The House

By Jo Michaels

This house is cursed, and everyone who lives there is in grave danger.

Ever wonder what stories you’d hear if walls could talk?

What if those walls witnessed unimaginable horrors?

Inside these pages is the story of one such house. What it sees, the people it meets, and what happens when a terrified spirit is invited to stay.

Story 1 – The Butcher
Story 2 – Marna, Fred, and Kimberly McDade
Story 3 – Lacy Mae Ritter
Story 4 – Mark and Olivia Cullpepper
Story 5 – The Writer

The House is a collection of short stories that ties in with the Pen Pals and Serial Killers series by Jo Michaels. You’ll find a couple of those characters named, and discover how one grew the teeth he used on the women he captured later.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jo Michaels
• Release date: Sep 4, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463956823

Jo Michaels

Jo Michaels loves writing novels that make readers gasp in horror, surprise, and disbelief. While her browser search history has probably landed her on a list somewhere, she still dives into every plot with gusto, hoping "the man" will realize she's a writer and not a psychopath about to go on a rampage. Her favorite pastimes are reading, watching Investigation Discovery, and helping other authors realize their true potential through mentoring. She's penned the award-winning Pen Pals and Serial Killers series and the best-selling educational book for children, Writing Prompts for Kids, which has rocketed the kids that use it into several awards of their own.Most of Jo's books feature the places she's lived: Louisiana, Tennessee, and Georgia. That's given her a special amount of insight to what makes those locations tick. Her works are immersive and twisty, and she wouldn't want it any other way.

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The House

A Killer Collection of Short Stories

Pen Pals and Serial Killers – Story 4

by Jo Michaels

Copyright © 2018 Jo Michaels

All Rights Reserved

Published June 4, 2018

License Notes:

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be copied or re-distributed in any way. Author holds all copyright.

This book is a work of fiction and does not represent any individual living or dead.

Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Cover design by Jo Michaels

Typeset for print and web by Jo Michaels

Edited by Tia Silverthorne Bach

Proofread by Ellie Oberth

All of INDIE Books Gone Wild

The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by fines and federal imprisonment.

***

Spoiler alert!

If you haven’t read Intensification, you need to unless you’d like the book mostly ruined for you. It’s available now. If you don’t intend to read it, then by all means, carry on.

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Contents

Prologue – The House

The Butcher

Marna, Fred, and Kimberly McDade

Lacy Mae Ritter

Mark and Olivia Cullpepper

The Writer

***

About the Author and More Books by Jo Michaels

***

All houses that are built have a spirit. It’s not something that’s tangible to humans, but houses can feel, think, and perceive the world around them. They see everything their occupants do, catalogue it, and may be lucky enough to meet an author who’s willing to tell those stories one day.

I am such a house. I was built in the year 1995, and since then, I’ve seen both wonderful and horrific things. These tales are the stories of my occupants from my birth to now, and I’ll recount what happened as well as I can with the help of my friend. Within my walls, there have lived amazingly beautiful families, wonderful single folks, children that laughed often and with abandon, and one exceptionally unsavory man. Until recently, I lived a cursed life, but the story of where my streak of bad luck began is the first. I’ll begin there.

***

My yellow paint; pretty, white shutters; and pristine porch were sullied by the first man who dwelt here. I call him The Butcher, but his name was Butch Campion, and he was thirty-seven. His face is one I’ll never forget, and the atrocities he committed are things I still shudder to think about. We met one month after I was born. He walked in, so proud and full of himself, his feet sending vibrations through my floorboards as he tromped through, checking every room like he was planning to bring a whole family in and bring them up. I thought we’d get along famously and was looking forward to warming the feet of small children as they played.

Once the papers were signed, and I was his property, things went well for a month or so. He’d go to work, come home, sit on the threadbare couch, and drink beer. To my chagrin, he didn’t seem to have a wife or children, so there was nothing for me to do during the day except sit here.

It was after that first month that I started to figure he might not be my ideal owner after all. My lawn was never cared for, and the ivy growing nearby was allowed to spring up, threatening to take over the cute porch the builders thought to add. Butch would go out and bring home booze of some kind, cigarettes, and fast food. He never cooked, and he left wrappers and empty boxes all over the place, making me smell like a trash can. Roaches scuttled in, intent on a good meal, and he’d squish the ones he saw, leaving their carcasses to decompose where they met their gruesome end.

Gradually, my walls took on the smell of smoke and rotting food, but I still tried to remain hopeful that he’d make something of himself and get over his piggish ways. His pock-marked face, scruffy beard, and permanent scowl assured there would be no visitors; yet, every now and then, he’d bring home a hooker, pressing her bare breasts to the paneling on the wall as he grunted and sweated behind her. He seemed to like it like that, because not once did he bring one to visit the bedroom—until later.

One night, about six months after he’d moved in, he brought a rather attractive blonde through the door. Long legs, board-straight hair, and eyes as blue as the ocean. Her arms were marred with bruises on the inner elbow. She was coy, playing with him, but when he didn’t give her money up front, she told him she had to leave, making her way toward the door. He snatched her by the hair and yanked her backward so hard she fell to my floor, transferring terror through the wood that sent shivers all the way to the peak of my roof. I wanted to reach out and comfort her, but Butch dragged her to the bedroom, long locks of platinum spilling between his fingers, a few falling out and leaving a macabre trail.

Her hands clamped around his as he lifted her, her head swinging violently back and forth, and her legs kicked, feet trying to gain purchase on the air.

His eyes changed color from honey brown to dark, brownish black, and he howled with laughter when she screamed, delivering a slap so hard her head turned when his hand connected. A dribble of blood ran from the corner of her lips.

Bitch, there’s no one around for miles. Shut your fucking mouth before you force me to put my cock in it. He put his head close to her ear when he whispered his threat, the words low and hard to catch.

She was crying and still struggling, and I wilted when he pulled out the rope. He tied her to the bed by her wrists and ankles, beating and raping her repeatedly over the course of several days. I was horrified. Her thrashing about and screaming when he was gone during the day perplexed me, though. She seemed to be in a lot of pain besides the injuries she bore. I had no idea why. Because he didn’t feed her or provide water, she started talking to people who weren’t there, and eventually, he ended up chafing his willy because she was so dehydrated.

It was then that he cut her throat and left her to bleed out. That poor girl never had a chance.

I tried to reach out to her with my spirit, to provide her some level of comfort as she passed from here to wherever it is all spirits go when their mortal shell dies. Alas, all I could do was watch. She never knew I was there, and I’m positive she believed she was dying alone. Her body was badly battered.

Butch returned in the middle of the night and dragged her out of the room, through the door, and into the yard. Her blood smeared my beautiful floor, and that was when I got the first taste of real death. Human decomposition was putrid and revolting, and I found myself hoping he’d die a horrific death; that he’d meet an ending so violent he’d scream and beg for his life to be spared or ended swiftly.

Those acts of fierceness with her changed something in him, and he slammed doors and cabinets more often, turning the locks as soon as he came in, peeking through the curtains as though waiting for someone to come after him. He also grew restless, tossing and turning in bed at night, yelling out for someone named Mabel that wasn’t there, waking in a sweat.

Eventually, he came home with another hooker he refused to pay, and I held my breath as I watched her walk toward the door. When he reached out to grab her, she sprayed him with something that caused him to scream, cover his eyes, and wheeze, but she got out, running down the long, dirt driveway that led to my front porch.

He got himself together enough to give chase, caught her, and dragged her back inside, beating her with more brutality than the last. Every fall of his fist crunched something.

I didn’t know a human could sustain that many vicious punches to the face and stay conscious. Almost all her teeth were knocked out by the time he was sated, the ones remaining were broken into slivers, and I didn’t watch as he abused her—though I could hear her whimpering and his foul language as he asked her if she liked what he was doing. When she seemed a breath away from losing the battle to hold onto life, he scooped her up and threw her out the door.

She bounced down the steps, legs and arms flailing, and lay on the packed dirt where she landed, curling into herself. Grabbing a beer from the fridge, he strolled outside.

Go on! Run again! See how far you can get now. He taunted her as he took a swig from his beer while enjoying the high point of view from the porch. Leaning on the rail, he spit into the bushes and grinned.

My foundation and joists ached as I watched her struggle to her knees and crawl toward freedom. Dirt clung to her everywhere, crusting in the blood. Both her eyes were swelled nearly shut, and I’m certain she couldn’t see beyond her crimson-spattered hand scrabbling in the loose pebbles and silt. Still, she tried.

Butch sauntered off the porch and kicked her in the ribs. Cracking sounds filled the air as she tipped and rolled onto her back, her eyes wide, snaggle-toothed mouth open in a silent scream as she tried to draw breath. His zipper went down, and he dropped his pants, putting his hand inside his underwear and moving it up and down.

If I’d had limbs, I would’ve strangled him on the spot. It was the most revolting thing I’d ever seen, yet I couldn’t look away, something keeping my gaze on the scene—perhaps waiting for the moment she’d escape after all. What he did next would’ve turned the stomach of even the most hardened criminal, I’m sure.

One hand moved to her throat, and he squeezed the life out of her, letting his evil seed spurt onto her face as she grappled with his hands, still trying to breathe. He let go for one second, so she could gasp, and she inhaled the ejaculate, proceeding to cough and sputter; blood, semen, and foamy spittle flew from her lips. He sat on her chest, pinning her arms to the ground with his legs, and chuckled; it was a dark, evil laugh that has stayed with me since that day.

She died, her face turning splotchy red, lips swollen, mouth still open, vile things dribbling from her lips.

Butch licked the side of her face from chin to forehead, thanking her for giving her life to his machinations and being such a fun thing to play with. He buried her near the other one.

I fell into a depression that wouldn’t lift. No amount of sunshine could warm me, and he took to running several heaters throughout my rooms every day. There were two bodies buried in my yard, and remnants of their ghosts were constantly in my memories. They drove me to distraction.

When he captured the third woman, a few months later, there was no pretense about having money that needed to be paid for sex. She was in no way a harlot. Her nails were nicely manicured, clothing expensive and flashy, and she spoke with an air of superiority when she finally woke and demanded to be set free.

He’d carried her in sometime in the middle of the night, and he took her straight to the basement. There, he put her in a cage he’d built. I’d wondered what he was doing when he started, and when he finished construction, I cringed. It sickened me to know I’d been turned into a prison. That poor woman. Not only did he lock her up, he refused to feed her more than scraps, and she grew skeletal.

When she sat up the first time, she told him bluntly to set her free, but he simply stared and laughed, drinking his beer, rubbing his cock until he spurted at her feet. He told her she’d stay in that cage until he wanted her to come out and play.

You’re a sick fucker, Butch, she screamed. Her voice was loud and strong, but her eyes were open wide, and her lips trembled, betraying her fear.

A laugh was the only response he gave her before stumbling up the stairs and passing out on the couch.

True to his word, he’d take her out now and then to spend time with her. She was always drugged so much she didn’t even know her own name. I always wondered why she drank the damned water, but I suppose humans can’t go without it for very long.

Butch was different with that one when he handled her at first. Tender. If I hadn’t seen the monster that lived inside him, I’d think he was a sweet, wonderful guy. Not once did he slap or punch her. It was almost as though she was revered in his mind for some reason. There was one scene between the two that I’ll remember always, and it showed me exactly why he hadn’t killed or abused her to that point. She was sitting on the couch, not as drugged as she usually was, and he was putting out the food he’d picked up.

You know, Mabel, if things had been different, you and I could’ve been married years ago, and we wouldn’t have to go through this charade. He caressed the side of her face.

We just weren’t meant to be, Butch. Tears spilled from her eyes.

"But we are. You’re here with me now. Aren’t you happy? I’m taking care of you."

Happy? You keep me locked in a cage most of the time. I don’t even know you anymore. There was no inflection in her statement.

"Dammit! I don’t know what you women want.