Drink Up

I didn't choose this. I was chosen. That sounds so preposterous, doesn't it? I guess some might say it's my calling. I call it survival. 

I came here many years ago because it was remote, not romantic.  It was my escape from a crummy, failed relationship I foolishly held dear; prayed could be mended.  Steven had been unfaithful again.  The first time was "a mistake" with a coworker.  The second, a "moment of weakness" at a bar.  And the last straw (because three strikes and  you're out) was, well, according to history ~ my fault.  Oh yes.  I was "too busy" and he, if anyone, was the victim.  I left him lonely.  Poor guy. So I needed to disappear to figure out if I could live without Steven.

Pulling up the drive to my (now) humble abode, was and still is breathtaking. The flowering pear and almond trees nestle together alternating pink and white blossoms while the creeping phlox lines their Earthy skirts in a soft lavender. The house itself sits atop a  hill where ivy winds up the front steps providing emerald green direction to the white lion herself. A front porch, screened and suspicious, frowns with just a little sag.  My front door groans as you enter. Once inside, you are welcomed by covered couches and chairs in burgundy, amethyst and deep indigo blue. There, tattered, old books stuff cases looming along walls that were once colored a romantic sea foam green which has sun faded to a less than energetic grey. There are antlers and  pictures adorning the walls while darkly stained tables shelve brick-a-brack and trinkets from lives long ago lived. Three floors, though only two permit guests, provide a castle-ish feel.  I have a conservatory, library, kitchen, game room, office, den, and of course servant quarters and guest rooms. There is a brightness to the home as the curtains, though heavy and thick, are usually open. Yet there is the sting of must that comes from any old home filled with memories. The furniture makes it elegant with its curvy, clawed legs and rolling arms but the house does have almost a comical tilt to it.  Because it's so old, things are warped, cushions are flat and springs have...well... sprung. But it's clean and I take care of it, allowing people to wander through and smudge. They talk too loud and are careless with all of it. But they pay handsomely to stay here and I cook up a storm, keep them warm and watch. I watch very carefully for I am merely the caretaker.

At night, I begin my work. I clean. I prep the next day's meals and activities; making reservations at museums, restaurants, and hiring cars to take them, and I listen to what the house tells me.  In whispers that hover and choke behind my ears, it threatens to make my lungs too scratchy and dry to breathe.. unless.. I do my job.  Most times it whispers of infidelity, little dishonest couples playing house while an unsuspecting spouse is away on business.  Sometimes it mumbles of addiction; illegal substances shot in to collapsing veins, or tossed back from a tucked away flask with tears of rage and shame that swirl down these old pipes like distasteful cough medicine. It interests me very little anymore. I only do what I need to to survive. So different from when I first arrived.

During my "initiation" as I call it, I met Mrs. Whitaker, a stately, kind yet reserved woman who seemed to hover around me but only in the background.  She was never in my way so to speak, but always near.  She lead me to what I not so affectionately call the quiet room. It was anything but. I set up camp and laid low. I didn't want friends or company. I ate and hid away. I could not rest though for I was plagued by disturbing dreams; waking to the same whispers that I do now. I didn't understand what it wanted at first. I ignored it, supplementing naps for night time sleep.  There was an oddly shaped closet door in my room. It was locked, yet at night, I heard the handle click and the creak of the hinges. There were the footsteps that approached my bed and the pulling of the blankets. The worst of those nights was when it sat at the end of the bed and then crawled slowly up toward me. I saw its hulk and felt its breath, like melted Swiss cheese and scorched brown sugar; stinging and sweet. It had arms of sort but they were too long and bent in the opposite direction from ours with spindly claw like fingers.  It's legs were stumpy and thick.  It's head was long with a square bulldog like jaw that held jagged misshapen teeth.  It's eyes were close together and dark, endless. It threatened me, my soul, unless I could feed it; beginning with the old care taker. I remember a nausea so great that I nearly tumbled out of bed. 

"I could never..." I cried in despair but with a giggling from everywhere that churned my stomach,  the shadow moved toward me, I shuddered as the long tendrils wrapped me, chilling and slathering my flesh with terror and the horror of how I could and would learn to survive....

She was in the attic getting linens that next morning.  She stopped and stared, her face tired and knowing.  A warm heavy lump of fear and self loathing swelled in my throat.  I tried to clear it.

"It came to you?" 

I slowed but steadily approached; saying nothing.  She sighed and folded blankets I'd slept on.

"Gave you quiet a gruesome choice, did it?  I see you've made yours."

I drew to an old table with a distinct and heavy labra on it.  I rested my hand and pretended to be casual.

"Choice?" My mouth was full of dust.  The room chilled.  She stood straighter and smoothed her apron then her hair.  She folded her thin bony fingers in front of her. Her head tilted a little as if someone were speaking in her ear.  She waved it off and turned to look inside me.

"Let me tell about this "Choice"." she said with a small chuckle.  "I made this same one.  In fact, if you look at that heavy candlestick, you might still see some clumps of hair or bone from Zula Webster.  Check the archives after I'm gone."  She smiled wanly.  Her gaze drifted away.  "I was afraid of the death it promised me so for the first time since my Frederick passed I wanted to live.  You see, for me, the fear of death not by accident was powerful.  Suicide is a sin. But what I've spent my life doing?  I'll never see Frederick again.  I refused to feed you to the house.  It told me all about you.  Your sadness, your breakup, your desire to die.  So the house has decided it's time for me to ... go."  She sighed again and wiped at her eyes.  I didn't see tears but I couldn't really look for them.  I had a job to do.

"So it came? Visited?" she asked again

I remained silent.  A breeze tickled my ear urgently.  

"It fed off your despair; not unlike mine.  It will keep you busy; this house.  It will consume your energy, thoughts, time, guests, and at last, your soul."

"Enough" howled the wind blowing open a shutter.  It began a rhythmic banging as a shrill gnawing voice cracked inside my skull "doitdoitdoitdoitdoit..." 

I lifted the labra.  I saw her shoulders droop.  There was a heavy thud as I continued to beat her to the shutter-drums. I found myself panting. Her body lay motionless in a growing dark pool.  I reared back and caught myself at the edge of the table.  With trembling hands, I replaced the weapon.  I looked again at the mess I'd made to save myself from the shadows of this cursed house.  It looked a little neater, a little smaller; then I heard the soft thirsty sucking sound and watched as the blood drained into the floor.  The old woman shifted with a jerk, her dead empty eyes glaring up at me; a dreamy smile plastered on her thin lips.  I was jealous of her peace.

"Good." the room cooed and continued to drink. It trembled almost with giddy enthusiasm. Tears spilled down my cheeks as I realized the warmth had returned, the house more alive than ever.  I staggered down the steps, unable to watch the feast any longer.  I found in the library a folder on the desk with all the paperwork for the house. I saw a collection of owners.  My home puffed in my ear happily and soothed me.  It promised all would be okay; better than ever.  And it was for a  while until hunger struck.  Was it six months? three? I don't know and anymore I lose track of time with so much to do.  But I was being nudged like the plant from Lil Shoppe of Horrors "Feed me Seymore! FEEEED MEEE!"

New to the ways of the homestead then, the thought of killing an innocent stranger was sickening but I had to ease its pain; my pain. So I dialed.

Steven was glad to hear my voice.  He excitedly promised he'd be here soon to discuss things; our future.  I assured him I would pour wine, show him around this sprawling beast and drink up. 

But all too late he will realize his future is much shorter than mine.