The House Read online

  Such things just weren't talked about in that family in that time in that place, and it was the lack of communication as much as his own weakness and stupidity that had inflamed the situation and led to its inevitable end.

  Was that end still inevitable?

  He didn't know, but he thought not. He felt good, he felt free, he felt closer to his family than he ever had before, and while it might not be the case, he had the distinct impression that merely by talking, merely by hashing things out, they had changed the course of events, they had avoided a repeat of what had happened the first time.

  It was several hours later that his mother yawned, placed her crocheting needles into her sewing basket, rolled up the afghan on which she was working, and said, "It's time for bed. I think we've had enough startling revelations for one night."

  The kids, tired, nodded and stood, heading off unbidden to their respective bedrooms.

  His father stood as well, and offered his hand to Norton, who took it and shook. He could not remember ever shaking his father's hand before, and the action made him feel more like a grown-up than anything else in his life ever had.

  "We'll find her," he promised. "All of us. And then we'll decide what to do."

  Norton nodded. He was feeling tired himself, and he walked out of the family room and, waving good night, went down the hall to the entryway and started up the stairs to his bedroom. The unfamiliar expansiveness he'd experienced earlier was gone, and the House seemed cozy and comfortable, not frightening or forbidding at all but . . . homey.

  He wasn't quite brave enough to take a shower yet, but he did walk into the bathroom to wash his face. The water that came out of the sink faucet was red and thick, and no doubt he was supposed to believe it was blood, but it smelled like water, and it rolled off his hands, leaving no stain, and he bent down and splashed it onto his face, enjoying the cool refreshing wetness.

  He fell asleep happy.

  Mark Mark opened his eyes.

  And was sitting on the porch.

  It was night. To the north, a domed semicircle of orange--the lights of Dry River--shone like a beacon in the desert darkness. There were other lights, individual lights, spread across the plain to the south, east, and west: the ranches of their neighbors. Above, the sky was moonless, but he could make out familiar constellations in the star-crowded sky.

  On the bench swing opposite his chair, his parents sat, heads together, rocking slowly back and forth. On the top porch step, to his right, sat Kristen.

  The family was all together.

  Unresolved issues.

  He squinted through the darkness at his sister, but though the only illumination came from the pale square of sitting-room light shining from a window some ten feet down the porch, he could still see Kristen clearly, and he understood that this was her as a child, this was the Kristen he had known, not the Kristen he had only recently met.

  She said something, obviously a reply to a question someone else had asked, and he realized that they were in the middle of a conversation, one of those slow languorous summer-night conversations where thoughts were mulled over before spoken and long lapses between question and answer were the rule rather than the exception. They'd had these conversations often when he was little, and it was when he had felt closest to his parents. This was the time after the day's chores and rituals had been completed, when there was nothing that had to be done and the requirements of the day were finished until tomorrow, and it was the only time when his parents seemed truly relaxed, not overworked or overburdened or under stress.

  It was the only time that they weren't working for the House, the only time they'd been allowed to be themselves.

  He hadn't known that then, but perhaps he'd sensed it. These porch sessions had been almost sacrosanct to him, set off in his mind from the daylight life of his family, from their life inside the House, and it was why he was now so reluctant to bring up Billings and the girl and everything else. He knew he had to talk to his parents about it, but he did not want to shatter the mood, and he decided to wait until he could naturally broach the subject within the context of the conversation.

  The night air was cool, the day's heat dissipated, and above the ever-present odor of the chickens, he could smell mesquite and a whole host of night-blooming desert flowers.

  He listened to his mom, listened to his dad, listened to Kristen, and it was so nice to be here with them again, alone with them. His parents told stories of the past, laid out plans for the future, and they were still talking when he drifted off to sleep.

  When he awoke, it was morning.

  He'd been left where he'd fallen asleep, in the chair, but someone had given him a blanket and he was wrapped up in it, curled like a shrimp. The sun was high in the sky, and he heard the sound of his father's truck clattering up the drive, so it was obviously past breakfast time, and he wondered why he hadn't been awakened and forced to eat his meal in the proper manner at the proper hour.

  They'd never gotten around to discussing the girl.

  They hadn't discussed Billings or the House, either. He roused himself, pushed off the blanket, stretched out, and stood up. His muscles were sore, and there was a hard crick in his neck. Yawning tiredly, he walked over to the front door and walked inside. He expected to smell breakfast, or at least the remnants of breakfast, but even as he walked through the dining room into the kitchen, there were no odors of food. The dishes in the sink were all from last night.

  "Mom!" he called. "Kristen!"

  "Mom went to town for groceries."

  His sister was standing in the doorway, staring at him, and he had a quick flash ofdeja vu. He'd been here before, standing in this exact same spot, with Kristen standing in the exact same spot and saying exactly the same thing. He wondered if this whole experience at the House had been cobbled from preexisting events, edited together like a videotape or a CD-ROM game.

  No. Kristen walked into the kitchen, took a sack of bread out of the refrigerator, and popped two slices into the toaster. He knew nothing like that had ever happened at their House; snacks had never been allowed and meals had always been eaten together.

  This was really happening.

  "Dad's outside," Kristen said. "I think he's unloading the feed. He probably wants you to help him."

  Mark nodded dumbly, then walked outside, pushing open the kitchen door and stepping onto the side porch.

  He thought of grabbing a bite to eat, but he really wasn't hungry. He'd eaten breakfast with Daniel and Laurie and Norton and Stormy, then found himself on the porch at night after the Houses split, and slept for a while, so even though it was morning here, it felt like lunchtime to his body. And he usually skipped lunch.

  He stepped off the porch, walked across the dirt and around back. The already hot air was heavy with the muted sound of thousands of chickens, clucking and movingrustlingly in their cages. The four chicken coops, long low buildings of tin roofs and unpainted slat walls, stretched away from the House on a slight grade.

  His father's pickup was parked next to the second coop, on this side of the metal silo, and Mark walked over, the gradual slope causing him to unintentionally increase the speed of his step.

  He saw the retarded girl in the doorway of the chicken coop behind his father.

  The old man was unloading pallets of feed, lifting them off the pickup and piling them on the ground next to the sagging slatted building. She would hide whenever he faced in her direction, retreating into the coop, but the second he turned his back on her, she would jump into the doorway and pull up her shift, exposing herself and thrusting her thin dirty hips out suggestively.

  It was the first time Mark had seen her since he'd come back, and he felt the same rush of cold fear he'd experienced before. This was outside, in the sunlight and open air, with his father hard at work between them, but he felt the same way he had years ago, alone in the dark hallway.

  Scared.

  His father put down a pallet, reached into his back pock
et, and grabbed a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He noticed Mark standing there and motioned him over. "I was wondering when you were going to wake up. Why don't you give me a hand here.

  My back's killing me."

  Mark nodded, moved forward. His attention was still on the girl in the doorway.

  Your father does it.

  He looked away from her, and tried to concentrate on the task at hand, he and his father each taking one end of the remaining pallets and stacking them on the ground, but he kept seeing her out of the corner of his eye, kept seeing her dirty shift flip up, and he wondered if the old man saw it too and was just pretending not to.

  He makes it hurt.

  Finally, they finished. His father wiped the sweat from his forehead once again. "I'm going into town to pick up another load and get your mother. Don't wander too far. I'm going to need your help when I get back."

  Mark nodded as his father opened the driver's door of the pickup and climbed in. The engine rattled to life, and Mark stood there as the truck bounced up the slight slope to the drive.

  He turned back toward the chicken coop.

  The girl was still in the doorway, but now she was unmoving, staring at him. "Mark," she said, and he remembered that voice, remembered the way she'd said his name, and a chill surfed down his spine.

  She moved slowly forward, away from the coop, toward him, and he took an involuntary step backward.

  She stopped. And then she was on the dirt, on her hands and knees, shift flipped up, and just as before, she looked slyly over her shoulder. "I still like it best up the ass."

  He had no desire to copulate with her in any shape, form, or manner, but he was seriously tempted to kick her as hard as he could. The thought of his boot connecting with her midsection, knocking her over, knocking that smile off her face, hurting her, making her pay for what she'd done, tempted him sorely, but he knew it would not really accomplish anything. She would not really be hurt--whatever she was--and he would only be snowing his hand, revealing his true emotions.

  And that, he figured, was probably the most dangerous thing he could do.

  So he remained in place, staring impassively at the girl, and she laughed obscenely, a dirty nasty sound that was at once seductive and derisive, dismissal and promise.

  She thrust her buttocks out at him, and he turned away, began walking back toward the House, and the wild sound of her obscene laughter followed him all the way.

  He was waiting for his parents in the kitchen when they returned.

  Both his mother and father walked in, each of them carrying a sack of groceries.

  He took a deep breath. "Mom. Dad. We need to talk."

  His parents looked at each other, then looked at him.

  It was his father who spoke. "What about, son?"

  "About the House."

  "I still have those pallets to unload. I thought you could help me--"

  "About the girl."

  Again, his parents looked at each other.

  "Sit down," Mark said, motioning toward the seats he'd pulled out for them at the kitchen table.

  They talked.

  He did not press his father on the girl, but he described what had happened to him in the hallway, and made it clear that that was why he'd wanted to get out of the House, to run away. And that was exactly what she wanted, he explained. She wanted to weaken the House, wanted to break apart their family, wanted to get them out.

  "But I'm not going to let her," he said. "I love you. I love you both."

  "I love you, too," his mother said.

  His father nodded, put a hand on his arm.

  Mark started crying, and tears obscured his vision, and he closed his eyes and rubbed them, and when he opened them again he was alone in the kitchen. The windows had remained, but there was no porch outside, no chicken coops, only a white blanket of fog, and he understood that he had returned.

  He felt warmth on the back of his neck, and he jumped up and turned around, but it was Kristen, standing there, smiling at him.

  "You did good," Kristen said. "You did fine."

  He smiled wryly. "Is everything resolved?"

  "Do you still resent them?"

  "No."

  "Then I guess so." She hugged him, and he felt warm sunlight, but he thought he could hear, from somewhere in the whiteness outside, an echo of that wild, obscene laugh, and he was not sure that it was entirely in his head.

  Kristen pulled back, looked at him.

  "Only one more thing," she said.

  He faced her. "What's that?"

  "You have to find the bitch," she said. "And kill her."

  Daniel Daniel followedDoneen out of the house into the rain.

  There were no barriers keeping him from leaving the building, and once outside he could feel the chill, feel the wind, feel the water against his skin. The air even smelted like his street during a rainstorm, and it was these tactile sensations more than anything else that killed any idea he might have had that this was not really his house, that none of this was really happening.

  "Where are we going?" he asked.

  "To see someone."

  "Who?"

  "I told you: you're going to have to trust me."

  "And you'll leave Tony and Margot alone?"

  "That's the deal."

  He followed the girl through the small yard, through the gate, to the sidewalk. There was a gang of young toughs leaning against the wall, huddling together in the rain, too cool to use umbrellas but not too cool to wear heavy jackets. They seemed to be waiting for someone.

  Daniel thought of Margot and Tony inside the house and wanted to tell these hoods to hit the road, find someplace else to hang out, but he knew they would not be able to hear him.

  ThenDoneen skipped ahead, turned left on the sidewalk, stepped up to the gang of youths, and to Daniel's surprise, started talking to them. They gathered around her in a semicircle, leaning down to listen.

  They could hear her!

  The tallest one straightened, turned toward him, and Daniel's heart skipped a beat as he saw wild purple eyes beneath unnatural, impossibly thick hair. The creature smiled, and his overlarge mouth was filled with tiny sharpened teeth.

  She'd tricked him, he realized. She'd set him up.

  He turned and tried to run back toward the house, but was stopped halfway down the walk by another invisible barrier that split open his nose and lip and knocked him flat on the ground.

  "Kill him!"Doneen yelled from the sidewalk. "Kill him!"

  He was too stunned to even lurch back to his feet before the gang surrounded him. They were from the Other Side, he knew. He saw strange hair and strange faces and unbelievable colors in their eyes. He lashed out, tried to kick the closest one, but the creature avoided him easily, and then they were attacking him.

  He was kicked and punched and clawed, but he was too busy trying to protect his face and stomach to clearly see what was going on.

  Then he was picked up, several strong arms lifting him into the air, and they started biting him.

  He screamed as fangs tore into his forearm, as razor teeth ripped the flesh of his cheeks. The pain was unbearable, unbelievable, and an artery in his leg started gushing as sharp teeth chewed through his thigh.

  Doneengrinned at him as he was eaten alive. He saw her through the pain, through the faces, through the blood, and if he had one last wish that could be granted, it would be to see her killed.

  But he was granted no last wish.

  He felt his body die, felt the life within him stop as his heart ceased pumping and his brain functions ended, but beyond the shock and pain there was a lightening, a lessening of weight as his spirit pulled free of its heavy fleshy host and emerged unburdened into the open air.

  It was not a transformation, this transition from life to death; there were no disruptions in his thoughts, no change in his self. It was more like kicking off a pair of shoes and going barefoot. Or stripping off clothes and walking naked. Th
e difference was all external, the loss one of accoutrements, not essence.

  He saw his body beneath him, saw the jacketed creatures eating his remains, sawDoneen staring at him with victorious glee. She could still see him, and she waved mockingly as he felt a tug on his form, a power drawing him like a magnet. He thought of Margot and was immediately in her bedroom, in her bed, next to her. There was no longer a barrier between them, and for a brief fraction of a second, he smelled her skin, touched her face, felt the smoothness of her breasts.

  And then he was yanked back, pulled into and through the House into a House on the Other Side.

  It happened in an instant. There was no flight through space, no view of the Eastern Seaboard beneath him, no surrounding blackness through which he passed, simply a sensation ofvacuumlike suction and what looked like a split-section transformation of their bedroom into the House, before he was flat on the floor on the Other Side.

  He jumped up. The House in which he found himself was identical to the one he'd entered via the den door, the one in which he'd seen his mother. There were no walls or rooms, only that big open space in that color he did not recognize. Above him were the wispy spirits he had seen before, but though they now looked like individual beings to him rather than clouds, apparently he was not yet one of them. He could neither fly nor float, and he had to run across the floor to the corner, where his mother, still bald, was once again sitting on an egg in a nest.

  She smiled at him as he approached.

  "I'm dead!" he cried.

  She nodded.

  He fell into the nest, hugged her, and she felt solid to him, real, and there was something comforting in that.

  "Margot's a widow! Tony has no father!"

  "Time passes quickly here," his mother said. "They'll be with you soon enough."

  The sticks of the nest were hard and uncomfortable against his side, but his mother's arms were soft and warm, her smile welcoming. There were a million questions swirling in his mind. He wanted to know where his father was, where the centuries' worth of other dead people were, whether there was a God or a heaven or a hell, whether he was going to be reincarnated or live here or move on to someplace else, but overpowering everything was the desire for revenge, the burning need to get back atDoneen and punish her, make her pay for what she'd done. He might be dead, but he had not lost his capacity for human emotions. He had not been filled with peace and love and a warm sense of contentment.