The House

by Edward Lee

  "Yeah?"

  "I just wanted to let you know that you were right."

  She looked puzzled, scratching her head. "Right?"

  "This house," he intoned. "It really is haunted."

  Squirrelly gulped, then ran away into the night. "I fuckin' told you, man!"

  Nothing remained to do except wait for Gwyneth to return. He decided to take a shower himself but when he went into the bathroom...

  He stopped, staring.

  In the steam on the mirror, someone had written: GIMME, GIMME, GIMME!

  And below that, in writing that seemed different: LOOK IN ATTIC.

  Melvin's brain ticked. Squirrelly wrote it, he immediately assumed. But then a separate voice seemed to drift into his head that said, No, she didn't, Melvin.

  Melvin hadn't even been aware of an attic. He walked in silence from room to room, looking to the ceiling in each closet, and it was in his own bedroom that he found it: a small frame set with a panel. He stood on a chair and pushed the panel up, slid it over. There was no light, but he reached out and patted his hand around. It landed on something—a handle?

  Broom? Mop?

  It felt thicker than that.

  Melvin pulled out a fire-ax.

  His teeth chattered. He nearly fell off the chair. He tossed the ax back farther into the attic, reclosed the panel, then ran to his bedroom, locked the door, and dove under the covers.

  Like a child hiding from a boogeyman.

  (V)

  Melvin dreamed to the nearly inaudible whir of the Sankyo editor, and his scape of vision hitched as though, indeed, he was watching the editor's deathly pale screen as the film caught on snags over the sprocket.

  The dream was a movie.

  BLACK SCREEN

  MALE VOICE (V.O.)

  An image on a piece of film...is like a ghost.

  FALL IN:

  INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT

  Rapid FLUTTERING sound falls over all.

  Protagonist MELVIN lying on a bed in a tacky but tidy bedroom. The only light comes from the moon through the window and a bleary yellow lamp out in the hall.

  MALE VOICE (CONT. V.O.)

  I'm a ghost.

  CLOSE - Melvin's face. Eyes wide in dread, mouth open. Rapid TICKING O.S.

  MELVIN

  (to himself)

  I'm paralyzed.

  HOLD ON: Melvin's face. We hear soft, rapid FOOTSTEPS O.S.

  MELVIN'S POV - BEDROOM DOOR

  FEMALE #1 standing at slight angle in doorway. She is NAKED, deathly pale, emaciated. Ratty, shoulder-length brown hair. Eyes wide but sockets EMPTY. She is holding a black frying pan.

  Her lips aren't moving but we HEAR:

  FEMALE #1 (V.O.)

  Leonard died when his brood was born unto the earth...

  We hear a GUSHING sound O.S.

  CUT TO:

  CORNER OF ROOM

  FEMALE NUMBER #2 sitting in corner. She is NAKED, emaciated. Ratty, shoulder-length blond hair. She is VOMITING a thin, black liquid.

  She looks up with empty eye sockets. Her lips aren't moving but we HEAR:

  FEMALE #2 (V.O.)

  It's the pig bones...

  URRPING sound (O.S.)

  BACK TO:

  DOORWAY - Female #2's head tilted forward. She is VOMITING slow gushes of SEMEN into the frying pan.

  FEMALE #2 (V.O.)

  Not just our sins. The sins of the whole world.

  CLOSE - MELVIN'S FACE - He is aghast.

  MALE VOICE (V.O.)

  (corroded)

  Sometimes there is a moment—a moment not of this world—that enables us to see things without actually being there. A summoned moment.

  POV PULLS BACK from Melvin's face.

  MALE VOICE (CONT. V.O.)

  (corroded)

  The most...irreducible...moment...

  CUT TO:

  FEMALE #1 in doorway, her face CLOSE but only HALF IN FRAME

  CAMERA'S POV - MOVES OFF and

  TRACKING SHOT - choppy, stop-start. POV begins to move past Female #1 into hallway. We hear muted SCREAMS O.S. and CHOPPING sounds. POV jerks around a corner into the

  LIVING ROOM

  Smoldering orange light. A stained, dilapidated couch. Crooked picture in frame of pastoral scene. Implements of drug-use on floor, a lit candle. Bloodstains and ax-marks in rotten carpet.

  We see a WOMAN crawling on her hands out the front door. She has been cut in half at the waist. Entrails drag behind. POV TURNS to choppily leave the room, tracking over the woman's spread legs and pubis leaking influx of sperm, then moves into...

  INDETERMINATE ROOMS

  Strobic lighting shows a massacre in jumpcut-like flashes: a severed penis and scrotum nailed to the wall. A severed female head with a tongue jutting from an eyesocket. A severed male head with a penis jutting from the mouth. A decapitated male body in a suit lay on a table, bones sticking out. A different dressed male body cut in half at the waist.

  CAMERA'S POV swerves to a

  WINDOW - We see a DOG PEN. Inside, three dogs are ravenously devouring a naked, decapitated FEMALE BODY. We hear SNARLING.

  CAMERA PULLS BACK

  POV drags backwards, retracing the tracking shot in reverse. We see glimpses of

  1) A short slim man in a suit wearing a rubber Richard Nixon mask.

  2) A naked woman with a curvaceous but mutilated body standing by the front door. She is scalped, earless, and noseless. Her breasts have been sawn off. Her pubis and shins waft black smoke, both having been thoroughly scorched. POV ZOOMS to her face and she SCREAMS, then POV RETREATS again to show

  3) A tall, svelte black man in a tan leisure suit and a chocolate-brown silk shirt, the collar sticking up. A flaccid penis the size of a summer sausage hangs from his opened fly. He winks.

  BLACK MAN

  Hey there, Melvin! Wanna fuck my dick?

  4) A young woman in a black ankle-dress, clunky black shoes, billowed sleeves with white cuffs. She stands beside the black man. She wears a white bonnet tied under the chin, honey-blond hair spilling out the sides. She's pregnant. Her palms are out-turned at her sides and they pour BLOOD.

  5) A stocky man in his '50s dressed like a pilgrim. Stern, chiseled face and a black, brimmed hat. He looks like...Ernst Borgnine.

  PILGRIM MAN

  Find God, young man, or burn in hell...

  6) A big, brawny man in a suit, large-jawed, short dark hair, talking on into big clunky car phone.

  BRAWNY MAN

  Well nothin' that I can see, boss, 'cos he ain't here and neither is the Deville, so I figure it's the kid who done the whole job and split.

  7) A tall, naked dark-haired woman with the body of a runway model, but her arms are gone at the elbows. A tattoo of a perforation mark rings her neck which reads CUT HERE.

  ARMLESS WOMAN

  Hey, buddy, would you please tell my motherfuckin' sister Squirrelly to quit dope and go to church?

  POV ACCELERATES BACKWARDS through hallway and back into bedroom, then HOLDS ON

  MELVIN lying paralyzed on the bed. Wide-eyed, tears running down cheeks. His lower lip quivers. He appears to be looking up at someone we can't see.

  MELVIN

  I-I-I...know who you are!

  MALE VOICE (V.O.)

  Get it yet? It's the pig.

  MELVIN

  Whuh-what?

  We hear the CHORTLING of a pig O.S.

  MALE VOICE (V.O.)

  It's metamorphosis, man.

  (beat) It's transfiguration.

  INTERCUT:

  For a split second, Melvin has been replaced on the bed by a tall lanky young man with rowdy dark hair, fingers laced behind his head on the pillow. He's wearing jeans and a black T-shirt that reads VAN DER GRAAF GENERATOR. He smiles into camera.

  BACK TO:

  Melvin lying paralyzed on the bed. He is SCREAMING.

  CUT TO:

  BLACK SCREEN

  We still hear the FLUTTERING sound O.S. It persists for several bea
ts, then STOPS, leaving SILENCE.

  FALL OUT TO:

  Melvin awoke screaming. His body, as if via no volition of his mind, jerked up and twisted off the bed. He fell to the floor with a clunk!

  Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!

  His heart hammered in his chest so hard he feared it on the verge of rupture. He jumped to his feet, pressed himself back against the wall, eyes darting back and forth. He felt someone was in the room.

  Just a dream, just another nightmare, he eventually concluded, and at once he was awash with relief.

  "It's this house," he whispered to himself.

  He yanked open the drapes and was even more relieved to see the sun rising. The awful night was over, and he would not spend another one in this house.

  He unlocked the bedroom door, burst out into the hall. Please, God! Let her be here!

  "Gwyneth!"

  Sobbing from the other bedroom returned his call. When he looked in, he saw that his prayer had been answered.

  Gwyneth—naked, of course—sat at the edge of her bed, stooped over with her face in her hands. She looked up at him in complete misery. "Melvin, there's something wrong with this house! It's making me have the most awful dreams, and it makes me think awful things, the worst...things..."

  "Me too," Melvin said.

  "I want to go home. Can we leave now?"

  Melvin smiled. "I want to leave too. So get dressed, and let's get out of here."

  Minutes later, they were both in their vehicles, driving away from the house. Gwyneth followed Melvin in the Corvette. A perfect day bloomed before them. When Melvin was about to turn at the end of the drive, his eyes flicked to the rearview mirror.

  What the...

  Did he see a tall, gawky man and two wan women standing on the front porch of the Vinchetti house, waving to him? And was there a little white pig at their feet, snuffling around?

  Of course not.

  Two and a half hours later, Melvin and Gwyneth were back in Syracuse.

  ««—»»

  It was the most relieving of sights: his father's grandiose house growing larger as they pulled up the long front drive. Melvin felt happily numb when he finally parked, got out of the Hummer, and took a deep breath.

  Home, sweet home.

  Gwyneth parked behind him and walked up, smoking a rank clove cigarette and sipping from...a bottle of Snapple.

  "No Hershey's Syrup today?" Melvin inquired.

  "I'm never drinking that shit again," she droned.

  "Why? I thought it was your favorite."

  "Something..." Her eyes drifted off at the thought. "I just don't like it anymore, I guess." She seemed uncomfortable, edgy. Oh, and she wore a pair of butt-clinging khaki shorts and a chartreuse lace cami top which essentially made her breasts appear spray-painted. The camel-toe at her crotch was magnificently apparent. Magnificent calves flexed when she fidgeted in her Earth Shoes.

  She grabbed Melvin's arm in a manner that seemed desperate. "I'm...beginning to remember things, Melvin."

  "Not good," Melvin suggested.

  "I'm not sure if they're dream-fragments I'm remembering...or things I really did."

  Shake-A-Puddin'! Melvin thought.

  "I'm just...sorry for any grief I may have put you through," she went on, her voice discreet. "I have a feeling I did."

  "Don't worry about it," Melvin tried to set her at ease.

  "And I also have a feeling I did some things that...well... If your father found out, he'd probably divorce me, and I have a feeling that...you...know what I mean, because I think you saw me do some of these things..."

  Oh, I did, Melvin thought.

  "So I'll make a deal with you, Melvin. If you agree not to tell your father what I did, I'll agree not to tell him that you jerked off in my panties. Twice."

  Melvin blushed. "You got a deal."

  She absently hitched up the sheer fabric of her top, which printed the texture of her nipples even more precisely through the material. Melvin cringed.

  She brushed some hair off her brow. "What was with that house, Melvin?"

  "It doesn't matter," he said. "All that matters is we're far away from there now, and we'll never have to go near the place ever again. So the best thing for us to do is pretend we were never there. The last couple of days...never happened."

  "You're a sweetie," she whispered, smiled, and pecked him on the cheek. The gesture seemed harmless enough...but as she did so, she also pressed her hand to his crotch, and squeezed.

  Melvin came in his pants.

  "Be a darling and bring my stuff in, will you?"

  "Sure," Melvin said, sighing.

  "Thanks!" and then she turned and sauntered toward the big house.

  What a woman...

  But her voice called back to him as he was about to start unloading the cars. "Hey, Melvin? What on earth is Van Der Graaf Generator?"

  Melvin stopped stock-still and turned. He looked back up at her in a creeping dread. "Why...do you ask?"

  She frowned, breasts jutting. "It's on your shirt. Where'd you get that shirt? It looks...old."

  Very slowly, Melvin's eyes dragged down the front of his shirt.

  A faded black T-shirt with white block letters: VAN DER GRAAF GENERATOR.

  Melvin didn't know what to say back to her. "Oh, it's just an old shirt I pulled on at the last minute."

  "Well..." Her nose scrunched up. "You should throw it out. And no offense, but it kind of stinks."

  She walked back to the house.

  Melvin didn't remember even putting the shirt on, and why would he put it on anyway? It's been in the wall of the Vinchetti house for the last 30 years! Repelled, he pulled the shirt off, stalked stoop-shouldered and bare-chested to the end of the driveway, and stuffed the shirt in the garbage.

  There!

  He pushed it all from his head: the house, Leonard, Shake-A-Puddin', everything. He knew that, as a writer, he'd have to cull away the psychological impact the place had had on him, and redefine it all in different terms.

  For the article!

  Melvin couldn't wait to finish the article.

  He opened the back of the Hummer, grabbed his laptop case and the suitcase he'd brought. He didn't notice what had been left in the back: a long-handled fire-ax.

  EPILOGUE

  One week later...

  Sheriff Funk stared stolidly, the stench shoving him back like a palpable force. Sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. It's happened again...

  Just a routine property check. Some of the TA's down at the strip mall had called in last week, like they always did. The bikers were back in town, and they always seemed to raise a little hell during their brief stays. So Funk and his deputies had run them out of the bar one night, and that had been that. They'd followed them to the county line and watched them rumble off on their Harley's. No big deal.

  Now, though?

  This was a big deal.

  He was discovering—quite the hard way—that a few of the bikers had stayed behind.

  The three bikes parked outside the old church at the Epiphanite compound had been the giveaway. Funk checked the long-deserted site every month or so, just to check for squatters, and usually discovered nothing of import.

  So much for routine.

  The stench hovered like soup, backed by the nauseating sound of flies buzzing and maggots churning. It almost sounded like someone mashing grapes. Probably a week old, Funk estimated, judging the overall climate and condition. The three men had been dispatched with variety and vigor via an implement that was almost certainly an ax. One's groin had been cleaved to the sternum, presenting the illusion that his crotch existed heart-level. A hand had been chopped off and now stuck out of his agape mouth, while two severed penises replaced his eyeballs. The second one's head had been split with one blow, each half hanging aside on the shoulders, clots of maggots refilling the cranial vault. The heaviest of the three men had been stripped nude and axed in half at the waist. The top half had miraculously managed to hand-w
alk almost to the church entry like a member of the congregation who didn't particularly like the day's sermon. Squiggles of innards followed him. The bottom half lay ass-up, fat hairy legs spread, and something very large had clearly frolicked in the rectal channel.