It's Only a House K.C. Mead-Brewer
Just fifteen minutes. This is stupid. The house is dark but of course
it's dark. Jenna wants to check her phone but can't, won't, they'll know,
they'll see the light of it through the slatted windows, and anyway this is
stupid, just fifteen minutes, that's all, that's it. It's tradition, they
said, come on, oh my god, look at your face, you're actually scared, aren't
you? No, of course not, because this is stupid. They didn't tell her where
to stand, so there she is fidgeting right smack in the middle of the main
floor, dumb as a turkey. She wants to sit down, but not on any of this
rotted dead-man's furniture, no. Just don't lock your knees; she
hears this in the voice of her choir director. Don't lock your knees or
you'll faint dead away. Just fifteen minutes. Can't be more than five
left now. Maybe that's what Old Man What's-His-Name told himself as he
dangled from the second floor bannister by a creaking neck that refused to
break. Only five more minutes. Jenna doesn't look up at the
bannister now, but not because she's scared; she just doesn't want to. She
can't hear them outside anymore, their whispers and muffled laughs and empty
beer cans hitting the gravel. Stupid-beautiful Kim with her pink-blond hair
and the flirty way she snaps her teeth instead of her fingers to hurry
people up. Jenna forces down a deep breath of musty air. She can't hear
anything over the wind squeezing the crumbling house in its fist, her heart
banging like a door. Just fifteen minutes. For real, there can't be more
than five left now. Probably actually only four, maybe three. Her
cellphone's sitting in her pocket like a warm hand, touching her. She could
take it out, hold it, let it whisper to her, three more minutes. She
clasps her itchy-sweaty hands behind her back, because this really is stupid
and there's nothing moving out the corner of her eye and the hot air isn't
flexing like a hand around her throat and even if she can't hear them
anymore she knows they're still out there, the people she calls her friends.
Just fifteen minutes. She doesn't sneeze; she yawns. Dogs yawn when they're
anxious. It's a comforting thought. Horses have ten-pound hearts. Octopuses
feel colors. Ostriches roar like lions. Maggots squirmed out of the old
man's eyes as the EMTs took him down, spilling to the floor like wet rice.
Just fifteen minutes. And then she's scot-free! The end. No more sad old
houses where some sad old man died alone, alone, alone, alone, alone, alone,
alone— Just fifteen minutes. She isn't dead. This isn't The Sixth Sense.
She laughs, startling shadows like birds. She clenches to keep from wetting
herself. Why didn't she go before they left Kim's house? Her stomach
whistles and folds in on itself, worrying its stomach hands, tapping its
stomach feet. Just fifteen minutes, then she'll step outside, a person
reborn, a person who's part of something, part of a tradition. (Do houses
develop their own sick traditions? Instead of cutting down a tree, hanging
up a new person each year. (Does she really want to think about this right
now?)) Just fifteen minutes. She'll be fiiiiiiinnnne, god. There's
nothing behind her. Nothing moving in her hair, no spiders, mites crawling
in her eyelashes, sure, yes, sweat on her collarbone, but no fingers
skimming her neck. Great, Jenna. And the gold medal for predictability
goes to... She shakes her head at herself, making a show of it, enjoying
the swish of her ponytail before straightening it again. She wonders what
movie she's in, which plot this is. Unlike SOME PEOPLE dicking around
outside, I'm not a fucking slore. Aka: SAFE by horror movie standards.
(As if virgins aren't sacrificed all the time.) Just fifteen minutes. Sounds
like a microwave commercial. In just fifteen minutes you can cook
four—count'em four—TV dinners! She rolls her eyes and tries not to
think about being cooked. Just fifteen minutes. Really-truly, if
it wasn't five before, it's definitely only five more minutes now. Another
eye-roll. The motion feels good, feels right. Because really, come on.
Houses aren't microwaves. They don't sit there wondering when you'll be
ready for chewing. Spotted hyenas have more biting strength than Bengal
tigers or African lions, but they don't care if they kill their prey. They
don't wait for anything to tick-tick-tick-ding! and let them know
food's ready. Food's always ready when you're a hyena. Barking, chittering,
tearing off pieces while you're still running. They'll take their time, have
their fun, they've got all night. It's almost over. It's stupid. Look at it
just standing there. The meal blessing itself, whispering its little prayer,
Only five more minutes.
K.C. Mead-Brewer has stories in or coming from Joyland, X-R-A-Y, Pidgeonholes, Electric Literature's
Recommended Reading and others.
Read KCMB's postcard.
Detail of photo on main page courtesy
of mats_60.
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