The Mephistophelean House (2 page)

“People?”

“In the House on the Hill.”

“Will it be first and last plus deposit or just first and last? Is there a cleaning fee? I can’t help noticing the place smells like cats. Are there other people? What are our chances, because I‘m ready to sign a lease today. Hmm, Ben?”

“We build a wall to keep them in, but sometimes they get out, and look for small forgotten holes when cracks begin to sprout. Brick by brick we pick the sick, and guard them night and day, but no matter how tall we build the wall, there’s always another one getting away. So up we build, a wall instilled, buttressed in steel and thorns, and warn the ones left locked inside a curse which it adorns, but even if our walls were built so high they’d touch the sky, there would always be by chance the one to teach himself to fly.”

I reached out.

There was nothing there.

“You don’t have to worry, though, about them that get out. Violently deranged they are, and tend to roam about. You needn’t bother to refrain, nor pay them any clout, for here is one set back old House they’d rather do without. As solid as sarcophagi, these walls a secret holds, stay awhile, you might find out, a mystery unfolds.”

Chapter 2

Moving In

The Gorge wind masticated the Avenue of the Roses like a Gatling gun on an ice shelf. Rocky Butte was curtained in snow. A bourbon pickup pulled into the parking lot of Terrace Grove Apartments, Geoff Jonsrud's straight pipe belching like a devil's fork. I stamped my boots on the Jersey wall, drinking a cup of coffee.

“So what da ya’ think?” Jonsrud fished in his pockets for a lighter.

“I don’t have any options,” I said.

“What’s wrong?”

“What isn't?”

“Better than this dump.”

"I'm not so sure."

“How’d you see it in the dark?”

“There wasn’t much to see.”

“Sounds too good to be true.”

The Avenue of the Roses was a path of least resistance through the Boring Lava Field. New wood drooped over static wires. Gravel pitted the dump. I drank my coffee while Jonsrud smoked. Snow blew across the road.

“I guess this is it.”

“Yep.”

Jonsrud stamped his cigarette on the veneer.

“Let’s go.”

We emptied the apartment in four trips.

I took one last look around.

“I’m gonna miss this place.”

“We had some good times here.”

“We had some good times. Not here.”

Matthew shivered in the yard of a blue, three-story house on South Tabor. We parked in the driveway. Matthew introduced himself to Jonsrud and got in the cab.

“Isn't he going to help?”

“I guess he’s expecting us to do it.”

We loaded the bed. I lost my balance and fell. Jonsrud helped me up, reattaching the mount.

Matthew never looked up.

Most of the shops on Hawthorne were closed. We turned onto 45th, the narrow, snow chocked intersection adjacent the woodworker, the cracked staircase, the Hawthorn trees, the low garden wall.

“Where is it?”

“Through there.”

Jonsrud parked. We cut through the easement. The Mephistophelean House poked through the Hawthorns.

The landlord was not on the porch.

“Are we early?”

“We’re late.”

Matthew tried the front door.

“It’s open.”

“No one's here.”

“Keys are in the hall.”

“Here’s a copy of the lease.”

“What does it say?”

“Just our names are on it.”

“That’s odd.”

A heavy layer of dust permeated the Mephistophelean House, a wall of dead air dulling the perception of time and space. I unlatched the rod and opened the window, an immaculate floe dispelling the emptiness that filled the room.

“Stuffy.”

“Like a crowded room.”

“But we’re the only ones here.”

Jonsrud and I hoisted the box springs, mattresses, and furniture upstairs, leaving the boxes unpacked.

Matthew disappeared upstairs.

“Where is he?”

“Choosing his room, I’m sure.”

“Didn't bring anything up.”

“Didn't load anything, either.”

Ripples, waves and indentations warped the window panes, the Hawthorn trees excoriated in the freezing rain. The kitchen had a coffered ceiling, windowed nook and grill, a zinc and brass utensil rack, a marble peppermill.

“I’d better get rolling,” Jonsrud said.

“What? Don’t you want to get some pizza?”

“Nah. Better hit the road.”

We said our goodbyes.

The front door closed.

Matthew appeared.

“I’ll take the room by the stairs. It’s got a sleeping porch.”

“Sleeping porch?” I asked.

“It’s got windows at both ends.”

“Oh.”

“You’re an early riser, right?”

“No...”

“Then you’ll enjoy the room at the end of the hall.”

“Want some help with your boxes?”

“Brrr. Drafty old house. We’ll have to keep the heat on at all times.”

Matthew turned the thermostat to maximum.

“Thanks for your help.”

Snow spilled through the open window. The furnace rumbled. I closed the window and turned down the thermostat.

The kitchen floor was scuffed and marked, a cooker missing its handle, the rusted cart of a dumbwaiter shaft, a box of old paraffin candles. Out of place the basement door was freshly painted white. I unlocked the bolt and used my hand to find the basement light. A hose and pump whirred in a trough that ran along the floor. A dowel and a door frame leaned against a chest of drawers. A jib door with a lock rail opened underneath the flue, the casing barely wide enough for someone to fit through.

“Hmmm. Wonder what's inside.”

There were no windows.

I hesitated, wondering what was beyond the narrow sphere of light. Water spilled under the door. From the vent came the buzzing of flies.

The pump at the base of the staircase discharged.

The furnace racketed like a meat grinder.

Matthew unpacked in a room at the top of the stairs. Tall and bright with hardwood floors and closets at both ends, the windows towered through the trees that looked out on the hills.

“Your room's down the hall.”

Across the hall was a grim little room with a curious double-hung window. The window looked out on a Walnut tree growing between the old hip and the awning. An abnormal closet, a false little room, with a trap door, marks on the ceiling, an abrasion or stain I couldn’t explain made the room even more unappealing.

“What’s that smell?”

I got the vacuum from downstairs and cleaned the grim white room. To embed the hose head underneath the baseboard I reworked the crack back and forth under the floor.

“The place smells like cats.”

“There’s something under the floor.”

“What the hell is it?”

“I don't know.”

The baseboard was bilgy.

“I wonder how long it’s been empty.”

“A long time, by the looks of it.”

I rolled the vacuum down the hall, an inch of dust was on the wall, the hardwood, ceiling, windowsills were pocketed in cobwebbed filth. I got a bucket and some rags and opened up a garbage bag. The broom kicked up a frowsy din, the bucket instantly blackened, the grim white room ranked fell and stale, the walls were pinned in human nails.

Matthew sat on a mat.

“What are you doing?”

“Yoga.”

“This place is disgusting.”

“I’ll smudge.”

Matthew lit a stick of yarrow and set it on an altar.

“What’s that gonna to do?”

“I'm announcing my presence.”

“Announcing your presence?”

“And asking unwanted guests to kindly depart.”

“Aren’t you going to clean?”

Matthew pointed at the burning yarrow.

“Look.”

The smoke was weird.

I refilled the bucket and returned to the grim little room, working methodically until dark. I got my sleeping bag and lay in bed. I must have fallen asleep for I was awakened by gurgling raucous enough to wake the dead.

I opened my eyes.

It was morning.

Snow was falling.

I looked out the window.

The pigeons were in the Walnut tree.

The trap door was open.

Something was coming down.

The pigeons flew away.

The trap door dripped on the floor, black marking a sign of wear, not a stain or mold as I had originally thought. The grim little room narrowed and I found myself going downstairs. The white door was open. Barefoot on the basement floor a stranger to myself I saw the melting snow begin to bleed and change to something else, etching icy picric fingers round the very spot I stood, while I tried to move my body but my efforts did no good. A sparking cord plugged in the line was floating in the cement through, the crushing weight then left my chest and I began to hack and cough, so I jumped and grabbed the iron railing, swinging up across and bounded up the basement staircase through the black mold and the rot.

Matthew poked his head in the kitchen.

“What’s up?”

“The trap door's open.”

“What?”

We went upstairs.

The trap door was nailed shut.

“It was open.”

“Let’s find out where it leads.”

The hallway led to Matthew’s room.

“There’s nothing here.”

“Let’s check the sleeping porch.”

The sleeping porch was empty.

“There’s no other exit.”

“What about the dumbwaiter?”

“The apparatus is gone.”

“That’s not all.”

“What else?”

“I thought I was sleepwalking. I went downstairs. Water spilled over the floor. I nearly electrocuted myself.”

“What? Are you serious?”

“See for yourself.”

We went downstairs.

“Look."

I pointed at the basement floor.

“Hmm,” Matthew scratched his head. “When did this happen?”

“Just now.”

“The floor is level. You say you came down here for no reason?”

“I thought I was sleepwalking.”

Spurs and leaders formed a minatory crown.

The pattern was unmistakable.

It was the Weeping Tree.

We went upstairs.

Matthew went to the scullery and got a head of kale. He set a knife on a cutting board and opened a bag of vegetables.

“I wonder what’s in that room.”

“What room?”

“The room by the flue.”

“I didn't see any room.”

“There’s a door. Come on, I’ll show you.”

“I wouldn’t be caught dead down there.”

“What?”

“The stench is overpowering. Who knows what fungi, mold, rayon, natural gas cocktail we just breathed in? I wouldn't go back down there if you paid me.”

“What about the trap door?”

“You saw it. It was nailed shut.”

“But, I…”

Matthew unpacked a steamer and plugged it in.

“What are you making?”

“Kale, wheat grass, and beets.”

“Sounds good.”

I opened the refrigerator and got a package of bacon.

Matthew sneered.

“You know Ben, you are what you eat.”

I clenched my teeth.

“I disagree. I think in America one is judged not by what one eats, but by the content of their character.”

“Ha, ha. Very democratic,” Matthew was noisome, “Well, you know, I’m sure, that processed meat is bad for you.”

“Really?”

“Processed meat will be the death of you.”

Matthew brandished a liberal dose of honey.

“By the way, I’m going to the hardware store today to get some, er, supplies.”

“Supplies?”

“Er, yeah...”

“Er yeah what?”

“Supplies for the…drainage pools.”

“What drainage pools?”

“Two simple words, Ben. Carbon Neutral.”

“Where are you going with this?”

“Ever given Personal Recycling a thought Ben?”

I shuddered.