The Brick House

Every time I walked by the house it haunted me. A brick house, sitting at the top of a hill, run down, window frames rotting, trim crusted with flaked paint. It shows no evidence of life, no evidence of care but I know for a fact that someone lives there.

They are almost invisible. I rarely see them; don’t even know what they look like or how many live there. Once in a great while I’ll walk by and someone will be riding a tractor cutting the grass in the pasture-like field.  With his back to me. One time there were a couple of guys working on a broken down truck in the yard. One of them knew me and called out my name. I recognized him, and know for a fact that he doesn’t live there, but for some strange reason I could not see the other guy clearly.

I so rarely see them that I fantasize them as vampires. Flitting about the neighborhood at night secure in their invincibility.

I live in the country and go for walks to settle my nerves. My work schedule is erratic, I’m a low wage earning part timer, so I enjoy the privilege of being free at times when others are shackled to jobs and schedules.

My road is peaceful, thickly bordered by trees. Birds sing, faceless animals snap twigs in the woods, a couple of horses idle in a field.

Sunshine makes the setting brilliant. A talented painter would profit from capturing the essence of my road.

On my way out I pass the brick house on my left and always inspect it carefully. Observing the worn condition, and the window that is always partially open. At least it seems like it is always open, raised about six inches, with a screen discouraging adventurous insects. It is an upstairs window and gives the appearance of opening onto a small, isolated room.

I imagine a dungeon or interrogation chamber. In my lighter moments I picture a room fitted out by The Marquis De Sade.

I never see movement in the house.

The house sits opposite a stream, and the comforting gurgle of moving water seems at odds with the menace the house projects.

On my return trip I round a bend and look up the hill at this house. I do it every time because the image is so poetic. The road curves in an S shape, surrounded by woods, bounded by the stream and the house sits at the top on the right.

I have always wanted to peek in the windows. Signs of life are so infrequent that it is convincing to believe that the risk is minimal. But I never have the guts.

Until today.

I recently realized that I just don’t care anymore. That I have nothing to lose. My job is going nowhere, I am flat broke and there are no opportunities. My life is alien to me, hope is dead and cynicism thrives.

What is the worst that could happen if I peer into the window and come face to face with a face?

I could care less.

I was sweating lightly as I tip toed towards the window. It was warm, and the climb up the hill had me slightly winded. I was moving slowly so as not to attract attention, which seemed absurd considering that I was about to spy through someone’s window in full view of the road. But it satisfied my sense of drama so I did it.

I tried to look through from a distance of a couple of inches but the sun reflected off the window and obscured my vision. Cupping my hands around my face I pressed up against the glass and looked in boldly.

I jumped back in horror.

As I stood trembling and eventually realized that my heart didn’t explode, I somehow convinced myself to take another look. Actually there was no convincing involved. I had no choice.

I saw myself sitting in a chair.

The chair was rickety and wooden with cobwebs running between the legs. It was so worn, with chipped paint and gouges, and broken rungs, it gave off the impression that it could not possibly support me.

Then again there didn’t appear to be a lot of me to support.

I looked horrific. Missing teeth, with the remaining teeth colored yellow or worse, deep grooves cutting through my sagging face, a diseased pallor to my skin, patches of missing hair. My hands were trembling, my back was hunched and there was a two thirds empty bottle of whiskey, uncapped, sitting at a careless angle in my lap.

My eyes were haunting. They were vacant and lifeless. Red rimmed as if a million tears had been shed to the point where tears could be shed no more.

The image was of a beaten man, a man destroyed. It was a deathly image, a surreal vision of a corpse infused with the barest suggestion of life.

I fainted.

I awoke to see my face squinting in the window. I was sitting in the chair.

My body was overcome with revulsion. I shook violently, moaning and shaking my head, spraying bloody saliva to the side. The chair creaked ominously. My brain scrambled frantically to understand.

There was nothing to understand.

My face pulled away from the window as if I had not even seen myself and I began to scream. Shattering screams of pure terror, begging myself not to walk away, pleading for help, help in a form I could not even conceive.

I suddenly realized that this was my home now. This was my life.

I would never leave.