The House of Dust

by Noah Broyles

  After a few torturous minutes, the woods stepped back. She was on the open portion of Simmons Pike once more. The evening dew was heavy, and still in places steam curtained off the pavement. The headlights pushed a wedge through the writhing haze. The road dipped again, passing through the tunnel.

  And then the gray steeple of the church appeared, separated from the dark clouds by some spectral radiance. Below it, invisible, was the graveyard. And her grave. What if the sheriff was still there, waiting for her at the bend of the road?

  Missy brought the car to a squealing halt.

  Slamming the heel of her hand against the dash, she silenced the siren and cut the lights. She sat in the quiet deepness of the road for a moment. In the rearview mirror, her reflection, a deformed shadow, rocked in the seat.

  This was where the boy had leapt from the car. Twisting, she inspected the tunnel and the forested ridge. There was the gravel track she had swerved onto, leading up through the trees. A spark of hope glowed to life. Maybe if she left the roads, she could escape. Perhaps the thing that was manipulating her would be thrown off. It felt futile, but what else was there?

  Nothing. There was no one to help her.

  Missy rolled down the windows. The humid night gushed across her sweaty wrists as she sat up straight and positioned herself behind the wheel.

  Because nobody loves you, Missy. Not now, not ever in your whole life.

  No. That’s not true.

  Turning the car around, she drove back toward the tunnel and steered onto the gravel path. The vehicle lurched. Keeping her spine stiff, she extended her leg against the accelerator. The engine’s whine climbed as it propelled the vehicle up the hill. Trees blurred past in the headlights. Gravel dust masked her wake.

  Suddenly, the road leveled out. It became a straight track leading her deeper into the woods. She bore down harder on the gas pedal. This had to be an escape route. At the end, she might come out in a different county, on a road uninfluenced by the devilry of this place. Until then she wouldn’t blink, wouldn’t deviate her eyes from that end point. But then something obscured her view.

  Hair. Thick, tangled masses of it dropping from the trees. Swishing across the windshield.

  Missy cringed as it lashed through the open windows. Not hair. Moss. Green curling strings dragging at the side mirrors.

  Moss, where just before the way had been clear.

  The feel of the road changed as well. It roughened, and the tires chewed through dips and roots.

  No! She wouldn’t fall for these wicked illusions. She pressed her foot down harder and shut her eyes and held the wheel straight and screamed through the roar of the car’s engine and the flying gravel and the tearing moss.

  Until the next instant when the sounds fell away. She was in the open. She had broken free. She switched her foot to the brake and let go of the wheel.

  The car spun.

  Momentum flung her into the steering wheel. The impact emptied her lungs. Through her eyelids, she saw the headlights spinning. A sound like churning water filled her ears.

  Then everything stopped. The engine kept running. Instead of water, dust settled across her skin.

  Missy opened her eyes. She stared through her spilling mane of hair.

  Outside, in the steady glow of the headlight beams reaching across a roiled expanse of gravel, scabby white columns and tall dark windows loomed.

  Missy shrank as her breath and strength and vitality were wrung from her body.

  Despite everything, she had returned. The smears of earth from the graveyard tingled on her hands and feet. The boy had been right. The pastor had been right. There was something inside the house. And it had called her back.

  Because it loved her.

  33

  The whole land seemed to hold its breath as I drove away.

  —“The House of Dust”

  Southern Gothic

  In Lexington, in the Dairy Queen, in the shabby men’s bathroom, Brad stared into the sink drain.

  Just a little black hole in the white ceramic. No grate. An entrance to an interconnected labyrinth buried beneath the town. Dirty water dripped from his chin. Pale brown, it streaked down, collected along the seam of the drain, trembled, then vanished into the void. Dirty water from the dirt she had smeared on his face.

  Straightening, Brad rubbed a hand down his face, collecting the last moisture before grabbing a towel from the dispenser. The paper turned brown as he dried his hands. Tossing it into the overflowing trash can, he began to wash his hands again.

  Again the water ran murky off his scrubbing palms. The stuff was deep in the pores. It was stuck to him, desperate to draw him down, make him return. Make him wallow like her.

  In the warm gurgling stream, his wet skin flushed red as he scrubbed his palms together harder. Harder.

  There’s nothing I could have done. She wanted to stay. Sorrel won’t hurt her. She’ll be fine.

  Standing straight again, he scraped his cheeks. Her fingers were still there, still smearing dirt on his face. When he shut his eyes, hers were there, occupied territory. And deep down, the hallucinations flickered, orange and burned, dripping. Ephemeral pieces of him that had become real in that place. Mined from his mind by something dwelling there. In the dirt.

  Adamah.

  He shut off the water and stood in the dripping silence. They were just hallucinations. And she was just sick. Very sick. Psychologically trapped in an ancient narrative loop. If he could just—

  His phone buzzed in his pocket.

  Drawing it out, he frowned at the caller ID.

  Didn’t ring a bell. Damp fingers wavered as he swiped to answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello!” A raspy voice, broken by static. “Is this Bradley Ellison?”

  “It is. Is this . . . is this Richard Hettinga?”

  “Yeah. Good to speak with you.”

  Brad paced in a quick circle, but the static remained.

  “Sorry, I just got your message,” the man continued. “I know it’s a week or two old. Still, I was wondering if you wanted to talk.”

  “Yes, I certainly do.” Brad pushed out of the bathroom and walked out the side door of the restaurant and into the parking lot.

  The other man’s voice crackled. “Well, fine. I’m actually, uh, I didn’t plan for this ’cause no one’s showed much interest before. Still, we can meet up this evening, if you’d like.”

  “That would be amazing. Are you in Lexington?”

  “I’m in Atlanta. Are you in Lexington?”

  Brad stopped halfway to the car. “Yes. But I can leave right away. I can drive down tonight and maybe we could meet up tomorrow morning?”

  “Or tonight. I’m really fine with either.” A fuzzy chuckle. “Like I said, excited to share.”

  “I’m excited to hear it. I can be there in, say, five hours.” He pulled away the phone to check the time. “That’ll put it close to midnight.”

  “Fine.”

  “Where should I meet you?”

  “You know the Gulch?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you there.”

  The line went dead. For a second, he frowned at the phone. Why the Gulch? No matter. It was a chance to piece everything together. To see through the clot of memories that had built up over decades in the quiet corner of the county. To perhaps learn how to extract her from them.

  Rubbing the sandy feel of static from his ear, he walked quickly to the car.

  34

  The orange lights came out along the interstate, the clock climbed toward midnight, and Jennifer shadowed his every thought. What was she doing back in that dark land, far from the city lights?

  —“The House of Dust”

  Southern Gothic

  Every room in the house was empty. In the d
ance hall, Missy sat in the center of the floor beneath the blazing chandelier. Her chin was on her knees. A Bible lay before her dirty toes. The boards spread around her, still bright from yesterday afternoon’s scrubbing, still awaiting their coats of varnish.

  Right now, she was glad they reflected nothing. If they did, they would reflect a monster. A corpse dug from the earth, not meant to live again. She hadn’t changed her clothes; hadn’t washed her hair or skin. She had gone through the entire house, turning on every light she could find, until, in the study, she had found the Bible, the only thing left in his desk.

  She had opened it and pressed it to her nose, seeking the reassuring scent that Grandmama’s Bible pages had once exuded. But as she stood there, eyes closed, an inexplicable conviction came over her that the walls were reaching for her. Quickly, she went out. She took the Bible downstairs to the dance hall, where the bright spread of boards separated her from everything; there she hunched.

  She touched the black cowskin cover gingerly, as if it were the edge of a sword. An unbidden moan escaped her teeth. It vibrated across the bareness. It almost echoed in the interminable stillness of the house. And for a moment, a second sound seemed to answer it, disguised behind the echoes. A sound like the absence of sound. Like the breathing void inside a cave.

  hsssssssssssssssssssssssSSSS

  Before she could decide if it was imaginary, it faded into the native quiet of the house.

  As she opened the Bible, the spine split and a small panic stabbed her. It was almost new. Not well read. Not heeded. Maybe not effective enough to drive away evil.

  She began to flip through the book, looking for some red ink. Red ink meant Jesus was talking, she remembered that much. Her chest eased as she came across a block of scarlet. She read and reread the words, though she had no idea what they were about. Jesus was talking, that was all that mattered. Evil couldn’t touch her. Even if she herself was evil deep down. Hadn’t Jesus talked about walking in a valley of the shadow of death?

  A second desolate hiss trickled into the room—

  hsssssssssssssssssSSSSSSSSS

  —and ebbed away.

  Just the electrical wiring, unused to the burden of all the lights.

  Where was that bit she remembered Grandmama reading to her? “The Lord is my shepherd . . . ” Thinking about Grandmama made her think how disappointed she’d have been in how she turned out. About how stupid she’d been to think he cared more about her than his occupation. About how she stank of herself. Hot, pathetic tears brimmed and spilled.

  She couldn’t read anymore; things were too blurry. She was lost in the black text anyway, searching for that bit about the valley of the shadow. It might be a Psalm, but where were the Psalms? She put the Bible aside and rubbed her eyes.

  hsssssssssssSSSSSSSSSSSSS

  Jerking her hands down, she found the room was wrong.

  It was shrinking. Perhaps it was just too much light, light from all directions, from every door, eliminating every shadow. The walls crept closer. The ceiling bowed. She stood, wavering as vertigo struck her. The floor sagged like the stretchy surface of a trampoline, caving toward her weight.

  The house was folding in. Coiling. Embracing her.

  And this time, the empty sigh would not cease.

  hsssssSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

  Where was Roy? Why had he left the house? Had they carried him off? Or was he still here, hiding?

  “Roy?” She turned a quick circle, then stepped over the Bible and wavered across the bending hall to the dining room. The lights were bright above the table. The outline of a shape hovered in dust on its surface. She averted her eyes to the window she had told him to clean. It was shut. He must have left, thinking she was dead.

  Stepping through the doorway, she felt the dining room crouch down around her.

  Maybe she was dead. Maybe she’d died in the coffin. The Devil had dug her up and pulled her back here. And that sound—that endless empty sound—was the sound of his gradual approach.

  Stepping into the main hall, she looked right.

  hSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

  It came from beneath the stairwell, from the basement door.

  Missy wrapped her arms around herself and rotated toward the door. The hissing diminished as she approached. Then all was still.

  She stopped in front of the door. She grasped the knob. Cool and scaly with rust, it turned. Abruptly, she jerked the door wide.

  Darkness. And the bitter scent of the basement below. The gloom within was so dense it could hide someone even on the upper steps. Someone who could grab her roving hand to pull her down.

  Growling in disgust, she thrust her hand into the darkness, found the switch, and flipped it.

  Nothing. The bulb was dead.

  Fine. She shoved the door closed and turned away—but the squeak of rusty hinges didn’t follow.

  Missy hesitated, glanced back, then turned. The door hovered there, halfway between the wall and its frame. Edging closer again, she nudged it. The door swung closed slightly before rebounding, coasting even farther toward the wall.

  “Roy?” she mumbled. Stepping closer, she placed her hand on the outside of the door and gave it a gentle push. It swung toward its frame again, then bumped into something within a foot of closure and swung back out. Even wider than before.

  There wasn’t a doorstop. Swelling, perhaps? She stepped even closer and ran her toe along the portion of the floor where the door had stopped. The boards were level.

  Purposely not thinking, Missy placed her hand outside the door and gave it a good hard shove. It rushed closed, coming within an inch of the frame. Then it was knocked back. She stumbled away to avoid being struck. The door banged against the wall and stopped there, quivering.

  Something’s standing there. In the dark. Invisible.

  “No,” she said. “No, no, no.” Forcing her fingers out, she grabbed the edge. The surface was cold. She pried the door away from the wall. It felt like it was being held open by a current of water. She pushed it inward.

  It was easy at first. The door swung ponderously shut. The gap closed to almost nothing. Then, gently, pressure built until the door stopped, a gap of half an inch between the door and the frame. Not enough for a person. Plenty wide enough, though, for darkness to pour through.

  Missy leaned against the door, pressing with all her weight. The door wobbled, pressure vibrating in the gap like the pulsing air through the lowered window of a fast car. With every extra ounce of strength she applied, the pressure built. The thing was leaning in on the other side, applying more and more weight, growing more and more insistent that she not close the door.

  Her heart was a fist beating on a cell wall. Her bare feet pressed against the floor. Her legs trembled. Even as she hurled her body against the door, the gap remained. Her dry hands slipped on the dry wood. “No!”

  The cry choked off as a new sound entered the house. Quick and sharp, knuckles rapping on wood. Someone knocking at the front door. Someone solid and human.

  Flinging herself from beneath the stairwell, Missy ran. Behind, the basement door slammed back. The thing was coming out. Pursuing.

  Reaching the front door, she tugged at the handle, then frantically found the lock and threw it back. Heaving the barrier open, she lunged across the threshold.

  Hands caught her shoulders.

  For a moment, she hoped it would be Walt, come back to her, saying his job was not more important than she was. If he had, she would have really loved him. But it wasn’t him. It was Ezra.

  “Tired of running yet?”

  “Let go! There’s something coming!” She attacked the hands holding her captive.

  Ezra maintained his grip and looked into the house. “Nothing’s chasing you.”

  “It’s there! It’s . . . ” She stared into the bright hall. “It was coming out of t
he basement.”

  “Let us see.” He drew her inside.

  “No! It’s behind the door.”

  Ezra maneuvered her up the hall. She struggled, feet dragging across the boards, but his grip was unbreakable. And she was still so weak.

  “It will kill you,” she hissed as the distance diminished. “It wants to kill me.”

  Together, they stopped. The door was wide open, resting against the wall. The space within the stairwell was empty and dark.

  “There?” he said. “You see?”

  Missy’s gaze fastened on the back of the door. Her muscles went lax. She sank down.

  A handprint stuck there. A bare spot on the wood where the dust had been rubbed away by the pressure of a steady hand. A long hand. Thin fingers splayed. Clear as a paper cutout, floating in the center of the door about halfway up.

  “Nothing to be afraid of,” he murmured. Pulling her up, he guided her to the door. “Touch it.”

  Missy shrank back, wordlessly jerking her chin.

  “Come on.” Tugging her closer, he gently but forcefully placed her hand over the imprint. Missy bucked in his hold as the skin on her palms and the pads of her fingers crawled, as if each cell were being shuffled, rearranged.

  The same sensation she’d felt back in the garden trenches when she touched the wall.

  “See? Just saying hello.”

  He released her. She sank down again and leaned against the wall. Sighing, he turned and pushed the door closed. Softly, solidly, it shut.

  “You think everything’s against you,” he said.

  She looked at him through her matted mane.

  “You think something in this house wants to hurt you. You think the people in Three Summers want to hurt you. Mostly, you think I do. I can understand. But if I wanted you dead, I could have left you in that box. I don’t want you dead, or hurting. None of us do. We need you, Missy.”

  “I’m nothing.”

  “I know.” He crouched in front of her. “I know what it’s like when someone leaves so abruptly. Abandons you. That collapsing-star feeling in your chest. Makes you want to gag your heart out because obviously no one else thinks it’s worth a thing. The other Queens felt that. He feels that.”