House of Sand: A Dark Psychological Thriller

by Michael J Sanford

  Gwen smiles politely.

  “Well, come on,” Ruthie urges. “We can all sit in the living room. I can grab us some refreshments, it’s no trouble, truly.”

  “We were in the middle of eating and Miss Gwen said she doesn’t want anything,” Paul says.

  “Oh, nonsense, just show her in and I’ll be just a bit. No trouble at all!”

  With Joy on my arm and Aza preceding us, we take a seat on the couch in the living room. Gwen sits on a chair opposing the couch. Paul leans in the doorway, arms folded atop his broad stomach.

  I’ve never seen anyone sit as straight and proper as Gwen. She’s only just arrived and yet she commands a sense of respect and authority. My fingers twitch and I have to slide them under myself to stop from fidgeting.

  “Thank you for the hospitality,” Gwen begins, once more locking eyes with me. I can’t look away. “I’ll keep this short and sweet, as I do not wish to intrude any more than I already have. I’m here because we would like to have you guest on our program, along with your wife and daughter. All expenses will be covered and a generous allowance given for any other costs you may incur during your stay in the city.”

  Pain slowly blossoms at the base of my spine. I can’t speak, but know I don’t have to. Joy, the prosecutor, is always quick to assume control in these situations. It’s one of the things that most drew me to her so many years ago.

  “I assume you have all the required contracts with you,” Joy says, nodding at Gwen’s satchel.

  “Of course,” Gwen says. “That is part of the reason I am here. The other is to answer any questions you may have and convince you, if need be.”

  “Sounds like you want to pay to send them on a vacation,” Paul says. “Now why would you want to do that?”

  “A vacation?” Ruthie asks, entering the living room with a tray of scavenged breakfast items and a pitcher of iced tea. She sets the items down on the coffee table and waits expectantly for a response.

  “Not us,” Paul says.

  “Oh,” Ruthie says, deflating visibly.

  “I apologize,” Gwen says, making no motion toward the food and drink. “You are more than welcome to come to the taping. It would just need to be at your own expense.”

  Paul waves a dismissive hand.

  “You are going to go, aren’t you, Joy?” Ruthie asks.

  Joy wrinkles up her face in thought. Seeing the expression is enough to take the tremble from my hands. It’s the very expression that so captivated me when I first met her. She was trying to work her way through a stack of legal textbooks. I couldn’t even make sense of the titles.

  “Why would you go through all this trouble?” I ask, trying to sit as tall and commanding as Gwen.

  “Our program seeks to uncover and relate stories of selflessness and heroism as a means of providing not just entertainment, but hope to its viewers. A husband fearlessly saving his family from a burning building at great risk to himself is just the sort of story we feature.”

  I nod dumbly. The fire. They want to talk about the fire.

  “Let me assure you that you and your family will be graciously taken care of during your stay. We spare no expense in making sure our guests are properly provided for. Everything is outlined for you here in this packet.”

  Gwen removes a stuffed folder from her satchel and stretches it out to me. Joy leans over and grabs it. “I’ll need some time to look this over,” Joy says.

  “Of course,” Gwen says. “But it is important that I leave here with an answer. Nothing will be official until the contract is signed, but the network needs to know your intention.”

  “We’ll do it!” Aza shouts. “Vacation time!”

  Gwen smiles at Aza, but quickly turns her attention back to me, though I’ve spoken few words. I have no control here. The pain in my spine continues to grow. Warmth grows with it, like tiny embers slowly heating up against my skin, threatening to flare at any moment. They want to talk about the fire.

  Joy looks at me. “It would be nice to get away for a bit, just us three. What do you think?” She bites her lip.

  “Oh please, oh please,” Aza says. “I’ve never been to the big city!”

  The burning sensation spreads and the edges of my vision dim, but I see clearly the optimism in Joy’s eyes. A secondary warmth emanates from her and I want nothing more than to wrap myself up in it. I have no power here.

  I nod.

  “Fantastic,” Gwen says. “Look through the packet and let me know of any questions or concerns. You’ll find my card inside as well.”

  Joy is already leafing through the small stack of papers and smiling. Aza is bouncing up and down at my side.

  “Uh, when—when do we leave?” I ask. My mouth is dry like tinder. It would only take a spark.

  “A private shuttle will be provided on Wednesday morning. The taping is scheduled for Thursday afternoon. The rest of the week will be yours to enjoy the city. We very much look forward to hearing your story,” Gwen says.

  The story of the fire I set.

  Click.

  Gwen and Joy begin discussing the finer details, but it’s just background noise. Aza excitedly dances around the room, but I can’t hear her laughter. As I watch my joyous family buzz with excitement around me, all I hear is the snap and crackle of hungry flames. The pain in my back is piercing, lancing holes in my abdomen and chest, making it difficult to think about anything else. The air tastes of smoke.

  Wordlessly, I get up and move for the front door. I don’t think anyone even notices; they’ve all moved to crowd around Gwen and Joy.

  Outside, I stumble to my car and fall into the driver’s seat, shutting the door behind me. Even in the shade of a towering weeping willow, the air inside the car is hot and stale. I pull a bottle of pills from my pocket and take some. I pinch my eyes shut and grip the steering wheel.

  The pain slowly recedes into numbness, but the stench of the car intensifies. I smell smoke and gasoline. I smell sweat mingled with cigarette smoke and cheap perfume.

  “Got a light?”

  With a violent twitch, I look over, but see no one. The smell is oppressive, pooling in my lungs, drowning me. I look in the backseat. It’s empty.

  Bing.

  My cell phone lights up from the cup holder in the center console. I stare at it, blinking against a haze of cigarette and wood smoke. I haven’t touched my phone since that night. I can’t remember putting the thing back together, but there it sits, calling to me.

  Bing.

  I grab it. Over a dozen missed texts and calls. All from Ty.

  Uhh. Mmm. The sound of flesh slapping against wallpapered drywall.

  I don’t read the messages.

  Bing.

  I grip the phone in my hand so tightly, I hope to crush it, wishing I could crush the man on the other end.

  Bing. Mmm.

  I turn the phone off and toss it aside. The veil of smoke in the car thickens. It tastes like perfume and burns like acid. Leaning over, I root around beneath the passenger’s seat until my fingers touch glass.

  I uncork the bottle and take a long pull. The liquor burns its own trail of fire down my throat and into my gut, where it destroys all other sensations. With a sigh, I lean back in my seat and shut my eyes.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Aza is sitting in the passenger’s seat when I wake up. She’s scribbling furiously in a sketchpad and turns away as I stir. Her cast is made to look like flames, jagged shapes of orange and red. She must have colored it while I slept.

  “Don’t look,” she says.

  The car is facing west and the sun sits low in the sky. Autumn is Joy’s favorite season, though I never much cared for it. Smells too much of death. A world dying, crumbling to dust, and all people want to do is take pictures of it. It’s morbid.

  “What time is it?” I ask, largely to myself. I paw around for my phone, but can’t find it.

  “You missed dinner,” Aza says.

  “Shit. Was your mothe
r mad?”

  Aza shrugs. “Nah. She said you need your rest. She saved you a plate. I saved you a cookie.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “But then I ate it.” She turns and smiles at me. There’s still chocolate in her teeth.

  “You, Aza, are a monster.”

  She crosses her eyes and makes a gruesome face.

  I laugh and lean back in my seat. I’ve slept most of the day, and it seems to be just what I needed. I glance over at Aza. Her face is wrinkled up in concentration. She has a fistful of markers and colored pencils.

  I yawn and stretch, moving enough to shake life back into my limbs.

  “You slept a long time. Like a big fat bear.”

  “Your mom was right. I needed the rest. Almost good as new, now.”

  A half-empty whiskey bottle is wedged between the center console and Aza’s seat. The cap is still off. Moving quickly and silently, I pluck it from its spot and casually set it on the other side.

  “I wasn’t going to take it,” Aza says without looking up.

  “What?” I ask, playing innocent. Something about having an open liquor bottle next to my eight-year-old daughter feels…irresponsible.

  “Your booze. I tried some. It’s gross, anyway.”

  “You what?!”

  “Done!” Aza chimes, thrusting a picture toward me.

  She’s drawn a large house, engulfed in vibrant flames. At the center of the house is a man, hands on his hips, unperturbed by the inferno raging around him.

  “I suppose that’s me,” I say, pointing at the man.

  “Duh.”

  “Why am I smiling? You drew me in the middle of a fire.”

  “The fire.”

  “Okay, the fire, but you didn’t answer my question.”

  “I know,” Aza says. “Do you like it?”

  Honestly, I have no idea how I feel about the image. There’s something haunting about it. Not visually, but something deeper, hidden beneath the colors.

  “Of course,” I say.

  “I drew one of mom with her hair on fire. I don’t think she liked it very much.”

  I nod dumbly, still staring at the grinning picture of myself, blissfully surrounded by death and destruction. Is this what I am? Or, worse, is this how Aza sees me?

  “I saw you that night,” Aza says.

  I snap my attention to her at once. “What?” I’m not sure I heard her correctly.

  Aza smooths out a new piece of drawing paper and digs through her marker collection.

  “Aza?”

  She looks up. “What?”

  “What do you mean, ‘I saw you that night’?”

  Aza frowns. “What do you mean? I didn’t say that.”

  “I—” I study her face, searching for a tell.

  Bing.

  I jump.

  “Jumpy one, ain’t ya?” Aza asks in a funny voice.

  I force a laugh as I try to suppress a gag. My phone chimes again and I locate it under my seat.

  It’s Joy, texting me from the guest house.

  I slide the phone into my pocket and open the door. “Time to head in, kiddo.”

  “Dad, you are so lame,” Aza whines.

  I don’t respond. Instead, I simply stare at her until she picks up her things and climbs out of the car. I follow her into the house.

  “That a girl,” I say.

  “Daaad.”

  “Why don’t you go find your grandparents?” I say. “It’s not quite bedtime.”

  Aza stomps off further into the house, calling for her grandfather. Challenging him to a make-believe game of hers. One she’ll no doubt win.

  I cut through the kitchen, snag the covered plate of food left in the fridge, and head out the back door.

  I find Joy lounging in bed, book in hand, dressed in sweats. Her hair is down and she’s wearing her glasses. I don’t think she’s wearing makeup, but the room smells richly of her perfume. It reminds me of the first time we met. I can’t remember smelling it since. With Joy smiling at me as I enter and the rich scent of a cherished memory in the air, I feel wholly at peace. And this makes me a bit uneasy.

  “Wasn’t sure I’d see you tonight,” Joy says as I sit on the edge of the bed and place the plate on my lap. “I was just about to come bring you a blanket and pillow.”

  “Yeah, I know. Sorry. The whole thing with the TV show… It just put me on edge. The thought of people I don’t know staring at me through their TVs gives me the creeps. I needed to get away from all of it.”

  “It’s okay,” Joy says. She sets her book down and climbs to her knees at my back. Without a word, she pulls my shirt off and rubs my shoulders, resting her chin on the top of my head.

  “Oh, spicy meatloaf!” I say with pleasant surprise as I peel back the tin foil covering the plate.

  “I know you well enough to save you a piece.”

  “Thanks,” I say, lopping off a chuck with my fork and stuffing it into my mouth. It burns in the best way.

  “Aza didn’t disturb you, did she? She insisted on babysitting you while you slept. Her words, not mine. And you know how she likes to talks to you while you sleep.”

  I laugh, nearly spitting meatloaf. “Nah, she was fine. Drew me a creepy picture.”

  “Was your hair on fire?”

  “She told me about the one she drew for you, but no, it was just me in the middle of our burning house. Oh, and she’s calling in the fire now.”

  Joy sighs and slides her hands down to my lower back. She presses just enough to be felt, but not hard enough to spark any pain in my still-healing spine. “I’m worried about her. I figured there’d be some lasting effects from going through everything she did—her fall, the fire. But it doesn’t seem to bother her much at all. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she enjoyed the whole thing, twisted as that might be.”

  “Maybe it’s just shock. Give her a couple days and I bet she comes down off her high. Besides, she hasn’t been in school for a while, and she loves hanging out with your parents, don’t ask me why.”

  Joy presses hard at the base of my spine, causing me to jump and drop my fork on the floor. “Oops,” she says.

  “I wasn’t saying anything bad about your parents. Just that I don’t know why an eight-year-old loves the company of a pair of senior citizens so much.”

  “Well, I’m thankful for it. Gives us a little more time to ourselves. Something we haven’t had in forever.”

  I lean back into her and close my eyes as she wraps her arms around my chest. Her chin fits perfectly atop my shoulder, our cheeks pressed together.

  “How much longer we going to hold her out of school?” I ask.

  “Just until after we get back from the city. Monday or Tuesday.”

  “I assume you’ll go back to work then, too?”

  Joy squeezes me. “I don’t know. I was thinking I’d take a bit more time off.”

  I break from her grasp, set my plate aside, and turn to face her. “Really? I figured you’d be itching to get back.”

  “I know, I know. It’s just that… I don’t know. Things feel different between us now. Better different. I don’t want things to go back to how they were before. We were both a mess. Besides, there’s still the matter of settling things with the insurance company over the house, and I know that won’t be easy. The firm can manage another week or two without me.”

  “A week or two?”

  Joy blushes, something I’ve never seen before. “I want to see where this goes. You and me. Feels new, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who would have thought our house burning down and nearly killing us could turn into such a blessing?”

  “It can’t be that easy. You and me. Changing. Not that I don’t love how things have worked out. It’s just…”

  Joy lies down on her side and motions for me to do the same. I snatch up a last bite of meatloaf and climb into bed. She smiles and wipes grease from the corner of my mouth. Then she gently forces
me onto my back and rests her head on my chest. I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of her hair. It doesn’t smell like shampoo or any commercial product. It smells like her. I wrap my arm around her and squeeze.

  “As nice as this feels,” Joy says, “it’s not going to be easy. Changing never is. And I was thinking that once things with the house are settled down, you might… I mean, we might go back to Dr. Foster’s.”

  “Counseling?” I ask.

  “Maybe it will be different this time.”

  I stare at the ceiling, trying to conjure a memory of Dr. Foster. I recognize the name at once, but it’s little more than a passing familiarity. I catch the scent of vanilla in the air and see Dr. Foster’s face. She’s tall and thin. I used to joke to Joy that she looked like a stork. The chairs were overstuffed and her office too bright.

  “Of course,” I say, giving Joy a reassuring squeeze. “It can’t hurt.”

  “Oh, I’m so happy! Aza could come along with us this time, too, make it more family counseling than just couples’ therapy. And you can go back to meeting with Dr. Green—”

  Pain explodes at the base of my spine and races up to blind me. I cry out and toss Joy aside as I roll out of bed and land on my hands and knees.

  Tick.

  I press my forehead against the rug and scream. The pain intensifies and paralyzes me.

  Tick. Tick.

  No, not now. Why am I hearing that fucking clock? I’m with Joy. Things are different. We’re changing. I don’t even know who Dr. Green is. All I know right now is that I hope the pain I’m experiencing kills me or grows enough to block out the thundering clock in my head. Something has to give.

  There’s gentle pressure in the middle of my upper back and a soft breeze on my cheek. I grunt against my frozen limbs. I curse the pain.

  The sound of the clock softens and the pain in my back ebbs.

  “It’s okay. Everything is okay.” It’s Joy’s voice I hear now, gently whispering in my ear, crowding out the ticking. It’s her hand on my back, forcing down the pain.

  My muscles release and I collapse on the floor, gasping and sobbing in the most undignified manner.

  Joy lays down at my side, tight against me. “Forget what I said about counseling.”