The Perfect House

The Perfect House © 2016 by Andreea Daia

   All rights reserved

For more information about the author, please visit
HTTP://WWW.ANDREEADAIA.COM

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

THE PERFECT HOUSE

A piece of plaster tumbled from the ceiling, narrowly missing Lydia.

“This is
perfect
!” she beamed, her eyes teary from excitement. “I’ve always dreamt to buy a home
just
like this.”

Nancy, her real estate agent, rubbed her eyes, also teary, and sneezed—three times. “I’m… sorry,” she stammered, with a nasal inflection. “I must… be… allergic to… mold.” She sneezed, her sinuses so stuffy as to render her voice unrecognizable. “Are you…
sure
, Ms. Jordan? I understand… the fascinations some folks…” She sneezed again and rubbed more, smearing her make-up. “… have with… fixer-uppers. But this… dump must be… the queen… of fixer-uppers…” This time the rubbing threatened to remove a layer of skin off her lids.  “Wouldn’t you… want to consult… with your… fiancé first? I… could show the two… of you… some other… properties… maybe.” By now, Nancy’s eyes had turned so red that they seemed to leak blood.

“Oh, dear. You really
are
allergic.” Lydia patted the other woman on her shoulder, wafting the cloud of dust settled during the last five minutes. “No, I meant it. I may be young, but I
want
to restore a house. My fiancé understands that I want to do it alone. It was
me
who insisted on this. You see, since I was a child, I dreamed of buying a derelict house and fixing it myself. I can’t ever recall
not
having this dream. I remember sitting on our porch—we used to have a very small house. For a family with four kids you surely see how space would become an issue.”

Nancy sneezed again and reeled on her heels, a movement that portended an imminent collapse. “Fascinating…”

“You bet,” Lydia said, scaring a mouse back to its hole. “I used to sit on the porch, drawing in my head the map of my
perfect house
. I planned it to the smallest detail. Restoring old barn doors, bringing the natural colors indoors, things like that. I wanted to blend a rustic vibe with a modern one. Do you ever watch
House and Garden TV
? Of course, you do—you’re a Realtor. I’ve always loved that channel. During one show, the designer retrofitted old milk jugs into vases. How original is that! I’m planning to do something similar. Oh, and the art! I
love
large pieces of art. But not the regular ones… The unexpected pieces. I like to find art in negative spaces.”

“Fascinating,” Nancy croaked, swaying. She slid in an armchair so chalky that the cloud, which stirred up, seemed to consume her body.

“After I first saw it, I had a dream about this house. I mean, a real, sleep-induced dream. Did I mention this already to you?”

The real estate agent waved her hand with a noncommittal gesture, which for a moment resembled a drowning man’s arm-flailing.

Cavorting around the living room, Lydia laughed, as the floor cracked under her high heels. “You bet. I was just returning from the job interview, when my GPS went wacky. I drove around for what seemed like hours—though it must have been only twenty minutes. Then I saw it. The angels sang when the sunrays fell on this house. It felt like a sign.”

By the window, a cabinet door slanted on hinges and crashed on what was left of the moth-holed carpet. Simpering, Lydia carried on. “That night, I dreamt that the house,
this
house, spoke to me. It told me that we were made for each other. That we belong to each other. That only
I
see its potential and so only
I
should have the right to live in it.” She spun around, impervious to the graffiti spelling on each wall
‘DIE!’
in red paint.

By now, Nancy had abandoned her fight against dust, not even attempting anymore to unclench her eyes. “If… you made up your… mind… then… you can si-” sneeze, “sign the… papers today.”

“Really?” Lydia glowed like she had just won the lottery.

“Really. I believe… I could find you… a better home… Anyhow… even… considering the current… condition… of this hou-“ sneeze, “house… you are… getting a bargain…”

“You just made me the happiest homeowner on earth, Nancy.” Tears welled up in Lydia’s eyes. “I have five months until I start my new job. By then, you won’t recognize this place.”

彡彡彡

It took more than a month to close the house sale and another week of heavy lifting, but at last Lydia had emptied the house of all its previous furniture—shattered cupboards still sporting shards of china, limp beds, rusted A/C-units, yards upon yards of flowery curtains—plus a few odds and ends—a couple of chairs upholstered in torn teal leather, a trash bin splotched with a brown substance, which she tried to ignore, a broken crucifix plastered with tar, and what she judged to be a mile-long barbwire.

The skeleton of the dead cat had unsettled her a little bit, especially because it had been strangulated with the said barbwire. Still, accidents happened all the time to these poor strays. Unfortunately, the truck driver, whom she had hired to take the rubbish to the dump, hadn’t been so unruffled. He had crossed himself and fled the property, in a bellow of engine and prayers.

“At least he took the junk with him,” Lydia sighed, nesting more comfortable in Tyler’s arms. “He wanted to leave without touching the furniture. I told him that if he breaks the contract, he should expect a call from my lawyer.”

Her fiancé caressed her face. “My fiery girl! Did you send him trembling under the truck axle?”

“You bet. In the last moment I felt pity for the bastard.”

She flaunted the smile, which a year ago had brought her picture on the cover of a couple of minor fashion magazines—the beauty with flawless dark-olive skin. Still, that had happened in her previous life, before she had decided to pursue a career in media sales. It had been a good decision—she hadn’t regretted it yet—even if the path to success had been paved with many trials and not few disappointments. In the end, she had been promoted to another branch, across the country. Tyler had followed her, requesting a transfer to a local office, even if that had meant a lower-paying position. How she loved him for this!

The only thing she still needed was a house—a real house, not a cheap rental, with peeling wallpaper and creaking noises, which woke her in the middle of the night. In truth, her new house featured both peeling wallpaper and creaking noises, but such shortcomings could be forgiven to
her
home. Soon, no one would recognize her not-so humble abode.

“-gypsy fortuneteller?” Tyler asked, yanking her out of her musings. She offered an apologetic shoulder raise, which invited him to repeat his question. “I was asking whether the truck driver blamed it on a curse. Boo-hoo-hoo. Surely some gypsy fortuneteller must have warned him against a terrible curse laid on your house.”

“No, sweetie. If he met one, she warned him only against asbestos. He went on and on about syndicate regulations. Until I pointed out that our damn contract already
has
a clause about asbestos.”

Tyler stared at her with concern, forgetting to breathe. “Please tell me that you didn’t find any asbestos during the home inspec-” His lips froze before releasing the end of the word. Lydia had declined the home inspection.

“No, there is no asbestos,” she moaned, feigning exasperation. “Or curses. Or gypsy fortunetellers. As it happens, I was curious about the subject so I went to the library and checked out the history of the house. Nothing out of ordinary
ever
happened there. If anything, I own the most boring house in this area. The only reference I found was about a squatter, who claimed to have been the owner. The gramps might have pulled that ruse, if it weren’t for everybody knowing the actual owner—a Casanova who made the town gossip with his affairs.”

Tyler chortled and pulled the blanket up to her chin. “As far as haunted stories go, that’s a pitiful example.”

“Told ya. There is nothing special about my house. Except that it’s
mine. Mine! Mine! Mine!
” She laughed and added with an ominous inflection. “And I shall turn it in my dream palace. Behold, you disbelievers.”

“Fine, fine, I believe you.” He kissed her on her nose, then added in a serious tone. “Are you sure you don’t want me to help you. Honey, you look exhausted.”

“Of course, I look exhausted. What would you expect? I lifted furniture the entire week. No, I can’t accept your help. I
have
to do this on my own. Please tell me that you understand this, sweetie. When it’s done, I promise I’ll let you serve drinks at the house warming party.”

“Oh boy. I’m engaged to a slave driver. Fear not. I already have a few recipes for-”

He grinned at her, but Lydia already snored quietly, with her mouth opened.

彡彡彡

In her sleep, the house metamorphosed from a half-collapsed construction into a man, who reminded her of the cheesy romance covers.

“Call me Phrixus,” the he-house warbled, in a voice that vibrated inside her soul. He resembled Tyler a little—though that had to have been because all her lovers mirrored the same paradigm of masculine beauty, one she had crafted when she had been twelve.

“That’s a strange name,” she mused, basking in the other’s charm.

“It’s Greek. Phrixus and Helle—twins, offsprings of a minor king and a minor goddess. I thought it would be a suitable analogy.” His words streamed towards her like a mountain creek in the spring, joyous and enchanting.

“And whose twin are you?”

“Yours of course. You and I, we were made for each other.”

彡彡彡

‘DIE!’

‘DIE!’

‘DIE!’

Too many inscriptions still mutilated the walls of her home. Nancy had advanced no theory about who had vandalized the house—or
when
—and the questions had nagged Lydia, despite her struggle to ignore them. They ensnared her mind, even during her sleep. For reasons she couldn’t explain, the graffiti didn’t seem teenage handiwork.

Lydia glowered and raked on the wall of the guest bedroom, the scraper an inadequate tool against the ubiquitous demand. ‘DIE!’ the unknown hand had painted everywhere. Smeared with red paint, the letters scrambled and twisted around themselves, in stunning but menacing curlicues. The word seemed to scream at her in a language she didn’t understand.

This wasn’t meant for me,
she thought, scouring a particularly unrelenting inscription.

She paused to stare at it, as sweat pooled under her arms. The calligraphy appeared to be animated by a heartbeat, each letter pulsing with a different frequency. Her tank top stuck against her back, cold and wet. Before her eyes, the symbols lost their meaning and reformed themselves into something unreadable. Their message eluded her, but their attempt to protect emerged all too clear.

The reality crumbled around her, everything obliterated bar the mysterious word.

From the wall, the tendrils of the inscriptions spun, then stretched towards her. She flinched when they wrapped around her, frigid to the touch…
material
. She had almost anticipated them to score her skin like the barbwire she had discarded. Instead, when they cocooned her inside, they stroke her like cold fingers.

She shuddered, her knees almost buckling. Mesmerized, she watched the lines resolving to something that resembled runes.
No… Letters. They are letters. But why I can’t read them? They
want
me to read them.

Somewhere far away, a window blasted in a thousand pieces, breaking her trance. The curlicues enlivened under the pressure of the shockwave, composing and decomposing new words. The red spirals pushed her harder, pressuring her to find that meaning, which she couldn’t grasp.

So cold… Please, don’t. I don’t want to do this.

The message consumed her entire field of view, bringing a bitter taste on her tongue.
Like lemon salt mixed with pepper.
The taste built up to something metallic, while moments dilated.

Blood. This is how blood tastes
, she thought, squeaking aloud “Stop!”

A voice inside her countered
‘Read.’
The curlicues chocked her, stamping her mental defenses.
‘Read!’
  it ordered again, putting more emphasis.

She gasped and forced herself to analyze the hieroglyphs floating around her. When at last she grasped their meaning, she understood why her mind had fought the knowledge. Only one word flittered before her eyes.

‘RUN!’

彡彡彡

“Honey, you really worry me,” Tyler said, fetching a plate and filling it with crepes. Accompanied by a glass of orange juice, he laid the food in front of Lydia, proud like a cat proffering a mouse to its master. “Eat. No, I don’t want to hear any protests. You are going to eat everything on the plate and then you are going to ask for seconds. You look very tired. Have you lost weight?”