The Switch House: A Short Novel

by Tim Meyer

  THE SWITCH

  HOUSE

  Copyright © 2018 Tim Meyer

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Evil Epoch Press

  Edited by Jenny Adams

  Cover Art by James “Toe” Keen

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Also by Tim Meyer:

  Novels:

  DEMON BLOOD SERIES:

  Enlightenment

  Gateways

  Defiance

  The SUNFALL series (co-written with Chad Scanlon and Pete Draper):

  Sunfall: Season One

  Sunfall: Season Two

  Sunfall: Season Three

  In the House of Mirrors

  The Thin Veil

  Worlds Between My Teeth

  Less Than Human

  Sharkwater Beach

  KILL HILL CARNAGE

  eBooks:

  The Organ Harvest: An October John Novella

  PRAISE FOR THE SWITCH HOUSE:

  “Meyer stepped up his already high game. This is his best work yet. Unmissable.” – MATT HAYWARD, author of What Do Monsters Fear? and Brain Dead Blues

  “Brilliant twists... creepy occult... story stayed with me long after reading it. Tim at his finest!” – CHUCK BUDA, author of The First Cut and Pay Up and Die

  “Equal parts nightmare and thriller, Tim Meyer’s THE SWITCH HOUSE drags the reader into its darkened halls of insanity. Don’t miss it.” – Todd Keisling, author of The Final Reconciliation and Ugly Little Things

  “An odd, tragic, and mind-bending tale.” - Glenn Rolfe, author of Becoming and Land of Bones

  “A brutal Hitchcockian tale that scratches the itch of visceral thriller fans.” - Chad Lutzke, author of Of Foster Home and Flies and Stirring the Sheets

  “If there's one book you read this year, make it this one.” - CEDAR HOLLOW REVIEWS

  For Ashley,

  This one is yours. Sort of.

  THE SWITCH

  HOUSE

  TIM MEYER

  “Still she haunts me, phantomwise,

  Alice moving under skies

  Never seen by waking eyes.”

  --Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There

  The house stands in the middle of the dirt road, the nexus of Everywhere. Overhead, the skies roll in a spreading blanket of tumbling fog. The sun hides somewhere beyond, however, the gray lid makes it impossible for significant light to appear. A shadowy shield buries this place, this vast emptiness of nonexistence.

  The house stands on a property belonging to no one. The property consists of a front lawn, a backyard, a stockade fence stained the color of dead autumn leaves and a deluxe swing-set showing little wear. The windows remain intact, the marine-blue vinyl siding rests in perfect condition, the shutters expertly hung, darkly colored to accent the blue. The roof, no less than a year old, is free from mildew stains. Where the property ends lays a colorless wasteland, an endless lot of desolation filled with dirt and gravel, and if anyone was to dig beneath the empty plots, they might discover a skeleton or two.

  Or twelve.

  Or a thousand.

  Impossible to tell how many souls have wandered this endless place. Come to live, leave to die.

  The house is a tomb. Not her tomb. Not yet. But a tomb nonetheless.

  She walks up the stoop and approaches the front door, the blood-red barrier between the cool atmosphere grazing her exposed arms and legs and the fireplace-heated interior, which will warm her from the inside out. She slips the key into the lock and pushes the door open.

  Who gave me the key? she asks the dream's absent architect.

  Access resides within you, child, an omnipotent voice replies, supplying her veins with ice. No matter how warm and cozy the inside of the house may be, she thinks she'll never shake that frigid feeling from her bones. The brisk sensation clings to her, infiltrates her pores and nests in her marrow.

  She decides to keep her questions to herself from here on out, though, in this place, in this Everywhere, the rules are different and she doubts her mind will remain silent, even if that's her wish. And, of course, another presence lurks behind her, invisible and almighty. The phantom has followed her up the stoop, through the front door and into the living room.

  It breathes in her ear.

  She spins.

  Nothing there but the open doorway and the barren wasteland yonder. She stares at the entryway as the exterior landscape warps and twists, the image swirling like toilet water. After the desolate, ashen world of perpetual ruin melts away, the view fades, embodies a starry black expanse. She realizes she's looking the elements of space and time in the face and her mind feels like a cheap piece of glass ready to break, ready to crumble, ready to cut and draw blood.

  She blinks and discovers the door has shut itself, turning the black nothingness away, the prospect of eternal madness temporarily kept at bay.

  She faces the living room. The house appears differently than its real-life counterpart. In real life, lilac walls hold up the ceiling and a wrought-iron table stands by the stairs, displaying a fresh bouquet of either roses or violet pansies. In real life, the floors are always swept and polished, so much so that guests marvel over their crisp reflections. In real life, the plush leather couch faces an eighty-inch television screen, mint as the day it was manufactured. Here, now, in the middle of the Everywhere, the house's interior décor lies in havoc. The couch is ripped and torn, tossed before a television screen appearing to have been smashed by a mallet, a mess of wires hanging from its open face like a mouthful of electric spaghetti noodles. The vase near the stairs holds dead black flowers, wilted and filling the air with stomach-churning fragrances reminding her of rancid meat. The floors have been scratched and muddied with bootprints. The walls are no longer lilac; in fact, they hold no color. And they're moving. Not moving in one direction or the other, not gliding, but writhing.

  Crawling. Wriggling. Squirming.

  It takes her a moment to realize the walls are alive, pulsing with maggots.

  But it's not just the walls that are alive; the house itself is alive and she hears the drum of its heartbeat along with her own.

  She watches herself walk. Toward the kitchen. She hears footsteps ahead of her and stops. She's waiting for something to happen, waiting for the omnipotent driver of this dream to steer her in new directions. That, or she's waiting for the architect to grant her access to her own bodily functions so she can run, run like hell, run like the devil's chasing her.

  Because he is.

  He's over her shoulder, whispering thoughts. Sharing intrusive images. Marking her. Prepping her permanent residence in the belly of Everywhere-land.

  The devil.

  Well, not the actual devil. But something like him, something that schemes with nefarious intentions, that lures, beckons her deeper into hell with a long, taloned finger.

  Some unnamed thing.

  The shuffling grows louder. She stays frozen, her feet stuck to the urethane-coated floor, feeling like a fly in a spider web.

  And the spider is coming.

  A small thing appears in the doorway separating the living room and the kitchen, a shadow belonging to a small boy; a tiny boy; a little baby boy. Older now than when she last saw him. He's c
overed in mud, dripping with shadows and some clear viscous slop that reminds her of embryonic fluid. Through the shade and the sludge coating his flesh, she sees the whites of his eyes, the stark brightness of his baby teeth. She can't tell but she thinks he's smiling. Such a good boy. A nice boy. A happy boy.

  “Ma-me,” the boy says, but as he speaks she notices differences, specifically the throaty gargle deepening his voice. No, not a boy. A thing. A predatory thing hiding beneath the flesh of an innocent child, an unseen monstrosity that growls instead of articulating, a thing that gnashes its teeth when silent. “Ma-me,” the thing that is not a boy says once more.

  Shivers curl around her spine. She chokes on the foul air, polluted by the boy-thing's earthly odor. The thing steps forward.

  Closer.

  And closer.

  And...

  The thing stands before her, inches from her face. He's floating, lying on an invisible magic carpet. They're eye to eye now, locked in an epic battle of who-blinks-first. She stares into the monster's snow-white eyes as they grow darker and darker until she finds herself gazing into another starry black nothingness; one harboring hatred and rage; one craving violence and the sweet taste of death.

  She peers into the Everywhere, gets lost, and drifts away...

  “Ma-me,” it says with a growl and, this time, a painful bite.

  I.

  WELCOME HOME, ANGELA SHEPARD

  “Well, what do you think it means?”

  Her psychiatrist had been in the middle of scribbling something on her yellow legal pad, but now her pen hovered over the paper. She eyed Angela over her glasses, the way a schoolteacher awaits an explanation of missing homework. She wants more, Angela thought. But there was nothing more. She had told her everything, every single detail.

  “Quite a dream,” Abbie Wilson replied, resting her pad and pen down on her lap. “Did these dreams start after the tragedy?”

  The tragedy. Angela hated the way that sounded. She wished Abbie could reference what happened differently, but she couldn't come up with anything better herself, so...

  “Yes. But not like this. They stopped altogether when we were on Switch. Didn't have a single nightmare while shooting.”

  Abbie nodded, and then scooped up her pad and pen like she had suddenly remembered something important and pertinent. Hastily, she scribbled down her thoughts. “Let's talk about Switch.”

  “Okay.”

  “You've been back from Vermont for how long now? Two days?”

  Angela squinted, trying to recall. The return home had felt like an eternity ago, but yes, Abbie was correct. They'd left Vermont and crossed the New York/New Jersey border just under forty-eight hours ago. “Yes. But God, it feels like years ago.” She felt a manic laugh creep into her throat but swallowed the outburst before the noise seized the opportunity to launch past her teeth.

  Abbie offered a faint smile. “Yes, time seems to work differently on those who have a lot on their mind. How does it feel being back home?”

  Angela shuddered, a chill in the room diving beneath her flesh. “It feels... different. But the same. Like I never left, but simultaneously, like I was never there to begin with. I know that makes absolutely no sense, but—”

  “No, it does,” the woman assured her. She adjusted her glasses. “I'm sorry. Please continue.”

  “But I feel... jumbled. Out of place. Like the house is a puzzle and I'm the final piece that doesn't fit no matter how you spin me.”

  “That's an interesting metaphor.”

  Angela jerked her shoulders. “It's how I feel.”

  “Like a stranger in a familiar house?”

  “Yes, I guess that's another way of putting it.”

  “How's Terry taking the adjustment?”

  Angela paused. She wondered about Terry. Worried, she thought, was more like it. You worry about Terry. He had left work about the same time as the start of her session and would be home by now. “Eh, you know Terry. If something's wrong, you'll never hear about it.”

  “Has he gotten any better? I mean, when the two of you were on Switch, did he ever open up for the cameras? Speak his mind? Tell you how he felt? That was one of the goals you wanted to work on.”

  “He did. Sort of. The cameras on us twenty-four-seven definitely helped. I mean, he had to be open. We had to discuss things. That's what we signed up for. It was in our contract.”

  “Was he candid?”

  Angela thought back to a few weeks ago when the producer of Let's Switch Houses!, Barry Harrison, pulled her aside and told her the Shepards were becoming a bit of a snoozefest, that they needed to produce some good material, quality footage, and fast, implying television ratings would surely dip if something interesting didn't happen and soon. Barry begged her to quiz Terry on “the tragedy.” She doubted that conversation would go over well and, as it turned out, she had been right.

  “Not as candid as the producers would have liked.”

  Abbie nodded and recorded her response. “And how did it make you feel?”

  “Like we weren't... on the same team. God, I wish he'd just talk about it. I mean, it's been almost eight months.”

  “Must be frustrating.” Abbie swallowed. “Angela, might I suggest we try to bring Terry in. For a couple's session.”

  Angela shook her head. “No, I told you. I don't want my husband to know I'm here.”

  “I can pretend it's the first time we've ever met. He won't even suspect—”

  “No, Dr. Wilson. Absolutely not. He doesn't... he doesn't believe in this stuff. He thinks he's tougher than that. That he can deal with these emotions, these feelings, on his own. He doesn't want help.” An intense burn seared her eyeballs. “I mean, he won't even talk to me for Christ's sakes.”

  “What do you think about it? Do you think he would benefit from therapy?”

  Angela twisted her neck and focused on the walls, the hanging abstract art. “I don't know. Honestly, I don't know anything anymore.”

  “You didn't want to come home, did you, Angela?”

  Tears set fire behind her eyes, and she pinched her eyelids shut to keep her face dry. “No, not really. I hate that house. I hate everything about it.”

  “Has the realtor helped any?”

  She shook her head. “No. She says, because of... of what happened, we'd have to basically give away the house.”

  “That's a tough thing to hear,” Abbie said, handing her a tissue. Angela sensed sincerity in her voice.

  “Thank you.” She blotted away the last of her tears. “We simply can't afford it. We can't afford to take a loss.”

  “I understand.”

  “I feel stuck.”

  Abbie tapped her pen on the pad. “None of this is your fault.”

  “Of course it is. If I—”

  Abbie raised her hand. “Don't. Don't push the blame on yourself. We've talked about this, Angela, there's no need for self-accusations. What happened eight months ago was no one's fault. This is something you need to work on. Understand? Pushing blame on yourself isn't healthy, and furthermore, it's a lie. You did nothing wrong. The authorities cleared you of any potential charges and no one in the D.A.'s office batted an eye.”

  Angela nodded. Blame weighed heavily on her conscience, dragging her down like an anchor. She felt the pressure of the event (the tragedy) in her frontal lobe daily, an intense bass drum-like beat no over-the-counter prescription could erase.

  Abbie sighed. “We have one more thing to talk about before our hour is up.”

  “Oh? I can't wait.”

  “Sex.”

  Oh. That. “Well, that's an easy one, Doc.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yep. There isn't any. End of story.”

  Abbie looked like she wanted to laugh; however, the psychiatrist managed to keep her professional demeanor. “Did you and Terry try?” she asked. “During filming?”

  “Yes,” she said, recalling the three instances where they had tried to make love. “It was...”


  (Terry takes off her top and licks her nipples, giving each side a fair amount of attention. He moves on to her lips. She's not into faking romance. He's not either and she can sense his indifference, allowing his lethargic attempt to eat her thoughts and crush her spirit. Before their half-assed romp goes any further, she puts a hand on his bare chest and says, “Hey, I'm not—”)

  “—in the mood.”

  “Ouch,” Abbie said, jotting down more notes.

  “Yeaaaah, and the other two attempts were just as good. Do you want to hear about them? It'll make for a great laugh later when you're out with friends.”

  “No.” The psychiatrist waved her pen in the air. “No, not necessary.”

  Angela filled her lungs through her nose, then exhaled. The slow exercise did nothing to calm her. Her nerves were in turmoil, actively running up and down her entire body. Her heart pounded. She knew the sessions would help in the long run but she hated that weekly hour. Divulging secrets exhausted her until she had no more emotion left, went home feeling like a husk of her former self. “What do I do, Doc?”

  “Can you be honest with me?”

  Angela narrowed her eyes. “Of course. That's why I'm here, isn't it?”

  “Do you still love Terry? And I don't mean out of some false sense of obligation. I'm talking about real love. Deep down, in the depths of your soul, do you still love him?”

  It was a question she'd asked herself countless times before, so many she thought her brain would be quick to supply an answer. But the truth didn't come out that easily. She froze, her words lost in the swirl of memories and times past, happy and sad, significant and mundane.