FOUR
Ashton.
The voice crept beneath his eyelids and pried them open, the darkness of the room becoming light as he peered around. It had been days since he had any sort of proper sleep, and he had just began drifting peacefully when a strangely familiar voice called out to him from somewhere in the house. He had heard the voice more times than he could count and all he wanted to do was answer back, “Mommy!” He felt foolish knowing that she was not there and laid there in silence for a moment before his mind started to wander towards the week’s events. It had been three days since the preacher’s unsolicited visit with three days of scrubbing, to no avail, the words away from the front of the house, and his sleep had suffered in the wake.
The event didn’t seem to bother Dillon as much as him, which frustrated him even more as Dillon slept peacefully each night since the deplorable act. Bags had already started to develop beneath his eyes, a human incarnation of a raccoon, and his ability to process information had slowed to a glacial pace. He had sat at the computer a few times, but his exhaustion proved stronger than his will to write. He would toss and turn, jump at every noise that the house made, and he was worried the preacher, or whomever had spray painted their house, would return to wreak more havoc on their lives, but so far the only thing causing issues was his inability to get actual sleep. He was becoming testy. He could tell Dillon was beginning to shy away from any sort of communication with him, and each day found him in a completely different part of the house working on random chores.
Ashton.
This time he knew he was fully awake. There was no chance this was any sort of groggy hallucination. He thought for a second to awaken Dillon, thought otherwise, and rose from the bed, his feet cracking from the pressure of his body against the floor. He crossed through the room, opened his bedroom door, a chill running through his naked body as a draft blew past him, and he closed the door quietly and continued down the hallway. He leaned over the railing of the staircase and gazed below as he saw shadows moving around in a lighted room. He didn’t understand what bewitched him, but his body lurched forward down the stairs to investigate the light that was shining from his kitchen. His feet touched the cold floors on the foyer, and he moved forward towards the opened door of the kitchen. As he entered the kitchen, his heart dropped.
The kitchen had transformed into the kitchen from his childhood. As he entered, his mother was busy cooking at the stove and she stared up at him with a sparkle in her eye.
“Good morning sleepyhead!” she exclaimed as she continued cooking eggs, the smell of breakfast wafting throughout the room. Ashton looked around confused for a moment before his mother reached out to him and hugged him tight. She smiled as she let go, her hand caressing his face, “I’m fixing your favorite!”
“Momma?” he questioned, as he stood in complete shock. She was beautiful, looking like she always did. Her blonde hair was in the French braid she always loved to wear, a basic floral print summer dress hugged her figure to highlight the curves of her body, and her green eyes blazed brightly in the light of the kitchen. It was how he had always remembered her, a comforting spirit for her entire life, and he was so happy to see her again. In the confusion and excitement of it all, he had forgotten he was standing completely naked in his childhood kitchen and he tried quickly to hide his genitals from his mother.
“Oh honey, if you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all,” she laughed in her always humorous way, and placed a plate of over easy eggs, bacon, and toast on the table, and ushered him to it. He uncomfortably walked to the table, still hiding his penis behind his hands, and began to sit down when his mother slapped him hard on the face. He looked up at her in fright, never seeing this side of her before, and she pointed forcibly towards the sink. “Wash your hands!” she screamed, and he lowered his head in shame, crossed to the sink, and slowly washed his hands, his mother’s eyes staring a hole into his backside. After he finished washing the suds from his hands, he returned to the table and his mother nodded before sitting next to him in completely silence. He looked at his plate of food, and back at his mother, still unsure if it was okay to eat now.
“Well go ahead, baby. I spent all morning make them,” Her smile returned and she pushed the plate towards him. He picked up his fork to begin smashing his eggs when a loud boom interrupted him. He jumped at the abrupt sound, and his mother looked towards the door in panic. She quickly picked up his plate, and threw it into the sink, shards of ceramic flying all over the counter, and she returned to the table pulling Ashton up,
“He’s here, you have to go.” She said, as she pulled him through the kitchen as a man entered blocking their exit. The man before them was the exact man Ashton had chased away from his house just days ago. Shlepp and his mother straightened up tall, and she let go of Ashton’s hand.
“Welcome home,” she said, before kissing Shlepp on the cheek. Shlepp didn’t return the kiss, instead he pushed her out of the way, and went towards Ashton. In his confusion Ashton tripped backwards, falling onto the tile floor below, and Shlepp towered over him, his face turning red in rage. Ashton covered his face, as it looked like the man was about to strike him. Ashton felt so tiny from this angle. The man a large burly predator, and Ashton waited for the beatings to begin. Suddenly he felt his hands being grabbed and pulled upwards. Ashton opened his eyes as the man began to hold him down, his naked body squirming to pull from the man’s grasp. The man looked up at his mother as she cowered against the counter and beckoned her over with his head.
“We’ve got to fix this faggot, Get this demon out of him!” Shlepp yelled, “Get down here, damn it and help!” She knelt down next to Ashton and, in fear of kicking his mother, he stopped squirming. She looked up at Shlepp confused. With one hand holding Ashton down, Shlepp grabbed his mother’s head and pushed her down towards Ashton’s crotch as she tried to force herself away from him, but the man was too powerful. Ashton’s stomach began to churn as he could feel his mother’s breath on his penis, he twisted his head, squeezed his eyes shut, and let out a bloodcurdling scream.
Everything around him became silent. The pressure on his arms completely disappeared and, as he opened his eyes again, he was lying back in his bed, Dillon’s rest undisturbed by any of Ashton’s screams or thrashing. Ashton’s stomach was still rolling around, and he felt the need to expel the food he had earlier in the evening. He rushed to the bathroom, just in time to deposit vomit into the toilet, and he sat there as rushes of warmth surged through him, his stomach heaving with every breath he took. The feelings subsided a few minutes later so he crawled over to the bathtub to turn the water on, flipped the nozzle so the showerhead was activated, gathered all the strength he had to stand, and moved over to the sink. Staring at his pale face in the mirror, the bags now darker than before, the veins in his chest pulsating beneath the taut skin like a winding blue river with tributaries spreading all over his body, and his auburn hair was a mangled mass upon his head, he looked as if he had spent days partying in the French Quarter not having nightmares in the comfort of his own home.
He entered the shower allowing the water to envelope his body into its warm embrace, the stress of the night falling to the bottom of the bathtub and swirling down the drain. He grabbed his loofah and began to scrub as hard as he could, trying to eliminate the feelings the nightmare had left imprinted on him. He was so disgusted by the horror movie that had played out in his mind that he considered dousing himself with bleach just to remove any remnants of the horrific events but reconsidered as the shower began to work its magic and the details began to melt away. He strangely began to feel invigorated in the steam. As he worked the loofah over his body he felt an electric tingling under his skin, and his mind was more awaken than any of the days previous. He shut the shower off, grabbed a towel that was hanging on the hook, began to dry off, and peered at himself in the mirror again. His pale skin was now a bright red from the near scalding water that had poured over him for the last fifteen minut
es.
Ashton crept back to the bedroom, stopping to gaze upon his slumbering boyfriend, before making a beeline to the office and flipping on his laptop. The screen illuminated the entire room and he squinted his eyes to help adjust them to the intrusiveness of the bright light. As he scrolled through to find his word processor, a smile began to stretch across his face as soon as the program opened, his fingers took over, and soon he was typing away, the sounds of the keyboard filling the silence of the room. It had been a long while since he had the motivation to write, and, with the deadline drawing near, he was elated to find himself at the computer with a barrage of ideas. He couldn’t stop, it was as if something had overtaken his body and at nearly 4 am, the darkness of night still lingering outside the window, a new beginning unleashed itself within the office.
FIVE
The bed was empty as Dillon awoke the next morning. He called out for Ashton, but got no response. Dillion figured he was downstairs but was unable to hear him. As Dillion crossed the threshold of the bedroom, his body aching, and went into the hallway, he could hear the unmistakable sound of someone typing in the office. Curious he stuck his head into the door. Ashton’s back was to him as he typed away furiously at the keyboard and, to not disturb him, Dillion quietly returned to the bedroom, put on some pajamas, and headed downstairs for coffee. He was happy to see Ashton back in front of the computer, a welcomed sight from the anguish of the past year and a half, and, as he turned the coffee on, he finally felt at peace in the home. He filled two cups with coffee, one for himself and one for Ashton, putting the correct ratio of cream and sugar in Ashton’s, before he proceeded back upstairs to bring his husband the warm caffeine.
Upon his return to the office, Ashton was nowhere in sight so he slowly walked from room to room looking for him. He called out again for him, but there was no answer. His eyes caught something in the window, and he moved closer to investigate. He saw Ashton walking towards the barn. He hadn’t heard the front door open or close, but somehow Ashton had evaded him since he had started brewing their coffee. Dillon placed the coffee cup on the bedside table and stared out of the window as he watched Ashton open the barn door, disappear inside, and close the door behind him. The confusion lead Dillon outside and, just as he was about to start down the stairs, Ashton came around the corner with a paint can and supplies.
“Good morning,” Dillon said, as Ashton passed him and placed the paint can down. The words that were spray painted across the front of the house had not come off from all the scrubbing. They had decided earlier in the week they were going to paint over them, but he just didn’t figure that was a project that was getting done so quickly.
“Got to get these fucking words off this house,” was all Ashton said, before he dipped the paintbrush into the can and began to cover up the red letters. Dillon stood back and watched as Ashton frantically painted. Luckily the color matched the rest of the house.
“Looks like it’ll need a few coats,” Dillon finally spoke, as he watched the letters peeking out from beneath the coat of paint, the layer not thick enough to remove the horrible words that were scrolled almost the entire length of the front of the house. His body was still aching, the need for coffee prevalent, so he removed himself from the porch to return to the kitchen and grab his cup. Dillion knew Ashton was probably in need of some himself, so his legs carried him upstairs to retrieve the cup he had already prepared for him. His feet became wet when he entered the bedroom, the coffee cup was now shattered on the wooden floor and the spray of coffee from the velocity of the fall had reached all the way to door.
Fuck. Dillon put his cup on the table in the hallway and ran back down the stairs to grab the broom when a shattering sound erupted from upstairs, the sound of his own coffee cup breaking against the floor above him. As Dillon got to the top of the stairs, the apparent mess from before now had an accompanied mess in the hallway. He shook his head, anger at his own clumsiness filled him, and began to move the broom through the broken shards. He finally got both messes under control, the dustpan filled with two coffee cups and three towels drenched in the brown liquid, before questioning himself on waking up for the day. Throwing the towels in the washing machine downstairs, he began the cycle and threw more clothes that had filled the laundry bin. His hand touched something wet at the bottom of the basket and, as he sifted through the clothes to investigate, a putrid smell emanated through the room. He finally reached the bottom of the basket and nausea erupted in his stomach as the lifeless body of a rat came into focus.
Dillon rushed to the sink completely sickened by the rat and stood there a moment to get his bearings. He needed to remove the carcass before it began to stink up the entire house, but he questioned how the rat could have gotten there in the first place. His questions only lead to more questions. His logic lead him to believe that the rat had crawled into the laundry right before dying and, upon inspection of the laundry room, he found old boxes of rat poison which substantiated his reasoning. Reluctantly he picked up the carcass with a large piece of newspaper, plugged his nose, and wrapped it up as the post mortem juices soaked into the paper. He grabbed a plastic shopping bag, threw the dampened newspaper roll into it and heaved it into the trashcan outside.
“There was a fucking rat in the laundry.”
“Did you get rid of it?” Ashton asked, continuing to paint, not bothered by the decaying corpse of the rat.
“Yeah, it’s in the trash. I don’t understand how it got into the clothes.”
“Things die.” Ashton replied, his eyes not moving from his task. Dillon felt his nonchalant attitude was strange, but figured it was just himself that was overreacting from the fact he had just touched a dead wet rat.
“Want some coffee?” Dillon finally asked, the thought of caffeine still strong within his mind. Although the aroma of dead rat had awakened him enough, he still desperately wanted the ever elusive cup of pure adrenaline. Ashton nodded and Dillon returned inside. Scrubbing his hands furiously beneath the water, trying to get the remnants of the carcass off his hand, he started to brew the coffee again. He checked the laundry room again, investigating the clothing to make sure they weren’t stained with rat body fluids. The laundry had already started the spin cycle and he felt accomplished for the day, checking off his mental list of chores that needed done.
Checking on Ashton’s progress after his coffee, Dillion proceeded to the barn and opened the doors. It was filled, floor to ceiling, with junk that the previous owners had left, and he wanted their own storage area for things that they found. He began to pull items from the pile, and soon outside the barn stood a pile of broken furniture pieces, mattresses, and cardboard boxes filled with random housewares. He began to open the boxes, finding a few things to place inside their home where they once were, and everything else he planned to burn to eliminate them from their presence. His burn pile was nearing the size of a small swimming pool when Ashton came to the door of the barn, sweat dripping from his brow.
“What are you doing?” Ashton asked, as Dillon pulled another box from the junk pile.
“Trying to sift through this shit, whoever lived here before just left it in here.”
“Anything good?” Ashton questioned, as his hands investigated the rubble. Dillon pulled an urn from one of the boxes and looked at it. It was ornate, all black with beautiful gold leaf engravings of flowers, and inside was still half filled with ashes. Dillon’s fingers traced the name on the urn, “Isabelle Boudreaux” and handed it to Ashton.
“There’s still ashes inside,” Dillon spoke, as Ashton grabbed the urn turning it over in hands, “We can’t throw it out.”
“No, we will put it on the mantle,” Ashton said, in trance as he walked away towards the house. Dillon watched as Ashton and the urn disappeared around the corner of the house and continued to rummage through the junk; continuing to create a keep pile and a burn pile, most of which went directly into the burn pile. Ashton never returned from the house and, soon Dillon’s motivat
ion began to wane, so he brushed off his hands and shut the door of the barn to continue the process on another day. He gathered the random items he wanted to keep into a cardboard box and crossed the yard, the late afternoon sun cascading orange across the sky. He reached the porch and set the box down in shock. The words across the house seemed brighter now, the work Ashton had put in had been useless as the words had bled through the paint.
Dillon entered the house, the same putrid smell from the rat welcoming him inside, and the sudden aroma almost made him vomit as the smell was stronger than before, filling the entire house with its odor. He covered his nose, gagged, and called out for Ashton, but the only response he heard was a conversation coming from upstairs. He climbed the stairs slowly as the conversation continued, growing louder as he reached the top of the stairs. Dillion couldn’t make out the words, but as he entered Ashton’s office, he could see the urn placed next to Ashton’s laptop, and Ashton staring intently at it.
“Who are you talking to?” Dillon questioned, removing his hand from his nose. The smell was the strongest in this room, and he was bothered that Ashton was unmoved by it. Ashton looked up at Dillon, his eyes bloodshot.
“Can’t you smell that?” Dillion asked.
“Smell what?” Ashton responded, as if it was a strange question. Downstairs a loud boom erupted and Dillon rushed out of the office to see the front door standing wide open, the source of the commotion now clear and he raced down the stairs to close it again. Staring at the now closed door, he could feel someone staring at him, and he looked up at the staircase to see Ashton standing at the top step.
The House the Devil Built Page 6
