Marrying Into the Family
by Charles C. Cole
Take it from me, accepting a dare is not always supporting our highest good. A dare is a contest where the winner and loser are often predetermined. But sometimes circumstances dictate that you simply cannot decline.
At the time of these events, I was newly engaged to my college girlfriend, Rebecca. I had made the traditional gesture and asked her retired military father for her hand, over martinis I’d mixed, and he had acceded to my request. His “baby” was a little younger than me and a little less experienced in the dating department, but I adored her and held a promising job. All was good.
Then Rebecca’s older sibling, Theo, named after their father, invited me out for some quality man-to-man time. Theo had started his own car-repair business right after high school, moved out and was doing great. But he’d never relinquished his first job of being the protective big brother.
“You drink beer, eat chicken wings and throw darts. What can go wrong? Make him earn it, but make sure to let him win,” Rebecca said. “We’ll both know the truth.”
The bar was loud, crowded and hot. Thank goodness, the beers were cold and probably watered down. It was a Friday night, so I didn’t have to worry about getting up for work in the morning. Theo sat across from me at a small round table at the front, his back to the door. He mostly asked me about my favorite action films, nothing about my life plans with his cherished sister. He kept looking at his phone.
“Is Rebecca asking you to go gentle on me?” I teased.
“You seem like a good guy,” he said, like he was reluctantly telling his children Christmas was cancelled. “No red flags. Believe me, I looked. But I have to be sure, for her, so I have one final test. You pass, I give my blessing.”
“Fire away,” I said, ready for almost anything.
“There’s an abandoned house, ten minutes away. Nobody’s lived there for years. I bought it cheap to flip it. The windows are boarded up. I have a key to the basement bulkhead door. I give you a sleeping bag and lock you in for the night without your phone. You make it till dawn, we’re brothers-in-law for life.”
“Can I bring a book?” I joked.
“I’m dead serious.”
“Can I have a bucket to pee in?” I asked.
“Not a problem.”
Theo reached across the table and grabbed my phone, pausing to appreciate the screensaver of Rebecca standing at the top of Streaked Mountain. “I’ll tell her you forgot it.”
“We’re doing this right now, I take it.”
“We can leave your car at my shop; you won’t need it,” he said.
On the plus side, he didn’t blindfold me or bind my hands. And the sleeping bag was new; it rolled back and forth between us in its crunchy plastic sleeve, flashing a big orange SOLD sticker as he took turns.
The house in question sat by itself, a looming shadow, across the road from a large farm, so at least there were neighbors not too far down the street. He drove his pickup around to the back and sighed — I swear — like a whale breaching. The vibe was: I really don’t want to do this, but this is what protective big brothers do.
“The real estate agent calls it a 19th-century Victorian. Needs tons of work, but it’s got good bones.” He escorted me to the bulkhead. “Don’t worry about getting the sleeping bag dirty,” he said. “Any questions?”
“Why’d you keep looking at your phone at the bar?”
“We’re cutting it close. I wanted to get you situated before midnight.”
“Because?” I asked
“That’s when the ghost starts its thing, thumps on the walls, a bit of moaning, and stomps on the stairs. Nothing too violent. Did I tell you about the ghost?”
“Forgot that part,” I grumbled.
“Some of the graduating seniors consider spending the night the final exam.”
Theo handed me a long silver flashlight, the kind a museum watchman would use, a pocket-sized black alarm clock and a new pillow in a plastic bag.
“What’s the clock for?” I asked.
“So you can always see the finish line, especially when you want to quit,” he said, having obviously thought it through.
“You sleeping outside in your truck?”
“No, man, I’m crapped out. But I’ll be back with something yummy and hot before the rooster crows. Hope you make it, bro; Becca really likes you.”
I waited until Theo shut the bulkhead behind me to turn on the flashlight; I didn’t want him to see me flinch. There was a switch on the wall at the bottom of the wooden steps: nothing. I didn’t expect lightbulbs or electricity, but it would have been a nice touch. I swung my beam around to orient myself. The basement was a mess: old cordwood that had once been stacked, a foundation made of big rocks instead of poured cement, a thin pool of water on one end and a stack of old tires.
I moved upstairs, leaning against the railing the whole way. At the top, twine hung below a bare bulb. I yanked it a couple of times, but nothing. I thought about going back down and waiting just inside the bulkhead, but how would that look?
Instead, I made my way through the filthy kitchen, fake-brick linoleum peeled up in places and melted in other places, beer cans and take-out boxes on the yellow counter, to a small half-bath where I had just enough room to stretch out and lock the door.
I unrolled the sleeping bag, if only to keep from lying directly on the filthy floor, and aimed the flashlight at the busy spiders on the ceiling. Yes, there was fecal matter smeared in the sink, a shattered medicine cabinet, and crumpled newspaper in the rust-stained toilet with a couple of Snickers wrappers sticking out of the electric baseboard.
And I’d left my bucket downstairs. When you take a dare, you expect a certain amount of discomfort, a temporary stretch goal for a grander reward.
It didn’t take long: I heard a door squeak then slam shut. My best guess: the basement door I had left open was no longer open. It was either the traditional antics of a pouting ghost or maybe Theo and some drunk friends amping the drama. I turned off my light and listened for whispers and giggles, taking small solace in the thought that “they” must be at least as on edge as their intended “victim.”
I could distinctly hear walking above me. Maybe an old feral cat on the prowl. Or maybe Theo and associates were going room to room. I wondered if there was a crawlspace in the attic where I could have hidden or if I could have scrunched up in the cabinet under the sink.
Someone grabbed the doorknob, tried turning it, and pushed against the locked door. With visions of the rape scene in the movie Deliverance, I half-expected some excited yokel to yell out, “Found him!” Silence: no cackles, no footfalls and no indication of sweeping light.
I thought about sitting up, bracing my back against the cabinet with my feet against the door, but I really didn’t think someone would go to the effort of kicking the door in. If I stayed relaxed, they’d stay relaxed. Honestly, I lay on the floor rolling my tongue over my teeth and wishing I could brush the little fellas. You know, normal mundane bedtime rituals. I pulled the tiny clock from my pocket but couldn’t read it in the dark, so I held it to my left ear like comforting white noise.
What was Rebecca thinking? What had Theo told her? Was Theo, Senior, in on the mischief? Had something similar transpired to other boyfriends? If this was what happened to a “good guy,” what happened to suiters who hadn’t made the cut? “Make sure to let him win,” Rebecca had said. What did Theo’s “winning” look like in this situation? Was any girl worth this? Was that the goal, to make me go away?
I heard a couple of cans being knocked over on the kitchen floor, one rolling. Then something sniffed along the bottom of the door. I prayed it wasn’t a hound or pit bull. I’d been bitten by both. I could deal with a rat. A sudden brief flash like from a distant thunderstorm: no rumble, followed by a prolonged pause of activity when I thought I could hear rain outside.
I closed my eyes or were they already closed? Could I tell the difference? I considered sleeping straight through till morning. What else was there to do? Then something rattled the door, not the doorknob. Maybe it was against the rules to lock a door. I considered yelling and cursing, but I didn’t want to give “them” the satisfaction of knowing they were getting under my skin. I quietly migrated in front of the door, without touching it, so that “they” would have to hit me if they pushed it in. The sleeping bag was wide enough and the room narrow enough that it blocked anyone’s view under the door.
My eyes were definitely open. How did I know? There was a hand-sized faint green circle moving across the ceiling like from the 20th Century Studio’s searchlight. But it wasn’t coming from me. So, was it shining through the floor of the room above? Throngs of daddy-longlegs shook with anger when it passed through them. I had unexpected allies.
The light faded, like the searcher had given up. I, apparently, faded as well. In fact, I didn’t realize I’d actually fallen asleep until I was suddenly awoken by an animal’s screeching. Cat? Owl? Then I heard hissing: cat. Maybe it had found a rat too big to play with. Sorry, cat.
The house had gotten cold. I took off my sneakers and climbed into the sleeping bag. I remembered my pillow, but it was like resting my head on a half-inflated football: no comfort. I’d leave it behind for the next contestant. Hell, I’d probably leave the sleeping bag behind as well. I sensed I would not be the last rider on this jolly roller coaster.
Just then I smelled roses. Beats me where it came from, but it was like a soothing lullaby for my nose. It definitely seemed out of place in an abandoned house. For some reason, it made me daydream about proposing to Rebecca in a haunted house instead of at Popham Beach, where it had really happened. If the ghost turned out to be a pretty-smelling attractive woman, she was welcome to share my sleeping bag.
“Charlie Hammond? You alive?” called a familiar voice.
“Theo, you son of a bitch,” I called back.
“Where are you?” he asked. I opened the door. Though the windows were boarded up, some daylight was pushing its way inside; I had made it.
“Welcome to the family,” said Theo, handing me a bag of hot breakfast. “You look like hell.”
Rebecca swore she had no idea of Theo’s plans. I tried, I really did. But Rebecca had one more year of college to go. We were living in different towns. Her high school sweetie quit the Army, or was discharged, and came back home to continue things from where they’d left off.
They got married. And he didn’t have to spend the night in an old house.
When someone talks about a dare, that’s what I think of. I kept the sleeping bag and had it dry-cleaned. I see Theo on Facebook now and again. He recently messaged me that Rebecca would have been better off with me. From what I see online, I’m certain he’s right.
Copyright © 2026 by Charles C. Cole
