The House

Originally sent to newsletter subscribers in October, 2023. Sign up for the free newsletter now to receive exclusive stories months in advance.

The Palmers have been living in the House for just over a month now. It’s a short time, but there has been ample opportunity to observe them, study their movements and habits. They’re perfect.

Four total. A husband, a wife, a seven-year-old daughter, and an infant son. Breaking them will be simple. Once the father falls, the rest will go easily.

#

Three months later…

“Angie, it’s time for school,” Lyle yells up the stairs, his hands filled with a baby bottle, a packed lunch for his daughter, and a fresh diaper for his son. “I’m going to change Connor. Give me a kiss when you come down.”

“Okay, Dad.” Angie has already developed the attitude of a much older girl, complete with the sarcastic eye rolls and the dismissive tone.

Quinn shakes her head and kisses Lyle on the cheek. “She picked that up quickly, didn’t she?”

“How about you tell your girls to teach her how to clean her room?” Lyle says with a laugh.

“I’ve seen the way they leave the locker room.” She waves her hand in front of her nose in mock disgust. “I can’t imagine what their rooms at home look like. Besides, maybe if she starts with the teenage girl act now, she’ll outgrow it by the time she’s actually a teenager?”

“I hope so. I don’t know if I can take ten years of this.”

“Ten years of what?” Angie says as she jumps down the final two steps and lands in the living room, her bare feet smacking against the floor.

“Changing diapers,” Quinn fills in quickly. “We were just trying to imagine how awful that would be. We only have a little bit longer to go, and then we’re done.”

“I hope so,” Angie said, accepting the answer without question. She may act like a teenager, but she’s still an innocent, trusting child. “His diapers stink.”

“So did yours when you were his age.” Lyle smooths the back of her hair with his hand and bends down to kiss her on the cheek. “Now, you have a good day at school. And have fun at Mom’s practice. Whip those girls into shape.”

“If they touch the net, they run.” Angie laughs in that sweet but off-putting way only a child can. “And they have to beat me. If not, they run again.”

“That’s my girl,” Quinn says. “Now, run out to the car. We’ve got to go.” She turns back and winks at Lyle once Angie disappears into the garage. “She’s harder on them than I am.”

“True.” Lyle leans in a kisses Quinn on the lips. “I love you. Have a good day.”

“I love you, too,” she says. “I’ll pick Connor up from the daycare on my way home. I’m glad we found a place so you can actually have time to work during the day.”

“You and me both.” A honk echoes through the halls of the House, coming from the garage. “You’d better go, before she wakes up the whole block.”

They kiss again and Quinn shuffles through the back door, grabbing her bags from the chair as the door closes behind her. Lyle takes a drink from the cup of tea sitting on the kitchen counter and waits until he hears the car pull out of the garage, leaving him alone with his son. With a sigh, he puts the diaper under his arm and puts his tea down, shaking the bottle as he walks toward the stairs.

BANG!

The sound rings loud in Lyle’s ears, followed by the horrifying sound of a baby crying in pain. He drops the bottle and the diaper and runs for the stairs, taking them three at a time and using his arms to propel himself upward. He slides around the corner at the top and sprints the short length of the hallway. He throws open his bedroom door. His eyes dart to the crib in the corner of the room.

Connor is sleeping peacefully, unaware of the fear gripping his father. Lyle bends over, panting, with his hands on his knees, grateful that his son is safe. “What was that sound?” he says aloud.

BANG!

More crying. Lyle spins in a circle, searching for the source of the wailing. But every time he turns to face the noise, it moves in a different direction. It’s like it’s coming from everywhere at once.

Lyle’s eyes again go to Connor, who squirms a little but otherwise remains sleeping, seemingly undisturbed by the sounds of a screaming baby bouncing off the walls of the room. Still spinning in confusion, Lyle stubs his toe on the bed frame. “Damn it!” he says.

The crying stops.

Wincing at the pain in his little toe, Lyle spins around one more time, but no more crying comes. “What the hell? Am I really that tired?” He turns to where Connor is starting to wake up and fuss. “Well, it’s a good thing we found that daycare, Little Man. I think Daddy might need a nap today, before he goes insane.”

Lyle lifts Connor out of the crib and holds him against his shoulder. The smell of his child in his arms helps to calm him, but the sounds of a baby crying in pain continue to play in his mind, just as they have every morning for the last two weeks.

#

Despite his best efforts, Lyle can’t sleep. He hasn’t slept well since they moved into the House, and things have been even worse lately. Skittering sounds, creaking boards, and flashing lights just outside his window keep him awake at night. When he tries to nap in between meetings, he hears his son crying in the next room, even though Connor is safe at the daycare. During work, nondescript shadows dance at the edges of his vision, drawing his focus and keeping him on high alert at all times.

He’s falling behind in work, and he knows it. Still, he can’t seem to concentrate. Too much is happening that he can’t explain. No matter how many walks he takes around the yard, he can’t seem to figure out where the light comes from every night. The neighbors homes are close, but not tall enough to have a light at that angle. And there is nothing hanging from his own roof that would shine in on him.

“Lyle?”

The voice coming from the computer cuts through his thoughts, shaking him back to the moment. “Yes, sir?”

“What on earth were you staring at?” Mr. Horace asks. “You looked like you were about to fall asleep.”

“Apologies, sir.” He considers the truth, but falls on a lie to save his boss the uncomfortable feeling that his employee may be losing it. “Connor hasn’t been sleeping well. I was up with him all night.”

“Well, shape up,” Mr. Horace says without acknowledging Lyle’s excuse. “We need you at your best today. Are you prepared for your presentation?”

“I am, sir,” Lyle says. Another lie. “I’ll be ready. Four o’clock?”

“Four o’clock.”

“Talk to you then.”

Lyle ends the video call and leans back in his desk chair, arms behind his head. He lets loose a deep sigh as a wave of exhaustions creeps over him. He fights against it, his eyelids flittering as he pushes back against the comforting tug of sleep. They fall closed.

BANG!

Lyle shoots upright. The sound came from the kitchen, he’s sure of it.

Jumping from his chair, he cautiously creeps toward the door leading from the extra bedroom serving as his office out into the hall. After a shaky breath to steel his nerves, Lyle throws his weight against the wooden door and barrels into the hall. “Who’s there?” he calls.

No answer. No more sound at all.

Without hesitating, he runs forward. The kitchen is empty. He spins a circle, certain this is where he had heard the sound.

BANG!

A piercing wail radiates through the walls. He covers his ears from the sound. It’s so loud, he can barely think. It’s different from before, though. This doesn’t sound like a baby. It sounds like Quinn. And it sounds like it’s coming from their bedroom.

Lyle races up the stairs once again and runs through the hallway, his socks slipping and sliding on the wooden floors. He skids to a stop in front of the open door to the bedroom as the sound stops. It’s empty. Everything is in place. The bed is made just as nicely as it was when he made it after his attempted nap.

His hands go to his head, clutching against the pain forming in his temples.

BANG!

The door flies closed behind him, trapping him inside. He yells and recoils back onto the bed, clutching at the blankets in fear. There is some part of people that always reverts to their base instincts, like the covers protecting them from monsters. If only that were the case.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The repetitive pounding echoes into the bedroom, each one making Lyle flinch and retreat further into the bed. Each one seems to emanate from a different part of the house. First the living room directly below him, then the kitchen again, then Angie’s room.

At last, Lyle has had enough. With a bellow, he jumps from the bed and marches toward the door. He throws his entire weight against it. The door shudders, but barely moves before slamming shut again, as if someone is holding it closed. He yells again and pushes harder.

The door flies open, sending Lyle sprawling onto the floor in the hallway. The pounding comes to a halt. The house is silent.

Without warning, the wailing starts again. The pounding speeds up. Faster.

BANG!BANG!BANGBANGBANG!

It comes from everywhere at once. The sound is closing in on him, pinning him to the floor as his eyes dart in every direction, searching for the source.

The wailing stops, as quickly as it began.

A deep, raspy whisper sounds above him. “Lyle? Help me, Lyle. I need you.”

“Shit!” Lyle bellows. He takes off and runs for the stairs, descending them three at a time. The wailing starts again. Without stopping for his shoes, he barrels through the front door and out onto his lawn. He can still hear the screeching cries coming from inside. He turns around in a circle, searching for someone, anyone, to help him. But no one is around. His neighbors know not to come near the House.

“What the hell?” Lyle screams. The crying baby returns, coming from just behind him. When he turns, there is nothing there. He’s alone in his front yard, spinning and sobbing like a madman.

“Is something wrong?”

The screaming stops. The crying stops. The pounding stops.

Lyle turns. His neighbor across the street, known only to him as Mrs. Turner, has stepped out into her yard, looking at him with a mixture of fear and concern. “Is something wrong?” she repeats.

“Did you hear something coming from my house?” Lyle asks, his throat raw from his own roars.

“Just you,” Mrs. Turner says. “I was out back when I heard you yelling. That’s why I came out. Is everything okay? Is the baby okay?”

Bang!

The pounding returns, softer this time but still loud in Lyle’s ears. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what, hun?” 

“The pounding!” he cries. “Always with the pounding.”

Her eyes fill with pity. “I don’t hear a thing. Do you want me to call someone? Your wife, perhaps?”

“No,” Lyle says, more forcefully than he intends. “No, don’t call her. But, can you come over here and look with me? Or just listen and tell me if you hear anything?”

“I’m not sure,” she says hesitantly. She hasn’t lived in the area long, but she’s heard rumors about this House. Still, the look of pleading on Lyle’s face beckons her forward. “Well, how about just into the yard there?”

“Yes, please.” Lyle wipes the tears streaking down his face. “Please, just listen.”

Ever so slowly, the elderly Mrs. Turner crosses the street and steps into Lyle’s yard. She sees him flinch with every repeating knock, but she hears no sound. Even this close, she hears nothing. “I’m sorry. I don’t hear anything.”

Lyle’s head drops. “That’s okay,” he says.

“Are you sure I can’t call someone?”

“No.” He turns back to the House. “It’s okay. I’ll be okay.”

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do,” Mrs. Turner says before turning and walking back toward her home, away from the House. Even if she tried to help, there is nothing she could do. No matter who she called, no one would come. Everyone knows to stay far away from the House.

It’s with heavy, plodding footsteps that Lyle enters the front door. He barely manages to make it to the living room couch before collapsing, exhaustion finally overtaking his fear. Even the repeated pounding and cries of pain fade away as the veil of sleep falls over him. Just before his eyes close, he glances up to the corner of the room, where the shadow of a woman stands, staring back at him.

At last, he sleeps.

#

“Daddy, are you sick?”

“No, baby, I’m fine. Just tired.”

“But you look sick.”

“I haven’t been sleeping well. I’ll be okay, promise.”

“Okay, Daddy. I love you.”

“I love you, too. Have a good day.”

The truth is much deeper than Lyle lets on as he hands Angie her lunch and kisses her head. They can all see him fading away, but he always insists that nothing is wrong. He refuses to see a doctor, saying that he just needs to power through this low period, that it has happened before and he always comes out the other side.

In the two weeks since his talk with Mrs. Turner, Lyle has lost over twenty pounds. He is a husk of the man he was, only barely able to eat. All of the energy he has left goes to the brief spells of playtime with Angie and Connor every night, before he falls into bed again, unable to stand. His constant twitching has started to affect Quinn, as well. Every time he lurches in the night at another new sound, she wakes. She listens and observes, trying to gauge what is causing his distress, but she hears nothing.

She doesn’t hear the constant cries of pain, like someone being tortured, that torment Lyle nearly every hour of the day. She doesn’t see the shadow of the woman, always lurking, always watching, moving ever closer. Lyle bears the weight so his family won’t have to live in fear.

He has arranged for the daycare to transport Connor each morning, saying his car is wrecked and needs repaired. The truth is, he knows that he can’t drive. Every time he steps outside, the screaming only gets louder, the exhaustion deeper. He hasn’t left the House in twelve days.

“Lyle, we need to talk,” Mr. Horace says through the video call.

“Sure,” he says, louder than he means. He just wants to hear his own voice above the shrieks of pain. “What’s up?”

“I don’t know what’s going on, but this can’t continue,” Mr. Horace says, his voice eerily even. “You were one of our top performers for years. Even when you went remote, you were the best. But ever since your last move, you’ve been slipping. You’re inattentive, forgetful. You cost us three clients in the past week, alone. You’ve become a liability. I’m sorry, Lyle. This hurts me more than you know, but we’re going to have to let you go.”

Lyle shakes his head. He didn’t hear anything Mr. Horace said. He was too focused on the whispered voice in his ear. “What was that?”

“This is exactly what I’m talking about,” his boss says, more forcefully. “This bullshit. You’re fired, Lyle. Send in your company laptop and phone by the end of the week, or someone will come to collect them.”

Lyle only nods, still distracted. The weight of Mr. Horace’s words hasn’t registered. “Okay, sir. Will do.”

“And Lyle?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Get some help,” Mr. Horace says softly. “Best of luck to you.”

The call ends, leaving only the sound of the whispered voice to occupy Lyle’s thoughts. “You hear that? You’re fired. You piece of shit. You’re worthless.”

“Screw you,” Lyle says, though he doesn’t know who he’s talking to.

BANG!

Even after weeks of torment, each clap of sound still makes him flinch. He recoils into his chair, curling his feet up under him. Tears fall from his eyes. “Why is this happening to me? What did I do to deserve this?”

He stays there, listening to the screams and the slams and the whispers, until he hears the sound of Quinn pulling into the garage.

#

Six days of terror. Lyle hasn’t had the heart to tell Quinn he lost his job. He’s lost another fourteen pounds. He can barely stand. But still, sleep eludes him.

He wanders through the house, aimlessly searching for something to fill his days, to distract him from the sound. The whispering voice never stops. It used to disappear for long intervals, but now it is constant. There are other voices, too, all talking to him at once. He is never at peace, never truly alone.

Quinn will be home with the kids any minute. He needs to do this before she gets here. He won’t have the courage to do it once he sees Connor’s smiling face and Angie’s bouncing pigtails.

Using his arms to brace himself, he stands in front of the mirror. A corkscrew sits on the countertop.

“You’re worthless,” one of the voices whisper. “You can’t do it.”

A yowl of pain rings through the bathroom. It sounds so similar to Quinn, he almost turns to check for her. He knows better. She’s not here.

His shaking hand reaches down and grabs ahold of the corkscrew. The yelling gets even louder. The whispers are right beside him. He lifts his arm, the pointed metal just inches from his head.

More screams are added to the chorus of sound, each one a perfect replica of Quinn, Connor, or Angie. The sound is nearly deafening. With a cry of his own, he plunges the corkscrew into his ear and twists. Blood squirts out, covering the white tile of the bathroom floor and staining the sink.

The screaming doesn’t stop.

He wrenches the metal from his flesh, a sickening squelch sounding in his undamaged ear. He’s shaking even more now. He leans his body on the counter and places the corkscrew in his other hand.

“You could use that corkscrew for so many other things,” a voice whispers. “Like killing the ones you turned you into this pathetic shell of a man. Into this weak, useless, castrated boy.”

Lyle yells and pulls his arm toward his head. The steel pierces his ear. He twists with all his might, forcing himself to ignore the pain and keep going.

In an instant, all is silent. He can’t hear a thing. Blood pours from his wounds and collects in a pool on the floor. He stares at himself in the mirror. His cheeks bones poke from his face, his hair has thinned, his beard is in straggles, and he’s covered in blood. A crazed smile cracks across his face. At last, it is quiet.

A hand grabs his shoulder. He whips around, pulling the corkscrew from his ear and sending a fresh spray of blood onto the walls. Quinn stands before him, shouting something he can no longer hear. She grabs his shoulders and shakes him. He doesn’t bother trying to read her lips. He can see she’s angry, but he doesn’t care. She doesn’t understand. This was the only way he could have peace.

All at once, as quickly as they left, the screams come back. One whispered voice rises above them all, directly into what is left of Lyle’s mind. “She did this. She and the little ones.”

“No!” Lyle howls. He pulls his hands up to cover his mangled, bloodied ears. It doesn’t help. He can still hear them.

Quinn shakes him again. His eyes are focused off in the corner of the hall, where the shadow of the woman has appeared once again. The shadow lifts its arm and points at him. It looks like it’s laughing.

He pushes Quinn to the side and runs forward, stabbing at the shadow. He reaches the corner and slashes with the corkscrew, but hits nothing but air.

“Worthless,” the voice whispers.

He sees the shadow out of the corner of his eye and turns, the metal corkscrew slicing through the air. Again, he hits nothing.

“Weak.”

He spins, reaching out and stabbing forward.

“Pathetic.”

He throws a punch. Pain shoots up his arm as he hits the heavy wooden door of the House.

“You are nothing.”

Lyle turns and slashes, finally connecting.

The voices stop. His vision clears.

Quinn stands before him, grasping at the hole in her neck. Blood pours from the opened artery, soaking her clothes as she struggles to speak. She falls to the ground, lifeless.

“Good,” the voice whispers to Lyle, making him jump after the brief respite of silence. “Now, the others.”

The wailing starts again, but quieter now. In order to find peace from the voices, Lyle knows what he must do.

He takes a deep breath, adjusts his grip on the corkscrew, and starts for the stairs.

#

The people come three days later, just to be safe. They’ve done this before, but they can never be too weary. They know what the House is capable of.

With practiced hands and set jobs, they go to work cleaning the House, preparing it for the next victims, the next offerings. It will be years before they do this again. The thought motivates them to finish quickly.

At last, after nearly eleven hours of work, the bodies are piled in the basement, beneath the single light.

Four bodies. Four years.

They have four years to find new offerings for the House.

Hundreds have lived here, and hundreds have died here, each one buying those of the neighborhood one year of protection. Just once have they failed to provide me what I need. They learned quickly that, if left unsatiated, my hunger knows no bounds. Without people to satisfy me, I will not be able to control my influence and they will suffer the same fate as the countless souls who had the misfortune of living in me.

Four years. Connor, Angie, Quinn, and Lyle will keep me full for four years.

When those four years are up, this House will need to feed again.

I suggest you aren’t here when that time comes.

#

Lyle, Quinn, Angie, and Connor Lorens

Date of Death: October 31, 2019