The House of Long Shadows

by Ambrose Ibsen

  What would dad think? A ghost of a smile teased my lips as the question popped into my head. Then, just as quickly, I frowned, because I knew damn well how my father would react at the prospect of quitting a job. He'd laugh at you and call you a little bitch. My father wouldn't have quit for anything. In all his years he'd never backed out of a job. Not a single one. He'd valued his reputation too much to be a quitter, sometimes to the point of danger. Once, he'd worked on a house infested with brown recluse spiders. Houses packed full of black mold. He'd been the kind of guy to show up to work with a fever—hard-working and determined to a fault. He hadn't been much of a father, but he'd been a model workman.

  My father wouldn't have cared a jot about finding a corpse at a worksite. So, what? Ain't no body in the house now. Keep working on it, he would've said while taking a puff from his Camel. You're gonna have to grow some balls if you wanna get paid, kiddo. Worse things to find in a house than a dried-up ol' stiff. Lemme tell you... once, I worked on this shithole of a house where...

  I could practically hear his voice in my ear.

  I crossed a busy intersection and then jogged a little while, starting into the network of semi-abandoned streets that would lead me back to Morgan Road. The occasional headlight painted my surroundings in streaks of yellow as I went, reading the street signs and pushing into familiar territory.

  If I wanted to, I could pack up my most valuable things and stay at a hotel for the night, coming back for the other stuff later. Maybe by morning I'd be able to decide what to do with the house. A good night's sleep in a proper bed, some hard drinks and room service sounded incredible. I considered another course of action, that of simply hauling all of my equipment back into the van and leaving Michigan for good. It would take awhile to get everything packed, but even so this plan had a lot of appeal. I wanted to put as much distance between myself and that crumbling nightmare of a house as I could.

  I took my time meandering along the lonely stretch of Morgan Road and arrived at the house to find all of the lights on in the downstairs. The front lawn looked pretty well trampled, and the overgrown grass had been mashed down by the tires of police cruisers. As I walked up the drive, the motion-activated light I'd installed the evening before went off, blinding me. I cursed all the way to the front door.

  Stepping inside, I was dismayed to find the downstairs a complete mess. Muddy bootprints marred the already dusty floors. Bits of drywall had been scattered across the room. My things had been rearranged, jostled, by foreign hands. Violated. The house had never been cozy or inviting to me, but in its current state of disarray I found myself unable to turn up a single redeeming characteristic.

  And that didn't even begin to cover the apprehension I felt as I looked to the open wall in the living room.

  I stepped towards it slowly, cautiously. I didn't even get within ten feet of the wall, opting instead to stand on tip-toe. I had to be sure that the body was, in fact, gone.

  Of course it was. Not a trace of it remained. Even the tangle of white hair I'd seen on one of the studs had been removed by the authorities. They'd been very thorough, had probably probed behind the other walls and taken no shortage of pictures. I'd only been allowed to return to the house because the cops had found no other evidence of note in their hours-long search.

  The lack of a body should have been a comfort, but it wasn't. Body or no body, I still felt it there, mucking up the place. And so I called out, irritated, in a voice that echoed off of the bare walls. “Why'd you have to go and die in this house, huh? Of all the houses to die in, it just had to be this one? The house I'd staked my future on? I had plans for this house, damn it. And now they're fucked. Thanks, lady. Thanks a lot.”

  I paused, suddenly sickened with guilt. I'd spent a lot of time that day worrying about how this terrible inconvenience was going to alter my day-to-day without once sparing the least bit of sympathy for the victim. Finding a dead body in your house is a pretty crappy thing, but it isn't half as bad as being walled up yourself. The woman hadn't ended up back there by accident; no, there'd been some foul-play involved. It was possible she'd been dead before being immured, and had only been stashed in the wall by some evil-doer to keep her corpse—and his misdeeds—hidden. Or maybe, like some unfortunate victim in a Poe story, she'd been put back there by someone to die a slow and horrible death, while still alive and kickin'.

  I didn't want to think about the specifics. I had enough on my mind without imagining what it might be like to slowly die in a cramped space like that.

  “On that note, it's time to go,” I said. I didn't want to be there anymore.

  The atmosphere had changed, maybe permanently. In that moment, deciding that I needed to pack my things and go, it wasn't even fear that compelled me, but disgust. What a wretched little house this was. The cops had been right; I'd been a real idiot to buy it in the first place. A headache nipped at my brainstem as I turned and had a look around the room, trying to decide where to begin.

  The laptop went into my backpack. I loaded up another bag with camera gear, then set about identifying other essentials. When I'd gotten the most important items sorted, I realized I still didn't have a destination in mind. I was leaving the house, but where would I go?

  I sat on the folding chair and massaged my temples. The first thing I wanted was a hot shower. I pulled out my phone and started looking into luxury hotels in the area. I didn't care if I had to drive twenty, forty miles. I wanted someplace swank after the day I'd had.

  Before diving into the search results for quality lodgings, I decided to peek at my email, and again lamented the fact that I was about to disappoint all of my subscribers. I could already imagine the deluge of comments I was going to get. The haters would be vindicated. See? they would write, FlipperKevin is a sham. He can't fix anything to save his life. This was just a stupid gimmick to earn him more views. He's only in it for the money. I'm unsubscribing.

  It was possible that my finding the body would make the local news. No journalist had been by yet, and seeing as how this part of town was completely derelict, perhaps there was no media interest in the case. Still, it was possible someone would drop by for an interview, or that the police would give a statement. I considered this fact, wondered if I couldn't point my viewers to any number of articles that might pop up in the next twenty-four hours. I wondered, too, whether they'd be understanding of my decision to end the challenge prematurely if they had all the facts.

  Maybe I'd record a hasty statement, briefly explaining my intention to end the 30-day challenge. While pondering what I'd say in such a recording, something in my email distracted me.

  I had a message waiting for me from Mona Neeb—a woman I'd had some correspondence with before.

  Mona Neeb, from the Home Improvement Network.

  Dazedly, I opened the email. Hello, Kevin! she wrote. This is Mona from HIN. Not sure if you remember me. We talked a few months back? Anyhow, I wanted to drop you a line to let you know that this new series of yours, the thirty-day renovation, is exciting, and it's piqued the interest of some of the producers here. We look forward to following this new project. It looks like you've already gotten quite the reception! Your views and viewer-engagement are incredible. Many of us are following your daily updates with great interest, and there's talk that a show in this format could do huge ratings on our network. When you're finished with this project, provided it all goes well, I'd like to set up a meeting with you at our main office so that we can discuss the particulars. You'd expressed interest in your own show during our last chat, and I believe you'd be the perfect host for such a project.

  She left her contact info in the email so that we might arrange a meeting at the Home Improvement Network offices. What really stuck with me, though—the line I read again and again like a meditative mantra—was the last bit of her message.

  Best of luck to you in completing this challenge, Kevin! All of us here at HIN will be watching!

  Translation: Don't fuck this u
p and you might get to be a television star!

  I groaned, and it took everything I had not to throw my phone across the room.

  I was stuck fixing this damn house now, and I knew it.

  It would have broken my heart to disappoint subscribers, to eat the costs I'd hitherto racked up in this renovation, but after what I'd been through the past day, I'd been prepared to cancel the challenge.

  This email changed everything, though. I couldn't pack up and flee after what I'd just read. As I'd hoped and prayed, this VideoTube series was set to become my golden ticket. I could have a real shot at the big-time, so long as I completed this renovation. Mona Neeb wanted me to fix this house up in thirty days; to do less, or to walk away from the house, was to walk away from fame.

  The roller coaster of emotions I'd ridden that day left me feeling ragged. I re-read Mona's email and laughed. I think I cried a little, too. And then I stood up, unpacked my laptop and camera gear, and got to work.

  It didn't matter if there were ten, a hundred, corpses in this joint.

  I was going to get the work done. I didn't have any choice now.

  Ten

  When I wasn't hard at work editing my video, I was glancing back at the open wall, expecting a shriveled corpse to materialize.

  While picking and choosing which bits of my footage to use for the day's video, I was forced, briefly, to revisit the moment I'd made the horrific discovery. Watching it in private now, mere feet from where the body had been found, the hair on the back of my neck stood at attention. Despite this, I was arrested by morbid curiosity. I had a desire to know—to really know—who it was I'd found in this house, and hoped that a measured look at their remains might help me to quell my nerves.

  I paused on a frame where the corpse could be seen clearly, studying it for a time. “See?” I told myself aloud, gripping my knees with shaky hands. “It's just an old body. Like a mummy.”

  Yes, it was rather like a mummy. The shriveled, papery skin and empty eye sockets reminded me of mummies I'd seen in museums on school field trips. The long, white hair testified to advanced age and seeming femininity, and though only her head and neck had been unearthed at that point, the fact she'd been small—shrunken—was not much in doubt. I hadn't gotten a look at the entire body; the cops hadn't shown me, and I'd had no interest in pursuing the matter. The leathern face staring at me from the screen was enough.

  I puzzled over the circumstances that'd seen her confined back there, but promptly stopped myself. It wasn't any of my business, and the less time spent musing on such things the better.

  Something caught my attention as I let the video play. On screen, I'd just gone running from the house after unearthing the body, and the woman's cadaverous face was in perfect view. If I hadn't known any better—if the corpse had actually had eyes to see with—I would have sworn that it was staring intently at the camera. As it was, I thought it a rather peculiar thing that the body had been discovered in that very place where its eyes would meet the camera straight on. I laughed it off, but in the back of my mind I couldn't help imagining that it was no accident; that, as if anticipating my recording, the corpse had positioned itself ahead of time, so that it might be captured in just such a way.

  I started cleaning up the video, adding the usual flourishes, and then watched the rough cut. The cops had had a point; my material in this video was pretty lame. I threw in a couple of lens flares and hoped that they would distract from my bad jokes. Adding a bit of music and adjusting the brightness in a few shots, I then picked up my camera and prepared to shoot a quick addition. I had to show the viewers what the finished product looked like.

  Before sitting down to edit the video, I'd hurriedly torn away the remaining drywall, leaving all of the studs exposed. When I'd set up my studio light to give the impression of daylight and therefore perfect continuity, I summoned my cheeriest voice and tried to hide my fatigue. Panning over the exposed wall, I began narrating. “And that's all for today. Got all of the drywall down, but unfortunately I encountered some technical difficulties. I'll get the new stuff hung tomorrow and will detail the entire process. There's no real damage behind this wall, so it'll be easy-peasy. Thank you for watching! Don't forget to 'like' this video if you found it helpful. And if you want to follow me on this journey for the next thirty days, be sure to subscribe to my channel!”

  With that out of the way, I spliced in the new footage and threw in some extra razzmatazz on the editing front—more sound effects, the usual intro animation. When iMovie had processed the file I threw it onto VideoTube, which immediately began processing it. It would go live in fifteen to twenty minutes.

  I spent those fifteen minutes straightening out the living room. I stuffed the broken drywall into garbage bags, ran the vacuum awhile to suck up all of the dust before I had a chance to breathe it in, and even pulled out a mop to clear up the muddy prints the cops had left behind. It was more care than this damn house deserved, but at some point that evening I'd decided I was going to stay there for the night, and I wanted to make it as comfortable as I could.

  It wasn't that the fear had altogether left me. I was still thoroughly creeped out by the idea that a body had been hidden behind these very walls. The email from the Home Improvement Network had been quite a shot in the arm however, and my mounting fatigue had me wanting to crash hard and soon. Sleeping on the air mattress as I'd done the night before was the easiest thing. When this thirty-day job was finished, I'd stay in a five-star hotel and live it up. Steak dinners, booze, cigars, strippers—the whole nine yards. I didn't have time for any of that at present, though. Staying in the house would help keep me on task.

  Reflecting on my father had also taken its toll. Knowing how he'd react if I, his prissy son, chose to cancel this challenge, or spend the nights in a hotel out of fear, I decided to man up. I'd slept in this house the night before, after all. I hadn't known it then, but there'd been a dead body inches away. Now it was gone, so there was literally nothing to fear. I decided to power through my lingering unease and just sleep at the worksite, if only to remain manly in the eyes of my dead father.

  The day's video was taken care of. The 30-day challenge continued. “Crisis averted,” I said, pushing away from the table and pacing around in the living room. I stretched, catching a whiff of my serious BO, and wished the place had a working shower. I could have theoretically used the shower in the upstairs bathroom; the faucet and shower head still worked. The water wasn't the freshest here, though, and the idea of cozying up to the grimy, crumbling tiles up there didn't sit too well, so I dug out my camp shower and hauled it outside, along with a liter or two of bottled water.

  The night remained warm, and except for my porch light, and a flickering streetlight at the very end of the road towards the graveyard, there were no other artificial lights around. Just me and Mr. Moon. Approaching the Callery pear tree, nose wrinkled for its stench, I fixed the clip of the camp shower to a sturdy branch, stripped down to my underwear and started rinsing off.

  I stood beneath the lazy spray, scrubbing, until the water was spent. When I was finished, I found that the ritual left me reasonably refreshed. And tired. I hadn't eaten since lunch, and my stomach burned with a ravenous hunger. The wind dried me off within a few minutes and I returned inside, smashing half a box worth of protein bars and an entire bag of beef jerky. I promised to treat myself to a big, hearty breakfast before getting to work the next morning, but for now the pre-packaged stuff would have to do. Wiping at my eyes, I set up the air mattress—this time in the middle of the living room, away from the exposed wall—and made sure all of the doors and windows downstairs were locked.

  The day had left me stressed, no doubt, and thinking about all the work still ahead of me left me doubly so. Nonetheless, my work here had taken a very happy turn since receiving Mona's email. There was a light at the end of the tunnel—a real possibility of stardom. I flopped onto the air mattress with a sigh, stretching out, and draped a blanket over myself.
I shut off the light in the living room and rolled onto my side. I was so tired I could have fallen asleep within minutes.

  And I would have, if only I hadn't noticed something.

  As I closed my eyes and courted sleep, something bright knocked on the outside of my eyelids and drew my attention. I blinked against it, sitting up slightly. It was coming from the dining room—from the window.

  I tensed as I realized what it was.

  The motion-activated porch light had come on. It had detected movement.

  Eleven

  I almost didn't get up to look.

  A raccoon or stray dog might have been the culprit. It was possible, too, that the police had stopped by with more questions, though I hadn't heard any cars pull up and there were no footsteps coming up to the porch. I hesitated, taking in the ponderous silence, but at remembering that I had only a minute before the light went off, I finally crept into the next room to investigate.

  On the way over, I paused to peer through the peephole in the front door. The porch was clear—thank God—and I crossed into the dining room to have a look through the window. The scene outside, set aglow by the harsh LED light, was an unfamiliar mess of black and green. Every tall blade of grass threw up an angular shadow that swayed in the breeze like the spines of some dangerous animal. The tree's white flowers caught the light, glowing eerily, while the trunk, dark and coarse, blended in with the surrounding night.