by Ronald Malfi
Moving away from the window, he went to the stairs and grabbed the hammer. Back on the floor, he struck the upturned end of the warped floorboard with the hammer, which did nothing but cause the other end of the board to pop up. A single nail catapulted into the air and clattered to a distant corner of the room.
The invisible dog barked a third time, this time with an undoubted sense of urgency and what Sam surmised to be fear or pain or both. He dropped the hammer and went out through the front door where he could survey the front of the property. No dog anywhere. He moved quickly around the back of the house and could see nothing by the sea of white-gold grass yawning down to the trees and shielding his property from the foot of the bay. Sweat dimpled his brow and cascaded down his neck. When the dog barked again, he jerked his head back in the direction of the house. The dog sounded very close but also still muted. The damn thing sounded like it was inside his house.
He glanced up at some of the second story windows, black as busted headlamps. Sun reflected off the panes. They could have been windows into Hell.
What had that waitress said? This house looked like it had grown up from the ground straight from Hell.
She also said it bites, whispered Annie, causing him to shiver.
He hurried back inside and listened but could hear nothing but the house settling all around him. He went to the stairwell and took the stairs two at a time until he arrived on the second floor. Shafts of light slanted at odd angles all the way down the hall. He wended through the rooms, acknowledging that it was very possible a stray dog had managed to find its way inside, or perhaps had been hiding in here all along. He wondered if that could explain the items that seemed to rearrange themselves—the shoes disappearing then reappearing in different rooms, or the reorganization of his tools.
When he completed a search of the upstairs and found no dog, he dropped down on the first step at the top of the stairwell and felt his body begin to tremble. He was certain he was doomed to either bray laughter like a maniac or simply collapse into miserable hysterics. When the tears came, he was still unsure which way he’d gone.
Back downstairs, he dumped his collection of pill bottles out onto the floor and sifted through them until he decided on the appropriate cocktail. Without water, he swallowed three or four pills from different bottles, then stood there and watched the walls constrict and expand as if breathing.
(And he thought, This is the story of Curious Bunny. The bunny was so curious and went hopping around in fields all day, sticking his little white, furry head into all the holes in the ground. “Whose hole is this?” asked Curious Bunny. “This is Angry Muskrat’s hole, Bunny,” said Angry Muskrat, “and you’ll be getting into trouble sticking your head into other people’s holes, Curious Bunny.”)
“Fuck.” His voice trembled and sounded as if several people were speaking all at once.
Once his mind and his vision cleared, he dropped back down onto his knees and crawled along the floor to the warped floorboard. Slipping his fingers beneath the board, he managed to pry it up from the floor. Another nail sailed across the room and rebounded off a wall.
He held the warped plank up at eye-level. It was bent upwards at the ends like a smile. Or, turning it over, like a frown.
Setting the plank down, he leaned over and peered into the narrow slat of dark space left behind in its absence. It was a shallow drop, dust-filled and smelling of rot and mildew, and just a few inches deep. Something glinted and caught his eye. He reached down into the crevice—
(you’ll be getting into trouble sticking your head into other people’s holes)
—and scooped up the item, along with a handful of black dust.
There, kneeling on the floor, he stared down at the item he had retrieved, which now sat in the center of his palm. Briefly, his vision blurred. His mouth went dry and his tongue felt like a balled up gym sock stuffed into his mouth.
In the center of his hand was his missing wedding ring.
8
There was a floor under the floor. As Sam twisted the wedding ring back on his finger, he could see, in the gap where he had pried out the loose floorboard, that there was a single black ceramic tile down there. It was scuffed, old, and covered in dust, but he recognized it immediately for what it was. He reached back down into the hole and was able to slide the tips of his fingers beneath the surrounding floorboards; there was perhaps a half-inch of space between the floorboards and the tile. He tugged at the other boards but they were securely nailed down and wouldn’t budge.
Sam felt his left eyelid twitch. There was a crowbar in the hall closet; it would be easier to use the crowbar than to pry up the rest of the floorboards with the claw end of the hammer. He went to the closet, opened the door, and paused. The crowbar was there, leaning against the wall, just as Sam had left it. His other tools were in here as well, tucked into the pouches of a tan leather tool bag with large brass buckles that he had gotten on sale at the Walmart down by the highway. Staring at it now, he questioned whether or not it was the same bag. He had purchased it new, the leather slick, shiny, and stiff…yet this bag looked as beaten and frayed as an old baseball glove. The leather was as dull as parchment and veined with cracks. The stitching had pulled away at some of the seams and there were small holes, like the variety a family of mice might make, along the crinkled canvas.
Sam’s eyes shifted to the stack of comic books that stood beside the tool bag. They were the comics he had found the day he first arrived at the house; instead of throwing them away, he had tucked them in here in case they happened to belong to any neighborhood kids who had previously been using this place as a clubhouse. They were still piled together and tied with a length of packing twine but, much like the leather tool bag, they had changed. On the day of his arrival, he had noticed some superhero with a flapping cape on the cover of the top book, all vibrant blues and reds, carving a starry arc in the wake of a roundhouse punch. That image was still somewhat visible now, if just barely, yet all the color had been leeched from the artwork. The entire cover of the top book had faded to a monochromatic yellow. He reached out and set the palm of one hand atop the stack. The comic books had been soggy and spotted with mold when he’d put them in here. Now, the pages were dry and brittle, the mold itself having turned to a dry blue powder.
He untied the packing twine and thumbed through a number of the books. All the pages were bleached white, raped of the artwork and text, the pages themselves the texture of dried autumn leaves. Again, Sam felt his eyelid twitch.
He grabbed the crowbar and dragged it across the floor. The single missing floorboard gaped up at him. That dull black tile looked as harsh and as dense as slate. He proceeded to tear up the rest of the parlor floor.
9
Eighteen months ago, it was the old house—the one in Philadelphia—that had caused him trepidation.
“This house is haunted, Geoffrey. They’re both watching me from every corner.”
“Cut it out.”
“Sometimes I think they’re here because they need to be near me. Other times, I think they’re angry at me, that they’ve come back for me, to take me back with them.”
Sam was sitting on the floor in front of the sofa in the old house in Philly. Duke, his German shepherd, sat beside him while Sam absently petted his smooth coat. Geoffrey was crouched before them both, a terrified expression on his face. After repeated unanswered phone calls to the Hatch residence, Geoffrey Fulton had come over to check up on him. Concern was etched all over the man’s face.
“You know none of that’s true,” Geoffrey said, his voice low. “It’s your mind, Sam.”
“Are you so sure?”
“Why don’t you come and spend some time with Mary and me? It’ll do you good.”
Sam didn’t answer.
“You need to get out of this house, Sam. Just for a little while.”
Sam thought he could smell something burning on the stove, even though he hadn’t turned the stove on. He hadn’t
even been in the kitchen in days. Not since before the funeral.
“Or if you don’t want to stay with us,” Geoffrey continued, “then check yourself into a hotel, clear your head. Or fuck, man, take a vacation. Anything.”
Sam thought he saw someone or something flit by over one of Geoffrey’s shoulders. He leaned forward and peered past Geoffrey down the hallway but the hallway was dark and empty. A nervous expression on his face, Geoffrey turned and looked behind him then turned back to Sam. He was frowning and had his eyebrows knitted together.
Finally, Geoffrey stood. Hands on his hips, he went over to the front windows and peered through a part in the curtains. A shaft of daylight spilled across the floor. Lazy snow fell beyond the windowpane. The burning smell intensified.
“I can take some time off the job search,” Geoffrey said. “We can go somewhere together for a little bit, if that’s what you want. I can do that.”
Sam did not answer; he continued staring down the empty hallway.
Eventually, Geoffrey went back out into the hall, grabbed his coat, and stood for a moment in the doorway, looking at Sam. He looked like he wanted to say a lot of things but was powerless to say anything. What could be said?
“If you’re going to leave,” Sam said while Geoffrey just stood there, “could you please take Duke with you?”
“Why?” Geoffrey’s tone suggested he didn’t trust Sam.
“I’m worried about him. I keep forgetting to feed him,” Sam lied. “Just for a little while.”
“Yeah. Okay. Just for a little while.” Geoffrey patted his thigh and said, “C’mere, Duke.”
Duke whimpered but did not go to him.
“Go on,” Sam whispered against the dog’s face. Duke rose and trotted obediently over to Geoffrey, his tail between his legs and his head pointing toward the floor.
Then Geoffrey and Duke left. Sam heard them going down the porch steps and, moments later, heard Geoffrey’s car start up and pull away from the curb. The car’s rough engine faded as it puttered down the street.
Later that evening, Sam took a hot bath. He contemplated opening up his wrists. Being a physician, he knew the best way to do it. There were pills in the medicine cabinet and plenty of tranquilizers in his medical bag, too. He could administer any of those to himself and it could be quick and painless and clean. There was the gas oven, too. He considered doing any of those things. Noises in the hallway either persuaded him not to or attempted to urge him on with it. In the end, he decided they were persuading him not to. After the bath, he threw some clothes in a duffle bag he found in the closet of the master bedroom. He emptied his medicine cabinet into the duffle bag as well. Invisible beings respired down the nape of his neck the entire time, causing his flesh to pimple. The whole house smelled like it was burning down around him, although nothing looked out of place and he could not locate the source of the fire, if there was even a fire in the first place. There was an old grandfather clock in the foyer, an antique from one of Annie’s distant relatives, and it chimed midnight. Once he finished packing, he took some lorazepam to calm his nerves then went through the house turning off all the lights. There were a surprising number of lights on in all the rooms; he couldn’t remember turning any of them on. The floor was black-and-white checkered tile, and his footfalls thudded coldly, hollowly. The Wally Lamb book Annie had been reading was still on the end table beside the couch, a Kermit the Frog bookmark poking out of it. Similarly, Annie’s clothes were piled up on the floor of the laundry room. Her smell still haunted them. He stood looking at them for a very long time, his senses dulled from medication but not completely obliterated. After a bit, his vision grew blurry. In the kitchen, the sink was still full of her dishes, the countertop littered with little Marley’s—
He looked away.
In the nursery, there were blankets in the crib. Ducklings in diapers gaped at him from the pink wallpaper. A stuffed music box bear stared at him from atop the changing table. Sam felt a numbness filter through his entire body. Something wet rasped each time he exhaled. He wondered if there was someone else currently occupying his body, orchestrating his movements and diluting his thoughts. He picked up the stuffed bear and turned the silver butterfly key at its back. Music chimed—“Old MacDonald.”
It was still snowing when he stepped outside. The sky was a sheet of tarpaper and the moon was masked by preternatural clouds that shimmered with a silvery nimbus. Thin bluish snow covered the ground and the streets were messy with slush. Pausing along the sidewalk, he looked up at the house and thought he saw movement in the front window, behind the part Geoffrey had made in the curtain.
Sam turned and walked down the street in the cold. He never looked back.
That was less than two years ago.
10
It was dusk by the time he finished ripping up the floor. Mounds of splintered floorboards were chocked around the perimeter of the room, and Sam had propped open the front door midway through the operation so he could chuck boards out into the yard. Sore and exhausted, he staggered backward now, the crowbar still clenched in two trembling hands, until his back struck the far wall. His palms were blistered and tender. His heart strummed feverishly. What medication he had taken earlier had completely worn off through his exertion, leaving him feeling like a system of hollowed-out tubes tied together by thin wires designed to resemble a human being. Even his movements felt false and unlike his own.
The floor beneath the floor was comprised of black and white ceramic tiles, alternating in a checkerboard fashion. They were dull beneath a carpet of dust. On some of the white tiles, tiny dots of dark red liquid shimmered in the fading evening light; it took Sam a moment to realize they were drops of blood from the weeping sores on the palms of his hands.
He dropped the crowbar, letting it clatter to the tiles. Outside in the nearby field, blackbirds burst from the overgrown grass into the deepening sky.
It was the same floor that had been in the front hallway and kitchen back in the house in Philly. Annie had called it a hideous floor when they first moved in, and it had been their intention to rip it up and replace it as soon as they saved up some more money…but that had never happened. Like ugly paintings that somehow become beautiful, both he and Annie grew to love the hideous checkerboard floor. The monster has a certain style, a certain class, Annie had said one evening. They had both laughed.
So the floor had stayed…and here it was again. Right here, under his feet. His legs weak, he descended to his knees. His hands still trembled and he was still breathing heavily from all the work. Glancing at his palms, he saw them splotchy with blood and undulating with large blisters.
(And he thought, This is the story of Curious Bunny. The bunny was so curious, he hopped over to a hole that he saw in the trunk of a tree. Curious Bunny peeked into the hole, his little nose twitching. “Whose hole is this?” asked Curious Bunny. “This is Sleepy Owl’s hole, Bunny,” said Sleepy Owl, poking his tired head out of the hole in the tree. “You should be careful poking your head into dark holes in trees, Curious Bunny.”)
As the tinkling of a distant music box began playing, Sam sprung to his feet and ran out of the house.
* * *
The smell of fried foods struck him like a punch to the stomach the moment he stepped inside Mindy’s. He realized he was simultaneously starving and nauseated. Around him, the mildly populated diner appeared to spin and slant sideways, like some amusement park ride. There was a counter that ran the length of the restaurant against the far wall, behind which waitresses bustled and men in white uniforms slaved in the kitchen beyond. Sam went to the counter and dropped himself down on one of the stools. When one of the waitresses appeared to take his order, he tried his damnedest to look sane.
“Just a coffee, please. Black.”
When the waitress returned with his coffee, he asked if another waitress named Karen Kilstow was working this evening.
“Yeah, I think she’s in the back. You a friend of hers?”
“I hardly know her. She served me breakfast a few days ago.”
The waitress frowned. Her name tag said TRACY and she had a chubby face with an upturned nose. She looked distrustfully at him.
“Tell her I’m the guy who bought the creepy house out on Tar Road,” he said.
“There’s a house on Tar Road?”
He smiled crookedly at her, not quite sure if she was being condescending or not, and opting not to ask her to explain. Once she left, he managed to bring his coffee cup to his lips and sip it without spilling any. After a minute or two, Karen Kilstow came through a swinging door behind the counter. Sam watched her scan the bar, her eyes passing right over him at first. When her eyes returned to him, she offered him a warm smile and cocked her head to one side. She approached, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Well hello,” she said.
“Hey.” He set his coffee cup down so he wouldn’t drop it. “Remember me? I’m the guy who—”
“Yeah,” she said. “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember your name.”
“It’s Sam. Sam Hatch.”
“Tracy said you were asking for me?”
He ran one hand through his long hair, and thought he must look like a madman sitting here, summoning a woman he did not know. “I know this is probably a bit strange, but I had some questions about the house. I don’t know anyone around here and since you seemed to know about it, I figured I’d see if you could…I don’t know…maybe help me out…”