The House (34 page)

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Authors: Edward Lee

BOOK: The House
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(II)
Melvin awoke on his back. Whatever he lay on felt hard, coarse, and when his eyes fluttered open he saw several sparrows sitting on a wooden sill, chirping happily. Warm, wonderful sunlight flowed down on him from an open space. After a few more moments of conjuring his cognizance, he realized that he'd fallen asleep out in the old horse stable.
Either I've gone totally insane,
he reasoned,
or the Vinchetti house is very, very haunted.
 
Whichever the case, however, Melvin resolved quite quickly that he and Gwyneth would now spend the shortest amount of time gathering their things, and then they would get in their vehicles, and then they would put as much fucking distance between their fucking selves and that fucking house as humanly possible.
He nodded. He rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then he jogged back into the house, got dressed. He took to the task of sweeping the dirt out of the kitchen, throwing the skulls and skeleton parts back in the ground from whence they came, and refilling the hole.
Another hour he spent stowing their belongings, including Gwyneth's burdensome hobby debris, into their respective vehicles. Gwyneth herself was no doubt still sleeping, and though Melvin knew precious little about the particular effects of heroin, he suspected she would continue sleeping for quite a while. He remembered reading Burroughs'
Junkie
in an American Lit class, and recalled that the characters spent undue segments of their lives "on the nod."
He frowned at the plethora of hammer-holes in the living room wall. There was no way he could fix that mess himself, and there was equally no way he was going to stay here while a contractor undertook the repairs.
I'll tell Dirk, and tell him to give me the bill, then I'll give the bill to Dad. Dad will pay. Dad's insane wife did the damage, so Dad will pay. Simple.
In the course of Melvin's determinations, though, and his cleaning the house and refilling holes, it never came to mind that there was one thing he had not happened upon.
The cruciform plaque that Gwyneth had made.
When he went to wake Gwyneth up, she was not in her room.
"Oh, not again!"
The Corvette was still outside, however, so she definitely didn't go back to the biker tavern.
She's got to be on the property somewhere...
He called out her name in throat-roughening bellows, and he searched the entire house again, and the entire property outside.
At the edge of the yard, then, he heard...
Something.
Voices.
Some sort of revel?
The voices seemed very distant, carrying up the north side of the hill. Melvin grimly looked down the vast slope of land and realized where Gwyneth must have strayed to.
The Epiphanite compound...
He began to stalk down the hill.
(III)
A few missing slats from the rotting fence provided his entrance. Melvin waded through high grass as he proceeded; the compound was a maze of old austere wooden buildings and crooked footpaths. The buildings all looked the same—drab, gray rectangles—save for one, whose steepled roof and bell tower indicated a church. Tall, arched windows had long-since lost their stained glass, and the massive front door hung off its hinges. Melvin wasn't sure...
Had it been the raucous voices that had led him here, or simply some undefined instinct?
He looked straight at the church.
She's in there,
 he felt certain.
Three big Harley motorcycles were parked out front. It was through the broken windows that the voices channeled out.
"Ooo-eee!" a man's voice celebrated.
And another: "Un-fuckin'-believable! Didn't know a chick could
do
 that to herself!"
Melvin crept up to the side of the church, rose on his tip-toes to peer through the broken window...
The church was gutted: no pews, no altar, no choir seats or organ, just dusty, wide-open space. An empty beer can bounced across the floor, echoing its clatter. Three very large, unkempt bikers in seedy leather jackets stood aside, leering down at Gwyneth...
"Uh-uh-uh!" she blurted. Naked, as always, she lay on her shoulders and neck as her back curled up and her legs poised above her in mid-air: a human U. If her back could've bent any farther, she would've been able to perform cunnilingus on herself, and perhaps that's what she'd been attempting in the first place. A euphoric exertion puffed her face. Her right fist was buried to the wrist in her vagina.
She slowly twisted the fist back and forth in the vault of flesh, obviously in the throes of a massive orgasm. Her feet flexed in the air, her legs quivered, and—
"Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh—fuck..."
Eventually she flopped over and extracted her fist.
The three bikers applauded, guffawing. They all had tremendous beer bellies, straggly long hair and beards. The craziest-looking of the three was Chopper, the eyes of a rat sunk below his brow, black teeth, a headband with embroidered swastikas. The second wore an eyepatch, and the third had a hairy mole on his cheek the size and color of a shelled pecan (or if not a mole, a metastasis). They were all rubbing their crotches and slugging beer in between hoots and hollers. A very dejected Squirrelly sat in the corner on an inverted pail. She wore the same dirty cutoffs and stained halter she always wore. She picked her nose, bored.
"Now it's time for some real fun," Gwyneth droned. She took a sip of her Hershey's and threw her hair back. She got on hands and knees, her gorgeous buttocks splayed, and she grinned at the men over her shoulder. "I've got a great idea! You guys quit rubbin' your dicks and get over here. It's time for some serious ass-fucking!"
"Chopper first," Chopper said, dropping his jeans and kneeing up. A quick hock in her butt-crack and he was rolling, herpetic penis slugging in and out of Gwyneth's rectum like a toilet plunger.
"Shoot me a big hot creamy one," Gwyneth insisted, her hand up between her legs to cradle Chopper's ungainly scrotum.
His face looked like a hairy, twisted pink balloon, black teeth crimping his lower lip. "Aw, yeah, you dirty bitch! We'se gonna make us a shit-baby!"
"Come! Come!" Gwyneth whined.
Chopper's hairy white ass clenched as his groin slammed forward. The moan of his release sounded like a dog being strangled. Meanwhile, Gwyneth reached back with both hands to keep his penis in her. "Don't pull out yet!" she pleaded. "Keep your cock in me when you're finished coming..."
"The fuck for?" Chopper asked, confused.
"Keep it in, keep it in... Now... Piss. Piss right up my ass..."
Eyepatch and Mole burst into more hoots.
"Shit, the bitch wants me to piss up her ass," Chopper chortled, "so I guess...I'll piss up her ass!"
He leaned back, gripping her hips. His eyes closed in deep concentration, then—
"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh..."
Gwyneth cooed, cheek pressed to the dirty floor as Chopper's bladder was thoroughly voided. When he was done, he pulled out and gave her a complimentary slap on the buttock. "Ain't no better way to get rid of a six-pack!"
"No, sir, there sure ain't!" Eyepatch affirmed.
"Who's next?" Gwyneth asked. "My ass needs to be FILLED UP!"
Mole eagerly followed suit, humping frenetically, then ejaculating, then urinating into Gwyneth's colon, and when he was done, Eyepatch took his turn.
Chopper chuckled and cracked another beer. "Think ya got enough hot piss up your ass
now,
 baby?"
Mole: "Shit, 'tween the three of us, I'll bet we got a full case in her!"
Eyepatch: "A case? Shit, man! More like a motherfuckin'
keg!
"
Squirrelly's face was pinched up in the tightest frown. "Chopper, you're shittin' me! What'cho doin' wasting your time with that freaky bitch?"
Chopper hocked a loogie in her hair. "'Cos she's a hell of a lot more fun than you, ya skinny junkie. Now shut up 'less you want me to cut off your head and take a shit on it."
Squirrelly elected to keep quiet, maintaining her perch on the bucket.
"Look, fellas!" Eyepatch exclaimed. He pointed down. "Look what she's doin' now!"
A studied hush filled the church. All eyes fell wide on Gwyneth.
She remained on her knees, face in the floor, ass spread and jutting upward.
"What the
fuck?
" Mole uttered.
"I can't believe what I'm seein'," Chopper whispered.
Gwyneth, with some considerable dexterity now, inserted the end of the Hershey's Chocolate Syrup bottle into her anus...and
squeezed...
She grinned, purring, as the syrup ran up her bowel. "Ummmmmmmmmmmmm..."
Melvin stared in silent shock as some cruel fiber of his soul forced him to keep his face to that window.
This,
he thought,
cannot be real.
But, lo, it was.
However, the most demented curiosity occurred to him now:
What's she going to do next?
The answer to that question was about to unfold...
Gwyneth was clearly not in her right mind now. How could she be? She'd just willingly admitted three stout ejaculations, at least a gallon of beer-piss, and 24 ounces of Hershey's Chocolate Syrup into her bowel. When she stood up, her lower abdomen protruded to the extent that anyone else would've believed her to be six months pregnant. Her cool, disaffected tone of voice escaped her now, replaced by a nearly psychotic shrill of enthusiasm. She strutted about the floor, breasts jutting, nipples hard as gumdrops from an aberration of sexual desire that could only be grounded in evil. Hands opened flat under the distended belly, she jiggled up and down, giggling in delight by the heavy sloshing sound.
"She's crazy!" Mole enthused.
"Look at her go!" added Eyepatch.
"Un-fuckin'-believable!" chuckled Chopper.
Now Gwyneth grinned through grit teeth, traversing her hips back and forth in the most macabre dance ever performed. "Look at me! Come on, baby, let's do the twist!"
More technical queries raced through Melvin's mind as he continued to stare.
What's she going to...do with all of it?
Indeed, everything that had gone
into
her would inevitably have to come
out.
 
Melvin had a very sour feeling that something spectacular was about to happen...
Now Gwyneth jumped up and down as if on a pogo stick. The sloshing whipped up, louder, more vigorous. "I'm makin' Shake-A-Puddin'!" she squealed. She pogo'd around a bit longer, hopping a trail over to Squirrelly. Squirrelly could only stare upward, in shocked astonishment, until—
"Hey, bitch!"
—Gwyneth shoved her off the inverted bucket and flipped it over.
"Go, girl!" Chopper roared. "Go!"
Gwyneth squatted on the bucket, her tongue roving between her lips. "Thar she blows!"
It sounded like somebody dumping a bucket of dishwater into a sink. Gwyneth's lower abdomen visibly deflated as the revolting goulash in her bowel was expeditiously emptied.
"Oh, man!"
Mole said. "Is this fucked up or what?"

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