CAMPFIRE: The Last House on Adeline Lane

HUBBA HUBBA There it is, the feeling of food hub. HUBBA HUBBA The feeling of your favourite takeaways delivered to your door. HUBBA HUBBA The feeling of one app, one tap and all your favourite restaurants in one place. HUBBA HUBBA Get that HUBBA HUBBA feeling when you order your favourite takeaways with Food Hub. Download from your app store today. HUBBA HUBBA Step into Lightfield Living at the Express Byfolding Doors Milton Keynes showroom and experience products that seamlessly connect your home's interior and exterior. From by-folding and sliding doors to windows, entrance doors and glass roofs, all built and installed by Express. Whether renovating, extending or building new, see the quality for yourself at our stunning showroom or visit expressbyfolds.co.uk. Hi, I'm Ashley Flowers, creator and host of the number one true crime podcast, Crime Junkie. Every Monday, me and my best friend Britt break down a new case, but not in the way you've heard before and not the cases you've heard before. You'll hear stories on Crime Junkie that haven't been told anywhere else. I'll tell you what you can do to help victims and their families get justice. Join us for new episodes of Crime Junkie every Monday, already waiting for you by searching for Crime Junkie wherever you listen to podcasts. This episode was produced with immersive audio. For the best experience, we kindly recommend you listen with headphones. The trees look like people, she thought. Maya loved nature. She loved walking through the woods. She and their inhabitants were at a peaceful agreement, she felt. Towards the other, neither held ill will. And the trails and hills, the rivers and trees, were there only as her guide to landmark the coordination of Earth with beautiful deformity. A few hours ago, Maya loved nature. But now, the sun was gone. Now, nature stood at odds. The tree line like cover, but not for her. For whatever could be watching. The trees look like people, she thought. Ow! The shoot! Unlike Maya, Matt hated nature. Stupid sparks! Where he could not force his hand, he was forced to brood. Matt had little command over anything and less of their fire, though he tried to prove otherwise. For the past hour, he had been coddling his pet embers, which now and then made unprovoked swipes at his hands. The feral coals had a death wish. Are you ever going to get a fire going? I have a fire going, it's just wet. If that's a fire, is this a torch? Jake flicked the lighter switch, and like a Roman candle, the amber tail spat up his grin. If his arms weren't so short, Matt would have snatched the key. But even with its assistance, an hour ago, he could only unlock a few flashing ashes. All four of them were cold. None more than Olive, who let her opinions be known. More than the nicking wind, it was the long bouts of nothing to do which made these yearly camping trips the pinnacle antonym of Olive's life. Possessed, her hand fell through their sleeping bag for some distraction. But finding it, she seized control and let go, remembering, again, that her phone was dead. Had been since this morning. In the interim of her connected social life, she found she could still drain batteries scrolling through photos of her college clique, who were likely, currently, warm, drunk, and with cell service. You dead? Olive? Huh? Uh, yeah. You better not pass out in there. The nearest fire station is back in town, and I forgot to pack my jaws of life. Jake made a motion with an invisible pair of garden shears. Olive shrank in her cocoon. I'm not unconscious. I'm cold and bored. When are you not? Um, when the quote-unquote fire is warmer than the current air temperature. Yeah, man. I think it's a lost cause. If it didn't rain yesterday. It was drizzling. Which means the logs are wet. Well, no one can say you didn't try. What's that supposed to mean? Oh, nothing. So, are we supposed to just stay outside in the dark? Sounds super fun. I think you just need to lighten up. Would you stop with the stupid lighter? Fine. Here. Now, what are you up to? You said you were bored, right? Ow! Get that out of my face! What's that for? This, my friend, is for scaring off slugs. Ugh! Stop it! And is for setting the mood. What? Like a campfire story? There's no campfire. There is too. It's just small. Yeah. And besides, you don't need a fire to tell a story. Sometimes a spotlight will do. Well, what do you say? Fine. I'm still cold, but at least it's something. Yes! And what about you, Maya? Maya's mind was in the woods. Surrounded by trees that look like people. Maya. Uh, yeah, sure. Alright! Now, who wants to start? What? No, don't look at me. Boo. Ooh! Did you guys hear about the girl who was found frozen in the ice rink? Ice girl? Really? If you want to share fairy tales, we can wait till sunrise. What do you mean? It's real. I heard they had to cut her out in a cube, like Jar Jar Binks. You mean Han Solo? No. The one with the Force Sword. What? Wouldn't it make more sense just to dethrall her? She's not a popsicle. You can't just dethrall a human. Why not? Okay. That's it. I'm telling the story before the peanut gallery puts this whole camping trip on ice. Mh. It's not gonna be too scary, is it? Well, if it's one of Matt's stories, I doubt it. Oh, woe to ye of little faith. Don't worry, Maya. I'll... restrain myself. Okay, but... could you... I don't know, could you say what it's about? Or can you at least say if anyone dies? What? And spoil the ending? Here, I'll say this. This story is... well... it's the classic spooky story. What's that supposed to mean? Classic. Where there's Dracula, werewolves, leprechauns. None of that. It's a classic story of a haunted house. Now, it's not the house that makes things haunted. You have to remember, it's the ghosts, the spirits, the evil inside roaming off the walls. So, if you're ready, gather around and listen... close. Listen close? What? You said listen close. Yeah? Isn't it gather around and listen closely? What? I'm saying you have to gather around and like lean in close. So gather around and listen closer? No thanks. I'm close enough. Why do we have to get close again? Maybe it's like ASMR. No, it's not. You sit close together because that's what you do during a campfire story. And it's listen close, like sitting close, and that's what I'm sticking with because it's my story. Now, can I go on? Thank you. Now, as I was saying, gather around and listen. Closest. The Towering Turret It's as if it had been sitting there, waiting for us. When one pulled into the driveway of the last house on Adeline Lane, the first thing I noticed was the towering turret. It crowned the top left corner of the house, hanging like a rotten bird's nest over a withering weeping willow. The house, which had been painted a pastel blue, charming once, I suppose, now pale, chipped, and faded by time. I couldn't shake the feeling that this house had been abandoned. As far as first impressions go, I was afraid to leave the car, but then Mum said we could pick our own rooms if we were fast enough, and that did the trick. Without a moment's hesitation, Clay and I spilled out of the car and ran up the front steps. Second floor, Mum yelled after us, I beat Clay inside the foyer and kitchen a blur behind me. Then I reached the foot of the stairs, stopped, and peered up. Made of decades old redwood, the sweeping staircase curled like a claw, twisting upwards, its landing point far out of sight. Timidly, I placed one foot and the floorboard groaned under my weight. At that moment, Clay shoved me out of the way and ascended the stairs two steps at a time. I chased after him and saw him running down the hall to the left. He came to an abrupt stop in the centre of the hallway, his eyes growing wide in amazement. Then, without looking away, he yelled, Dibs! I caught up to my brother who had found the room inside the turret. Its arched windows offered a panoramic view of the front lawn with the tip of the willow tree brushing beneath the frame. Its unconventional shape provided limited functionality, but I could see the appeal. For Clay, this was the wild excitement of a child's playroom. Dibs! he screamed again. I let him have it, not only because he was happy, but because I wanted a bigger room. I wandered down the hall and found a modest size one with yellow walls. Nothing special, but it was mine. I placed my bag down and sat on the edge of the bed. It was finally sinking in, the reality of moving. Then, Clay called out to me and said he wanted to show me something. I went back into the tower room. He was standing before the far right wall, staring at a large painting. How would I not notice it before? It was huge, practically life-sized. As I got closer, I could see it was the portrait of a woman dressed in a light pink-friiled dress and matching tights. She wore silver slippers meant for dancing, and her head, which was tilted to the left, was adorned with long brown curls. Her arms were stretched far in front of her as if she were reaching towards us. But perhaps the strangest thing of all was she appeared to be suspended in a doll stand. Was she a dancer or a figurine? I couldn't tell. Her thin lips were painted passive, but her eyes, they held something. And knowing, I think, it was as if she were looking right at me. Uh-uh-uh, wait. You're doing it again. What, Olive? Uh, another haunted painting? Oh, like the Mushroom Lady. Or the sad-looking sailor? You don't know that. I could be setting the scene. Yeah, and if the scene comes alive... I kinda like the painting stories. Thank you, Maya. Now, can I please go two minutes without a backseat narrator? Fine. Whatever. Now, where was I? How would I not notice it before? It was huge, practically life-size. Was she a dancer or a figurine? I couldn't tell. Her thin lips were painted passive, but her eyes, they held something. And knowing, I think, it was as if she were looking right at me. An odd picture for an odd room. We stood and stared at it for some time, and when I finally tore my eyes away, I saw that Clay was nearly crying. The painting was scaring him. It was just a silly picture, but Clay was still little, and some silly things got him upset. He was the same with clowns and with blood. I tried my best to calm him because that's what big sisters do, so I laughed and told him not to worry. The painting was watching over him. That's why it was in his room. His face softened, and I poked him in the stomach. I told him I'd race him to the kitchen, and so down we went. We didn't think about the woman in the portrait again until later that night. I was already awake when it began. It was around 2 a.m., and I was finding it difficult to fall asleep. Like many old houses, unexpected sounds dotted the darkness, but I told myself it was perfectly normal. I tossed and I turned until... I heard Clay scream out my name. Jumping out of bed, I yanked open my door and ran to my brother. When I entered the tower room, all the lights were on, and Clay was sitting upright in his bed, pointing at the portrait. He told me he heard someone laughing, whispering his name. He said it was the woman in the painting. I eyed the painting, then got closer until I was face to face with the doll dancer. I noticed right away that something was off. Her head was angled the wrong way. In fact, it was facing Clay's bed straight on. I could have sworn it had been tilted differently. No matter what I thought, I knew I couldn't tell Clay. He would be fixated on the painting, and getting him to fall asleep would be nearly impossible. So I decided to take it down. I took two hands around the frame, making sure to hold on tight, and then I pulled. But nothing happened. It didn't move. It wouldn't move, not in the slightest. It was like this painting was glued to the wall. I tried again with all my strength to get it just to budge, but still. No luck. I turned around and saw Clay was starting to cry. I thought of Mom and how she had worked so hard to get us this house. I had to fix this. So I walked over to the corner of the room where Clay's unpacked boxes were piled high and pulled out a thin bed sheet. Returning to the painting, I draped it over. The sheet wasn't thick or long enough to cover the whole portrait. I could still make out the doll dancer's silver slippers, her angled silhouette, but it was better than nothing. I told Clay I would find a way to take the picture off the wall in the morning, and that for tonight, I would sleep with him. So I turned off the light, hopped into bed, and held him close. We both dozed off, eventually. I slept with Clay every single night after that. Clay was in high spirits the next day, and so we didn't talk about the painting. There was so much unpacking that when it came time for bed, we were exhausted. Clay asked me to sleep with him, and I said yes. Truthfully, even I was afraid to sleep alone. Around 2 a.m., I woke up to the feeling of something dripping on my nose, then again on my cheek. I patted my face, expecting beads of sweat to be there, but there was nothing. I looked up at the ceiling, wondering if there was a leak, but there wasn't. I must have dreamt it. Clay started to pull on my sleeve, and I elbowed him to stop, but he wouldn't. He didn't speak, he just continued to pull at me and point at the painting across the room. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, and when I finally did look, I couldn't believe what I was seeing. There, from across the room, the sheet I had used to cover the painting had fallen to the floor. And the woman in the portrait was holding her head. I froze, dumbstruck. How could this be real? We had to be dreaming. This had to be a dream. No, a nightmare. I was trying to rationalize what I was seeing when the noises began. At first, I couldn't tell what it was or where it was coming from, but it sounded like a string of slow, soft thuds approaching from far away. The noise had a rhythm to it, and it was definitely getting louder and closer. Now, it sounded as though it were just down the hallway, and as it grew even louder, I could tell it was by something being rolled, something heavy, like a bowling ball. Then, Clay whispered, Look, I knew he was talking about the portrait, and I didn't want to look, but I did. And my first thought was, where was her head? Looking straight at the portrait, it was clear her head was missing, completely missing, not just from her shoulders, but from the painting altogether. Her head, where was her head? Was she losing hers, or was I losing mine? Chills ran down my spine and my chest began to tighten. I reached for the lamp light with shaking hands. Once I found it, I flicked the switch two, three, ten times, but it wouldn't turn on. And all the while, that maddening low rolling grew louder and louder until I was sure whatever it was, was in the room. Her head, where was her head? I tried to steady my breathing as the rolling travel passed the door, across the room, and then it sounded like it was headed directly underneath us. It was underneath us, underneath our bed. All at once, the rolling sound stopped. I had to look, I had to see what it was. Clay shook his head, begging me not to, and believed me almost every fiber of my being tried to resist, but something was taking over me, something else entirely, call it curiosity or insanity, but I had to look. I had to. By now, my eyes had adjusted to the darkness. Ever so carefully, I leaned to the right and gripped the side of the bed, preparing to hold the weight of myself as I looked under. I took a deep breath, paused, lowered my head and... Nothing. The floors had collected some dust, but other than that... I bolted upright. It was Clay he was screaming and pointing at the painting again. I turned and saw that the woman in the portrait was gone. Only her doll stand was left. Right then, high-pitched giggling broke out from all corners of the room. I frantically looked from left to right, trying to find the source of the laughter, but it only grew louder and continued to disorient us. And when I couldn't take the madness any longer, I screamed like I never had before in my life. A few seconds later, Mum slammed open the door, switched on the lights and asked what happened. Clay pointed at the picture, and when we all turned... There she was, the doll dancer. Back in her place, suspended in her stand. I stammered, trying to put into words what had just happened. Mum sighed, said she expected more from me, then walked over and covered the painting with the sheet again. She told us to really try and give this house a chance, and that maybe we should sleep in my room from now on. She didn't believe us, and how could she? The doll dancer losing her head, the unexplained sounds, it all was too much. I knew that, but it was real. Oh God, it was real. And so even though I knew in my gut that we needed to leave the lost house on Adeline Lane immediately, we stayed for another night. The next day, Mum tried to take the portrait down. She used a hammer and other tools, but nothing worked. Clay and I knew it wouldn't. Standing in the doorway, we watched her give up and drape a large, thick blanket over the portrait. This sheet completely covered it, and so I felt a little better. That night, Clay and I slept in my room. We locked ourselves in, making sure to keep the lamp on, and we made a promise to each other, to stay awake. No matter what, we wouldn't let each other out of our sights. The promise was mostly to reassure Clay, and he fell asleep soon after. His small body was snug against mine. I stayed up to keep watch, but slowly, the weight of worry pulled at my eyelids, and I began losing the fight to keep them open. Eventually, I fell asleep too. Much later, in the early morning hours, I felt something drip onto my cheek. Then again on my forehead. Through my sleepy haze, I wiped my face, expecting nothing to be there. But when I pulled my hand away, my palm was smeared with red. I looked up at the ceiling and saw thick red droplets trickle down one at a time onto the bed. I touched my cheek and felt the same slick stain. I looked down at my t-shirt, my pants, and reached up to my hair. I was matted in it, drenched, red. All I could see was red. It couldn't be blood, could it? In a panic, I sat upright and pulled the covers back. They made an awful, splatting sound as they landed on the mattress. The sound woke up Clay, and when he saw me, he screamed out, Blood! No, no, no, no! I reassured him. It's-it's not blood, it's-it's... My voice faltered as I didn't know what to say. It wasn't blood, I know because it was different. It smelled different. It had a strong scent, almost like... like... Painthin'. But before I could finish my thought, it started. From somewhere down the hallway, that familiar, horrible rolling began. It's the doll dancer's head, I thought. It's her head rolling down the hallway, coming for us. We could almost track it. Through the thin and echoey walls, we heard the head roll faster down the hallway, past the tower room, and then with a loud thud, it slammed against our door. And then it was quiet. The bedside lamp, which had been on all night, flickered twice and gave out altogether. We were in complete darkness, and something was outside our door. Clay started to shake, and I pulled him close, whispering empty promises. Everything would be okay. She couldn't get in. She couldn't get us. We had locked the door. Monsters didn't exist, and this was all a bad dream. We would be okay. We had to be okay. I don't know how long it had been standing there, since we were so focused on the door. But in the furthest corner of the room, a shadow shamed, drew close. We spun our heads, catching the figure draped in a white bedsheet. The visage froze, locked in front of us. For as long as we stared, horrified and afraid, the ghost wouldn't move. I can't tell you how much time passed in those moments, minutes or hours, but eventually the figure began to shift, lifting something round from underneath the sheet and held up high. It looked as if it were placing something on top of its head. Or that something was its head. Now, the undeniable human form inched forward step by step, closing the gap before our bed. It made no sound as it moved, like it was gliding across the floor. All I could hear was my own heartbeat pounding, and Clay stifled crying. The figure came with an arm's length of the bed, and I noticed the sheet starting to discolor. Right around where the head would be, the image of two eyes and a mouth began to bleed through. Its expression was lopsided, curved into a crooked grin. The corners of her lips, dripping red rivulets through and down the sheet. Paralyzed with fear, we sat there, watching as the figure approached our bed, and stopped. Suddenly, we heard something drop, right as the bloody sheet lost shape and sank to the floor. I knew from the scratch and scurry that the doll dancer had gotten on all fours and crawled under our bed. Clay was shaking violently, and I was trying to get a hold of my senses. The white sheet was still sitting in a pool of red, and the figure was nowhere to be seen. But I knew where it was. I knew where she was, and what she wanted. I had to protect Clay. So, I pulled in a shaky breath, and prepared to lean over to look under the bed. I didn't have any type of weapon to defend us. I didn't have a plan or any sense of strategy. I only knew that Clay and I were unable to leave this room while that monster sat in waiting. Just like the night before, I gripped the side of the bed, held the weight of myself, leaned over, lowered my head, and... Clay started screaming! I jolted upright, turned, and only saw the end of it. A white flashed the bed sheet thrown over Clay, and then... Then he was gone. Clay! Where was Clay? At that moment, I heard my brother scream my name, but it wasn't from my bedroom anymore. It was coming from the turret room. Even though I was scared out of my mind, I had to go to him. I had to save my brother. I flew out of bed and ran down the hall, straight to the turret, but the door was locked. I could hear Clay crying and screaming, all smothered by the dull dancers, piercing plastic giggling. I stormed at the door, pounding my fists hard against the wood until my knuckles bled. I was just about to try kicking it when all of Clay's screams and that hideous laughter... ...stopped. And then the door creaked open. I hesitated, but only for a moment, and entered the room. It was empty, and looked as though nothing had been disturbed. I checked under the bed, in the closet, but somehow, I knew Clay wouldn't be in any of those places. There was only one place left to look. I walked over to the portrait and saw that something was wrong. The dull dancer was there, suspended in her stamp. Her head tilted to the left, and her arms still reaching out. But now, seated before her, was an audience. They were all children. Some of them had their hands in red and white striped buckets of popcorn, while others held gobs of coloured cotton candy. Some of the children were laughing. Some of them were smiling. But there, in the corner, one boy stood out. It was Clay. It was my brother. Make no mistake of that, my baby brother was now in this painting. And I had no idea how to reach him. He looked at the dull dancer with worry on his face, and held hands with a small blonde girl who looked younger than him. Clay, what happened to you? I started to back away from the painting, my breath quickening, the room spinning. I was losing it, that was all. I'd wake up any moment now, and Clay would laugh and would be okay. I held my head in my hands, and stared at the dancer, hoping against all hope that this was just a nightmare. Then the dull dancer turned her head, offered me a wide grin, and winked, and I hit the floor. I woke up with maddening worry surrounded with yellow walls. I was in my bed. The red substance that had soaked my sheets was completely gone, and I knew, even before I stretched out my arm, that Clay was not beside me. I ran to my mum, and I suppose the look on my face told her something was terribly wrong. She never believed me when I told her where Clay was. There was only ever a brief moment when I watched her from the doorway of the tower room, but I saw the slightest hint of realisation wash over her. She walked up to the portrait, cupped a hand over her mouth, and gasped. Right then and there, I knew she knew the truth too, even if she refused to believe it. She shook her head, tears in her eyes, and told me to call 911. They never found my brother, but not without effort. For weeks and even months, our family was in the headline of every article, and at the centre of every search. Over time, the police leads dwindled to a trickle. Until one day, the case ran dry. Police never followed up again, but the town moved on. Local law still goes around, especially around Halloween. The police had their theories, the townies had theirs, but me? I've always known the truth. My little brother was still inside, trapped between colours and canvas, forever frozen on the walls in the last house on Adeline Lane. It's why I've come back, so many years later, with a hammer and saw, I've come to rescue my brother, to tear that painting from the wall, or tear it to pieces if I must. The willow whips a broken window, while the wind keeps rushing in. The tower room is drenched in shadow, yet I can still but see her there, standing in the corner. Her portrait is empty. Her laughter fills the room. See, I knew it. Haunted painting. Yeah, yeah. Great job, Sherlock. I bet you're fun at art galleries. Hmm. Jokes on you. I don't like art. After that story? Me neither. That rolling head makes me want to roll out of my skin. You think she could have joined the PBA? The what? The PBA. The Professional Bowlers Association. After all, she's always got her head in the game. Oh. Oh. And that's a perfectly good story ruined. Full Body Chills is an audio-chuk production. This episode was written by Amanda Wisdom and read by Sharon Hader. Intro Outro, written by David Flowers and read by Ashley Flowers, Idris Jones, Kirsten Lee, Nathan Noakes, and Shai Sharee. So, what do you think, Chuck? Do you approve? Aargh! Everyone's told a lie, but what happens when one lie becomes a life, a movement, a conspiracy? I'm Josh Dean, Host of Chameleon, and I uncover true stories of deception scams so intimate and convincing they fooled the people closest to them. These aren't strangers. They're lovers, friends, and trusted allies. the most dangerous cons don't feel like crimes, they feel personal. Listen to Chameleon wherever you get your podcasts.