How long have I been in this house?
“You don’t like it.” Silas is losing his patience. There’s a heft to his words that wasn’t there before, almost as if his voice has changed. He sounds different to me. I can barely make out his silhouette against the blinding pink. I can’t get off the couch. I’m rooted, unable to move a muscle. The cushions carry a vague mildew aroma, as if they had been left out in the rain.
“No, I like it. It just—hurts my eyes.”
His face prunes. “I think it lightens up the room, don’t you?”
“What color is it?”
“It’s…” Silas glances at the swatch. “Sarcophyllum.”
I feel like I’m fast-forwarding through my memories of moving in. I remember setting up the kitchen, our bedroom…That leaves the living room. Silas has been a good sport about letting me pick the color scheme. Our house has begun to feel more like home already.
This is what I always wanted, isn’t it? A home? A family?
A life?
The furniture is covered in plastic drop cloths to protect them from splatter. The floor is shielded, too. Whenever Silas takes a step, the faint crinkle of plastic fills the room.
“Are you gonna make me paint all by myself?”
“Looks like you’ve got it covered.”
Silas carefully pours the paint into the paint tray, glug-glug-glug, mixing in some white. I have this vague recollection of chilled soup. I remember my dad’s birthday party and I find myself fighting off another abrupt wave of nausea. I feel like I’m— Like I’m about to—
“You okay?” Silas asks. “You want some water?”
The seasickness passes. I breathe in deeply. “I’m okay. Just the paint fumes.”
Silas takes a brush and swipes it haphazardly across the far wall. I lose myself in the serpentine strokes. He’s not going up and down—his zigzagging forms a pattern. A symbol.
“What’s that?” I hear myself ask. I’ve seen it before, haven’t I? But where?
“What’s what?” Silas asks, turning to me.
“That.” I prop myself up on one elbow and point. I try to focus on the bleeding icon. I know it’s there, even if Silas is pretending like it isn’t. The brushstrokes waver against the wall. The paint is practically pulsing. I notice the pan on the floor is of a darker hue, no longer the vivid pink from before. Now it’s red.
The room suddenly feels crowded. From the corner of my eye, I see the plastic-draped recliner shift, turning to take me in. A woman’s face is pressed against the clear sheet. There are more eyes on us—on me—leering out from the shadows. The plastic drop cloths move on their own, as if the furniture underneath were closing in. It’s not furniture at all—I’m not alone.
I need to leave. The overwhelming urge to escape this house takes hold of me—Run! Get out! I try to pick myself up from the couch, but as soon as I sit, the room tilts.
“What do you want from me?”
Silas huffs. “To figure out what color you want for our living room.”
“I can see the—”
Nothing’s there. The paint is just paint. Vertical pink brushstrokes cover the wall.
“It was just there.” It was blood, wasn’t it?
“You’re looking a little green in the gills, hon. Why don’t you go upstairs and take a—”
Silas falls silent. He hears something—we both do.
Voices. I swear I hear children right outside the house.
“Do you hear that?” I ask. I don’t trust my own senses anymore.
But Silas is gone.
“…Silas?” I turn and take in the rest of the room. I’m alone. The light shifts—it’s no longer cast in that seething pink glow. The plastic tarps lose their translucence, like melted fat coagulating into thick tallow, as everything within the living room returns to shadow.
“It’s all boarded up,” I hear a boy whisper. “Can’t see inside.”
“Over here.”
They’re coming closer. I peel myself off the couch and slip to the floor. It takes more effort to move than it should, the dull ache in my bones weighing my body down. The plastic crinkles beneath my hands and knees as I crawl across the tarp toward the closest window.
“See anything?”
“Ssh! Keep it down. Think I heard someone…”
The fog dissipates in my head and suddenly I’m struck with a strong need to cry for help. I try, but my voice is too hoarse. It aches. I’m croaking, as if I haven’t spoken out loud in days— Has it been days? That makes no sense. I was just speaking to— Silas
—but he’s gone now, pulling another vanishing act on me, and I’m here wallowing on the floor, feeling the creak in my joints, as if my body has withered into a desiccated husk.
The boys keep whispering, eager for a peek, daring each other to step up to the window.
I’m right here, boys, I want to say. Come closer. Just a little bit closer. Don’t be afraid…
“Think we can get in?”
“I’m not going in there!”
“Bwok-bwok-bwok…”
Three nimble silhouettes hover by the bay window, obscured by plywood, save for the lower corner where there’s still a few inches of exposed tarp. Each boy takes a turn peering in.
If I can just make it to the window, I think, if I can just let them see me, they’ll get help. Save me from this house, I want to say. But the words are sand in my mouth. Save me, please— “What if someone’s in there?”
“Like what? A ghost? Woohooooooo.”
“Shut up.” Where did they come from? The nearest neighborhood is so far away. These boys must have biked for miles. They have no idea I’m right here, a ragdoll on the floor. I hold my breath as I crawl to the wall, reaching for the window frame. Help me, save me, help me— “I’ve seen people go inside…but they never come out.”
“Yeah, right…”
“I’m telling you, this house eats people.”
Word is spreading about our home. One boy hears about a haunted house: he tells his friends and they tell theirs, until the house gains a potency it didn’t have before, resonates with an energy that will continue to grow the more people whisper about it. These boys are just the first wave. More will come. Maybe that’s what this house wants. More guests. More ghosts.
“Hold up. I see something.”
“What?”
“Sssh! Something just moved.”
“Where? Where?”
“Let me see! Move over. Move.”
“Stop hogging the view! I wanna look…”
I see him. A fresh-faced child, all of ten years old. He and his friends have no idea I’m staring back. The tarp obscures their view, blurring everything beyond into greasy shadows.
“Holy shit! I see someone!”
“You’re lying…”
“I’m serious! Look over there. In the corner. It’s a woman, I think.”
“Where? Where is she? Let me see, let me see!”
“I don’t see any—”
I manage to lift myself up to the window, directly in front of their faces. “Help…”
The boy screams. His entire body repels itself from the window as if I had just blown him over with my breath. He slams into his friends, all three falling onto their backs.
“Run! RUN!” Each boy clambers onto his feet and races across the lawn. Their bikes are waiting in the cul-de-sac. I watch them grab their handlebars and launch themselves onto their seats in an adrenaline-fueled frenzy. They keep shouting as they pedal off, voices fading: Did you see that! Holy shit, what was that? Did you see her? What was that!
Then they’re gone. And I’m still stranded.
My back slides down the drywall until I’m on the floor, chest heaving. I didn’t realize I was laughing. This is laughter, isn’t it? I can’t stop cackling. It’s funny, right? They thought I was a ghost! A ghost! My lungs are dry, throat raw. My laughter has a rasp to it. A death rattle.
I’m never leaving this house, I think as I keep laughing. I’m going to die here, aren’t I?
Those kids will never come back. I wipe the tears with the back of my hand, looking up— My laughter catches in my lungs.