The Perfect House (3 page)

The house was
happy
.

“This is the State Police,” a megaphone-altered voice boomed. “You are trespassing on private property. Get out of the house with your hands where we can see them.”

Behind the curtains Lydia swayed, incapable to decipher the meaning of the words. The voice from over the speaker crippled whatever strength she still retained. Her mind tried to analyze the situation, but none of the possibilities made any sense.

“I repeat. We have received complaints of squatting. Exit the house with your hands where we can see them.”

Lydia’s pulse drummed in her ears. “What are you talking about?” she mumbled. “I
own
this house. I salvaged and restored it.” With trembling fingers she tried to steady herself. Yet, before she could cling to the table, the house spun around her and the world ceased to exist.

彡彡彡

“… she sick?”

Heavy steps trampled towards her, their vibrations reverberating through her skull and hurting her brain. A buzz of voices droned on, mingled with a smell of gasoline and aftershave.

“…Sarge…”

“… emergency vehicles…”

“… your name?”

Something in that last question breached the barrier of her dizziness.
What’s going on?
she thought, trying to ascend back to consciousness.

“Ma'am, can you recall your name?”

Fear parched her mouth, her first attempt to communication only an inarticulate babble.

“She’s coming back, Sarge,” a young voice said, a woman probably, although Lydia couldn't bet on it.

“Good. Let’s clean up this mess. My wife’s made chicken marinara. I’ll rot in the dog house, if I’m late for dinner again.”

“Can—you—tell—us—your—name—ma'am?” the young officer enunciated, loud enough to propel Lydia into a downward spirals of headache.

“Lydia… Jordan…”

“Oh, boy. This is going to be a long night,” the Sarge groaned. “Pack her up and off you go to the station. I’ll be right behind you. I need to call my wife first.”

Someone rolled a wheelchair next to Lydia and strong hands hoisted her in. The dizzying play of colors sharpened into a more manageable swirl of flashing lights. Voices surged all around her, as the chair-driver wheeled her outside. She blanked out all noises, her only concern to solve the puzzle of the Police statements.

A shrill pierced the air and someone jumped in front of her. Angry hands shook her shoulders. “What have you done to my fiancée? Where is she?”

Tyler.

Lydia gaped at him, incapable to grasp the meaning of the question. “I’m right here, sweetie.”

“Don’t you dare call me that!
She
used to call me
sweetie
. Where is she? What have you done to her? This is her house!” He yelled on and on the same questions, despair dripping from every word.

“That’s enough, sir. We are doing our best to get to the bottom of this story. Now, I’m asking you to please step aside.”

Tyler’s questions turned to pleas, then the pleas turned to sobs. Someone rolled Lydia’s chair ahead, until the side window of a cruiser appeared in front of her. Even to her failing eyes, the reflection of her house loomed clearly visible.

The building
glowed
, as if it had just received a fresh polish.

It looks… young,
Lydia thought. Her eyes drifted to her own reflection. The spitting image of her great-grandmother frowned at her.

“It was all worth it,” Lydia tried to argue.

The reflection lifted her hand—an age-spotted hand almost devoid of any flesh. Under the blow, the cruiser window shuttered to a thousand pieces. The memory of the warning returned to her, clearer than any other reminiscence.
‘RUN!’
it had urged her.