The House at the End of the World

by Madeleine Marsh

  He has to make a decision, but his options aren’t exactly in double figures: answer it, don’t answer it, hope whoever it is will go away. The last option seems stupid because it’s hardly going to be a door-to-door salesman asking if they’re likely to change their windows in the next twelve months.

  The handle on the front door dips and slowly the door opens. Rick steps forward, poker raised, and Joe holds up a hand purely on instinct, the same way Matt and Luke do when they’re all armed and primed and waiting for the perfect moment to start shooting.

  ‘Relax,’ he murmurs quietly. ‘It could be anyone. Could be the boys.’

  He sees Emilie move out of the corner of his eye and he's about to tell her to keep back when the door swings inwards.

  He isn't sure what to make of the man – he supposes it's a man – standing on the top step. Curly dark hair, a round face, high cheekbones, curved nose. His brown eyes are huge, like he's stoned. So far so normal. But he must be getting on for seven feet tall. He’s wearing a long, ruler-straight blue coat buttoned up from chin to ankles, black boots just visible underneath. His arms are rigid at his sides, fingers looking as if they’re locked together like a doll’s.

  ‘Hi.’ Joe thinks he would be able to see the line of any weapon secreted under that coat, it's so tight on the pencil-thin body. So he takes a step forward and holds out his hand. ‘I'm Joe.’

  There's a pause, everything holding steady, no one making a move. It’s a moment that’s been all too familiar recently, when a situation can go either way. Then the stranger is inside the house, standing in front of the mysteriously closed door. He’s upright as a pillar, unblinking eyes falling on each of them for a time before settling on Joe. He doesn’t accept the handshake but then Joe can’t be sure his arms even move. He does, however, speak.

  ‘I am here to check on you.

  To ensure you have all

  Items you need.’

  It's an odd voice; flat, toneless, devoid of any emotion. But what’s more disturbing is that the words seem to come from his throat without his lips moving. It's kind of macabre, but no worse than the other stuff they’ve witnessed and this does come just as Joe's starting to think that nothing will ever surprise him again so it's almost welcome, because a life without surprises would be very dull. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I am here to check on you.

  To ensure you have all

  Items you need.’

  No one else has moved and Rick’s still holding that poker as if at any moment he’s going to do something violent with the spiky end.

  ‘Who are you?’

  The stranger's arm does move, left elbow bending to a right angle like an old toy soldier, his hand rotating twice at his wrist in a way that definitely isn't human before he points one long bony finger down towards the floor. Joe thinks can he can hear sounds behind the movement, like grinding metal.

  ‘I am the landlord

  Responsible for this house for

  Your comfort here.’

  Joe glances at Gabe who shrugs, obviously with no more idea of what he means than Joe does.

  ‘Landlord?’

  ‘Landlord of this house.

  Responsible for providing the

  Things you need.’

  He's about to say ‘we need answers’ but Emilie beats him to it. She steps forward, pushes down on the end of the poker in Rick's hand until he lowers it, and demands to know, ‘Where are we?’ in a voice that’s a little too high, a little fearful, but still rock steady.

  The stranger turns his head without moving his neck and his face cracks open into the most ghastly smile Joe's ever seen, thin lips literally curling back like the tops of sardine tins to reveal two straight lines of skeletal teeth that don't move when he talks.

  ‘You are in the house.

  This is a well deserved chance

  For you to get rest.’

  Joe can't argue with that but then it's strangely hard to argue with anything spoken in Haiku by a guy who looks as if he's been put together by, at best, an apprentice. It's clear he's not telling them everything, he's not really telling them anything, but it might be that he can't say what he doesn't know. Or that he can only say what he's been told, instructed or programmed to.

  ‘And what did we do to deserve this rest?’

  ‘You saved the world.

  Were triumphant in the fight

  Between good and evil.’

  Okay, that's great news. ‘I don't suppose you could leave off the poetry?’

  ‘This is what I am.

  I can't be anything but

  The thing that I am.’

  Joe has a million questions, he’s sure they all do, but it's difficult to hold a conversation with a stick man talking in riddles and he has a suspicion that this is as specific as the guy’s going to get. He doesn’t think there’s much point in whacking him with a poker and trying to get the information out of him by force. In fact, something tells him that it would be a very bad idea.

  ‘You are not prisoners.

  This place is safe to explore

  Where they want.’

  ‘Who wants?’

  ‘The designers of the house.

  Everything comes from them is

  Built from them.’

  Joe doesn't understand a word of that one. ‘Designers?’ he parrots, and the landlord nods, his head tipping so far forward Joe’s scared for a moment that it'll fall off. He’s reminded of those nodding dog toys he’s seen in the backs of cars and the thought of the bolt in the neck that holds the dog’s head in place makes him feel a little nauseous. Then, without warning, the front door is open again and their visitor is standing on the top step without apparently having moved. He’s disconcerting but he’s hardly threatening. How quickly everything becomes relative.

  ‘Wait.’ Gabe raises his hand like a school kid in class. ‘Are we supposed to look after Nancy?’

  The landlord’s eyebrows lift as if they’re being pulled up by strings, big eyes grow impossibly larger and Joe realises he doesn't have a clue who Gabe’s talking about.

  ‘Nancy,’ Joe points to the closed door. ‘The old lady in the rocking chair?’

  There’s a definite hesitation before the response.

  ‘I will check.

  Let me get back to you...

  On that.’

  Then the stranger’s gone. Vanished. Nowhere to be seen. They go outside but they’re alone. They can see for miles in all directions, there's nothing but the house and the yard they're standing in.

  ‘What the Hell is going on here?’ Joe mutters under his breath and just to himself. He doesn't have a clue so it's doubtful the others do either. That their self-proclaimed landlord didn't know about Nancy is an important detail, because if he didn’t bring her here it means that he isn't in control. So the important question has to be, who is? He seemed to be suggesting that they were but Joe certainly doesn’t feel like he’s running the show.

  They really need Matt and Luke. The two of them have been fighting longer than Joe, Gabe, Emilie and Rick put together, they might know how and where to find answers. But if they are up in the turret room, they’ll come down in their own time. For now the questions will have to wait. There is at least something they can do.

  He moves to Gabe's side.

  ‘I think we should stick to what we agreed last night,’ he suggests. ‘I think we should explore.’

  ~..~

  Book Two ~ Matt and Luke

  thirty-one years ago

  This is the night Luke won't remember. He's six months old, riding in his baby seat in the back of the car. It's Christmas Eve. There's snow in the trees and ice on the ground. Catherine is telling Carl that he's driving too fast, telling him to slow down. He's arguing with her. He isn't driving too fast but they're late for dinner with her parents who've never liked him and being late tonight won’t make a great impression.

  Bright lights cut in through the windshield. The car swerves. Catherine
screams. The sound of twisting, tearing metal is followed by a silence that’s broken only by Luke’s cries until calloused but gentle hands reach in to pull him out of the wreckage.

  ~..~

  nineteen years ago

  This is the night Luke won't ever forget. A beautiful summer’s evening, the light just starting to fade, the air holding on to the balmy heat of the day. A car moves along Route 395; two adults in the front, two kids in the back. Dad’s driving. Mom’s twisting around in the passenger seat to ask her young sons,

  ‘Did you enjoy the play?’

  Luke doesn't like the theatre, it's boring, but it's better than the opera or the ballet which are stupid and boring.

  ‘I didn't understand it,’ little Matt declares before Luke can answer.

  Luke didn’t understand it either. There were loads of people in the cast but apparently three of them were invisible, although he could see them just fine, and at the end one of them said that the man in the long coat was made of clockwork. That was a crock of shit. He didn't look clockwork and he bowed like everyone else.

  ‘The clockwork man was lame,’ Luke complains, tone flat.

  ‘Didn’t you think he had a very poetic way of speaking?’

  ‘No! It was annoying.’

  Mom smiles and promises, ‘I'll read you the story one night.’ She turns around again, and to two boys that sounds more like a threat. Luke glances at Matt and rolls his eyes up into his head, which makes Matt laugh like it always does.

  Ages later they're still not home. Mom's humming softly to the music on the radio, some classical stuff that makes Luke think of Sunday mornings. Matt's been shifting in his seat for a few minutes, and Luke knows what's coming when he starts to whine.

  ‘Mom...’

  ‘Mom, Matt has to pee.’ He talks in a sing-song over his little brother, pulling a face when Matt sticks his tongue out at him.

  Dad looks at them in the rear-view. ‘Can you hold on, Matthew?’

  Matt shakes his head firmly.

  ‘Are you sure, honey?’

  Matt's sure, so Dad pulls over. There’re on a sheltered section of the road, quiet at this time.

  ‘Go on, but don't be long.’

  Luke opens his door at the same time Matt gets out. ‘I'm going too.’ Their parents don't try to stop him. Mom sighs like she always does when one of them follows the other somewhere but it's useless trying to stop them.

  There's a steep bank at the verge, Matt scrambles up it and Luke follows. On the other side there’s a gentle slope down to scrubland and in the distance a collection of low buildings. Matt turns his back on Luke and a couple of seconds later he hears the splash of urine on the dusty ground. He groans. This is gross. But he was the one who wanted to come too and if he says anything Matt will tell him so in that smug voice he puts on whenever he wins one over on his brother. So he says nothing, looks pointedly in the opposite direction, at the farm or ranch or whatever it is way over on the other side of the field, and waits for Matt to stop peeing.

  He hears his mother scream. He wants to run back up the slope but for a second he's frozen to the spot, feet like boulders, refusing to move. There's the ear-piercing sound of tearing metal and terror sets heavily into his stomach making him want to retch. Suddenly Matt's running by him, almost pushing him over. Luke grabs one leg of his jeans to stop him and he falls, face first, into the dirt. Luke throws himself down next to him, one arm across his back to hold him in place.

  ‘Lu—’

  ‘Shut up!’ he whispers as loud as he dares. ‘Stay here.’ He stresses it in a way he hopes will make Matt stay put and crawls on his front up the bank until he can see their car. Matt does as he's told for once, staying where he is, watching Luke with wide, scared eyes.

  ‘What can you see?’ he whispers, but Luke can't tell him because what he’s seeing must be a dream. There's a wolf, huge with grey hair, tapered teeth and sharp claws. It's standing on its hind legs in the car, in the space opened up by the ragged tear in the roof where the metal’s folded back on itself like paper. Mom isn't screaming anymore because her head is in its claws, held up like a trophy, her body still in the passenger seat. He can't see Dad. There's blood on the windshield, too much to see through.

  Luke holds his breath, stares at the wolf. And slowly it turns its head and bright yellow eyes look back at him, mouth open, dripping with red.

  Luke scrambles to his feet, pulls Matt up and hisses, ‘Run!’

  Matt doesn't question that and they run as fast as they can across the scrub, Matt clinging to Luke’s hand, dry roots grabbing at their jeans, clumsy feet tripping over rocks. Luke looks behind him just the once but the only thing following them is an unearthly howl. They make it to the sprawl of buildings in minutes and crawl through a space in the old wooden fence. Luke leads the way as they pass silent stables and open outhouses until they reach the front of the main house. With a swift kick to the locked door, the way he's seen people do on television, he gets them inside. The air's still but it isn't stale. It's quiet. There's no one here but it doesn’t feel abandoned.

  They stand together inside the dark hall, the light fading quickly, panting for breath, neither of them saying anything.

  In the end it's Matt who breaks the silence. He doesn't cry like Luke expects him to, he just says, ‘They're dead, aren't they?’ and Luke nods. ‘What did you see?’

  Luke replies, ‘A werewolf.’

  ~..~

  here and now

  Lazy rays of dusty light reach through the ratty curtains, falling across the polished floorboards of the turret room. The decoration is perfectly in keeping with the rest of the house; dark wood and red wallpaper with gold detail. In the centre of the room there's a large, hand-sewn rug, threads of colour matching the walls, faded and dusty, coming unravelled around the edges but still grand, and standing on the rug is a four poster bed of solid oak. Carved into the footboard there’s a scene depicting angels and demons locked in battle, while God and the Devil watch over the fight from the headboard. Serpents twist around the thick bedposts, mouths open, hungry for the birds in flight on the inside of the bed's high canopy.

  The sheets are silk, the quilt is hand-stitched, a tapestry telling a violent story. There are wolves with red eyes standing on their hind legs, their long claws extended towards hordes of fleeing people, the threat sending them hurtling into other kinds of danger; the awkward, crooked forms of the un-dead and the tall, thin figures of blood sucking vampires. In the centre of the horror, there are six humans armed to the teeth, fighting and helping those trying to run away.

  Matt and Luke are asleep in the centre of it all, tucked under the messy sheets and the woven representation of their story.

  Luke is dreaming.

  In his hand he's holding a silver knife with a sharp, wicked blade pressed up against the vulnerable skin of Matt’s throat. The curved edge hugs the line of his jaw with deadly intention. Matt is looking right at him with love shining in his eyes, standing close enough that they’re breathing the same air. Luke can feel something sharp at his own throat and doesn’t need to look to see the second knife in Matt’s hand. He’s calm. He trusts his brother unconditionally. They wouldn’t hurt one another. He knows this and believes it even as he feels a sharp tug at the skin just below his jaw, sees a blood drop slide over the silver blade to collect in the curve between his index finger and thumb—

  Luke’s eyes snap open. Matt’s still asleep, a foot away from him, lying on his side with his arms folded across his chest, breathing out into Luke’s face. He turns onto his back to get away from it but twists his neck to keep looking. There’s no sound except for Matt’s soft snores and that’s unusual because there’s always something: old movies, raised voices, breaking glass, gun shots.... Maybe the world ended and everyone died. Maybe they’re in Heaven. He wouldn’t actually mind that much because Matt’s with him and that’s all he’s ever really cared about, all that’s ever mattered. He feels a thousand times better th
an he has done in a while and that has to be a good thing. They’ve been living on junk food, coffee and adrenaline for months. Uninterrupted sleep has been as rare as cold beer. He feels less like he's been trampled by something huge with claws, even if his mouth still tastes like the inside of a trash can. It’s daytime, judging by the light coming through the curtains, although he’s no idea what the actual time is. His body clock feels screwed up, like how he imagines jet lag to feel although he’s never been on a plane.

  Pushing up to his elbows, he looks around. This isn't their usual run-of-the-mill dingy motel on a dusty road between Craptown and Shitsville. This place looks and feels more like a five-star hotel, albeit one in desperate need of modernisation. It's nicer for sure than what they're used to even if the curtains look like they've seen better days, days before they were food for moths and whatever else has been chewing holes in the thin fabric. He and Matt have lived out of motels for half their lives. They can sleep through domestic rows, heavy sex, heavy metal, even gangland shootings. But they'll wake instantly at anything that signals their kind of trouble: screams, wanton destruction, unusual silence. Trouble they need to shoot at or, in very rare cases, get well away from. There's silence now, but it feels safe. And don't those sound like the ramblings of a guy who's finally lost it?