The House the Devil Built

by Benjamin Hively

  Ashton got comfortable on the couch, staring at the urn on the mantle. Dillon must have moved it around to find the perfect spot for it because each time Ashton saw it, it was in a different position than the last. It unnerved him that they were even keeping it, as it was the remains of someone they didn’t even know, and the mere sight of it caused grief within him. He wished that his mother had been cremated so he could keep her near him, but they had chosen a burial next to his father. He rose from the couch to inspect it further, and as he neared it he could feel his body vibrating. It was an odd sensation, but he ignored it. Pulling the urn from the mantle, he opened it, and looked inside. The ashes were still dormant. He reached his hand inside. The ashes sifted through his fingers like sand, and he bent down, placing the urn on the ground to get better balance. He sat next to it, placed both hands inside, and cupped his hands to retrieve a handful of the grey remains. He pushed his face forward, letting the remains smear onto his face, the excess falling into a pile in his lap.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Dillon shrieked from the doorway. Ashton looked up from his trance and looked back down at his hands. They were covered in soot, the ashes caked into the crevices of his fingernails, and Ashton couldn’t understand what he had just done. The urn lay empty in front of him, and Dillon stared at him in shocked disbelief.

  SEVEN

  Mark’s civic duty of getting the men home from the hospital was completed, and he wanted the peace and quiet of his office at the station more than anything. He pulled the cruiser into a spot and sat in his car for a moment, breathing deeply to calm himself from everything that was taking place. He had two men fearful for their lives on the outskirts of his town and a maniacal preacher metaphorically wanting their heads on a platter. Terry, he felt, was a ticking time bomb, and with enough time the metaphorical heads on a platter might come into a full-fledged reality if Mark was unable to sway him from his negative opinion. The thought lay heavy on him as he opened the doors to the station. As he walked in, he was stopped by one his staff.

  “Richard Ramsay called, something happened at your house,” the deputy said nonchalantly.

  “Why didn’t you call my cell?”

  “I didn’t figure it was a big deal, and, if it was, your wife would have informed you,” she replied, not seeming alarmed in the least. Mark hurried to his office and closed the door. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed his wife, it rang a few times, and then sent him to voicemail. He sat for a moment, contemplating whether he should run home or stay in the tranquility of his office, but something was sitting right. His wife would always answer his calls, regardless of her activities. If someone called the office to tell him that something was awry at home, there had to be something amiss. He collected his things, locked his office again, ignored the deputy that had passed along the message, and headed back to his patrol car.

  Upon his return home, Terry’s shiny new black SUV was parked out front, a purchase from South Belle’s dowry Mark didn’t doubt. It was odd that this was the second day that Terry was making a house call without him being there, and his stomach churned and his mind filled with the possibilities of what he was about to witness inside his home. He clutched the door handle to his home and inhaled, preparing himself for what he would find beyond it. The door creaked open, and he walked inside. Denise was on the couch, her face in her hands as she sobbed, and Terry looked up at him, standing abruptly at the intrusion.

  “Mark…” Terry’s voice trailed off as he approached Mark, trying to pull him into the other room. Denise uncovered her mascara streaked face, and quickly began to sob harder, the presence of Mark ushering in more tears. Mark was confused by his wife’s reaction, and Terry continued to pull him from the room to the dining room across the hall. He broke free from Terry’s grasp. Terry pulled him out a chair, gesturing for him to sit down. Mark couldn’t bring himself to sit down, more worried about his weeping wife than small talk with the pastor.

  “What is wrong with her? What happened?” Mark’s questions flooded the space with inquisition.

  “Please sit down,” Terry answered, and beckoned him to the chair again. Mark refused, and he could tell Terry had been interrupted by his arrival. “We need to talk about Marsh.”

  “Oh my god, did something happen to Marsh?” Mark’s confusion turned to anguish, and he wanted to cry.

  “He’s fine, he’s fine. Please sit down.”

  “I don’t want to fucking sit down, Terry. Now goddamn it, tell me!” Mark shouted, and Terry decided to sit in the spot instead. Mark searched Terry’s face for an answer, but the man’s face was a blank canvas.

  “Denise found some evidence that Marsh was choosing a homosexual lifestyle. There was pornography on the computer with men fornicating.”

  “That’s it?” Mark questioned, and quietly cursed himself for not deleting the history in the internet browser. He didn’t want to admit fault, not wanting his wife to think he was slinking around with men. The idea that this was so heartbreaking to his wife was what Mark didn’t comprehend, but he could tell from Terry’s change in expression that he was about to find out why.

  “Those men have affected your son, Mark. The same ones you’ve been helping are the same ones that are pushing your son towards this life.” Terry paused and looked out the window, “He’s going to be a fine young man when he gets back.”

  “Gets back?” Mark’s confusion got the best of him again, and he turned to check on his wife, but Terry grabbed his arm.

  “He’s at a reparative therapy camp,” Terry replied, handing him a brochure, “Re-Course. It’s up near Shreveport, it’s a tremendous place.” Mark snatched the brochure from Terry, and looked over it quickly. His anger began to boil over and he advanced towards the man, wanting to punch him square in the nose, but Terry moved to the other side of the table. Instead of going further with the man, Mark turned around and went back into the living room where Denise was still sobbing on the couch.

  “You sent him away, Denise?” Mark screamed, his wife’s wails becoming louder. He threw the pamphlet in front of her and placed himself right to her, pulling her hands away from her face. In all the years that were married Mark had never been aggressive towards her, but at that very moment he wanted to rip her to shreds. He grabbed the brochure and shoved it up to her face. He could tell she was clearly frightened by his demeanor. “You sent our teenage boy away. Without even talking to me! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  “I’m so so sorry,” she wailed, and Mark let her go, throwing the brochure back onto the coffee table. He sat for a moment, trying to gain control of his temper, but it rolled like lava from him; he flipped over the table in front of him, pictures and knick-knacks falling onto the area rug below. Terry had moved back into the room, witnessing Mark’s aggression, and Mark stood, pointing at him.

  “And you! You repulsive son of a bitch. Get the fuck out of my house!” he yelled, and started towards the man. Terry scurried out of the room and swung open the front door. Mark chased him outside, the preacher a step ahead of him and got into his vehicle. Mark scrambled to open the door, but Terry peeled off, leaving Mark in a cloud of dust. Mark watched as the SUV disappeared from the street and walked back into the house to confront his wife.

  Denise was picking up the toppled table when he walked back in. She was shaking, uncontrollably crying as she picked up shattered picture frames and mangled trinkets from the floor. As infuriated as he was, he felt a tinge of guilt watching her all disheveled and manic trying to collect the pieces he had damaged, but he couldn’t bring himself to assist. He felt betrayed by the one person he could trust in all of this wicked world, and now he couldn’t even bring himself to apologize. He was pissed at her, at the preacher, and even at himself for being so cowardly and for not admitting that it was, in fact, him who had searched for the pornography on the computer.

  He left her on the rug collecting the bits and pieces, and went to their bedroom. Pulling out a suitcase, he couldn’t
believe how the day had progressed and he began to grab clothing from the closet. He shoved as much as he could in the small suitcase, preparing himself to become a resident at the small hotel outside of town. The suitcase bulged with his belongings. He walked back down the stairs, peeked in the living room where Denise was still hard at work and without saying a word exited the house, walked to his police cruiser, and threw the suitcase into the trunk. He took one last look at the place where he had experienced most of his adult life and shook his head, the disappointment leading him into the car and backing out of the driveway.

  Mark considered dropping by the church to approach Terry and get more answers out of him, but he certainly couldn’t beat the man to a pulp in his police uniform. Stopping by the station to let his deputies know that he was going to be out of the office the rest of the day, he continued out of the town, passing by the rows of houses and everything that he knew. It was the first time he was leaving the town out of pure anger and, as miles began to separate Mark from his wife, the preacher, and all the madness, a wave of calm swept over him. He felt relief from the bonds that had tied him there. The small motel came into view on his right, the bar outside of it filled to the brim with cars, and he pulled into the lot A few bar patrons pointed at the car as if to announce that 5-0 was there.

  He ignored the few people out front as they whooped and hollered at him, his uniform the only thing separating him from the rest of the group, and went into the tiny office. It was cramped and untidy, and he hoped that the rooms were fit for humanity. After paying a weekly rate, he took the old fashioned key, and walked back outside. He gathered his things from the car and proceeded up the stairs to his room, his view a large billboard for a local adult store. Turning the key in the lock, the door jammed slightly, and he pushed harder, the door swinging loose from the tight door frame. The room was outfitted in the latest of 70s fashion, a time capsule from so many years ago. Two double beds filled one wall, an old timey box television sat opposite on a dresser that had seen better days, the drawers crooked from disrepair.

  He set his things on the bed closest to the window and undid his belt, trying to get comfortable in his new home. He was soon completely undressed, standing in the middle of the room in only his underwear, and he flipped on the air conditioner underneath the window for the stagnate air to circulate. After inspecting the bed for bugs, he laid down trying to push away the feelings of anger, guilt, and negativity that consumed him, but after a few minutes he was unable to lie still. Mark was not a person to wallow in his own despair, and he decided to shower, dress, and have a drink at the bar downstairs. The bathroom provided no further cleanliness, and he kept an eye on a spider that made the shower its home, quickly lathering and rinsing before it came to greet him. He was able to exit the shower unscathed, except for the scratchy sandpapery towels that had been placed in the room, and he dressed, checking himself in the mirror to ensure he was decent for human interaction.

  The bar had emptied out before he arrived, and Mark was grateful that he didn’t have to make small talk with any of the natives. The bartender was cleaning up the mess that the patrons had left behind, and Mark lifted his hand to announce his arrival. The man stopped washing dishes long enough to come down to Mark’s end of the bar and took his drink order, a double rum and coke and returned to his duties. Mark sipped his drink, taking in the events that had transpired today, worrying about what his son had to endure at Re-Course. He hadn’t gotten much info from Denise or Terry, his anger getting in the way of any further explanation and that Mark wished he could take back. He needed all the information he could about the camp and where it was located so he could ensure Marsh’s well-being. The audacity that the two had, sending away his teenage son, was enough for him to seek a divorce.

  The thought of divorce had never occurred to him. He had never been separated from Denise, not even for a week. Going further in life without her seemed dismal. There would be a custody battle, Mark was certain, and he would fight to the death for his children. Denise was obviously unstable, so he saw no judge giving custody over to her, but he feared for children’s ability to handle the situation. They had never witnessed the couple fighting, so the sudden downfall of their marriage would be confusing to everyone involved. Marsh would be alright, he affirmed, as he had only a few years left in their household, but Amelia was a different story. She would be shuffled back and forth between homes, spending holidays in two different places, sharing her story with friends at school.

  He finished his drink and ordered another one. The bartender wasn’t much of a companion and continued to do small tasks, otherwise ignoring Mark’s existence. He wanted to share his tragedy with someone, wanted to vent and let out all of the negativity from his mind so he could sleep properly in the lumpy bed upstairs. Mark considered calling Dillon, the only person as of late that listened to his words and didn’t want something in return, but something pulled him back and that was the words Terry had spoken before Mark had flipped out.

  “The men have affected your son,” Mark repeated, out loud, and the bartender perked up.

  “What?” the bartender questioned, bringing himself in front of Mark.

  “Nothing. Sorry, just running through something from earlier.”

  “I do that all the time. I always come up with better responses several hours later,” the bartender replied. The friendliness was needed, and Mark appreciated the man’s hospitality. He downed his drink, and the bartender poured another.

  “I’ll buy you a drink, if you’re allowed.” Mark stated, trying to gain the bartender’s trust. The bartender smiled and nodded, pulling out another cup and pouring himself a drink. They clinked drinks together and both took a swig. Feeling brave, Mark asked, “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you think it’s possible to make someone gay?”

  “Is that why you bought me a drink?” the bartender laughed, “Personally, I think people are born that way, you know? I don’t know anyone that would choose to be bothered every day by people.”

  “True,” Mark answered. The man’s honesty and open mindedness uplifted Mark and he felt at ease in the man’s presence. It was weird that even in such a rundown type of place that people like the bartender existed and that homophobia wasn’t exactly a staple of his Southern lifestyle.

  “People are people. As long as I’m treated with respect, I’ll return that respect. Otherwise, it’s none of my damn concern,” the man concluded, and Mark lifted his drink in the air to agree with him.

  By the time Mark returned to his room, the alcohol had taken full effect, and he was woozy. He managed to unclothe, his balance unsteady as he jumped onto the bed. It was nine p.m., and his phone had not stopped ringing, his wife calling anxiously every half hour since five. The screen was blurry in his current state and he squinted to focus, but gave in to his drunkenness, dropping the phone on the bed next to him. The room was blanketed in loneliness, and he wanted someone next to him to make him feel safe. He wondered how it would feel if Dillon was there, comforting him until he fell asleep. He shook the thought from his mind, closed his eyes, and fell into an uneasy sleep.

  EIGHT

  Since the incident with the ashes Ashton had retreated to their bedroom, and, days later, Dillon was still trying to make sense of it all. The image of Ashton, with the ashes all over his face and hands was burnt in Dillon’s brain, and it was truly the most frightening thing he had ever seen. Ashton had appeared to be completely unaware of his actions, even as Dillon pulled him to the shower to wash away the remnants of soot. Now days later, and with his impending departure, Dillon was concerned on how Ashton would fair for a few days alone before his sister’s arrival. Dillon hoped with her presence, Ashton would find some sense of normalcy, that everything occurring would diminish, and they’d be on the right track.

  He checked on Ashton every few hours, each time his husband slumbering. There was an odor in the room that got stronger each time Dillon
opened the door, a mixture of vomit and what Dillon only describe as death. It had gotten so bad that he even checked to make sure Ashton was still breathing, and, upon searching the room, he couldn’t find the source of the stench. His heart hurt watching Ashton sleeping in the room, only waking to use the restroom, his appetite completely suppressed by whatever was ailing him.

  “I think you need a doctor,” Dillon said, placing his hand on Ashton’s forehead. His skin was freezing, a layer of sweat clinging to his rough skin. Ashton’s eyes bulged from sunken sockets, the blood vessels strained from the pressure, and he attempted a smile, his lips cracking from the dryness.

  “I’ll be fine, I just need rest,” Ashton reassured him. Dillon wasn’t positive that rest would kick this illness, but Ashton knew himself better than Dillon ever could, so he refrained from a phone call to a doctor. After placing a cup of water on the bedside table, he moved downstairs to call someone else that could give him advice and some sort of comfort. Although his recent calls mostly went to voicemail, Mark’s voice was enough to ease his anxiety, and this call was no different, going to voicemail after just three rings.

  He had arranged for a technician to come to the house to fix their windows, another expense that was draining their bank accounts. With Ashton’s frivolous spending for the last year, their bank accounts were nearly drained, and without new novels, the royalty checks were beginning to dwindle as well. Dillon’s siesta from work was also putting strain on their finances, and he knew that if he didn’t return soon, they’d be in dire straits. He had even considered putting the house in New Orleans on the market, but Ashton would never agree to it and for sentimental value, deep down he couldn’t bring himself to push the subject. The house had many great memories before their world tilted on its side, and those great memories were now stained with the bad.