Thing about the Murder House was, even though it was called the Murder House, it didn’t have one single story attached to it. Everyone’s brother or sister knew five.
The husband murdering the wife with an axe.
The suicide pact.
The young wife killing her elderly husband for money.
The ghost coming back for his wife’s lover.
The teenagers who ignored the warnings about the Murder House.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” Beckett asked Iris after they ran out of horror stories. She said no and asked if he had a girlfriend. He said, “None of your business,” and she punched him.
It was getting dark on their way home – with Beckett pedaling and Iris on the handlebars – but the weather still hadn’t broken. Despite the heat, Beckett pedaled faster and faster; he wanted to impress Iris and scare her a little too.
Iris breathed fast and laughed as they sailed on, telling him to slow down but not meaning it.
She didn’t see the rock when the tire hit it; she only felt her limbs striking the grass. After a hazy senseless moment she sat up and saw Beckett untangling himself from the bike, bleeding. He limped over to her and crouched, asked if she was okay. “You could have killed us both, asshole,” she said. Impulsively, she kissed his face. Then she focused on his skinned knees, blooming red and dripping.
Victoria Large is a Massachusetts native who holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Emerson College. Her short fiction has appeared in such publications as Blink Ink, Cafe Irreal, matchbook, The Molotov Cocktail, and Wordriver.