The Switch House: A Short Novel

by Tim Meyer

  “And...”

  “Your boy?”

  Angela nodded.

  “We will see. The Everywhere is a dark, nasty place. It's a place that exists between the living and the dead, a place that is and isn't. When a lost soul travels into the Everywhere, it's very hard to find its way back. The longer a soul resides in that dismal environment, the less chance it has of returning the same way it left. Once we locate the dream goblin—”

  “Locate it?”

  “Yes. We have to find it.”

  “And how do we do that?”

  The old woman shrugged. “It could be anybody. We'll have to draw it out of hiding.”

  Angela shook her head. “Hold up. What do you mean it could be anybody? What are you saying? It's a person?”

  “It very well could be. Someone you know or have met.”

  He's still alive, you know? The pharmacist's assistant. Not only had the pills she had given her messed with her birth control, but she had said those words with such... knowledge. Like she knew he was alive, and not figuratively. Angela recalled her wry smile as the words had left the girl's mouth.

  “The girl in the pharmacy. She knew. She said exactly what you did. That he's alive. And my prescription. She gave me the wrong one. Abbie—Dr. Wilson—knew I was on birth control and how important not being pregnant was to me. She wouldn't have given me something to tamper with that.”

  “It could be, Mrs. Shepard. It could be the girl. These creatures usually enjoy influencing someone close to you. It could literally be anyone. But don't lose sight of who it wants.” Keeping her eyes trained on Angela, Rosalyn tilted her head down. “That person is you.”

  Again, she found herself doubting the words falling from the woman's lips, but she couldn't find the strength to argue. She needed more from her. She needed to see this thing through, however bat-shit-crazy her ideas sounded. “Okay, what do we do next?”

  “Wait here a second. I'll go get my favorite grimoire.”

  * * *

  Angela sat on the couch and waited for Rosalyn to return. For what seemed like a lifetime, she stared out the bay window, down the cul-de-sac, at her car. She found herself trapped in a daydream of nothing in particular, transfixed by the white cloud of blank thoughts before her. In that moment, she felt weightless. Untethered from gravity. Free from whatever fate that kept her grounded.

  About thirty minutes later, she snapped out of her divine reverie. Her vision zoomed out, back into the dim lighting of Rosalyn Jeffries's living room. She checked her watch and realized how much time had passed. Didn't she say she'd only be gone a minute? Glancing up the stairs, she listened for movement, rustling from the old woman who seemed to still be digging through her massive collection of spells and books on the occult. Thirty minutes was a long time, massive collection or not.

  “Rosalyn?” she called up the stairs.

  Angela rose from the couch and padded over to the foot of the stairs. She peered up, staring into the still shadows above. “Rosalyn?” she asked the dark of the hallway, and for a second time she received no answer.

  Oh Christ, she thought as she began her ascent. She wondered if she had been so trapped in her empty reveries that she had missed the woman walking back down the stairs. Maybe she had left to retrieve the necessary ingredients to ward off these supposed dream goblins. She hadn't remembered seeing the Oldsmobile in the driveway, and she debated whether to go back and check that first before going any farther. Screw it, she thought, making her way to the top of the stairs and staring down the hall.

  “Rosalyn?” Reluctantly putting one foot forward, she eventually journeyed forth on weak, wobbly knees. “Rosalyn, can you hear me?”

  The bedroom's French doors were already open, inviting her in.

  As she stepped into the doorway, her stomach mixed what little contents remained, threatening another revolt. The smell hit her before she turned the corner, but by then it was too late; the decision to intrude had been made. At first, she thought it was only the chickens, but her sixth sense kicked in and told her differently, that the rancid odor was compounded by another, new stench.

  Rosalyn's head had been set on the right side of the headboard, on the farthest golden-knobbed spike, hanging there like a baseball cap. Stripes of scarlet twisted and crisscrossed their way down to the bottom of the brass pole. Her grayish-brunette hair, which was now tainted with dark orange tones, had been mussed with hot wet blood. The rest of her body lay crumpled in the corner like some lazy teenager's soiled laundry. The murder weapon was staged on the bed, a fine-toothed saw taken from the garage, one of Rosalyn's husband's reliable tools she had never had the heart to toss out. The saw blade was covered in crimson, as was the comforter on which it rested. Little shredded scraps of flesh were wedged between the saw teeth. Angela backed into the hallway, her eyes jumping from the saw back to the woman's severed head, landing first on the ragged red outline of her dangling flesh. Then she lifted her gaze, stopping at Rosalyn's eyes; they weren't wide with bewilderment or abject horror as one might expect when looking malice in the face, knowing the grisly end was near—instead, her final expression was calm, almost peaceful, as if she knew exactly how she'd be handed her fate, accepting it honorably. Her mouth wasn't agape or shaped to indicate that she had cried out for help in her final seconds, but closed and tightlipped, as if she were keeping something inside from crawling out.

  What secrets you had, my little Rosalyn, an unknown voice spoke deep from within Angela's subconscious.

  Just then, a warm breeze flew in through the open window, brushing Angela's hair against her cheek. Whoever had savagely butchered the old woman had escaped through the window, dove out onto the roof, jumped down to the patio, and was halfway to the state border by now.

  She glanced over at the phone stationed on the dresser. Next to the cradle, an orange light blinked, glowing and fading. She hustled over to the piece of ornate furniture, her first thought to call 911 and get them over here as quickly as possible. That time was of the essence when it came to catching murderers. The more she delayed the less chance they had of tracking down the bastard. Hot trails get awfully cold, awfully quickly, or so those true crime shows always said.

  As she snatched up the phone, her thoughts swam. Too many ideas and opinions populated at once. For one thing, why had someone killed Rosalyn? It was too much of a coincidence to be a simple robbery. Besides, judging from the condition of the room, it didn't look like they had taken anything. Her jewelry box remained where it had been, next to the pile of dead chickens. No, this was an execution, plain and simple. A deliberate act which raised many questions. Another thought: why didn't they kill me too? Whoever had committed the crime had to know the woman wasn't alone, that Angela was there, present within the house; her car wasn't exactly hidden being on the street corner. Furthermore, whatever secrets Rosalyn knew, she had relayed some of them to Angela. Did she not tell her enough? What else did the woman know? What was it that had gotten her killed?

  Rosalyn, what else did you need to tell me?

  The room spun as her brain fabricated endless possible answers. All at once, things suddenly became very real, very dark. Shadows crawled across the room, draping darkness over the walls, and Angela could feel them slipping inside her soul, poisoning her spirits, sullying her composure. The phone trembled in her hand and the fringes of her vision blurred.

  The orange light winked: 1 NEW MESSAGE.

  Curiosity bested her, and she pressed play.

  “This is 911 services, we received your call. We will be sending help—”

  She didn't remember calling. Had she called? And forgotten about it? No, that seemed like a conversation she'd remember, though her mind had been so scattered lately she thought it was possible. She had called and forgotten in what? The span of five minutes? No, that didn't seem right. She checked the “placed calls” log and saw the three digit number had been dialed eight minutes ago, well before she'd crossed the bedroom's threshold.
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br />   Then it clicked.

  Fuck.

  She immediately rushed down the stairs, stampeding down them as if whoever had killed Rosalyn Jeffries was right behind her. She rushed across the foyer, ripped open the door, and expected to see the entire cul-de-sac packed with police vehicles and cops, special task force personnel with their weapons drawn and ready to fire on the old woman's murderer.

  But there was no one. The street was as empty as it had been when she'd arrived. Birds whistled. Wind rustled the tree branches. Scattered leaves scuttled across the asphalt.

  And, in the distance, she heard sirens, a consistent wail that always sounded farther than it actually was.

  She doubled back for her purse, which she had left in the kitchen; made sure her pills were inside and bolted for the front door. Sprinting down the street, she fumbled around for her keys, locating them in the bottom of her bag. A long stream of curses spilled past her lips, and she continued scolding herself for being so stupid, for parking so far away. She knew she couldn't have predicted this outcome, but still, prepping for an emergency getaway would have been smart, something she would have thought about had her head not been clouded by recent events.

  As the sirens grew louder, she reached the car. They still hadn't pulled into the cul-de-sac when she peeled out of there, searching the neighborhood windows for prying eyes. There were none that she could see, and she turned back to the road, focusing on her escape, putting weight on the gas pedal, pressing it to the floor.

  Speeding down the highway, she passed several emergency response units heading in the opposite direction. None of them paid her any attention, yet she drove all the way back to Red River feeling like there was a bomb in place of her heart, ready to detonate at any moment.

  VIII.

  LOVE IS THE END OF ALL THINGS

  The second she stepped foot inside her own home, she closed the door, clutched her aching chest, leaned against the door, slid to the floor, and began shaking with the onset of crippling sadness. The tears came fast, too quickly for her to prepare, and the heaving sobs attacked just as abruptly. Her whole body quaked as she purged the overflowing emotions inhibiting her to think clearly. After a few minutes of self-loathing and wondering where it had all gone wrong—where she had gone wrong—she glanced up. Through blurred vision, she made out her husband leaning against the door jamb between the foyer and the kitchen. He was watching her with his arms folded across his chest.

  “I thought you were spending the night at your mom's?” he asked.

  No 'Hey, babe! How are you? Is everything okay?' The way he spoke made her feel like she'd done something wrong.

  “I was. I was, but...”

  “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice lacking concern. He acted like he couldn't see the evidence of her grief streaming down her face. “Everything okay?”

  “No...” she said, shaking her head. “No, everything is most certainly not.”

  “What's wrong?”

  To answer the question honestly would bring forth an admission of lies. She opted for the safe way out. “I just... couldn't sleep there. I wanted to be here. Home. With you.”

  “I thought this house was the reason you left.” He sighed. “And... I thought maybe you were mad at me.”

  “I did want to get away from this house. This place is draining me dry, Terry. You have no idea.” Using her sleeve, she brushed away a cheek's worth of tears. “But it doesn't matter. As long as I have you. You make it bearable.”

  He smiled genuinely. “Aw. Babe, come here.” He strolled over to her, extending his arms. She took his hands and he yanked her to her feet. “Give me a hug.”

  She squeezed him tightly and things had never felt so good.

  A shadow appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Hello, Angela.”

  She jumped out of her husband's arms, her heart hurtling. “What... what are you doing here?”

  Before the figure in the doorway could answer, Terry put his hand on his wife's back and said, “Doctor Wilson dropped by. She figured we should talk. That my inclusion in your therapy might be healthy.”

  Abbie Wilson smiled and nodded. “I know in our therapy sessions you often mentioned how you wish Terry could join us, and how you were against approaching him.”

  Angela cleared her throat. “It's fine. He knows.”

  Abbie's smile widened. “I know. It's wonderful.” She crossed the foyer and snatched her coat off the hook on the pantry door. “Well, I must be going. I have important plans tonight. I just wanted to drop by and introduce myself to Terry, try to convince him. Looks like I didn't need to.” She made her way to the door. “Goodnight, you two. I'll have my secretary schedule our first couple's session.”

  After she left, Terry said, “She seems nice.”

  “Yeah, real nice.”

  “What's the matter? I thought this is what you wanted?”

  “I did. I do. I just...”

  “What?

  “I feel weird.”

  “Weird how?”

  She closed her eyes, trying to find a way to describe her emotions without coming off clinically insane. “Weird in a lot of ways, I guess. Dr. Wilson was the last person I expected to come home and see. Plus, I've had a strange night.”

  “Hallucinations?”

  [Rosalyn's head on a pike, blood pouring down the brass stake in thin runnels.]

  Not a hallucination.

  “No, they've been quiet.”

  “Good. Glad to hear. How have you been feeling otherwise?”

  “Good. I guess. I'm not sure. Exactly how do you mean?”

  “I don't know. Just asking. Being a concerned husband, that's all,” he said, almost defensively.

  In truth, he sounded concerned. Overly concerned now, the opposite of how he had acted when she'd first come home. Angela didn't think much of it, but there was a small part of her that thought he knew where she had been. It was like he could smell the great outdoors on her flesh, Rosalyn Jeffries's blood in her hair. She pushed those thoughts far, far away, burying them in the back of her mind. Right now, all she wanted was her pillow and eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.

  “Okay, I'm going to shower and hit the hay. That okay?”

  “Yeah, sure. There's leftover turkey and gravy in the fridge if you want some.”

  [Rosalyn's calm gaze. Her close-lipped expression. The bloody saw on the bed. Bits of her shredded flesh wedged between the metal teeth.]

  “No, I don't have much of an appetite.”

  “Okay,” he said, smooching her forehead. “Let me finish up down here and I'll meet you in bed.”

  * * *

  As she soaked in the tub, she wondered who had killed Rosalyn Jeffries, and more importantly—why. It didn't add up. The woman had done nothing, absolutely nothing that warranted her execution, and now there she was, her head topping the headboard like the last loser of some violent Viking siege. Who would want her dead? Who could do this?

  She kept waiting for a phone call from the police or a knock on the front door from two detectives wanting to question her on the woman's brutal demise. Or Barry. Fuck, she thought, closing her eyes, holding her breath, and slipping under the water. She recalled telling Barry that the old woman was following her. If the police did question anyone, surely they'd talk to Barry. He would tell them what Angela had said over the phone. She couldn't remember if she had told him her intentions, that she was on the way to the woman's house as they spoke. If she had, that'd make her an easy target. Suspect number one, without a doubt. Hell, it might even be enough to arrest her. She didn't know how much evidence it would take to incriminate her, but with her recent struggles—all of them well documented on Let's Switch Houses!—bringing her in and pinning the murder on her would be a no-brainer, especially if they could verify she was in the house that afternoon. And she figured they could. All it would take was one fingerprint or a nosey neighbor to identify her car. Hell, they could check her E-Z Pass and see her path of travel.


  Yep, she was fucked on all counts.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  It was after midnight and she couldn't believe they hadn't come for her yet.

  She figured she'd enjoy one last bath before being hauled off to jail and earning a life sentence.

  When she came up for air and opened her eyes, she was startled by the figure sitting on the toilet, staring directly at her.

  She screamed.

  The figure didn't budge.

  “Holy shit,” she said, leaning her head gently against the tiled shower enclosure. “You nearly made me pee.”

  “Sorry,” Terry said, leaning against the reservoir tank. He didn't sound like he was all-too sorry. Much like earlier, he didn't seem concerned at all.

  “Terry,” she said, closing her eyes. “I was hoping to have a little privacy.”

  “Sorry, babe. But I think we need to talk.”

  Oh shit! They're here! The cops!

  “Christ, Terry, what is it? What's so important you can't wait ten minutes?”

  “I know where you went today,” he said calmly.

  Her heart slammed to a stop. “W-what?”

  “I know exactly where you went today,” he said, a grin halving his face. Before she could find the words, her husband removed a sharp, serrated blade speckled with brown stains. “And I know you saw what I did.”

  IX.

  I DID IT ALL IN THE NAME OF LOVE AND FORGIVENESS

  “Honey,” she said, the two syllables coming out in very different pitches. “Terry, you're scaring me.”

  His grin didn't falter. As he began to respond, his eyes fell to the knife in his hand. “You know, I was really hoping the cops would get there quicker,” he said, his smile diminishing. “What is it with those pricks? Don't they understand what a goddamn emergency is?”