Party at the House of Gold Read online

  "I guess that's the case," Nick mumbled. "There was something about making good grades too."

  "Well, when is this event?" Charles sharply questioned.

  "Sometime after Christmas, I think..." Nick began.

  "It's December 26th," Bart stated, cutting through the conversation... and with that quick dagger of information, Nick and Charlies knew right away.

  "You lucky buffoon! How long have you known?" Charles interrogated.

  "He must have just found out today, in the mail," Nick quickly replied.

  This moment was exactly what Bart was thinking about, this was the moment that made things different. He was one of the lucky ones, and they were looking to him with awe, excitement, and jealously. There was a power in this for Bart and it felt so good to him to feel something different.

  "Actually, we were lucky enough to find out on Friday. Stella ran into Ms. Van Deventer while she was on her way to the post office to mail those invites."

  "And she just handed yours to Stella?" Charles asked amazed.

  "Yup." Bart grinned and took the last bite of his mangled sandwich.

  "I can't believe it. All of the damn stories about that place. It's going to be incredible for you Bart. How many levels are even on that place?" Charles asked, he had calmed down enough now for something that closely resembled normal conversation. But for him, that wasn't anyways easy.

  "I think it's four levels. I remember Stella asking her teacher about how many rooms it had. If I remember correctly, it's like twenty-seven. Or something close to that."

  "Incredible," Charles muttered.

  "Wow," Nick added, shaking his head.

  "We used to call it the House of Gold. When they light up the rooms around the holidays, it looks like the insides are glowing gold."

  "Yea, we've called it that too. Also House Hell on the Hill," Charles added. He was almost twenty years older than Bart, but he still knew about the House of Gold title. Some small town similarities are timelessly redundant.

  "I hope the zombie slaves don't get you," Nick chuckled at Bart.

  Bart knew this moment was inevitable. There were far too many stories involving outlandish fictional horror scenarios surrounding the Van Deventer mansion.

  "Okay, here we go. I didn't hear the one about the zombie slaves. Let's hear it Nick," prompted Bart. Charles pulled over a chair and sat at the break table, intent on hearing this one too.

  "Well, I've heard that the hill is all dug out on the inside. Tunnels and such. And some of those tunnels connect with the underground railroad where slaves from the South come up to the North from," Nick confided.

  "I think that part about the tunnels might actually be true," stated Bart.

  "Yeah, but what about this zombie crap?" Charles charged, in full skeptic mode.

  "So, one of the slaves was a voodoo doctor. Chicken bones and everything. He was with a party of a dozen or so escaping slaves that got trapped below the house. They had to start eating each other to stay alive. The voodoo man was so appalled that he put a curse on the hill, a zombie curse that turned..."

  "Alright. That's enough. Man, that's stupid. Zombies? You kids today... I see it right through you. You watch too much damn television and play with your damn gadgets," Charles snarked.

  "Well, that's our story! Jeez," Nick huffed in frustration.

  "Everyone knows the best story, and it's the oldest one," Charles grinned.

  "Is it the one about the vampires in the attic?" asked Nick.

  "What? God no," Charles asserted.

  "The one about the escaped prison inmates?" inquired Bart, trying to push Charles' buttons. He knew exactly which story Charles had in mind.

  Charles was silent at first and then calmly replied, "I would expect better from you, Bart."

  Bart laughed out loud this time.

  "I am, of course, talking about the mansion's first owner. The person who had the damn thing built in the first place: Doctor Edmund Van Deventer. Have you heard of that one, Nick?"

  Nick was perplexed. "I can't say that I have," he admitted slowly.

  "Your generation is terrible. Do you know that, Nick? Anyway, Doctor Edmund Van Deventer moved here with his family from Holland in the late eighteen hundreds. He practiced medicine his whole life, it was one of his passions as they say. His other passion was his family. That guy had twelve kids!"

  "I thought it was fourteen," Bart voiced honestly.

  "No, it was twelve. But eventually, over the years, those kids had kids, and so on. The old doctor didn't want his family to ever part. He wanted them to be close all of the time, so he kept building onto the damn mansion. Didn't you ever ask yourself why it was so big? It's because it eventually housed his children, his children's children, and even some of his childen's children's children," Charles beamed somewhat proudly.

  "This sounds like more a history lesson then a ghost story," Nick remarked.

  "Edmund Van Deventer," continued Charles, ignoring Nick's statement," lived until the ripe old age of ninety-seven, practicing medicine until the day he died."

  "So?..." asked Nick, trying to get to the point of the story.

  "Edmund Van Deventer completely lost his mind at age eighty-five. He spent over ten years performing sick and twisted acts of insane science. Operating on healthy pets like dogs and cats, mixing and swapping their internal organs, and trying to crossbreed various varmints. His servants were paid very well to watch these heinous experiments. His family discovered this, and they eventually left him in that big house. Not all of them left the area, as we know."

  "Okay, so he was a mad scientist," Nick shrugged.

  "People were afraid to walk their dogs near the house. This was a real thing. Nick, listen I don't think you understand..."

  "No. Noneaya unterstand," a booming voice called out. Bart, Charles, and Nick all turned to find out who supplied the phantom outburst.

  Walking slowly out of the men's room steadily with a cane was seventy-four-year-old Arthur Reed, a part-time employee of Groceries Plus and More.

  "Holy crap. Arthur, how long have you been in the bathroom?" Charles inquired.

  "And who else is hiding down here?!" Bart exclaimed jokingly.

  "I voz in da batroom long 'nuff to know dat you don't know diddly squat about da Van Deventer haus," concluded Arthur as he wobbled over to the table. Bart was extremely interested in what Arthur might have to say about the mansion, but questioned what old man Arthur could add to the story Charles told. It was probably the oldest story of the great house on the hill.

  "Sure 'nuff na, the ol doctor came from Holland and sure 'nuff he had more children than he could handle. Or his wife, for dat matter," chuckled Arthur.

  "Oh, so we DO know a little diddly squat then," Charles bantered.

  "Quiet man. Let him speak," Bart commanded, hanging onto Arthur's every word with widened eyes. Nick too, was enthralled. To the casual onlooker, it would look like four co-workers were having a light conversation over lunch. Those in the know, however, would see four generations of local folk coming together to discuss the secrets of the past.

  "It vas da doctor's children," stated Arthur finally.

  "Okay," Charles breathed slowly.

  "What about the children?" Bart prodded feverishly.

  "Were they vampires? I bet they were," Nick chimed.

  "Please stop with that bull-..." started Charles.

  "Dey ver little!" shouted Arthur.

  Bart, Charles, and Nick looked at each other with bewilderment.

  "What do you mean 'little'?" questioned Bart, squinting his eyes.

  "Tiny people. Michets. Actually much smaller den dat. None of da sixteen kids grew more dan tree feet! I believe da term dey used vas extreme dwarfism."

  There was a long silence followed by an burst of hard laughter from everyone except the old man.

  "Oh man, Art, you had us going there," guffawed Charles, cleaning his glasses with a white handkerchief as he continued laughing.


  Arthur Reed started to shuffle his way back to the floor.

  "Ya damn kids don't know nuttin," the old man mumbled quietly to himself.

  Something caught Charles' attention Bart noticed. Looking past Bart, Charles looked a little surprised.

  "Frank?" Charles asked, "You can't be down here. This room is for employees only."

  Bart turned around and saw that his older brother had entered the break room.

  "Shut up, Chuck," Frank asserted boldly. "I need to talk to Bart."

  "What's up? Is everything okay?" Bart asked. Frank not only was older, but he was a little taller so Bart had spent his whole life looking up to him. His surprise visit caused Bart to worry about Anna and Stella.

  "Everything's fine. Actually, everything is great!" With that, Frank pulled out an invitation to the party at Van Deventer manor.

  "You got an invite too?!" exclaimed Bart, not really asking the question.

  "Larry's grades got us in -straight A's baby!" shouted Frank. "We're both going to the party at the House of Gold!"

  Charles and Nick shook their heads in disbelief and jealousy. Frank hugged his younger brother, almost like they had just won the Superbowl. Bart smiled, but his great enthusiasm from before was gone. Vanished. Disappeared without a trace.

  It's not just me anymore... I guess this really isn't about me and maybe it never was. Why do I have to share this? I was the first one to get an invitation. I should still be the first one through the front door. I wanted to be the one in my family to bring back the stories! Why does my opportunity of a lifetime have to be watered down!? Why does this always happen to me?

  Part 3: Christmas Dinner

  It was four o'clock in the afternoon, and the Dunn household was seated for their annual holiday feast. Bart and Anna, along with the help of little Stella, went all-out on this year's meal; ham, turkey, chicken, and even lamb (Frank's wife Kristy had a thing for lamb) was served. Mashed potatoes, twice baked and loaded sweet potatoes, corn, green beans, stuffed mushrooms, butternut squash, cranberry sauce in can-molded slices, and fresh baked rolls were served as sides. There were three different kinds of soup: three bean, New England clam chowder, and Italian wedding. For dessert, there was chocolate cheesecake, and pumpkin and apple pies. Bart was absolutely clear in that he didn't want his brother or his parents to bring any side dishes to the dinner. This was to be Bart's treat -this year, the big year. Despite this fact, Bart's father did bring a special twelve-year-old bottle of scotch to the party, which was welcomed warmly.

  Anna and Bart sat toward the end of the table facing the kitchen, Jon sat with Bart's mother Cathy, and Frank, already four lagers deep, sat with his wife on the opposite end. The children sat in the living room, huddled around their own little fold-out counter -the 'dreaded' kids table. Stella quite liked the kids table; to her it felt like their own little place. It was something that they had. At a young age, the feeling of ownership came with good vibes, excitement, and a sort of curious joy. It was such a simple thing. As you got older, the idea of ownership seemed to be tainted by the influence of money. Not so simple any longer. Stella sat there with Michael, Larry (the straight-A kid), and Susie.

  "When are you having dinner with your folks, Anna?" asked Cathy as Anna set down a huge tray of turkey.

  "They're visiting my bother for the holidays this year, but they'll be home in a few days," replied Anna.

  "So, they'll miss all of the fun then," Kristy concluded.

  "Too bad for them, right Bart?" added Frank as he slammed down the rest of his drink.

  Bart finally sat down for dinner; he had been up and at 'em since six preparing the meal. While Stella was tearing into her gifts, Bart was flopping around the kitchen, slowly piecing together the multiple course feast. He wanted his family to celebrate this day enthusiastically. His heart seemed to be in the right place for it, but his mind was locked onto the next day -the Van Deventer mansion party.

  "This all looks so good!" exclaimed Cathy.

  "You know it. Good job, Anna," added Jon. Anna smiled, but she looked incredibly tired.

  "Actually, Bart did a lot of the cooking today. He's been very determined," Anna stated, provoking concern over Bart's obsession with preparing dinner.

  "Yes, I do wish you would have let us all make a dish to bring tonight," started Cathy.

  "Now don't get into that 'hon. He said don't bring anything, so we didn't," recounted Jon trying to deflate the issue.

  "I'm starving," Larry called from the living room.

  "Well, it's ready now! Feel free to dig in people. Kids, come and dish up," directed Anna.

  Bart watched everyone start to fill their plates. Anna gave him a concerned look, and then he realized he wasn't even there. He was lost in thought yet again. This time however, he was able to snap out of it.

  "Yeah..." Bart choked before clearing his throat, "Dig in. The food is our treat this year; we wanted to do something nice and treat you all. Next year, it's at your house, Frank."

  Everyone seemed to be more at ease after Bart had spoken. Three conversations broke out simultaneously.

  "We'll be glad to have it next year," Frank smiled.

  "Yeah, as long as there is beer there," Michael, Frank's oldest son, chuckled as he walked by with a plate mostly full of mashed potatoes covered in brown gravy. Frank laughed and playfully grabbed his son by the shirt, but Michael slid away back to the kids table.

  "Don't do that. He almost dropped his plate," Kristy warned. She wasn't a fan of the roughhousing.

  "He's fine... and he's probably just mad 'cause he doesn't get to go to the house tomorrow," Frank teased as he grabbed a few slices of ham. "The house! The creepy, old house at the top of the hill!" he concluded with laughter.

  "That's not funny, Dad!" Michael fired back.

  "Stop it please. The two of you are incredible," fumed Kristy. "I think it's crazy that not all of the family gets invited."

  "I think it's perfectly fine," Larry is the one with superb grades. We are his parents, so we go with him to the party. Michael's C average just won't cut it," explained Frank tersely.

  "Stop saying that! What were your grades in school, Dad?" Michael probed knowing well that his father's report cards were always filled with the letter D.

  "Um, that's not the point here," Frank said.

  "Don't worry, Michael. You and Susie will have a fun time with me and Papa tomorrow. We didn't get invited either," Cathy avowed, trying to smooth the conversation.

  "We'll make sure to soak in all of the details... And we'll tell you everything about the party before it hits the newspapers," Bart promised enthusiastically.

  "You think the papers will be there? Or even TV31?" squealed Kristy.

  "They absolutely will. Anna, Kristy, you guys'll probably be on TV," Jon affirmed, sipping his scotch. Bart was also enthralled with the possibility of being on television.

  "Well, what about Bart and me? Jeez, Dad. What are we chopped liver then?" joked Frank quickly.

  Jon lowered his scotch glass and stated, "Frank, I wish you were on TV... then I could turn you off!"

  Everyone at the table began to laugh, even the kids. Kristy followed Jon's joke with what seemed to be another funny punchline, but Bart couldn't hear it. He didn't catch it. Someone must have been playing with the lights, because Bart had trouble seeing his brother across the table. It was so dark now. His body went limp and his head crashed down on the fine china plate that his mother had passed down to Anna. It broke into five pieces, giving Bart a nasty cut on his forehead.

  ****

  "Hey, Brother. You fainted."

  Frank stood next to Bart, holding a beer, as he slowly came back to consciousness.

  "Why are we in the basement? Did you bring me down here?" Bart found himself asking. He was sitting reclined in his old Lay-Z-Boy chair. The basement was always a little chilly in the winter. The tiny space heater was buzzing on the floor next to them; the rest of the family upstairs.

  "Dad a
nd I brought you down here. You actually walked by yourself most of the way down... do you remember that?"

  "No."

  "Ah. Well, you were saying a bunch of stuff. Couldn't really understand you."

  Bart was silent. His look of fear was overwhelming.

  "Don't worry little brother. I'm not going to let this episode get in the way of tomorrow," reassured Frank before taking a large gulp of beer.

  "My head..." Bart slowly raised his hand to touch his forehead.

  "No, don't do that. The cut wasn't too deep, but you still shouldn't touch it just yet. Kristy cleaned it and wrapped it up. Should change it again before you go to bed too."

  "Will I be okay?"

  "For tomorrow? Your damn right you will," Frank confirmed in a mild manner, still casting Bart a small smile. He knelt down next to Bart.

  "Listen, I smoothed things over with Mom and Anna. They were basically in deep hysterics over you fainting."

  "Can we call it 'passing out' please?"

  "Yea sure, more manly sounding. I get it. But hey uh, ...they don't want you going to the Van Deventer mansion tomorrow," Frank's voice dropped.

  "I have to go," Bart whispered in a the smallest voice Frank had ever heard him speak.

  "I know. And they agreed to still let you go on one condition: after this, after all of this...you have to go see a doctor. We've noticed that you're stressed or depressed beyond belief. It's time to get help. We think you're having a pre-midlife crisis."

  Bart was actually surprised at how correct Frank was. He still hated the thought of having to go to a doctor for help, but he knew he had to agree.

  "I'll make an appointment before the new year."

  "Excellent!" Frank jumped up, almost hitting his head on the low-hanging basement pipes. He now seemed refreshed, somehow rejuvenated. Invigorated even. Bart chuckled.

  "Tomorrow, Bart. Tomorrow!"

  "The party, yes. Thanks for covering for me with the faint...um, passing out bit," Bart said earnestly.