The Hungry House
Authors: Elizabeth Amelia Barrington
THE HUNGRY HOUSE
A novel by Elizabeth Amelia Barrington
Copyright © 2013 by Elizabeth Amelia Barrington
No material from this work may be reproduced in any form, including electronically, without securing written and legal permission from Kindle or the author, with the exception of small excerpts for book reviews.
All rights reserved.
The Hungry House is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
CHAPTER ONE
I awoke from my recurring nightmare trembling and covered in a cold sweat. Trapped in the basement of an old rundown house surrounded by men who were making lewd suggestions, I pried open a window and screamed for help, but no one answered. Then, strong hands grabbed at my legs, pulling me down. Turning back, I saw "popular Dave" my scumbag ex-boyfriend leading the pack.
Years later, I would recall how this day changed my life forever.
"Dear, come in here, please. I need my heart pill."
As I sat up in bed feelings of relief flooded th
rough me. Gray light was beginning to sneak in through the window blind.
I
hurried to my mom's room on the other side of our little home, turned on the floor lamp in my mom's small bedroom, and sat on the bed. My hand involuntarily rushed to my mouth, as I stifled a gasp at the sight of her face, a deathly pale with blue-tinged lips. I rushed to the kitchen for a glass of water, and upon return, opened the bottle on the nightstand and placed a pill in her trembling hand. I touched her cheek. It felt so cold. It must have been a chilly night.
"You're
freezing. I'll turn on the baseboard heat and get the teakettle going." After doing these things, I again sat down on the edge of the bed.
"I
'm afraid I won't be able to go to work today."
"Of
course
you won't."
"
I--I--now listen to me. You can't be late. They're very particular."
"I'll take care of everything."
I went into the kitchen and began preparing my mom's morning breakfast of tea with toast and jam and a cup of coffee for me.
"
Vicky," Mom called, "there's no time for that."
"Don't worry
. I'm putting a sandwich in the fridge for you, and there is leftover chicken and noodles from last night's dinner."
"Just hurry
, dear."
I
quickly groomed, dressed, and started to go out the door, then turned and walked back to look in on Mom. The bedroom now felt warm, and she slept. Color had returned to her face and lips.
A family from our
church had remodeled an unused, detached garage on their property, transforming it into a rental home for us. The furnishings were the result of years of shopping at garage sales and second hand stores. The only good piece in the house was a Chinese chest of drawers, my mother's only family heirloom, proudly displayed across from the front entrance. I opened the front door and then turned back to look one last time at the familiar surroundings, then felt that something was missing. My cell. I snatched it from the coffee table, put it in my purse, and placed Mom's cell on her nightstand. Then, I closed and locked the front door. I was finally on my way.
I
stood at the bus stop, two blocks from the house, and closed my eyes, taking a deep breath of air scented by trees and earth. I could discern three distinct bird songs. Portland, Oregon's Laurelhurst neighborhood dated from the 1920’s, the houses mostly in some version of Colonial or Tudor revivals, and I loved its old-fashioned feeling and tree-lined streets. In my imagination, the tree limbs always seemed to wave in welcome as they swayed in the breeze. I had lived here all my life, first in a Dutch Colonial style home not far from the bus stop. I dimly remembered moving into the converted garage at the age of six. My friends lived here. This place was my comfort and my rock.
W
orries flooded my mind. Would Mom be all right today? The electric bill was now past due. My high school internship had ended two weeks ago, and I would not begin my university work-study position for another week. No one knew of the many sleepless nights I often spent adding and subtracting figures in my head. I had to be strong for Mom's sake, and I did not like to burden my friends with complaints.
On this particular morning, once again,
I longed to run away to a place where I could have fun and be free from financial concerns. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, an inner voice scolded. A year ago, I had fallen in love with a good-looking senior who was in the popular crowd at school. Everything was going great until I found out that I was supposed to sleep with all the guys in the group--because that's "what everybody did." My three closest friends had stood by me, even though I constantly flaked on them that summer ditching them at the last minute to do something with "popular Dave," as they started calling him. They were the only ones who knew about my pregnancy and subsequent miscarriage. I had vowed to never again disappoint and worry Mom as I had that summer.
After boarding the bus and sitti
ng down, I checked my cell phone. It was already 7:01; I had to arrive no later than 8:00. I distracted myself by listening to Queens of the Stone Age doing "Like Clockwork." "Eeveryone it seems has somewhere to go, and the faster the world spins the shorter the lights will glow." The lyrics matched my anxious mood.
My
second bus dropped me five blocks from the address. I remembered Mom's instructions about getting through the iron gates. She said I would have to buzz the intercom in order to enter. I had telephoned ahead that Mom was ill and gotten permission to come in her place for one day.
When I
stepped off the bus, it began to rain. The heat in the bus had been set too high, and the steep, winding climb up the West Hill's road made me even hotter, in spite of the damp weather. I stopped for a moment to remove my coat and then lifted my face to let the drizzle cool it. After wiping beads of sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, I continued up the sidewalk. Suddenly, thirst prickled my tongue. In the rush, I'd forgotten my ceramic water bottle. I slowed my pace in order to cool down and wondered why these wealthy people felt the need to live at the top of such a steep hill and then cast the petty thought out of my mind. A happy chuckle lightened my mood as I remembered a word coined by my friend Beverly's father. A successful attorney of humble origins, he liked to refer to Portland's old money crowd as the "pompitoids." This must be where the pompitoids reside I thought. Suddenly, an image popped into my head of Mom, who had heart disease, managing this steep walk before she began her workday, but then I drove the worrisome image away to focus on the task at hand.
Well-kept lawns and lovely flower gardens adorned the fronts of some of the homes along the way, although high walls hid many from view. At some addresses, I glimpsed only a lane leading from the street to the house. After a final turn, the road leveled. When I reached the front gate, I stopped for a moment to stare at the mansion. It was an imposing residence. A high wall surrounded the property. I would later learn that it was considered a prime example of French Chateau architecture. On its left side, a rounded turret gave the dwelling a castle-like appearance.
After buzzing at the gate
's intercom and speaking to Mrs. Black, I watched the two sides of the gate swing open. As I walked onto the grounds, something about the ornate patterns in the brick walkway and the opulent style of the home made me feel as if I were stepping back in time to enter an enchanted space. Winding pathways, a perfect lawn and delightful groupings of flowers and shrubs filled the front garden space. I walked up to the front door and rang the bell.
A
dark-haired woman with a pinched mouth answered the door, looking as if she wanted to throttle someone and said, "I'm Mrs. Black. And, you are…?"
"
Vicky Howell. I just spoke to you at--"
"Why did you come to the front door
? Go around to the service entrance at the side." She reached out the door and pointed to the left of the house. This seemed a complete waste of time, but I could hear Mom's voice in my ears. "Don't let Mrs. Black cause you to lose your temper. Remember, we need this job." Therefore, instead of saying, "I'll use whatever door I wish," I turned and walked to the side entrance of the house with as much calmness as I could muster. A roof large enough to shelter parked delivery vans covered the entrance to the side door. The back patio opened to a pool, and I glimpsed a guest cottage beyond a hedge.
I
stepped through the side door and entered an enormous kitchen. It included every imaginable convenience, including two sinks, two ovens, a table with six chairs, and a fireplace. The floor was made of gleaming marble. The contents inside the glass doors of the refrigerator looked immaculately clean and organized. Suddenly, I felt uncharacteristically exhausted.
Mrs. Black handed me a list of chores and pointed out
the cleaning supplies and cloths on the counter. "There's no time to waste. This house takes constant care."
"May I have a glass of water
, and then I'll get busy?"
"Yes, of course; we're not savages here.
" Mrs. Black took down a mug from a side cabinet and handed it to me. The cold water renewed my flagging energy.
I
looked at the list. The first item was "clean the bathrooms."
"Where are the bathrooms?"
"There are six. I'll take you to the main bath."
Carrying clean
ing supplies in a bucket, I followed Mrs. Black to the master bathroom. A large oval tub sat in front of a breathtaking view of evergreen trees, the pool and the city below. I began vigorously cleaning the huge mirror above two sinks when I noticed Mrs. Black standing in the doorway.
She said,
"You look so delicate; I thought you might not be able to handle this kind of work, but you're doing a good job."
Mrs. Black
watched me for a couple more moments and then left. After polishing the mirror, I cleaned the sinks, the counters, and the tub and swept the floor, being careful to use glass cleaner on the faucets to make them sparkle and to dry all the surfaces.
I
had prepared a soapy bucket and brought a brush and cleaning cloth into the bathroom for the floor, when I unexpectedly felt the effects of all the water I had gulped down. I closed and locked the door. After a few moments, someone turned the knob. Oh, it's probably Mrs. Black, I thought.
"Mrs. Black, I'll be out in just a minute."
"Who is using this bathroom?" The authoritative male voice made my stomach turn with anxiety.
"Oh, I'm so sorry
. I was cleaning this bathroom and I--"
"That's quite all right."
I had understood that Mr. Armstrong would be away today. Maybe it is a houseguest my mother didn't know about I thought as I washed my hands, opened the door, and carried out my supplies in search of the next bathroom. In my peripheral vision, I could see a man, waiting in a doorway.
###
Frank Armstrong had positioned himself down the hall and stood waiting for Vicky to exit the bathroom. Expecting to see a middle-aged housekeeper, he found himself unexpectedly confronted with a vision of female beauty--a tall and leggy girl with dark hair and large blue eyes. One of those girls with legs "up to here," and not too bad in the rack department, either, he thought. Stunning as a movie star. His knees had gone weak. She had quickly looked about her as she left the bathroom, her expression worried, yet somehow defiant.
He entered the bathroom and preened at the mirror, seeing the reflection of the handsome,
young man he had once been, rather than the current reality of his aged and bloated flesh. At age 45, he could easily have passed for 65, in spite of cosmetic procedures done on his eyes. When he thought no one was watching him Frank's eyes assumed an expression of cunning like that of a spoiled child because he had spent decades focusing on nothing but himself.
He be
gan mulling over his usual list of woes, not even realizing that, as was often the case, he spoke aloud.
"
I don't have any young people to hang out with here in Portland, and I have nothing in common with people my own age. Well, a lot of that is because of my big shot, know-it-all little brother. Lives in a penthouse overlooking Central Park, while I'm in exile to grandmother's house in Oregon. All over nothing." Frank sat on the edge of the tub with his head in his hands and cried. He felt alone and hated being away from everything and everyone he had ever known.
"Everybody I know in New York uses coke and pot
; my brother's out of touch."
His brother, Edward, had insisted that Frank provide some distance between his lifestyle and their media business. Frank's cocaine and alcohol-fueled parties were legendary in the five boroughs of New York.
He sat up and dried his tears with his hands. Then he thought about the girl he had just seen, and his mood lightened. He had always dated blonds because he fancied himself a sort of Hugh Heffner. Now, he would change his rule and go after a dark haired beauty. After all, he was the heir to a media fortune. He ignored the fact that his younger brother kept him well away from the business. He smiled at his reflection.
Obsessions with members of the oppos
ite sex were the norm for Frank.
"Well, the blond rule's out the window for now. I have
to find out everything about this girl."