The House of Long Shadows

by Ambrose Ibsen

  Weiss sighed. “I don't care about your reasons—they amount to nothing but greed, ambition. You didn't have a clear head, and so you chose to ignore the warnings. Now you're sowing the rewards of your carelessness. And for what? To fix up that accursed house? So that you could play at being Bob Vila?”

  “Fuck you.” I nearly cut the line.

  A taut silence grew up between us.

  “In all these years, I've wondered if I couldn't have found another way to help Fiona,” began Weiss, clearing his throat. “But the answer I've always returned to is a resounding 'no'. And I'll tell you why that is. Fiona didn't want to be helped. She'd gathered those spirits up, willingly invited them. She'd wanted them there. Even now, she doesn't want to be separated from them, which is why she's taken up residence in you.”

  “But... but I didn't invite them in,” I said.

  “No, you did. With your carelessness. But you do differ from Fiona in one crucial way. You don't want the spirits to stay. You want them out. So...”

  I held my breath.

  “Perhaps there is a way out.” Weiss paused. “There may be something we can try...”

  “Anything,” I was quick to reply.

  “There's no guidebook on this sort of thing. It's inexact. I brought folks around to exorcise Fiona, but it didn't work because she'd clung to the spirits. It's possible—not assured, but possible—that such methods could help you. Tell me, do you know anyone in town—a priest who could help you with this?”

  I thought back to my interactions with Father Kaspar. “No, I don't know of anyone in that field who could help me.”

  Weiss hesitated, but then said, “I may know someone. Exorcisms are difficult to arrange, but... I know someone who may be willing to help in this case.”

  I held the phone close, leaning on his every word. “Who?”

  The old man took his time in responding. “I wasn't intending to do this,” he began, “but I want to help you if I can. I'll make a phone call, get ahold of this friend of mine and let him know of this grave matter. He's a priest—retired. I'll make an appeal to him, see if he can't help. It's been... years since I've gone back to that house, but I suggest we meet there. Can you meet me there this afternoon? Say, at two? This is a delicate matter. We don't want the eyes of the world upon us while attempting to cast out the spirits.”

  “Absolutely, yes,” I replied. “I can meet you there.”

  “Very good. I'll take a cab, bring my priest friend along. I don't want to get your hopes up, but... we may be able to turn this around yet. Tell me, is the house safe? Is it still stable after all these years?”

  “Oh, yeah, the house isn't a problem,” I replied. “I have all of my tools laying around, and it's a little dusty, but it's not dangerous.”

  “Good, good. Now, listen. Due to my medication schedule, I can't be out much past eight at night. It would be better to get this over with early, so I'll head over as soon as I can. If it takes me longer to get there, don't worry. Stay in the house until I arrive, lest we get separated and waste time. This nightmare started there. I'd like for it to end there, too.”

  “OK, I'll meet you there around two,” I said.

  The plan was drawn.

  A cab rolled up to the curb and I dropped into the back seat. When the driver asked me where to, I told him to take me to the graveyard on Morgan Road.

  Weiss had advised me not to get my hopes up. That was a tall order.

  For the first time in quite a while, I felt like I had a fighting chance.

  Forty-One

  I stepped out of the cab and was greeted by the graveyard. The driver hadn't said much on the way over, but when he had spoken, it had been to proclaim this area a “dump”, and to express veiled interest in the reasons for my being driven out here.

  I'd deflected each and every question.

  Whether I'd wished to see the graveyard again because of my own affinity for it, or whether it had been Fiona's silent urging that'd brought me there, I couldn't say. Considering what was to come, I wanted to take a short walk to center my thoughts though, and figured that the five minute jaunt from the graveyard to the house would suit my needs nicely without holding me up longer than necessary.

  I walked past the ramshackle houses, kicked pebbles down the battered street. I felt I knew this road much better now than when I'd first started my renovation project. Perhaps this feeling of familiarity with the area was Fiona's doing, too. There was no way to tell what thoughts were mine and which ones belonged to the spirits fluttering in my depths. I looked at a house and thought I recognized it—but was it simply because I'd taken notice of it on a previous drive, or was it because one of the souls in me had once lived in the place?

  I'd fed solely on hopelessness and fear for so long that the concept of a happy ending was now foreign to me. Suppose that Weiss' friend managed to exorcise the spirits. What would I do then? Would my life ever return to normal? Fondness may have been too much to ask for, but would I ever be able to look back on these days with anything like calm?

  The staggered houses were becoming more familiar to me now. Up ahead, a few hundred yards away, the shape of my own house entered into view. The Callery pear swayed and beckoned. The sight of both the tree and house no longer disgusted me. Knowing that the tree had been put there as a kindness for Irma Weiss, who had been so in need of comfort in her miserable final days, made it hard to hate it. The house itself didn't scare me—without the dark souls that had walked its halls, it was nothing but an empty building now.

  If Weiss and I succeeded at banishing these devils inside of me, what would become of the house? I was quite sure I'd never set foot in it after this. Without the long shadows, without the hushed voices, but with a bit more work, it would actually be a fine home. I studied it as I approached, tried to imagine a family living there in the future.

  It wasn't as hard to imagine as you might expect. Someone else could fix up that house down the line and be quite happy with it. Just not me.

  The house no longer had any power over me because I understood that I carried the worst of it inside my person. The property had transmitted every sinister characteristic into me so that only a house was left. If Weiss' friend could cast out the spirits, then maybe the ritual would act as a kind of baptism for the house, too, lending it a new life. I hoped that whoever lived here in the future, or built on this land, would avoid the taint of these past forty years.

  I walked up the lawn, and was surprised to see a black sedan winding up the usually quiet street. It slowed as it passed the house, the driver taking a look at me, before speeding off. The windows had been tinted, obscuring any passengers. Had it been Weiss? I watched the car disappear into the distance and figured they'd gotten lost in the web of potholed streets.

  I unlocked the door and stepped inside. I was back. Somehow, it felt like I'd been gone from the place for a very long time.

  For a while, I stood at the dining room window, monitoring the street and checking my phone compulsively. Then, with nothing else to fill my time, I began walking from room to room, recalling my brief tenancy in the house and picturing some of the scenes that Weiss had alluded to during our talk. His wife and daughter had both died in this house—a house which he'd intended as a fresh start for the family.

  I walked through the upstairs, opening a few of the windows to let the fresh air in. Having learned all of the sordid details of the house's hidden life, I was struck by the tragic atmosphere. My previous stays in the home had been marked wholly by fear, but now that I knew something of the family who'd lived in it, I was moved by a great sadness.

  While pacing, I had a look at my own work, too—in many cases the jobs left half-finished. Someone else would have to tile that bathroom.

  Sorry, dad. This time, I'm ditching the job. You never realized this, but sometimes in life you encounter projects that you just shouldn't finish. This is one of them, I thought to myself.

  Returning downstairs, I looked at the ki
tchen, so stripped and empty of its fixtures. Tall boxes of cabinetry still sat inside; maybe the next person to buy this house would like my choice of cabinets and would install them.

  I heard the sound of tires crunching gravel. A car was inching up the drive.

  “Thank goodness,” I muttered, checking the time. It was a few minutes before two—Weiss hadn't wasted a beat. Car doors slammed shut, footsteps pounded up the yard.

  This was it. My future hinged on this meeting.

  I threw open the door, readying a greeting for Weiss and the priest he'd brought along.

  Instead, what I found on the other side of the door was the butt of a rifle. I felt the weapon connect with my brow, and suddenly my legs turned into noodles. I crumpled, falling backward, and felt myself dragged deeper into the house. Before my vision went completely black, I noticed three figures standing around me. They all wore hooded sweatshirts. I couldn't make out their faces—they were indistinct. Their voices, too, coalesced into a blur of barking laughter.

  One of the figures patted me down, pulled my wallet from my back pocket. He ripped the cash out of it, nicked a few of the cards. He took my phone, too. The others set out through the house, searching for things of value to take with them. I heard them muttering to each other, tearing open boxes and dumping their contents all over the floor.

  I could taste blood. My body refused to move no matter how hard I tried to rally my limbs. Dazed and frightened, I felt consciousness slipping away. All the hope I'd felt just moments ago went with it.

  Lights out.

  Forty-Two

  There was a deep wheeze.

  Then the cracking started up again.

  And the scratching. Scratch-scratch-scratch.

  An eternity passed before I could open my eyes. The pain in my forehead made me wonder if my skull hadn't been split. I brought a hand to my brow, shocked that I was even able to manage movement, and felt a warm, sticky wound between my eyes.

  I'd been hit in the head while answering the door.

  The hooded men had come in, mugged me.

  Awareness stole over me all at once. The air tasted dirty, full of dust, and I remembered I was in the house, surrounded by my half-finished projects. I tried to sit up, but it wasn't until my third or fourth attempt that I did so. And even then, I could only keep it up long enough to glance at my surroundings dizzily.

  There was still daylight coming in through the windows. I couldn't say how much time had passed since the attack, but it was still daytime. That was a good sign. I spied a lone figure standing several feet away from me, in the living room. My vision was scrambled, but when I heard the shaking of an inhaler, I knew it was Willard Weiss.

  “Oh, you're awake,” he said from across the room. He walked over to me, carefully lowered himself to the floor and sat beside me. With great care, he supported my shoulders and allowed me to rest against him.

  I wanted to communicate to him that I'd been attacked, that some muggers had left me for dead before he'd arrived. The result was word salad.

  Thankfully, Weiss seemed to understand what was going on. “You were on the floor when I got here,” he said.“It seems you were attacked by someone. They made a mess of the house. I wasn't sure whether to call an ambulance. I'm glad you're coming around. This neighborhood is unsafe; unsavory types probably took an interest in this house once they found out someone was working on it.” He rummaged around in his pocket. “Here, take these. They'll clear your head.” Weiss funneled a couple of bitter-tasting pills into my mouth. I had a hell of a time swallowing them. Eventually, I choked them down.

  Weiss helped me back down to the floor, then stood up. My vision had cleared somewhat. I was better able to see him as he left my side. He was dressed in jeans and a long-sleeve shirt. Both were caked in dust. His neckline was ringed in sweat. I soon realized why.

  Returning to the living room, he picked up my drywall saw and continued cutting into the wall.

  Scratch-scratch-scratch.

  Scratch-scratch-scratch.

  That was the noise I'd been hearing—his carving away at the drywall.

  “W-What are you doing?” I asked—or tried to ask. My tongue didn't cooperate.

  Weiss yanked away a big chunk of drywall and let it drop. He then returned to his cutting, increasing the size of the opening by more than double over the course of the next ten or so minutes. He worked slowly due to his age, but his work was very careful. Whenever he felt overwhelmed at the job, he'd sit down in the folding chair for a breather, or take another puff from his inhaler.

  The opening he was making seemed quite large. Large enough, I supposed, to fit a man.

  “What are you doing?” I asked again. My speech was garbled, but I think he heard me.

  Rather than answer my question, Weiss began to ramble. “Almost done now. You're a big fella, so I think I'll have to remove one of these studs. You're a handyman, aren't you? You probably know a thing or two about this sort of work. I was good with my hands when I was young. This shit gets tougher the older you get.” He chuckled weakly, clearing more of the drywall. “It's probably been forty years since I last worked on drywall.”

  “W-What are you doing?” I asked for a third time. “Why are you...” I scanned the room, looked for the priest he'd promised to bring with him. The two of us were alone.

  Noticing the confused look on my face, Weiss wiped his hands on his jeans and sat down. “There's no one else here. I didn't bring anyone else. Didn't see the need.”

  “But...” I began.

  “The priest? No, I wasn't going to bring a priest with me. My plan was to come here and talk things through with you—to convince you of what really needed done.” He cocked his head to the side. “I told you before what you had to do, didn't I? And you called me up today, yammering about how you wanted another solution. There is no other solution to this problem, kiddo. So, since you can't man up and do this yourself, I'm going to do it for you. I'm going to set you up in this wall just like I did Fiona all those years back. It's my responsibility.”

  I tried to stand, but I only managed to raise my upper body off the floor.

  “What you're set to become, well... we can't let that out into the world, can we? You know it, even if you don't want to admit it. You know what you're turning into. You've seen it with your own eyes. If something isn't done soon, there's no telling what'll happen, and so we don't have the luxury of time. Can't be waiting around for you to grow a pair and do what needs to be done. And anyway... this all started with my daughter. It was her mess. I cleaned it up once. Now, I have to clean it up a second time. I'm sorry you got mixed up in it, but it changes nothing. It's my responsibility to do this—it's what a father does!”

  With a grunt, I raised myself on my forearms and attempted to crawl towards the living room. As I did so, the pain in my forehead flared up again and my surroundings began to spin. I drooled all over the floor and rolled onto one side, the ache in my skull becoming unbearable. “No... I won't let you do this,” I blurted. “I'm... I'm not going in there... You can't do this! You were supposed to help me!”

  “I suspected you'd feel that way.” Weiss stood, looked down at me. He whistled. “They sure did a number on you, didn't they? You won't believe this, but that break-in was sheer chance. I had nothing to do with that. It's just another consequence of your picking this damned old house in this busted-up neighborhood. I'm surprised you didn't get assaulted sooner.” Weiss picked up a saw and singled out the stud he wished to remove. “Whatever fight you've got left will be gone once those pills kick in.”

  I swallowed hard. The taste of the pills returned to my tongue for an instant. “W-What? What were they?” I groaned.

  He laughed, taking some measurements within the wall. “They weren't Aspirin, I'll tell you that. Sleeping pills. Many times over the recommended dose. I clearly haven't experimented with that kind of dose myself, but the warnings on the bottle tell me you'll slip into respiratory distress soon enough.�
�

  I retched, squirming on the ground and trying to spit the pills back up.

  “Don't bother. I gave you those for your benefit, not mine. Once you get put back here, you're going to wish I'd given you a dozen more. Now, if you'll excuse me, I want to get this stud removed.” He spared me a little grin. “We've got some time before sunset, but I'd prefer to be out of here before your friends start up.”

  “How... how could you...” I buried my face in the floorboards.

  “You know, I've had a lot of time to think about this particular job since I first did this. I've been able to think of improvements. I'm not happy to do this, but if you'll excuse me, I am happy to do it better. You get that, don't you? The pride that comes from a job well done? Even a somber job?” He knocked some dust from the bald crown of his head and began sawing. “First thing... you've gotta pick a non-load-bearing wall. That way, you can take out one of these studs without causing a collapse. Once I've done that, there'll be plenty of room for you.”

  So dazed that I could hardly focus my eyes, I looked up at Weiss and watched him work. As he rambled on, I almost felt like he was doing a tutorial, and I even glanced around the room, wondering what his camera setup was like. Didn't see that coming, I thought. Weiss gets to make the last tutorial in this series. One hell of a twist.

  Weiss kept talking, but I couldn't keep his voice in my ears. There were intermittent blanks in my awareness as the head injury and sleeping pill combo wreaked havoc on my brain. When next I came to, I felt myself being dragged slowly towards the opening. He'd managed to carve the stud out of the wall, and was now getting ready to drop me into place.

  Weiss was old as dirt, but the guy had muscle. Huffing and puffing, he grabbed me under the arms and hauled me like a sack of trash across the floor. He only set me down twice, and during one of those instances, palming sweat from his face, he sucked at his inhaler. I tried to put up a fight, to shake him off, but had no control over my body. “That isn't going to work,” he said, stepping on one of my hands.