Tag: short story

I knew I forgot to do something yesterday: to wit, put this up.

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“But where do they go?” I asked.  Betty gave me a look; it took me a moment to realize that this was also meant to be a response.  “I think that I would have noticed a pack of dogs around the house!” I said.

Betty poured herself a cup of coffee.  “I didn’t say that it was you doing it.  Just that everytime anybody did see a lost pet, they always saw it last around where you’re living now.  And not just cats and dogs, either. At least one person, maybe twenty years ago, moved here and he brought a parrot with him.  I remember seeing it in the cage, being carried up the sidewalk to the house, and I said to myself Man, that’s a shame.  It was a pretty bird.  And a week later, it was gone.”  Betty shook her head. “Must of gotten the cage door open.  That’s what my dad said, at least.”

“And the window? Did the parrot open that, too?” I asked.

“They’re smart birds. Maybe it used its beak.  You ever see any feathers around the place?”

“No,” I said. “Not a one.  You’re welcome to look” — and then I winced, inside, as she brightened a little at that.  Betty looked at the wall clock, gave a half smile, and stood up.

“That’s very friendly of you.  I think I will.”

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“They dislike the area?” I asked.  Animals react differently to the supernatural than people do; or so I have been told, over and over and over again.  It would be mildly annoying to find out that possibly one should pay attention to a cat or dog’s antics, after all. But Betty shook her head a second time.

“It’s not like that,” and she said my first name. I was less happy about it in her mouth than in Wayne’s, but I am good at hiding annoyances.  Besides, she was telling me things I didn’t already know, which is something I like to see in a person. “They always seem to like it fine when they’re here.  But turn your back on a dog in the yard, or leave the door open too long for the cat, and when you turn around, they’re gone. And they never come back. Some families, try three or four times to get a pet before they just give up.” 

Betty leaned back, and made the twitch I knew to associate with an ex-smoker.  Judging from the way she was talking to me, I suspected I would be reasonably grateful for that.  “Me, this was my parents’ house. They sat me down and explained that this was just how things were, around here. Nobody could keep pets, they’d go away.”

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It is difficult to ask a neighborhood if something is out there, and eating their pets. Although I was mildly surprised to find myself on remarkably good terms with my neighbors: I am not at my best when it comes to purely social occasions, but word had apparently gone out that I was wealthy. I was also living in the house, which automatically made me some sort of eccentric recluse in everyone else’s eyes.  I might have been annoyed at that, but at least it meant that any attempts at social interaction on my part would be viewed in the most favorable light. And this is, admittedly, a refreshing change.

So there I was, then, sitting in someone’s actual kitchen, and drinking a cup of mildly inoffensive coffee while I ‘chatted’ with Betty. That is not her real name, either.  One must be polite.

Betty was old enough to be divorced, and her kitchen suggested the presence of teenagers, rather than children.  She was also a happy gossip, up until the moment that I mentioned that I was considering getting a bird of some sort.  Then Betty shook her head, in a way that I found a touch intriguing. “Animals don’t stick around here,” she said.

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It took me a few days to realize the absence of one particular type of noise from outside: birdsong.  I have no objection to birdsong, understand. Obviously, it is merely the monotonous repetition of certain sounds, with no beauty or relevance to humanity save what we impose on it.  But I am not offended that such a thing might exist, and the noises are rarely annoying enough to hinder me from sleeping, or enjoying actual art, or doing anything else, really.  So I felt neither apprehension nor relief in the realization that no birds sang anywhere near the house.

But I did find it interesting.  And, once I paid more attention, I noticed that there were no squirrels near my house, either. No birds, no ‘woodland creatures,’ not even small lizards or frogs.  Which meant that the area should have been literally crawling with bugs, of course; but there was nary a spiderweb or a wasps’ nest to be seen. Even my neighbors did not have ‘bug zappers’ or other grisly amusements on their own properties.

And there was not a single family with a pet who lived within two blocks of the house.  Well, as far as I could tell. I was not about to start looking through windows.

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For one thing, it took me a few days to notice that the doors to the rooms all opened out, not in.  It seems like such a little thing, but the effect was as if everything that came in from outside was steadily drawn down and into the house’s center.  Certainly little items, left unsecured, had a habit of ending up in the living and dining rooms somehow; particularly if they were pretty, or valuable.  After a while, I started leaving my keys on the dining room table (oak, ponderous, might as well have been bolted to the floor), because that’s where they always seemed to end up anyway.

Also: inside the house, I could hear outside noises normally.  But take two steps outside of it, and I couldn’t hear a single sound coming from within.  This effect even worked when the door was open; the sound of the radio (shortwave, stolid 1950s aesthetic) inside faded and disappeared most amazingly as soon as I crossed the threshold.  The results were not conclusive — there was not a clear line of sight from the door to the radio; and the radio was bolted to the wall, presumably because of the antenna — but I found them persuasive.  The house was definitely more than it appeared.

I just didn’t know why.

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Dramatic moments aside, it was two weeks later that I moved in.  As promised, the house came fully furnished — although I made sure to arrange for my own mattress — and it was a good thing that I liked the decor, because the furniture was apparently chosen for weight.  Even the dining room chairs were cumbersome to move, and the bed itself proved virtually impossible to shift. Whoever decorated the house originally clearly was an individual of strong opinions, even if those opinions were not linked to a traditional aesthetic sense. I personally found the whole effect bracing, which was a pleasant surprise.

Continue reading The House, Part 6/x

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After all of this, it seemed terribly anticlimactic to discover that the house was available for rent.

I discovered this while physically examining the house’s property record; most of the entries were digitized, but the town had not yet gotten to this particular property.  Included in the extremely bland information available had been a business card for a local real estate office, attached to the last sale deed (Bland LLC to Boring LLC, nothing interesting or noteworthy).  On a whim, I called the number; surprisingly, the number still worked and the company still existed. I made an appointment with the houses broker for the next day.

Continue reading The House, Part 4/x

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I shall elide the name of the town, for the protection of those reading it: call it Pericarp.  It is a small town, and pleasant enough, for those who like that sort of thing. I found it flavorless, and its inhabitants moreso, right up to the moment where I would inquire about the house. Then their reactions to it were most intriguing, indeed.

Continue reading The House, Part 3/X

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As you may have guessed, I am difficult to please.  But I had high hopes from the start for the house that I will now write of.  In a world where a creaking board or cut-rate insulation could spawn an entire episode on the more lurid ‘unexplained mysteries’ shows, this house somehow managed to be consistently overlooked.  The actual crimes committed there were mundane enough; humans being humans to other humans, with all ending with a few murders and a suicide’s noose. The papers at the time covered it; and then they stopped.

This piqued my interest greatly, and when I investigated further the results excited me.  The house existed, for there were records of it in the city and county files. But there were no listings of current ownership, no tax assessments, no liens on the house or land.  I could find nothing that might suggest that someone had lived there since the crime — and yet, the house showed up on digital maps. It was an unlovely-looking place, even from above, with wooden fences and no grass in the yard; but the roof appeared sound enough and there was no obvious debris around. It did not look abandoned, in other words.

Of course, there was only so much one can learn from computers and pictures.  If I wanted to investigate, I would actually have to go there physically. And I was eager to go; indeed, compelled.  I do not know whether this compulsion was internal or external, and I truthfully do not think that it would have mattered, either way.

Trying an experiment.

The House, Part 1

Continue reading The House, Part 1/X