The Death of 1977 (Book 3)

Chapter 2

October 1977

Cypress, Ohio

Three black boys, all three at the age of twelve, rode their bikes down the neighborhood on a brisk, forty-five degree morning. All three boys wore heavy jackets. They were comfortable without having each of them break out into saturating sweats.

Two of the three boys had Cincinnati Bengals' thermal hats on their heads while the third wore only a black ball cap. Lanced securely on one of the handlebar's of Mike's bike was a boom box that was playing Parliament's, 'Bop Gun' in the tape deck. Light puffs of smoke came from out of their mouths every time they exhaled, laughed and carried on with one another on their way to school that early morning, just as they did every other day.

When they approached a certain neighborhood all three boys stopped just short of the corner and watched as two police cruisers pulled down the same street and stopped in front of a house. novelbin

"Man, let's go down the other way." Mike grudgingly suggested to his comrades.

At once, all three boys turned their bikes around and proceeded to ride down an alley until they came to a busy intersection.

"We can take Holmes Road all the way to school." Jerome said.

"Man, Holmes Road is too long." Mike griped. "Let's take 7th."

Once more, the boys took off down another alley that eventually led to West 7th Blvd. Once their bikes touched the street's pavement the boys immediately noticed a shift in focus as far as the quality of the neighborhood was concerned.

Granted, their own neighborhood was far from ideal, but the fact that the scenery had transformed on them so rapidly seemed to slow their pace down the empty road all the more.

They carried on and on until Mike came to a hard stop in front of one particular house to his right. Both Jerome and Brian stopped in behind their friend to see just what had caught his attention all of the sudden. The street was still asleep that morning. All that could be heard were the birds and a few vehicles from the road up ahead. Mike just sat on his bike with his feet firmly planted to the middle of the street.

"What are you looking at?" Brian asked while gawking all around.

Mike shut off his radio before pointing and asking, "Do ya'll know what happened at that crib over there?"

"Man, everybody knows what happened there." Jerome waved his hand.

"But hold up," Mike urged. "Just a couple of weeks ago, my brother was out here gettin' balled out by this one skeezer, and he saw this dude walk up in there and never come out again."

"Maybe he went out the backdoor." Brian said.

"Nah, man, that dude never came out any door. He may still be up in there."

"My aunt said that that place is haunted." Jerome mentioned.

Mike sat absolutely still on his bike while staring endlessly at the boarded up house. "C'mon, ya'll, let's go in." He suggested.

"Man, we gotta get to school!" Brian insisted.

"Man, shut up, you African Booty Scratcher. School is only ten minutes from here." Mike retaliated. "We won't be in there long. I just wanna see what it looks like inside."

Both Jerome and Brian reluctantly followed an overly-anxious Mike towards 909. The second they reached the porch, all three boys put their individual bikes on their stands. Mike peeked in through the tiny slits within the boards at the front window before approaching the front door.

"Help me open this thing." He commanded.

"Man, we'd better get outta here before someone sees us." Brian shivered.

"Man, ain't nobody gonna see us, it's too early. C'mon and push," Mike went on.

All three boys pushed at the door until it cracked wide open. Before stepping inside, the boys used only their eyes to view the living room from left to right.

"Go on in, man." Mike shoved Jerome.

"Man, forget you, this was your idea!" He pushed him back.

Mike forged ahead of his friends inside. Before long, the other two joined in with Brian shutting the door behind them. The house was cold, smelly and dark, despite cracks of daylight that managed to seep its way inside from one corner to another. The boys cautiously plodded through the tiny living room before making their way down the hallway to examine the one bedroom. From the bedroom they ventured further down the hall that led to the bathroom.

The door to the bathroom was wide open. "That's where that dude was shot up." Brian nearly lost his breath.

All three stepped inside to find only a mouse's decayed corpse lying next to the toilet. "Man, that's really messed up that that cop shot him." Mike lamented.

"Yeah, it's real messed up. Now, let's go to school." Jerome rushed to say.

Mike twisted his lips before turning around and asking, "Did ya'll know that this place has a basement?"

Mike shoved past his comrades on his way towards the kitchen. "I wonder where that dude that came in here is." He asked. "Do ya'll think he's downstairs?"

"Who cares? Let's just go!" Brian implored.

"Man, don't worry; we'll only be here for a minute." Mike vowed.

"If you want to leave then go ahead, I'll wait here with Mike." Jerome shook his head.

But Brian only looked around the kitchen and dropped his shoulders saying, "Nah, I'll be cool."

Beside the stove was a brown and white mat that was lying on the floor. Mike slid the mat away to reveal a trap door. He then pulled the latch on the door and opened it. All three boys hurried to see down inside the pit. With the exception of a little sunlight protruding down within it was completely dark.

"Man, what are you doin'?" Brian hollered as he watched Mike climb down the wooden ladder. But Mike never replied, he just kept on and on until he made it to the bottom.

Soon and surprisingly, both Jerome and Brian followed in suit. The second their feet hit the gravel floor they shockingly found themselves inside the basement. At only five feet and twelve inches, head room was tedious. The boys had to hunch over while examining their surroundings.

The basement itself was really no more than twelve feet long and wide. The only relic that seemed to remain was a Mr. Potato Head that was lying all by itself in a corner; beyond that the basement was empty.

"Okay, we've seen it, now, let's go." Brian hastily remarked while turning back towards the ladder.

"Man, my bedroom is bigger than this." Jerome observed.

"I know," Mike marveled. "I always wanted to see inside this place. Now I can go to school and tell everyone that I saw the murder house." He grinned.

"You can say that." Brian spoke, but in a different voice.

Both Mike and Jerome turned around to see Brian still standing at the ladder with his back turned to them. He was standing completely still, not even his hands were moving.

"C'mon, man, let's go before we're late for school." Jerome patted Mike on the shoulder.

Both Mike and Jerome proceeded to make their way to the ladder only to have Brian continue to stand in their way.

"Move, Brian, so we can get outta here like you want to so bad." Mike complained.

But Brian still would not budge. Jerome and Mike glanced at each other before turning back to Brian.

Mike then nudged Brian on the back and yelled, "Man, c'mon, we gotta get outta here! If I'm late to school again my mom is gonna whoop me!"

"Ask me who I was." The sinister voice that was coming from Brian said.

At that instant both Jerome and Mike backed away. They then stared at each other for a few seconds before Jerome looked back at Brian.

"Hey, Brian, are you okay, man?" His voice waned.

Brian's body then began to quiver before someone else's unfamiliar voice began speaking. "Someone told me to stay away from people."

"Nigga, what are you talking about?" Mike became agitated.

Right then, Brian turned around. Jerome and Mike started to shake for the simple fact that they couldn't see Brian's face which was pointed to the floor.

"What's wrong with you, Brian?" Jerome stammered.

The hatch door above slammed shut before Brian lifted his head to reveal a mouth full of fangs at his friends. He hissed and snarled at them both like a famished animal.

Mike and Jerome screamed out in horror before Brian lunged at them both and proceeded to destroy them.

The boys' shrieks and cries for help were both loud and heartbreaking.

The front door that led to the porch squeaked wide open. It remained open for at least three whole minutes before an explosion of blood and torn clothes came rushing out the door and onto the porch where the three bikes were still resting.

The blood dripped and soaked all over the bikes and porch steps making it appear as if someone had sprayed the porch with dark red paint.

Then, just as ominously as it opened, the front door that led into 909 shut all over again.

One of the bikes managed to topple over onto its side.