Authors: Edward Lee
The House (23 page)
"Of course. But while you're getting dinner, I'm going to look around the grounds."
"You're going to...be naked...outside?" he asked.
"Of course not, silly." She held a pleated, beige sun-dress up against her. "How does this look? Too revealing?"
Melvin's knees trembled, his vision focusing again into a hyper-clarity. He could see each thread of the dress's pale fabric as it lay half-covering one sumptuous breast. His eyes panned down to the plush tummy; he could even see the fine, transparent hairs wisping up from her groin in an adorable line to encircle her navel. "No, that's fine."
"Good." She skimmed the dress on, adjusting the bosom. Melvin wasn't sure, but he thought he might be close to ejaculating in his pants.
"I feel..." Gwyneth paused in an unfocused moment. "Weird but good. Do you?"
Now that she had the sun-dress on, Melvin regained more of his sentience. "Weird? No, not really."
"Mmm." She looked around. "I...like this room. In fact I like this house. All of a sudden I feel more creative than I have in years."
I feel HORNIER than I have in years,
Melvin thought beyond all doubt.
Melvin thought beyond all doubt.
"I can't wait to make a lattice with those bird bones. In fact, I'm going to go look for some more when you're gone."
She was all spaced out, as usual. She silently drifted about the room, appraising it. "Do you...smell something musky?" she asked without looking at him.
Maybe your vagina?
"Nope," Melvin said.
"Nope," Melvin said.
"Oh, but..." She closed her eyes and inhaled, a hand pressed above her breasts. "I know it's not my imagination. There's...something." She shook her head. "It turns me on in some bizarre way."
Melvin's eyes narrowed. He
had
smelled something odd in his own bedroom but it was something unpleasant. Just stale air.
This woman's a screw-loose,
he decided. He was watching the ghost of her perfect rump slide beneath the sun-dress.
had
smelled something odd in his own bedroom but it was something unpleasant. Just stale air.
This woman's a screw-loose,
he decided. He was watching the ghost of her perfect rump slide beneath the sun-dress.
"Look here." A corner of the new wallpaper was peeling. When Gwyneth pulled some of it back, the sheetrock beneath appeared spattered with something. "Could that be
blood?
"
blood?
"
"It's water stains," Melvin assured. When her back turned to him again, he couldn't help it. He squeezed his crotch and nearly groaned. His pipes were dripping.
If I don't jerk off soon, I'll have a stroke...
If I don't jerk off soon, I'll have a stroke...
Now she was looking out the window into the back yard, her finger pulling back a drape. The sunlight revealed the crisp outline of her naked body beneath the beige dress. When she turned, having spied something outside, Melvin couldn't shake the inexplicable sense of macro-vision he'd seemed to acquire today, couldn't escape the notion that his eye—when it came to Gwyneth—had turned into a zoom lens of the highest quality. The image locked now: he could see every protruding detail of her nipples beneath the dress's beige fabric...
"What's...that, I wonder."
Melvin looked over her shoulder, through the glass. "It's a dog pen," he said of the small, fenced in area. He looked back farther, noticed an old wooden structure. "And there's a stable."
Unbidden, her lips turned up in a mischievous grin. She giggled, then droned in that low, cool, easy tone of hers: "I guess...they used to...keep...animals here."
Then she moved quickly out of the room without another word.
(III)
Melvin jerked off hard in the cramped little bathroom, grinding his teeth at the tsunami of images boiling over in his head. He almost stamped his feet. Just a few strokes was all it took, and then curls of his sperm were floating in the toilet water. That sun-cut silhouette of Gwyneth's bare body beneath the loose dress had been it.
He flushed and let out a long breath.
I have a feeling I'll be doing this quite a bit for the next week.
I have a feeling I'll be doing this quite a bit for the next week.
A phone book in the kitchen had given him a vague idea of where the nearest Chinese restaurant was: at the little strip mall near the junction for Route 10. This was where Melvin had, in this order: picked up Squirrelly near the dumpster, let her eat the entirety of the Chinese food on the way back, received the first sort-of handjob of his life, and learned quite a bit about the Vinchetti House.
At least I have something to start on,
Melvin thought after dropping Squirrelly off at the strange compound at the bottom of the hill. He drove back up to the house, loins still tingling—and damp—was about to pull into the drive, but then he slapped himself on the head.
Nitwit!
All he had to show for his trip—besides some decidedly spermy underpants—were several very empty bags from the Chinese place.
Melvin thought after dropping Squirrelly off at the strange compound at the bottom of the hill. He drove back up to the house, loins still tingling—and damp—was about to pull into the drive, but then he slapped himself on the head.
Nitwit!
All he had to show for his trip—besides some decidedly spermy underpants—were several very empty bags from the Chinese place.
He spent the next two hours driving all the way back, reordering everything he'd purchased earlier, then returned to the house again.
The place did smell odd when he came back in.
What is that?
There was nothing "musky" about it at all. Had a mouse died in the wall? Soon he was grateful for the aromas pouring off the bags of carry-out. He was hungry himself now but when he looked in Gwyneth's bedroom, and searched the rest of the house, she wasn't to be found.
What is that?
There was nothing "musky" about it at all. Had a mouse died in the wall? Soon he was grateful for the aromas pouring off the bags of carry-out. He was hungry himself now but when he looked in Gwyneth's bedroom, and searched the rest of the house, she wasn't to be found.
Is she out in the woods somewhere?
he posed to himself,
looking for more of her ridiculous bones?
he posed to himself,
looking for more of her ridiculous bones?
He'd need to find her, but—ever the dutiful writer—he prioritized something else first. Off the kitchen there was a little den of sorts, or perhaps it had been a pantry. This was where he'd set up his laptop to write his article.
Squirrelly gave me some great info,
he remembered.
I need to get it in my notes.
Squirrelly gave me some great info,
he remembered.
I need to get it in my notes.
He took the next twenty minutes to tap Squirrelly's tale about her sister seeing ghosts in the house, leaving out some of the less palatable material (
"She probably OD'd or they just said fuck it and finished her off in a snuff. I heard she said something to piss Vinch off and they cut off her arms to use her in kinks."
)
Seems best to just leave it as a mafia safe-house,
he decided,
where murders occurred
. And actually, the gist of what Squirrelly had told him corroborated some of the realtor's claims. More and more, Melvin's enthusiasm about the article grew. So what if it was bullshit?
"She probably OD'd or they just said fuck it and finished her off in a snuff. I heard she said something to piss Vinch off and they cut off her arms to use her in kinks."
)
Seems best to just leave it as a mafia safe-house,
he decided,
where murders occurred
. And actually, the gist of what Squirrelly had told him corroborated some of the realtor's claims. More and more, Melvin's enthusiasm about the article grew. So what if it was bullshit?
Later in the week, he could do some refined data searches on Paul Vinchetti Jr., find out more about him, his operation.
The perfect padding!
he thought like any good journalist.
The perfect padding!
he thought like any good journalist.
Just as he was finishing up, though, his fingers froze over the keys.
He'd heard a voice from the living room. He was certain. And it sounded like the voice had said:
"Knuckles! Get me Dick Nixon!"
Melvin lurched up, a bit nervously. Was someone in the house? The voice had been distinctly male, and distinctly carrying a Jersey accent.
"Is...anyone there?" he peeped.
He edged into the living room.
Must've been someone outside,
he realized, because he'd left the door open; only the screen door was shut. At that same moment, he heard gravel crunching under tires, saw a car pulling up in the driveway past the Corvette and Hummer. But not just any car...
Must've been someone outside,
he realized, because he'd left the door open; only the screen door was shut. At that same moment, he heard gravel crunching under tires, saw a car pulling up in the driveway past the Corvette and Hummer. But not just any car...
A police car.
Melvin prickled, confused.
Where'd that voice come from? I know I heard a voice...
Where'd that voice come from? I know I heard a voice...
It had to have been the cop in the car.
Maybe talking on his radio?
And the words had merely carried into the house through the screen door.
Maybe talking on his radio?
And the words had merely carried into the house through the screen door.
Yes. That was it.
Melvin hustled out to the driveway.
The car's doors read OSWEGO COUNTY SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT. A sharp-dressed cop got out, his expression elusive behind mirror sunglasses. A big brawny good-looking guy with a buzz-cut like a Marine's. An extraordinarily large pistol hung holstered off one hip.
"Hello, sir," the cop said and nodded.
"Huh-hi," Melvin said.
"I'm Sheriff Jeff Funk; I'm the head of the county sheriff's department up here in Oswego."
"I'm Melvin Paraday." Melvin felt enfeebled. "Is there...any problem, Sheriff?"
"No, no, I just drove up to check on you. Your rental agent from Syracuse called us up to let us know you'd be up here for awhile. I just wanted to drop by, make sure everything is all right."
"Everything's fine, sir," Melvin assured him but still felt strange himself. "I'm a journalist and I'm up here to write a piece on old houses in upstate New York."
"Oh, a writer." Was it Melvin's imagination or did Sheriff Funk seem suspicious? "Well, you picked an interesting house. Oswego's a nice county full of fine people. We wouldn't want anybody writing bad things about our county. You wouldn't be doing that—" Funk slipped up his sunglasses—"would you, Mr. Paraday?"
Melvin's enfeeblement was knocked up multiple notches. "Nuh-nuh-no, sir. Whuh-what do you mean?"
Funk let his sunglasses slide back down. His face blanked as he spoke. "This house has a history, and not a good one. Lotta folks have spread rumors about it, rumors that it's haunted."
"Huh-huh-haunted?" Melvin responded.
Funk smirked, big brawny arms crossed now. "Do you know what happened in this house in 1977?"
"No, er, well, I did hear something like it used to be owned by some big mafia boss," was all Melvin admitted.
Sheriff Funk nodded curtly. "Yes, Mr. Paraday, that's correct. It was a safe house for the mob, and they supposedly used the house for a studio—to make
underground pornography.
Snuff films, films of women being raped and beaten, films with women consorting sexually with animals. And in 1977, one of the men who made these movies went berserk. Chopped up a bunch of people with an ax."
underground pornography.
Snuff films, films of women being raped and beaten, films with women consorting sexually with animals. And in 1977, one of the men who made these movies went berserk. Chopped up a bunch of people with an ax."
Some of Melvin's unease took a step back. This information had been hinted at before—from Dirk and his brother, from Squirrelly—but just now it occurred to him that what Sheriff Funk had just told him was still more corroboration.
More support for the article!
he realized.
More support for the article!
he realized.
Melvin lied smoothly. "Oh, good Lord, Sheriff, I didn't know anything about that; I had no idea. And I'm not even writing about the house itself anyway. It's an area piece. You know, get out of the gritty big city and rediscover New York's natural beauty. Come to Upstate with its trees and hills and rolling green pastures. That sort of piece."
Funk's head tilted. "Oh, well, that makes me feel better. Oswego County is a beautiful county indeed, and we'd love to see an article like that. I guess being a cop for so long's made me a bit cynical. We're always suspicious of the worst motives."
"Well, set your mind at ease, Sheriff," Melvin continued to lie. "There won't be anything about haunted houses or the mafia or murder in my article. It's just a weekend travel piece." Now Melvin seized an opportunity. Sheriff Funk clearly believed him...and police officers were always a wealth of information about their jurisdictions. "But I am curious about something. That ranch down at the bottom of the hill? What exactly is it?"
Now Funk seemed pleased to be of help. "Oh, it's no ranch. That's the old Epiphanite compound. After all these years, that's what people still call it."
Melvin was intrigued. "The
Epiphanite
compound?"
Epiphanite
compound?"
"It was a religious cult, you might say, hardline fundamentalist Christians. They actually settled down there in the 1800s. Sort of like those Amish folks. They believed that electricity, cars, telephones, things like that, were all evil things. They lived off the land, never left the property for all that time."
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