“Memoirs of a Whispering House”

by Kevin Steele

Part I

Hrum. Hrum. Hrum. Stupid ceiling fan. loose again.
Plnk. Plnk. Plnk. Plnk. I hate that damn faucet.
Klink-Klunkitunk! Someone’s damn cat’s in the garbage again.
Maybe it’s not a cat, maybe someone’s in here-- someone’s in my apartment! Oh shit! Where’s my bat?
I don’t want to open my eyes . Maybe he’s standing over me right now, waiting for me to open my eyes so he can cave my skull in with my own bat!
I’ll just take a peek, slowly so he won’t see me looking-- like I’m still dozing, dreaming of Lindsay’s plump, freckled tits.
That’s when I see it. Well, maybe not “it” so much as nothing-- just darkness. Darkness and dust motes swirling in the moonlight beams, filtering through the wood planks nailed across the window frames-- wood planks?
Christian awoke in the dust-coated, hallway floor of a house he did not know-- the interior gloomy and filled with scattered refuse, twisted cans and broken beer bottles of a party he did not recall. Christian slowly rose to his feet, dusting off his grungy pants-- his head swirling with the rush of circulation. He teetered in a sunbeam piercing through a grimy window at the first tier of the staircase. He pinched the bridge of his hawkish nose where his horn-rimmed glasses should have been perched.
Just as well, the damn things pinched anyway and they wouldn’t do me much good in this gloom. Guess I’ll find my way out of here.
Christian groggily tottered toward the front door which was also nailed shut by numerous wooden planks and criss-crossed by several heavy chains that had been bolted into place-- the chains joined at the center by an imposing padlock.
          Shit! Shit! Shit! What the hell is...where did I leave that key? Shit!
A quick search of the hallway and a nearby desk yielded no keys. Christian found a peacoat hanging on a rickety coat-rack and riffled through the pockets but only found a crusty, cheese sandwich in a smudged baggy and a stained birthday card.
What’s on this sandwich? Oh, god, that’s fucking gross!
          Christian flung the baggy and its contents into a darkened adjoining room, afterwards wiping the crimson stain from his hand-- his fingers tacky from the dried blood. He glanced down at the blood-smeared birthday card with growing curiosity. His hands trembled noticeably as he opened it to reveal the hastily-scrawled words:
                       eat the sandwich it’ll keep up your strength
                                                the blood isn’t yours
                                             the key isn’t in the house
Another short message was written below, in a different color and more elegant quality of handwriting:
                                       Happy Birthday, Kelley
                                             We Love You
Christian shuddered and wilted to the floor, a cloud of dust wafted into the chilled air. A sour scent permeated the navy-blue peacoat, but Christian tugged it on as the damp air of the house began to climb into his bones-- a sigh of defeat hissing out of him. Christian studied his prison, apparently a modest two-story cottage with small rooms and perhaps a single bathroom. Cozy...
          ...if not for all the garbage, wrecked furniture and decades of decay. Every breath I take is probably a year off my life.
Christian’s attention shifted to the discarded sandwich in its soiled wrapper when his stomach grumbled. Once again, Christian rose to his feet with a feeble groan. The lethargy clotting his limbs, he peered into the darkness of the room which he had thrown the bloodied sandwich and foraged through the cluttered maze of decrepit furniture and pervasive gloom.
From beyond the secured bay windows of the front room, the muffled shouts of a child broke Christian’s determined search. Momentarily forgetting his hunger, Christian rushed to the nearest window banging his shin against an overturned table in his haste. Christian hurled a twisted string of curses at the table as he fumbled for a narrow opening amongst the window’s planks.
“Oh god, kid, please help me! Kid! Hey, you! Listen to me, you fucking brat!” Christian beseeched the boy but he continued his blissful play heedless of Christian’s pleadings.
Damn kids don’t respect anything anymore! Why the hell won’t he help me?
A prickly sting in Christian’s shin turned his attention from the window. He kneeled down to rub the injury into submission and found the sandwich, slightly dented but still in the bloodied plastic wrapping. Christian turned the morsel over in his hand, considering his predicament but the gurgle of his knotted stomach brought his deliberation to an end. Warily, he pulled away the gory envelope and inspected the sandwich closely, sniffing and poking.
Seems harmless enough. Just cheese, lettuce and tomato... ugh, tomato.
Christian extracted the tomato and tossed it frisbee-like at the adjacent wall. A smug grin tugged at the corner of Christian’s cheek as he watched the slice creep downward, a slimy trail of mayonnaise oozing its descent.
How the hell did I get into this? Maybe Oz had something to do with this... some prank or something. It seems a bit elaborate for him, but anything’s possible.
So, Christian sat and pondered his predicament for the rest of the afternoon-- he figured it to be afternoon since the shadows were crawling closer, scraping against the edge of his vision. Most of the light had gone when Christian became aware of a noise at the front door, a scratching that he perceived from somewhere beyond the chains and reinforced wood. Christian stilled his breathing and listened anxiously.
          Maybe someone’s trying to get in? Or...
Christian stopped the thought before it came too far forward-- but it was too late, the thought had already rushed up from the depths of his limbic region to the forefront. His brain was suddenly a white-hot, electric nest of dread. He sat rigid, fear slithering down his spine-- and then, his bowels clenched. Christian tried to stifle his noisy stomach but a squeak pierced his buttocks.
Oh shit...
But, no monstrosity or assailant lunged at him from the shadows. He became overwhelmed by his dilemma, forced to consider all of the options and questions that screamed through his fevered mind. There was no escape through the front door but he assumed there must be a backdoor.
Christian could see the outline of another door opposite of where he sat and wondered if it led to the kitchen. Kitchen’s sometimes have backdoors, right? He had also seen another room across the foyer where he had started this whole ordeal, which could be a living room. Gran’ma used to call it a den. Christian then reluctantly thought of the second-story. If needed, he could certainly open a window and jump to safety, but going up there might make his situation worse. No telling who or what’s up there, so we’ll just call that       “Plan F”, as in I’m fucked if I have to use that plan.
At that moment, the fear returned and darted across the back of his neck as he listened intently for any sounds from above him, any faint sign that he was not alone in this suburban oubliette-- but no sound muttered, creaked or clanked from the fathoms of that mute abyss, no antediluvian voice whispered his name from the shadows beyond. Finally, exhausted and fearful of disturbing the silence lest he waken a boogeyman to swallow him in his misery, Christian sat in the darkness of that lonely place and wept as quietly as he could manage.

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