House Down the Hill, Part 1

There’s an old condemned house across from the football field. It’s the kind of house most people cross the street to walk past. It looks rather small with the original part made of brick and yellow painted plaster, three stone steps leading to a plain wooden door. And then there’s the extension—white, wood siding with a white door and unpainted, dilapidated wood steps. The white door is stained brown and copper along the bottom as if dirt—or, if you believe the rumors, blood—had been splashed there from some commotion. The windows are boarded up with tagged plywood; any glass they used to hold is long gone, and most of the frames are broken.

The students, especially those living in the apartments just up the hill from there, call it Murder House. It wasn’t until I had decided to live in Campbell Apartments I even knew of the house’s existence. It is so far south of the main campus, with only the apartments and athletic fields nearby. Not particularly interested in sports, I never had a reason to go out that way before move-in. Then again, to say I was completely ignorant of Murder House might be inaccurate; perhaps I just hadn’t bothered paying attention to the stories people weaved of the place before classes. Stories of local high schoolers disappearing in there, shouting from deep inside in the middle of the night, or the front door opening as people passed by just after sundown. Some claim to have seen a shadowy, angular figure wander back into the house before sunrise, carrying something that occasionally resembled a meat cleaver, a machete, or even a chainsaw—their vague recounts bringing to mind something that belonged in cheap American anime.

I tell myself and my friends I don’t believe the stories. I am a mature, logical person and ghost tales are for younger audiences. That doesn’t stop my pace quickening and the hair on the back of my neck rising whenever I pass the house, though. At times, I have to chide my overactive imagination for giving into the rumors, especially at night when my roommate opens the blinds and the house seems just outside our door.

My roommate often complains to company of the house and how it ruins an otherwise lovely view. Our friends agree and busy themselves with sharing the same stories everyone seems to know. They posture for hours whether the tales are true and contemplate holding a stakeout some weekend night in our living room. The stakeout, of course, never happens, but they seem to enjoy entertaining the possibility. None of them really believe the stories, but it’s one of those things people latch onto and half hope is true. If any of it was true, after all, the University surely would have done something by now as it is their property. That, and they sort of promise our parents and guardians to provide a safe learning environment. Allowing a psychopath to live on campus does not exactly qualify as keeping students safe.