The Switch House: A Short Novel

by Tim Meyer

  Abbie's grin widened. “I understand.” She patted her son's head. “I guess this place just feels like home to us.”

  The woman glanced over at her son's expressionless face, then back to Abbie. “Okay,” she said, finding a smile that passed as genuine. “Okay then, let's do this!”

  Abbie smiled, laughed a little.

  The real estate woman smiled, laughed a lot.

  Abbie looked down at her son. “We finally found our home, William. We're finally here.”

  William looked up at his mother, Abbie Wilson, who went by many names, the woman who once called herself Ester Moore. Then, he returned his lazy gaze to the hole in the wall. “Ma-me,” he said. “Ma-me.”

  “That's right,” Abbie said, hugging the child. “You and Ma-me are finally home.” She whispered into his ear, “The perfect place for all your brothers and sisters.”

  The real estate woman didn't seem to hear this last part and waved them out of the bathroom, starting to ramble on about paperwork and how they should head back to the office and get started on their offer right away.

  Abbie grabbed William's hand and led him out. Before they crossed the threshold and entered the hallway, William looked back over his shoulder, his eyes locking onto the hole on the far wall.

  “Ma-me,” he whispered.

  That was all he'd ever whisper.

  THE END

  AFTERWORD

  Every so often, my wife will pitch me ideas. Most of them are terrible (don't tell her I said that!). Sometimes—rarely—I actually like one. The Switch House started out like that. Late one night, she woke me up to tell me this “amazing” idea. It went something like this:

  “A husband and wife go on one of those house-swap reality shows and when they come back, their house is haunted.”

  She told me all about the woman with whom they switched houses with, how she should be responsible for hexing their old home. I kicked the idea around for a couple of hours and put my own spin on it. I introduced the strained relationship between the husband and wife, the loss their family had endured and continue to deal with, and, of course, the dream goblins. She wasn't too keen on the latter. No supernatural elements was something she was very keen on. But, I didn't listen. I had already made up my mind—the dream goblins stay.

  And so they did.

  And I'm really happy with how it turned out. Her? Well, as of this writing, she hasn't read it yet. I suspect she will enjoy it, though it's not something I'd wager on.

  I guess I'm writing this afterword to give my wife the credit she deserves. I mean, she deserves way more credit than just coming up with the plot for this story—after all, I constantly refer to her as the “glue” that holds our family together; without her, we'd all undoubtedly fall apart. So anyway, she came up with the framework and I fleshed out the characters, their motives, and I wrote the thing, and here we are. Even though my name is on the cover, she's definitely left her fingerprints on this one.

  I had a lot of fun writing The Switch House. It was both familiar and unfamiliar territory for me. I feel the nature of Angela's “decision” was one of the darkest things I've written, and there wasn't a drop of blood spilled in that flashback scene. I enjoy a good kill scene as much as any horror fan, but sometimes the most terrifying stuff comes from the horrible decisions people make—especially involving the well-being of their children. Sadly, if you turn on the news, these stories will appear right in front of you. I can't think of anything more heinous, and I won't lie to you—writing that scene made me feel icky inside.

  And that feeling is where the unfamiliar territory comes into play. Maybe I would have felt differently five years ago, before I was the parent of an autistic child. But now—no way. Icky all over. I shivered every second while writing it.

  But I think that makes for the best kind of horror.

  At least, I hope.

  I'd also like to thank the following people who've helped in some way or another during the making of this book: Tim Feely, Matt Hayward, Chad Lutzke, Todd Keisling, Glenn Rolfe, Chuck Buda, and Curtis over at Cedar Hollow Reviews.

  Also, a special thanks goes out to my wife for all she's done. I'll throw a big ol' THANK YOU to you, dear reader, for entering The Switch House with me. I hope you're not too changed by what you found here. However, if you do dream of alternate worlds between your walls, endless blue rooms occupied by the dead, and dilapidated houses that sit on the edge of nowhere and everywhere all at once—please don't blame me.

  Blame my wife.

  Cheers,

  Tim Meyer

  May 2018

  BONUS:

  SHORT STORIES

  HOW TO KILL A BEAR WITH A BOW AND ARROW

  Milo Medlock sat in a tree, the tallest oak in Red River, and waited for the bear.

  He'd seen the report on TV last night; a black bear had been spotted sometime between six and nine, going through garbage cans on Southland Drive, near the bay. Three people reported the bear's presence, and one of them had stood on their porch and shouted at the beast, hoping the loud noises would spook off the bear. But it hadn't. According to the report, the bear had ignored all human requests and continued sifting through the garbage for edibles. Once it had finished, it hustled into the nearby woods, and no one had ever seen or heard from the beast since, though, the newscasters hadn't been shy about pointing out that the bear could reemerge any time it pleased.

  Milo aimed his bow and arrow down at the ground. It'd been years since he'd shot the thing, and only dug it out for occasions like this. He wasn't ordinarily a hunter—he'd never killed an animal in his entire life, unless you counted flies and the occasional hornet. Never killed anything bigger than his thumb. But, when times called for it, when the neighborhood was under attack by bears or by criminals posing as post office workers, Milo Medlock grabbed his bow and arrow.

  True story: About two years ago, Milo and his wife, Tilda, were watching the news one afternoon when a report came across the screen, informing the good people of Red River to be on the lookout for a dangerous criminal posing as a mailman. Apparently the scumbag was knocking on doors, pretending to deliver the mail, and then breaking into houses. Milo, not having a gun in the house to protect his family from the outside threat, had gone straight for the bow and arrow, the one his father had made him when he was just a small boy, almost forty years ago. Tilda thought the idea was ridiculous—she thought most of his ideas were—but she couldn't convince him to keep the doors locked and the windows shut instead of sitting on the roof and scoping out potential burglars dressed like mailmen.

  “Just let the authorities handle it, you schmuck,” she had told him. “Who do you think you are? Robin Hood?”

  He'd told her that he obviously wasn't Robin Hood, but he was a pretty good shot. He'd practiced regularly in the garage with targets, beer cans and such. He'd never entered any archery competitions, but Roman—a friend from the office—always encouraged him to do so. But Milo wasn't the confident type and he never could bring himself to complete the online form for Red River's annual archery contest. He'd known how well he could shoot, but what if there was someone better? Someone more accurate? Someone who could split his own bullseye right down the center of his arrow, just like in the movies. He didn't think he could handle that kind of defeat. Even though he'd hit that mailman when he'd come strolling up the driveway with no car behind him, no sack of mail on his back, hit him right where he'd intended. Luckily, it had been the burglar, otherwise there might have been legal repercussions of his sure shot. He'd hit the thug right in the leg, through the calf, and made sure not to inflict a mortal wound. He could have if he'd wanted to.

  If he'd wanted to.

  If I'd wanted to, he thought, as he shifted in his makeshift tree stand. He was by no means a hunter, had never even given the sport any thought; something about killing innocent animals made him uneasy.

  But what about the bear? Wasn't he innocent? After all, the bear hadn't done anything. Not really. I
t had invaded a suburban street and raided some garbage cans for food. It'd probably been hungry. It'd just needed some snacks. Something to get by on until something better came along. No harm in that. It wasn't a man-eater for Christ's sakes. It hadn't left the street a bloody mess of haphazardly strewn people parts. It had done nothing except to attempt to satisfy its most basic need—to eat. And it hadn't shed a drop of human blood to do so.

  Not yet.

  And that was where Milo Medlock drew the line. He wanted to remain proactive. Like the situation with the mailman imposter, he wanted to down the beast before it could inflict damage on the community. Sure, it'd started with a few overturned trash cans, but what came next? A few butchered people? Kids shredded like rag dolls on their way home from school? What if the animal wandered into that sixty-five and older community down the block? Granny might be watering her front lawn one minute, getting her fucking arm ripped off the next. Milo didn't need that. Not in his neighborhood. Not when he had the means to do something about it.

  “You'll never kill that bear,” Tilda had told him. “You don't have the sack.” She'd continued to smoke her Marlboro Reds and watch Drew Carey on the television. She was only forty but she acted almost twice her age. Constantly nagging and crotchety. She'd been the reason Milo collected so much overtime, why he'd spent so much time in the garage with his bow and arrow and his almost-endless supply of Miller High Life.

  “You said the same thing about the mailman who wasn't a mailman,” Milo had told her. “Said I wouldn't get him.”

  “Not what I said, numb nuts.” She'd scoffed then, between drags of her smoke. “Said you'd get yourself killed and unfortunately I was goddamn wrong about that.”

  “You know, you're a miserable wench, you know that?”

  She'd ignored his comment, acted as if he hadn't said anything at all.

  He'd leaned his head against the wall, and breathed in a cloud of second-hand smoke. He'd coughed something fierce and his asthma instantly flared. “Would it kill you not to smoke in the house? You know I have trouble breathing.”

  She'd flipped him the bird.

  Sitting in the tree was peaceful. Milo breathed in the fresh atmosphere, his lungs full of healthy, clean air. It made him happy being alone. Happy to breathe. Happy to be amongst the silence of nature, those intermittent sounds of birds twittering and branches swaying, the swoosh of the wind passing through the trees. He closed his eyes and thought he was in heaven. He had no desire to head back, back home where hell waited.

  *

  Milo hadn't any idea where to start. He'd watched a few Youtube videos on bear hunting but it hadn't seemed like a big enough sport. All the hunting videos featured deer or duck, and even less of them featured the bow and arrow. Everything was shotguns or rifles (mostly rifles) and those videos bored him. How hard was it to put down an animal using a gun? Seriously. At close enough range, a kill was almost automatic with a gun. Pull the trigger and the gun delivers instant death. No skill there. Now, to kill with a bow and arrow, one needed to be close. Real close. But not too close. Especially to a bear. Too close meant your head was coming off. Too close meant instant death, for you.

  Milo had found one bear hunting video he liked and had watched it several times. One of the things the video preached was making sure to procure the proper license. Bear licenses were issued at certain times of the year depending on your State, and the instructor of the video told him not all states allowed bear hunting and to check the local gun shops for more details. Milo had done his research; New Jersey allowed black bear hunting and, sure enough, black bears were in season. He'd gone down to the local Waldo-Mart and gotten himself good and registered.

  He was now licensed to kill... bears.

  “Bet you're after that black bear everyone keeps talking about,” the guy behind the gun counter had said to him.

  Milo had nodded.

  “Well, good luck, partner. Got any bait?”

  “Bait?” The question had caught Milo by surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “Need bait to catch a bear.” The gun salesman had shrugged. “How else you gonna get that close?”

  Milo hadn't thought about bait. He'd thought he'd peruse the forest that bordered Red River and hopefully pick up the garbage-sniffer's trail. That was what the Youtube video had taught him to do. Bait hadn't crossed his mind.

  Now, in the tree, he looked down at his bait. It was a good choice, he thought, and he wondered if anyone else would agree. Probably not, he thought, smiling.

  “Don't worry,” he called down. “That bear'll be along soon and this will all be behind us.”

  His bait stifled a cry and called something back, words which were ignored. He'd heard something rustle amongst the leaves, and when he looked down in the direction of the sounds, he spotted a cluster of green foliage bouncing back and forth. Something had disturbed the shrubbery, something big.

  Sure enough, a second later, a snout emerged from the forest. A massive, fur-covered cranium followed. Behind that, the bulk of the black bear came into view. It was bigger than Milo had expected, and, even from his vantage point, he could tell the beast was above average. In fact, he didn't think black bears grew to be that big. Its girth surprised him. No wonder the neighborhood had been shaken; if he'd seen that thing digging through his trash, he might have given this bear hunt idea a second thought. Suddenly the bow and arrow felt weightless in his hands.

  The black bear moved out from the brush and into the clearing slowly, waddling back and forth, reminding Milo of the Youtube video. The bear in that video had been equally sluggish and in no rush to go anywhere. Milo thought that might change when the arrows began to fly, but he wasn't so sure. He didn't know how many it'd take to down the beast, but he'd brought two full quivers, twelve in each. He was hoping to only waste one arrow—hit the monster right between the eyes.

  The monster.

  The bear.

  Were they the same thing?

  Then the screaming started.

  *

  “OH MY GOD!”

  Milo wished he'd put duct tape over her mouth. It would've been better that way, but he had needed something to grab the bear's attention. He couldn't risk it passing by without noticing the bait. He needed it close. He needed it practically on her so all he had to do was look down and fire. Shoot. Release the arrow, and watch it penetrate the skull right between its eyes.

  The bear spotted Tilda and Tilda started screaming, really letting him have it.

  “GET ME OUT OF HERE, MILO! GODDAMMIT! YOU SON OF A BITCH! I KNEW I SHOULD HAVE LEFT YOU! YOU WORTHLESS, LIMP-DICK FUC—”

  The bear jumped back on its hind legs and roared. The bestial vocalization moved birds from their positions in the trees. It silenced Tilda at once. It gave Milo a rush of adrenaline and coated his skin in gooseflesh.

  All of a sudden, things felt real.

  There was no going back now. He aimed with his bow and arrow. He held his concentration on the bear's massive target of a head. The beast lowered itself down on all fours. It jogged toward the potential meal tied to the tallest oak tree in all of Red River.

  Milo waited.

  “HELP ME!” Tilda cried.

  The bear approached, closing the distance with more speed than Milo had anticipated. The gap between his wife and the black bear slimmed. He looked down the arrow, picturing what it'd look like buried in the beast's skull.

  The beast.

  The monster.

  Which one?

  When the bear was about five feet away from Tilda—Tilda who now screamed and cried and begged to continue on with her lethargic lifestyle—the bear roared again, pushing the hair back off the face of its next meal. The bear took the last five feet in a slow, calculated approach. It sniffed its food before attempting to eat it.

  This is good, Milo thought. This hesitation on the bear's part would allow him to adjust slightly, allow him to ready his shot, steady his aim. He did so accordingly, making sure he wouldn't miss
on the first attempt.

  But when he was ready to release the arrow, let his fingers slip off the string, he found himself unable to do so.

  The bear sniffed under Tilda's blouse. She whimpered and turned her head. Then she screamed when the bear opened its jaws and bit down on her thick thigh. It tore away a section of meat, a slab of raw muscle.

  Tilda screamed until her vocal cords broke.

  Milo continued to sit in the tree, keeping his aim on the bear, but as time slipped, so did his view on the current situation. He'd come here to kill a bear. A beast. A plight on society. Something that terrorized and killed; something that must not live for the safety and well-being of others.

  But that wasn't the bear, was it?

  The bear hadn't hurt a soul, not until it had met Tilda Medlock, the real beast, the real monster in Milo's life.

  The bear ate a piece of the woman's thigh and decided it deserved seconds. It lunged forward, snout first, and tore away another piece of Tilda's leg, from her calf this time. She thrashed around and cried out, but she was no match for the all-powerful jaws of the woodland critter. It feasted on her muscle, wrestling with the blood and skin, digging its nose deeper into her, pulling away with more gore and muscle, more pieces of Tilda.

  Milo thought he should look away. He thought he should do something, other than sit in the tree stand he'd made for himself, his front-row seat to his wife's evisceration.

  He decided he should end the beast's life.

  He readjusted his aim and let the arrow fly. It connected true with a wonderful THWACK!

  He wouldn't need another arrow.