Ashton had always declined to be a pallbearer at funerals, uncomfortable with carrying the corpse of a relative, but now came the time to do it for the second time in a matter of years. He cursed himself as he carried his mother’s casket, realizing that the more money spent on a box, the better the materials and with better materials, comes a weight heavier than the grief that was ravaging his mind. The trip to the hearse was the longest he had ever taken, it seemed, as the pain of loss began to push him down, she was placed safely into the cabin of the hearse, and he retreated back to his vehicle. He readjusted the flag that was placed on his hood, and once inside, lit a cigarette as a hurricane of emotions overtook him and tears flowed down his face.
It had taken nearly fifteen minutes for everyone to vacate the funeral home and get to their vehicles, and, in that time, Ashton had smoked three cigarettes, in unison, hoping the fumes would calm his fragile state of mind. As if to make matters worse a steady rain began to fall, and, as they reached the cemetery, puddles began to fill the dirt paths leading them to the gravesite. Ashton’s feet were sliding in the mud with every step. The funeral home must have anticipated the weather, as the remaining few people that had followed them to Harrison Center Cemetery congregated beneath the burgundy tent placed over the six foot hole in the ground. The pastor said a short prayer before ending with the normal “Ashes to Ashes” bit and began to lower the casket into the grave. Ashton could barely contain his sadness. His sister grabbed him, pulling him into the strongest embrace he had ever shared with her, and they silently consoled each other as the others began to vacate from around them.
They held hands as they sat in the chairs, the workers getting agitated as an hour passed, but Ashton couldn’t bring himself to leave from the spot his mother would be for eternity. His sister had sent the kids with her husband, so they were left alone to mourn. The weather began to deteriorate at a quicker pace, and they were finally forced from their spots to take refuge in Ashton’s rental. His sister insisted he stay at her place, but Ashton needed to be alone and, after dropping her off at home, he drove to the small motel outside of town. Once in his room, the weight of the world crumpled him to the ground and, as he lay on the shit brown carpet next to crumbs from a previous guest’s dinner, he contemplated taking his own life. He didn’t believe much in the afterlife or heaven and hell, but he figured if there was even the slightest of a chance they existed then he could be with his mother again.
It wasn’t the thought of leaving Dillon behind or his sister with her three kids and a husband that made him change his train of thought, rather, as his eyes focused horizontally with the floor, he noticed a cockroach stumbling closer and closer towards the crumbs that were only six inches from his face. He immediately raised himself from the carpet, gathered the little bit of belongings he had travelled over a thousand miles with, threw his room keys on the front desk of the motel, and quickly headed back to his car. The drive to airport was normally a three hour drive from the desolate area where the town of Kensaw was located, but, at the unsafe speed he was driving, he pulled to the front of O’Hare airport in a little over two hours. He returned his rental car and had already booked a flight back to New Orleans which was leaving the gate in just an hour and a half. His phone had been buzzing since he left the hotel with multiple missed calls from both Dillon and his sister, and he continued to ignore the constant ringing as he sat in the airport bar sucking down bourbon.
He finally passed out in his seat on the plane ride back to New Orleans, the smell of liquor permeating from every pore in his body. When he opened his eyes again, the plane was making its descent into Louis Armstrong, the midnight lights of the city glimmering in the distance. Once his feet hit the ground he arranged for a taxi to take him back home into the melancholy comfort of the French Quarter, and by 1 am he was opening the door to his house. Dillon had been so surprised to see him home so early, but Ashton headed straight for the bedroom. He slept for sixteen hours, awakening the next afternoon, and running directly to the nearest bar. Little did either of them know that this was to become routine for himself, the cologne of alcohol soon a staple to his darkened demeanor.
Two arduous years later, a rehab stay and move behind him, Ashton was now in a completely different predicament. He had just started to grow accustomed to his foreign environment, the large antebellum plantation home that he still had yet to place himself in every room and the vast rural Louisiana fields that seemed to stretch for miles surrounding it, when the pastor arrived on their front porch to preach the word of hate. With the pastors departure came a slew of odd occurrences including his tumble down the stairs, and Ashton felt he was back to square one with the same feelings of unease and worry keeping him a prisoner in his own bed. The searing headache didn’t provide much help either and every move his body made, his mind would go into a tailspin as dizziness swept over him.
The end of October loomed before Ashton felt well enough to move further from the bedroom and master bath. He stood at the top of the stairs gripping the banister as he slowly sauntered downwards to the main floor of the house, his legs heavy with atrophy, and finally reached the foyer. The house had changed a bit from the time he had spent upstairs, more antique furniture filled in the empty spaces of each room, large menacing sculptures were set among random shelves, and the urn they had found was placed prominently on the mantle in the living room. He crossed the living room to inspect the urn, the engravings reflected the sunlight from the window. As his fingers traced the indentions, he felt a rumble in his stomach, as if he had drank spoiled milk, and he pulled himself away. He moved from room to room, each with its own set of items he had never seen before, the nausea subsiding enough for him to continue the search of the house. Ashton finally caught a glimpse of his husband on the porch, and, as he pulled open the front door, his eyes grew in amazement. All of their Halloween decorations from their house in the Quarter were now expertly placed all along the front of the house, and Dillon was busy hanging neon orange lights along the tresses of the railing.
“So this is what you’ve been up to,” Ashton cooed, from the front door. The sudden voice made Dillon jump, nearly falling off the ladder, but he quickly regained his balance. “Yeah, don’t fall. We don’t need two of us with a fucked up head.”
Dillon laughed as Ashton stood on his tiptoes to kiss him. It looked like Dillon was finally able to remove the graffiti that had been plastered on the wall, a failed attempt of Ashton’s. Ashton sat on the wooden rocking chair observing Dillon while he continued to hang the lights. Halloween has always been his favorite holidays, there was something about the season, especially up north. The leaves would transform their green foliage to bright and nearly fluorescent reds, oranges, and browns before shedding their costumes, and, by the time Halloween came about, the soundtrack of crunching leaves beneath your feet was all you needed to herald in the holiday. In the climate here most trees hoarded their green with little change as the season slipped by unnoticed. Ashton always proudly displayed his Halloween pride, spending fair amounts of money to decorate the exterior of their house of Dumaine and, now sitting on their porch in Acadian Springs, he felt once again at home amongst the faux cobwebs and skeletons that now overtook the porch.
“Maybe we should invite some friends down for a party or something,” Dillon finally said, stepping down from the ladder to examine his work.
“I’m not sure anyone would make the drive.” Ashton countered.
“It’d be fun, get some of these new house jitters out. Plus, your interview is coming up so maybe you could catch a ride back to New Orleans with someone.”
“And how do you propose I get back here after?” Ashton asked, but he knew the answer. It was time for Dillon to return to work, something Ashton was not prepared for in the least bit. Dillon’s job had been so gracious to allow him time to get settled in Acadian Springs, even offered to allow him to work remotely and occasionally make trips back to the city when clients were in town. Dillon need
ed to resume his life outside of Ashton, and, as much as Ashton understood the need, he couldn’t bring himself to accept it. The only good thing was his sister, Marcy, would be around to keep him company for some of the days, even though they didn’t share much commonality.
The decorations weren’t the only surprise Dillon had up his sleeve, and Ashton watched as he pulled two of the biggest pumpkins he had ever laid eyes upon out of the closet under the stairs. They nearly consumed the entire dining room table, and Dillon rushed off to the kitchen to get supplies to start carving into them. Ashton loved their traditions, and was impressed that Dillon pulled all of this off while he was healing upstairs. When Dillon returned with cutlery, Ashton wanted so badly to rip his clothes off and make love to the man that had made him happy for so many years. They hadn’t had sex in months, mostly due to his addiction and the events that followed, and he had been yearning to feel Dillon close to him again. Ashton resigned himself to waiting till they headed off to bed for the night, hiding his erection behind the table as they both gutted the pumpkins, separating the seeds to roast at another time.
The sun had disappeared into the night sky when they finished their jack-o-lanterns and placed them on the steps outside. The temperature had dropped a great bit, a small wind whistled through the sugarcane nearby, and, as they shuttered themselves inside the house, harmony was felt by them both. Ashton couldn’t wait to feel the soft blankets surround him and, while Dillon went to shower, he unclothed and slipped underneath the sheets to await his husband. The sweet smell of sandalwood wafted into the room and a few seconds after the water shut off in the bathroom, Dillon’s nude silhouette filled the doorway. Ashton blushed, unseen in the shadows of the room. He couldn’t remember the last time they had made love. As soon as Dillon crawled into bed, Ashton grabbed him and met his lips, spreading them apart with his tongue.
“I love you,” Dillon mumbled, nearly inaudible as Ashton lips moved down to his neck. Ashton’s tongue traced his Adam’s apple and the muscles that were tensing from the sensation. He could hear Dillon’s soft moans in the muteness of the room Ashton began his descent down Dillon’s chest, his tongue swirling around Dillon’s hardened nipples, and he could feel a stiffness pressed firmly against his stomach. Ashton’s mouth stayed stationary as he moved his hand between them, grabbing onto Dillon’s engorged penis, gripping it ever so slightly. Dillon arched up, a positive sign of his enjoyment, and Ashton began to stroke slowly as Dillon arched more.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
“What the fuck was that?” Dillon yelled out. The three loud knocks had shaken the entire house, and Ashton had jumped off the bed and stood shaking. It had come from the front door, but, with it nearing midnight, neither of them could come up with anyone that would arrive so late. The terror set in further as three more pounding noises echoed through the house. Dillon ran out into the hallway and down the stairs, still nude, and Ashton chased after him. Dillon flung open the front door, a cold wind shocking their senses, but there was no one there.
“Who the fuck is out here?” Dillon called out, stepping onto the porch as Ashton cowered behind him. Ashton stepped backwards into the safety of the house as Dillon surveyed the surroundings looking for the culprit, but found no evidence that anyone had knocked on the front door. Dillon reentered the home, locking the door behind him, as Ashton stood in the middle of the foyer confused. Dillon wrapped his arms around him but the panic still lingered, and he wasn’t sure if he was shivering from the cold or fear. The house had become stone quiet again, not even the wind from outside penetrating the walls. Ashton lit a cigarette to soothe his adrenaline, taking a seat in the living room, as Dillon paced the floors. He watched Dillon move from room to room, checking windows and the backdoor, all the while twirling a patch of his hair.
Near 1 am they had calmed down from the sudden interruption and lead themselves back to their bedroom. Although the initial anxiety had alleviated, neither of them could close their eyes. Ashton could see from the corner of his eye that Dillon was still twirling away at his hair, “a nervous tick” Dillon had explained to him on their first date so many years ago. Ashton had only seen the “tick” most recently inside of Bayou Laurent’s group counseling session he had forced Dillon to attend and, now, in a place where they were supposed to find serenity and some sort of normalcy. Since moving in nothing had been normal and the few moments they had had so far in the vicinity of serene was always interrupted by an outside factor. Ashton was sure that most of the oddities could be directly contributed to Reverend Shlepp, or at least someone associated with the hateful man, and his first action in the morning would be calling the authorities once again to give them a piece of his mind. The police officer had said he would call them as soon as his investigation had any movement towards catching the suspect, but the phone had never rung. In the world they lived in now, Ashton knew by constantly pushing a subject, it would lead to a resolution a lot quicker and it didn’t matter to him if he had to call a few times a day for weeks on end just to make sure they could live in Acadian Springs in peace.
EIGHT
“Sheriff, you need to call Ashton Freely. He’s called here six times this morning,” Mark’s deputy said, as he crossed through the threshold of the office.
“Did you send anybody out there?” Mark questioned, not even wondering what was going on. He figured Terry had something to do with whatever the call consisted of and he was furious.
“No, he wanted to speak to you directly,” the deputy responded, as Mark closed the door to his office. He wanted to grab coffee before he made the call, but just as he sat down his phone rang. He wanted to ignore the call, but his hand went directly to the handset, picked it up, and he answered with his name.
“You need to get out here, right now!” he heard the man on the other line scream. Without an introduction he knew it was Ashton Freely.
“Calm down, sir,” Mark replied, “what’s wrong?”
“You just need to get out here.”
Mark hung up, grabbed his car keys that he had just thrown down on his desk, and headed out the door. He rushed out to his patrol car, peeled out of the parking lot, and drove past the town’s limits, speeding down Jean Lafitte. He was at the men’s house in a matter of ten minutes and, as his vehicle approached the house from the long driveway, he could see why the man seemed so urgent on the phone. The wrap around porch, which seemed to have been decorated for Halloween, was now ransacked. Smashed pumpkins littered the bottom of the staircase, the string lights were now ripped down, and a few plastic skeletons were scattered around the front porch. He stepped over the pumpkins on the ground and walked up the stairs. Amongst the broken decorations was broken glass that had come from the windows, and the door was cracked down the middle as if someone had taken an axe to it. His fingers explored the splintered wood, and he heard someone walk up behind him on the yard.
“Still don’t think it’s that preacher friend of yours?” Ashton asked, his arms folded. Mark swiveled around and stared at the man below him. The man’s features had become hardened, dark bags had formed under his eyes, and his hair was wild, as if he had just gotten out of bed. Mark glanced around the wreckage and shook his head.
“This all happened last night?” was all Mark could muster. His foot moved a plastic bone out of his way as he walked around the porch, glass shards crunching under his feet. A small breeze had pulled the curtains from inside out and they flapped around as Ashton met him on the porch.
“Oh, there’s more,” Ashton gestured towards the front door and he entered, as Mark followed reluctantly. The smell of decay enveloped them as they entered, and Mark’s eyes widened at the sight before him. Hanging from the bronze chandelier in the middle of the room, a baby pig swung slightly in the breeze, its innards on the floor below it. Blood still dripped into the pile, and Mark had to look away, covering his nose from the smell. Ashton seemed unfazed, and Mark could see he was waiting for some sort of answer.
“This all h
appened while you were sleeping?” Mark finally asked, “Where’s your friend?”
“Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you people?” Ashton screeched, “My husband ran into town to get cleaning supplies for this fucking mess. What are you going to do about this?”
“I need to get some back up so we can get evidence,” Mark stated, still taking in the gravity of the situation. Now Terry had not only vandalized the home, he had created substantial damage, and that was only the tip of the iceberg. The gutted piglet was another horrifying moment that Terry would need to answer to, and Mark’s anger began to boil over and he excused himself from the house to radio into his deputies at the office. Upon returning the house Ashton had sat down on the couch and stared intently as the pig swayed in the breeze.
“I have some other guys on their way. Try your best not to touch anything, so we can get fingerprints,” Mark said. He was unsure if they even had the supplies at the office for an in depth investigation, but he had told his deputies to bring whatever they had in storage. He began to snap photos of the damage and the pig on his cell phone to collect what details he could without their help as Ashton just watched calmly from the couch. He saw a few more cruisers pull up and soon his three deputies were going through the downstairs combing through the evidence at hand. Mark persuaded Ashton to go outside with him to fill out the necessary reports just as Dillon pulled up to the house.
“Sheriff, what is going to happen here?” Dillon asked, pulling out bags of cleaning supplies from the trunk.
“Well, I’m going to bring Terry in for questioning,” Mark replied. His hand was cramping from the events he was writing down. Every detail was written on the paper, including the first incident with the spray paint and the frightening night they had endured last night.
The House the Devil Built Page 8
