The Elmhurst Inn sits just on the other side of the tracks adjacent to U.S. 40, a major thoroughfare of days past, which cuts through the heart of the Midwest.

Driving past the expansive property, one might dismiss the establishment as just another honky-tonk, its history buried within its dilapidated walls, dismissed or forgotten by previous generations, so that those who currently frequent it have no clue of the events that transpired in its glory days.

Joan, a widow in her fifties and determined to make a fresh start in life, operates the propriety, which consists of a full-scale bar and restaurant that serves everything from chicken wings to Saturday-night prime rib.

Joan’s daughters, Jo and Ann, both divorcees, help with the operations, and Jo, the younger of the two, resides in the living quarters in the east wing of the building with her son Jack.

Jack struggles with embarrassment over where he lives and does his best to keep it a secret at his high school, which is the one in town where the kids from affluent families attend. It just so happens that the inn sits on the school district’s borderline.

Jack is lucky enough one day to get a ride home from school from a fellow sophomore, Danny, which he’s reluctant to accept but does anyway simply for the pleasure of not having to ride the bus.

“You can just drop me off at my mom’s work,” Jack tells Danny, pointing to the inn on the horizon.

“Ugh, what the hell is this place? Your mom works here?” Danny asks, disgusted and in disbelief as he pulls his Toyota Celica into the gravel parking lot.

“It’s not that bad,” argues Jack. “She works in the restaurant. I get free food, anything I want, whenever I want.”

“Yeah, but look at the place,” Danny laughs. “Are there even bathrooms in there?”

“Very funny,” Jack says as he climbs out of the car, sick to his stomach at the thought of Danny knowing the truth – that he actually lives there. He feels ashamed that his mom works inside and will never have the means to help him get a car like so many of his classmates have.

He walks in the door to the bar, dark, smoky, and sour smelling even at this mid-afternoon hour. Jo sits on a stool on the corner of the bar, cigarette in hand and engrossed in conversation with a hunkered-over old man named Paul, a regular.

“Hi Mom. Hi Paul.” There are a few others scattered down the long bar, all clasping beer bottles with their attention focused on the T.V. in an overhead corner. There are no women at this hour, only sad and thirsty, blue-collar workers, or so it seems to Jack.

“Can I have a Nestle Crunch and Mountain Dew, Mom?”

“Yes, but then you need to get over home and get the house cleaned up,” Jo instructs. “I’ll be home late.”

Jack cuts through the inn’s kitchen to a door that opens to a long hallway leading to the apartment where they live. Another door beyond that opens to a screened porch, an addition built on to the inn, and is accessible from the front of the property.

Above the door inside the apartment the name Gant is inlaid in glass. No one knows about Gant, a slave from the Civil-War era, who had been freed and moved to Ohio to set up his homestead here in this very spot.

No one knows that the rusted old chandelier in the apartment’s living room, missing many of its crystals and not even in working order, once gleamed with brilliance, lighting the prosperous landowner’s great room.

Jack races through his chores, grabs a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon out of the fridge, and heads out the door and around to the back of the property to its basement, where he’s certain he’ll find his uncle, Tony, Joan’s son, tinkering on some project in a forgotten room.

Aside from the inn’s location in a depressed part of town, its natural surroundings provide some solace for Jack. Oak trees surround the sides of the inn, and a few hundred yards from the back of the property lays a broad, wooded area full of creeks. Beyond that, the interstate. Jack and Tony spend lots of time in those woods talking about bands, World War III, and flipping over rocks looking for crawdads.

Immediately inside the basement door are stale beer smells from a room on the left where the bar’s cans and bottles sit in trash bags waiting for Tony to take them to the Dumpster. Jack sometimes helps and when he does, Joan usually gives him five dollars.

Jack finds Tony right where he expects, in the second room on the right, buried in his Guitar magazine with a Pepsi and Marlboro in his hands. What neither of them know is the basement where they hang out, eleven rooms in all, used to hide slaves running for their lives – for their freedom.

Together, Jack and Todd explore many areas of the basement with its dirt-stone floor and walls so old and fibrous that one could punch a hole through them.

They only share a passing wonder of the peculiarities the basement contains: a sunken room with a fireplace, a deep pit in a centralized spot from which many of the rooms surround. The purpose of the pit is unknown to them; now it holds the bar’s kegs.

Once, in one of the rooms in the back right, Jack and Tony found a small niche, not quite large enough to hold a body, not that they even thought of it, but they found a dusty, decaying baby shoe.

Both the basement and the woods are refuges for Jack and Tony, and they congregate in both spots daily. They each share unspoken dreams of finding glory in their adult lives, of doing something great, being productive, rich, and maybe famous even. They both are filled with hope in what their futures will hold, and it’s for this reason they get along so well.

“Wanna go to the woods?” Jack asks Tony.

“Yeah. Let me grab my cigs here,” Tony replies, tucking them into the pocket of his Oxford shirt, sleeves rolled up to his biceps. He brings along the Pepsi, too.

“I’m thinking I might move to L.A.,” Tony says as he bolts the basement door. “They’ve got this guitar school out there called MI. You know Nancy Wilson of Heart? I guess she went there. I figure if I keep working and save some money, I could just drive out there once school’s done.”

“Oh, man, that would be so cool Tony. And I could come out to visit you.”

They climb a small hill at the inn’s borders and find the path leading to the creek. They aren’t yet in the thick of the woods; before the creek’s edge is a dusty field with only a few scraggly shrubs and meandering paths.

Their favorite spot is where the creek waters collect into a huge pool, deep enough to swim in if they wanted to, though they never do. They have to climb down an embankment to get to it, dodging poison oak and bush limbs.

Today they sit near the creek’s edge on a soft mound of pebbles, the kind perfect for skimming across the water. They hang out until dusk talking about what it would be like to live in L.A. Jack’s enthusiasm only fuels Tony’s ambition to take the leap and actually go there.

“Just go,” Jack urges. “I’m sure you’ll find a job when you get there. I mean, it’s L.A. There’s gotta be all kinds of jobs in a place like that.” Tony nods and looks thoughtful thinking of the truth in Jack’s words.

Jack feels envious about the prospect of Tony leaving, but thinks his own destiny holds something just as exciting, if not more.

It’s nearly dark when they get back to the inn, and Tony goes into the bar to see if Joan’s ready to call it a day. Jack’s relieved to see his mom hasn’t made it home yet. He quickly eats a mayonnaise sandwich before heading to his room, anxious to retreat there so hopefully he won’t have to talk to her.

Later, Jack’s jolted awake by the thud of Jo’s pocketbook and clang of keys hitting the kitchen counter. He lies still in anticipation of her entering his room. It’s almost midnight and he’s certain she started drinking after her shift.

Luckily, Jo just goes through her nightly bedtime process and goes straight to bed, much to Jack’s relief.

As he’s on the verge of sleep, he feels a soft blowing on his right cheek. He slowly opens his eyes to witness the foggy shape of a body beside his bed. There’s the shape of a head, but with no eyes, and he only sees the torso, with stubs as arms.

The figure doesn’t move. Jack’s chest seems to seize up and he can’t breathe. Just as he’s coming to grips in his mind about what he’s seeing, he blinks and the body is gone.

He quickly bolts out of bed and springs into the living room to the couch, where he sits frozen in the dark, looking around only with his eyes and trying to make sense of what he saw. Maybe it was a dream, he thinks. He stretches out and eventually his nervous, rigid body relaxes into sleep.

Jack dreams of the woods. He’s in the shallows of the creek, in the very center, barefoot, and desperately running upstream, splashing, legs heavy as lead, screaming in the black night, but no words coming out, from something chasing him, though he can’t see anything. But he knows something’s there, behind him, over him, descending its weight on his back and pushing him forward.

The presence is on him now, pounding, pounding from behind, but he feels nothing. His entire body twitches, as if electrified, and he realizes someone’s pounding on the front door. He lies still, but it continues, more aggressively now.

He runs to Jo’s room and stops dead in his tracks at her door. He sees on his mom’s cedar chest another foggy figure, this time an entire body, that of a man, who’s sitting on the top with his legs crossed, back bent over and head in hands. As quickly as Jack makes it out, the fogginess dissipates.

“Mom, wake up.” There’s no response. “Mom there’s someone at the door.” He only hears her heavy breathing. He clasps on to her shoulders and shakes her, but her body is floppy and unresponsive.

The knocks grow more urgent. Jack can’t stand the noise, so he angrily goes to the door.

“What do you want?” Jack yells, cheek and nose lightly pressed to the door to see what he can hear.

“I need to talk to your mother,” a man’s voice calmly, but sternly requests.

“She’s not here. Get out of here or I’m going to call the police.”

“You’re not going to do that. Open the door so I can talk to your mother.”

Jack looks out the window onto the screened porch to see if the door to the hallway is open. It is. The man must be giving up because he steps out onto the porch, and Jack, not expecting this, crouches onto the floor, quickly closing the curtain except for a small sliver to peek through.

Jack can’t see the man, only a black shape of a body, and it stops as if it senses movement. “Why can’t I see this guy?” Jack wonders. There are lampposts outside streaming light onto the porch, yet Jack can’t make out any detail of the man. He’s just a solid black form. There’s no color of hair, no facial profile, no texture of clothing.

The figure backs up into the hallway, but not with steps; it floats back in a swift, swoosh of movement and Jack sits paralyzed.

There are soft knocks at the door.

“Let me in,” says the voice. Jack just sits there.

“Let me in … or I’ll have to come in myself,” says the voice, this time oozing deep, metallic tones.

Jack’s heart is racing realizing the figure has no intention of leaving. Until now, he thought merely holding his ground would make the man give up and leave.

He tries a new strategy of mocking the evil voice, “I’ll come in myself … oh, I’m really scared now.”

Jack’s face is against the door, which suddenly vibrates from the force of the figure’s fists pounding against it. He steps back, looks, and finds the door has cracked. He shudders and steps back further when the pounding comes again, and again, until the wood starts splintering away.

Black smoky streams work their way through the cracks and Jack witnesses them form into arms that are now reaching for him. He tries to run, but the streams extend to his neck and clasp on to it, squeezing, choking, until he’s blinded with brilliant white light. Then he sees nothing.

When Jo doesn’t find Jack in his room the next morning, she figures he’s snuck out of the house, something he’s been known to do. As midafternoon rolls around she begins to worry, and by dusk she’s calling friends and family to see if they’ve heard from him.

It’s Tony who goes into the woods to see if he can find Jack there. He heads to their favorite spot first, and that’s where he finds him, face down, swollen in the water, floating, brushing softly against the bank.