Casey Butler and The Wormwood Mansion http://literfull12.deviantart.com/art/Casey-Butler-and-The-Wormwood-Mansion-423232761 *Warning this gets a little dark. Like, horror movie kind of dark.* I thought I had it bad. That the worst thing that ever happened, was the stuff that happened to me. Now I know I was wrong. So very, very wrong. As I try not to vomit, as. I try not to scream, or cry, I realize that it's the smell. Rancid, rotting, flesh and bone. Dead people littering the basement of the Wormwood manor. I heard the stories, of course I heard the stories. No little girl or boy, had ever heard the story. When I feel a buzzing in my right Jean pocket, I nearly jump out of my skin. It's just a text message, I tell myself. Just a text message. "Casey, meet me tomorrow? 11:00 a.m., at Nina's Diner? Please Sis? -- Greg" Greg. My brother is Texting me when I'm about to be gutted and murdered by a crazy lady, who judging by her gray skin, and dirty hair, has not been outside in years. Yeah, my drama just never stops, does it? From the moment I stepped inside the stark, gothic, runned down mess that is the Wormwood manor, this lady has hounded me. She almost got me once. Slashed through the right sleeve of my red hoodie, down to the flesh. I stare down into the basement, an old corpse placed on the stares, and I'm pretty sure it's time to leave. "mmmph," I hear before I make my getaway. A voice. A person. A victim. Left alone. But in his or her case, left to die. No, no I don't think I like that. It came from the basement, because of course it would come from the basement. So, I think I'll wade through the putrid smells, and step through rotting bodies. I'll do that to help somebody. I pulled back my shag cut hair, and use a hair tie to secure it behind my head. Time to throw on my big girl pants. "This is going to suck." Hope I don't die. The Wormwood mansion is a Hell of a thing. As a girl people heard the stories. Bethany Wormwood went insane, and killed her philanthropist husband, Charles Wormwood. She was pregnant, they said. About due to pop. Funny thing though, when the proper authorities went to collect their bodies there were products of conception on the floor, but no baby. Now this was 1961. From there, anyone who entered tended to end up gone. Kids would spread tales about how the ghosts of the Wormwood, or the ghost of their baby were taking people. But ghosts aren't really. Through some god awful twist of fate, the place hasn't been torn down. It's been said that the manor was checked, but there's no way they didn't check it out. I think crazy, murderous, gross, naked lady is squirreling away her, I'd guess I'd have to say toys. There was no baby. She was the baby! The chain of events is wrong. She gave birth. Bethany gave birth to her child. A little girl. And she stashed her away somewhere in the house, before offing herself. That's what she did. And for fifty-one years, that woman grew up with zero sense of normalcy. The only interactions she's had are with half-drunk idiots, and scared kids. I caught wind of a recent disappearance. Kate Sullivan and her boyfriend, Robert Lockhart, had gone missing. They were last seen heading in the direction of, you guessed it, The Wormwood Manor. But the cops didn't care. No, Katie was a consistent runaway, who'd leave behind her life to go along with her latest boy toy. She'd come crawling back to her mother within a week. She was eighteen now, though. Legally an adult. Meaning the cops didn't need to lift a finger this time. And all the mother could do was look for help. I'd say she's lucky she found me, but this has already gone sideways. Once I heard Wormwood, I literally rushed over. This was a case. I'd gotten the idea of being some kind of detective. Off the books, and unlicensed, and investigating a disappearance with little to no experience? Yeah, this was going to work out great. For who though? She attacked me within minutes. I was going to search the upper floors first. And as I made my way upstairs, she popped up at the top of the stairs, trying to go all Hitchcock's "Psycho" on me. Completely naked, except for her long filthy hair hanging over her body the woman looked more like a wild animal as she came at me. I fought back, of course. I've fought enough people to know how to keep my balance, even on a set of stairs. She still got me though. Cut my arm with a jagged knife. I punched her in the gut and threw her down the stairs, hoping it'd kill her. It's wrong, but I hoped it did. I turned, around to see her body, but she was gone. It didn't kill her. And that's how we ended up in this fine mess. It's so hard to breath. So hard, to wade through this Hell before me. It's for one of those kids. Hopefully both. Please God, let one live. That's all. Please. I'm using my phone as a light, and trying my best not to look down. I won't look at what I'm stepping in, and over. I won't. And then I see something move, and my heart is about to leap out of my chest. I think it's her, I prepare for another fight. It's not though. It's the boy. Robert. Oh god, what has she done. He's been beaten badly. He has a a rag jammed in his mouth. Dirty, and blood soaked. His hands-- his hands have been nailed to the wall. I don't know what to do. I gently pull the rag out of his mouth. I take a good look at his face, and I notice his eyes are swollen shut. "Robert, can you hear me?" I ask, my hand on his blood stained cheek. He starts to stir, and I don't know if that's good or bad. "M-mother?" He says, struggling to speak. "No Robert, I'm not your mom, but I'm gonna make sure you get to see her, okay?" I assure him. "My name is Casey. Now Robert, this is important, where is Kate?" "She killed her. She made me watch," he tells me. Oh god "She tore her apart. Oh please, please help me. I just want to go home." "I'll get you home, okay? I'll get you help," I try to calm him. "Promise?" He says. If there wasn't so much blood on his face, I'd say he's crying. He's more boy than man, now. He'll never know a normal life after this. "I promise, now let me find a way to get you loose," I tell him, leaning my head to the left, examining his hands. Nailed in good. That's when I hear the noise. It's sounds like a "shunk." I turn my head back to Robert's face, and I find an axe wedged in his forehead. She must've thrown it. I gasp and scramble. I'm frightened and I think I might die. I try to use the LED light on my phone to get a fix on her, and when I do, she's only a few feet away, crouching over the floor like a spider. "Mine," she hisses. Mine. The word, the stress, the smell, it's all too much. I snap. I'm going to kill her. I charge at her. This, fifty-one year old, sickly, dirty, mentally defunct old woman. I'm going to kill her. She comes at me like a cat, trying to claw my face with her filthy nails, but I use my training to avoid her attacks. Her attacks are sloppy but performed with malicious intent like a wild animal. There's no skill in this, and for her part she had none to begin with. I nail her in the ribs and face with quick punches and kicks. However this only seems to enrage her more. With a feline growl she manages to wrestle me to the floor and straddles my waist. Just in time I manage to push her chin backwards to avoid her sinking her teeth in my neck. As I struggle for my life I see a fearsome look on the face of my attacker while I feel her hands go over my face, trying to drive her nails in my eyes. For a split second I feel that I might not be able to make it and that this madwoman will kill me here, however then I think about what happened to Robert and his girlfriend. I will not go down to this psycho! With renewed vigor I push the woman off and get back to my feet. She kicks me, and I smile. Something to hit. Someone to break. These are the thoughts that run through my head. As I easily avoid her attacks she looks scared now, but I can't remember why I ever cared about that. She tries to run as she realizes I am not an easy prey, not someone that will get overwhelmed by her wild attack. As she tries to flee I pull her back. This ends on my terms. Not her. Now she'll know how it feels. My fists slam into her face, as hard as they can. I don't think I ever hit this hard before.I'm on top of her, and I feel like I can end this. Like I should. I. Should. Kill her. Tears and blood run down her face. Tears and blood. Her living doesn't bring peace to the dead. It doesn't give me any either. But she gets to live. This isn't her fault. I drag her out sobbing. I know who to call for this. I know, and it will only make life worse. I dial my least favorite number in my contact list, and say five words I've always hated. "Greg, I need your help." He's nice. He's always so damn nice. My older brother Greg. A cop. A sergeant, actually. "Why don't you let the EMT's check you out?" He asks, showing so much damn concern. "You've been through the wringer lately, and I really think you should let me help you." So much damn concern. Legitimate stuff. Loving, like a brother should be. "Go to Hell," I say, turning away from him.