Part 1 of 1
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Tonight we turn your attention to a charnel house with an unexpected legacy.
The Skinner Co. Network
176 - The Haunted House on Willoughby Road, Part 1 of 1
[ Music ] Welcome to FlashPulp, episode 176. Tonight, we present The Haunted House on Willoughby Road, part one of one. This week's episodes are brought to you by The Shrinking Man Project. [ Doorbell rings ] Doc? Laura, hi. Oh my God, I almost didn't recognize you. You've lost so much weight. Oh, thanks. I've been working on it. You look great. What's your secret? You know, everyone keeps asking me that. I'm just doing it with diet and exercise. The only real secret seems to be getting your head on straight before you get started. I actually started a podcast about it. About getting your head on straight? Sort of. It's about my weight loss and about the ways that people trip themselves up with the attitudes that they have going in. I do episodes every week talking about what I've had to deal with and every couple weeks I throw in some philosophy. The idea is to help someone else figure out what they need to do to make it work out for them. That sounds pretty cool. What's the podcast called? It's called The Shrinking Man Project. The URL is TheShrinkingManProject.com. I'm trying to keep it simple. Well, it certainly seems to be working for you. Flatter. More. More. FlashPulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age. Three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings. Tonight, we turn your attention to a charnel house with an unexpected legacy. The Haunted House on a Willoughby Road. Part One of One. Written by Jared D. Skinner. Art and narration by Opoponax. And audio produced by Jessica May. Although it was getting late in the morning, Lillian Price's shoes were damp with dew by the time she stepped up from the overgrown front walk and onto the porch of 699 Willoughby. Straightening her attire, she cleared her throat and rolled her shoulders. Finding no buzzer, she tried the antique knocker that hung at the center on the blue painted door. The entry swung open at the momentum of her knock. Biting her lip, Price glanced at the homeowner information she held in the crook of her left arm. "Mr. Powell?" she asked into the dark gap. The blinds were drawn in the living room beyond, and she could feel a cool draft escaping from the interior. Beneath the musty stream of the released breeze, she caught a whiff of decomposition. She stepped inside. "Hello? Mr. Powell? Quincy?" Given the lack of reaction, she tried the closest light switch, but received neither illumination nor a response. Nearly tripping over a canvas sack, brimming with undelivered newspapers, Lillian engaged the LED on her phone and panned its glow of the area. The space was neat, but unadorned. It reminded her of the house grandfather Price might have kept, if her grandmother hadn't done the decorating on both their behaves. The only piece of furniture that seemed well worn was a leather recliner, which dominated the expanse in front of Quincy's massive television screen. Noting that the burgundy carpet was clean, except for a single muddy track apparently formed by the treads of a sneaker, she began following the trail. The prince ended in the kitchen. She guessed because there had simply been no more trapped dirt to leave behind. As she inspected the array of chrome and digital outputs that Powell had had installed, she was impressed by how much of the old man's renovation money had gone into the work. It was rare to see such an extensive layout. Completing her inventory of the now defunct technology, Lillian spotted a pair of medical-grade walking sticks set against the wall in a far corner. The cane's skewed positions gave them the appearance of abandonment. Her survey had presented two options, a flight of stairs heading to the upper floor, or a second set, behind a door with a checkered apron hanging on it, descending. She had little interest in spending any more time than necessary in exploring. With a sigh, she began to move downward. Lillian was on the fifth step when, below her, she noted two sets of legs, one wearing khaki slacks, the other in scrubby jeans. Then the exit slammed shut. She forced herself to remain calm while ghostly mechanisms engaged themselves. As the overhead fluorescent bulbs pinged into life, the corpses became clearly visible. At the center of the large unfinished basement, sitting on a plastic lawn chair, Quincy Powell's wrinkled face had drooped onto his chest. A Joyce novel had fallen from his right hand and a white sealed envelope lay atop a grey table at his side. To his left was a teenager who'd collapsed face down upon the floor. Given his arrangement, it was difficult to make out his age, but she reckoned it at no older than seventeen. At the smell of sulfur, a single bead of sweat formed at her hairline rolled down her brow and disappeared under the band of her collar. She began to cough. Retrieving a handkerchief from her pocket, she placed the cloth across her nose, and with a firm internal voice, reminded herself that she was a professional. Despite the self-reassurance, however, the ethereal hiss that filled the air carried her feet quickly past the bodies, past the white washer and dryer combo, past a large selection of Christmas ornaments, and to the maintenance closet, clearly labeled on the tablet, still crooked at her elbow. She knew now that Powell's overright of the home's automatic housekeeping systems, presumably based on a sloppy bit of programming from some internet forum, had crippled the functionality of the upper floors and was also responsible for sealing the cellar, likely against anyone who might accidentally arrive too early. The house, having faithfully completed its task, but no longer able to detect an occupant, had switched to low power mode, which Quincy had recoded to turn off the heating system and leave the residents unlocked, so that his body might easily be discovered. Unfortunately for the passing teen, what the dead man hadn't considered was the computer's awakening from slumber once the chamber's sensors were triggered by renewed movement. Lillian could only imagine the youth's panic because he realized his good deed of inquiry had left him within a death trap. His oily fingerprints were visible on the windows he had attempted to smash after his retreat had been cut off, and he must have still been searching for something to use as a club, when the perforated gas line had finally dragged him into unconsciousness. "Damn it," Price said aloud, "and I'll get paid enough for this." With practice fingers, the good home's incorporated technician disabled the control panel overseeing the makeshift suicide machine, and then she returned to the ground level to call in.