DIE LAUGHING

The trees lining the borders of the property leaned in and hung over—thick and dense— forming a barrier against the outside world and light. One would feel trapped between the imposing and intimidating structure and the wall of towering trees. Dead leaves, piled up over countless autumns and winters, were raspy like old newspaper, dry and brittle. A landscaper or maintenance crew had not stepped foot onto the premises since man stepped foot on the moon; every bush and shrub were overgrown, each ornamental tree was gnarled and arthritic, limbs and branches twisted and diseased; the grass—where there was some—was in patches in the bare earth where puddles of leaves refused to gather.

The house—the mansion—was a genuine aberration. Roof tiles had been sloughed like dead skin cells, exposing sagging beams, buckled under from decades of exposure to the elements, swaybacked and broken. The once festive paint was chipped and peeling like nail polish—with leprous malignancy, exposing exterior siding, weather worn to silver-grey, splotched black with rot and mold; scarred by exposed nails—stigmata—staining everything it bled upon rust-red. The windows were a multitude of eyes, cobwebbed and dusty with dirt and debris—cataracts from another age. While others had glass shattered, hand rolled panes partially missing or absent altogether, stared blankly; drafty, empty sockets. Shutters askew and akimbo like broken bat wings. Gutters debased and mangled, the deformed shapes of damned souls, rails, spires, columns strangled by ivy; shrouded from sight, camouflaged into obscurity. The porch ran the breadth of the front of the house, boards were warped, rotted, or altogether unaccounted for. A pitched overhang drooped exhaustedly and,  like everything else on the property,  was not in any condition to invite welcome and cordiality.

The front yard was no less depressing and dismal but at least it wasn’t overgrown and looming. It was brighter here, but not by much, and the grounds had once been very sparse and pristine. Although they were not the splendor they once were, there was much more room to breathe.

The two young men, both in their early twenties, walked side by side following the topography of the sidewalk. They were dressed identically in that they both wore button down dress shirts, conservatively patterned neckties, long pants belted at the waist, and smart, sensible walking shoes. In another place, a name tag pinned to the shirt pocket, they could have been managers at a fast food chain restaurant. That would be absurd since they did not eat meat as a general rule and tended to lean toward vegetarianism. Their hair was reasonably short and neat, of a simple cut and style. Their complexions were clear, ruddy and youthful. They could have been mistaken for brothers yet were not related despite all of their similarities.

They too were Jehovah’s Witnesses.

Charles and Russell were out canvassing this glorious mid-September day, going from doorstep to doorstep distributing their non-trinitarian millenarian restorationist Christian denomination literature. It was dedicated work, traversing neighborhoods on foot for hours on end, enduring rejection upon rejection upon negativity and sometimes hostility but their faith kept them soldiering on.

“Are you seriously considering trying that one?” Charles questioned, indicating the house that looked like to might as well be haunted for its needing-to-be-torn-down or burned-to-the-ground condemned appearance.

“Of course,” Russell replied, “At least we know what the outcome

will be.”

“Do we?”

“Yeah. Nobody’s going to be home. We won’t get rejected and…”

“And?”

“And it’ll make for a nice few minutes diversion from all the other DIY Home Depot suburban cookie cutter homes we’ve visited.”

“No one ever said you were  judgmental.”

“See.”

“I’m being sarcastic.” They approached the middle of the property and the gate in the waist-high ornate wrought-iron fence.

“Okay, Brother (male witnesses were referred to as Brother), let’s get the Addams family out of the way,” Charles suggested with a wave of his free hand indicating Russell should proceed first.

Russell smiled wryly and shifted the pamphlets he was carrying into his left hand. He placed his right on the top horizontal bar of the gate between the vertical pickets that terminated in small decorative spearhead finials. He thrust the handful of literature at Charles that he should take it—which he gleefully did. His hand was now free to lift the latch and open the gate.

If the living earth ruptured and the inhabitants of the abyss spewed hell-for-leather forth, the cacophony of the screeching Damned would pale in comparison to the murderous sound being unleashed by the corroded oxidation of the moving iron components. Russell shielded his hearing as best he could by pressing the pamphlets to his ears, and Charles grimaced in retaliation. He was surprised all the dogs in the neighborhood weren’t howling in agony. He pushed the gate open as quickly as possible like ripping off a band-aid to avoid prolonging the torturous noise. Charles stood at the threshold of the path leading to the front porch.

“Well?” Russell said.

“Well, what?” Charles replied.

“Aren’t you…?”

“Oh, no, no, no. By all means. You first. Be my guest.”

Russell glared at Charles, thrusting his and Russell’s share of the literature into his chest and let go. Charles fumbled, trying to prevent the booklets from fluttering pell-mell to the ground.

“Thanks, Bro.”

“Don’t mention it, Bro.”

The flagstones embedded in the lawn were barely visible, the grass growing over the edges of the slates, resembling scar tissue over healing wounds. Russell followed the puckered-sod pock marks and made his way to the first of two steps leading onto the front porch. And stopped. He waited for Charles to join him.

“Let’s just get this done with and move on.”

“Geez, Russ. Why all the fuss?”

“I- I already told you nobody’s going to be home.”

“Then why are we doing this?”

Russell’s ire flared. “Cuz I’m done with people smiling and nodding disinterestedly, being down right rude to our faces, slamming doors, raised voices, threats, profanity. For once I’d like to have a pleasurable experience and this is going to be it. C’mon,” Russell commanded and climbed the flight of stairs. He turned and looked down at his fellow Witness from his elevated platform.

Charles grudgingly trudged up the two steps, stomping loudly to

make his discontent known, and kept going.

“Okay, I get it. You’re over it,” Charles remarked snidely over his shoulder as he walked past Russell and approached the front door. Russell didn’t budge but stood at the edge of the stairs, watching his Brother go through the motions of eliciting a call to assuage his being pissed off at the world.

Charles firmly grasped the brass ring door knocker held in the mouth of some fantastical creature’s—gargoyle?—head and rapped on the door. It produced a deadened thumping, not the crisp knock he was expecting. After a few seconds when there was no answer he tried again. Before the knocker made contact with the door, it lazily began to swing open on creaky, grinding hinges. When he was at arm’s length from the door he was reminded his hand was still holding the ring. Charles let go and it drop by his side. His head snapped back to look at Russell, who was wearing a WTF expression on his face which quickly morphed into a wide-eyed head-and-shoulders shrug.

The door continued to swing of its own gumption. When it had completely yawned open, it came to rest.

What the gaping maw revealed left them dumbfounded.

The interior of the structure was in complete contradiction to the exterior. The floor was black and white tile. Square tiles merged into trapezoidal tiles contorting into parallelogrammical tiles which warped into rhomboidal and rectangular tiles. The floor was both disorientating and full of optical movement. The furniture was beyond description but could well have been made by IKEA if produced in a funhouse factory run by the interior designer love-child of Tim Burton and Betsy Johnson; stripes, dots, checks, plaids, florals, geometrics, abstracts, fluorescents, glow-in-the-dark thrown into a Cuisinart, set to psychotic.

While Charles was taking in all of the comic book Mad Decorator visuals, he hadn’t noticed Russell was as transfixed as he and was standing by his side.

Mentally Charles thought to turn and leave but physically nothing happened. When he realized he was practically glued to the spot with abject curiosity, a dithering voice resounded from further in the house.

“Oh, bones. Bones, bones, bones, bones, bones. Did I leave the front door unlocked again? I usually lock it. You know, such a bad neighborhood. That’s the only reason to lock it. Makes no difference to me—locked or unlocked—I just simply pass right through it.”

Eyes as big as hubcaps, the Brothers stood paralyzed as the disembodied voice grew in volume until it was directly in front of them.

In a wink, the owner of the voice materialized right before their

disbelieving eyes.

He was white as a ghost—that was because he was a ghost, and white with a round head, two oversized ovoid orbs for eyes that were black as black could be, short pudgy arms with plump ripe fingers and a torso that ended in tattered wisps of ectoplasm. If a ghost could be stereotypical this one was, looking like a bleached linen sheet draped over a round party balloon with the most endearing hint of blush on its cherubic spectral cheeks.

“Come in. Come in,” the apparition bade. “I suspect you were expecting a haunting.  Hope you’re not disappointed. You won’t find any of that chain rattling nonsense in my house.”

The ghost disappeared and reappeared instantly behind the two

young men. He had his arms spread out to his sides at chest level ushering them in.

“No sirs, no you won’t! None of that Hollywood mumbo jumbo here. No sirs! Nothing but fun. Fun, fun, fun, good fun!”

Even though the ghost was made of phantasmal matter, he had substance and the Brothers could feel the pressure of his arms against their backs as he escorted them inside.

“I promise you, sirs. You are both in for a surprise. No frights, chills or horrors here. Just good old-fashioned fun and games.”

The door, of its own devices, closed casually behind Charles and Russell as they stepping inside the unhaunted house.

“Jokes and slight-of-hand. Limericks and vaudeville, sight gags and one liners. Don’t worry. I’m a professional. I promise you, on my own grave, you’re both going to die laughing!”

                                                   (^{. .})