The House

3 Redfern Tce, Arthurs Point

New Zealand

+64 211931114

Darrenclovell@gmail.com

2949 words

The House

By Clyde Laffan

I am the only one who can hear the screams escape into the dark corners of the universe, free from the terror of what was the basement.

 The neighbours, framing the burning house through the lenses on their phones, only hear the wailing of fire trucks dispatched to save the unsavable. That, and the crackling roar of the fire that now consumes the old house.

This nightmare started yesterday when Gary thought it would be fun to camp out in our new home. I just want to get one thing straight, before the police get here. None of this is his fault. Yes, he lies in the basement, his body burning, but that isn't punishment for any of this. Leaving Gary down there was the only way I could get out alive. 

But I doubt the cops will see it that way.

"What do you want?" Gary asks. It's towards the end of last summer, and we sit on my back deck enjoying the warm afternoon. Damian, my roommate, grills a whole snapper he bought at the fish markets that morning, and shortly some friends will join us.

This is just after our third or fourth date. I can't remember exactly, but I recall thinking that this is a big question for Gary. After all, we've only just started dating. Is he getting serious so soon?

Gary and I had met a few weeks earlier, on the beach at North Bondi, at a spot near the headland popular with gays who found it a safe place to sunbathe, show off and hang with friends. I was there most Sundays in the summer.

I saw him stretched out on his beach towel, tanned, muscular and handsome. Everyone knew who Gary was, even those who weren’t part of his clique. Ever since I started hanging out at the clubs and bars of the inner-city, I had seen him, on the dance floor, the centre of attention. Everyone’s attention - the twinks, the jocks, the daddies, even the leather Queens.

I do not know what came over me that day, but I decided to change the situation and say hi.

“Hi,” I said, smiling, landing my butt in the sand next to him. He looks at me and returned my smile.

“Finally.”

Seems Gary had wanted my attention for the past few months since he first spotted me dancing shirtless at a club. “Why didn’t you say something?" I asked.

“I thought you might not be into white guys or something. Or that I'm too old."

"You're kidding, right?"

So now here we are, on my deck, getting serious.

“What do I want?”

I know what I wanted to say. I wanted what Gary had, whatever that was. I wanted to be thirty-something forever. I wanted to be sexy and confident. And I liked boys. Lots of boys.

That’s not what I tell him.

“I want to be with you.” I feel my cheeks turn red. We kiss like it is the first kiss.

The thrill does not last long. Does it ever? Soon, our relationship is a routine of rituals replicated by our other gay friends; the gym, the club, bars, threesomes, scrambled eggs whites, shopping, the beach in summer and a movie in winter; chicken salads, dressing on the side. Which is what we are doing now. Eating a chicken salad, dressing on the side, at our favourite cafe, the one where all the boys hang out.

Gary says he has something to show me. I sip my flat white, crave a cigarette (Gary made me give up when we started dating) and ask what?

He removes a real estate flyer from his pocket, unfolds the coloured sheet of glossy paper and passes it to me to read. 

"Extremely dilapidated Victorian terrace is being sold for the first time in 100 years. Empty for 30 years when the previous occupants, a husband and wife, abandoned the building. This is a blank canvas. It is completely unliveable, with worn-out interiors that are in desperate need of renovation, including rotting walls and floorboards. Some of the rooms are littered with old remnants of the previous owners. There is a sealed-off basement, just waiting to be explored. A wine cellar, perhaps?"

I take a moment, trying to read my boyfriend’s boyish face. “And?”

“It sounds amazing, right?”

The main feature of the terrace house we now stand in front of is decay. And rust. And rot. Discoloured with age, a black fungus spreads out across the facade, eating away at anything that resembled someone’s home. My expression grows as vacant as the windows that stare back at me. The windows that taunt. The windows that want to scream, help me!

Gary places a hand on my shoulder. I jump, snapping back to reality. As reassuring as it is, his touch does not shake the feeling of despair that wants to choke me. I am looking at my worst nightmare. “This is pretty incredible,” I say.

We celebrate our first anniversary flirting with a mortgage broker and enslaving ourselves to debt for the rest of our lives. We buy the house together. This is not the sort of bondage I enjoy, but this is Gary's dream and now, through default, my dream too. Do I have a choice? His enthusiasm for the project to renovate this home is infectious. So too is Leprosy.

The house is "unliveable", but Gary has an idea - "let's camp out in it tonight, to really get a feel for the space before we start speaking with architects. Come on, it will be fun."

The house has no electricity and no running water. We borrow some camping gear from our friends and decide that tonight will be spent in our new home. 

The air inside the house is oppressive, filling the dwelling with a sense of irredeemable gloom. Gary leads the way - after all, he has been in here once before - and I follow, bringing my hand to my face trying to mask the smell that seeps from the faded plaster walls. It’s the smell of decay and rot.

 I gag and dry retch, turn and make my way out, down the hallway, past the closed door that leads to the basement and outside where the sun is bright, and the air smells of jasmine. Gary follows. “I cannot go back in there, Gary. It fucking stinks." I am not a drama queen.

“You will get used to it shortly, I promise.”

I hate it when people promise things they cannot deliver.

I go back in. We stand in a hallway that runs from the front door, through the bottom part of the house, and I assume out to the back yard. There is no going upstairs. The staircase is rotten and has collapsed in on itself.

“So you’ve only seen the ground floor level?” I ask.

“Don’t freak on me, but I just went on gut instinct. I’ve never actually been inside before.”

"What? What! This is a lot of money to spend on a gut instinct.

“You signed on without asking to look.”

“I trusted you.”

We never fight. Not often anyway, and I loathe confrontation, so I back down immediately. “This is your dream, babe, I trust what you are doing, and together, we are going to turn this place into something exceptional."

Gary turns and faces me. “Exceptional?

“Yep.”

“It’s going to be a big lifestyle change, you know."

“I know.”

How big?

"Weekends painting and renovating. Trips to the hardware store.

“The guys are always cute in hardware stores,” I tease.

“They’ll be no clubbing, no parties, no holidays for a while. This thing is going to be a money pit.

Like I said, my worst nightmare. ”I love you.” I remind myself.

 We make our camp in the front room. We both try to open the windows but cannot. “These muscles are just for show, right?" I tease, grabbing Gary's bicep. By now, we both have our shirts off and are feeling the summer heat.

“It’s going to be hot in here tonight.”

"It will be okay."

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Cobwebs have accumulated in the corners, cockroaches have free reign, and we can see where the rats and possums nest. Gary is right. I am used to the smell, but the heat is stifling. We order pizza. We watch a movie on my iPad. We take a sleeping pill.

“I know this doesn’t seem like much now, but I’m so fucking excited.” I have never seen Gary like this before. I hope passes. 

I awake from a nightmare just before dawn. Sweating and breathless. My heart pounds my chest. I hear the screams of torment and the cries of agony that was my dream.

I listen to the restless sounds of the house, the solitary sounds houses make in the dead of night. The worn floorboards creak, stagnant brown water oozes through rusty pipes, the tired walls ache with age.

I try to remain calm and shift my focus to Gary's breathing. He never snores, but his breath is heavy. Sometimes, when I cannot sleep, I count his breath - one, two, three - like I do now. But sleep does not come.

I stare at my boyfriend. He no longer looks like Gary. The colour of his skin has changed, his boyish traits have disappeared, his hair looks thinner, greyer. He looks older than I remember. Is this what he always looks like? I want to wake him, but more than that, I want to leave him, to be alone and away from him and his dream. If he were to ask me again what do I want, my answer would be simple. Not this. 

The house rumbles again. Something is not right. I stare into the room and try to remind myself of where I am. I can see the empty box our pizza came in, the gas lamps we read by, my iPad on which we watched a movie. I can see the flotsam of our life.

Outside is the street, and beyond the road, the neighbourhood our friends and we call home. Beyond the rows of terrace houses, cafes and gyms is the city, and beyond the towering glass sky-scrapers sprawls the suburbs and everything, I tell myself is normal.

My breathing stops. So too does my heart. Someone, something, is in the basement below me. I hear the shuffling of feet and clawing at the walls. It's a sinister scratching sound coming from someone, something, that desperately wants to get out.

The scratching stops.

I breathe.

Now there is sobbing, and I wait because I know what happens next. I am in my dream again. There is about to be a scream. A scream so terrifying that I cannot bear to listen. It is the scream of absolute terror. I want to cover my ears with my hands, but I can't. I am crippled with terror.

The scream does not come.

I breathe.

There is just the voice of a girl that cries, “help me.”

I shudder with fear.

Sleep alludes me, dawn breaks, and soon Gary and I are eating egg whites at our favourite cafe where all the boys hang out. "It was probably just a rat or even a possum down there," Gary said

I want to punch him. “You think so?”

I sip my flat white and crave a cigarette. We are close to the house and not too far from the apartment where we actually live. Our apartment with air-conditioning, a plasma TV screen and no one clawing to get out of the basement. 

"After the gym, we'll go to the hardware store, get a crowbar and get into the basement. Take a look. Okay?"

"Okay."

No fucking way. I will never step foot in that house again. I just don’t know how to tell him that. “I think I need a Bloody Mary.”

“You don’t want to work out?”

“I can have a Bloody Mary and still work out.”

Three drinks later and I kiss Gary goodbye. He’s pissed, I can tell, but not as pissed as I am feeling right now. Pissed and anxious. I need to get some sleep. “You go the gym. I’m just going to head back to the apartment for a bit. Have a little nap. Text me when you’re ready to go back to the house.”

“Take a Xanax, babe. There are some on the bedside table. You look like shit."

“I love you too.” My hand won’t stop shaking. He ignores my levity.

Help me

The feeling of doom taunts me.

I begin the walk towards home through the maze of streets and laneways of Surry Hills. The roads are deserted, which suits my mood. With my shadow as my only company, I feel free, like the old me. Me before Gary.

“Someone had a big night, didn’t they?” My friend Eric has crossed the street and planted himself in my path, stopping me dead. "I thought you boys were taking it easy this weekend?"

Go fuck yourself. "We are. I just didn't sleep well last night. We were camping in the new house."

“Sam, you’re getting so domestic.”

As I said, go fuck yourself. “Yeah, we’re settling down.”

“You out tonight then?”

“No.”

“The beach tomorrow?”

Jesus. We’re settling down. “We’re going to the hardware store.”

"Oh, well, I'll text you later on. Maybe drink at the bar."

Did you not listen to a word I just said. "Okay then, text us."

I keep walking towards the apartment, but instead, I find myself back in front of the house. I feel weary in the stomach, like I am about to throw up. I want to run, but the house holds my gaze. It wants me to see it for the first time - to see its truth, its wrongness, its guilt, its grief, its trauma.

I quell the feeling of dread that torments my stomach. I take a step towards the front porch and notice a woman peering at me through the window. Blood pounds in my ears. I stare back at her. And she stares back and mouths that simple phrase from my dream, “help me.”

I move towards the house, the front door, which is now open, and I enter. So it wasn’t a possum. The oppressive air is now thin, the stench is gone and as I peer down the hallway, past where the staircase once was, and I see that the closed door to the basement is now open.

With morbid curiosity, I resist the urge to run and flee for my life. Instead, placing one foot after another, I walk towards the open door.

 Help me.

I peer down into the abyss that is the cellar. Something terrible is lurking down there. I know it. But no more terrifying than what is lurking up here. I take one step onto the staircase leading down and gently apply my weight to test its sturdiness. It creaks a little, bends a little, but seems okay. But it's not okay, is it?

Help us

At the bottom of the stairs, I turn on the torch to my iPhone and scan the room. It's darker than night, colder than death. I shiver. I should be afraid, but it is too late for reason. Down here is where secrets hide. For one sane second, I marvel at the size of the space, and for a moment, I think it will make the perfect wine cellar.

Help us, please

To one side are old petrol cans, rusted and dented, laying untouched for who knows how long on the earthen floor. There are spades, shovels, a pick and a garden fork. In front of me is a rusty metal chair, its legs set into a concrete slab. No one is moving that chair. Handcuffs hang off each arm.

“Sammy!” The sound of my name cuts into the darkness. It’s Gary.

Help us. Burn the house down.

I sit in the chair and see that there is not one girl down here but many trapped in the basement room. I see them all. I see their pain and suffering. Some have been here for more than 80 years, held captive against their will. Tortured and raped. Their bodies buried in the dark worm-infested soil that has not seen the light for more than a century. 

“Sammy, are you down their babe?"

“Down here.” I stand to get up, but the girls push me back down into the chair. I hear the rattle of the handcuffs.

Help us. Burn the house down. Or you’ll join us.

Gary cries out. “Oh shit,” as he misses the first step and instead tumbles down the stairwell ending with a thud. The sound of his neck breaking is sickening. He gasps one final time as his soul leaves the body I adored for so long, from so far, only to take it for granted the moment it was mine.

In a chorus of desperate women crying in a union, he becomes the sole male voice, "Burn the house down. Otherwise, you'll join us."

I don’t know if it is a warning or a threat, but I do as I am told.

Like I said, I don't expect the police to see it the same way I do. It doesn't matter anyway. Whether I go to jail or not, whether people think I'm innocent, none of that matters.

When you’ve seen what I saw in that basement, none of that matters.

The end