Hilltop House

House, Nine

How many dead will fill the tombs? As many as were will fit the rooms. How deep to dig their thousand graves? As deep as all their bones will pave. And when will death his quarry free? Ne'er so long as they have me.

My walls run blood in waterfalls, pouring from cracks in my foundation, crawl spaces and attic spaces, nooks and niches built into my form yet seen by no one beyond my maker. It is my blood, and it rushes through me, as it rushes through them, issuing forth from that organ at my very core, that meaty thing that pushes all of what is vital up through my rattling shingled roof and down into my throbbing roots. To bleed as they do . . . to feel that source of life, know it moving through me with each breath, sense it palpitating inside of me when my outer shell is threatened, watch it draining from me when I at last break down into nothing . . .

Oh, to be manipulated by a thing so simple as that ruby liquid that keeps their marionette bodies in motion. They take it for granted until it finds an outlet, and then they are repulsed, they panic. But I--I would cherish it, were I so fortunate as to possess it. Aren't we all covetous of what we cannot have? Isn't it easy to despise someone for dismissing something so precious to one who can never know its bliss? Since I cannot have any of my own, though, I must be content with savoring theirs when I am so fortunate as to have access to it.

As I am, I can only imagine. My walls are as they've always been. My floors have no black, glittering pools, reflecting the distant stars of wall sconces and fading light in dying eyes. I have no blood. And yet . . .

I saw that person, down at the street, with my darling. I was beside myself, perfectly terrified for her. That disgusting thing, upsetting my treasure, touching her in all his filth, and so little I could do! But what I did, I could. I flared my rage, as red as the fluids that fueled his passions, sent it radiating from behind my windows. He paused, and she knew at that moment to return to me. I wrapped myself around her the instant she re-entered our room, laid her down, entered her dreams. For I've been discontent keeping her inside of me; I want to be inside of her, as well. I deserve as much, after all I've done to win her. And when she sleeps, she is able to see me for what I believe I truly am, the self I desire to be. I want us to lose ourselves in one another. Though for now we meet in dreams, I endeavor to make those fantasies reality.

Success will come. It is only a matter of time. Keeping her with me is my preeminent priority.

If everyone could see what I see of her—though, I admit I would not wish anyone to do so. I want her for my own. She has her affectations, her quirks, some of which are old and some of which are new. I obsess over one particular habit: she's taken to drawing on my walls. Whereas she used to open small books of paper and write into them, she has of late been gracing me with her verses and her images, particularly in my sensitive corners. Beetles and roses, eyes and mouths, silhouettes and inhuman creatures, dripping candles and prisms and hourglasses and patterns indicative of an understanding between us--the images themselves are intrigue enough, and yet it's become so much more than the medium and the product. Her method . . . oh, her method! What I feel when she slides her tools across my surface, what I could only have imagined--the sustained physical contact her artwork entails, the sensuality of her strokes, the manner in which she runs over her own lines with her fingertips . . . we often spend an hour or so in our fervid encounters, her nearness and teasing almost unbearable. Oh, her seduction has my very foundation quivering! What reward for my efforts!

But I risk growing too effusive and therefore must calm myself.

I've been curious about her attention to appearance, too, which has shifted over the course of our relationship. It waxes and wanes, dependent on her wellness and her moods. I understand decor, particularly forced decor, as I have often detested my own adornments, largely due the lack of control I have over them. My first owner, as much as she enthralled me, had little of what I suppose is called taste, but I was so curious about her that much was easy to overlook. This one--her embellishments are captivating, and I do wonder if, whether she had free reign in decorating my whole interior, I would appreciate what she'd do. I believe we share a certain sense of the exotic, of the grand, and you must already guess without my saying it that if she took to inking all of my surfaces, even my secret, most intimate rooms, I'd experience ecstasy. And I cannot resist wondering what it would be like to decorate her interior rooms, to draw dark lines on her walls . . . but again, I get ahead of myself.

When she first arrived here, as far as her self-decor, the girl preferred dark things, black things and clinging things, hard things. She used to sit before her mirror and color her eyes and mouth, put ornaments in her shining hair, layer fabrics of various textures. But being constantly with me has altered her. She has put less effort into her appearance for the outside world, caring more to please me, I presume.

So when she reverted to bedecking herself in her old manner last night, I knew before he even arrived that he'd caused her some unrest. It was almost as if she felt the need to disguise herself in order to go to him. And when I saw him, I understood: he was a masquerader, a charlatan. He was lying to her, deceiving her--for I know deception. Hasn't my entire existence been one of forced dissemblance? Never able to express my desires lest I frighten or dismay? It was no wonder, then, that to interact with him, she had to put on her costume. I took some grim satisfaction in it, I suppose; I had the knowledge that for me, she is herself. She could lie naked and vulnerable to the world on the bed in our room--has done so on occasion--and I would worship her just the same, even more, perhaps, for sharing herself with me. She needs no charade in my presence. This person was a torture for her, though. She saw meeting with him as a chore, something to get over with, and when it became necessary, I helped her do just that.

She returned to me, and the moment he stepped foot on my porch, I wanted to strip him of his bravado and would've surely moved to do so had not he been suddenly distracted by that boy from down the street. The two of them argued, but I cared not for it. Let them be, I told myself. I had my darling to care for. The distress she'd undergone had surrounded her in a visceral ambience of freneticism, and she needed soothing.

What I did not anticipate, though, was that this miscreant who'd so upset her would attempt to return. I shouldn't have been surprised, truly; the audacity of these creatures knows no bounds.

I'd let down my guard, somewhat, having been spending time with the girl, comforting her in our room, when I sensed someone nearer to my boundaries than was normal. It was not the woman; I knew her motions, her habits, enough to recognize that this was something different. Whoever it was, they moved in a manner indicative of stealth, taking soft and slow steps, approaching me from behind rather than coming to the front door.

My attention turned quickly when I felt someone touch me, my window--the basement window. They were locked firm; the mother had made sure of that. I was secured from outside intruders and was determined to stay that way . . . until I realized who it was that was attempting to enter me. His intentions became immediately clear. Surely he wished to harm the girl! I could have kept him out. Had I so chosen, I could've fortified myself so that he couldn't come in barring some violent actions on his part, but I'd had time to think of him, to allow my rage toward him to ulcerate and simmer. He'd desired to hurt her--he would have hurt her, my darling, my dear! And even now, given the chance, he would no doubt seek and find her and make another attempt. I couldn't merely keep him from touching her; I wanted to make sure he'd never be near her, never speak another word to her, never breathe air or inhabit space or time with her. I envisioned turning him inside out, his inner workings exposed, to see whether he appreciated the sort of violation he was keen on subjecting her to.

So when he tried the basement window in the far corner, it happened to be unlatched.

His lanky body slid down into my depths feet first, and if only I could show you the grin he wore, the absolute dissolution of his entire demeanor, you'd have seen in it all the reason for what I wanted to do. He thought, surely, he was alone in that basement, that all he need do was find the stairs and he'd have her all to himself. But he didn't count on me.

I cannot say I am a master at illusion, but I have found the art to be useful from time to time. It takes a refined skill, years of practice, and though I seldom use artifice--for it insists on much strength and focus, and I prefer to use myself rather than engage in the sort of chicanery they expect from their horror films--it is by far the most efficacious method for producing a particular result, that normally being some finality to someone presenting a nuisance. Suffice it to say the young man had some trouble locating the staircase, and when he reached my farthest wall, my base, when he held out a hand hoping to touch what he was beginning to worry he'd never find, when I could hear his heart thundering as loudly as if it were in me instead . . . I took him.

And I must say, he was rather larger than I'd expected, but I've had to make due. He is full of much more than the baby was; I suspect I'll take my time exploring him.

At the least, he won't be upsetting her again, of that I'm sure.