Cobb's house to be demolished . . .

Phillip dropped his spoon into his saucer. He had been sitting there, slurping coffee, half reading the paper. He had been thinking about the ten million things he had to do that day when those bold--faced words leaped out at him. He had almost missed it in fact; just a small article tucked away in the metro section. The article simply said "The house on 1657 Red Bird lane, known to residents as the Cobb house, was the site of the 1983 murder of Gertrude Cobb. More recently, the house has become a hang--out for local youths, and many Eastlake residents have tried for years to have the condemned house demolished. The city council finally agreed after a bizarre accident claimed the life of nine-year-old Clarence White. Authorities say that White, playing alone in the upstairs room, had become entangled in some electrical wire, suffering cuts on more than 80 percent of his body. Angelica White, the boy's mother, says she had warned Clarence about playing in the abandoned house. "Having that old place there is just too much of a temptation," White said. "You've got people coming in and out of there all hours of the night. We tried to get it(the house) torn down years ago."

The news has also pleased Officer Frank Grimes. "It's been a long time coming. It's just a shame that it took a tragedy to make it happen." Grimes, a four-year veteran with the Birmingham police department has been a life-long-resident of the Eastlake area. He has stated that the Cobb house has been a major law enforcement problem for some time now.

"It's like some kind of magnet for crime," Cobb says. Just three months ago, they arrested several juveniles for holding a rave in the house. Among the illegal substances confiscated were LSD and absinthe.

Demolition is set to begin two weeks from Monday. The City Council has also approved the land for an expansion to Robinson Elementary. The new wing will be dedicated in honor of Clarence White.

"Phil-- are you okay honey?"

It took him a moment to speak. The words seemed to cling to his throat. Phil sprawled the paper out in front of him, those bold letters glaring back at him with sadistic glee. Helen peered out from the doorway, snapping in the diamond earrings he had given her on their fifth wedding anniversary.

"I thought I heard a noise," She said. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah," The words were as coarse as sand paper. "Just dropped my coffee spoon is all."

"Well, you'd better get a move on. You're going to be late for work."

"Yeah," Phil said. His eyes wandered back to the paper, and that headline.

"Where are you?" Helen said, her form cut the sunlight from the front window. In that early morning light, he could just make out her curves under the white blouse she was wearing.

"Huh?" He said, fighting the urge to look at that article. It was just like Grimes said, the place was a magnet.

"Just now this dark look came over your face. Where were you?"

"Just thinking about work is all," He said. It was a lie of course. There wasn't much in the field of toy safety inspection that made on have dark looks. Still, she was buying the bull he was selling.

Helen crossed from the kitchen door to him. "Are you sure that's all?" She said, putting her arm over his shoulder. He could smell the mango in her hair from that ten-dollar shampoo she always used. He'd gripe about the cost, but damn it sure did smell fine.

"Sure," He kissed her gingerly on the lips, and slowly closed the paper so she wouldn't see the article. Though she didn't know all the facts of his aunt Gertrude's death, she knew enough for the article to mean something.

"Okay then," She said, smoothing her skirt. "You ready?"

"You go on," He said. "I think I'll take the Datsun to work."

Helen laughed. "You sure it'll make it?"

"Yeah," He said with a grin. "I cut holes in the floor board last week so I can do my impression of Fred Flintstone."

"Okay," She said, "Just don't expect me to put a bone in my hair."

"Take all the fun out of it why don't you."

Helen grabbed her brown leather satchel, kissed him one last time, and headed for the door.

"Don't you even think about playing hookey young man!" She called after him.

"Yes mother," He replied in his best whiny voice. "I love you."

"Love you too," She said. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," He said, "Now get out of here before Mary has swatches strewn all over the studio."

He waited for the front door to close. The Buick started. The gravel crackled against the tires as she backed out of the driveway. All that was left now was to call Seward at Toyco and tell him he couldn't make it today. It wasn't any trouble. Phil had accumulated many sick days in the last nine years. Christ! Nine years. Where did it all go? Nine years since he'd started at Toyco, eleven since he'd married Helen, and twenty two years since he'd last been in his Aunt Gertrude's house.

That poor Clarence White, cut into tiny pieces, just like before. Just like Ricky Chastain when they found-- Had to shake it off, think about something else. Phil knew that now was not the time to spook himself. The only way he was going to get this behind him was to do what he should have done years ago, when aunt Gertrude died-- Killed, you mean. Dying is what old people do in their sleep. Killed is what happens when they find you in tiny little pieces.

Phil sat in the driveway for an immeasurable span of time. The Datsun had been the first car that he and Helen had bought together, and the first car that he had owned outright. Sure the dash was cracked, and it didn't start half the time, but there was something comforting in that old car. It was like an old pair of jeans that still fit. Helen had been on him since they got the Buick to junk that old car, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. There were few things in his past that he wanted to hold on to, and the Datsun was just one of them.

His mind inevitably drifted, as it had all morning, to that house on Red Bird Lane. He had no idea what he was doing, playing hookey from work to screw around in an abandoned house. He was thirty years old for chrissake, not twelve. Here he was, sitting in a ten-year-old Datsun, with a claw hammer tucked under his belt and a flash light. He adjusted the rearview mirror to look at his reflection. Holding up nicely there Phil, attractive bags under the eyes, and are those crows' feet you've got? I do believe it is. Let's face it. The Hardy boys have nothing to worry about.

He shook it off, reaching instinctively in the glove box for a smoke. There was still a pack of Marlboro reds, hidden behind the vehicle registration. It had been three years since he had a cigarette, but the craving came on strong. Probably stale anyway, he thought to himself as he closed the glove box.

At first, he thought Helen's omen came to pass, it took several tries before the Datsun sputtered to life. The jerky suspension, coupled with the fact that Phil was horribly out of practice when it came to the finer points of operating a stick shift, made for an unbearable journey. The car tried to die at the stop light, but easing it into neutral calmed its lunatic ravings. In ten minutes, he arrived at the house on Red Bird Lane.

The first thing that struck him was how the place hadn't changed. Sure, the grass had grown up, and ivy threatened to take the far side of the house over. The paint had turned a rotting gray. Fungus had grown over most of the house, giving the illusion that it was congealed, rather than man--made. Some windows had been busted out by vandals, and there was graffiti littering the face. "Bobby loves Michelle," the word 'loves' symbolized by a heart, was painted just above the right window. Just above the front door, half obscured by police tape, were the words "Hell house."

Phil sat in the driveway. He saw himself as a child, only four years old. It was 1972 all over, him in his tiny suit and tie, with his mother's big blue Samsonite suitcase in his tiny hand. His mother had been standing before him, she was wearing a floral sun dress. She looked like the vision of an angel with the sun's golden kisses dancing along her blond hair.

"It's only for a little while," He said, straightening his collar, "Just for the summer, until Buck and me get settled down."

Buck had been the latest in a string of short--lived relationships, and he was the one Phil liked the least. He was a big, burly bastard with greased back hair. He always smoked filter-less Camels, which he kept in his rolled--up shirt sleeve, and always smelled like a combination of beer, sweat, and grease.

"Yes mama," Phil said. He wanted to cry, but dared not. He knew this was hard for her too.

"You be good for your aunt Gerti, and your mama too."

Phil heard the screen door open. Gertrude stood there, those tiny, wire-rimmed glasses dangling toward the end of her nose. One beefy, matronly arm cocked on her hip, the other holding open the door.

"Thank you for doing this," His mother told her. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"I don't approve," Gertrude said, her voice like razors. "Carrying around with a different man every day of the week as though you were married. The boy shouldn't be around such goings on. It's sinful!"

His mother tried to maintain her cheer. "It's 1973," She said. "Besides, I think Buck may be the one."

"My dear brother, God rest his soul, would roll over in his grave if he knew the way you were carrying on."

Buck laid on the horn. He had a shiny, black Toronado with tinted windows, and a horn that sounded like a cry from hell.

"I have to go," She said. "If you need anything, I'll be leaving the number for the motel we'll be staying at."

"An unmarried woman staying at a motel with a man!"

His mother knelt down before him. "You take care of yourself kiddo. I'll see you in two weeks."

"Okay," He said. She kissed him on the cheek, and walked to the car.

"I love you!" He called out to her.

She turned and blew him a kiss, tears glistening in the sinking sun. "I love you more."

The sound of a bell brought him back to the present. School had just started, and like Pavlovian dogs, the children all scurried inside to be put instantly to sleep by the times tables. Phil thought again of the pack of smokes in the glove box. His mouth began to water, as though he were thinking of a juicy steak. He looked at the upstairs window, shattered glass gave the illusion he was looking through some sharks' teeth. That had been her room, which was where she slept, and where they found her hacked to pieces. That had also been where he heard those strange sounds, that sick squishing sound, and that horrible moan.

He reached in his pocket and pulled out the small metal flashlight. He clicked it on, and adjusted the beam. He sure as hell wasn't going to fall into the cliche of having his flashlight kick out at the crucial moment. It was one of those good flashlights, the kind with the beam that is " . . . Twice as bright as conventional lights." It had been a stocking stuffer from last Christmas, and he'd never had a cause to use it until now.

He turned off the car, the Datsun let out a defeated moan and shuddered as it sank back into a slumber. Phil got out of the car and strained to listen. There was not a sound coming from the house, only the mad chirping of a flock of sparrows nesting in a dead oak tree. Phil walked up to the porch, and lifted the police tape. Cuts on more than 80 percent of his body, Phil thought, only nine years old, Jesus Christ! He ducked under the tape, and approached the door. They had tacked a "No trespassing" sign just above a notice of condemnation. He thought about just leaving. Hell, they were going to tear the place down anyway. Still, what if it got out? Jesus, what if this house is the only thing keeping it, what if it gets out, and what if it remembers you? He tried the door and found it unlocked.

Empty beer cans, old blankets, a few porn mags, and other refuse were all that remained inside. They had punched holes in the graffiti stained walls. They had ripped off wall paper. There was a pile of broken glass by the living room window. S**t, he thought, they really gutted the place.

There was a sound, a faint thud, coming from upstairs. Phil held his breath and listened, secretly hoping it was all in his head. Yet there it was again, just one lonely thump, like someone hitting something with a piece of raw meat. Then there was a third thump, Phil's legs started to move before his mind told them to. He started to creep slowly toward the stairs, trying not to make too much noise. Another thump, he felt his heart racing, his palms started to sweat. He was on the stairs, the sound was clearer now, and it was definitely coming from the upstairs room.

Thump!

He thought, my God! What the hell am I doing here? It's already killed two people that I know of, and here I am, armed with a hammer and a flashlight.

Thump!

It's probably nothing, just a branch from that old oak tree beating against the roof. That bit of reason relaxed him. Of course that's what it was, no spooks here. Just pull of the mask, and you'll see it was just old man Potter from the amusement park, just like in Scooby-doo.

Thump!

He was almost to the top now, and was sure it was just a tree limb. It was just the wind pushing that tree into the roof, that's the essence of it. He reached the top step, and the wood creaked beneath his feet.

Silence.

He waited a moment longer, still nothing. Odd, explainable, just odd. The wind could have changed course, the limb could have snapped off.

But if the limb snapped off, he'd have heard it, wouldn't he? That sick thud didn't sound like any limb he'd ever heard. Still, he held onto the rational, right now it was the only thing that kept him from going stark-raving-mad.

Phil pushed open the door to the upstairs room, and another memory hijacked his mind. He remembered going in that room when he was ten years old, him and Ricky Chastain.

"I don't think we should be in here," Phil said. The room had the faint odor of mothballs, and that strange smell of age.

"Don't be a pussy," Ricky said. "The old lady's gone to the store. If it makes you feel any better, you can keep watch out the window while I look around."

Ricky was two years his senior, and at that age, two years made all the difference. He had lived down the street, in a much nicer house. His dad was in sales, and his mom was a dancer, an exotic dancer. Gertrude called them morally depraved, though Phil didn't know exactly what that meant.

"I've got three dollars," Phil said, "We can ride up to Woolworth's and get a milkshake."

"Scared?" Ricky said, a dare hung in the air.

"No," His voice trembled. "I just heard her talking to somebody last night. She was yelling things, crazy things. My mom says that she's just been alone for to long."

"I say she's crazy," Ricky said. "Crazy as a loon. I bet she's got somebody locked up in there, some poor kid she offered milk and cookies to, chained up in her closet."

"I really don't think it's such a good idea," Phil thought about Gertrude, those beady eyes sank into her round face, locked in constant disapproval. Once, several weeks earlier, she had caught his setting fires in the back yard. With the strength of a bull, she snatched him up by the arm, and flung him onto the porch.

"Fire's a friend of Satan!" She hissed. She sent her hand sailing into his face, he jerked back and fell to the ground, scraping his knee. He wanted to cry, or at least speak, but he could only lay there, stinging face covered in dirt, his shoulder throbbing, spitting blood onto the ground.

"Spare the rod and spoil the child," She said, straightening her dress. "That's what I always say."

Ricky ignored him, and stepped into the room. "Damn if it don't stink in here," He said. The room was immaculate, the blanket on the bed was smooth and crisp, the corners so sharp they could cut. It was an understated room, with floral wall paper. Only a bed, a dresser, and a night stand with a plain white lamp. The dresser was bare, except a large, leather bound Bible and a tiny ceramic statue of the Virgin Mother, her hands pressed together.

Phil felt uneasy, his heart was thumping, his mouth was dry as cotton. He felt when he let his guard down, that beefy hand would close in over his arm. This time he might have more that a sore shoulder, a busted lip, and a scraped knee to show for his troubles.

If Ricky was afraid, he showed no sign. He lifted the blanket and looked under the bed, then went over to the closet door. Terror crawled from Phil's belly and made its home in his throat in a chilled lump. He saw Ricky's hand grasp the knob In his mind, the door flung open, and some long dead thing with green eyes grabbed him by the throat with moss-covered hands.

"Don't!" Phil cried. Ricky nearly jumped out of his skin, his hand leaping from the knob as though it were white--hot.

"S**t!" He hissed. "You scared the s**t out of me."

"I don't think you should do that," Phil said.

"Don't be such a baby," He said. "If it'll make you feel better, why don't you keep watch at the window, if you see the old bat pull up, just let me know."

Phil nodded, that sounded like a very good idea. He crossed the room and walked to the window. Looking outside, it didn't seem so frightening. The sun was still up, and across the street, some kids were playing softball in the school play ground, their parents sitting in the bleachers cheered them on. Surely nothing bad could happen so close to parents.

Ricky opened the closet door. The smell of moth balls got stronger. Phil looked back. The closet was full of those floral dresses she always wore, the kind with the lace collars that covered her neck, and made her head look disembodied. A shelf on top of the closet was full of empty hat and shoe boxes covered with a fine film of dust. Ricky scooted the dresses to one side. As the hangers drug, there was a screeching sound that chilled Phil to the bone. Behind the dresses was a tiny white door, only about three feet tall.

"Far out!" Ricky whispered. He got down on his knees, grasped the tiny knob in his hand, and tugged on it with all his strength. The door didn't budge.

Phil saw his Aunt's old Studebaker turn the corner on the next block. His heart leaped into his throat to keep that chunk of terror company. She was sitting at the four-way stop. He could see those round head--light eyes, and that grill that looked like a mouth--full of razor teeth locked in a barracuda grin.

"She's coming!" Phil hissed. Ricky tugged at the door.

"Just a minute," He grunted, "Almost got it."

The Studebaker crossed the intersection. It tooled slowly along the front of the school, its engine rumbling like a hungry beast.

"She's almost here!" Phil said, the urgency welled up inside him. He wanted nothing more than to be as far away from this room as he could. He wanted to find somewhere safe to hide until his mother came home from work and he could be safe in her arms.

"Just a second," Ricky said, still struggling with the door. Phil was breathing harder now. The Studebaker has just passed the soft ball field.

"You don't have a second!" Phil screamed, on the verge of tears. "She'll be here in a second."

"Don't be such a pussy," Ricky said. "I ain't going nowhere until I see what's behind this door."

No sooner had he got the words out, then the door flung open. A smell like garbage poured out of the pitch black beyond. In that black, Phil could see something moving.

"Whoa!" Ricky said, sticking his head in the door.

"No!" Phil screamed. He looked back at the window, the Studebaker had just pulled into the driveway. "She's here!"

"Wait," Ricky said. His voice vibrated off the walls, and carried through the bowels of the house. "I think there's something in here."

A low growl erupted from the door. Phil turned to stone, his breath came in shallow spurts as cold terror reached in and squeezed its bony fingers around his heart. Ricky let out a shrill scream as it jerked him into the door. His feet kicked the air, struggling to find hold of something. Phil wanted to run to help him, but terror held him fast, casting him in the role of spectator. Ricky was squealing like a stuck pig, his legs flailed about, striking the side of the door and scuffing it. There was another growl, and Ricky was gone.

Phil looked back at the window. Gertrude was still in the car, the engine rumbling. Phil walked slowly toward the tiny door. He could feel his heart beating through his skull. He stood some six feet in front of the door, and peered in. Then Ricky came flying halfway out, his face covered in blood, a bubble of snot and blood shooting out of his nose.

"It hurts," He rasped, blood oozing from the corners of his mouth. "I just want my mommy. It hurts soooo bad."

Phil felt tears sting his cheeks. He took a step forward. An slender, bone-white arm shot out from the door. A bony claw wrapped around Ricky's head, bluish fingernails pulling back the eyebrows, giving Ricky this surprised look. Ricky gave Phil a pleading look, as the hand pulled him back into the door. With a thud, the door slammed shut. Gertrude's hand fell on his shoulder, and she started to say something, but Phil had fainted dead away.

When he came to, he was lying in the bed that he and his mother shared, despite the protests of Aunt Gertrude. "He's too old to be sharing a bed with his mother, and being a single woman, it can't be too good for you either," She would say. It was already dark outside, and the rain was beating against the roof of the house. What he had seen in that room now seemed more like a dream. Yet he could still see Ricky's face, and he could still hear that awful screaming

It hurts! I just want my mommy! It hurts soooo bad.

He could hear his mother down stairs, talking with Gertrude.

"Boy needs to learn not to go where he doesn't belong," Gertrude said.

"Give him a break Gerti," His mother said. "That Chastain boy was his friend, and he's still missing. God! I can only imagine what his parents must be going through."

"That still doesn't excuse what the boy did, going through my things like that. You've spoiled that child Linda, spoiled him rotten. Spare the rod; spoil the child, that's what I always say."

"I think it's best," Linda said. "If I get him away from this. I went after work and put a deposit down on an apartment in Birmingham."

"I think that's best," Gertrude said. "If you're going to raise that child to be a heathen who has no respect for authority, then you'd best do it elsewhere. Just don't come crawling back to me when you start messing around with another man and he takes you for all you're worth. Why you let my Randy die, I'll never know."

"Gerti!" She choked on the words, "It was an accident, I didn't let him die. If there was something I could have done--."

"You did quite enough when he was alive!" She said. "Staying out all hours of the night, whoring around. You drove him to the grave with your evil ways. I told him not to get involved with you. I begged and I pleaded. I tried to warn hi that you would be nothing but a two-bit hussy!"

There was a loud smack, then silence.

"We're leaving tonight," Linda said. "We're leaving tonight, and don't expect to hear from us again, you crazy bitch."

There was the sound of footsteps approaching the stairs.

"You're going to have your hands full with that boy," Gertrude said. "He'll be in prison before he's twenty years old."

"He'd be better off than if you got your hooks into him, like Randy."

"Don't you talk that way about him. You have no right."

"Let go of me!" Linda grunted. "You turned him into an emotional cripple with your talk of hellfire and damnation. You always brag about how you raised your baby brother. Well you can assume responsibility for screwing him up then. Now, if you'll let go of my arm, I'd like to get my son as far away from this looney bin as I can."

Not another word was shared among the three of them. It didn't take Phil long to pack. Before he knew it, he was standing at the door with that same blue Samsonite bag he'd come with six years earlier. He watched Gertrude watch him from the door. She stood there, one matronly arm on her hip, the other holding the screen door open. He watched her get smaller and smaller as the car sped off. That was the last time anyone saw her alive.

Now, twenty years later, the bedroom was empty. There was no bed with those razor corners, only the round indentions on the floor where the bed had sat all those years. The dresser with its leather bound Bible, and the statue of the Virgin mother were gone. Only the ghost of white on the wall, and the outline on the floor remained. Age now tattered and tore the floral wall paper. Some of it bubbled up where water had seeped in through the roof. The window where he had watched her pull up that day was bare, and shattered, shards of broken glass lay in a pile on the floor.

His gaze turned to the closet, his own chamber of horrors. The door was standing open. The closet was bare. There was no screeching from the hangars this time. The hat boxes from the top shelf were one, and the dust was forced to make its home on the shelf itself. That smell still lingered in that closet, mothballs and age, now mixed with decaying wood. Sitting, like a tiny gateway to hell, was that tiny door.

Over the years, that tiny door loomed heavy in his mind. In dreams it waited for him, that boned claw waiting to reach out like one of those coffin banks he used to see in novelty shops. In dreams, they doomed him to relive those events, to be as powerless as he was that day so many years past.

The scuff mark was still on the wall beside the door. Seeing it filled him with cold dread. Hell, Gertrude never even had a chance to clean up before whatever got Ricky came for her. Just before the door was another ghastly epitaph, a tiny chalk outline marking Clarence White's passing.

Phil got down on his knees. He studied the door for a moment, trying not to let fear get the better of him. His trembling hand reached for the door. His palms felt cold and clammy, his heart pounded in his skull. He found himself reciting the Lord's prayer in his head repeatedly. His hand found the tiny knob, and he started to pull.

I just want my mommy! It hurts sooo bad!

He closed his eyes, and bit his lower lip until it bled. A faint groan escaped his lungs as he flung the door open. On instinct, he screamed until all air escaped his lungs, then opened his eyes. There was no ghastly hand, no bloody Ricky begging for help, there was what there was, a simple crawlspace. He let out a laugh that sounded just very slightly mad. He took out the flashlight and shone a beam into the crawl space. There was nothing there, just wooden beams and pink insulation. He suddenly felt pretty damn silly. He was a grown man running around in a condemned house looking for a monster from his childhood. It was probably nothing more than the product of an overactive imagination.

Phil scanned the crawl space with his flashlight just to further that train of thought. The beam of light hit something, and Phil let out a squeal. It was something he recognized, something branded into his brain. What he saw was a child's tennis shoe, Ricky's shoe. Pulling his head out of the crawlspace, Phil let out a sigh as he collapsed against the wall. He struggled to catch his breath, and his thoughts that sped out of control like a run away locomotive. Fear produced anger, red--faced bull rage. He reached in his belt and pulled out the claw hammer, watching the hook end glisten in the setting sun. He knew at that moment that if he turned back now, it would forever haunt him. It would condemn him to a life of reading the paper and wondering if there was something he could have done to stop it.

Phil sucked in, held the air for a while, then let it flow through him. He stuck his head back through the door, and began to crawl, snakelike through into the crawl space. He got halfway through, and apparently he could go no further. After all, he wasn't ten anymore, and had grown quite soft in the middle. Fear returned. What if he couldn't get back out, what if it stuck him there until the men came to tear down the place in two weeks. He could survive without food for that long, but not water. Or worse yet, what if that thing came for him. He struggled, trying to squeeze himself through the opening, but the more he struggled, the tighter it got.

All right, he told himself, now was not the time to panic. The more you panic, the more your muscles expand. You've got to relax. If you just relax, your muscles will. If you just relax, your muscles will contract, and you can squeeze through here. Phil closed his eyes and tried to think relaxing thoughts. He took shallow breaths, and tried wriggling from side to side, just slightly. He tried not to think about that hand, or that shoe, tried not to think about what was waiting for him just beyond that darkness. Instead, he thought about baseball scores, that honeymoon he took with Helen to Cancun. He thought about that first time he made love to Helen and how afterwards, he sat up most of the night watching her sleep. While he was thinking, he was wriggling.

Phil felt himself start to budge, and before too much longer, was clear. His clothes were plastered to him. The sweat helped him lubricate himself. Phil took one last, deep breath. The crawl space went in only two directions. To the left was nothing but the outside wall. To the right was a long hallway that twisted around to the other side of the house.

He shined his light down the hallway. Rats fled to darker surroundings, screaming in protest. Phil clutched the hammer in his hand as he went down the hallway, taking care to step only on the beams, and testing each for stability.

Once he reached the corner, the crawl space had turned into a real hall way, they had sealed a whole wing of the house. There were torn clothes. Some soaked in black blood, littering the hallway. At the end of the hallway was a large white door. Phil put the flashlight in his mouth, raised the claw end of the hammer high in the air, and flung the door open. It crashed against the wall with a solid thud.

The room was pitch dark. Phil could hear the buzzing of flies, but didn't need them to tell him something was rotten. The smell made him double over and groan, hot spit washing his mouth. As he was bent over, his flashlight rested on a pair of eyes, staring back at him with cold indifference. He screamed, and the sound started him, making him drop his hammer onto the floor. The flashlight rested on the owner of those eyes, a porcelain doll. Phil laughed as he was bending down to pick up the hammer. Something else caught his eye, a white scrap book with the word "Memories" etched in gold on the cover. Phil wiped a layer of dust off the cover and picked it up. The cover crackled as he opened it.

The first page was a tiny clipping, the heading read--Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception: Candidates for 1959-- Below that were lists of names, followed by chosen names. In yellow highlights was the name Gertrude Cobb-- Sister Mary Gertrude.

Aunt Gertrude had been a nun? Phil turned the page. There was a picture of a group of nuns, standing behind a group of young boys in suits. One nun he recognized as Gertrude. The Caption beneath the picture read-- Our Lady of Sorrows-- Class of '61.

The next page was a newspaper clipping. There was a faded picture of a man with curly black hair and a pencil mustache. He struck Phil has an attractive looking guy. The title of the article was Oil Tycoon to buy Destiny mine.

Oil magnet Arthur Brimmer, of Brimmer Petroleum has set his sights on Alabama. He is said to be in negotiations to buy up the now defunct Saidlow mining company in Destiny, Alabama. He announced the plans at a fund-raising dinner for Our lady of Sorrows Catholic boys' school, where they are dedicating a wing in his honor, Thursday . . .

The next page was the real shocker. It too was a newspaper clipping. The heading was-- Our Lady of Sorrows nun arrested in an abortion attempt.

Scandal has rocked the prestigious Our Lady of Sorrows school. One Sister Mary Gertrude was arrested late Tuesday night. The charge, crossing the state lines in an attempt to obtain an illegal abortion . . .

Phil turned the next page, there was a series of clips from that one, Defrocked Nun announces plans to marry oil tycoon Arthur Brimmer. Just below that was the headline Brimmer set to wed ex-nun, and below that, from a less reputable paper, the headline Brimmer's defrocked fox-- Oil tycoon knocks--up a nun.

Two weeks before wedding, Oil Tycoon dies in a bizarre accident, Was splashed in huge letters on the following page. The article said: Arthur Brimmer, of Brimmer Petroleum, while touring the Saidlow Mining Co., of Destiny, Alabama, died late Wednesday morning after falling into a vat of molten iron. He is survived only by his fiancee, defrocked nun Gertrude Cobb.

Phil flipped to the next page, it was a birth certificate. The name was Ronald Brimmer Cobb, weighing 25 pounds? That couldn't be right, it had to be a typo. The sex was male. Eyes, one blue, one white. Time of birth was 12:00 A.M., October 31. At the bottom of the certificate was the baby's footprint. There had to be some kind of mistake, those prints didn't look human, they looked like claws.

The next few pages were blank, then he came to a page with the words "Spare the rod; Spoil the child" scrawled in a red crayon repeatedly, as though by a child's hand. Inside were clips after clips, detailing thirty years of disappearances, women and children, men and boys. The last one caught his eye, and stole his breath. The heading was Cobb House to be demolished, the very article in today's paper.

Phil heard a crash. He jumped, the book fell out of his hand and landed somewhere in the darkness. He saw a shape dart past him and shone his light across the room. Dolls and toys filled the room. A grinning jack-in-the-box was on the floor, nodding his approval. There was a crib against the far wall, layered in dust. Just behind the crib, dangling from the wall, was a pair of shackles.

Christ! He thought, that thing that killed Ricky, and that poor White boy was Ronald Cobb, Gertrude's son. There was another crash, Phil spun around, the jack--in--the box was laying on its side, bobbing wildly. There was a sudden, violent stench, following by an inhuman growl. Phil felt the sting of a claw dig into his back. On instinct, he spun around, and sent the hammer flying. It connected with the thing's head with a sickening thud. The thing let out a high-pitched squeal as it fell to the floor with a thump.

Phil raised the hammer above his head to lay a fatal blow, then he saw it, the creature of his nightmares. It lay on the floor, sobbing violently, its white arms cradling the top of its bald, misshapen head. In its nakedness, Phil could see its body riddled with scars, most of them in the sign of the cross. In the light, it was a pitiful creature. The thing looked up at Phil. Gerti had cut its nose off a long time ago, leaving only an exposed cavity that oozed clear mucus. She had branded the sign of the cross on its misshapen forehead. She had sheared the poor creature's lips off, leaving jagged teeth exposed in a skeletal grin.

"Jesus!" Phil said. The creature screamed, covering its face and cowering in the fetal position. How could she do this to her own son, her own son? The creature looked up at him with its one blue eye, and for a moment, he saw a glimpse of humanity. All had become clear. Gertrude had locked this poor child up in here after the death of her fiancee. Hell, she probably blamed him for everything. She beat and tortured this poor child so much that it was no longer capable of any human emotions. This thin was no monster. It was only doing what she had taught it. No, Gertrude was the monster.

It looked up at him with pleading eyes. Its lipless mouth tried to speak, but couldn't, having long since been relieved of the burden of its tongue. Still, that pitiful look spoke more eloquently than any known words. The creature looked from Phil, to the hammer, then back to Phil, then it nodded. Phil closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The creature rolled onto its back, exposing the back of its skull, and closed its eyes. With a single swing, the claw pierced the skull. The creature went into violent convulsions, then stopped, as it issued its last, pitiful, breath.

Phil stepped out of the house into the cool light of dusk. Across the street at the school, a father played catch with his son. In the house behind him, all was silent. He sat in the Datsun for a while, smoking a Marlboro. He would have to get home soon, tonight was pot roast, and Helen would have his hide if he was late.

From "The Birmingham News", August 19

Demolition's crews make a grizzly discovery at Cobb House

There is now a new chapter in the tragic history of the house Eastlake residents call the Cobb House. Slated to be demolished early yesterday after the tragic death of nine-year-old Clarence White, the police tape is up at 1657 Red Bird Lane yet again. This time in response to a chilling discovery made by demolitions crews performing a routine inspection on the house. What they found were several badly decomposed, and in some cases partially devoured, human remains, some of them children.

"It was like something out of hell," Says contractor James Flood. Flood, along with three other, made the grisly discovery after entering a crawl space to check structural integrity. What they saw defies explanation. "As best we can gather," Said Flood, "they had sealed An entire wing of the house, that's where we found most of the bodies."

"It looked like someone had been living there for a while," Says Birmingham Police Officer Frank Grimes. "Because of the decomposition, and the fact that they mutilated some of them, it's going to make identifying some victims tricky at best. But just judging from the fact that some bodies are fresh, I'd say our suspect has been here as recently as two weeks ago." When asked whether he thought one victim might be the suspect, Officer rimes had this to say, "Not unless he ate himself."

Though Police Chief Elroy refused to comment on the investigation, he has said that he will be looking into " . . . All aspects" of this case, including a possible link to the Clarence White case. "As of this time," Chief Elroy says, "We have no suspects."

The discovery has suspended all plans to demolish the sight until they can conclude the investigation. Officer Grimes, however, has a warning for anyone thinking about going into the house, "If we catch you, we will arrest you. A very dangerous man called this place home for a very long time, and he is likely to return."

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