The House of Dust

by Noah Broyles

  13

  Something lay behind my simple dichotomy of whether the old woman had been loved or hated. Something that ran far deeper.

  —“The House of Dust”

  Southern Gothic

  “I had the strangest dream last night,” Missy said. “Well, a couple, but there was one . . . ”

  In the silence of the bedroom, she could hear the soft rasp of his razor in the bathroom. Everything around her was as musty as it had been the night before, but the sunlight pooling on the floor brought out all its potential. The fine oak alone made it a room fit for a queen.

  A queen . . .

  As the pieces of the dream coalesced, she drew the covers closer despite the warmth of the air.

  “Tell me,” he finally called back.

  “You don’t care about my silly dream.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  She slid her fingers back and forth across the edge of the sheet. “It started with someone knocking. I got out of bed, thinking it was the front door, and went downstairs. But there was no one at the front door. The sound was behind me, so I went up the hall. You remember how the basement door was stuck yesterday? Well, there was knocking on the other side of that door. When I turned the knob, it swung open and people started coming up out of the basement—hundreds of them. They went out on the front porch, where you were sitting in a rocking chair. They picked you up and took you to a big tree in front of the house and—and there was a noose in the tree, and they hanged you. And then they lowered you into the ground, into a hole. Then they all lay down on the ground and went to sleep. I sat in a rocking chair and watched them sleep.”

  He stood in the doorway. “You didn’t try to save me?”

  “There wasn’t time. The hole collapsed. You were dead.”

  “Well,” he said, starting to turn away.

  “They had a name for me in the dream,” she said.

  He paused. “Uh-huh?”

  “Yes. They called me Queen of Hearts. What do you think it means?”

  “I couldn’t say.” He went back into the bathroom.

  Missy looked down. The sheets were clutched in her hands. Her dry, ugly hands still covered with dirt from the night before. Throwing back the covers, she got out of bed and looked down at the dirty bathrobe hanging from her body. She tightened the belt and straightened the collar, swearing to herself that she wouldn’t cry when he insisted that the rest of her night had been a dream as well.

  Mustering a smile, she entered the bathroom and came up behind him at the sink. Propping her chin on his shoulder, she said, “And how do I look this morning?”

  His chin was jutting into the air, the razor on his throat. It paused as his eyes moved to her. “I told you to take a bath last night.”

  “And I did.”

  “Didn’t do much good.”

  “I just exude dirt, don’t I? That’s why you wash your hands after we make love.”

  “You want to play?” He dropped the razor into the sink and turned around. His face became red and excited as he untied her robe. They always looked the same up this close.

  “Sure,” she said. “Truth or dare?”

  He stopped. The redness deepened a bit. “Just say what you’re accusing me of this time.”

  “This time? This time it’s not verbal or physical abuse. It’s psychological.” She backed toward the tub. “Surprised I know about that? Yes, I read it in the encyclopedia.”

  He rubbed the remaining shaving cream off his face. “And I did this how?”

  “Oh, simple stuff. Dumping dirt in my bathtub. Sticking daffodils in the floor.”

  “The pipes are bad. I’d expect some impurities in the water—

  there were when I bathed last night. There are right now in this sink. Come look.”

  “Impurities,” she repeated. Bending down, she ran a finger across the tub floor. It came up caked with dirt. “And the flowers?”

  He shifted. “I haven’t seen any flowers.”

  “Of course, of course. That’s what I meant by psychological abuse. So maybe I’ll just oblige you, then, and go crazy.” Using her finger like a tube of lipstick, she smeared the dirt across her mouth.

  “Stop it!” He unfolded his arms and looked away. “Okay, I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want to unsettle you, but clearly that’s already happened.”

  “Oh? What is it, baby?”

  “We had a visitor last night. Someone skulking around the house. I was up late, you know, and I heard them moving around. They were inside. Came in through the back door.”

  She lowered her hand. “Who was it?”

  “Someone from town.” He stepped back to the sink and turned on the faucet, dashing water across his face. “Someone spying. That’s the last thing we came here for. That’s why I’m going to town.” He left the tap on and moved away from the sink. “Now leave that running. It’ll be clear in a minute and you can clean yourself up.” As he entered the bedroom he added, “I’ll be back in a couple hours.”

  Missy stood quietly for a bit. Frustration was a common feature in his voice. Anger, too. Both had been present just now. He wasn’t lying about the intruder. A little of the relief she had felt last night at the idea he was innocent returned. He’s still hooked on me. Still needs me.

  But for how much longer?

  She jammed the thought away. There’d been an intruder. And now she was alone.

  The sink choked. Her eyes moved. The water was flowing clear now. She went over and gingerly lowered her hands into the basin. No unnatural force dragged them toward the drain. She cleaned her skin and wiped her lips. When she shut off the tap, the house was silent.

  Uncertainty clamored inside her head, though. Her hands buzzed and her ears rang, just as they had after the gunshot in that closed-up room when she was ten.

  She steadied herself on the sink until all the chaos calmed.

  In the bedroom, she opened her suitcase and selected a pair of denim pants and a green short-sleeved button-down. She opened a fresh pack of gum and put two pieces in her mouth. Standing before the dresser, she ran a brush through her thick hair, then pulled it back, stretching the tie across her fingers until it almost snapped. It would be another day of sweat on her face and neck. Another day alone.

  She opened the closet doors and examined the leftovers from the past resident. Shirts, dresses, shoes—all musty, many covered in horrible floral print. She pulled the old clothing out and put her own things in their place. He’d never skimped on buying her clothes. Not that she’d particularly wanted them. He had. Clothes for his mannequin.

  But at least someone had cared to make her happy.

  Missy squeezed her lips closed over a sigh and looked at the mess on the floor. Just leaving it wasn’t an option; she’d have to find a place for all this stuff. Her eyes strayed to the rumpled bed, and a thought surfaced that made her smile.

  Stripping the mildewed sheets from the bed, she bundled the clothes and shoes inside, then grabbed his cigarette lighter from his nightstand. She dragged the unwieldy sack into the hall and down the stairs. The weight almost bowled her over.

  The sheets clawed at the porch, peeling up splinters, as she dragged them into the hot morning. In the clearing out front, she found a patch consisting mostly of gravel. Dropping the bundle, she crouched down with the lighter.

  The thick cloth was loath to catch, and once it did the flames burned low and smoldering, and thick smoke billowed up. Missy stood back several feet and watched it, vaguely disappointed. Eventually, she shrugged and drew a breath, looking up at the trees and listening to the chirping bugs.

  And suddenly she realized she had seen these trees just a few hours ago in the dream. But of course she had. She had dreamed of this place. Even so, it felt weird to stand where something so alien had happened.

  It did
n’t happen.

  Still, the ground seemed to ripple, beckoning.

  She found herself walking toward the woods, in the footsteps of the people who had carried her fiancé to the hanging tree. Pushing through the thicket and the first tree trunks at the clearing’s edge, she moved into the withered world of weeds and stunted bushes beneath the canopy. It was easy to see how this might once have been a parkland, with short grass between stately oaks. But skinny trees had shot up between the centuries-old ones, obstructing the view of the house from the road. She would have the place cleared out again, and—

  Missy stopped. The dream tree loomed ahead. It was a huge thing, with ascending branches like a crown. Except for one. It jutted horizontally out fifteen feet above the ground. A noose dangled from that branch.

  Something did happen here. At some point.

  Unease wriggled through her stomach. She imagined the noose on her neck, closing off her air, drawing her toward the tree. Then she remembered the next part of her dream, the strangest part. Her gaze fled to the ground beneath the noose. As she stepped forward, the dirt thumped with a hollow sound beneath her tread.

  The mouth of a crevasse appeared, a dark stab wound between the knuckles of two huge roots. It was wide enough to accommodate a bound body. A few spindly shoots of grass grew limply above the gap.

  Shuffling as near as she dared to the hole, she stopped and surveyed the noose again. The rope was black with age. Vestiges of its final victim clung to the inside edge—the decayed material that had stuck and hardened when the neck and body finally separated and fell away.

  Or were lowered down and left to rot.

  Palms slick, she edged closer to the pit. Crouching, she braced herself on the root and leaned gradually out. The weary forest light revealed several feet of smooth sides unbroken by roots, but penetrated no farther into the darkness. How far down did it go?

  Cool, mossy air, laced with the bitter scent of deep earth, stroked her face and twined around her straining neck. No matter the angle, nothing further revealed itself. A ridiculous idea skipped across the surface of her mind, and she called “Hello?” into the hole.

  The slack air stirred against her face. The weeds around the hole trembled. An image of herself, as if seen by someone staring up from below, struck her vividly: her head and shoulders against the dim light, her features invisible. Missy through different eyes. Eyes that began climbing up the wall toward a silhouetted Missy. Toward her.

  Missy’s arms stiffened, pulling her away from the gap. She blinked hard, looking around at the woods, erasing the foggy image. Still, for a moment, things were fuzzy. She wondered if she had not actually awakened from the dream, if it was still going on.

  But she was awake. She could feel the hard root against her knees, and the grime on her dry hands. It must have been something noxious coming out of the ground.

  Cautiously, she sat forward and stuck her right hand over the hole.

  The cool air from below collided with the warm air of the woods and created a mirage around her hand, smoothing the wrinkles away, softening the skin. Her lips parted. She started to withdraw her hand when the current of air pulsed. Then slowed. Then drained to almost nothing.

  Then, renewed, it came rushing up from the deep. Again it petered out. And again it gushed. Becoming steady.

  Missy pulled her hand back. Still withered. Standing slowly, she stared at the hole.

  The few shoots of grass near the edge shivered as the air throbbed up from below. She had disturbed something. And now the ground was breathing. Or something underground was breathing.

  She backed away as paranoia boiled up from the swishing weeds. The earth trembled with her every footfall, quaking like thin ice. The tree’s great roots must have opened hollow pockets in the soil. She would break through. She would fall into the pit. She would join whatever else was lurking down there in the darkness. The conviction gripped her: It was following her from beneath the crust of earth, mirroring her movements, rootlike hands ready to burst through and snatch her.

  Wheeling around, she fled, pushing through the foliage and vines and twiggy branches, raising her arms to shield her face as she burst through the shrubs along the tree line. She didn’t stop. She walked through drifting smoke and climbed the porch. Leaving the front door wide, she went down the hall to the basement door beneath the steps.

  She stopped in front of the door. This was where the dream began. The knob rattled as she laid her palm against it. It squeaked in its socket as it turned. The door groaned open.

  Muddy air came out, flavored with decay. Nothing else.

  Reaching into the darkness, she ran a hand along the left wall, then the right, until she found a switch. A bulb, mounted crookedly in the stairwell’s sloping ceiling, came to life. In the yellow light, she looked down the stairs. They were surfaced by red peel-and-stick tiles, like the ones in the bathroom at the Club that always bubbled up when it rained.

  A little way down, the passage turned right.

  There’s nothing down there. Nothing waiting. Nothing hunting you, Missy.

  And it would be a good idea to find out how much storage space they had. Seeing the abandoned space would also reassure her that no lurkers were living down there, coming and going by night, playing cruel pranks.

  Missy went down. For a second, the fear of falling into the darkness gripped her, but each foot landed solidly on the next step.

  Not much of the light followed her around the bend. At the bottom, a long void stretched before her: a whole room beneath the dance hall. She shuffled across the dirt, clicking her tongue and judging the sounds that came back. All of them stayed close, so she decided the place was almost full. This was confirmed when she bumped against a bristling array of chair legs stacked on a table.

  She stood still for a bit to rein in her panting, listening for movement amid the darkness. Satisfied that she was alone down there, she turned, heading back to the stairs and the light.

  Something snagged her feet as she reached the stairs. She leapt onto the first step and whirled around. An overturned box was visible in the dimness.

  Muttering a laugh, she reached out with her toe and teased open the flaps. She prodded inside the box and lifted something out. Small and pink. A tiny sock.

  She snatched it off her foot and put it carefully back in the box.

  She carried the box up to the little landing at the turn of the staircase and crouched down to examine the rest of its contents in the light. Baby clothes, many still marked with price tags. Shoes, and a few colorful rings with sliding beads. And at the bottom, a cheap notebook.

  Lifting it out, she flipped through the pages. Mostly blank, entries written sparsely throughout, with a page torn out near the middle. But there was a name at the top of the first page: Ellen King.

  Below, a few uncertain lines were scratched:

  You told me to write what I see, Pastor, like St. John wrote what he saw on the Island of Patmos. I don’t see the LORD. I see something that stands in the bedroom doorway at night. It comes toward me when I close my eyes. It must be a dream, because John doesn’t see it. But then, he doesn’t sleep much anyway.

  Missy swallowed. “It must be a dream, huh?” In her crouch, her knees burned against the edge of the steps, but she didn’t move. She remembered St. John and the Book of Revelation. In it, things happened in messed-up order. Just as they were now.

  The knocking started as she reached for the next page.

  Her eyes shot up the stairwell. The door at the top was still open. The sound came from beyond. From down the hall. Knuckles on wood, steady as dripping water. The front door was still open, too.

  She stood up, shutting the notebook and gripping it tightly in both hands. The knocking bounced down around her as she climbed the stairs. Tunk-tunk-tunk.

  At the top, she turned into the hall.

  T
he sheriff stood in the front doorway. Dressed in a black suit, he carried a leather satchel over one shoulder and a brown box under one arm. Beneath his thick hair, dark sunglasses hid half of his slick face. His right hand knocked steadily on the doorframe.

  He continued knocking, even as she approached. Smoke came in around him from the bedding fire in the clearing.

  Missy wadded the notebook into a tube and stopped directly in front of him. “I guess that’s the encyclopedia I’m expecting?”

  A grin strained Ezra’s too-smooth flesh. “I have a delivery here for a Ms. Missy Holiday.”

  “So, now you’re a postman.”

  “Only for this special delivery.”

  She was careful to avoid touching his fingers as he handed the package over. Had it been him after all, with the daffodil, with the dirt in the bathtub?

  Holding the box close against her chest, she reached up to shut the door.

  But his foot moved to block it. “Little place like this, I don’t have too much of a schedule to keep. I’d like to speak to you for a minute. Could I come in?”

  “No.”

  Behind those sunglasses, she was sure he wasn’t blinking.

  She waited until he backed away before stepping outside and pulling the door shut. She stood against it, still clutching the box. “What do you want?”

  “To talk.”

  “About what?”

  “What’re you burning out there?”

  “Just some trash.”

  Unslinging the satchel from his shoulder, he grabbed the nearest rocker and dragged it closer. “Would you like to sit?”

  “No. What do you want to say?”

  “I want to make sure you’re all right. Seemed a bit upset last night.”

  “I’m doing well, thank you.”

  “You still seem . . . ”

  She smiled at him pleasantly.

  “What happened to your tooth?” he asked.

  “What?” She let go of the smile.

  “The corner of your front tooth is chipped. The right one.”

  “Oh.” Her tongue darted, feeling the place. “It’s been that way since I was eight.”