The House the Devil Built

by Benjamin Hively

  The technician arrived, and soon he was busy working to replace the broken windows. Halloween had come and gone without celebration and while the man worked, Dillon tore down the remaining decorations and placed them neatly into boxes. It was depressing, Halloween had always been a big tradition for them but with everything happening, November had crept in before he even realized it. Once he packed everything up, he moved the boxes into the barn, next to the urn he had removed from the house. It had taken him nearly an hour to replace whatever ashes he could gather from the mess Ashton had made and had immediately placed it back in the barn where they had originally found it. Dillon had felt guilty for bringing it inside in the first place, but now the guilt shifted for allowing the remains to be disturbed.

  He returned to the house, the technician still busy at work. He was happy that the windows were being replaced and hoped the harassment had come to an end. It had been quiet, at least when it came to the preacher’s involvement and he figured Mark had finally talked some sense into the man. As much as he wanted to press charges against Shlepp, he took the high road on the subject and decided as long as it came to an end, he would forget about it. He wanted the least amount of stress and if that could be obtained without lawyers and courtrooms, he was glad. Dillon anticipated after Ashton recovered, that things would finally settle and they could continue on their quiet existence. Ashton could write in peace.

  He stood on the porch, inspecting the yard and beyond. Even with the unusual endless autumn rain, it seemed the fields around them were dying, the sugar cane turning a pale yellow, crinkling in the wind. Dillon didn’t know the first thing about farming but the sugar cane’s presence was strange to him so late in the year, wondering if anyone in the town was going to harvest what had survived. He couldn’t imagine what the property would look like with empty fields surrounding them, it would seem so odd and vacant he thought to himself. Even inside the house, so many rooms remained empty or filled with unopened boxes. They didn’t have enough belongings to fill such a large house, but the price had been right and Dillon figured they had the rest of their lives together to furnish and adorn the massive dwelling.

  “I’ve always wanted to see this house up close,” the man said, stopping his activity on the window. The man’s sudden admission brought Dillon out of his head and he smiled.

  “It’s a beautiful property, for sure.”

  “Can I see inside?” the man asked, “Morbid curiosity, I guess.”

  “Morbid curiosity?” Dillon responded.

  “Yeah, as kids we’d always try to dare someone to come here.”

  “I’m confused.”

  “The girl, you never heard the story?”

  “Obviously not.” Dillon was getting frustrated by the man’s inability to spill the beans.

  “Well supposedly, there was a girl that lived here back in the 60’s or something. Her father shot her, then turned the gun on himself.”

  Dillon’s mouth dropped at the information that had just been relayed to him. The realtor never mentioned such an event and Dillon questioned the man’s claims. “Are you sure?”

  “I guess it could just be an urban legend or something. Every town has that house, you know?”

  “I suppose,” Dillon replied, unable to compute the information in his mind.

  “Can I still look inside?” the man pushed and Dillon agreed, opening the front door. The man acted like an excited child and passed Dillon, entering the home. “This place is huge, bet you paid a pretty price.” The man’s last statement confirmed the “legend”. The price had been too good to be true for a reason. The man continued peeking into rooms and finally made it to the staircase to go upstairs.

  “Not upstairs, my partner isn’t feeling well.” Dillon said, stopping the man. He looked disappointed, but thanked him for the tour and returned to his work outside. Dillon was furious that no one had admitted to the house’s history, including Mark who would certainly be aware of what had happened here long ago. He needed more details, needed to know if the urn outside contained the contents of the victim, and he traversed the stairs to see if Ashton was awake to inform him about the alleged information. The door to the bedroom was slightly open and Dillon pushed it, the door swinging inwards. Ashton’s side of the bed was empty, the blankets pushed to the bottom of the bed.

  “Ashton?” Dillon inquired, moving towards the bathroom. The pungent aroma was suffocating and Dillon covered his nose, gagging. The bathroom was void of Ashton as well and Dillon swiveled to search the other rooms, exiting the room. The search was fruitless, and Dillon began to panic. He rushed downstairs to hunt for Ashton and just like upstairs, the rooms were empty.

  “Did you see someone leave?” he asked the man working on the windows. Both of their cars were still in the drive, the man shook his head, and Dillon pulled out his cell phone dialing Ashton. To his surprise, he heard ringing coming from their bedroom, and he took the steps two at a time. The room was still empty, the ringing was coming from underneath the bed, and Dillon snatched it. Dillon threw the phone on the bed and went to the hallway to escape the odor, dialing Mark’s number.

  “Hello?” Mark answered.

  “Ashton’s gone!” Dillon hollered into the phone.

  “Calm down, what do you mean he’s gone?” Mark questioned.

  “I don’t know, he’s not in the house. Both cars are here.”

  “Maybe he went for a walk…”

  “He’s been bedridden. Something’s not right, Mark. Please…” Dillon’s voice reeked of dismay. The other end went quiet for a few seconds, and Dillon wondered if Mark had ended the call.

  “I’ll head that way, he couldn’t have gotten far,” Mark finally answered, and Dillon breathed a sigh of relief. After the call, Dillon searched the grounds, checking the barn and making a circle around the house to see if Ashton was somewhere outside, but he was nowhere to be seen. The technician was still busy tinkering with the windows, and Dillon anxiously waited, wanting to rush away in his car in search of Ashton.

  Dillon wanted a shot to take the edge off, and he went inside to open his secret stash. He went to the hall closet upstairs, standing on his tiptoes to reach to the back of the top shelf where his hands only found dust. He frantically grabbed a step stool from the kitchen and returned to the closet, stepping up and peering onto the shelf. It was barren, the bottle missing from its original location. Stepping down, his brain started to come to an uneasy conclusion, and he searched his bedroom for the bottle. Just like Ashton, it had completely vanished, and he barreled down the stairs as he heard a car pull into the drive.

  As expected, Ashton was not seated in Mark’s cruiser. Dillon stopped short of the vehicle, trying to catch his breath as Mark stepped out. The man rubbed his back softly, trying his best to reassure him. Dillon hadn’t slowed down since his realization that Ashton was gone, and the sudden stop, made him lightheaded. Mark steadied him, the man’s strong hands on each of his shoulders, and Dillon felt safe. After a few moments, he was able to finally to completely gain control of his body and breath normally, and he looked at the man, concern etched in his eyes.

  “I think he’s been drinking,” Dillon admitted.

  “I didn’t see him on the roads. Where would he normally go?”

  “The bars.”

  “There’s no bars in town, the closest one is at a hotel ten miles away,” Mark replied, “You sure you checked everywhere?”

  “I checked the house, I checked the barn, I checked everywhere,” Dillon answered, getting frustrated with Mark’s apprehension. He casted his eyes down to the grass and back up towards the tan fields and his heart began to race. “The fields.”

  “What?” Mark questioned.

  “What if he went into the fields?”

  “They go for miles, we’d never be able to find him.”

  Dillon ignored the man’s doubt and ran towards the field past the barn. He stopped for a second, contemplating whether he should run head first into the su
garcane but, instead stepped over a small trench that ran along the front of the field, and crossed into the tall foliage. It was too thick to run through, the dry stalks sharp enough to cut skin if he tried such a thing. Once he travelled a few yards, he turned around in a circle, completely surrounded by the sugarcane and he began to feel claustrophobic as it pushed in on him from every direction.

  “Ashton!” Dillon bellowed. The only sound that responded was the breeze pulling the sugarcane back and forth. He started to become disorientated, his sense of direction dissipating. He walked back towards to what he believed to be his property, but it only seemed like he was getting further into the field. If Ashton was somewhere in the field, he had plenty of time to get lost within the labyrinth of tan and brown, just as Dillon was doing currently. He could hear Mark shout his name, the complete opposite direction he was walking, and he swiveled around, thankful for the directional beacon. It took him nearly ten minutes to escape the field, exiting fifty feet from where he originally entered. Mark was standing at the edge of the field, shaking his head.

  “My best advice is to not go back in there,” Mark said sternly.

  “So what the hell should I do?” Dillon responded, rubbing a cut on his arm.

  “I’ll put an APB out for Ashton. He’s on foot, which means that he couldn’t have gotten far and someone, somewhere will eventually come across him.”

  “Eventually? You’re not good at pep talks,” Dillon declared, walking back towards the house. Mark followed and, when he reached the porch, Dillon turned around to face him. “Why didn’t you tell me about the house?”

  “What about it?” Mark inquired innocently. Dillon stopped for a moment, staring intently at the man. Mark looked completely taken aback by the sudden question, but Dillon wanted answers.

  “The girl that got killed here.”

  “Oh. That.”

  “Yes, that. That’s some serious shit,” Dillon angrily snarled.

  “When should have I mentioned it? When your house was spray painted, the windows bashed out, or when Ashton busted his head open?” Mark quipped, “I’ve worked more since you guys showed up than I have in the last year.” He was right, and Dillon immediately felt guilty for questioning the man’s silence. He sat down on the steps, put his head on his hands, and tried to get a grip of the situation.

  “I’m sorry,” was all Dillon could muster. The sergeant sat down next to him and Dillon felt an urge to put his head on his shoulder, and he slowly leaned over. To his surprise, the man didn’t push him away and allowed him to rest on his shoulder.

  “No I’m sorry. I just have a lot going on, I shouldn’t have brought it to work with me.” Mark responded, and Dillon raised his head up. The man’s admission made him more human than Dillon had ever realized, and he hugged the man. Mark squeezed him back, and Dillon could hear a muffled cry coming from the man’s throat. “I think I’m getting a divorce.”

  Dillon allowed him to break down, the man’s tears soaking his shirt. He wasn’t sure how to handle Mark’s confession but allowed him to release his emotions. He gripped Mark harder, reassuring him that he was here for him. The man continued to cry and finally gained control again, pulling away and wiping his eyes. Dillon looked at him, the man’s vulnerability written all over his face.

  “What happened?” Dillon inquired. Dillon could feel the discomfort radiating from Mark, the breakdown embarrassing him. Mark stood up and stretched, looking back at the windows.

  “Glad you’re getting those fixed,” Mark said motioning towards the windows, “I’m going to get to the station and put that APB out. Let me know if you hear anything.”

  “Of course. Thank you.”

  “No. Thank you.” Mark replied, getting back in his cruiser and leaving the driveway.

  NINE

  The Shady Rest Motel was far from what Mark considered home. Every time he brought himself back to the motel, the reality of the situation would hit and he’d find himself in the bar, coyly flirting with the bartender, and going back to his room alone. He spoke to Denise only when he wanted to talk to Amelia and his little girl seemed so confused by the entire episode playing out, and all Mark could do was her reassure that everything would be ok. He wasn’t sure if he sounded convincing enough, because even he didn’t believe that anything would alright anytime soon. The guilt he harbored for Marsh getting sent away enveloped him constantly, like an extra layer of skin, and he checked his phone frequently waiting for a call from him. After researching Re-Course, he began to persuade himself that Marsh was better off there than in the tumultuous environment that now surrounded them but even with his self-persuasion, Re-Course sounded more like a concentration camp than the summer camps he went to as a kid.

  Mark had stopped by the station, put out an APB for Ashton, and slunk back to the motel to get his bearings. He worried for the men at the Boudreaux Plantation, adding to the multitude of other stresses that weighed him down. This was certainly the lowest point of his life, the depression coming in waves faster than any hurricane he had gone through. At times, in his room, he felt oddly free, but as quickly as the feelings came, they’d be replaced with sadness and an anger so deep, he thought he’d snap. Today was no different. He hated that he had started to bare his soul to Dillon, in his uniform, but there was something about Dillon that made him feel secure enough to open up. He was beginning to develop admiration for the man, and even though years of church and his marriage telling him that it was wrong, being around Dillon made him feel different.

  It was that admiration that fueled his fantasies as masturbated, and he would envision making love to the man. He had never had a sexual encounter with someone of the same sex but the pornography he searched online became more of a study guide, and he would take mental notes of the men’s actions, their moans of ecstasy, and the sheer primal throes of passion. The scenes that played out were so much erotic than any time he had made love to Denise, a spark he had never realized that was missing from their passion. What had started as simple “dirty” curiosity, now turned into a full-fledged pursuit at succumbing to his desires, and he wondered how long these feelings had laid dormant. He knew Terry’s opinion, but had people like him unconsciously forced him into the “normal” lifestyle he had had for so many years?

  He removed his uniform, releasing some of the stress immediately. He loved his career path, but there was times that mere thought of putting on the uniform was more than he could handle. He had spent years getting to where he was and everyone around him treated him so differently now, not realizing just like any human being that he too had issues to face. It was those issues that made it so freeing to be without the uniform and stand naked, a physical manifestation of his deepest need. Mark checked himself out in the mirror in the room, the small tuft of hair on his chest was beginning to stretch further out as he aged, pushing downwards towards his abs. He didn’t have the best body in the world, but he found himself to be attractive, one thing Denise never commented on. He would constantly inflate her ego with comments on her appearance, noticing each time she would do her hair differently or got a new dress but never in the years of the marriage did she criticize his appearance whether good or bad. It was petty, he thought, but he wanted to hear approval and he had spent so many of those years waiting patiently to hear it.

  He dressed in a t-shirt and jeans to attend his newest tradition of a day end drink at the bar downstairs. He stopped by the cluttered office, paid another week’s worth of rent on the room, and walked inside the bar. He had forgotten that it was Saturday, so the bar was somewhat busy but he found himself a seat at the end of the bar, and waited for the bartender to reach him.

  “Hey Mark!” the bartender shouted from the other end, handing a drink to another customer. Mark waited patiently for his turn, quietly looking through his cell phone. He had waited for a phone call from Dillon saying Ashton had returned but no call came through. Finally he had a drink in front of him. The bartender had officially introduced himself
as Trevor the second day Mark arrived in the drinking hole, and he felt he had a companion in this strange new place. Although the man was too busy to talk, the drink provided him everything he needed for a relaxing moment in another day of craziness. He watched as Trevor paraded back and forth, pouring mixed drinks and sliding beers to the other patrons, making notes of the man’s appearance. His alternative style was different than Mark had ever seen in Acadian Springs, tight black pants that accentuated the man’s package and held onto the man’s ass, showing off the ample curvature. Trevor’s shirt seemed two sizes too small and hugged his skinny frame. Each time he would reach for something on a shelf, Mark could see the beginning of the man’s ass crack, and he had to look away in fear that someone would realize he was checking out the bartender.

  The bar patrons all looked like they had seen better days. Most appeared as if they had spent most of their life in the dim lights, the harshness of their face hiding in the shadows, and Mark wondered if anyone else was aware of the obviously gay bartender. No one seemed to notice or care that Trevor flamboyantly rushed from one side of the bar to the other, but as their only choice, Mark couldn’t see them complaining. Mark caught Trevor’s eyes, smiled as Trevor winked in his direction, and he polished off his drink just so the man would return and offer up his hospitality.

  “Feeling better?” Trevor asked, grabbing Mark’s empty glass and filling it back up with more liquor than a normal drink should have. “You look in better spirits at least.”

  “Just another day,” Mark blushed. Trevor grabbed his arm and shook it before returning to the other end of the bar to serve the others. Mark sat back in his seat, his eyes perusing the crowd. The drink was strong and each sip he took, he had to exhale deeply to force the taste out of his mouth. He watched as a couple exited the bar, the door swinging open enough to force blinding light into the dark space, and he squinted. Someone had passed them as they exited and the person stood in the darkness, trying to search the place for a seat. Once Mark’s eyes adjusted to the sudden light and darkness, his heart fell. Ashton was no farther than twenty feet from him, a stark comparison of the man he had encountered before. His clothes were tattered, his t-shirt ripped as if he had been attacked by a rabid dog, and his pants were smudged in dirt. Ashton was barefoot, his feet bloody from the trek.