Fiction: The House on the Riverfront

The House on the Riverfront 

By Nick Nelson

[Found in an anonymous mailing to the editor of the American Tribune.]

Shortly after midnight on January 4^th 2017, the ramshackle house found at 1700 Calvert Street erupted in a massive explosion which momentarily warmed the frozen Indiana winter night.  Before the hour was up, local media reported it as a gas explosion.  Upon a quick investigation it was determined both residents of the home had died in the resulting fire, though no bodies were ever found.  These things happen every so often in the rundown houses with aged utilities that make up the forgotten portions of Muncie.  Few recalled the black clad men in black cars who had hastily surrounded the building the afternoon before the explosion.  Nor did they see these men, wearing respirators, walk several black duffle bags into the building, only to return empty handed several hours later.  The tale told by two university students who claimed to have witnessed men in black spraying flames into drainage sewer 67 where its large opening meets the White River, before being chased away, were discounted as drunken ramblings.

            I can tell you that no such gas explosion occurred that frozen night, as I had ordered the gas disconnected that morning upon conducting my investigation into that house, which had been reported abandoned the past November. The couple that had lived there, the Andersons, were dead.  It was no fire that killed them.  It was the water, and the rot it brings.  We can only hope that the explosion destroyed every trace of their decomposition.

            On December 5^th the previous year I entered the dilapidated structure for the first time.  It is nestled on a crowded cross street, running perpendicular to the White River.  The neighborhood is populated by a mixture of students, families, and elderly persons all united in their inability to afford more than subsistence.  The city had long since forgotten most of the area.  Its mangled sidewalks and cratered streets reflected the dirty, scratched siding on the cramped houses.  Though the lawns were small, they bloomed with unkempt grasses and verdant oaks which obscured the sun.  The water table of the nearby river nourished the trees, and their branches remained numerous without the well-to-do saws of the more prosperous folk to the north.

            The 1700 Calvert house itself was white with 1 story consisting of a simple rectangular frame, with its roof pointed directly in the center.  Its architecture left no sense of mystery or majesty, but was cheap and efficient housing.  The entrance was nestled away on a small porch, large enough for a rocking chair on either side of the door.  As there was no driveway, I parked my city van on the curve.  Though seemingly devoid of people, the limited parking was always taken in the area, and I was forced to park 4 or 5 houses down.  I stumbled my way upon the frozen, unshoveled sidewalks.  There was one set of tracks from the sidewalk to the porch mailbox, but none from the box to the door. 

I firmly and rapidly knocked three times.  There was no light coming from within the house, and no sound stirred to greet me.  This was no surprise.  The city had been getting calls that the house was abandoned since November.  In an area like this, it is not uncommon for houses to be vacant for months before anything is reported.  The low priority of the task, and the ever-growing backlog of other reports meant another month would take place before my municipal organization responded.

Having done my required knock, and lacking the patience to stand in the cold further, I leaned back and kicked the door directly between the threshold and handle.  I felt the wood of the threshold give way as the door slammed into the corner of a small end-table, sending a stack of half-examined mailings onto the floor.  The ease of breaking the door alerted me that this house was slightly more damaged than the typical abandoned houses in the area.

Upon regaining my balance, I found a light switch and looked upon the room.  Two couches, each clearly manufactured in a different decade based upon their patterns, sat in the middle of the room facing each other.  Between them stood a coffee table covered in discarded plates, cups, and a cheap chessboard with plastic playing pieces frozen in place.  Beyond the couches was a visible kitchen where a refrigerator leaned at an disconcerting angle, towered over a metal sink.  The faucet loudly dripped every several seconds, creating a splashing sound each time.  To the left of the couches were two doorways with a matching set of closed doors.  Beyond the kitchen and to its left was a hallway, which upon inspection was short and lead to a closet, bathroom, and small office. 

I closed the door behind me as best I could.  Once the frigid air from outside was shut out, I noticed a strange dampness in the air.  It was thick with an unseasonal humidity.  In a corner I saw the blinking red bead of light from a full dehumidifier.  I opened the first door in the living room, half expecting to find the decayed body of a former resident.  To my relief I found only a messy bedroom, with dirty clothes scattered across a dark blue carpet.  The blankets on the bed were crumpled at its base, with 3 pillows haphazardly left in the middle of the mattress.  Quickly entering the next room, I found another bedroom.  This one was neatly arranged, with the blankets tightly tucked in.  The smooth surface of the bed matched the clean carpet.  There was a dresser against one wall, and tucked away in the far corner was another full dehumidifier.

I next went down the narrow hallway from the kitchen, reaching a small bathroom.  A pungent smell wafted through the air.  I flipped on the dim lights to reveal a sink, toilet, and shower.  Upon the checkered floor was a gelatinous fungal mass. Appearing a waxy white in the dim light, it mounded on the floor in a series layering spirals.  The mass created a defined square shape, appearing to form from the cracks in a section of tile at the foot of the toilet and next to the tub.  The smell certainly came from this strange mass.  It did not have the putridity of rotten flesh, yet was like no scent found among living things.  I turned off the light and closed the door.  This unfortunately meant I would have to return to the house at least once more, this time with a biologist to identify the strange fungus, and discover the extent of its rot. 

In the small office I found the desk covered in receipts.  Four were for dehumidifiers, each bought within the last summer.  More were for slug poison and various fungicides.  There were business cards for contractors, with their names also listed on a full legal pad.  Each name was crossed out and had an arrow pointing to what I presumed was the quoted cost.  The bottom of the pad had the number and address for a silica gel manufacturer.  I had never heard of anyone using the common moisture reducing food preservative for home repair.  Thinking to myself, I tried to determine if this was an incredibly creative solution, or just an incredibly desperate one.  The rest of the desk contained evidence that is was desperation.  The owners had past due bills for all of their utilities, while their last asset, their home, slowly degraded day by day.

I turned finally now to the kitchen to finish my inspection.  The sink was full of dirty dishes, now molded over with a blanket of green fuzz.  The faucet continued to drip, and I was content to let it do so, being long past my desire to touch anything in the house.  The refrigerator was tilted at angle which I could now explain.  The floorboards were noticeably giving way to my weight upon them.  There was an obvious rot going on underneath, and it was only a matter of time before the floor gave way to the bulky refrigerator.  On the counters and shelves were a collection of common kitchen items, spices, and cooking oils. 

While looking at the stovetop a hint of movement caught the corner of my eye.  I looked slightly up to gaze at a power outlet.  Emerging from the grounding socket was a grey spherical lump.  Continuing to watch, the lump slowly writhed its way out of the socket.  It now resembled a worm with completely smooth sides.  Its grey color remained uniform across its whole visage as it now slithered in the air.  With a sudden jolt, the worm pointed directly at me and froze.  I immediately felt as if I had been looked through.  There was a strange presence of sentience coming from the smooth mass, which sent a tingle up my spine.  We stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity, before my phone went off.  As I reached into my pocket, I watched the worm quickly descend back into the outlet in a smooth continuous motion.  I pulled out a flashlight and shined it into the outlet, but could not illuminate anything in its narrow confines.  I still felt watched.

The call was from a supervisor.  I was to immediately head to a business inspection.  I left the house, taped the door shut, and wrote some quick notes on my inspection sheet.  Later on that day I would request another inspection of the house, with a biologist.  A formal search was started for the owners of the home.  The weeks rolled by, with them came the holidays.  Each night I would lay in bed and think about that worm coming from the wall.  The horrible smoothness of its uniform grey skin taunted my midnight thoughts.  It was like no other worm I had ever seen.  I put a plug into every power outlet, hoping to give my mind some respite.  As the nights passed, I awaited the final inspection of the house.  I prayed it would provide me some closure, and proof that I just had an overactive imagination induced by stress.

On the morning of January 4^th, I met with renowned biologist Jeremy Richardson.  As he sipped a cup of coffee to recover from his overnight flight into Indianapolis, I shared with him my account from earlier in the month.  He is one of the few living biologists to discover a new species in each kingdom on the tree of life. When I submitted my initial report, I strongly insisted to my supervisor that we get the greatest expert possible for the follow up.  Jeremy Richardson was exactly the man we needed.  Looking every bit the part of an adventurer, his muscular frame protected what was also clearly a staggering intellect.  Bored by the monotony of a sedentary academic life, he made his living as a freelance biological explorer.  It was his incredible talent which allowed him to keep such an unconventional career.  Thankfully he had not been on expedition, and my office was able to hire him for the investigation.  I was glad to have his expertise as we prepared to enter the 1700 Calvert house.

“I’m sure I’ve seen something just as disgusting.  There are some pretty gnarly slimes, molds, and mushrooms in this world, and I’ll be damned if the gnarliest is living here in Indiana.”

Richardson’s confidence half assured me, but I doubted the effectiveness of my words in describing what I had truly seen.  Either way, we soon were stepping out of my city van onto the frozen sidewalks outside the home. 

A slight drift of snow had piled up against the front of the house, otherwise little had changed.  The door remained taped shut, just as I had left it.  I opened the door and flicked on the lights.  Again I was overcome with the moisture in the air, which seemed even heavier than my last visit.  Dragging his bag of tools and instruments into the living room, we began a quick preparation for the work at hand.  Richardson and I put on a layer of latex gloves, then covered those with a leather pair.  For the sake of precaution Richardson also provided us both with respirator masks.

            Through the muffled sound of the mask he suggested we look at the fungal growth in the bathroom first.   I led him down that short, dark hallway and opened the door.  Despite the mask, I still noticed that strange, haunting smell. 

Richardson immediately bent down to take a sample.  Cutting a small section away from the mass, he delicately put it in a sample jar as he explained to me, “Yes this is fungal, certainly in the division Basidiomycota.  Probably in the order Tremellales.  I’ll have to look at some references in the lab to determine the species.  Whatever it is, it’s rare alright.” 

Nodding in agreement as I immediately forgot how to pronounce what Richardson said, I asked about the square shape.

“It’s under this tile, for sure.”  Grabbing a hammer from his bag, he concluded, “I bet you a beer this is gonna be real gross.”

Slamming down into the center of the tile, it immediately shattered into a dozen pieces.  The force also knocked out some rotten flooring underneath the tile.  As it crumbled and fell into a black abyss, the tile shards also slowly slipped away until a hole the circumference of a basketball remained.  Richardson shined a flashlight down into the hole.

Motioning me over to look he exclaimed, “Yeah, you owe me 2 beers.”

Down the hole I could make out a mass of the same waxy fungal structure.  The organic cone of the fungal sprout had merged with the inorganic geometry of the home’s flooring, forming a tower with four clearly defined sides and uneven, rounded corners.  The widest ridge was that portion exposed above the tiles, and I was now looking into the convergence of the 4 sides, slightly sunken into the recesses of the foundation.  Small streaks of discontinuity in the fungus allowed the light to shine past, illuminating the slightest glimpse of what lay beneath.  I was only sure that I saw a white spherical object and the gleam of a shallow pool of water. 

Richardson stood straight up, “Alright, let’s go find this worm now.”  We moved quickly to the kitchen.  Richardson kept his hammer in hand as he prepared to bash some holes in the wall.  I squeezed my way past him, and stood by the refrigerator to get a good view as the wall began to be opened up.  The wall simply crumbled as Richardson hammered a pattern of holes into the wall.  Clearly enjoying himself, he began to put more force into his strikes. 

With a sudden jolt, and crack of wood I was swept off my feet.   Falling backwards, I quickly felt my back crash against the heavy shell of the refrigerator, which had fallen through the floor behind me.  In a daze, I rolled off the refrigerator and landed into a pool of cold water.  The light through what remained of the floor showed the extent of the house’s decay, and the cause of its latent wetness.  A cavern had opened up under the house, connecting it to the sewer which flowed the short distance to the river.

Above me I saw the masked face of Richardson peering into the hole.  I could see the look of relief in his eyes as he found me still alive.  He passed me a light through the floor.  Turning the light to see the extent of the cavern I saw the fungal mass which infested the bathroom.  It billowed like a column of smoke made flesh.  As it approached the water line it began to narrow, until it met, to my ghastly terror, the putrefied skull of the former resident. 

A shudder of horror and disgust filled me as I realized the terrible fate of the resident.  Based upon the size of the waxy mound, I assumed this was the old woman who had resided here.  No other identifying features remained after the long exposure to the wet environment.  I was perplexed how the body had gotten down there.  Taking it all in, I sat on the cold refrigerator and inspected the houses flooring.  Looking further upon the where the fungus crept through the floorboards, there were indications that the tile had been deliberately cut away to allow access. Cut away from the bottom.

I felt a tug at my foot and looked down into the water.  A grey worm emerging from the cold pool had wrapped itself around my ankle.  I screamed like I had never screamed before.  Richardson’s strong arm came down from the ceiling and grasped my coat from the shoulder.  With a powerful tug he pulled me up and away from the hole.  Looking down at my foot I hoped to see the worm slide off. Instead as it was pulled from the water, an undulating structure of thin moving branches followed.  It was all the same smooth, grey entity.   There was no apparent center to the mass, each wormy branch connected seamlessly to the other branches.  The tangled mass now rose further through the floor.  Each distal end of the worm moved independently of the others, but like a swarm the whole acted like a single organism.  I believe it was one organism.

Screaming, I crawled backwards, kicking my leg in desperation.  Richardson grabbed some cooking oil laying on the counter and doused my leg in it.  Turning around he lit the stove, quickly using the flames to ignite a drying cloth.  He threw it on my leg, which immediately burst into flames.  I continued to crawl and kick as Richardson doused it in another bottle of cooking oil.  With addition of the 2^nd bottle, the intense flame forced the writhing entity to release its grip and slither back under the house.  I dove through the front door into a drift of snow to quench my leg.  The superficial burns did not bother me as I became overcome with relief that I escaped.

Richardson followed me out of the house.  His eyes had lost their confidence, but he still acted deliberately.  He ordered me to call and have the gas and other utilities to the house cut immediately.  He made calls of his own.  Within the hour black cars began to arrive on the scene.  I was quickly bound and tucked away in one.  Maybe it was mercy which moved the men to leave my eyes uncovered and let me watch their covert work.  I saw them enter the house with their black bags of explosives.  After some time, they exited the house, and two of the black clad men got into the car I was being held in.  The driver started the engine and lit a cigarette. 

As he began to drive away the house at 1700 Calvert Street exploded into a blinding white light.  The swift burst of heat comforted me momentarily.  I was certain whatever lurked in that house was dead.  As we turned a corner, and drove over the bridge, I caught a glimpse of the men with flamethrowers, discharging their weapons into drainage sewer 67.  My relief faded into realization.  That worm had access to river.  It had crawled from the river in the first place.  They were fools to believe it hadn’t escaped, or crept through the sewer to infest another house.

We travelled through the night.  Periodically the man in the passenger seat would move the radio dial.  He seemed content with a local public radio station.  After playing the works of some baroque composer a news program began.  There had been a gas explosion in Muncie.  But when the reporter said it had been on Calvert Street my heart sunk.  A cover up had already begun.

I quickly concocted a desperate plan.  As the sun crept above the horizon, I demanded that we stop so I could use a restroom.  To my surprise, my captors agreed without much thought.  After they argued amongst themselves which gas station would have the best food available, we pulled into a dingy truck stop.  I explained that I felt quite ill after the whole ordeal, and may take awhile. 

.

           The man who had driven looked me right in the eyes and said, “Whatever.  Get in there, take care of business, and keep your damn mouth shut.  If I see you talk to anyone, even a damn hello, you are spending the rest of this trip in handcuffs with your head in a bag.”  I listened, and quickly entered the truck stop ahead of my captors.

           

That brings us to now, and my final moments to scribble this desperate plea.  I’ve locked myself in the bathroom.  Fortunately I was never searched when thrown into the car, and still carried a notepad and pen in my breast pocket.  With it I was able to write every detail of this account.  I will be leaving the notepad inside the empty soap dispenser.  When you find this, please share it with a trusted journalist. I do not know what will happen to me when I leave this room, but I fear the worst.  I fear I will be silenced.  You may not believe me, but for the sake of the world please share it!  The people of Muncie must know what has been lurking amongst them, traveling through their river.  They must know of the horrible fungus and writhing entities which crawl underneath their homes undiscovered, waiting for the next victim of the riverfront.