“Memoirs of a Whispering House”

by Kevin Steele

Part V - Conclusion

Christian stood gaping idiotically at the television, the snowy static bathing the living room in a grayish glow. Again, he heard the muffled laughter of children from outside. He pulled some of the wallpaper and planks away from the window to peer out into the yard. He could hear the giggles and see their shadows scampering about, footsteps skittering through the sparse grass. He wiped some of the grime from the window and leaned closer, squinting to see the malevolent children playing in his yard. They ran and screamed with reckless joy, kicking a ball that flopped and bounced as if only half-inflated with air. The children were mercurial wraiths, shapeless and derisive, until one of them stepped into the moonlight-- the half-inflated ball in his hands.
Christian recoiled from the window, the tinge of bile boiling up from the back of his throat again. He swallowed hard and stood riveted by the grotesque scene before him. The small head in the boy’s hands was bruised and battered beyond recognition but a wide, toothless smile slithered across the mutilated face.
The boy holding the grinning head also smiled back at Christian, his eyesockets hollowed and black like gaping mouths. The other children stepped into the light and gazed back at him, the faces that had not been hewn off or scraped out also sneered maliciously. They began to point and laugh.
Christian backed away from the window, knocking the television to the floor. It fell onto its side and washed the room in a brief flash of bright light, revealing the crude wallpaper Christian had peeled away from the window-- the yellowed, faded faces of children posted under the large-typed word “MISSING”. The posters covered every square inch of the living room, from ceiling to floor.
The light was suddenly gone and Christian was left in the smothering darkness of the room, but he couldn’t escape the judging eyes of the “MISSING” children-- they’re paper eyes seemed to glow.
Christian bolted from the room and ran up the stairs, they groaned and barked at him for his abuse. He could hear the scratching at the front door, it became more urgent and insistent, clawing turned to banging and pounding-- wood splintered and rusty, steel chains squealed. He ran into the first room he saw and slammed the door behind him. He wedged a rickety chair under the doorknob and then stumbled backwards onto the floor.
He was seized by a coughing fit from the burst of wretched dust from the mattress. The blood began to soak into his clothes and stain his trembling hands as he choked and spit to clear his violated sinuses. Christian heaved himself to his feet and fell against a wall, the tiny razorblades slicing through the coat and biting into the soft meat of his arm and shoulder. He turned and collided with the hobby-horse.
His eyes adjusted to the gloom suddenly and he could see the sinister toy horse as it teeter-tottered-- a long, vicious spike jutted from the horse’s seat and impaled a doll-sized skeleton that rattled back and forth with the motion of the horse. Scattered about the room were unopened presents, cards unread, toys abandoned and alone. Oh God! What is this? Why do I know this place?
A steel cage rattled to life in the far corner. Behind the narrow bars, the feral growl of something starved and angry that could’ve once cooed and murmured with innocent joy if you blew on his tummy-- then, Christian saw its eyes.
This time the bile wouldn’t be stopped. Panicked, Christian ripped away the chair that secured the door and ran from the abattoir nursery, screaming and vomiting. He lurched into a bathroom and spilled everything from his stomach into the toilet. After several minutes of torturous retching, Christian slumped against the bathtub-- a strand of spittle hung from his chin. The distant laughter of children roused him from his stupor.
Christian raised himself to the sink and flipped on an overhead light. Surprisingly, it flickered to life, blinking sporadically. He looked up into the stained and shattered mirror to see the face of a man he barely recognized.
Goddamned kids! They’re killing me, hunting me...this place. This place was safe and now I have to move again. Whole fucking neighborhood’s gone to hell, swarming with those evil brats!
That’s when Christian heard the footsteps like branches scratching against a window-pane and a voice from behind him-- or was it in front of him?-- like the growl of a prehistoric animal swallowing broken glass and turpentine, or the black ‘65 Mustang parked in the back.
“You’ve done good work here, boy, and now it’s time to move up. I knew when I knocked up your mother that I’d get me a fine heir for the family business. That’s pretty smart switchin’ on that light, but it ain’t gonna save ya from what’s comin’-- no matter how much it burns me. So, let’s get this over with. I’m lookin’ forward to some rest from these little demons.”
It started as a sharp pain at first and then blossomed from the back of his skull, settling into a dull, warm ache. Christian understood now why he was in this house and the work he had to carry on. My father’s work...
...if I don’t do it, then the kids grow up. Grow up to be doctors, lawyers, artists, rapists, pedophiles, and murderers like me. But, the murderin’ I do is His will, Her will, Their Will. I am a force and a fact of nature like any homicidal tornado or mass-murderin’ tsunami. The herd has to be thinned occasionally and I’m the shepherd’s red right hand. Wellp, time ta go ta work.
The face looking back in the mirror couldn’t really be described conventionally-- features shifted and writhed. The Boogeyman pulled the hood up over its head, flicked off the light, and climbed into the mirror.

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