This flesh, it craves and harrows,
‘Til the mortal heart’s undone,
And God’s eternal grace concedes
The Devil here has won.
Yet it is not the Devil
Who this desperate soul does own,
But the very tainted marrow
Of my house of blood and bone.
I asked Mr. Neilson if there was any chance I could talk to Mr. Gibbons. I had to know—had to learn if he, too, had seen the organs growing in the garden, if he knew what they were and why they were, if he knew anything. An old man, he’d been tending the Baron House grounds for years—surely he’d seen what I had.
I didn’t tell Jeanette. It was too gruesome—and anyway, I’d forgotten to take a picture. There was no way she’d believe me without one—hell, I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it—and I couldn’t bring myself to take the damn things out of the dumpster. Besides, what could she do? She’d already helped me so much, and this was way out of her depth.
And yet, I have to admit, there was a part of me that didn’t want to tell her for the opposite reason—because she’d believe me. Because she’d have a plan of action, an answer for this grotesque and unnatural occurrence. If she did, it meant it was real. And my fragile psyche couldn’t take that.
Eventually, Mr. Neilson gave me the phone number for Mr. Gibbon’s daughter, I think just to get me out of his hair. My hands trembled as I dialed, my breath shallow as the line rang. I’d nearly decided to end the call, convinced and a little grateful that this was a dead end, when a woman picked up.
“Hello?”
My mouth went dry. What could I possibly say? I suddenly realized I hadn’t talked to anyone in nearly two weeks.
“Hello?” This second greeting was a little harder, a little suspicious. I realized I was acting like a creep and tripped over myself in embarrassment.
“Hello!” I said, too loudly, wincing at my own delivery. “Hello, sorry to bother you. Is this Ginny, Mr. Gibbon’s granddaughter?”
“With whom am I speaking?” came her cold answer.
“Uhm, Allyn Laurent? I’m the guest author living at the Baron House? Mr. Gibbons is the gardener here, and I hadn’t seen him around and—well, I heard he was in the hospital.”
I heard a long exhale on the other end. When she started speaking again, Ginny’s voice was warmer, though weary.
“Yes, I’m Ginny. Unfortunately, my grandfather has been in and out of surgery all week.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, my hope wilting. “Is he—is he going to be okay?”
“The doctors say he’ll mend,” she said. “But with his age—he probably won’t be back on the job.”
“That’s a shame,” I said, putting as much feeling as I could into my voice. “Do you—is it possible for me to speak to him? Just to, um, wish him well?”
Something scraped against the phone as Ginny shifted. “Sorry, he’s out like a light. They’ve got him all doped up on painkillers—half the time, he doesn’t even know where he is. I’m happy to pass the message along, though, when he’s more lucid.”
“Yeah, sure.” I tried to sound grateful, though I likely failed. “Um, thank you for taking my call. I hope Mr. Gibbons recovers soon.”
“Me, too,” she said, and that was that.
*
I didn’t know what to do after that. I ended up wandering through the house, pausing here and there, like I was searching for something, but had forgotten what I was looking for. Maybe I was and maybe I had—after all, I’d come here for a safe place, a space where I could pursue my passion, my craft, my art. Where had that place gone? Was it ever there to begin with?
Thinking of my novel, I headed for the study. I ought to try working on it, even if I didn’t get very far. I would have, too, I think, if not for the window.
There was something . . . off about it. The frame bulged and a hairline crack split the pane in two. Sighing, I took a photo in preparation to send another message to Mr. Nielson and crouched down to examine the window further.
Something protruded from the sill, putting pressure on the sash. I thought of the paint bubbles and wondered if this was all due to water damage. Without thinking, I unlocked the window and opened it.
Dozens of small objects rose from the white, wooden sill, but they weren’t paint bubbles.
They were teeth.
I stared, feeling strangely numb. Teeth, haphazardly growing out of the windowsill. I ran my finger along them, feeling the little divots and crannies. There was space enough around one to get my thumb and forefinger. I pulled, but the surface was too smooth to get a decent grip. After considering a moment, I headed to the garden shed and came back with a screwdriver.
It took me about twenty minutes to get the right leverage, but I managed it eventually. Maneuvering the flathead under the tooth, I pried the damn thing up.
It came free with a pop! At the same moment, a shudder went through the house, as if an earthquake had just struck. I froze, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. I had the horrible feeling that the purple monster was about to appear out of nowhere.
But nothing happened. After a few minutes of standing there like an idiot, I finally relaxed and reached for the tooth. I wanted to examine it more closely, as though doing so would miraculously prove the whole thing a misunderstanding. But as I lifted the tooth from its hole, a familiar, coppery scent filled the air. Blood, crimson and thick, welled inside the empty cavity and spilled over the sill, staining it.
The tooth fell from my nerveless fingers. For a while, I simply stood staring. Then I turned and left, barely remembering to grab my laptop before I crossed the threshold. I didn’t want to enter that room again.
*
Despite rescuing my laptop, I didn’t write that day; instead, I drank.
I’m not usually a heavy drinker—a beer or two at the end of the day was more my speed—but I didn’t think I could stay in the house sober. I had most of a case of beer from my most recent grocery run, and I steadily worked my way through it. When the last can was empty, I rifled through the cabinets and found some whiskey I didn’t remember buying. Well, it had an alcohol content, and that’s all I was looking for, so I poured myself a glass.
Well, maybe three.
*
The hallway pulsed beneath my feet. I pulsed, pushing against the faltering steps above me.
I watched myself stumble, struggling to stay within the circle of light. Ahead, the figure walked unaffected, flame shivering on its wick.
Anton.
I threw myself forward, but it was like running through water. Still, I persisted—I had to understand. Anton had the answers. If only I could speak to him, I could unravel this bizarre puzzle.
I urged the small, frightened creature onward, pushing them forward with each pulse. All would be revealed soon.
The world seemed to tilt forward, and I fell more than ran. It didn’t matter—the gap was closing. Soon, I would know. This would all be over.
My hand closed on the figure’s shoulder. They turned.
My eyes widened in surprise. My mouth opened, but I couldn’t make a sound.
“You,” I said.
Myself looked weary, eyes darkened with knowledge. “Me,” I replied.
*
I woke standing before the painting. Silver moonlight filtered through the hallway, painting the aging wallpaper in blues and greys. Anton Baron’s eyes looked frightened, staring into mine as though trying to convey some terrible secret.
My gaze drifted over the portrait, wondering why he’d called me. Wasn’t he yet tired of this endless game of tag? I wanted to take a knife to the painting, put him out of his misery for good.
Then my eyes lit on the candle flame.
It was skillfully painted, the dim glow about it conveying warmth and revelation. But under the moonlight, the yellow halo took on new meaning. Peering closer, I identified letters, long and thin, gleaming strangely. It took me several minutes, my eyes straining as they traced each curve and angle:
U N D E R N E A T H
That was it. I searched the rest of the painting, desperate to find more clues, but the portrait had yielded its only secret. Distraught, I turned away, eyes burning, and made for my sleeping quarters.
The floor felt strange beneath my feet. I sensed the hard, smooth wood beneath, but also warm, pliant flesh above. I stumbled, catching myself on the wall, feeling the dry wallpaper and a damp palm.
I was disoriented, overwhelmed by sensation—which direction was up? Was I still moving? Where did I end and the house begin?
Panic overtaking me, I shut my eyes. Breathe. In, one, two, three. Out, one, two, three. Feel your chest rise as you inhale. Feel it sink as you exhale. Feel your belly expand when you breathe in. Feel it deflate as you breathe out.
Gradually, the confines of my body became more stable. After a few minutes, I opened my eyes. I was exactly where I’d been. And I was alone.
With a prickle of anxiety, I raised one foot, muttering half a prayer. I was nearly afraid to complete the step, but couldn’t remain in the hallway, and so, summoning my courage, I set my foot down.
All I felt was the hardwood floor.
I let out my held breath in a rush. Cautiously, I began my journey upstairs, trying to distract myself from the frightening possibilities of every footfall.
What on earth was “underneath?” And why had Anton thought it important enough to hide in a painting?
If only he’d speak plainly. Why did the dead have to be so obtuse? Should I perish from this nonsense, I thought. I’ll leave a detailed explanation in big, block letters.
I wondered again about Anton’s suicide. If he’d experienced much the same as myself, I understood his desperation. Dreamily, I began to think of the various methods by which I might take my own life: hanging (I had no rope), poison (once again, I lacked materials), slitting my wrists (that one was doable, but I loathed pain), sitting in my car and inhaling fumes until I expired (that one was the most attractive, there was a garden hose in the gardening shed).
How had Anton accomplished it? Did he choose a clean death, or was it more important to leave an impression on the poor soul who found him? From the little poetry I’d read, I imagined he’d choose a dramatic exit, taking painstaking care to set the scene and achieve a particular effect upon discovery of his body. If only I could ask him . . .
With a jolt, I realized I didn’t have to. I had a phone and internet connection! I could just look the fucking thing up. Why hadn’t I thought of that until now?
I stopped at the foot of the stairs and took out my phone. I’d taken to sleeping in my clothes, with keys, phone, and charger in my pockets, just in case I had to evacuate the house again. I did a quick Google search and got my answer in the first result.
I think everyone has had that moment where all the pieces fall together, and you can see the whole picture. You kind of wonder why you never saw it before, but how could you? We’re just little blips in this great cosmos, too monkey-brained to look far beyond our own selfish interests.
According to Wikipedia, Anton Baron killed himself by cutting off his tongue and bleeding to death.
I stood staring at the tiny screen, the words blurring. Eventually, a sound roused me.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
To my relief, it grew distant. Unfortunately, I knew I couldn’t ignore it—Anton was talking to me, in the only way he had left.
I turned on the lights, unwilling to investigate a sentient, dismembered tongue in the dark. As I entered the kitchen, I noticed a familiar trail of clear goo.
Leading right to the cellar door.