Life in a Haunted House Read online

  The unfinished dirt feels cold. Odors of mold and cardboard and pine deodorizer assault me. I stand and stretch my arms in front, feeling for a wall or the swinging chain of a light switch. As I move forward, I drag my feet to avoid leaving incriminating prints in the ground.

  I stumble against a box, and its contents clatter into the dark—much louder than the broken window. Loud enough to alert the occupants of the house.

  For a moment I hold my breath, waiting for the sound of a distant switch, slippered footprints on the floor above then down the basement stairs.

  Nothing. I let out my breath.

  The overturned box may hold the items I seek. With quiet steady motions, I put my arms around the box and restore it upright. The cardboard is cool and moist. There’s nothing inside.

  I pat the surrounding floor with my hands, but find no trace of the fallen items.

  Then a click, and the brush of slippered footprints.

  They aren’t from the floor above me. The feet are small, and move with an odd synchronization. Three soft taps, one close after another. Followed by three more.

  Again, I stretch my arms to the air in front. My palm presses against a breathing mass covered with bristled hair.

  Another click of mandibles, the flash of multiple yellow eyes in the dark.

  #

  The Screenwriter

  Today I am a screenwriter.

  I’ve always written. The stories stay in my mind, mostly. Little vignettes or scenes to entertain myself.

  I almost never share these stories. Sure, whenever a teacher assigns some creative writing project, I’ll dredge up one of my classics, tone it down a bit to fit the class guidelines—and keep me from getting sent to the guidance counselor. Worst thing is when we’re expected to keep a daily journal. I make stuff up, since it’s easier than sharing my personal life…so I guess that makes me a kind of fiction writer. Currently, Mr. Camen has us write “reaction paragraphs” for the first 10 minutes of English. I’ve already figured out he never reads the entries, so I’m free to jot down whatever I want.

  Choosing a different approach this time, I decide to draft my ideas in the shape of a movie script. I pencil the title at the top of a fresh notebook page: RETURN TO SPIDER HOUSE. Although I’m not an expert in script format, I include camera directions where they seem appropriate:

  FADE IN. LONG SHOT of a DARK HOUSE surrounded by bare trees.

  CUT TO image of SPIDER WEB in shadowy corner, then PULL BACK to reveal FRONT DOORS.

  SOUND FX: offscreen, approaching FOOTSTEPS through fallen leaves; heavy breaths of exertion.

  (Same shot as above) YOUNG GIRL, her back to us, ENTERS FRAME from bottom, reaches for the DOOR KNOCKER, misses, and collapses against the doors, slides to the PORCH.

  SOUND FX: slow creak of hinge.

  DOOR opens from the weight of YOUNG GIRL’s body.

  Before I get to my first piece of dialogue—which I anticipate will involve variations of Hello? and Anybody hear me? echoed in a dark, cavernous room—I go back to the lines I’ve already written and scratch out YOUNG GIRL. Above the deletions, I write the character’s name: MELISSA.

  The change makes sense. Melissa is the only person in this town I might be able to convince to act in the movie.

  The movie I don’t have a camera for, or film, or lights. Just the beginnings of a script.

  #

  For many students, lunch break is time to relax. It offers relief from the tedium of classes, from the near obsessive oversight of teachers hoping to inspire even the dullest among us—or at least direct our attention to facts or skills, laws of nature or society that, in some hypothetical, long-distant future, might acquire some vague significance.

  It’s only an illusion of freedom. We cannot leave the school property.

  I eat quickly, my brown-sack sandwich usually devoured in the first ten minutes, and I’m supposed to occupy myself for the remaining thirty-five.

  Presumably I’d interact with my peers, but their scrutiny is worse than the teachers’, who at least make some attempt to hide their disinterest. Mostly, I find some out of the way spot to observe, a wall or tree to lean against, and I imagine my body crusting over with camouflage bricks and mortar, leaf and limb casting a net of shadow over me. Or, I’m a movie camera in plain sight, and the surrounding actors have learned to ignore my presence. Occasionally an amateur might turn his head with a stray acknowledgement, then realize his mistake. Oh, that’s right. I’m not supposed to look at you.

  Melissa has her own strategy. If I had paid attention before we met, I might have half registered her as the girl who walks alone. During lunch period she walks the perimeter of the school property, her feet well-accustomed to the sanctioned boundaries. She isn’t exercising, though she might wave her arms as if pretending to be. The real purpose, I realize now, is to avoid interaction with other students. Like me, she never joined the cheer or chess or quiz clubs that meet indoors; she also avoids the various cliques that gather and laugh about nothing. Her head is down, no interest in the games on the field, all those active kids throwing and catching and hitting, making noise as if that’s required to advertise their enjoyment.

  Earlier I had considered Melissa plain, and I don’t fool myself that she’s become suddenly attractive. As much as I’m obsessed with her father’s movies, that glow of association doesn’t transform her, doesn’t add a gloss of beauty to her features. I look at her more closely, though, with a generous eye. She is different. Smart, and puzzling. I haven’t had a friend like her before.

  Here is the thing. At fifteen, what do I know about affection? In English, we pretend to read a book about a man who’s captivated by an exotic girl. She is like another species—and if that were literally true, I might enjoy the story more. If she really were part bird, as the cloying narrator suggests. If she arrived from another planet where people grew feathers and spoke in strange clicks and chirps. But in the story, she’s a foreign girl who becomes the object of fascination for a stereotypical, mesmerized Victorian gentleman. Her strangeness—her “other-ness,” as Camen writes on the chalkboard—supposedly makes her more fascinating.

  I uproot myself from my current vantage point against the school building and begin walking across the field. A Frisbee lands across my path and I pause as Craig Some-such runs towards me. He doesn’t stop short, stand his ground, say Hey, throw that back wouldja? Just runs up, scoops the plastic disc from the ground then runs away, tossing it towards his circle of friends.

  I resume my journey to the farthest edge of the school property. A rusted waist-high fence marks the boundary, overgrown with stray twigs and leafy vines. If a softball or Frisbee ever made it over, a student was not permitted to retrieve it. But the fence is so flimsy the top rail would buckle under the slightest pressure. So easy to press down, swing one leg over to straddle it, then fling yourself to the forbidden side.

  As easy as jumping off a cliff.

  Into that dark world of irretrievable things.

  When I reach the fence, I peer over it. Grass and stone and dirt. I wave my arm across the top as if tempting school regulations. No alarm bells ring.

  In a few minutes Melissa approaches, following another counter-clockwise lap around the property. Her short, thin legs keep the same rapid pace as on previous laps—not quite a run, but as if trying to outdistance an unwelcome follower. I’m camouflage again, blending into the background where I stand against the fence. Melissa’s head is down, and her frizzy hair blocks her peripheral vision. She will crash into me if I don’t step aside.

  So I do.

  “Hi, Brendan,” she says, and keeps walking.

  #

  Not much has changed. We were friends last night at her house, but today we barely acknowledge each other across our shared English and Social Studies classrooms. The assigned seating keeps us apart, and there aren’t any group projects this week; we aren’t lab partners in Chemistry, either.

  The Art elective is our on
ly chance to interact, but we’re sketchpad misfits at opposite ends of the room. On her pad, Melissa uses a ruler to draw straight lines, creating odd shapes and intersecting angles. I’ve traced the image of a horse grazing in a field, and add quick pastel smears of brown and gray and green.

  Mrs. Brinkton stands at the back of the room and adjusts a lamp’s shade to highlight an overturned vase of flowers. She’s busy teaching the still-life group a detailed lesson on lighting and texture.

  My horse-and-field drawing is merely a cover sheet, in case Brinkton stops by to observe what I’m doing. I’ve tucked pages from my English journal into my sketchpad, so I can continue working on my movie script.

  CLOSE-UP of light switch. YOUNG GIRL [strike-thru] MELISSA flips the switch up and down several times, but the electricity doesn’t work.

  MELISSA: (to herself) That’s funny.

  LONG SHOT. Room not completely dark, and MELISSA squints to identify her surroundings.

  PAN OVER, POV MELISSA, observing bookcase filled with stacked books and small items, all covered with dust/cobwebs. Her hand enters the frame from the right, and she sweeps aside some of the dust to reveal small framed photos.

  MELISSA: (to herself) I’ve been here before. I’m sure of it.

  MEDIUM SHOT, over MELISSA’s shoulder. Her hands fall to her sides, prepared to reach behind her.

  MELISSA: Someone’s here. Someone’s here with me.

  CLOSE-UP of MELISSA’s face. Frozen with fear. Her lips tremble. Sweat beads on her forehead. The CLOSE-UP lingers uncomfortably long, until…

  VOICE (off-screen): Yes. I’m here.

  That’s as far as I get. The handwriting is a bit messy, with quite a few cross-outs, but I think I’ve done okay. No idea where the story is going, of course, and don’t know if I’ll ever finish it.

  A small commotion erupts at the window group. This is Geoff and his rowdy friends, who usually spend more time talking and looking outside than attempting any artwork. Apparently Gavin absently sketched an airplane, but his companions suddenly decided it looked like something else, so much like something else, guess you’ve got it on the brain, Gavin—and Mrs. Brinkton has to abandon light and texture to calm them down, shifting into impromptu lessons on perception and how the viewer completes an artist’s drawing, and also how art isn’t funny if people tried their best, and what if Gavin actually planned to draw that, would it really be so bad, if it was art?

  The distraction pretty much occupies the entire class. I rise from my place, move quickly beside Melissa’s chair, and pass some folded papers to her.

  #

  The next day I’m headed back to Melissa’s house again, and time is limited. I’d repeated my Geoff-lie to Mom—because God knows how much follow-up grief I’d get if I mentioned Melissa. A girl, Brendan? A *girl*? Oh, my young man’s growing up quick. There are things I need to tell you about, might seem a little early, and a bit awkward coming from your ol’ Mom, but better safe than sorry. Sit down. This will take a little while…

  Much easier to go with the quick fabrication about visiting my pal Geoff, to buy myself another free evening after school. But Mom always cooked dinner on Wednesdays, and instead of offering to change the day, she invited Geoff to join us. Caught in my own lie, I sighed and said we’d be done studying by dinner time, and I’d just come home. “Geoff eats with his family,” I said—since, obviously, I’d know my new best friend’s routines and could answer for him.

  Which left me about two hours at Melissa’s place, before I had to rush home for Mom’s spaghetti.

  The front doors still look familiar and glorious and run-down, my imagination projecting an acetate gloss over the faded, chipped paintjob. As much as I want to stand and stare, Melissa ushers me inside to the spotless kitchen, for another sit down with generic soda.

  The Triple Cola is her after-school reward, and I guess it feels good after our brisk walk from the bus stop, but I gulp it a little too fast. I feel a coughing fit coming on, and as I try to fight it my attention diverts and I end up knocking over the can.

  Luckily I’d almost finished the drink, and there wasn’t much left to spill. Melissa practically leaps out of her seat, one hand pushing the cloth placemat aside to avoid the spreading pool of soda, the other hand maneuvering a paper napkin to wipe away the mess.

  I apologize, and she tells me it’s no big deal. She gets a spray cleaner from the cabinet beneath the sink, then goes over the spot again with the sponge. “Good as new,” she says after she dries the section of table. She probably wants to scrutinize the placemat for any faint stain, but she restrains herself to spare my feelings. “The way my mother likes it.”

  It’s nothing, of course, and Melissa’s fairly gracious about it, but I feel so clumsy. This is the kind of stupid thing that gets you uninvited, I think. Melissa might never ask me into her home again.

  “Sorry for the nuisance,” I say.

  “No worries.” But she takes my soda can, then carefully empties hers down the sink before throwing them both away.

  “Backpacks,” she says, lifting hers off the floor and pushing one of the loops over her shoulder. She wants me to follow her, I realize, so I grab my pack and head upstairs to her room.

  It’s just as I remember from my previous visit. Posters on the strange, windowless wall above the bed. An out-of-place file cabinet tall in one corner, cartoon stickers covering the scratches on one side.

  Melissa shrugs off her pack and throws it on the bed, opening its main compartment then moving books and pocket folders aside to retrieve some loose pages. “I wanted to talk about your story,” she says. “The script you started.”

  “Yeah. Seemed like a fun idea. A sequel, you know?”

  Melissa nods, unfolding the pages to look them over again. It’s time for me to be judged, which makes me a bit nervous.

  She’s complimentary, as any polite person must be when sharing an opinion in the artist’s presence. Mrs. Brinkton is like that, too, even when glancing at the worst scribble. I see what you’ve done with the perspective here. Nice sensation of movement—because the lines aren’t straight.

  Melissa tells me these handwritten pages show a lot of imagination. She’s impressed with my camera directions—FADE TO, MIDDLE SHOT, POINT-OF-VIEW, etc.—as if I’ve studied script format rather than just winging it. “Have you written any more since yesterday?”

  “Not really.” I’m not sure how serious I should act about these pages I’d scribbled in my spare time. Who knew if I’d ever finish writing it? It wasn’t real, not for a real movie. “There’s one cool part I was thinking about adding, but I need the pages back.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh. Um.” Something clicks, and I’m at a pitch session, or I’m a director explaining the scene to an actress. “Okay, so the shot where she notices the pictures on the mantle—before the weird guy sneaks up behind her? Framed photographs, which would normally be family portraits. She reaches out for one of them.” My hands stretch forward as if picking up and admiring a small frame. “She stares at it”—then, correcting myself—“You stare at it, and realize it’s a close-up picture of a hideous spider. Then cut back to the shelf, and all the pictures are of spiders, and you scream. Pretty cool, huh?”

  Melissa smiles. At first I think she’s pleased about the creepy moment I’ve envisioned, but there’s an odd quality to her expression. Maybe it a false smile: a wince, because she has to pretend something is good, when it’s not.

  Her eyes wrinkle, her lip curls up, and she starts to turn away in revulsion.

  Then I realize her hand is in the air, holding up the story pages. She looks through them, like she sees something else.

  Acting. Grasping one of those weird spider-family portraits, and acting horrified.

  Which makes me feel pretty good about the scenario I’ve written. Sure, it’s not Bud Preston responding here, not the actual filmmaker I’ve admired for so long. But it says something that his daughter’s impressed. It’s
a kind of connection to those films—one I never expected to have.

  The acting moment fades, though, and Melissa seems shy now. Expectant, as if I’m supposed to judge her performance. Burst into applause.

  “I’m flattered you put me in the story,” she says. “That you wrote this for me.”

  Oh, you have the wrong idea, I want to tell her. I hadn’t meant it like that. I wrote it for myself, and a tribute to your father’s films; I only added you as an afterthought—can’t you tell from the way I scribbled your name between the lines?

  Because really, not that I was planning to film the scene anyway—that would be impossible—but it was a kind of daydream, and to follow the fanciful logic…well, who else did I know in this town? Who else could play the role of heroine?

  That’s all I meant.

  The room is close. Windowless, with that faint cloying scent from the floral air freshener. I try my best to keep a blank expression. She reads something there, maybe, because she hands the pages back to me. “Write more of it, if you want,” Melissa says flatly. I can’t tell if she’s offended.

  We’re new friends. That’s all. It’s not like I have any experience with dating girls, other than what I’ve seen in movies or TV shows, but that’s what this situation feels like. There’s nothing romantic going on here, no attraction on either side, but it’s still like I’m on trial. Anything I say or do. I spill a soda and I think, She’ll never invite me back. I say the wrong thing, have the wrong facial expression, and it’s over.