The House Read online

  He'd always been melodramatic, though.

  It kept life interesting.

  Daniel dried, shaved, brushed his teeth, combed his hair, dressed. In his suit, he looked conservative, presentable, respectable. He straightened his tie, looked at himself in the mirror, practiced smiling. He didn't hold out a whole lot of hope for today. The fact that he was being interviewed instead of just rejected outright was of course a good sign, but he'd been to dozens of similar interviews since he'd been unemployed and none of them had amounted to anything.

  Still, it had been quite a while since he'd had any interview at all, and at the very least, this would enable him to keep in practice.

  He drove into downtown Philly and paid five bucks to park in an underground lot beneath the Bronson Building. Cutting Edge Software, the firm with the job opening, owned the top three floors, and he took an elevator up, quickly putting Chapstick on his too-dry lips before the metal doors slid open.

  He was ushered immediately into the personnel office, where a young efficient-looking woman who could not have been more than a year out of college introduced herself as the personnel director. She bade him sit in one of the padded chairs opposite her desk, and the two of them talked for the next half hour or so. It was an interview, but it felt more like a conversation, and Daniel found that he liked this relaxed informal approach.

  They hadn't discussed the job specifically, had instead talked mostly about him, his life, his interests, but he knew she'd probably gotten a good read on him from the discussion, and he was gratified when she stood and said, "I think you'd work well here. You're self motivated, intelligent, and I think you could do a good job. I'd like you to meet the president of our firm and talk to him for a few minutes."

  He followed her out of the office, down a carpeted hallway to a bigger office. She rapped on the sill of the open doorway, then motioned for Daniel to walk in.

  The president of the company was one of those men who tried too hard to be jovial and just-one-of-the-guys, and who referred to himself in company literature as "W. L. (Bud) Williams." Daniel hated men with nicknames.

  And he hated men who used only their initials even more. Together they were a lethal combination.

  "Never trust a man who doesn't use the name his parents gave him," his father had always said, and it was advice that Daniel had taken to heart.

  Still, he needed the job and he couldn't afford to pick and choose, and he sat across the desk from W. L. (Bud)

  Williams and smiled.

  The president looked over the resume in his hand. "I

  see here that you've worked as a tech writer before."

  Daniel nodded. "Yes. For the City of Tyler."

  "Did you like the job?"

  "No," he answered truthfully, realizing his mistake even as he said it. He scrambled quickly for damage control. "I mean, I liked the work, but I didn't like . . . a few of the people I worked with."

  "Is that why you quit?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "We like team players here at Cutting Edge."

  "No problem there," Daniel lied. "I'm a team player.

  That was just a fluke."

  The president smiled. "Yes." He stood. "Well, thank you for coming."

  Daniel stood as well, offering his hand. "Thank you for seeing me."

  "We'll call you," W. L. (Bud) Williams said as he shook Daniel's hand.

  But they wouldn't, Daniel knew. He'd put his foot in his mouth and flunked the test, and he left the building dejected and resentful, ticked off even more when he took the elevator down to the garage and realized that he'd wasted five dollars on parking.

  In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought. He was in the city and had already wasted five bucks, what were a few dollars more? He drove to McDonald's and bought himself a value meal, consoling himself with junk food, taking the sting off his disappointment.

  He was back home by noon, just in time to catch an old John Ford western on AMC. He sat in his recliner in front of the television, but he couldn't concentrate on the film and instead brooded about his dismal efforts to secure employment. On the screen, John Wayne rode through the desert sand in front of majestic red peaks that rose dramatically out of the earth behind him, and Daniel wondered what it would be like to live in Arizona.

  The West was supposed to have a booming job market these days, and once again he found himself thinking that it might be better to just pull up stakes and follow the sun rather than sit here in this crummy row house and wait for something to turn up.

  At least he wasn't such a macho jerk that he resented Margot for bringing home a paycheck. He was grateful that she had a job, and he had no hangups about having to be the primary breadwinner of the household. He and Margot weren't in competition, they were a team, one for all and all for one, and he was proud of her success.

  Still, for his own sake, he wanted to work. He wasn't creative, was not an artist or a writer or a musician, and he had nothing productive to do with his free time. More than the money, it was the desire to dispel this feeling of uselessness that he wanted.

  The phone rang. Margot. He'd forgotten that he was supposed to call her, and he quickly apologized before giving her a thumbnail sketch of his morning.

  She sighed sympathetically. "Doesn't look good, huh?"

  "I'm not holding my breath."

  "Don't worry," she said. "Something'11 turn up."

  "Yeah."

  "Are you busy this afternoon?"

  He snorted. "Yeah. Right."

  "I need you to go to the store and pick up some hamburger buns and ground beef. I forgot my ATM card and have no cash."

  "I don't have any cash either."

  "My card's either on the dresser or the bathroom sink."

  "The sink?"

  "I don't want a lecture."

  "Sorry."

  "I'll pick up Tony on my way home."

  "I can do it."

  "You can do it tomorrow. We'll switch cars."

  Daniel understood. "He's embarrassed by the Buick?"

  "He didn't say anything, but yeah. You know how kids are at that age. Embarrassed by everything."

  "Especially parents."

  Margot laughed. "Especially parents." There was noise in the background, talking. "Wait a sec," she said.

  There was a pause, the sound of muffled voices as she conversed with another woman. "Gottago," she said, coming back on the line. "We have a crisis here. Make sure you stop by the store."

  "I will. Love you."

  "Me too. Bye."

  He hung up the phone and switched off the TV, walking through the kitchen and down the hall. The house seemed silent with the television off, too silent, uncomfortably silent, and Daniel immediately began whistling a mindless tune in order to generate some noise.

  He was filled with a vague sense of unease as he entered the bedroom, a feeling that intensified as he passed the dresser and approached the narrow doorway that led to the bathroom. It was a strange sensation, one he didn't immediately recognize, and it took him a few moments to realize that it was fear. Not the rational fear of physical danger he'd sometimes experienced as an adult, but a baseless, groundless, superstitious dread he associated with childhood. A fear of the boogeyman was what it was, a fear of ghosts, an emotion he hadn't experienced in decades, and though he felt stupid, he turned around, expecting to see a shape or figure behind him, unable to shake the feeling that he was being watched even after he saw that the room was empty.

  Where the hell had this come from? A moment ago he had been on the phone to Margot, having a normal conversation, talking about buying food for dinner, now he was getting the shit spooked out of him walking through his own bedroom.

  It was irrational, he knew, and made no sense, but the feeling did not go away, not even when he found Margot's ATM card next to her hairbrush on the tiled counter next to the sink, not even when he hurried out of the bedroom and back down the hall.

  It was only when he was finally outside, on
the stoop, locking the front door of the house, that the panic left him, that he finally felt as though he could breathe.

  Stress.

  Maybe he'd been counting on getting that Cutting Edge job more than he thought.

  Either that or his house had suddenly become haunted within the past five minutes.

  Maybe Margot had died.

  Or Tony.

  He pushed the thoughts out of his mind. This way lay compulsion. Obsession. There were no ghosts, nothing weird, only his overactive imagination which, after lying in a coma for the past two decades, had suddenly decided to announce its existence.

  Stress.

  It had to be stress.

  Nevertheless, he breathed a little easier when he was in the car and on the road to the grocery store and the house was safely behind him.

  After dinner, Daniel sat with Tony at the kitchen table, helping his son with homework while Margot did the dishes.

  Tony finally finished his assignment and asked if he could watch TV.

  "Only until eight-thirty," Daniel told him. "Then it's time for bed. This is a school night."

  "But, Dad--"

  "No buts."

  Tony slumped out of the kitchen and through the swinging door out to the living room.

  "Next year, we'll let him stay up until nine," Margot said.

  "If he keeps his grades up."

  She smiled. "Never thought you'd turn into your father, did you?'

  Daniel pushed back his chair, walked over to the sink, and put his hands on her shoulders, giving her right ear a quick kiss. "I love you, Mrs. Anderson."

  "I know."

  "Aren't you supposed to say, 'I love you too'?"

  "Actions speak louder than words." She dropped her voice. "I thought I'd show you later."

  He grinned. "That's why I love you."

  From outside, there was the sound of a nunmuffled Charger engine, an earthquake rumble that roared to a crescendo before dying.

  "Your brother's here." Daniel returned to his seat.

  "Be nice to him."

  "Always am."

  "Brian looks up to you."

  "How much you want to bet that he brings up the fact that I'm still unemployed?"

  She looked out the kitchen window, quickly went back to washing, pretending as though she didn't know anyone was here. "Shut up."

  Brian knocked once, walked in. He nodded to his sister, sat down at the kitchen table. "Hey, buddy, you found a job yet?"

  "No."

  "I got a lead on something. It might not pan out, but this guy at the site has a brother who deejays. You know, parties and dances and shit like that? He's looking for someone to help him haul equipment. It's a part-time gig, nights mostly, but, hey, it's something. Might even pick up a few tips."

  Daniel shook his head. "I don't think so."

  "Why not, man? Haul in a few speakers, hang, listen to some tunes, get paid for it? Can't get much breezier than that."

  "Dance music depresses me."

  "You really want to depress yourself, listen to Pet Sounds. You know, by The Beach Boys? Most depressing goddamn album ever put to vinyl. I bum out every time I hear that thing."

  The employment opportunity was forgotten as Brian began riffing on music, chronicling his likes and dislikes over the past twenty years. Just as well. He wasn't a bad guy, but he was a flake and a half, and he only brought up these so-called "job opportunities" to lord over Daniel the fact that he was working and Daniel wasn't. Brian was six years older than Margot, five years older than Daniel, and though he'd always been loving and supportive in his way, he'd also been slightly resentful that they both had better paying, more respectable jobs than he did, and ever since Daniel had been out of work, he'd been in hog heaven.

  It was after eleven before Brian finally left, grabbing his sister around the waist and spinning her once around the kitchen floor. They stood in the doorway, waving, as he woke up half the neighborhood with his car and drove off.

  Daniel closed the door, locked it, and Margot kissed him. "Thanks."

  Daniel smiled wryly. "Hey, he's family."

  "You went above and beyond. Ready for your reward?"

  "I've been ready all night."

  "Let me go check on Tony."

  Margot went down the hall to Tony's room, and Daniel double-checked the doors to make sure they were locked before turning off the lights and heading back to their bedroom. Margot was already standing before the dresser, loosening her hair, and he closed and locked the door behind him as he stepped into the room. He glanced toward the narrow bathroom doorway, saw darkness, shadow. There was a vague feeling of unease, a sense once again that something was wrong, and he walked quickly over to the bathroom and turned on the light, gratified to see that there was nothing out of the ordinary.

  This afternoon, taking out the trash, he'd seen a shadow down the alley behind their house, a shadow he couldn't identify but that looked vaguely familiar: small, almost dwarfish, wearing a tattered gown or smock that billowed in the breeze. It had been around two o'clock, probably the least scary time of day, but the blocky shadows cast by east-facing garages had covered the narrow alley and, along with the slightly overcast sky, had contributed to an uncharacteristically solemn scene. He'd tossed the Hefty bag into the garbage can, turned back toward his yard, and seen, out of the corner of his eye, movement. He looked down the alley and saw, several houses away, on a protruding section of white fence, the shadow of a small figure with longish hair and a raggedy knee-length gown that blew in the breeze. The figure did not move, was perfectly still, only its hair and tattered clothing waving in the wind, and the sight had instantly rung some mental bell. He knew he'd seen it before, but he could not remember where or when. He scanned both sides of the alley, looking for the figure that was creating the shadow, but saw nothing.

  The shadow raised a hand. Beckoned.

  A wave of cold washed immediately over him. He'd been afraid, instinctively frightened, though he had not known why, and he'd hurried quickly out of the alley, through the yard, into the house, locking the back door and closing the drapes so he wouldn't be able to see.

  Daniel took off his shoes and pants, sat heavily down on the bed. The thought of the shadow had stayed with him all evening, haunting him, taunting him with its almost-recognizable familiarity, and though he had wanted to say something to Margot about it, he had not.

  He was aware how stupid it all sounded, and he did not want her to think that he was sitting here alone each day, inventing fantasies to frighten himself, letting his imagination work overtime because he had nothing better to do.

  He unbuttoned his shirt, threw it on the floor, leaned back on the bed.

  Margot had finished with her hair and had taken off her clothes. She started toward the bathroom. "I'm going to take a quick shower."

  He sat up on one elbow. "Don't."

  She stopped, looked at him, eyebrows raised.

  "I like it dirty."

  Smiling, she walked over to him, crawled into bed. "I

  like it that you like it dirty."

  Afterward, they lay there, spent and sweating. Daniel reached for the remote, turned on the TV, started flipping through channels. Margot snuggled next to him.

  "Have you noticed," she said finally, "that Tony's been acting a little . . . strange lately?"

  He looked at her. "Strange how?"

  "I don't know. Secretive. Suspicious. He seems to be spending a lot of time alone in his room."

  "A boy? In his room? Alone? Secretive? Suspicious?"

  Daniel smiled. "Hmmm. I wonder what he could be doing."

  She hit his shoulder. "Knock it off."

  "You might check the stiffness of his sheets."

  "You can be a real jerk sometimes."

  "I'm sorry, but it's perfectly normal--"

  "It's not normal. That's what I'm trying to tell you. I

  know about that. I do wash his underwear, you know.

  But this is ... differ
ent."

  "What? Drugs? Shoplifting? Gangs?"

  "Nothing like that."

  "What then?"

  "I don't know. But it's kind of ... spooky."

  Spooky.

  He didn't say anything, pretended to watch TV. She went off to take her shower, returned and climbed into bed next to him, and soon afterward, he felt her body relax, felt the pattern of her breath change as the even rhythm of sleep overtook her.

  He waited for a few moments, then carefully extricated himself from her arms, moved closer to the edge of the bed. He stared at her while she slept, gently touched her hair. She was so beautiful and he was so happy with her, but the chilling thought that it would not last forced itself into his mind and would not be dislodged. It was the same feeling he'd had this morning an anxious, maddening sense that something was going to happen to her and Tony, and he found himself thinking again of the shadow.

  Spooky.

  He rolled over, onto his back, and closed his eyes, forcing himself to think of nothing, forcing himself to fall asleep. It took a long time. On the television, he heard a talk show give way to an infomercial, heard the infomercial end and a movie begin.

  It was halfway through the movie before he finally drifted off.

  He dreamed, and in his dream, the small shadow was in his house, and he sat in a chair, paralyzed, in the living room, as it roamed down the hall looking for his wife, looking for his son.

  Laurie Laurie Mitchell looked across the boardroom at the other department heads dutifully making notes on their legal pads.

  Boardroom.

  Bored room was more like it.

  She glanced surreptitiously at her watch. Hoffman was still droning on about maximizing the division's profits, some generic claptrap he'd picked up at an executive seminar, and it didn't appear that he would be concluding his filibuster anytime soon.

  God, she hated these meetings.

  Outside the windows, the sky was clear, cloudless, and she could see all the way to the bay, the small dark shape of Alcatraz Island visible in the sea of blue space between two adjoining buildings. She found herself wondering what would happen if a major earthquake hit while they were up here. Would the building stand or would it collapse? If it collapsed, would they ride it down, squashing the floors beneath them, or would the structure topple over, sending them flying into space? More than likely, there'd be a random pattern of destruction, different areas on different floors that crumbled or remained intact, arbitrarily killing those who happened to have the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.