Across the colva sack from the house I grew up in, was the house of Mr. Peabody. I never thought it was a very attractive house, even when it was new. Before Mr. Peabody moved in, the place was empty. All the high school kids would go there at night and make a lot of noise. The mold encrusted wood paneling and dirt caked windows gave it a Texas Chainsaw Massacre vibe. For a little boy, this was not a great image to have outside my bedroom window every night before I went to sleep. I would have frequent nightmares about a werewolf or an axe murderer coming out of that house and chasing me. 
    One day a moving van was parked outside that crusty, old, dump. I watched to two movers unload every box and piece of furniture into that place, but no one else showed up. Not until midnight did another vehicle pull up to the house.  It was an old black Lincoln with dark windows and light rust spots on the bottom edges. From that funeral car came Mr. Peabody. From what I could tell by the light of the street lamp was he was older about 45 or 50, had a slightly balding salt-and-pepper part, and stood about six foot five. He was a giant of a man. He had very broad shoulders and a slim waste. He resembled a body builder from a mid-day television, home gym commercial. That was the only time I really got a good look at Mr. Peabody. 
    Before I knew it, weeks went by and I never saw that old Lincoln leave it’s spot on the street. My friends kept on joking that he probably died from all the gross things the high school kids left behind. I could only think about, ‘what if he did die? Should I do something? Should I tell someone? Should I go investigate?’ I would always shrug off my friend’s jokes because they didn’t see the beast of a man that I saw that night many weeks ago. I never did tell them what I saw; not that night, or any other. 
    One night as I sat up in bed, staring at that house, I noticed the car was gone. I never noticed anyone leave, or come at tow it. Nobody mentioned anything about him dying, so a wave of relief slowly washed over me, knowing that this man didn’t simple move in and die. I must have sat there for an hour before I saw that Lincoln pull up to the house. When Mr. Peabody got out of the car he had three large trash bags with him. I couldn’t really get a good look at him, or what was in the bags because for some unknown reason the street light above his car was out. And for the next few days those bags were the only thing I could think about.
    That Friday was my neighbor Ricky’s birthday. I didn’t really want to go, but my parents didn’t give me much of a choice because they are friends with Ricky’s parents. We were having a sleep over and at every middle school sleep over people played truth or dare. It would usually involve something stupid like licking your foot or telling everyone which girls you liked at school, except when it was my turn. Ricky noticed that all I did during his party was sit by the window and watch Mr. Peabody’s house like some federal agent, so when he asked me truth or dare and I for some reason said dare. 
    “I dare you to walk across the street, go inside creepy Peabody’s house, and come back.” He said with a grin.
    After wining and arguing with everyone else there I had to buckle down and does it for fear of getting beat up. The walk across the street was the easiest part. Except I could feel the eyes of all the other kids at my back, and I could almost hear them chuckling and making jokes from so far away. As soon as I crossed into that yard, my entire body got hot and my stomach felt like it was in my throat. Every step I took felt like an hour elapsed between each one. I  crept ever-so slowly till I got to the front door. I felt like I was watching my own body move without my mind telling it to when my hand reached for the antique brass door knob. The door unlatched and cracked open without a sound. I knew the kids across the street were absolutely speechless. I felt like it was some unnatural force pulling me through that doorway and into the living room.
    I stood there a minute and grasped my surroundings. There were no electric lights; there were candles on every table. The entire place smelt of wax and must, like an old basement. None of the furniture could have been from this century. It all had to be at least a hundred years old. The final thing that hit me was the sound. The sound I would never forget.
    At first it sounded like a high speed fan or something. Then I started to move toward the source; a strange door just past the living room. Then I realized that it was some sort of machinery, a saw perhaps… but that wasn’t it. There was more, as I listened closely I could hear another element to that buzzing and whining sound. It was a slight screech or a gurgle, like a hurt animal or small rodent. As I stood and listened with my ear next to the door the
noise went from a steady squeak to a piercing, gut twisting scream!  
    I moved so fast from that house I didn’t know how much noise I made, if I even shut the door, or if the kids across the street even saw me. I went straight home, and into my room. I could still hear that sound ringing in my ears. I could feel my heart beating threw every inch of my body. I stood by the window staring at that house for another half an hour before I closed my curtains and shut my eyes to try and keep myself from throwing up. 
    I always debated what was making that noise that night and why. I always wanted to tell someone what happened, but never could. Ricky saw me at school a few days after and tried to ask, but I ignored him. I thought it best not to tell any of the other kids. I feared they would investigate themselves and suffer a fate worse than mine. I never did look out my bedroom widow again and I never did see that old Lincoln move from that spot ever again.         
 


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