The House (37 page)
Authors: Edward Lee
"Gwyneth!"
Sobbing from the other bedroom returned his call. When he looked in, he saw that his prayer had been answered.
Gwyneth—naked, of course—sat at the edge of her bed, stooped over with her face in her hands. She looked up at him in complete misery. "Melvin, there's something wrong with this house! It's making me have the most awful dreams, and it makes me think awful things, the worst...things..."
"Me too," Melvin said.
"I want to go home. Can we leave now?"
Melvin smiled. "I want to leave too. So get dressed, and let's get out of here."
Minutes later, they were both in their vehicles, driving away from the house. Gwyneth followed Melvin in the Corvette. A perfect day bloomed before them. When Melvin was about to turn at the end of the drive, his eyes flicked to the rearview mirror.
What the...
Did he see a tall, gawky man and two wan women standing on the front porch of the Vinchetti house, waving to him? And was there a little white pig at their feet, snuffling around?
Of course not.
Two and a half hours later, Melvin and Gwyneth were back in Syracuse.
««—»»
It was the most relieving of sights: his father's grandiose house growing larger as they pulled up the long front drive. Melvin felt happily numb when he finally parked, got out of the Hummer, and took a deep breath.
Home, sweet home.
Gwyneth parked behind him and walked up, smoking a rank clove cigarette and sipping from...a bottle of Snapple.
"No Hershey's Syrup today?" Melvin inquired.
"I'm never drinking that shit again," she droned.
"Why? I thought it was your favorite."
"Something..." Her eyes drifted off at the thought. "I just don't like it anymore, I guess." She seemed uncomfortable, edgy. Oh, and she wore a pair of butt-clinging khaki shorts and a chartreuse lace cami top which essentially made her breasts appear spray-painted. The camel-toe at her crotch was magnificently apparent. Magnificent calves flexed when she fidgeted in her Earth Shoes.
She grabbed Melvin's arm in a manner that seemed desperate. "I'm...beginning to remember things, Melvin."
"Not good," Melvin suggested.
"I'm not sure if they're dream-fragments I'm remembering...or things I really did."
Shake-A-Puddin'!
Melvin thought.
Melvin thought.
"I'm just...sorry for any grief I may have put you through," she went on, her voice discreet. "I have a feeling I did."
"Don't worry about it," Melvin tried to set her at ease.
"And I also have a feeling I did some things that...well... If your father found out, he'd probably divorce me, and I have a feeling that...
you...
know what I mean, because I think you saw me do some of these things..."
you...
know what I mean, because I think you saw me do some of these things..."
Oh, I did,
Melvin thought.
Melvin thought.
"So I'll make a deal with you, Melvin. If you agree not to tell your father what I did, I'll agree not to tell him that you jerked off in my panties. Twice."
Melvin blushed. "You got a deal."
She absently hitched up the sheer fabric of her top, which printed the texture of her nipples even more precisely through the material. Melvin cringed.
She brushed some hair off her brow. "What was with that house, Melvin?"
"It doesn't matter," he said. "All that matters is we're far away from there now, and we'll never have to go near the place ever again. So the best thing for us to do is pretend we were never there. The last couple of days...never happened."
"You're a sweetie," she whispered, smiled, and pecked him on the cheek. The gesture seemed harmless enough...but as she did so, she also pressed her hand to his crotch, and squeezed.
Melvin came in his pants.
"Be a darling and bring my stuff in, will you?"
"Sure," Melvin said, sighing.
"Thanks!" and then she turned and sauntered toward the big house.
What a woman...
But her voice called back to him as he was about to start unloading the cars. "Hey, Melvin? What on earth is Van Der Graaf Generator?"
Melvin stopped stock-still and turned. He looked back up at her in a creeping dread. "Why...do you ask?"
She frowned, breasts jutting. "It's on your shirt. Where'd you get that shirt? It looks...old."
Very slowly, Melvin's eyes dragged down the front of his shirt.
A faded black T-shirt with white block letters: VAN DER GRAAF GENERATOR.
Melvin didn't know what to say back to her. "Oh, it's just an old shirt I pulled on at the last minute."
"Well..." Her nose scrunched up. "You should throw it out. And no offense, but it kind of stinks."
She walked back to the house.
Melvin didn't remember even putting the shirt on, and why would he put it on anyway?
It's been in the wall of the Vinchetti house for the last 30 years!
Repelled, he pulled the shirt off, stalked stoop-shouldered and bare-chested to the end of the driveway, and stuffed the shirt in the garbage.
It's been in the wall of the Vinchetti house for the last 30 years!
Repelled, he pulled the shirt off, stalked stoop-shouldered and bare-chested to the end of the driveway, and stuffed the shirt in the garbage.
There!
He pushed it all from his head: the house, Leonard, Shake-A-Puddin', everything. He knew that, as a writer, he'd have to cull away the psychological impact the place had had on him, and redefine it all in different terms.
For the article!
Melvin couldn't wait to finish the article.
He opened the back of the Hummer, grabbed his laptop case and the suitcase he'd brought. He didn't notice what had been left in the back: a long-handled fire-ax.
EPILOGUE
One week later...
Sheriff Funk stared stolidly, the stench shoving him back like a palpable force.
Sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. It's happened again...
Sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. It's happened again...
Just a routine property check. Some of the TA's down at the strip mall had called in last week, like they always did. The bikers were back in town, and they always seemed to raise a little hell during their brief stays. So Funk and his deputies had run them out of the bar one night, and that had been that. They'd followed them to the county line and watched them rumble off on their Harley's. No big deal.
Now, though?
This
was a big deal.
was a big deal.
He was discovering—quite the hard way—that a few of the bikers had stayed behind.
The three bikes parked outside the old church at the Epiphanite compound had been the giveaway. Funk checked the long-deserted site every month or so, just to check for squatters, and usually discovered nothing of import.
So much for routine.
The stench hovered like soup, backed by the nauseating sound of flies buzzing and maggots churning. It almost sounded like someone mashing grapes.
Probably a week old,
Funk estimated, judging the overall climate and condition. The three men had been dispatched with variety and vigor via an implement that was almost certainly an ax. One's groin had been cleaved to the sternum, presenting the illusion that his crotch existed heart-level. A hand had been chopped off and now stuck out of his agape mouth, while two severed penises replaced his eyeballs. The second one's head had been split with one blow, each half hanging aside on the shoulders, clots of maggots refilling the cranial vault. The heaviest of the three men had been stripped nude and axed in half at the waist. The top half had miraculously managed to hand-walk almost to the church entry like a member of the congregation who didn't particularly like the day's sermon. Squiggles of innards followed him. The bottom half lay ass-up, fat hairy legs spread, and something very large had clearly frolicked in the rectal channel.
Probably a week old,
Funk estimated, judging the overall climate and condition. The three men had been dispatched with variety and vigor via an implement that was almost certainly an ax. One's groin had been cleaved to the sternum, presenting the illusion that his crotch existed heart-level. A hand had been chopped off and now stuck out of his agape mouth, while two severed penises replaced his eyeballs. The second one's head had been split with one blow, each half hanging aside on the shoulders, clots of maggots refilling the cranial vault. The heaviest of the three men had been stripped nude and axed in half at the waist. The top half had miraculously managed to hand-walk almost to the church entry like a member of the congregation who didn't particularly like the day's sermon. Squiggles of innards followed him. The bottom half lay ass-up, fat hairy legs spread, and something very large had clearly frolicked in the rectal channel.
The fourth putrefactive corpse was female, rice-paper skin sagging on bones. One skinny leg had been chopped off mid-shin, whereupon the foot had been inserted entirely into the anus. The distressing vantage point gave Funk an unwelcome glimpse of the hairy vulva from which a large stain extended.
Semen?
the Sheriff wondered, revolted. Undoubtedly, though the volume of what had run out clearly could not have come from one man alone.
That's enough peter-snot for ten men,
Funk proposed. At first, the misfortuned women's head was not in evidence, until Sheriff Funk looked down into a metal bucket at the other end of the chancel.
Semen?
the Sheriff wondered, revolted. Undoubtedly, though the volume of what had run out clearly could not have come from one man alone.
That's enough peter-snot for ten men,
Funk proposed. At first, the misfortuned women's head was not in evidence, until Sheriff Funk looked down into a metal bucket at the other end of the chancel.
Great God Almighty,
he thought.
he thought.
He'd have to get the coroner up here, and a removal team. Eventually the stench simply drove him back outside to the reviving air. A headache raged. Inside, though, he'd found a cache of narcotics and several thousand dollars in cash. The drugs, of course, would be turned into the state drug enforcement unit, and the cash...
Would be dutifully deposited into the county's private charity fund.
All at once, then, Sheriff Funk thought:
Wait a minute! That skinny journalist and the woman!
Wait a minute! That skinny journalist and the woman!
They were staying at the Vinchetti house!
He'd meant to check on them earlier in the week, if only to afford him another look at that full-tilt living and breathing brick SHIT-HOUSE whom the writer claimed to be his stepmother. Funk sped his cruiser up the hill, up the dirt drive, and churned to a halt before the porch, dust rising in a slow wake behind the car. They'd had a Hummer and a Vette parked out front when he'd first stopped by, but neither of the vehicles were here now. Funk thought the worst—that they, too, had been butchered, and their pricey vehicles stolen—but felt much more at ease when he entered the house. Nothing in the way of belongings remained, and the house was neat as a pin. The only curiosity was the front living room wall which had been pocked with holes.
No reason to suspect them of any connection to the murders at the church,
Funk easily saw. He knew killers when he saw them, and this Paraday fella and his odd stepmother clearly weren't killers. And as for the damage to the wall...
Funk easily saw. He knew killers when he saw them, and this Paraday fella and his odd stepmother clearly weren't killers. And as for the damage to the wall...
Random vandalism,
Funk felt sure. Paraday and the woman had obviously left the house earlier in the week, and some punks had come in here after the fact, trashed the wall, and that was that. There was no procedural reason to draw a connection between any of this and what had taken place at the compound.
Funk felt sure. Paraday and the woman had obviously left the house earlier in the week, and some punks had come in here after the fact, trashed the wall, and that was that. There was no procedural reason to draw a connection between any of this and what had taken place at the compound.
But who had butchered the three bikers and the girl?
Rival drug dealers,
Funk answered himself.
Pure and simple. Happens all the time.
Funk answered himself.
Pure and simple. Happens all the time.
From his car radio, he reported the discovery of the bodies to the county coroner's office and the state police. Then he took a last walk through the house just to make sure he hadn't overlooked anything...
Everything looks in order...
He noticed something edging out under one of the beds.
What is that?
he wondered.
A picture in a frame?
What is that?
he wondered.
A picture in a frame?
No. It was a plaque of some kind.
Sheriff Funk pulled it out and gave it a look.
Oh, that's right,
he recalled.
The writer said his stepmother was into arts and crafts. Religious mosaics...
Oh, that's right,
he recalled.
The writer said his stepmother was into arts and crafts. Religious mosaics...
Well, here was a fine one. The strangest kind of tilework had been fashioned into a stunning cross mounted on the veneered plaque. It really was a beautiful piece of work.
The Sheriff wasn't into such things personally; he was more of a hunting and fishing kind of guy, and about the only thing he cared to have on his walls were New York Yankees pennants, his bowling trophies, and his prized shotguns.
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