now. He is watching us with his eye. Don’t stare at the pulp that is his skull now for he may take offence. See how his naked form shimmers in the shadows as he sulks into his mother’s sitting room.
This, my love, is Edward Bone’s wife, Delores Bone. I find her here most often; rocking in her chair as you see her now. Sometimes Pamela, the middle daughter, crowds close, but she is shy around new people. She carries her head in her hands, and her long beautiful hair is eternally tangled with her blood. Delores can’t see you because, as you can see, he has sewn her eyes shut, but she can hear you. She sings young Simon haunting lullabies to calm his terrified spirit. Her voice is distant and sorrowful; see how it raises the gooseflesh on my arm.
That deep chill and pungent stench, my dear, is Edward drawing close. Watch how Mother Bone and son fade as the murderous patriarch approaches. We will meet him halfway when we turn the tarnished knob to the door to our right.
I must warn, my love, if old dead Edward Bone speaks we must cover our ears and leave. I’ll open the door now. It creaks loudest of all, and the house vibrates softly as his evil condenses to form a physical being. His restless murderous spirit rolls and swirls and that, my dear, is what makes the curtains wave. See how they whip now as his apparition appears. Today he is holding the gore-stained hammer and smiling like the damned. He died of starvation here in this room. He slaughtered his family and never again left this house.
Don’t look at his dark eyes as they roll in their sockets!
Ia. Tahgen noob fhtagn. Ia Ia.
No! My love, cover your ears and back away!
Ia! Tahgen noob fhtagn! IA! IA! IA!
My DEAR, My LOVE!
IA! TAHGEN NOOB FHTAGN! IA! IA! IA! IA!
I can’t save you, my love, and the hammer is all too real now. Your blood drips down my face, and my apology is stuck in my throat. I told you not to listen.
I have to leave now, my dear, but I always return. You’ll meet the young daughters Bone now and share in their phantom state; mutilated beauty surround by molding decay. I’ll bring you more friends until this house feels alive again.
Maybe, my love, I’ll move in so we can always be together in the grim hallways and rotted rooms of Bone Home.