Honeycutt House

They say the difference between dreams and nightmares is truth. When a sliver of something authentic digs its way through the layers of a dreamscape, a harsh reality envelopes a world of fantastical creation. The dream turns cold. The endless field of flowers withers away into ash. Those in mid-flight suddenly fall. You feel alone, and a desperate need to escape fills your body.

I’ve often said that I am well adept at dealing with nightmares. Otherwise, in hindsight, I wouldn’t have set out to Honeycutt House. Yet there I was, sitting behind the wheel of my mud-splashed rental, fidgeting with the radio dial as I headed deeper into the living swamp of the Florida Everglades. They’d advised I go with a truck instead of the Camry, and I wish I’d listened. I looked down at the passenger seat where a slip of paper rested next to a black urn. Yellowed and slightly torn, but still readable, it was a deed — my last gift. When my dad died, there wasn’t much in the will to debate over. My sister, Toni, got his vintage car collection, and Brad, Toni’s husband, was set to take over the family business. But when the lawyer turned his grimy eyes on me, all he said was two words as he slid the paper across his lacquered mahogany desk.

“Honeycutt House.” I let Google do the rest.

I pulled my car over onto the sliver of roadside to take a piss. The air was thick — as hot as I expected for summer in Florida, but more humid than anything I’d felt growing up in Connecticut; smellier, too. A pungency like manure mixed with tap water made my nostrils flare in protest. Why anyone would live out here was beyond me. Why my dad would want his ashes scattered out here was even more confusing. Frog screams echoed through the trees at me as I walked around the front of the car to do my business. Wetness surrounded me. The brown marsh water was so close to the roadside that, for a split second, I felt afraid. The water was tenebrious. There was no telling how deep it went, or what kinds of things might call it home — things that watched me, waiting for an opportunity to drag me under. I was on their turf.

“Florida,” I said, not needing to hide my disdain. I looked around for signs of life. While there were small splashes in the water, and white ibises flying overhead, there wasn’t a trace of humanity. This isn’t a place for people, I suddenly thought. The hairs on my arm stood on end. No, it certainly wasn’t a place for anyone.

Especially me.

I rushed back into my car and pressed the lock button, exhaling and laughing at myself. For whatever it was worth, it didn’t matter what was out there if it couldn’t get in. I put the car in drive and peeled away from the spot, peering out the back window just to make sure nothing slid out of the water after me.

As I drove, the road led even deeper into the swampland until it forked, causing me to stop and park again. Forcing me to choose. On brand with the area, a monolithic oak tree blocked my path. It was as though it greeted me hello.

You won’t get to Honeycutt House quite yet.

The tree mandated the fork as spread its arms in such a way that formed two portals just big enough to drive through. The branches were wild, moss-covered members…almost serpentine in the way they grew. Welcome to Jurassic Park, I thought as I looked out at the tree. It seemed primal to me.

“You sure know how to pick ’em, pops,” I said as I glanced over at the urn. I waited and pressed my lips together, still half expecting him to respond. That was the sad truth about losing someone — it takes time to set.

I could feel my eyebrows meet as I struggled to remember the directions. I looked at my phone, searching for the screenshot I’d taken — the fork was the last marker on my way to the house. I knew I was close, taking the left-hand path was the way forward, according to the photo I zoomed in on, and part of me felt it. Anticipation swelled inside me, but it was void-like and dank. The weight of my bequeathal pressed down on my shoulders. I’d never seen the property in person, nor was I prepared to bury my dad there. To all of us — me, Toni, Brad — it was a total surprise. My dad hadn’t lived a single day of his life outside of Hartford, and there was no logical reason as to why Honeycutt House was in our family. Yet it was. I could hear my sister’s skepticism again.

“You’re really going down there?” she’d asked just before I left.

“I want to see it for myself,” I’d said. “How else can we sell it? And plus…it’s for him. I have to do it for him.”

“Part of me thinks he knew that.”

Google wasn’t able to show me many pictures of the place, other than a few blurry snapshots through the palm fronds and swarms of mosquitos. There was, however, a single article written on the property’s new security just after dad bought it. Or, just after who I assumed was my dad bought it — the article hadn’t mentioned him by name. It didn’t give a lick of detail about the house other than how it had been vandalized about a dozen or so times over the years. Dad apparently didn’t want anyone snooping around. There must have been a reason why. It was a question I kept asking myself. What would I find there?

I drove left, leaning forward with my eyes glued open as the front gate of Honeycutt House came into view. The wrought iron stood firm as it joined with weathered limestone blocks about seven feet high, all covered in a thick, green moss. Within the bars, a rusted chain wrapped through the gate like vine growth, locking the house behind it. I followed the wall as it disappeared into the swamp in whatever direction you looked. Whether it went around the entire property, I couldn’t tell. It was good to assume so — one way in, only one way out. I made a mental note.

“Well shit, Honeycutt House must not like having visitors,” I said. I grabbed at the deed and read through the lines again. No mention from the lawyer on how to get into the house I now owned. “Honeycutt one, Nate zero.”

There was a loud double-tap to my left, and I heard myself scream before anything registered.

“Sorry, sorry!” a man said through the glass as I rolled down my window. “Didn’t mean to startle you.” I looked up at him, feeling my face grow hot as I gritted my teeth.

“Do not ever do that again,” I said. The man laughed and held up his hands. He was older than me, but not by much, with a head of wild brown hair and a matching set of dark eyes. He, unlike me, looked like he belonged in the swamp. I immediately concocted a history for the stranger — growing up in a backwoods shack, practicing unholy things in the swamp mist; something straight out of a movie. He leaned to the side to spit whatever was making his bottom lip bulge. I looked up in my rearview for a split second and saw his pickup truck parked behind my car. “If you’re here to murder me, just make it quick. That god awful smell is doing your job for you.”

“Please forgive,” he said, holding out his hand and chuckling again. “Not here to kill ya, just help you get into the place. I’m Holden…my family helps take care of the property. I got a call from Mr. Blakley.”

“Blakley? My lawyer?”

“He gave me heads up that you were heading out here to look at the place,” Holden said. “Can’t get in without the keys. Not much I can do about the marsh gas, though. It’ll give you a hell of a headache if you spend too much time out here.”

Murder averted, I thought. I felt more relieved than I’d admit to Holden, at the risk of being a snob from Connecticut.

“Totally,” I said. “Well, thank you. Wasn’t sure if I was going to have to climb it and walk the rest of the way.” Holden laughed at this.

“Hope you have your tetanus booster,” he said as he walked up to the gate, key in hand.

“For the gate or the house?” I asked, calling through the open window.

“Both!”

Holden shoved at the gate as the chains slinked onto the ground, tossing what looked like his total weight into the effort. The house wasn’t making it easy. None of it. Dust gathered around Holden as his feet dug into the dirt, but finally, the iron gave way, moaning from age, and slowly opened up to allow us passage. Did it look darker down the road ahead? My eyes glanced at my dashboard clock. It was just after noon. It’s the trees, I thought. It wasn’t darker. The trees just must have been thicker around the house. Holden tapped twice on the hood of my car as he walked past it to signal me forward. I gave him a thumbs up and slowly put pressure on my pedal and entered the Honeycutt property.

It was abundantly clear just how much harsher the road was. Where there were local funds to tame back the swamp’s ever-increasing ownership of the land when public property was concerned, beyond the gate it was evident that my dad had made no such effort. My car drove over mini-sinkholes of water and brush-buildup, following the vague indents of where my wheels should go. After several cautiously-taken turns, my first glimpse of the house came into view.

Hulking and bestial, Honeycutt House stood as both a tribute to the glamour of old-world architecture and as a warning from the land of what it could do to anything that remained still for too long. Four stories of windows met my unblinking eyes as I pulled my car onto the front lawn. Stone columns wrapped around the entire house, blocking in identical patios where old rocking chairs still stood, gently moving in the afternoon breeze. The paint, which I assumed was a time-worn version of off-white, was a grimy yellow, almost green-tinged, with large swaths of the house’s shell covered by plant life grown bold.

“Holy shit,” I said as I stepped out of my car and closed the door. I heard Holden walk up behind me, chuckling.

“Ain’t she something?” he asked. I turned around and gave him a wide-eyed look, nodding. She certainly was.

“How old is this place?” I asked as I stepped closer, being mindful not to walk too quickly. The grounds were just as hole-littered as the road that led there.

“Two-fifty, give or take a couple decades,” he said. “Though the stories say the bones of the house were always here.” I snorted and looked at him again, expecting him to be smirking, only to find him staring at the house, unsmiling.

“That’s not possible,” I said, shaking my head and walking back to my car to grab the urn from the seat. “American history isn’t working in your favor.” That seemed to snap Holden’s attention back. He tossed the keys up into the air and caught them.

“History-shmistery. You aren’t from around here, you don’t even know. The things I’ve seen here would turn your hair white — this is the place where the swamp gets its life from.”

“Well, the mosquitos certainly do,” I said as I led us toward the towering front door, swatting at my neck. “Look, just give me a quick tour so I know the lay of the land. I have to scatter these in the…oh hell, what was it called?” I grabbed a slip of paper from my pocket and unfolded it. The instructions were clear — the ashes were to be scattered in a place called the Inner Garden.

“Where am I takin’ ya to?” Holden asked as he tapped his foot on the front step.

“The Inner Garden,” I said. “Ring a bell?” Holden stopped tapping and spit again. He took a moment to rub at his chin while looking up at the house.

“You old coward,” he said.

“What was that?”

“Not you, friend. Me. Your pa wants to be buried in the last room I’d step into.”

This time I looked up at Honeycutt House. It stood silently as if it were listening to our conversation; clinging to each word, entertained. Was it happy Holden was scared of it? Was it angry I wasn’t?

Holden nodded and whispered something to himself before walking ahead of me, taking the front steps in twos, and striding up to the front door to unlock Honeycutt once more. As we opened the door and stepped into the front hall, I could finally see how something could be both beautiful and terrifying at once. The inside of the house was equally as weather-beaten and overgrown, but there was an element of it that felt frozen in time. The room was dim from the white curtains that still clung to the windows, and as I shuffled my feet I felt how strong the wooden floors still were. Walls covered in navy flock paper and in-tact furniture told me this was not only a house, but a home. A place where people, real people, once lived and breathed. How many guests had entered through the same door to be met with warm smiles and friendship?

How many people have died here?

It was another thought that appeared without warning, sending my stomach to the floor. The beauty vanished — and somehow I grew cold as the stale air filled my lungs. I looked over at Holden as he grabbed two flashlights hanging near the front door.

“One for you,” he said, handing me the nicer of the pair. I switched it on and pointed it at a portrait hanging at the top of the staircase. The beam highlighted the particles hovering throughout the room, and caught the faint buzzing of flies avoiding the brightness.

“You know,” I started. “I’ve seen a thousand movies that start this way. There’s always a picture just like that. The Honeycutt Family, I’m guessing?” Holden added his light to the portrait as we stood near the door.

“Most of them,” he said. “And all rich southern folk have portraits like that. Don’t spook yourself yet. The house ain’t even getting started.”

“I’m not spooked. Should I say the words Inner Garden again?”

Holden scowled and led me over to the base of the staircase. I stopped for a moment and dusted the banister off with my sleeve. It was polished black walnut. Still in terrific condition, too, all things considered. My sister would be glad I came out here once we got Honeycutt on the market.

“The place definitely has good bones,” I said, mimicking Holden’s words from earlier. “Creepy bones, but sturdy enough.”

“What are you thinking of doing with it?”

“Selling it, of course,” I said as I scoffed. “I’m in grad school. I can’t afford to take care of this place. And my sister is off in her own world, so she’s out.”

“You can’t sell Honeycutt,” Holden said. The forcefulness of how he sounded drew my gaze to him. We looked at each other, both unflinchingly focused. I felt my lips twitch, but I held them in place. He’s joking, I thought. But he wasn’t. I was wrong.

“And why can’t I do that?” I asked. I didn’t make an attempt to hide the edge in my voice. He didn’t know anything about me. “My dad left this place to me after he decided to…after he died. And now I’m supposed to what, live here?”

“Just come on. I’ll show you. But you can’t sell it. It’s your pa’s job now, and it’ll be yours after.”

“You sure you aren’t going to kill me?” I asked. “You sure sound like a killer.”

Holden laughed as he led me up the first flight of stairs onto the second-floor landing. The floor seemed to be just bedrooms, with a few informal sitting rooms, one of which we went into cautiously. The room was packed with old cardboard boxes — moldy and stacked on top of each other as if they were asking to fall — but had a gorgeous set of French doors made of white wood and stained glass. A scene played out on them, allowing the full spectrum of color to splash into the room.

“What is it showing?” I asked.

“It’s Eden,” Holden said as he opened the doors, letting a wave of fresh air roll into the room. “This place was Eden to the Honeycutts. Maybe even before them, I don’t know. That’s what my family always told me, and what your dad found out, too.” I looked around again at the peeling wallpaper and detritus-covered floor before rolling my eyes at Holden.

“That’s a bit much, Holden,” I said, walking out into the hallway again. I heard him follow. “Can you show me where this garden place is? Is it upstairs?” Holden shook his head as he passed me, heading back down to the main floor. I tightly held onto the urn in the crook of my left arm.

“It’s down below,” he said. The image halted me on the staircase as I reminded myself of the swamp that even more seemed to swallow us.

“There’s a basement level?” I asked. “How is that even possible?”

“Not at Honeycutt,” Holden said as he led me around the back of the staircase where a single arched door rested. There was another lock on it that required yet another key. It was the first time I noticed the keyring Holden held. It was old — almost as old as the house if I were to guess. Rust-colored and filled with over a dozen differently shaped keys, it must have been in his family for generations as versions of Holden looked over the place.

“How did you say you came to work here, again?” I asked as Holden opened the door and shone his light down the narrow stairway. We each took the steps one at a time as we went deeper into the earth than I thought possible.

“I didn’t,” he said. “But my family has worked on the grounds for as long as anyone’s lived here. Selfishly, that’s why I don’t want you to sell the place. It’s my home, too, in a way.”

“But you’re scared of it,” I said, brushing through a nasty patch of cobwebs. At this, Holden chuckled.

“I am,” he said. “It’s because of the respect I have for the house, though. You’ll see.”

“You keep saying that. What am I supposed to be seeing?”

I didn’t need to ask though. The stairs soon emptied into the room, if you could call it that. It was so much more — in fact, it may have been the most interesting space I’d ever seen. The room, the Inner Garden, looked archaic. It was square in shape, with four sturdy stone walls that gave the space its equilibrium, at least initially. As my eyes traced over the walls, I quickly noticed that everything sloped up into a single point; one opening to the surface world that allowed a single beam of golden light to pierce into the bleakness down below.

The Inner Garden was a pyramid.

“What is this place?” I asked as I stepped further into the room. In the center of the floor was a single, waning flower, just out of the light’s reach. Its petals were black and looked so dry that I figured it would crumble if I touched it.

“The heart of the house,” he said. “That flower’s mine. The light is touching where you need to bury your pa.”

I squeezed the urn in my hands, unwilling to let it go. This was insane. As I turned around to tell Holden so, I saw that Holden was gone and I was alone. A silence filled the room, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It wasn’t anything — just quiet. As quiet as it should be underground.

My knees slowly descended to the dirt as I touched the spot where the sunlight kissed the earth. It felt warm like a patch of concrete after crawling out of a community pool. My fingers dug into the spot until a hole big enough for my dad’s remains formed. I hesitated as I unlatched the lid of the urn. This was it. This was my goodbye.

“You can’t make this up,” I said as I let out a suppressed sigh. The ground turned splotchy in my vision as I felt my eyes grow wet. “Goodbye old man.” I poured the ashes out and covered them with a single sweep of my hand.

It was done.

“That wasn’t so hard, huh?”

I turned around to face Holden and demand where he wandered off to, but as I shuffled to my feet I looked into a familiar set of eyes. As green as my own, but a bit farther apart. His hair was a similar shade but streaked with white on the sides. It was like looking into a mirror that aged you. It was like looking at an older version of me.

It was looking at my dad, who smiled and held his arms out. He was close enough to touch, but I didn’t. We just stared at each other — him with a familiar twinkle in his eye that had been lost to us after my mom left him, and me utterly, unashamedly crying.

“Nah, none of that, Nate,” he said, moving to the side to lead us back upstairs. I turned around one last time to see the old flower vanished, and right where my dad’s ashes were buried, a new flower bloomed. A white flower with streaks of pink that looked like an umbrella.

I watched my dad as he moved next to me. His feet left tracks on the dusty floor of Honeycutt, just like Holden’s had. And as he opened the front door again, the sunlight hit his face and made him squint uncomfortably.

“You’re a ghost?” I asked. Holden’s truck was, of course, no longer parked behind my rental. Perhaps it had never been there at all.

“Something like that,” he said.

“I can see you again?”

“Whenever you’d like, kiddo.”

I took a breath, one so deep that the mists emanating from the surrounding marsh filled not only my lungs, by my entire body, and I turned again to look up at the quiet face of Honeycutt House. I couldn’t help but laugh when I realized, perhaps much like my dad had, that Honeycutt would be my final destination one day, too.

Hopefully one day far, far away.