This story is based on real people and true events. As hard as it may be to believe, these things once happened, and I will never forget.

Dedicated to the memory of Manny, the real Lyall Casey.

and I'll open up the door to a place inside me where you've never been before.

All Lyall could hear was pounding: his heart and feet practically in unison as he ran headlong down the corridor. Tears streaming down his cheeks, flying from his face, blinding him to the path he followed, left tiny splatters among his streaked footprints in the inches of thick dust, and all he knew was that he had to run. Flying around a corner, face burning, breath heaving, his coat tails swept up the top most layers of the muck, his boots stomping through it. Still he had to run. Why or what from he did not know, but he had to run.

There was something after him, something terrible, something murderous, something he had to warn his friends against. Somehow he knew he had to warn his friends; somehow he knew it would go after them as well. So he rounded corner after corner, crashed through room after room, all in hopes that he might find a way out, a way to his friends. No matter how many doors he opened, however, none let him out.

and it's getting kinda late and I think that you should open up the door.

He burst through what seemed like the zillionth passage in an endless riddle of halls, his lungs threatening to burst, clogged and searing from the collecting grime he breathed in. This hunt for an exit seemed hopelessly futile, growing more and more vain as he passed through infinite doors into infinite rooms with a frustratingly infinite lack of windows. The fear that had driven him thus far redoubled, driving him harder and faster in his frantic search. There had to be a way out. For no reason would he allow himself to believe that he was trapped. Somehow, someway, he would escape. Whatever had sucked him in would not keep him, and he would bear a desperate warning, an insane warning.

There is a house somewhere, a big, horrible house! It is terrifying and it sucks you in and tries to kill you! You run and run and it seems as if the rooms and hallways will never end, and there's this voice...! This voice taunts you and teases you and tortures you and drives you crazy! Then it starts singing this song...this horrible horrible song...

Welcome to a horror story. It's getting a little gory. Welcome to the House of Poe. If you're lucky you'll make it after all.

Suddenly Lyall found himself stumbling at break-neck speeds down a set of rickety old stairs. They were the kind of stairs that were ancient, twisted, and broken, boards missing here and there and all the existing boards warped beyond recognition. His mind screamed at him, howling in terror. This was wrong! There had been no stairs before! He had never climbed any stairs! How had you suddenly gotten to an upper story without climbing any stairs!

Then his feet struck the landing and he peeled away as he had done on the floor above. Still he felt something behind him, something he never wanted to see face to face. The longer he spent running, being chased by his phantom pursuer, the more horrible the fear became. It was like he had fallen into a horror movie so terrifying that the producers had pulled it for fear that it might cause mass hysteria. Now if only he could stop the projector and leap from the screen, landing safely in a normal, everyday theater with no ghouls or monsters snapping at his heels.

It's a count down to death this time and your friends are starting to find that everybody dead on the floor was heading for the door.

Corridor after corridor he ran, nearly colliding with swinging doors and stationary walls in his mad rush for any possible escape; then he came to a halt, eyes wide, as a squeak escaped his throat. There was another landing, a platform at the top of a great, sweeping double staircase, and nowhere to go but down. Down, however was not the direction he wished to go, for below him, spread across the forier like linoleum floor tiles, were hundreds of thousands of bodies. It was like nothing he had ever imagined before, far surpassing even his most vivid night terrors.

Corpses of all shapes and sizes fit together perfectly like some sickening, cannibalistic, jigsaw puzzle. In the cracks between them, like the calk between cement slabs, ran little red rivers of blood. It was a sea of cold flesh, the stench rolling up from it to strike Lyall's nose. As it washed over him, so did a fit of nausea, his face, once red from strain, now lost all color. What was this place?

Lyall Casey had never been what society would call truly sane, and he had always enjoyed flaunting his semi-psychotic appearance. People tended to fear the sight of his tall, lanky frame, with more muscle than anyone would publicly admit. His hair was waist-length, thin, and blonde, and almost always back in a ponytail because of its tendency to be oily and stringy again only a few hours after washing it. Still, he refused to cut it, and it would grow wild, stray strands falling carelessly over blue eyes so pale the irises almost disappeared to leave the rich, black pupils alone to swallow the gaze of any passers-by. In fact, on such a pale complexion, the only thing saving his face from being sucked into those two little black holes was his mouth. A soft smile seemed to permanently curve his thick, pink lips whose rosy color made them stand out against all the pale off-white and balance out the ominous black.

His clothing only helped to further his unorthodox visual affect. With a tattered and torn old Salvation Army relic for a t-shirt, ripped up blue jeans, and practically soleless sneakers, he looked like almost any poor bum. Pulling on his black trench coat, however, caused him to look much more menacing and official. After that, adding sunglasses made him a bit more respectable, and donning a top hat just made him look ridiculous.

It was that ridiculousness, though, that had drawn his friends to him. They were the kids, his age and younger, filling their wardrobes at thrift shops and decorating their rooms at yard sales. "Junking," his friend Ena called it, "finding the best of the worst, and making someone's trash your treasure." That was their lives. With ten dollars and a little work, they were determined that they could create almost anything anyone might spend up to a hundred bucks on. Why spend a whole paycheck on something new when it was cheaper to fix up something old?

First had come Thady Quinn. He was a little taller than Lyall, very thin and very graceful. Shoulder-length hair, once brown but now green, framed a lightly tanned face with dark, hazel eyes. There was always something to him, something friendly and expressive, that drew people in to him like a beacon. Typically he could be found in a pair of patchwork pants he had made from the worst of the Salvation Army bargain bin, tye-dyed, hand-me-down converse peaking out from under them. His wardrobe held an assortment of t-shirts with old cartoon characters and advertisements, worn baggy under his favorite leather jacket. The jacket was his pride and joy, much more important than the pants which had come out of a fit of boredom. Hours had been spent in his room and in his friend's basements painting the logos of his favorite bands on the back, such as The Ramones, The Sex Pistols, The Clash, and The Beatles.

Thady had then introduced him to Reilly Deorain. Reilly was a bit shorter and his muscles were a little more obvious. His hair was a natural pitch black, barely long than a buzz, and typically spiked. The bronze tan gave away the fact that he did manual labor, especially when compared to the sapphire blue of his eyes and the crystal white of his grinning teeth. He was kind and protective, which was blatantly shown in his expressions, especially around Thady. Generally his clothing consisted of his work clothes, blue jeans and a white t-shirt, along with his boots and a leather jacket. Everyone knew when he was around at the sight of leather gloves in a pocket, a helmet on a table, and a motorcycle in the driveway.

After that he had met Chad O'Shea, the groups full blood Irishman. Short and thin, he had a boxer's build and a friendly disposition. His hair was ear-length and a flaming Irish red, over emerald green eyes and a pale face that was amazingly free of freckles until he blushed. He was almost always smiling when they were all together, and when his smile disappeared everyone knew something was wrong. Chad worked for his father's construction company, typically showing up to gatherings in need of a shower, and more times than not had to change his clothes when he came in from a job site. For him, it was the punkish look and lifestyle. T-shirts were tight and either long sleeved or sleeveless, and jeans were tight as well unless he was feeling sick. Beat up Dr. Martens sheathed his feet, a leather jacket or sleeveless trench coat covered his shoulders, and mirrored sunglasses hid his eyes. Silver hoops glittered from his ears, and a dog chain hung about his throat, along with a hemp choker his best friend, Ena, had made.

Ena MacCarthaigh was not only the youngest member of their regular group, but she was also the only girl. She was at least four years younger than the rest, though most people would typically be hard-pressed to tell by watching her that either her age or gender differed from that of her friends. In both height and build she perfectly matched Chad, except her legs were stronger from years of playing co-ed soccer in the local recreational league. Her hair fell, thin and blonde, to just below her shoulders, and she never seemed to notice the strands that fell across her sky blue eyes. The clothes she wore were generally a little less inspired than that of her companions, but no less expressive. Whatever was comfortable or caught her eye was in her wardrobe. There were tye-dyed tees, soccer jerseys, and flannel shirts, blue jeans, farm over-alls, and team shorts. On her feet might be sandals, tennis shoes, or soccer cleats, over her shoulders was a hoodie, sweater, or sweat jacket. Sometimes she wore sunglasses and a baseball cap, or maybe a knit cap or bandana. For her it was whatever she found and felt comfortable wearing, even if she borrowed it from a friend.

So they were the ones he wanted around: his little thrift kids. They were all so very much alike at heart, all becoming their own personal Andy Warhol's without a single thought towards it, and no one making snide comments about anyone else. Their minds had common ground to walk on, all of them being the sole inhabitants of their own little worlds since being exiled from their surrounding Earth. Now they had one another and their worlds merged. Nothing around them was of any worry, for now they had somewhere to belong and someone to belong with, and a sense of loyalty held them strong together.

It was this loyalty that drew Lyall on through the rough times; it was this loyalty that drew him on now.

and it feels great to be alive and I'm sorry to say that now you're gonna die.

He felt it gaining on him. The thing that had been chasing him was growing closer and closer and soon it would be upon him. Still, he could not bring himself to descend those steps. There was nowhere to stand beyond them, no floor take a foothold on, and the thought of placing his boot upon the chest of cadaver made him light-headed. What was he supposed to do? Where could he go from here?

Then it was there, breathing down his neck, a cold sensation about his throat like icy hands trying to strangle him. Yet he was still frozen with the fear of what he saw below. They were all dead. These were all real people, all real victims. Everyone down there had once been this beast's victim. Was he going to let himself become one of them?

No.

and it really is fun to watch a grown man try not to cry.

And now he was running again, his feet pounding down the curved, antique stairs, leaving behind clomped up dust and a sickening echo. Somewhere in his mind he heard that voice, still singing that horrible song, and he knew it was the song that would keep this place in his memory. It was the song that he could not forget, singing " and I'll open up the door to a place inside me where you've never been before."

So his boots tore open blood soaked shirts and kicked away supersaturated flesh as he clambered across the sinister flooring. He no longer cared what was under his feet so long as he was running. Once again his head was pounding, his eyes losing sight, fear drowning out any coherent thought. Thinking wasted time, slowed him down. Nothing could be allowed to slow him down now, not with the door so close, not with his escape in sight, not with friends out there who must be warned.

The cannibal has been well fed, the vampire drank the red, and all that's left to be said is "don't lose your head" …

Then he was crashing through the door as that cackling voice sang the last words he heard, and cared to ever hear, of that horrible song.

…in the House of Poe.