October 4, 2018
Just left the Rh?ne valley at Sierre to head south. No rain all the way through the foothills, but cats and dogs as we got higher into the Val d’Anniviers. Slept most of the way on the German autobahn—oxys and chronic pain are wearing me out—while you were driving. Relieved you could keep it up for so long, because my stamina has hit an all-time low.
Too worked up to sleep now, though. Low-hanging clouds block the view of the higher slopes. The waterfalls of the Navisence at the bottom of the valley are hidden under a second layer of clouds, which means we’re passing through a gray, hovering no-man’s-land. I didn’t fail to notice that you turned down the music. That you lick your lips every time we round a new turn. You don’t like it one bit, do you? Minor consolation: this time, you’re not alone. I’ve driven here so many times before. And always with the same familiar feeling of a homecoming. So different now!
At the end of this road lies the Maudit. If what I think is true, I’d be crazy not to question what’s driving me to come back here. Because it may turn out to be very dangerous. But still, the events of the past few weeks have made it sufficiently clear that the answers to our questions cannot be found in the Netherlands but are buried at the foot of that mountain, in Grimentz. At the mouth of the valley where it all happened.
Sure, I have my doubts. How many times have I asked myself whether all of this isn’t just a figment of my imagination? I know you have been thinking the same. Maybe you still are. But even if I’m fooling myself, it’s still not such a bad idea to go to Switzerland to confront the trauma and continue my recovery process. Who can tell? There’s a reason they have so many spa retreats here. The fresh mountain air will boost both our spirits. Even the scar revision I can probably get done here, if we decide to stay longer. Medical care in CH is top-notch.
The GPS says it’s twenty more minutes to Grimentz. The road winds past ravines towered over by steep cliffs. I admire your determination and your patience, seeing as, to you, this habitat is so hostile. Your ability to take the sting out of difficult situations with edgy humor. I don’t know how I could have survived the last two weeks without you. You not only watched over my mental health but you also gave me the strength to fight back. And after all I made you suffer through!
Ramses is in the back in his travel carrier, half-closed eyes focused on me, with a look on his face that says we can all go to hell. Bundle of laughs. He’ll never forgive us for this trip. I realize I have a responsibility. In this all-encompassing chaos, cherishing a drowsy, angry cat and my love for you may be quick, ephemeral flames, but to me, they are all that matter.
And that, I realize as I’m writing this, is why I am so scared. Because I know we should get the hell out of here. The mountain is waiting for me, up there, in the mist. I can feel it all over.
It’s drawing me like a magnet.
It’s calling me home.
The Haunting of Hill House
Notes by Sam Avery
All I could think of when I got a look at the place from the outside was what fun it would be to stand out there and watch it burn down.
—Shirley Jackson
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That. What Shirley says. Times a million.
The rain clattered down so hard on me it was personal. Poured on my hunched head and shoulders, streamed down the hood, elbows, and bottom of Nick’s spare Gore-Tex coat—fashion fail deluxe, pratfall supreme, I call character assassination. Jeans pasted to my thighs, Ralph Laurens sloshing in muddy rivers of rainwater that flowed over my feet to the side of the driveway. Visibility nada. Me standing there, lips sputtering water, blinking like a drag queen on speed to drive it out of my eyes. Staring at the chalet, whispering, “Ho. Ly. Mo. Ly.”
The chalet was attractive like something dropped from the Enola Gay could be attractive. It lay there at the bottom of the valley by the brook, which for the occasion had morphed into a swirling, seething tempest, swollen and roaring like a ravenous brown monster. The Moiry dam, its source, according to Nick, out of view behind a claustrophobic clusterfuck of insanely steep slopes that enclosed the cabin. It lay there in a glade in the pine forest, against a solitary rocky outcrop that jutted out of the landscape like a festering boil. A festering boil topped with a cross and a lady chapel.
Picturesque, they said on Airbnb. I’d say Dam Collapse Catastrophe Ground Zero.
All you ever woulda wanted in a home was here: classic Swiss-eaved saddle roof, larch wood walls on a stone base, snow shutters carpentered by Heidi’s grandfather himself—
Oh yeah . . . and a hellish flashback-wormhole to everything you ran away from as a child.
Someone’s idea of a sick joke. Huckleberry Wall, take two.
My iPhone vibrated. Text from Julia.
How’s mountain boy doing?
And me, huddled in that yellow outdoor garbage bag, thinking of what they said on Airbnb: cozy living room with panoramic southern view, fireplace, and polished paneling. Thinking of what they said on Airbnb: three bedrooms, king-size double, and a color-therapy Jacuzzi. What they didn’t mention was the possessed subtenant in the basement with crows inside his mutilated head. The German spirit boy who called you out of bed at three in the morning to tell you how freezing the crevasse was where he’d been stuck. Notwithstanding the absence of a sauna, five-star ratings guaranteed.
The ride over here had been a nightmare, but this was the ninth circle of hell.
For a second, I thought about just standing here and surrendering to the elements, letting the river and the storm swallow me up. Then I turned around and walked slowly back to the Focus. I opened the door, slumped behind the wheel, dripping, and shut the door. The windows fogged up in nothing flat.
Nick looked at me.
Seconds ticked away.
I said, “Not a word.”
Asked him to fish the keys out of the glove compartment. The thick leather instruction folder we got from the owners, a couple down in Sion. Without their map, we’d still be looking for the access road. A mile of bumpy dirt road with rim-deep puddles just beyond the village. Downhill this time, but the resemblance to the Panther Mile was uncanny. There was supposed to be a campsite somewhere along it, but we didn’t see it. Here at the end of the world there was nothing. Less than.
I held the key, felt it weighing down on my soul, and sighed, “Welcome to Hill House.”
Nick typed on his iPad. Stephen Hawking comes on: “It’s not that bad. It’s got a certain curb appeal.”
“Dude, the House of Usher had more curb appeal. When we’re outta here you owe me a penthouse.”
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