The Murder House

Fourteen - Letter Three

       Ding dong the stoner is dead...

       Death is viewed as many a thing, the end and the beginning, the sweet relief from the harsh truths the ignorant humans find impossible to bear with. It is viewed as the enemy, something to fear that rips loved ones from you before their time. I believe it is irresponsible and barbaric to assume one can last forever, even I, a house who has stood against the test of time knows one day my day will come. My walls will crumble and my windows shatter, my worn wooden floors will sag under the weight of a feather and I will no longer be loved but be a liability. I am under no illusions I can not last forever, yet the mortals who live much shorter lives than mine, much less informed lives believe they can withstand the natural order. I wish I could close my doors and lock my windows, pull the blinds closed and tie the curtains together to keep you, my child, warm and safe in my core but even that would end in pain. I can not prevent death, but I can make each side of life the best you will ever encounter. I did do this with the stoner, I should not have but I did because I am the most gracious House you may ever meet. I made his transition one he could enjoy and would not wonder if he let his happily ever after slip through his scrawny, long fingers. He could almost feel the wistful years of sitting on the caravan decking with Dylan watching the sun rise and set as he stepped into my walls thirteen long years ago. If I were in his position I may have done the same as he, I may have painted myself with guilt until I repented for my sins. I have done much worse, but then again my heart does not beat the same as his.

      It is humbling to see him go, not that he has went very far he is still wandering my halls. I wish, a small part of me will forever wish that he and the band burn in hell but I know he has done all he could. Just as I have done all I can, and I will continue to fulfil that goal until every single molecule that holds my power is destroyed. I often forget how easily life is taken from a being, it is taken for granted that you may walk another day. I do not know how much longer my brother and I can stand, no matter how many renovations we have or how many coats of paint. One day we will cease to exist, we will be the legends bound to the great folks tale of Aurélian and the cautionary tale of Ophelia and Claude-Laurence. We will be merely words written on a page, or words on a screen to be read and consumed until you get sick of us. I am a lot of things, I am a horrible, self serving House but I try so hard to love those who pass through me until my windows give out. I am forgotten by many a people, many families have lived in me and moved, I am passed from person to person. I am merely a fleeting memory, though a fleeting memory I hope you will hold onto.

       Take my tales and heed warnings, take the piece of me I am handing for when the time comes and I can no longer guide you to the answer you can walk there yourself. I act and speak as if I loathe the band with every brick and speck of cement holding me together but I do not. Yes I despise their actions but I can understand what lead to those actions. I am one of few who can see the true underneath, I can see the grieving man in Franco, and the lost boy in Diesel, the neglected Dylan and the responsibility that lead to Elton's addiction. I can feel their loneliness as if my own, I can smell it as they walk around me happy with their masks slid in place. What are you saying Bellerose? Get a grip.

       I am mixed on my stance in this moment, I want to celebrate his death and my conquer, though on the other side of the coin I want to apologise and grovel for his forgiveness. I no longer know who I am, this feeling shall pass as it comes with every death. I reevaluate myself and try to fix my flaws as best as I can, even I, the great Murder House have days where I disbelieve my own knowledge. I do not know why I am feeling so defeated, or why I am writing right now. Maybe it is because the note Obi left is so ridiculously unrelated to the murders, or may it is because I am reminded that time does not stand still for me. I never had the pleasure of meeting Lord Theodore Thompson but I have had the pleasure of his lessons. Aurélian told me once while he was drunk, the day after he maimed the man he gave his life to, a lesson he learn from Sir Theo.

       "Sir Theo was a kind man to those who needed it, but behind closed doors he was harsh. He would send me out to kill and get money owed to him from rich officials, then in the morning he would tend to my wounds and praise me.  He never outwardly showed his emotions over his wife's and sons passing, though once I heard him talking to them. He had 'never have a true word been spoken since you left'. It has many a meaning, yes?'

        It does have many a meaning, I will leave you and come back for another letter when the dust has settled and the fog no longer clouds my windows. I promise, I will not be far my child. But before I go, allow me to leave you with the contents of the note written by Obi in his last moments. To the mortal eye it is nothing but letters jumbled together by a blind man in his last moments. But to those who are looking beyond what is written will find the connection out eventually.

       R.M.R

       J.B

       Forgive me for my unusual behaviour, though I deem it worthy to be read that even I falter. I too feel self conscious and I too lose few of the gambles I decide worth taking.

       — The Murder House, July 2024.