Hostility House

tw // verbal, emotional, and physical abuse

Carol jerked awake. The sudden movement caused her dog, Hamster, to topple from the foot of the bed.

Her husband shifted. His voice, tired and bearish, was low. “God, Carol, what is it?”

Her own voice, panicked and high-strung, contrasted his. “You didn’t hear that whispering?”

“What whispering?”

“It was right in my ear! Mike, that wasn’t you?”

“No. Did it sound like me?”

“Well… no. I guess not.”

“See, wasn’t me. No whispering. Only sleeping. Or trying to.”

“Where’d Hamster go? Hamster!” Carol called.

“He’ll be fine. Sleep.”

She sighed then patted Mike’s side. “Okay, I’m sorry. Sweet dreams, Mike.”

He grunted and soon began snoring. She sat up for a while in the dark still, watchful.

***

When she woke up, Mike wasn’t there. “Michael?” The muffled din of pots and pans carried from downstairs, along with her husband’s trademark curses. Relieved, Carol got out of bed and put her slippers on.

She slowed halfway down the stairs. Her skin tingled. Without knowing why, her body tensed. She looked downstairs to see Mike’s back, him facing what smelled like eggs and bacon. He was dressed, though it was the weekend. Hamster was at the foot of the stairs devouring his own breakfast.

She didn’t want to be on the staircase anymore. Hurriedly, she continued her descent. 

“Michael.”

“Hi, honey.” He didn’t turn around.

“Do you think the house could be haunted?”

He winced, dropped the spatula, caught it. He faced her. “No! Is this about the ‘whispering’?”

“Partly, yes.”

“Partly. Okay. Carol, we’ve lived here for four years. It wasn’t haunted before, why would it be haunted now?”

She shifted her feet. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.”

“I just have this feeling—”

“And I have a feeling that it’ll rain cats and dogs today, but look, clear skies and reality!” He threw the spatula into the sink and stalked off toward the front door. “Damn it, Carol!” he roared as he passed her. Hamster hovered protectively over his food, growling but scared himself.

Mike flung the door open and put on his shoes.

Her voice was small, “Mike?”

He slammed the door.

Wide-eyed, Carol stared at the door for a moment. Hamster whined at her. She could smell the eggs and bacon burning.

***

Mike came home late that night. Carol was watching TV when he came in. He’d spooked her; she wasn’t expecting him to come home, and she’d been hearing all sorts of unexplainable, strange noises… none of which she felt she could tell her husband about now.

He glanced at her and looked like he had something to say but decided against it. Instead, he withdrew upstairs. She had no clue what was going on with him but felt it was her fault. All she’d said was she heard some whispering!

That night, she slept on the couch.

***

The next evening, they had a talk.

He said that lately he noticed some unbecoming changes in her, but wouldn’t elaborate on what they were or how she could fix them. She asked if what she said about the house bothered him, but he only clenched his fists. He never answered any of her questions. It was more like a lecture, not a talk between a husband and wife of six years. Her hands fidgeted the entire time—her way of trying not to look around her incessantly, as she heard mysterious noises then as well and didn’t want to upset Mike. But he caught her attention when he ended with:

“Carol, I love you, but if anything ‘haunted’ comes up again, don’t tell me about it. That’s a hard rule from now on. I don’t want to leave you, but I will.”

She lifted her face, shell-shocked, and shook her head at this. “What? Why?”

“I’ve said my piece,” he said as he got up from the table.

Carol pushed her body up with the table, chair squealing behind her. “Michael, I haven’t said mine!”

It was too late, he’d disappeared up the stairs. Did he expect her to go to bed with him like nothing had happened? Follow this ridiculous rule, which just boiled down to her not being able to confide in her husband? Her brow furrowed, and she was left feeling very confused.

Who was this man?

***

A month had gone by, and Carol hadn’t mentioned hauntings again. She’d played the good wife. She still heard things, even started seeing things like shadows, quick movements. Whenever she was home alone, Carol talked to Hamster about these things; Hamster didn’t judge. But because of what Michael had said, she honestly wondered if she was going crazy. Every night once Michael had fallen asleep, she cried, afraid.

Every morning before he went to work, she wanted to tell him. The words were on the tip of her tongue, but she held them back. Said, ‘See you later, honey. Have a good day,’ and told Hamster instead as she got ready for work herself. If the floor creaked, she and Hamster flinched. If there was a whisper, their heads snapped toward the direction it came from, their fight or flight instincts awakened. Hamster hid behind the couch if he saw a shadow move questionably.

And then its behavior escalated further. Sometimes a vase or picture frame or lamp was knocked over or thrown. Carol trembled as she cleaned up the mess and came up with an excuse to tell her husband.

Carol was torn. She wanted to get out of that house, for her and for Hamster, but she didn’t think Mike would leave even if the house was on fire.

Can’t I just leave? Carol thought as she put her makeup on one morning. Her eyes were swollen from crying. She cried because she couldn’t talk to her husband and because when she opened the refrigerator that morning, every single item—milk, butter, jam jars—had been set on its side. This was unmistakably the weirdest thing whatever lived in the house with them had done. Not very scary, but this had unsettled her that much more because of it.

She didn’t think she could take much more.

***

That Saturday, Carol awoke early, too much anxiety weighing down on her to sleep well.

She went downstairs to prepare breakfast. When she turned the burners on, a thundering, ominous screech started up. She recoiled and turned them off. The noise stopped. She and Hamster exchanged looks, then she turned the burners on again. The screeching started again. It even sounded when she opened up a cupboard or the refrigerator.

Carol was rattled, her head in agony. “Stupid migraines,” she mumbled. Upstairs, Mike didn’t stir. She took a deep breath, shakily put earplugs in, and got to cooking.

As soon as the food was ready, Hamster began barking louder than he ever had before.

She winced. “Hammy, no. Shhh, shhh.” Carol petted him until he calmed down.

Mike came downstairs and kissed her cheek. “Hi, honey.”

“Hi. I made your favorite.”

“You did. It looks delicious.” He sat at the table, where Carol’d already placed a big plate for him.

They ate in silence for a minute, but Carol couldn’t hold it in any longer—the shrieking kitchen had reassured her of that. Nervous, she wiped the sweat off her palms. “Michael?”

He grunted, digging into his French toast.

“I’ve been—” Hamster started barking uncontrollably again. “Hammy! Hamster, come here,” she cooed.

“You better shut that dog up, he’ll piss off the neighbors.”

“Hamster, shhh, shhh.”

As Carol got Hamster to quiet down, Michael continued to eat. Hamster whined and paced around the table and kitchen peninsula.

“He’s acting funny,” Mike remarked.

She tried to laugh it off. “Yeah, I don’t know what his problem is. But, anyway, Michael?”

“Yeah?”

“Um, I know what you’ll say and I’m sorry, but I have to say it. I really, really think the house is haunted. I keep—”

A loud, exasperated groan left his lips. He threw his fork down on the plate and pointed at her, “Carol, I told you—”

“I know and I tried! I tried, okay?! I can’t hold it in anymore!”

“There’s nothing to hold in! The house is not haunted!”

“Then why do I keep hearing and seeing things? You didn’t hear that loud as fuck screeching earlier?”

“There wasn’t any screeching!”

“You didn’t see how the entire fridge was turned upside down!”

“The entire… what? Carol, listen to yourself! You haven’t heard or seen anything!”

“How would you know?! And, and all those things that broke! They’d fall on their own, fly across the room!”

Mike massaged his temples. “You said you accidentally knocked those down.”

“I lied! You haven’t let me talk to you!” She noticed she’d started to cry.

“You can talk to me… as long as you talk some goddamn sense!”

“What about Hamster? Him, too! He reacts and gets scared!”

“He’s reacting to you! He’s a dog, dogs react to people!”

“Why else would he bark so much today?”

“He’s a dog, Carol!”

“And the house is haunted, Michael!” she sobbed.

“I’m done!” Face red, he heatedly got out of his chair, hurled his used napkin at her, and tromped upstairs. Carol sat, vigorously swiping at her tears with the backs of her hands. Her head throbbed. She thought she heard him packing.

Her mind whirled and tumbled, frantic but exhausted. He’s packing? What does this mean for me?

He loudly came down the stairs, suitcase in tow.

She gasped. “Where are you going? You’re leaving? Are you serious?”

No response.

He got to the door and opened it, but Carol was right there and closed it again. He turned on her and shoved her back. She stumbled but didn’t go down—she felt something behind her that had prevented her from falling, though there was nothing there but empty space. Hamster stood a yard away, barking and snarling.

“Goodbye,” he said with contempt. He slammed the door, leaving it vibrating.

Carol stood there rigidly, slowly feeling time go by and not being able to do anything about it. She couldn’t move. Hamster whimpered and howled, prancing around in front of her to try to get her attention.

But she already knew.

She could feel and even smell its breath, its presence, behind her.

She couldn’t describe it in her mind; she was too afraid, her mind a complete blank… everything from her husband’s betrayal to what stood behind her had taken its toll.