Home – A Horror Short Story by Glenn Michelin

Home.

As Jessie rode down the long dirt road towards his grandfather's farm, nostalgia crept into his memories. The smells of the grass, the horses, and the dust coming off the road filled him with a sort of excitement—even though he knew his destination was for a somber reason. His grandfather had recently passed away, and he was headed to the home left to him in the will.

He had not been in Mist Cove in ten years, let alone spoken with his grandfather more than a few times during that time. Jessie had left for college at the University of Maine and stayed for work after graduating. As the sun slowly sank behind the outlying mountains, casting long shadows of the fences across the dirt road, he could see the front porch. His grandfather’s rocking chair sat motionless and empty next to the front door.

Jessie remembered visiting every autumn as a child. He could still picture his grandfather fresh from the stables, a cold glass of lemonade sweating beside him as he gently rocked on the porch. He was always happy to see Jessie and his parents, usually showing off some sort of—as his mother would put it—“dangerous doodad.”

“I am so sorry, Gramps. I wish I had come back sooner.” Jessie's voice cracked the silence of the truck as the gravel crunched under the tires.

The truck door creaked open. As he stretched his back from the long drive, the silence of the ranch would have been deafening if it wasn't for a few feral chickens that clucked in the distance before the silence rolled back in. His grandfather's horses were gone—some given to cousins, the rest to the ranch hands who had maintained the property in his waning years.

Jessie reached into the truck bed for his bag and noticed a dim light through the frosted glass of the front door. He assumed his parents had left a light on after clearing some things out.

As his foot hit the bottom porch step, the crackle of a needle sliding over a vinyl record cut through the dusk. It was low, but in the dead silence he could make out the song "I Don’t Want to Set the World on Fire."

He scoffed at the idea of his family running up his power bill, but as he reached for the brass knob, a cold chill ran down his spine. The knob squeaked as he turned it, and a low hiss whispered through the frame as the door swung open. Suddenly, the music stopped. A heavy rush of his grandfather's cologne flooded his senses.

“Hello?” Jessie called out as he dropped his bag on the floor.

There was no reply—just an eerie echo bouncing off the old wooden walls. He looked back out the front door toward the dirt road. The night had swallowed the path whole, leaving the fence lines barely visible despite the brilliant, clear sky above. The stars twinkled against the velvet blackness, a sight he used to love on autumn nights as a kid. But for reasons he couldn't explain, the vast darkness set him on edge. He closed the door, turning the lock with a heavy, deliberate click.

“Let's see what is in the fridge,” he muttered, his stomach growling to break the quiet.

As he walked down the hallway toward the kitchen, he glanced at the framed photos lining the wall: childhood shots of himself, his parents, and his cousins, alongside old pictures of his grandfather in his Army uniform. A few faded prints showed his grandparents on trips abroad.

He remembered his grandmother talking about their travels to England, Scotland, Spain, Egypt, and Greece. She used to say that after the war, they fell in love with archeology and collected ancient artifacts. Growing up, Jessie assumed the trinkets were just cheap tourist souvenirs, but his grandfather always insisted they were the real thing, dug up alongside a professor from the University. Jessie had always played along, loving the way their faces lit up when reminiscing.

Smiling at the memory, he stepped into the kitchen. It was frozen in time: the black-and-white checkered tile, the island his grandfather built by hand, the salt-and-pepper shakers shaped like two pigs in overalls, and the odd knickknacks crowding the counters.

He opened the refrigerator and was relieved to find a plate of barbecue ribs and mashed potatoes wrapped in plastic, topped with a note:

Here is some dinner, Jessie. Your dad and I will be back tomorrow to help you pack things for storage or donation. Love, Mom.

Aside from an eighties-era television with tin foil wrapped around its rabbit ears and an old Sears & Roebuck record player, his grandparents had never cared much for modern tech. Jessie was genuinely surprised to spot a countertop microwave beside the stove.

As he unwrapped the bbq and opened the microwave door the faint crackle of a needle hitting vinyl cut through the room. He froze, his pulse throbbed in his temple with a quickness, his heart hammered against his ribs. "I Don’t Want to Set the World on Fire" kept on playing.

The music floated into the kitchen from the living room, followed by the soft, rhythmic scrape of feet on hardwood. A slow, deliberate slow-dance. Thud, tap, thud, tap. Paralyzed, Jessie slowly looked towards the swinging doors of the dining room. Through the crack, the faint glow of the living room lamp flickered—as if something had just stepped between the light and the doorway.

“He…hello?” Jessie stuttered as he set his food onto the counter. He felt that icy touch on his neck again as he slowly approached the swinging doors. The flicker of the living room light blinked through the crack in the doors. As he slowly pressed against one of the doors a low whine of the hinges as it slowly opened. Again, as the door opened the music stopped, through the dining room he could see the living room on the other side. Empty, still, silent.

Jessie slowly continued through the dining room, tip-toeing towards the living room. The air started to become chilly, Jessie's breath started to make mist with each exhale. As he reached the archway to the living room, the smell of his grandfather’s cologne was gone, a rancid, sulfuric smell assaulted his nose. Jessie wrapped his hand over his nose and mouth, it was all he could do to stop the smell.

The once clean, organized living room was now in dismay. The furniture looks tattered and broken. The coffee table leaned on two legs while the other two legs were broken; the books, magazines, and statue of a soldier from ancient Greece now lay scattered on the floor. The curtains were faded and shredded. The TV was shattered. The room looked as though no one had been in there in years, even though it was pristine moments ago when he came inside.

Thud.

Jessie looked up towards the ceiling, the loud thuds echoed from upstairs, showering dried plaster from above like dusty mist. A flicker of light blinked on off to the edge of Jessie's eye. Snapping his gaze back towards the living room. The living room was back to pristine condition. Everything in its place, nothing broken.

“What in the hell is going on!” Jessie said as he examined the room.

Suddenly the floorboards on the floor above him creaked, as if someone was walking above him. Jessie reacted out of pure instincts—or just muscle memory— turning towards his grandfather's shotgun that he kept in the nook of the living room archway by the front door.

He quickly and as quietly as he could, ran over to grab the shotgun. Remembering how his grandfather showed him how to handle the gun, thumbing the top lever to the right and letting the heavy barrels swing downward in their hinge, the action clicked open, a glint shined off the brass of the two buckshots loaded in the twin chambers. Slamming the barrels back into position and with a slight tremble in his grip, pointed the gun down the hallway towards the staircase leading to the second floor.

Jessie tried to catch his breath, his vision pulsing with every beat of his heart. The palms of his hands felt clammy, slick against the wooden forearm of the barrel.

Suddenly, the harsh sound of a heavy object dragging against the hardwood floor scraped from the ceiling above, moving slowly toward the staircase.

His gaze locked onto the bottom step—specifically the worn, dark stain on the wood where generations of feet had trodden before ascending. The discolored patch stood out like a bruise against the golden, polished floor.

Thud.

The weighted steps coming down the staircase echoed through the dead house. Jessie’s lungs froze. He held his breath, counting the thuds against the remaining steps. He was ready. He was going to protect himself at all costs.

Thud.

Four more steps, he counted. He re-shouldered the butt of the shotgun and finally exhaled, refilling his burning lungs.

“Whoever you are, this is not going to end well for you if you don't come out!” Jessie shouted, his voice echoing into the dark. “Slowly! Hands where I can see them!”

A harsh, bright flash burst from the living room as the old television flicked on. High-pitched static blasted through the house, filling the screen with a chaotic, snowy black-and-white grain.

Jessie whipped the double barrels toward the living room, his eyes scanning the room in a frenzy. Nothing.

Then, cutting straight through the static, a softly strummed acoustic guitar began to play. A woman’s sweet, distant voice hummed through the snow, singing "We’ll Meet Again."

Jessie stood frozen in the archway. He wanted to sprint for the front door, but his legs refused to move. He was completely paralyzed, staring into the flickering glow of the screen as the eerie melody filled the empty house.

The sound of someone running full speed down the stairs slammed loud and fast toward Jessie.

His body locked up. He tried with all his might to turn, but he could only watch out of the corner of his eye. Through the dark haze, he made out a shadowy figure charging straight at him. He wanted to scream, but only a low, strained screech escaped his throat.

Jessie watched helplessly as the shadow closed the distance. The temperature plummeted. His rapid, panicked breaths puffed pale mist into the freezing air. Just as the figure reached him, it exploded into a dense, smoky cloud and vanished into the dark.

Instantly, the television cut out. The living room returned to silence, lit only by the faint glow of the table lamp.

“Ahh-h-h-h!”

Jessie’s lungs expelled every ounce of air in a guttural scream as control slammed back into his limbs. He collapsed to his knees, driving the butt of the shotgun into the floorboards to catch himself from crashing down completely.

A cold sweat gathered at his hairline, a single drop falling from his brow and splashing against the hardwood floor. Jessie's chest ached; every muscle in his arms and legs quivered with sheer exhaustion.

Dong… Dong… Dong…

The grandfather clock chimed from the corner of the living room. Jessie lifted his head, staring at its face in disbelief.

“Wait a minute… No way… The sun set an hour ago!”

He scrambled up to look out the living room window into the pitch-black void. “How is it three in the morning?”

Gathering what strength he had left, Jessie forced himself to his feet. He glanced nervously at the dark television, then back toward the staircase.

He moved cautiously toward the stairs. The air in the hallway remained frigid, as though every window on the upper level had been left wide open to the autumn night. He began his ascent, each step yielding a slow, groan-like squeak beneath his weight.

As he reached the top landing, a nauseating stench hit him—rotting wood, stale air, damp earth, and heavy mildew.

The second floor looked as if it had been abandoned for decades. The wallpaper hung in peeling, damp ribbons over walls defaced with faded graffiti. Rusted cans, shattered glass, and trash littered the floorboards. Bedroom doors were kicked off their frames or missing entirely. As Jessie peeked into the ruined rooms, his stomach plummeted. Did Gramps really live like this? Why didn't Mom say anything?

The deep rumble of heavy machinery echoed down the access road, rattling the glass in the windowpanes.

Jessie kicked through the trash in his grandfather’s bedroom to reach the front window. To his shock, a line of construction vehicles was lumbering down the dirt path, their headlights cutting through the pale orange glow of an immediate morning sun.

“What the hell is happening?” Jessie muttered in absolute bewilderment.

The clock had just struck three in the morning, yet dawn was already breaking—and an industrial crew was pulling up to the house. Driven by a surge of pure panic and anger, Jessie shoved past the broken furniture and sprinted back down the stairs.

Jessie ran down the hallway toward the front door, slipping the shotgun back into its nook as he threw the heavy door open.

He stepped onto the porch, watching the convoy rumble down the dirt road and kick up clouds of dust like a herd of stampeding horses. They lined up along the fence line across from the house. Suddenly, a massive crane with a wrecking ball emerged from the haze, roaring to a stop near his truck with gravel crunching beneath its tracks.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing here!” Jessie shouted, waving his arms in the air.

A few construction workers climbed out of their cabs and started walking toward the crane. As Jessie stepped off the porch, he realized they weren't looking at him at all.

“Hey! Who's in charge here!” he yelled, trying to pierce the noise. But the crew kept talking among themselves, gesturing toward the house. Infuriated at being ignored, Jessie started toward them.

“Been waiting for you, Jessie.”

An old, raspy, deeply familiar voice called out from behind him. Jessie froze, a puff of dust erupting around his boots. He turned around slowly.

There on the porch, sitting in his old rocking chair, was his grandfather.

The front door creaked open and his grandmother stepped out, carrying a wooden tray with three cold glasses of orange juice. “Oh, Jess! Come up here and have a drink with us,” she called out, placing a glass beside her husband.

“What… How… How are you here?” Jessie stammered, his mind spinning as he stared at them both.

“My boy, why don't you come join us to watch the sunrise?” his grandfather said, raising his glass in a warm toast. “We’ll explain everything.”

Hesitating for only a second, Jessie stepped back onto the porch. Suddenly, he noticed the roaring engines and shout of the construction crew had vanished. He looked out toward the yard—the vehicles were gone. The land looked pristine, exactly as it had during his childhood.

A soft, gentle hand rested on his shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze.

“Oh, Jessie. It has been such a long time since you came home,” his grandmother said softly, her voice wrapping around him like a warm blanket.

“I don't understand, Grandma. What is happening?” he asked as she handed him a glass.

“Jessie, sweetheart…" she paused a moment, taking a slow deep breath. "Jessie, my sweet boy, we are so sorry to tell you, but, you passed away.” she said gently, trying to break the news as softly as she could. Her words hit him like a physical blow. The glass slipped from his fingers, shattering against the porch floor.

Jessie stared at his grandparents, shock and confusion washed over his face. "What do you mean? He asked.

“Well Jessie, when you heard about your grandfather’s passing, you rushed home,” she whispered, pulling him into a tight embrace. “There was a terrible accident on the bridge over the river. Your truck went over the railing… and well... that’s how you came back to us.”

Jessie stood frozen in her arms, the truth settling in his chest. “So I’m …”

“A ghost, Jessie,” his grandfather blurted out with a soft grin. “A good-looking one, too. Just like your gramps.” he said as his rocking chair moaned as he got up. He wrapped his muscular arms around his wife and Jessie and whispered into his ear, "You are home son."

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