Home Is Where the Horror Is Page 6

  I suppressed the urge to raise my hands and tell him to take whatever he wanted. I decided to act strong and ignorant to any wrongdoing on his part. I hoped if he was planning on robbing me my appearance was unexpected and my ignorance would give him a chance to invent a story for his presence and he could apologize and leave without a physical altercation.

  I managed to sound firm. “Can I help you?”

  He said, “You the new tenant?”

  I expected his voice to be feeble but it was firm and confident. I could tell by the slight movements he made that if I was being robbed it wasn’t going to end well on my part.

  “Yes,” I said. “This was my mother’s house. I’ve inherited it for a short time.”

  He gave a half smile that made him appear cruel before he became expressionless once again. Large drops of rain pelted the roof. I suppressed a shiver attempting to run down my spine. I was filled with a sensation of fear and goosebumps rose on my forearms and back. There was something off about the man. The words that came to mind were ‘inhuman’ and ‘wrong’. I wanted him out of my house in the quickest fashion possible.

  He must have sensed my apprehension. He unfolded his arms and put his hands in his pockets and tried to appear more casual. He wore short sleeves and when he unfolded his arms I noticed two thick scars running down his inner forearms, from wrist to elbow. Two more words invaded and echoed in my mind: suicide scars. I averted my gaze and wasn’t sure if he’d caught my recognition of the scars.

  He said, “I’m your neighbor. Name’s Lloyd.”

  “Oh,” I said. I closed the gap between us and extended my hand. “I’m Evan.”

  He stared at my hand and it was clear he was not going to shake it. I glimpsed at the scars on his forearms again and had an overwhelming desire to photograph them. But Lloyd didn’t strike me as the type of person who’d understand or appreciate what I was trying to accomplish by photographing his scars. In fact, a tremor of panic surged through me as I realized he may have already pawed through my things while I was gone, discovered my photographs, and this was the reason for his cold demeanor. I dropped my hand awkwardly, took a step back, and side-glanced the photos stacked against the wall. Phillip had stacked them picture side in and I silently thanked him.

  Being closer to the man did nothing to dull the ill feelings in my gut. The only sound was the patter of rain now steadily falling and a faint rumble of thunder.

  “Uh.” I struggled with how to respond. “Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Water? Beer? That’s about all I have at the moment.”

  “No, thank you. I saw people fooling around down here again. I wanted to make sure squatters or thieves weren’t ransacking the place.”

  “No, sir.”

  His eyes narrowed as if my response had offended him. “Your momma was a nice lady. Kept to herself.”

  “No worries here,” I said. “I’m a private person myself. You and your wife won’t hear a peep from me.”

  “Daughter,” he said. He clenched his jaw.

  I couldn’t put my finger on the reason for his aggressive and dislikeable attitude. It was as if he took umbrage with my very existence. I briefly wondered if he hoped to purchase the cabin and keep the whole area to himself and my staying in the cabin hindered his plans.

  I said, “Oh. Sorry.”

  “Married? Kids?”

  “Me?”

  He stared at me expectantly. I got the feeling I was being interrogated for some vile or malicious reason and I didn’t feel comfortable answering his questions. I told myself the guy was one from the swarm of rednecks I’d encountered at The Pit Stop and would be a cantankerous asshole to anyone he thought threatened his right to his property or who might utter the words ‘gun control’.

  “No,” I said.

  His cruel half grin appeared and disappeared again. “A loner.”

  “Yes.”

  He grunted in such a way I wasn’t sure if he was acknowledging my situation or mocking me. He pulled his hands from his pockets and crossed his arms again, concealing the scars, and looked around at my scattered belongings. “Well,” he said. “I’ll get goin’ and let you get back to . . .” He took a few steps toward the door.

  “Oh, sure.”

  I followed him to the door. If he wasn’t such a peculiar character, throwing my instincts into warning mode, I would’ve insisted he stay until the rain passed or lightened. Instead I said, “If you ever need anything feel free to stop by.” And the moment the words were out of my mouth I regretted it instantly.

  He laid his hand on the frame of the screen door, peered over his shoulder at me, and said, “I’ll be sure to do that. Be careful out here, boy.” He tapped his temple and narrowed his vison on me. “The mind tends to play tricks when it’s forced to be a companion to itself.”

  For a split second I swore I caught a glimpse of an evil intent and warning from him. Or maybe it was something else entirely. It wasn’t something you could see on the surface or hear in his voice but something radiating from him. Something corrupt deep within his soul. He exuded dread and misery and, whatever it was, it gave me the sensation of a vicious undertow that could suck you into it like slipping into a warm bath. You would drown in it before you even knew the water was filling your lungs. I could browse a dictionary for days trying to find the words to describe how his presence made me feel but I don’t think any of them could describe the wrongness radiating from the man. The guy creeped me the fuck out to the nth degree.

  I nodded in answer and breathed a heavy sigh of relief when he slipped out the screen door and into the rain.

  I closed the main door behind him and locked it before crossing the cabin and doing the same to the other door. I still didn’t feel comfortable until I closed all the windows and had drawn the curtains shut. With everything closed the cabin was stuffy with heat and humidity. Something about Lloyd gave me the sensation of being watched and exposed even after I locked down the cabin against the outside. I tried to tell myself it was all in my head but I couldn’t shake the feeling.

  Something very bad happened in the exchange with Lloyd and I didn’t know exactly what it was or how to describe it. I decided to call Phillip in the hopes he could somehow comfort me. I hoped talking with him would prove it was all in my head and his reassurance would make me realize I was overanalyzing the guy and the whole situation. I pulled the cellphone from my pocket but there was no reception.

  I retrieved my laptop and nestled into the pile of blankets on the floor. My body was still sore and I knew getting back to my feet would be a chore. It took twenty minutes of fiddling with the wireless router program to get my computer connected to the Internet.

  There was an email confirming a purchase of one of my framed photos. I groaned. I wanted the money from a paying customer but packaging up a photo and shipping it out felt like an exhausting task at the moment. There were more pressing matters I needed to tend to. I opened a new email and sent Phillip a rushed rehashing of the bizarre exchange with Lloyd. I asked him if he knew anything more about the neighbors. I wanted to know if Mom had told him anything other than they took out her trash when she was ill. I made sure to emphasize how creepy the guy was. I didn’t want Phillip to think I was a whiny milquetoast who couldn’t hack it on his own in the middle of the sticks so I omitted few things, but making sure to reiterate how a stranger entering my home when I wasn’t there wasn’t kosher with me.

  When I was finished checking and sending emails I proceeded to research furniture stores in the area. There were only two. The same two I was able to pull up on my phone previously. One didn’t have a website and the other store’s site was littered with ill-lit photos of hideously overstuffed leather sofas and absurdly overpriced mattresses. I thought, How can anyone afford to live on their own?

  My next Internet stop was craigslist. But the exceptionally rural area surrounding me was lacking in a decent selection and without renting a U-Haul and hiring someone to help me move the ite
ms or begging Phillip to come back and help me I was screwed. I resorted to knowing I wouldn’t have a bed to sleep in tonight or maybe even within a week and searched for a discounted online store. I found one within a few hours of the cabin promising next day delivery. I signed up for their credit card to obtain the interest-free financing for a year and proceeded to hastily add items to the cart. When I was done I’d managed to snag a queen-size bed with a decent plain frame, a small dresser, a discontinued sofa in an inoffensive gray, a coffee table, a small black dinette table and chairs, and two wooden chairs for the deck because I never expected company other than Phillip periodically. I was pleased when I realized I hadn’t managed to spend a third of what I’d imagined the cost would be. The quality of the furniture probably wasn’t great but beggars couldn’t be picky.

  A notification appeared in the lower right-hand corner of my computer screen informing me I had two unread emails. I found a confirmation of my furniture order and a reply from Phillip. Phillip informed me he hadn’t met the neighbors in person. Mom told him they’d helped her off and on but she didn’t elaborate on them. All he knew about them was secondhand and that wasn’t very much. He wrote off Lloyd’s peculiar behavior to being a sheltered hillbilly. He was probably right. I wrote a brief response agreeing with him and informed him I would begin work on the cabin next week after I was settled.

  My exchange with Phillip calmed me some. I closed my laptop and looked around the cabin. The pile of towels still needed to be washed but I didn’t feel like dragging the pile down the steps while it was raining. I needed to shower and knew the hot water would soothe my worn muscles.

  My legs ached when I rose and one of my feet had fallen asleep. I couldn’t wait for the sofa to arrive. I dug through the boxes Phillip helped me move until I found the crappy pair of computer speakers Naomi gave me as a gift when I first moved in with her. She bought them for the office so I could listen to music while working on photos. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I preferred headphones to block out everything when needed: the television show she was watching in the other room, the cupboard doors slamming as she retrieved a glass in the kitchen, the thudding of her feet down the hall on her way to the restroom. I plugged the speakers into my laptop, started a playlist, and adjusted the volume to a level that wasn’t too offensive.

  I retrieved the Tylenol bottle and took two before pulling one of the unwashed towels from the pile. I spent a long time under the hot water as I waited for the Tylenol to kick in. The water did wonders for my aches and pains and I let it run until it grew cold. I became frustrated after exiting the shower and having to deal with a new towel. It left traces of lint all over my body. I had to wait for my skin to air dry completely before brushing the lint off.

  I continued with my normal grooming routine of shaving. I applied shaving cream to my face and lifted the razor but something caused me to stop short of applying the razor to my skin. What was the point in keeping a clean-cut appearance? I didn’t need to impress anyone anymore. Naomi was the one who’d complain if my face was stubbly and she chose to remove herself from my life. I didn’t have to shave if I didn’t want to. I stared aimlessly at my own reflection for an undetermined amount of time, holding the razor inches from my face.

  Staring at my reflection became hypnotic and my mind began to feel hazy and sluggish. Without a thought or hesitation I unscrewed the handle of my father’s vintage razor and slipped the butterfly blade free of its holding. Thinking back on it, I couldn’t have told you why I did what I did. I was moving under some other control. I was a marionette. But for the life of me I couldn’t tell you who was pulling the strings or what their motive was. I held the blade between my thumb and forefinger and inspected the edge before placing the sharp corner of the blade against the flesh in the center of my chest. I pressed slowly until I felt the sting of blood being drawn. I began to carve a line. And once the first line was complete I cut another line and another. I was detached from my actions and performed them as if in a trance. I was apathetic to what I was doing to myself. Each stroke burned as the skin opened, blood welled in the incision, and spilled down my chest and stomach. I continued to cut in a mindless and natural action, like breathing. It felt like I was watching someone else, the pain a distant background sensation.

  The blood flowed into my pubic hair and down the shaft of my penis. My cock stiffened with each cut and renewed dull flash of pain. I set the bloody razor on the counter and looked at the blood on my erection. I began to masturbate, using the blood as lubricant. I became fascinated with the sight of the blood on my penis and it didn’t take long before I came. Most of the semen landed in the sink. I continued to stroke my cock. I looked at the shaving cream covering my face in the mirror and suddenly came to my senses.

  What the fuck was I doing?

  Blood dripped from my balls and padded softly on the floor. I immediately let go of my penis as if it had stung me. I looked at my blood-covered hand and chest, bewildered, as if waking from a dream. I frantically pulled the first-aid kit from below the sink. I was in a panic and didn’t know what to do. There was so much blood. I decided my best bet was to take another shower to clean up.

  I turned the shower on in a rush and stepped under a stream of freezing cold water. It swirled down the drain in streaks of red and pink. I adjusted the temperature but the hot water heater hadn’t had time to warm the water. The cuts burned furiously when I cleaned them with soap and they continued to bleed. I was at a loss for how to staunch the flow. I resorted to ruining one of the new towels.

  I cut the water and quickly retrieved the towel to press to my wound. I sat on the toilet and shivered. I crossed my arms to hold the towel to my chest and doubled over to apply pressure to the cuts. After a few minutes I rose to look at the wound in the mirror and gently pulled the towel away. Pieces of the towel and its lint stuck to the incisions. Removing the towel revealed a symbol I’d never seen before in the middle of my chest. It was approximately the size of my hand. I stared at it and the cuts slowly began to weep blood. I tried to gently blot the symbol with the towel and realized my hands were trembling. I opened the first-aid box and found the antibiotic ointment. I slathered it on the cuts and made a large bandage out of several packages of gauze. I had to stop a few times and take a deep breath and try to steady myself and keep from passing out.

  When I was done I inspected the enormous white bandage speckled with growing dots of blood. I checked my reflection in the mirror and my eyes echoed the terror coursing through my veins. I touched the bandage on my chest and the wound stung.

  There was the briefest moment when I thought of my father while I tried to rationalize what I’d done to myself. I thought of his death and everything his suicide delivered on our family and could only think of it as a curse. His mental health was a curse and I had inherited it. Everything I had just done was out of my control.

  But I pulled myself out of those thoughts quickly. I couldn’t blame my father for this. This was something different. There was a sensation filling my mind that said what I’d experienced was a disease. But it wasn’t something I inherited from my father. It was something contagious. I had been infected with something unwanted that had crawled into my brain and made itself at home. There was a niggling in the back of my mind telling me Lloyd was the carrier.

  I shook my head and touched the cuts again. I thought, That’s going to leave a scar.

  7

  Sleep didn’t come easy that night even with the assistance of a few beers. The burning from the cuts was a constant reminder of what I’d done. I was baffled by my actions and terrified to be alone. I never thought the day would come when I was scared of myself. I had inflicted the cuts upon my own flesh without flinching. What else was I capable of doing? Not only to myself but to other people. I thought of sending Phillip another message but I couldn’t bring myself to type out the incident. I opened my laptop a couple of times and sat with an empty email open, cursor blinking, but the image of how
I imagined Phillip would react kept me from sending him anything. I didn’t want to worry him and it was probably something brought on by the stress of the breakup and the move and worrying about whether or not I could make enough money off my photos to sustain an existence out here in the middle of nowhere.

  My thoughts kept drifting back to my father’s suicide. Was he aware of his actions in those last precious seconds of life? Did he tie a noose with an empty mind and flip the chair out beneath his feet without a second thought? He must have. It was the only sensible answer I could wrap my mind around. Because the alternative meant he premeditated the chaos he’d rained on our family. And if he had taken his own life with nothing but a mind full of apathy what did that say about what I’d done earlier? Had he harmed himself before he took his life? Only my mother would’ve known. And she made it clear early on after our father’s death the subject was a taboo topic. Phillip and I had tiptoed around the topic and purposely made it a point to never mention him while Mom was around. I never knew if her intent was for the both of us to believe we were conceived out of thin air and never had a father in the first place but it was the unspoken agreement in our family to never talk about what had happened. And when an outsider or stranger mentioned our father to Mom in our presence her tone was tinged with haughtiness when she informed them he wasn’t around anymore. Not around anymore. Not that he had taken his life but as if he’d chosen to leave his family or was abusive or a deadbeat and she’d eliminated him from our lives. Regardless, whatever knowledge Mom had known about Dad’s death and the time leading up to it had gone to the grave with both of them. Because I had trouble remembering his face let alone how he acted. There were snippets of a handful of memories I could replay in my head but they were vague and distant and of a man who, with the passing of every day, grew more and more into a fading shadow and became a ghost. I couldn’t remember anything out of the ordinary that would’ve signaled a warning but I was a kid then. And kids were nothing but narcissistic assholes only concerned with their own feelings which were superficial and survivalist as best: so and so won’t give me my toy back, I hurt my knee, I’m hungry, I don’t feel good.