| Fiction |
“Memoirs of a Whispering House”
by Kevin Steele
Part II
Christian woke from a tormented sleep
in the dining room. He had hoped to wake in his bed--
perhaps drenched in sweat-- safely in his efficiency
apartment, welcomed by the sunshine pouring in through
the vertical blinds of his patio window. I suddenly
miss Trev’s loud-ass rap music.
Unfortunately, the pinch in his back
reminded him of his situation. Christian noticed the
sunlight seemed more dull this day, grayish and bleak.
Either he overslept well into the afternoon or the day
was overcast-- neither option did much to lighten his
mood.
Christian groaned as he rose to his
feet and stretched the weariness from his bones. He
glanced about and noticed that the furnishings of this
room-- which by now he deduced to be the dining room--
were not as tightly packed as he had assumed from the
night before. He saw the door opposite where he had
slept and decided to investigate the room beyond.
Christian made his way to the door,
cautiously avoiding injury again when he happened to
notice some of the contents of a nearby end table
scattered on the floor. He stepped over the shattered
remains of an antique chair and knelt over the pile of
detritus which consisted of a collection of newspaper
clippings that had spilled from a small journal-- the
clippings, yellowed with age and stained by
dark-brownish fingerprints, were dated from 1952.
“29 February, 1952-- ‘Cradle Robber’
Claims Another Child Victim”
“Today, the remains of nine-year-old
Bobby Jensen were found after a week-long search of his
once quaint, suburban neighborhood now poisoned by the
murder of another innocent child. Little Bobby Jensen is
unofficially the seventh victim of the maniac whom the
media has dubbed ‘The Cradle Robber’. The police are
still not releasing any definitive information or
statistics regarding ‘The Robber’ or the number of
victims, as they might endanger the ongoing
investigation of a short-list of suspects. One
confidential police source implied that the number of
victims might be “significantly” greater than previously
stated. Once again, the authorities stressed that
citizens remain vigilant and continue securing all
windows and doorlocks. Police also request that any
suspicious characters or behavior be promptly reported.”
The remainder of the clippings were
of a similar grisly nature with the names and dates
being the only substantial variation. There seemed to
have been a string of perhaps a dozen other murders
credited to the so-called “Cradle Robber” over the
following year.
Comforting to know sickos lived in
the Fifties too... like to see Norman Rockwell paint a
pretty picture of that...
Christian thumbed through the pages
of the ragged, anonymous journal. The entries, dated
around 1948, were the musings of a depressed writer
devolving into a scrawled rant of violent fantasy and
horrific drawings. The author’s mind must have broken at
some point, perhaps precipitated by critical rejection
and humiliation. Christian himself had avoided the
scrutiny of the elitist community by deciding on a
career in more commercial forms of art, particularly
graphic design. In fact, he had recently begun
contemplating freelancing since the company he worked
for had been acquired by some corporate conglomerate.
The people they keep sending us are such idiots, I don’t
know how much longer I can take this sh...
Something fell from a sleeve
concealed in the journal’s cover and plinked onto the
hardwood floor. Clink?!? Oh god, please let it be...
Christian reached down and pulled up
a length of red ribbon-- at one end dangled a rusted
key. Christian felt his heart start to thump painfully,
urgent for escape.
Placing the journal and clippings
into one of the pockets of the sour-smelling peacoat, he
then rose to his feet and began making his way to the
shackled front door. Striding toward the door,
Christian’s thought of the previous night and the
bizarre scratching. God, I hope nothing got in last
night. That would suck, being stuck in here with some
rabid mongrel hunting me while I’m sleeping.
With his attention wandering,
Christian stumbled over a rotted chair leg. As he
recovered his footing, Christian glanced up before him
and in the diminishing glow of sunlight he could just
make out some crude writing carved into the door’s face.
You Are Next
You Will See
The words raised the hair on the back
of his neck and he lunged to put the key in the padlock,
but it did not fit. Cursing loudly, he tried the key in
the vandalized door’s three deadbolts. The key slid into
the upper-most deadbolt and turned with little
resistance, but the other two remained locked. Christian
nearly wrenched his shoulder from its socket as he pried
at the unrelenting door, but it would not open--
apparently, his freedom would not be so easily earned.
He banged his fists against the door and clawed at its
edges but it remained indifferent to his desperation.
The gravity of his situation once
again weighed heavily on Christian’s mind but he decided
not to revel in his misery this time. He renewed his
investigation of the house. There was defiance in every
stride as he approached the kitchen door-- no
treacherous chair legs or overturned tables dared now to
impede him.
Christian burst into the kitchen
expecting resistance from that door also but it simply
swung wide and swept back sharply, shoving him into the
garbage-strewn counter next to him. Dishes, utensils,
and spoiled food spilt to the floor-- a cacophony of
noise shattering the silence of the house. A foul scent
wafted over Christian and he had to stifle the vomit
racing up his esophagus, the bile burning the back of
his throat. He suddenly felt very thirsty, his tongue
tasted like the floor of this vile kitchen.
Scanning about, Christian turned to
the refrigerator and pulled it open. Another burst of
filthy air and his stomach lurched out of control. The
mostly-digested remains of cheese sandwich violently
spewed from Christian’s gaping mouth and coated his
designer workboots. Damnit! I’ll never get this crap
out of the suade! He wiped the slimy remains from
his chin and lips, and then peered into the fetid
refrigerator. The wire shelves were bare but for a few
tightly-sealed tupperware bowls-- the contents murky and
oddly-colored-- and a plate of pale meat. At this
point, would I really want to drink anything that I find
in here? The meat was finely cut and smelled rich,
smoky. Christian felt the vacancy and he licked at his
parched lips, dry skin peeled away leaving a
strawberry-colored scar. He swallowed slowly and could
only smell the glistening meat in front of him.
He noticed a tall carafe on a shelf
of the refrigerator door. Christian licked his lips
again, a slight sting making him wince. The enticing
liquid of the carafe surprised him, weirdly juxtaposed
to the other contents of the refrigerator -- perhaps
Kool-Aid or home-made sangria, alcohol would be perfect
for taking the edge off this situation-- but he
could not resist his thirst anymore. So, he grabbed the
chilled vessel and raised it to his cracked lips,
gorging himself on the tangy drink in deep gulps.
Rivulets of the red liquid coursed down his chin, neck,
and chest staining his t-shirt. Aaaahhh! A sigh
of relief rushed from Christian’s lungs, a new sound to
disturb the serenity of the house.
Christian had to stop himself from
finishing the whole carafe-- he would likely be thirsty
again later, regretting having nothing more to slake
that thirst. The thirst was quenched for now, a familiar
coppery after-taste coated the back of his tongue.
His attention then turned to the
plate of pale meat, its surface glistening and faintly
marbled. Christian forced himself to assume the meat was
simply a plate of cold-cuts-- perhaps bologna or an
exotic, turkey-like game-bird. He didn’t think too much
when he tore off a small sliver of the top-most piece
and popped it into his mouth. It was tangy at first, but
all things considered Christian was grateful it was
digestible-- even tasty. Christian reached for another
piece, this time tearing off a larger strip. He quickly
gulped it down, not wasting too much time savoring the
flavor. Wasn’t that a cigarette commercial? Or...
A noise came from beyond the
backdoor, perhaps in the backyard. Christian could not
be certain of what the noise was at first, so he leaned
away from the mechanical sigh of the refrigerator and
turned his ear to the backdoor.
Thump! Thud, thud...Thump!
Christian leapt back from the door,
slamming against the interior of the refrigerator hard.
The heavy sigh turned to a choke and then a sharp, brief
squeal-- finally whirring into silence. His back ached
again, but he listened for another sound from the
backyard. Backyard? What the fuck am I doing in
HERE!?!
Christian leapt at the plank-shielded
backdoor, snapping some of the smaller planks away from
the door’s window and tossing them carelessly aside. His
muscles burned with fury and adrenaline, a sheen of
sweat made his stained shirt cling to his chest.
Ultimately, Christian could only pry a few of the more
feeble planks from the door-- another deadbolt mocking
him.
He heard laughter from beyond the
door, a child’s laughter-- several children’s, in fact.
He renewed his attack on the door, this time beating it
with his fists and kicking with the steel-toed,
puke-stained workboots. The door rattled and shook, but
stubbornly refused to give in. Christian stood defeated
by the heavy, wooden door and his eyes began to glisten
with tears again-- he couldn’t recall the last time he’d
felt such a torrent of emotion, and that made him
angrier. He looked up through the slats over the door’s
small window and could make out figures moving in the
yard, impish figures-- more children had come to mock
him. He could see one of them staring in his direction.
The boy was perhaps growing into adolescence, taller
than his companions and lithe. Christian could only make
out the boy’s icy, blue eyes staring back at him with
something akin to contempt. The anger began to bubble up
again.
Christian looked down at his hands--
tightly-clenched, trembling with each ebbing wave of
adrenaline-laced blood. They bristled with splinters of
gory wood. A sob quivered up from the tortured child
that Christian kept locked inside the darkest corner of
his soul, but he stifled it-- like they stifled him.
Like Maggie and Robert had stifled him when they were
angry or frustrated with him. He felt a twitch at the
corner of his eye and a trickle of tears whispered down
his cheeks. Christian could no longer hear the
children’s laughter from the backyard, but other
laughter had filled his head-- the muffled laughs of his
parents that came from beyond the closet door he’d been
locked behind.