House of Skin

by Jonathan Janz

  Thinking this, he sat in the red silk armchair and wrote down the first words that came to him:

  He missed her lovely sapphire eyes.

  The sound of his own snoring woke him up.

  Wiping the drool off his cheek he sat up in the silk armchair and looked at the page. Seeing the one sentence written there was little consolation, like finding one unbroken egg in a new carton.

  He felt like shouting, rending the notebook to shreds and stomping on the remains. He had everything he needed—solitude, atmosphere, financial security. The one thing he lacked was talent.

  Check that, he thought. He also needed discipline, and that had never been his strong suit either. He’d been in this place for a week now and it looked no better than when he’d first arrived. He’d resolved to quit drinking, had even taken the alcohol out to the garage. But it isn’t gone yet, is it? a voice asked.

  Back off, he thought. Trash collection wasn’t until Monday. What was he supposed to do? Smash the bottles to shards just to prove he was serious about beating his drinking habit? That was juvenile. He had more than enough will power to abstain from the sauce for a few more days. He need only channel his thirst into his writing.

  He read the line he’d scrawled: “He missed her lovely sapphire eyes.”

  Now what the hell did that mean? He tore out that page, crumpled it and tossed it aside. He stared at the notebook, waiting for another, better first line to come.

  Twenty minutes passed.

  The first time he heard the noise, he was staring at the blank sheet of paper. Grateful for the diversion, he forgot for a moment his enormous writer’s block and regarded the wall before him.

  He heard it again, a flurry of scrapes and taps, faint but very real. For one wild moment, he imagined a woman trapped inside the wall with barely strength to scratch for help.

  Shaking off the thought, he sat forward and listened.

  It came again, fingernails on tin.

  Then the sounds swelled and quickened, expanding throughout the room like spiderwebbing glass. Paul stood, alarmed.

  The clatter ceased.

  He held his breath and waited.

  The tapping sounded once more, accelerating, urgent. He edged toward the wall and tried to account for what he was hearing. Bugs were out because the taps were too thick for creatures so small, and though he shuddered at the idea, the scrapes and slithers he heard as he pressed an ear to the wall could only be made by rats. Large ones.

  God help me, he thought as he backed away from the shivery sounds, I’ve stepped into a Lovecraft story.

  Half relieved to be shut of the burden of writing for the day, Paul dropped the notebook and put ear to wall again, careful to keep an eye on the fireplace, lest a flood of squirming black rodents come gushing out of the aperture.

  On cue, the sounds in the wall increased. He felt his skin crawl as he imagined the size of the things, the finger-thick rubbery tails. Amidst the weird swish and rustle, he thought he could make out the minute clicking of tiny claws. The image of them scurrying around behind the wall bare inches from his face made him jerk away, sucking in air. Not only was the notion of a rat problem revolting, he now needed to hire someone to rid his house of them.

  Paul’s cell phone contract was done, so he had to use a pay phone in town to call the exterminator. By mid-afternoon, a white van crunched to a stop in the driveway and a fat man with a red beard and a white work suit climbed out.

  “Thanks for coming on such short notice,” Paul said as he descended the porch steps.

  “Not a problem,” replied the man. Through his beard he grinned up at the house, removed his plain white ball cap, and ran a sweaty hand through his thick red hair, which was curly and matted by the cap. The guy smelled bad. Awful, in fact. Like a package of bologna left out in the sun for a few days.

  Breathing through his mouth, Paul introduced himself.

  The exterminator offered a sweaty hand. “Another Carver, huh?”

  “Myles was my uncle,” Paul said, then added, “though I never knew him.”

  “And he left you this place.”

  “That’s right.”

  The exterminator waited a beat, sizing him up, before grunting noncommittally. Turning, the fat man lumbered around to the rear of the van and produced a short, fat silver canister from which sprouted a black hose and nozzle.

  Following him, Paul nodded at the canister. “Pretty potent stuff?”

  “It’ll knock you on your ass.”

  Setting down the container, the man made for something inside the driver’s side door.

  “I didn’t get your name,” Paul said to the man’s wide back. He could see dark wet circles spreading from the stained armpits. When there was no answer Paul said, “The ad in the phonebook only said Triple-A Exterminators.”

  “Name’s Snowburger,” came the reply.

  “Good to meet you.”

  Snowburger produced a clipboard, and Paul caught another whiff of rancid bologna.

  Paul said, “We didn’t talk price over the phone.”

  Without looking up, Snowburger said, “Shouldn’t be much. No more than a thousand.”

  “A thousand dollars,” he said, appalled.

  “That’s a lot of house,” the exterminator said and gestured toward Watermere. “I usually just charge a flat rate of a hundred-fifty an hour, but for a job this big I’ll be using extra poison.”

  “You haven’t even been inside yet.”

  “I got eyes, don’t I? There’s lots of nooks and crannies in that place. The thing’s gotta be over a hundred years old.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Paul said. “What I mean is, how can you be sure rats are even the problem when you haven’t been inside?”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr. Carver, but weren’t you the one told me you had a infestation?”

  Paul laughed. “Yeah, I said I thought I had one.”

  The red eyebrows rose. “I’m only going by you.”

  “I understand that, but shouldn’t you confirm it yourself before you charge me a thousand bucks?”

  Snowburger scratched a sweaty temple. “There’s others more expensive than me, Mr. Carver. I’m just trying to save you money.”

  Paul grunted.

  “Look,” Snowburger said. “You said you heard rats running around in your walls. You said you heard a bunch of ’em when you put your ear against the wall.”

  “I know what I said, but I’m not a rat expert.”

  “Don’t need to be one to know that. What else could it be, ghosts?”

  Angered by the icy tendrils that tickled his spine, Paul glared at the exterminator. “No, I don’t think that at all. I simply asked how you could be sure without checking the house yourself.”

  Snowburger’s jowls shook as he giggled. “Mr. Carver. I’ve been at this gig going on eight years now, and believe me, when a person hears sounds like the ones you described over the phone, it can only be one thing. And it ain’t ghosts.”

  “Wouldn’t there be droppings?”

  “Probably are. You just haven’t seen ’em yet.” Snowburger scratched his large belly. “You will though if you don’t do somethin’ to get rid of the problem right away.”

  Tired of the conversation, Paul said, “Fine. Do I pay you now or later?”

  “Always get paid up front.”

  “Of course.”

  Shaking his head, Paul turned toward the house. “I assume a personal check is acceptable.”

  “Yep. Make it out to Bobby Snowburger for a thousand fifty.”

  Paul stopped. “You said a thousand.”

  “That was before taxes.”

  Paul wrote the check and handed it to the exterminator, who grabbed his gear and trundled up the porch. From where he stood in the driveway. Paul heard the screen door wheeze shut.

  Feeling useless, he stepped inside the garage. He wondered what he’d do to kill time. It was an overcast day, hot and muggy, and he was certain rain w
asn’t far off. Though there seemed little to do in the garage, he was glad he hadn’t brought a notebook and pen. This way he could idle away the time without the guilt of avoiding writing. He thought of going into town but remembered he’d left his keys inside the house.

  Paul tinkered around with Myles’s old tools and wished he had a television out here.

  After a time the fat man emerged from the house, white suit drenched gray. As he passed by, Paul caught a whiff of rotten cheese.

  “Done?” Paul asked as Snowburger opened the van’s rear doors.

  “I wish,” Snowburger said and unscrewed the canister’s lid. Taking a transparent tube from the base of a larger plastic container and feeding it into the mouth of the silver canister, the exterminator turned a handle and both men watched the clear liquid pass through the hose.

  “Is that toxic?” Paul asked to fill the silence.

  “Toxic as hell,” the fat man agreed and hawked a green wad of spit into the gravel.

  Staring at the unnaturally green gob, Paul said, “I take it you have a little more to do inside.”

  “Little more? Hell, I’m just now finishing the first floor.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Hell, no, I’m not kiddin’. I’m not a magician, Mr. Carver, it’s only three o’clock.”

  Paul was crestfallen. He’d been certain it was later than that.

  He followed Snowburger back toward the house.

  “Where you think you’re going?” the exterminator asked.

  “I need to get some things from inside.”

  Snowburger laughed. “You can’t go in there, Mr. Carver. It ain’t safe.”

  “But I need some things.” He nodded toward the white mask hanging from the fat man’s neck. “I could borrow that for a second.”

  “What’s so important you need it right now?”

  Paul’s right temple began to throb. What gave this guy the right to patronize him?

  “Like a goddamn drink of water, for one. I’m parched.”

  “Use the spigot on the side of the house.”

  “I’m hungry too. Should I graze on the lawn?”

  “There’s restaurants in town.”

  “Yeah, and my keys are in the house.”

  Rolling his eyes as if Paul were the one being unreasonable, the fat man said, “Alright, since it’s so important to you, I’ll bring the keys out to you after I finish the second floor.”

  “Why can’t you do it now?”

  “Because I’m busy.”

  “Then I’ll go in and get them myself.”

  “Like hell you will. Can’t go in there for twenty-four hours.”

  “What?”

  “Less you wanna die, you can’t go in there until tomorrow afternoon.”

  Paul looked around helplessly. “Then at least bring me my keys so I can drive into town.”

  “I told you I’ll bring them out when I’m done with the second floor.”

  “Bring them out now,” Paul said, climbing the porch steps toward Snowburger.

  But the fat man was already inside. “Now don’t get your panties in a bunch. I’ll be out soon enough.”

  The slamming of the heavy door punctuated Paul’s shock. He was amazed to hear the lock turn and the chain snicker into place.

  He’d been locked out of his own house.

  Paul paced across the front yard and perspired. His clothes stuck to his skin like cellophane.

  He told himself to be patient as the day darkened and the time dragged sluggishly on, but he soon grew tired of cupping his hands under the spigot to satisfy his thirst, of hearing his empty stomach rumble. Setting aside the aged power washer he’d been trying to start up, he stalked around to the back door, hoping he could get in through the kitchen.

  The knob wouldn’t budge.

  Before his hand fell from the door, his whole body began to shake with outrage.

  At the kitchen table, the fat man sat eating one of Paul’s microwave pizzas. Pepperoni grease slicking his lips, the man gobbled down half a slice in a bite and was about to fill his greasy maw again when he looked up and froze.

  Before Paul could think of something to say, Snowburger was up and out of the room.

  Paul stood, waiting.

  When he reappeared in the kitchen, Snowburger wore the white breathing mask and carried his silver canister. Paul stepped away from the door expecting the exterminator to exit the house, but was stunned to see the black nozzle spitting gouts of poison about the room. Did the thieving bastard think he was still employed?

  “Hey,” Paul cried, arms spread.

  The fat man let dangle the nozzle and raised his hands, palms up, to indicate he either couldn’t hear or couldn’t do anything to help the situation, and as he did so, the nozzle squirted poison all over the kitchen counter. Not stopping, Snowburger drizzled a colorless stream of liquid over a bag of bread, an open box of crackers.

  Paul hammered on the door and shouted to be let in. Snowburger gestured vaguely toward his facemask and went on spraying.

  Wondering if the exterminator had thought to lock the side door, too, Paul leaped from the porch and chugged around the house. By the time he climbed onto the veranda, a ragged stitch was piercing his ribs. His morbid state of cardiovascular health fed his heightening indignation. To make matters worse, Snowburger had locked the French doors too. Paul’s hands clenched into fists, and for a wild moment he debated stoving in one of the windows just to get his hands on the smug prick.

  A couple minutes later the exterminator made his way down the front porch steps. Paul pulled up next to him. The facemask hanging loose under the sweaty folds of his neck, Snowburger’s round face betrayed no sign of remorse. As he sidestepped Paul en route to the back van doors, it was as though the incident in the kitchen had never occurred.

  “How was the food?” Paul asked.

  He stepped over to the driver’s side door and planted himself there so Snowburger would have to face him before driving away. He heard the exterminator tinkering about in the back of the van, stowing his equipment.

  “I asked you a question,” Paul said. He’d not be made a fool of. He’d paid this charlatan over a thousand dollars, yet he was by no means certain Snowburger had exterminated anything other than a pepperoni pizza. For all he knew the man had been squirting tap water all over the house.

  The clinking sounds ceased, yet Snowburger did not reappear.

  Paul said, “I want a refund.”

  When no response came, he moved around the van. The impotent frustration he felt gave speed to his steps, and he nearly collided with the exterminator as he stepped around the rear van door.

  Snowburger held an aluminum baseball bat.

  “What—” Paul started to say when he saw the bat rise and whoosh down at him. Paul stumbled, landed on his butt and pushed himself backward through the gravel.

  Snowburger’s face contorted in a mask of paranoia and loathing. “You stay away from me, you little cocksucker. No one wants you here.”

  “Just take it easy,” Paul said, one palm extended.

  “No, you take it easy. I help myself to a little food and you act like I stole your credit card.”

  “You didn’t even ask.”

  “That’s right. And I could take anything else I want from this place and no one would believe you. I’m a known man in this town.” Snowburger jabbed a finger at him. “You’re the one no one wants.”

  “What the hell’s the matter with you?” Paul’s head was swimming. The heat, the lack of food, the exterminator’s crazy talk. It made him dizzy.

  “You don’t know that, you’re even dumber’n I thought. Related to the rottenest son of a bitch ever set foot in this county—” he jabbed a fat finger into Paul’s chest, “—the same son of a bitch that probably had something to do with all those kids gettin’ killed—” he raised the bat, “—one of which was my grandma’s little sister—”

  “Jesus,” Paul said and stumbled away from
the raised bat, the mad hatred in Snowburger’s eyes. “I have no idea what—”

  The man advanced and for a horrible moment Paul was certain the crazed exterminator would brain him with the Louisville Slugger. Then he stopped, his moon face spreading in a contemptuous smirk. “That’s right, asshole, you better walk away.” He turned toward the van, said, “And the next time you need help with the goddamn rats, you call somebody else. I wouldn’t set foot in that place again for a million bucks.”

  Snowburger flung the bat into the van and climbed in after it. Gunning the engine, he dropped it into gear and drove in a looping circle, between Paul and the house.

  As he passed he shouted, “You try to cancel payment on that check and I’ll tell the sheriff you talked about killing that lawyer.”

  Paul watched the van, open-mouthed, as it rumbled away. Its back wheels pelted him with gravel.

  The fat man extended his middle finger by way of farewell and disappeared down the lane.

  His bout with Snowburger left him restless, itchy for something to do. Problem was, of his choices—toiling in the yard, going for a jog, organizing the garage—none appealed to him.

  He’d not thought to commandeer a pillow or a blanket from the house before Snowburger poisoned its atmosphere, and short of walking, he had no way into town. To complicate matters further, the skies were cloud-filled and gravid with rain. With the weather so warm he’d planned on sleeping out under the stars, but now even that possibility was closed to him.

  He scanned the garage bleakly, hoping to find something to cushion the unforgiving concrete floor.

  When he spotted what was shoved in the corner of the large, cluttered space, he moaned. The liquor, of course, was right where he’d left it. The brown paper sack of bottles now favored him with its impassive stare, predicting his impending failure.

  What was worse, Paul knew it was right.

  To hell with it, he thought, and made for the sack.

  He was shocked at how quickly the alcohol affected him. He’d never been one to drunken easily, yet here he was only five sips in and already feeling the whiskey’s effects.