Horror - Short
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious and any similarities to actual persons, locations, or events is coincidental. This work cannot be used to train artificial intelligence programs. No AI tools were used in the writing of this story.
All rights reserved. Littletown Home Copyright © Eddie Generous 2026
LITTLETOWN HOME
Signed in triplicate, keys passed hands.
A thing of modern myth: willed a home.
—
December 1, 1923
To my dearest,
My luck, do you believe it, Grace? For I do not!
I cannot wait to move you and the boys. It’s all so unlikely! Can you believe it? A property of our own. It needs work, I cannot fib, but once you see it, you’ll be in love, just as I am; of that I am certain. Everything here is so fine and regal; I feel as if I have stepped into a wonderful fantasy, as if I am in a ghost town model of the Plaza Hotel. Oh, darling, it is a beauty surpassing wonderful.
There is even a tire swing in the backyard and a creek running a short ways from the house. We all will love it.
If I could, I would thank my great uncle Wilhelm, shake his hand from beyond the grave; it really is more than we will ever need. However, we will have to work on filling the rooms with more children, and it is a point I look forward to. (Forgive me!) Second only to showing you our grand new home. Oh, darling, oh, Grace, it is so large and so close to perfect. I know we will be happy forever.
Love from afar,
Winston
December 15, 1923
Dear Mr. Hellestrom,
I am in dire need of your services. I have mice or rats, quite possibly something else, but I cannot find any signs. I need your expertise.
If it is at all possible, I would appreciate a visit prior to Christmas.
If not, have a Merry Christmas and a pleasant Eve of the New Year.
I await your response,
Winston P. Melville
Littletown Home,
West Winterbury
December 16, 1923
To my dearest,
Oh, my Grace, how I have missed you. How are the boys? I cannot believe it has been so long already; time is moving by quickly. Littletown Home is more work than I expected, and the folks of West Winterbury are a cool lot. I hope that it is the sight of an unfamiliar face that is keeping the chill in the air and not something of reputation. Perhaps something distasteful concerning my deceased uncle; needless to say, I should hope not.
No matter, we will be happy here. My dear, I’ve been around now, the barn is in need of no more than a coat of red; we shall have ponies and horses, perhaps goats for milking. Everything here is moving along, there have been a few bumps, but nothing that need worry you. I have sent with this note four small packages within a parcel, three for the boys and the one marked with a G, is for you. Now, I know how you like to peek, my darling, my Grace, but these are gifts for Christmas.
If I have to wait, then so do you. I am looking at my gift now, imagining what might be under the brown paper. I hope you have the tree up. I will be with you all in spirit, but there is far too much to do here to join you in flesh. (And how I ache to do so!) I am excited to the utmost for your arrival. I miss you all.
Oh, darling, my love to you and the boys. Christmas will not be merry, missing your presence.
Love from afar,
Winston
—
Balding tires bounced and rolled over the cracked asphalt into the small town of Trudeau. A boy looked up to his parents from the backseat. It was exciting times, nothing good had happened to the DuPonts in a long while. A drinking problem had cost Shelley her spot at the high school and Russ’ position at the library hardly earned enough to keep the wolves outside from breaking down the door. Justin wasn’t much better. He’d had fights at recess—most happening after his mother lost her job.
It was good to start over.
“We’re going to have the entire home to ourselves, imagine that, Justy,” Russ said.
“Is it bigger than the apartment?” Justin asked. The boy was born in the summer of 1984 and in the year 1992, the family was on their way to their first house. No more sharing walls, ceilings, and floors with loud strangers. An entire home to themselves.
“Just you wait and see. I had a look. It’s bigger than the apartment, bigger than just about any house I’ve ever seen in my whole life.”
“Bigger than the Queen’s house?” Justin asked, his voice was high as his excitement. Starting over was going to be so good.
“Likely costs like the Queen’s castle; probably just have to sell the whole lot and move into another apartment. Unless, of course, librarian jobs pay a hell of a lot better here,” Shelley said. She’d been dry for six weeks and it was hard on the family, almost as hard as her drunken days.
“I don’t know about that.” Russ looked over his shoulder, ignoring his wife, to see his son’s vibrating head.
The car needed work. The regular upkeep plus some: shocks, the engine had a knock, and the transmission slipped whenever the road dipped too abruptly. Russ had said silent prayers now and then over the eight-hour drive. Making it there would be a minor miracle.
“Are we going to run home when this place is trashed inside?” Shelley asked. Whenever ignored, she simply prodded harder.
“Honey, can’t we just start this place happy? It’s great. Dusty, needs a little work, but it’s sound and the lawyer said the valuation is somewhere near four hundred big ones. Imagine that. We’ll feel like royalty.”
Justin’s smile widened in the backseat; he’d grown to question everything his mother said and figured his dad was in touch with so much his mother refused to see. Which was true, an astute observation for a boy his age.
“Anyway, if it’s hard at first, we’ll take out a loan against the home, rates as bad as they—”
Shelley laughed, killing the conversation.
The car rattled on from the wide highways to the dual lane highways to the greyed asphalt of slim roads to the pot-holed gravel of the one and half lane passages. Cow pastures. Patches of forest. Hayfields. A boggy pond. More forest and then, around a corner, there it was. Home.
The lawyer had a name for it, even explained the history of the town. Russ had listened to the story, genuinely interested. West Winterbury changed its title after Pierre Trudeau had passed through town and stopped for a cup of coffee and chocolate paté with raspberry sauce. Littletown Home was named after a place in Dornoch, Scotland, but beyond that, was a thing of foggy, unsubstantiated history and utter mystery. Mr. Melville had lived there for almost 70 years, a shut-in after his wife and children died, letting the folk of the county confabulate.
“We’re home,” Russ said.
Justin whistled and Shelley remained silent, her go-to when she didn’t have a negative comment on deck.
—
January 4, 1924
Mr. Hellestrom,
I do not understand your reluctance, and what do you mean you’ll send back my correspondence, that you will not have this poison under your roof, what am I to think of such a thing?
You are a man with a good reputation. It is said you can trap any sort of vermin. I do not understand. You say no, but is it not your profession? I have vermin and I have money; it is how our world works.
I shall say this is very confusing when you say you will not set foot in Littletown Home. My uncle is gone. His crimes are his, transferable perhaps to the son, but I am not his son and I do not inherit his sins.
The animals get more and more lively with each passing day. At times when I am halfway-undersleep, the animals are so very loud that I imagine they call to me by name. It is unnerving to say the least. I need your professional assistance, and I shall pay whatever the fee.
Please Mr. Hellestrom,
Winston P. Melville
Littletown Home,
West Winterbury
January 7, 1924
To my dearest,
I miss you all. I dream of your arrival, but something about the way the wind whips through the cracks and the wildlife beyond the walls rustles, it spoils all of my sleeps. Oh the poison in my dreams, my dearest Grace.
Littletown Home is a battle. With every repair I make, I find more work needing done. I do not like to speak ill of the dead, but I do believe my uncle did not care for his property. It is saddening, but this place will be ready for your arrival at the first sign of spring, despite the reluctance of any of the locals to assist.
I miss you all and am happy to read that the boys loved the trucks. Tell Roderick he can paint it any colour he likes.
Love from afar,
Winston
January 20, 1924
Mr. Hellestrom,
Reluctance is one thing, but you need not turn to childish name-calling. I shall keep these returned letters as proof of your absurdity and sheer unprofessionalism.
I do not know what my uncle did to you, but suggesting I burn down my home is uncalled for. Truly childish.
No matter, I have decided to seek the vermin on my own. It is dirty work, of that you know, but I don’t suspect a great need for intelligence. From what I can read in your responses, you are greatly lacking in mental fortitude. It gives me faith in my abilities.
Winston P. Melville
Littletown Home,
West Winterbury
—
Each picked a room; there were nine bedrooms in total. Littletown Home was indeed a fit for what the DuPonts’ imagined of royalty. The old stuffy kind shown on Sunday afternoon dramas about bitter families coming together, even in times of war, to be examples to their people.
Russ and Shelley shared the largest of the bedrooms, but each picked a secondary room, a place of seclusion and for personal solace. Each had weighed a divorce, weighed it long and hard, but this home was a gift, a reboot…perhaps.
Justin found a room with bookshelves on every wall, and wardrobes full of dated clothing: costumes for his imagination. It was the dead uncle’s space, sure, but carried no untoward vibes. Simply, the room felt cozy. Justin loved it, loved the long red drapes, the heavy wooden wardrobe, and the soft bed, large enough to sleep twelve of his frame.
The room had a voice, like that of a friend. It called out, smooth and soft in tone, drawing a smile onto Justin’s face as he moved about. He didn’t really hear anything; he knew that. It was simply excitement meeting imagination.
—
“We can live off of the antiques alone,” Shelley said. “We’ll make a mint and then we can pawn this drafty hole off on people who like all of this outdoorsy crap. I mean, how far are we from a mall?” They were on the top floor in the master bedroom.
Russ didn’t acknowledge her plan. In Trudeau, there was a small hardware store and a diner, but no mall. This was just fine to him. The smaller the better.
“Doesn’t matter, we’ll be able to afford a condo once we piece it all out, then sell the house.” Shelley seemed genuinely happy for the first time in a long time. She hadn’t considered the view a court might take if she tried to force Russ to sell anything, or should she try to abscond with half the value. A drunkard with a history of infidelity and a bad attitude—the court might order her to pay him.
Russ sighed. Her actions were his safety net. “We’ll wait and see how everything…” Russ paused. There was a scratching somewhere below their feet, coming from an iron vent cover. “Mice, you think?”
“Little buggers probably chewed holes in priceless heirlooms.” Shelley lowered the brass lamp in her hands. “Ought to check?”
“I bet he had traps to set. We find them and reset them near the noises. Snap-snap-snap.” He smiled, wide, playful. “To the kitchen!”
Shelley shook her head gently, eyes downcast, but couldn’t help but smile back. Occasionally she recalled the playful man she’d married. She led the way and Russ stopped a moment and popped his head into his son’s new room.
“Hey, Justy, going mouse hunting; want to come?”
Justin lifted his head from a leatherbound book of loose papers. “No, think I’ll stay. I found letters about the house and stuff. It’s real neat, ‘cause it’s old.”
—
February 14, 1924
To my Grace,
My dearest, this place is really getting to me. I wish you were here to steady me. I am imagining things. I think it is the torment of loneliness. I’ve been in search of the vermin for days and have captured a goodly sum of mice and two rats, but the sounds continue. I imagine it is voices; they speak my name; they beg me to come and join them.
Join us, Winston, join us.
Join them where?
Come, Winston, come, they say.
And why, my dearest, I do not know. It is driving me to fever.
I know once you arrive, you will clear my ills and this will pass.
I can hardly wait, your love from afar,
Winston
February 29, 1924
To my loving Grace,
I know that you shall receive this much later, but happy Leap Day. I, myself, am far from happy. Without you, I feel helpless. Like a child afraid of the shadows in his closet.
The vermin speak; I cannot keep them from my mind. I had quit my search early in February, thinking perhaps it was all a part of my imagination, but they do not cease and the locals refuse my pleas. Dear, they call Littletown Home the devil’s pitch where witches sup and angels weep.
The exterminator is a simple bumpkin, but I do wish he’d come and settle my mind one way or the other. (Kill these goddamned animals!)
I feel my face, cool, wondering if my fingers aren’t aflame. I have called for a doctor, but my request has been refused. I have never heard of such a thing. My uncle must have been something of a boogeyman.
The doctor has agreed to meet me in the church, all the way in West Winterbury. If I am not better by next week, I shall go.
I hear them still…Come, Winston, come. Join us, Winston, please.
What choice do I have?
I love and miss you all. Your love from afar,
Winston
—
The basement was cool and dark. The walls of fat whitewashed stone surrounded the vast space littered with boxes. The scratchy sounds were stronger here, so Russ and Shelley set about placing traps.
Shelley occasionally peeked into a box to tally and log values for later. Some of the items dated to one and two hundred years into history—boiling the greed in her blood. Russ found boxes of almanacs and newspapers, everything in fine shape, hardly vermin touched at all.
The scratching and picking started to sound like voices to both of them the longer they spent on the main floor. Neither questioned the idea, let it lull and spin within their minds.
Russ drank the history of the old town, of the country long before it was a country as he pulled and sorted. Shelley blew dust from doylies, using rags to wipe filth and grime. Both inching toward the command of the quiet voice.
In his new room, Justin sat reading.
—
March 25, 1924
Grace,
My dearest love, I pray to Jesus that this reaches you in time. You must not come to Littletown Home. Hellestrom was right. This is a place of demons.
If I thought it would help I would set fire to the whole lot. (Please, stay away!)
I sought out the doctor in his chosen locale, at the side of a preacher. Both addressed me with sad eyes and hushed voices. I explained my ills and they shook their heads. Devils, they agreed, Littletown Home was the closest point on earth to Satan’s gate. I didn’t believe them, but I knew that Littletown had something of a bad nature. (Oh, fool, me!) I invited them back to assist me under the ploy that we might do God’s work, close all gates to Hell. I thought making them see the truth would open the truth to me, too.
The preacher, a man named Jacob, he could not deny me this request. For it was his calling in life, being a soldier of God. The doctor, a tiny man with a clubbed foot named Mortimer, took an oath to save lives and between the two, I had them fooled, just as I was fooled.
Oh, Grace!
Pistols and Bibles, Jacob carried a crucifix, wore a robe of gold gilding, a patchwork of religious symbols woven within. For a time, I felt strong with him; for who can stand to fight face-to-face with God? Who dares? Who has the strength and tenacity?
Once back at Littletown Home, we listened to silence and my heart fell, for I knew I must be insane. Those noises came from within my head.
Oh, how I missed you at that moment.
Then it happened and the floor shook beneath us. (I swear it!) We adjusted. I looked to the men, they felt it, too. I was not insane. I felt a brief bout of euphoria, but it waned, the problem was bigger than my mind, floor shaking big. The voices screamed into us, join us! Come, join us! Forever!
A fetid and burning wind blew through the hallways, up from the basement. The preacher was so resolute and I wanted to run. (Coward that I am, I wanted to let him and the doctor go down without me!)
A crucifix led the way against the warning wind. Jacob held tight behind his religion and I wanted to join him there. But how? There was a blinding red light. It beckoned in a way impossible to put to words.
Do you understand? It wanted us. This was no battle; it was a summoning.
The winds in our faces were of backdraft from flame, the light much the same, but oh so much brighter. My skin felt ready to peel, but we forged on, cutting the glow and heat with our faith. (I almost felt it then, God’s love!) The light shot from around a rectangular crack in the floor. A trapdoor, one unbeknownst to me, stood open, letting free the power.
Down was a set of stairs. I looked about a room so bright, seeing corners I had never seen. (This in my own home! Our home!)
Jacob yelled, Mortimer agreed with a nod, but I didn’t hear what was said—still, I followed. Once firm on the basement floor, the wind ceased, for no reason at all. There was no call of God. No demands by the doctor. It was as if it accepted us.
Then it came, so loud my ears rattled from the inside out! That voice bellowed, asking our origin, asking our hearts. Jacob named the Lord and the voice laughed, oh it laughed and I felt the contents of my stomach swirl.
(It was beyond awful! This goddamned house!)
My dearest, what is the beast that can laugh at God?
The light had dimmed to an orange glow and they stepped forward, I slowed but followed. Proof of bravery is a man’s burden. I shivered a sudden chill, but I moved with them, now seeing what the too bright light hid away.
Glittering, unorthodox, religious trinkets and keepsakes, large and small, the walls surrounding the pulpit and pews banked and bounced the glow like diamonds. Above all, an anagram carved into the chest of our Lord on the cross, blood alive and running like tears from the eyes of the statue. This was the source of the light!
Grace, the tears of God shines a demon’s sun.
The image infuriated Jacob and he rushed forward with his little crucifix, but at what, I could not yet see. He showed his faith and pushed on. Then I saw. The thing stepped out from behind the pulpit. It held the shape of a man, face grinning, abnormal…his eyes shone black light, impossible black light, voids. A fat leather volume between his six-fingered hands.
Not a man at all. A demon.
Grace, I shall never be the same, those beams of black from the creature’s gaze set fire to Jacob’s flesh, flames licked away his layers as if he were nothing but iced cream in the hand of a child. (The bubbles and bursting boils! The popping, like a tar pit!) Mortimer limped forward and fired a pistol five times. Each shot landed and the creature, that demonic thing, its smile widened and each bullet hole gave a new source of black beams. Fire jumped about Mortimer’s flesh much as it had Jacob’s, and he spun attempting a run back to the stairs. I watched as his face dripped away from his skull, a screaming man-candle. (The way it pinkened the collar of his coat!)
Oh, Grace, do not think less of me, but I ran, shielding myself, in a way, with the two brave men who would burn at Satan’s pulpit. At the top, I slammed the door behind me.
I heard Mortimer crash and bang against the trapdoor, his words sounding as if coming from underwater, as if his insides burned and melted as his flesh had. I stood firm. I could not look upon his singed and bubbling flesh, not again.
The banging ceased quickly. I pulled boxes over the door and ran to my office. I am writing this to tell you to stay away. I am coming home. I shall leave directly behind this letter.
I pray to God in Heaven that you haven’t left by the time this reaches you.
My dearest Grace, please do not come to Littletown Home,
Winston
—
As Justin read the collection of letters, his heart raced. It was the scariest thing he’d ever experienced, knowing that the home he was in, was the home of the letters. He shot to his feet.
“Dad!”
He heard his father’s voice downstairs and he ran to the basement, needing a hug, at minimum, but also he had to show his father: avid reader, lover of histories.
“Dad!”
“Down here, Justy!”
Justin slowed, couldn’t help it, reading as he walked.
—
March 22, 1924
My Winston,
I am sick to death reading of your illness. We shall leave early and detour the route briefly to visit my mother; she would never let me rest should we not. We love and miss you, Winston.
I will keep you until the end of time and nurse you through this trying period. I swear it.
We should arrive on the 26th or the 27th. We cannot wait to see you.
Your love forever,
Grace
—
Justin looked around the basement and then back to the book, to the loose page fitted in next to the pasted letter.
—
April 8, 1924
I returned from my empty, loving rooms in Toronto to Littletown Home, willing Grace and my boys to be elsewhere. It was not so. I saw their luggage. I called out to no avail. I checked every room, unwilling to face the possibility.
It was empty, my heart was ready to burst. I stepped into the basement, the boxes were moved and there was little Roderick’s double-coated truck; the one I’d purchased for him at Christmas, the one he’d painted blue…
—
“What are you reading?” Russ asked.
Justin looked up and spotted his father on his knees next to a box of newspapers. A few feet away, orange light poured up, as if coming from the floor. The wind swished and flowed, swirling about the basement, warm, gentle. That voice was there, too, louder but still so low, so soothing: Come, join us.
“This book; it’s letters and stuff. It’s about this house, about Littletown Home. It says—” Justin started excitedly as he ran toward his father.
“Holy look at this. Religious junk! Come on!” Shelley yelled, half of her body rose above a trapdoor, but sunk back down, into the orange glow.
“No, Mom, this book said bad stuff—”
“Come on, Justy, it’s just a book, join us.” Russ took Justin’s hand and led him to the trapdoor. “Just a story. Old houses always have things like this.”
“You promise?”
“Promise.” Russ pulled Justin along, into the light and heat. “This is quite a house, huh?”
The trapdoor fell closed behind them.
XX