House of Sand: A Dark Psychological Thriller

by Michael J Sanford

  The room smells of must and mothballs. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I gather myself and turn the light on. There’s little in the room but a bed, end table, dresser, and minifridge. The bedspread is stained and tattered at the corners, but I have no intention of sleeping on it.

  I find the minifridge joyfully stocked with miniature bottles of liquor. I down four and pull the rest out. I line them up on the dresser, careful to arrange them according to preference, starting with whiskey and ending with tequila. Vodkas and rums clutter the middle of the order. I abhor tequila, but by saving it for last, I know it won’t matter. I need every drop tonight.

  I drink my way to the first rum and savor the first tingle of a buzz. It’s just enough to continue blocking out that incessant clock, but not enough to fully dull my senses.

  I drag the end table to rest against the wall shared with room thirteen. I sit on it, press my ear to the flowered wallpaper, and wait.

  I hear voices, muffled by the wall between us. It sounds like at least one man and one woman, but that’s what I’m expecting to hear. I hear glasses move on a hard surface and the woman laughs. It’s high and shrill, enough to pierce the wall like it’s not here. I haven’t heard it in—I can’t remember how long—but I know it’s Joy. She used to laugh with me that way. It would drive me crazy. Everything about it seemed fake and overdone, but it wasn’t. It was just how Joy was, true to her name. I thought I had stolen it from her somewhere along the way, but it seems she’s just kept it hidden from me.

  I finish off the rums and start pacing.

  “It’s not her,” I say to myself. But it is. Her car, her laugh, her email.

  But who’s the him?

  I down the first of the vodkas. Grape. I don’t taste it.

  Does it really matter who Joy is with? I don’t imagine he’s the only. I’m certainly not. But I only found emails from HandsomeGent69696. I want there to be more men. Or women. Just more. But my gut tells me the man in the next room is special. Above me. A replacement.

  I drink another vodka. I don’t even bother reading the label. A fire lights in my stomach and I’m not so sure it’s from the liquor.

  The door to room thirteen opens and shuts. I race to the window and peek out, holding the curtains apart only enough to see the silhouette of my wife walk past. I open the curtains more as she walks away. She’s wearing a skimpy negligee, slippers, and her hair is down. Just as I can’t remember the last time I saw Joy naked, I can’t remember the last time her hair was down.

  I kneel at the corner of the window and stare through a sliver of smudged glass and rain until Joy passes back into view. She’s carrying a bag of ice. And smiling. Even through the rain and dark of night, her smile stands out. It’s radiant. The door to room thirteen opens and shuts again.

  I drink the last of the vodkas and the first gin before moving back to the wall. Ear pressed to it again, I’m painfully aware of the fact that I am no more than a few feet from my wife and her lover. All that keeps us apart is a paper-thin wall of plaster and cigarette-smoke-stained wallpaper.

  Joy is singing. I can’t make out the words or the tune. I hear her moving. She’s dancing. Joy is singing and dancing around a sleazy motel room to entertain her sin. Foreplay to the foreplay to the betrayal. Bile forces its way up my throat. I grunt and swallow it back down. I chase it with another drink. Scotch, maybe. I’m not even looking anymore.

  The wall shudders like something has struck it from the other side. The singing stops and for a moment there is silence. I hold my breath and shut my eyes. The room spins around me. I might have fallen and not known. But my ears are trained to the horrors of room thirteen. I don’t want to hear, but I can’t leave, either. No more than I can stop what’s about to happen.

  Someone moans. It sounds pleasurable, orgasmic even, but I can’t tell if it’s Joy or not. I can’t remember what it sounds like. The room shifts suddenly, but I slap at the wall to keep my bearings. The moans mix with laughter, high, shrill giggles, and a rooting grunt. The wall shifts, but I’m not imagining it. On the opposite side of the wall I’ve pressed my ear to, a stranger is fucking my wife. Each thrust vibrates the wall and burns my ear. I lean harder into it. How are you today? Well, my wife is getting fucked against my ear, separated by only a plaster and wallpaper condom, so not much.

  Tick. A thrust, a moan. Tap. Tap. Tap. A laugh and a plea for more. Tick. Tick. Tap. Squeals of delight. We’re nearly there. How are you today? Tap. Not much. Tick. Tick.

  Joy screams so loudly, I recoil from the wall and fall to the floor, dazed. Colors swirl everywhere I look. My brain is telling me I’m in room twelve of the Regency Motel. It insists I’ve just heard my wife fucked against the wall of room thirteen, satisfied in a way she never was with me. I know these things to be true. Just as I know it’s still raining and nighttime. But I can’t actually sense any of it. There’s a sickly-sweet tang to the air, but I don’t believe that’s real, either. I am nowhere, floating amid a sea of wreckage, lost hope, and false promises.

  When I’m able to see again, it’s still night. Still raining. But every tiny bottle of alcohol is empty. The ticking clock is stealing time from me.

  And Joy is fucking again.

  Tick. Tick.

  More time passes.

  I watch the sunrise through the tiny gap in the curtains of the single window in room twelve. Room thirteen has been silent for a while now, but I can’t pull my ear from the wall. Four. Four times I heard Joy being fucked by an unseen man. Each session was louder and longer than those before it. I haven’t had a drink in hours, and I’ve never felt more out of control. I have only the pain to remind me I’m still alive. Even this I question.

  The rain has stopped, but the clock continues to taunt me from the lobby, hundreds of yards away. Could be miles. It wouldn’t matter.

  Tick. Tick. Tick.

  Whenever it quiets for a moment, it’s replaced by the echoes of Joy, moaning and shrieking in ecstasy. I don’t know which is worse. Both make me want to drive a spike through my skull.

  I tell myself I’ve just been asleep, dreaming of room thirteen and its perversion. Joy wouldn’t let someone else pin her against a motel wall. But I’m still pressed against flower wallpaper, staring out past stained curtains into a wasteland of poor choices and regret.

  The door to room thirteen clicks open and I move to the window at once. Joy skips into the parking lot and leans a suitcase against her car. Room key in hand, she moves toward the lobby and vanishes from view. I’m rooted in place, knowing that if Joy is leaving, her lover must be close behind.

  I don’t have to wait long. A figure emerges onto the sidewalk, a hooded sweatshirt covering his head. He leisurely strolls up to Joy’s car and leans against the trunk, back to me. My fingers seek to bend the metal of the window frame. Only a coward would hide his face after what he did last night. Undoubtedly, the man must have a family of his own. Do they have any idea what he is?

  Joy returns, face split in a huge smile. It looks foreign on her face, but it pulls me in. I long to catch just a glimpse of such a look cast in my direction. She approaches the man, slings her arms around his neck, and kisses him. The force nearly puts them both on top of the trunk. After a moment, Joy pushes back the man’s hood and runs fingers through his hair.

  His platinum-blond hair.

  My ship is taking on water and we’re all going down.

  Joy kisses him one last time and opens the trunk. As the man turns and picks up Joy’s suitcase, I get a full view of his face. He’s no more than a few paces away, pinned in the early morning sun. It’s unmistakable.

  I’ve just spent the last night listening to Tyler Bridges fuck my wife against a motel room wall.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I wait until Joy and Ty leave before I even breathe. It comes out as a gasp. Doubled over, I heave and gag, trying to take a full breath. The air sears my throat and fills my lungs with fire. I’m being burned alive.

  Tick.


  “Fuck you,” I say.

  Tick. Tick.

  I jump up and spin in place, searching, but seeing nothing upon which to unleash my rage. “One more tick, you son of a bitch, and I’ll—”

  How are you today?

  I squeeze my temples. If I don’t answer, it will go away.

  How are you today? Today? Today?

  “No!” I shout. “How are you today?!”

  Not. Tick. Much.

  I storm out of the room and blow into the lobby like a whirlwind. The edges of my vision are shrouded in black, but I can see the same tired woman behind the desk in the center of the quickly closing shadows. And I can see the clock on the wall behind her.

  Tick. Tick. Tick.

  “Checking out or checking in?” the woman asks without looking up from a magazine.

  I don’t answer. I run around the desk and punch the clock with all the force I can muster. It shatters, cutting my hand in a dozen places. But only the glass front has broken. The second hand continues to wind.

  Tick. Tick. Tick.

  The woman shouts at me, but her words are drowned out by the clock. I grab it and hurl it across the lobby. It hits the wall and falls to the floor.

  Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

  I chase the clock across the lobby. “How are you today?!” I scream, stomping on it.

  I dance a violent jig until it can no longer be called a clock. It’s just pieces of what once was, splattered with drops of my blood. It will never again be whole. Some consequences are forever.

  Silence reigns and I’m able to breathe again.

  “I’m calling the police,” the woman says.

  Without looking her way, I leave.

  I walk to my car filled with grim indifference. I could just walk forever. Doesn’t matter where. How far would I need to travel to find the release I seek? Knowing it’s a place that doesn’t exist, I find myself at my car and climb in.

  I grip the steering wheel, but don’t start the engine. Joy is having an affair, but it doesn’t surprise me. Even the fact that her lover is Ty, my only friend, doesn’t surprise me. Nothing surprises me and yet something has changed. Deeply.

  I need to do something. Only a weak man would witness what I have and do nothing. But I haven’t slept and something is calling be down into the depths. It claws at my soul with a strength I can’t resist. I recline the seat back and let the darkness consume me, hoping it will last forever.

  When I wake, the sun is low in the sky, casting long shadows across the street. People walk past on the sidewalk, never glancing my way. I stare back, doing nothing but watching as I rub sleep from my eyes. I’m parked far enough away that I can’t see the Regency Motel, but I know it’s there. I can smell the lust from here. And with it, room thirteen, keeper of secrets no longer.

  I start my car. The engine purrs to life and it sounds like Joy moaning. I shut it off immediately and lean back in my seat. I reach for the key again, but my phone rings. It’s sitting on the passenger’s seat. The screen lights up, showing me who’s calling. Joy.

  I don’t pick it up. I can’t move until it stops ringing. Bing. A text message comes in. I know it’s Joy. I grip the steering wheel with one hand and start the engine with the other. The car roars to life, no longer sounding like my wife in the thralls of pleasure, pressed against a stained motel room wall by my only friend. I’m living a trope, just another poor bastard who can’t satisfy his wife. I’m one of a million, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.

  Bing. Bing. Bing.

  I grab my phone and thumb through the text messages. Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? The tiny words shout at me. It quickly turns into a moan and I toss the phone back on the seat.

  Uhh. Mmm. Flesh strikes flesh. A wall shakes.

  I throw the car into gear and accelerate into traffic. A horn blares from close behind me, but there’s no impact. No fiery wreckage to take me from this. Too bad.

  Bing. Bing. Bing.

  I drive faster, careening down streets I don’t recognize and sliding around corners without looking. I have no destination, no sense of direction. If I drive fast enough, the sound of the engine becomes just that, an angry motor, and not the sound of Joy climaxing a foot from my ear. I was so close to her, yet have never been further away.

  I shake my head violently and find I’m parked in the side lot of some dive bar in a town I don’t know.

  Twilight is fading now, streaks of red and violet losing their battle against the approaching night. You can’t stop the darkness from coming. You just have to pray there’s a morning after.

  Bing.

  Still dazed, I grab my phone. There’s no reason to look, but no reason not to either. It’s a text message from Ty. Wanna grab a drink? Your treat.

  I flip the phone over in my hand and tear the battery free. I toss both pieces into the backseat. I get out of my car and head for the bar.

  Tick. Mmm.

  “What’ll ya have?” the bartender asks.

  I can’t remember walking in. “My life back,” I say without thinking.

  “Can’t help you with that, I’m afraid. Might be able to help you forget about it for a time, though.”

  “Good enough. Just give me a pitcher of the cheapest thing you got on tap.”

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  With pitcher and mug in hand, I head for the booth stuffed into the deepest and darkest corner of the bar. I settle in and drain a mugful before exhaling.

  Whatever bar I’ve stumbled upon is almost empty and now that I’ve gathered my senses, it’s easy to see why. Half the lighting is out, empty sockets where bulbs should be. Dirt and grime is piled up against every wall, and spider webs hang from nearly every inch of the ceiling. There’s only a handful of tables and booths, even less chairs, and one television. It’s an old tube set mounted in a corner. Some men are crowded around it, yelling. I don’t see the reason.

  The beer is flat and warm, but I continue drinking. I still hear the echoes of Ty thrusting into my wife against the motel room wall. Someone slams a glass down on the wooden bar and I jump. For a minute, I think I see Joy walk past, but another drink drowns the apparition.

  Uhh. Mmm. Tick. Tick. Tick.

  “Closing time, boys!” the bartender shouts across the bar. “Go on, get out of here!”

  I start. The men around the TV are gone. Only a pair of men at a far table share the bar with me. I turn to my pitcher and mug. The pitcher is empty, along with four shot glasses. My mug is in hand and half full. I finish it off and try to stand. With wobbly steps, I break through the haze and delirium to end up back at my car.

  I lean against the door. Where am I going to go? I’m not going home to that lying bitch. I can’t. I won’t. I’d rather sleep on the street, bathed in filth and excrement. What now, then? I concentrate as hard as I can, but I can’t seem to see any future. There’s nothing left for me. The clock continues to tick away, but my time is already up.

  “Got a light, handsome?”

  I nearly fall as a woman seems to step from the fog to lean against the trunk of my car.

  “Don’t call me that,” I hiss.

  “It was a compliment,” she says. “So, you got a light or what?”

  “That’s a lame way of beginning a conversation.”

  “Excuse me?” she asks, sliding closer.

  The scent of cigarettes and perfume intertwine to make my stomach turn. But after what I’ve seen, it’s merely an annoyance. I look at her and have to admit that despite the aroma coming off her in waves, she’s attractive. There’s an intensity in her eyes that belies her youthfully sensual appearance. For a moment, I’m captivated. But I’m also piss drunk.

  “You probably have a lighter in your pocket,” I say, needing to look away to collect myself.

  “Well, aren’t you a clever bastard?” she asks. She lights her cigarette, takes a long drag, and exhales, thankfully away from me.

  “What do you want?” I ask.

  “The ques
tion is, what do you want?” She leans forward to catch my gaze.

  “Oh. You’re a hooker. Not interested.”

  “That’s a rather one-dimensional way of looking at it. I’m much more than that, trust me. What else are you going to do out here? Looks like you just spent most of the night in that godforsaken, poor excuse for a drinking establishment.”

  “I have a home,” I retort. “Do you?”

  “If that was supposed to be an insult, I’m not fazed. Takes a lot more than that to make this bitch cry.”

  I laugh. “You remind me of my daughter.”

  The woman shrugs. “You can roleplay whatever the hell you want as long as you pay.”

  I shake my head. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m still not interested.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “I’m not telling you my daughter’s name.”

  “Fair enough. I’m Hope, for what it’s worth. And that’s my real name, in case you’re wondering.” Hope holds out a heavily ringed hand in my direction. “Shit, I’m clean,” she says when I don’t immediately shake it.

  “Whatever,” I say, taking her hand and giving it a brief shake. It’s soft and warm. Inviting.

  “Man of mystery. I can respect that.”

  “Don’t you have anything better to do? I told you I’m not interested.”

  Hope steps away from my car and gestures at it with her cigarette. “You’re free to go whenever you want, assuming you got some place to go.”

  I turn from her and get in my car. I slam the door shut but don’t move to start the engine.

  Hope circles around the front of the car and gets into the passenger’s seat. She looks at me but doesn’t say anything.

  “I listened from the next room as the only friend I have fucked my wife against the wall,” I say, forehead on the steering wheel. “Over and over and over and—”

  “I got it,” Hope says. “Geez, man, you’re like a walking soap opera. Tough break, though.”

  I shouldn’t be telling my troubles to a prostitute that is just looking for my wallet, but I can’t keep it inside. It feels toxic.