The Switch House: A Short Novel

by Tim Meyer

  “Oh, God.” After she finished unloading and felt depleted of all fluids, she reached across the counter and grabbed her pills, the new prescription Dr. Wilson had filled for her. She popped a pill, poured herself a small glass of tap water, and swallowed her medicine. This better start working soon, she thought, before I lose what's left of my sanity. She decided she'd call Abbie later and ask her how long the pills should take to work their magic. She'd taken one dose yesterday and, yet, she had just experienced the most intense delusion of this whole ordeal.

  Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She looked down and saw her husband's name with the word “work” next to it, the auto body shop's number beneath them.

  “Hey,” she answered.

  “Hey, babe,” he said. “How's my favorite wife?”

  She swallowed and it felt like the pill she had ingested was lodged in her throat. Don't tell him, her inner voice urged. Don't tell him.

  “I'm... I'm actually doing okay.”

  “That's great. Really great to hear.” He paused. In the background, she heard his co-workers laughing at a joke she hadn't caught the beginning of. “No nightmares last night?”

  “Um, no. Why do you ask?”

  “I don't know. I thought I heard you moving around a lot. Just wondering if you were okay.”

  “Did I wake you?”

  “No—I mean, yeah. Once. But it wasn't a big deal. I went right back to sleep.” He waited as if he knew she had something to admit. “You sure you're okay?”

  “Yeah, fine.”

  “You sure? You don't sound okay?”

  “I am. I just... woke up feeling a little ill.”

  “Sick?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, stay home and get some rest today. Don't leave the couch unless you need to use the bathroom or eat something.” Playfully, he said, “Husband's orders.”

  “Actually, I was thinking about taking a ride to visit my parents.”

  “Really?” He sounded surprised. “Without me?”

  She laughed. “Like you care. What did you call them the last time you were there? Bloodsucking gremlins?”

  “That sounds about right. Look, I'm fine with it, as long as you're truly okay. Do you think it's a good idea, being sick and all?”

  “I'm actually feeling much better already. I'm super hungry. I think I just need some breakfast and I'll be good to go.”

  “Okay, babe. Keep in touch. Drive carefully. You know the drill. Call me when you get there.” In the background, someone called Terry's name. “Gotta go, love. Will you be home for dinner?”

  “Depends. You know what long drives do to me. I'm considering staying over.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, I mean, if it's okay with you.”

  Terry paused. “Yeah. It's... it's fine.”

  “Okay.”

  “I'll hang out with the guys tonight.”

  “Okay.”

  “Text me, though?”

  “Of course.”

  “Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  VII.

  THE CONFESSION OF ROSALYN JEFFRIES

  She felt guilty about lying to Terry, especially during those few seconds when her parents' exit on the Garden State Parkway zipped past, but it had to be done. She couldn't tell him she was skipping a nice dinner and perhaps another majestic night of intimacy in favor of seeking out the old woman, the old witch whom she was pretty sure was out to kill her, or, at the very least, trying to break down what little remained of her sanity. She couldn't tell him because he couldn't possibly understand what she'd been through. Everything from the day it had all gone down, the moment [we do not speak his name] vanished up until her experience on the Switch!, had been pure hell. Terry didn't bear the same burdens; therefore, he could never understand her guilt, her agony, her mental exhaustion. All that, plus, any excuse to get away from the house was a good one.

  That cursed place.

  The woman had said, If you think you need help, please seek me out. Help. Of that, Angela needed plenty.

  During the drive, she replayed the woman's generous offer over in her head. Angela didn't exactly know what to make of it. If the woman was trying to assassinate her, offering help was hardly the traditional approach. Or was it?

  Maybe it's a trap? All part of her little mind game. To break me down. Make me see shit that isn't there, then build me up with empty promises. Only to take it all away again.

  Her mind began to work against her, conjuring up ways to fit all the misshapen pieces into the complex puzzle that had become her life. Maybe she can't enter the house on Trenton Road. Maybe she needs me to come to her. Maybe it's all part of her twisted design.

  Or maybe just the opposite. Maybe the woman wasn't trying to kill her. Maybe the house itself sought violence, maybe because of what had happened there. What she did to [we do not speak his name]. Maybe her actions opened a locked door, let in whatever was waiting on the other side.

  No. Impossible.

  Maybe she's just trying to help.

  She thought she'd phone Barry on the way to, number one—question him about Rosalyn, and number two—help pass the time. The six-hour drive to the Vermont border would be long and boring, and Angela hated long, boring drives. She called Barry but the prick didn't answer. An hour later, he called back.

  “What's up, superstar?”

  “Oh stop.”

  “What? You're going to be a household name in a few short weeks. Guaranteed.” And she would, only not in the way Barry Harrison intended. “So... what can I do for you, sweetie-pie?”

  “I'd like to know more about the woman who stayed in our house.”

  A brief silence lingered. “Rosalyn Jeffries?”

  “Yes. Her.”

  “Why?” Is everything all right? She didn't, like, do anything to the house, did she?”

  Angela's breath caught in her throat.

  “Angela?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why do you want to know about Rosalyn?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Come on. Don't be coy with me. Tell me. I thought we were buddies?”

  “We are. We are.”

  “Then tell me.”

  Frustrated, she growled. “It's just the house, man. The house is weird. I'm getting super strange vibes from it.”

  “Okay. That's it?”

  “Yeah. Isn't that enough?” She suddenly grew suspicious of her former producer. He acted like he knew something but he wanted to know what Angela knew before spilling the whole story. “What do you know, Barry?”

  “I know nothing.”

  “You don't sound like you know nothing.”

  “What do you want to know, Angela?”

  “The woman. What's her deal?”

  It was Barry's turn to exhaust a breath of frustration. “She's just some nutty old woman we chose to be on the show, okay. That's it. She lost her husband a few months back, around the same time as...you know,” [we do not speak his name], “and we thought it'd be a good match. She was a little odd on set. She kept rambling on about a bad aura, how her husband's ghost wouldn't show himself there, and some other crazy shit that's going to make for some kick-ass television.”

  “Whoa, whoa. Slow down. Her husband's ghost wouldn't show himself there?” Her brow climbed to the top of her forehead. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Yeah, her words, hon. Not mine.”

  Angela shook her head as she passed the big, green LEAVING NEW JERSEY sign. “I don't like that, Barry. You should have told me.”

  Another pause. “Did you... do you know?”

  She didn't like the smallness of his voice. “Know what?”

  “Nothing. Never mind.”

  “Barry?” She grunted with heated frustration. “What do you need to tell me?”

  The producer sighed, filling her ear with static. “Okay, look. Promise you won't be mad.”

  “Why don't you tell me and I'll decide if it's
worth getting mad over.”

  “Okay. Here it goes. I did some research on Rosalyn Jeffries. After we got her into your house, I got weirded out by her. You know, like I said, she was talking about some wild stuff. She was obsessed with the supernatural, spirits and demons, and, for whatever reason, she was convinced something wicked was taking place on Trenton Road. Something sinister. I believe her exact words were 'corrupted shadows', or something like that. Now that I mention it, a lot of what happened there is kind of foggy.”

  Angela noticed how hard she was gripping the steering wheel; color had bled from her knuckles, rendering them a row of eight white bumps.

  “Anyway, I did my research.”

  “After you hired her?”

  Barry clicked his tongue. “We did a background check prior, but nothing came up. Honest, Angela, if I had known, there was no way we would have put her on Switch! I want you to know that.”

  Angela's neck constricted, every muscle, from her chin down, tightening like a screw. “What did she do, Barry?”

  “Angela...”

  “WHAT DID SHE DO?” she screamed into the phone. Her car swerved, nearly side-swiping the maroon van next to her. The man in the vehicle honked his horn, rolled down his window so he could shout obscenities, and capped his tirade off with a middle-fingered salute. Angela smiled at him and returned her attention back to the road. She found a calm place in her mind and huddled there. Her nerves simmered. “What did she do?” she asked again, softly this time.

  “According to Google, Rosalyn Jeffries got mixed up in some local cult back in the sixties. I guess you could call it a coven, a group of witches. The only reason there was any documentation of this cult—called The Sisterhood of Sin, in case you wanted to know—was because in '68, one of their members died. A woman. She was found all burnt up, head to toe. Baked to a crisp. There was an investigation, according to the article, but nothing was ever done. No charges were brought against any of the members, especially their leader, a woman by the name of Ester Moore.”

  Barry stopped, and the big man's heavy breaths filled her ear.

  “What else?” she asked, clearly irritated.

  “That's it. Honest. I wouldn't have even found anything if it weren't for her picture and the caption citing her name.”

  “A Google search. After she signed on for the show.”

  “I had to dig deep, Angela. This wasn't the first hit, mind you. I think the article was on the twelfth page. Don't ask me why I went beyond the first couple.” She heard him swallow and sensed he was on the verge of tears. She could tell this situation was eating away at him, and, though she probably had every right to, she wouldn't press him. “I just felt something off...”

  “Barry, want some advice?”

  “Sure...” he said, his voice strained.

  “Fire your investigators. They suck ass.”

  She hung up. Next, she dialed Abbie. Her psychiatrist picked up on the first ring.

  “Angela? I wasn't expecting to hear from you so soon. How are you feeling? Is everything all right?”

  “Eh, I've been better.” She proceeded to tell her about Barry's confession. “I know. Crazy stuff. But it could explain a lot about what I'm experiencing lately.” She opened her mouth, but realized what she was about to say and who she was about to say it to.

  “Angela, these manifestations. They aren't real, sweetheart.”

  “I know. I just... I don't know what I just said. I know how insane that sounded. I'm sorry.”

  “Don't apologize. It's fine. You're just confused. Look, why don't you drop by the office later. I can clear my afternoon and—”

  “I can't.”

  “Why not?” She almost sounded insulted.

  “Because...”

  “Angela?”

  “Because I'm on my way to Vermont.”

  “Vermont? But, why—” Abbie stopped herself. “Angela, what are you thinking about doing?”

  “I... I don't know exactly.”

  “As your psychiatrist, I must say, this is a terrible idea. I'm all for confronting your fears and dealing with roadblocks, but in a natural, controlled environment. When the patient pushes the issue—”

  “To hell with your psycho-babble-bullshit.”

  Silence. That finally shut her up.

  “I'm sorry,” Angela said. “Look, your pills aren't fucking working, okay. The other night I walked through hell, literally hell, and I saw things I never want to see again. So unless you give me something that works right now, right fucking now, or hand over some sage-like advice that will make all this bad shit go away, make the last nine months of my fucking life disa-fucking-ppear, then I'm taking things into my own hands.”

  She waited, but Abbie kept silent.

  “I didn't think so.”

  “Angela, I feel sorry for you. I really do. You're deeply troubled and you don't know what you're doing. You need help. I'm thinking a full psychiatric evaluation in a controlled environment. I know a great place within twenty miles of here—”

  “I'm not checking myself into a fucking mental ward!” She was hyperventilating now. Her erratic driving earned her honks from her highway neighbors. More middle fingers were flipped her way, and she ignored every single one of them. When she thought there was no more air left in her lungs, she careened her car over to the side of the road, where she stopped and shut off the engine.

  “I think you need to come in, Angela. This is clearly out of your hands. We need to escalate things. Get you better before you do something to harm yourself or others.”

  Angela planted her face in her hands and cried, heaving sobs. Her palms grew slick with tears.

  “Think about what Terry would want.”

  She lifted her head. “Abbie. I'm going to Vermont. I'm going to talk with Rosalyn Jeffries, and I'm going to find out exactly what the fuck she did to my house.”

  “I think that's a very poor decision, but it's your life, dear.”

  “That's right. It's my life,” she said, though it hadn't felt like hers for quite some time. “It's my life and I'm going to do what I want. For me.”

  “Can I—”

  She ended the call.

  After she gathered herself, stopped crying and patted her face dry on the sleeve of her shirt, she pulled back onto the parkway and merged with traffic.

  She stopped three more times, each so she could vomit.

  * * *

  The phone sat on the desk, staring up at her. It didn't take long after the last call to decide what came next. Picking up the phone, she punched in the name and hit “SEND.”

  She waited.

  Three rings.

  “What?” the gruff voice answered.

  “It's time,” the woman said.

  Silence hung on the line. Then: “Are you sure?”

  “The plan is in motion. We need to act now.”

  “Is the child in danger?”

  “No. Not yet. But if we don't hurry...”

  “I'll leave now.”

  “Good. If you hurry, you just might make it.”

  “I'll call you when it's done.”

  “See that you do.”

  She slammed down the phone, leaned back in her chair, and became lost in the painting on the far wall, the one with a vase full of dead, black roses.

  * * *

  She parked at the end of the cul-de-sac, near the main road, got out, and walked the rest of the way. There weren't many houses on Boulder Court, three in total, and the Jeffries' house was the only one facing the highway, as the others were stuck fronting each other. She scurried down the sidewalk, toward the house she had recently spent two long months in. She didn't know why she wanted to stroll down the block but felt it had something to do with her and her husband's after-dinner routine, their nightly lap around the development to take in the New England scenery. She took a breath of fresh air and compared it to Red River's; it was no contest—the Vermont air was fresher, sweeter, always accompanied by a hint of smoked
hickory. To Angela, the air back home was stale and dry, hardly something to take a moment to appreciate. The atmosphere was often tainted with heavy motor pollution and street trash.

  Reaching the woman's cement porch, she jogged up the stone steps, one at a time, briskly. She knocked on the door and received no answer. She knocked again, this time looking at the curtain covering the bay window next to the door, anticipating the slightest flicker of movement. But there was nothing. She knocked a third time, rang the doorbell, and peeked through the semi-transparent curtain, but she saw no shadows or silhouettes moving behind it, only darkness with the faint glow of the afternoon sun beaming through the kitchen window opposite the main living space.

  She decided to try something else.

  Angela jogged down the stoop, toward the garage. She peeked around the neighborhood, making sure the nosy neighbors weren't studying her from their windows, eyeing her every move. She didn't notice any spies and shook off the notion that she was being watched.

  She ducked under the overhang and approached the garage door. Flipping up the cover on the keypad, she recalled the combination she and Terry had used many times before. She punched in the digits and frowned when the garage door failed to rise.

  Shit, she thought, she changed the combo.

  She wasn't surprised.

  No matter—she knew the key to the backdoor was under the welcome mat. There was no way the woman changed all the locks in her house, not yet. Why would she? Angela and Terry had decided they weren't going to swap out their locks back home, but, after considering current events, she thought they might have to reconsider.

  Maybe she had done the same.

  Angela jogged around the side of the house, unlatched the small hip-high gate, walked around the property until the back deck, composite and stained with a color the company called Foggy Island, was in view. She streaked toward the platform, bounding the steps two at a time, and dashed over to the back door. Bending down, she glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see the old woman at the edge of the deck, arms folded and tapping her foot as if she'd caught her grandson's hand in the cookie jar. But there was no one there, nothing but the lush green forest beyond the property line.