Slaughter House on HWY 122. Chapter Two

I felt a shiver run down my spine and a few drops of rain hit my nose, making me awaken back to the present. I went back to my truck and grabbed my rain coat, no sense getting sick, besides I only had a week to spend up here and I had no intention of spending it face down in pillows sneezing and coughing.

Dressed for the weather I decided to skip the slaughter building where Sam was busy sniffing and digging around, and instead head for the house my grandfather had once called home. It was only about a hundred yards from the meat house and a thin line of new growth separated the two. I pushed away the soft pines and made my way through to the other side. After a quick search for any ticks that played cast away on my clothes, I was ready to take my first look at history.

            There it was, the house. It was run down all right. There were not even steps to get up to the front door, which was a sad site at best. A rusty old metal storm door with a torn screen just hung on one hinge flapping as the rain pounded against it. The sound it made echoing in the woods made me feel creepy, but there was no turning back now. I had waited a long time to see a piece of my family history and creepy or not I was going in.

I found a cinder block on the side of the house and dragged it in front of the door. With one foot on the block and the other lifting towards the doorway, I pulled myself up and pushed the door open. With as much strength as I had I managed to get up into the house and I now found myself standing in a kitchen that time had somehow forgotten.

I felt my heart start pounding in my chest, and I had to control the tears from flowing over my cheeks. I was overwhelmed, by it all. It had been so many years, and I had so many questions, and now for the first time in my life I was here in the very place my family had eaten and lived.

I cleared my throat and took a small step forward making myself part of the kitchen instead of a spectator on the sidelines. It was just like my dad had told me; there was no doubt that everyone here had left in a real hurry. I was lucky no one had been back and no vandals had gotten their hands on it. It looked as though I just arrived the day after they fled.

The kitchen table was still set for dinner and even one chair was pulled out slightly as if someone was just about to sit down, but never did. My mouth hung slightly, I just couldn’t wrap my fingers around it, how was it possible that so many years later everything was in place, untouched, and waiting for life to return back to the walls.

There was food stored above the refrigerator, one bottle half filled with syrup, a small bottle of creamer and a jar filled with what looked to be watermelon seeds. I felt as though I had just walked back in time through some kind of time warp. Even the calendar on the wall was dated from years ago, but still hanging on the rusted nail as if time would somehow start back up.

I felt curious and terrified in one ball of emotion. In all my life I had never been witness to something as bizarre as this. Every where around me I was living in the nineteen-forties, the table settings, the calendar, even the magazines and newspapers, perfectly preserved in stacks all around the family room where dated from the forties.

What happened here, and why had no one ever come back?  The question loomed over me like a cloud waiting to burst. I rummaged through one stack of papers hoping to find some answers. But, there was nothing that popped out at me except for the dates on them. Most where from the forties, but I found one buried amongst the rest with the date nineteen-thirty-six. I folded it over carefully so as not to ruin it and slid it into the pocket of my jacket. Later back at my hotel I had full intensions of reading it from front to cover, but for now, there was still plenty of investigating to do.

With my paper safe for the moment, I went over to a fresh stack for a new search. There was a Chicago Tribune, on top of a Milwaukee Journal, on top of a New York Times. Whatever was going on at this house, one thing was clear, the news was very important to these people. Every major newspaper from the United States was represented, even a few of the small town gazettes where there, not to mention piles and piles of Ebony magazines.

 Finding Ebony magazines in the far north in the forties was very odd. The newspapers I could somewhat understand, but what was my family doing with thousands of copies of Ebony magazines? I rifled through the first ten or so, baffled by their presence and abundance here in the home. More and more questions were starting to plague my mind.

I decided to leave my answered thoughts and settled on touring the rest of the house. There was a small hall way off the family room that lead to the back of the house where the bedrooms were located. There were three of them, and all had clothes hanging in the closet just waiting patiently for their owners to return.

I entered the room closest to the hall. The bed was made; the curtains were pulled back, even a small pair of shoes laid resting at the foot of the bed, and animals stuffed with cotton seemed to fill the room making it feel smaller than it actually was. I could only assume the room belonged to a young child.

Curiosity ran through my blood and I found myself rummaging through the clothes still hung ever so neatly in the closet. A small jacket with pin stripes caught my eye. It was tailored for a young boy but was remarkably elder looking.

 I picked it off the hanger carful not to disturb what time had so generously preserved. That is when I noticed it, a piece of dingy paper sticking out of the left pocket. It was frayed on the edge that was showing and was covered in a thin layer of dust but it intrigued me.

I reached for it; carful not to rip what ever it was I was after. A small note popped free of the linen and I rushed to read the words on it.

Help me, before they kill my parents...

There was no name, only a small stain of blood on the very bottom, faded from time but unmistakable to the eye.

What was a note like that doing in the pocket of a children’s coat?

 Another shiver ran across my spine and this time I was unable to just shake it off.  My dad was right on warning me, something was not right here, something terrible had happened, and whatever it was it involved my family.