House Down the Hill, Part 6

 “Suze,” Catherine calls kindly. “Did you call the duty phone?”

I crawl out from under my bed and slowly creep into the living room, peeping around the corner. The man standing there is vaguely familiar, and nowhere nearly as tall or angular as the shadow I had seen. He has a kind face though it is currently etched with concern. A woman is entering behind him; I don’t recognize her, though she’s shorter than him. Both of them are in pajamas and look a little less than awake.

Catherine closes the door behind them as the man asks, “You called about screaming?”

I nod and Catherine stares at me. “It woke me up. Really loud, shrill screaming.” I’m holding onto the wall, still hiding behind the corner, but it doesn’t help steady me any; if anything, I’m shaking more violently now, wondering where the shadow disappeared to and if they’ve seen it.

“You said something about calling for help, too.”

“Yes. The screaming stopped when I called you…and then it started again, but someone was crying for help. They-they sounded terrified.”

“Why don’t you sit down?” the woman suggests. “It’s ok,” she insists.

Cautiously, afraid the shadow will return any second, I move towards the couch in the opposite corner. Catherine brings me a glass of water and sits beside me, rubbing my back.

“You said it was coming from down the hill?” he asks.

I nod, taking another swallow of water. “This isn’t the first time, either.”

“How long have you been hearing screaming?”

“The past couple nights. Tonight was the first time someone was screaming anything coherent.”

The man and woman nod. Catherine squeezes my hand and offers me a tissue. “Something else happened, though,” she says to me. “Why didn’t you want me to answer the door, Suze?”

I try to swallow the lump in my throat. It sounds crazy, even in my own head, but maybe it isn’t. If they had seen it retreating, they would know I’m not losing it.

“Something was at the door. It was banging so loudly. I was scared it was going to break in.”

They look at each other and the woman leans forward. “We didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. We didn’t hear anything either.”

“The screaming stopped before the banging.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t just a nightmare?” she asks kindly.

I shake my head. “I was wide awake.”

“I don’t know how to explain what you heard and saw,” she says, choosing her words carefully. I suppose they train them in those sorts of things. “No one else has complained about screaming or loud noises out here the past couple nights. And the house you’re hearing them come from is condemned. It’s unsafe to enter. Mostly due to termite damage. But there’s nothing in that house.”

“You don’t know what I heard.”

She nods, her lips pressed as though biting back what she really wanted to say. “No, I don’t know what you heard. Because of that, I can’t do much for you right now, especially as the house is condemned and I’m not permitted to search it.”

There’s a harsh rapping on the door and I jump, splashing some of the water from the glass. Catherine takes it and sets it on the counter as the woman stands up to answer the door. One of the officers from the Department of Public Safety steps in and speaks quietly with her. I can make out some mention of the house down the hill and loud noises. The officer makes some remark about ghost stories and demolition. The woman nods and closes the door behind the officer, wishing him a goodnight.

“Why did he go?” I inquire as she sits back down.

“There isn’t anything we can do tonight. He’s going to check out the house more regularly on rounds and see if there’s anything suspicious going on. But we really can’t do much more right now.”

“What about what I heard?”

“If you’d like, we can set up a time to talk tomorrow and see if we can’t do something to make you feel better,” she suggests.

“I’m not crazy.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

I shake my head and sit back on the couch. They aren’t going to do anything. Stupid bureaucracy has their hands tied and they can’t do anything, except offer me a counseling session or two and diagnose me as something I’m not. I’m fat and find my body absolutely disgusting, but I’m not crazy.

“Thank you for coming out. I’m sorry I woke you up,” I say, staring down at my hands.

Catherine sees them out, having some conversation I don’t stick around to hear. I grab my laptop and earbuds again and barricade myself in the fort beneath my bed. When Catherine comes in, I ignore her, turning the volume on my laptop up until she finally surrenders and crawls back under her blankets. A sinking feeling in my stomach tells me she thinks I’m going crazy and the screaming will continue anew the next night only to make me seem more so.

The house is taunting me. I’m not sure what I ever did to it other than not cross the street to pass it; whatever it is, that place has it in for me. If no one else is going to do something about it, I suppose that leaves me.

House Down the Hill, Part 5

That night, the screaming wakes me again. I double over, covering my ears, trying to ignore it. When that doesn’t work, I recreate my fort and retreat there. There are other noises mixed in with the screams tonight. Slamming doors, chains being dragged, the loud revving of a chain saw. All of it only serves to make the voice more shrill and panicked.

I call the Student Advisor on Duty, my hand shaking so much I almost select the wrong contact. The phone is pressed hard to my ear so I can hear the ringing on the other end.

“Hi. This is the CGR Duty Phone, how may I help you?” a tired but perky voice says on the other end.

“I’m in Campbell Apartments number 4 and I keep hearing screaming.”

“Screaming? Do you know where it’s coming from?” I can hear the guy on the other side moving around and the jingle of keys.

“I think it’s coming from that house.”

“What house?”

“The one next door. The creepy looking one.” The screams subside a moment and I hold my breath, hoping that would be all for tonight.

“Oh God! Oh God! Somebody help me! Help! Somebody help!” I jump and bump my head on the bottom of the bed.

“Please hurry, someone’s calling for help now,” I say, almost in tears. “Please.”

“I’ll be right over,” he says, a little more immediacy in his tone.

The words become intermingled in the shrill screams. Across the room, I can see Catherine still soundly asleep in her bed and I envy her. I envy her and am appalled at the same time. How can she not hear this?

Just as quickly as the screaming began, it stops. My mind instantly fills with images of torture and death. I have no idea what is going on, but I only hope it stops. That someone is able to do something and it stops.

There’s a knock at the door. I scramble from my hiding place, relieved the SA has finally arrived, but stop dead as I turn the corner. Stepping back a few feet, I cover my mouth, muffling the scream dying to escape my throat. An angular shadow takes up the window behind the screen. It knocks again, more insistent, and is breathing so loudly I clamp my hand tighter over my mouth to mute my cries. The shadow pounds on the door and starts rattling the door handle.

My heart is racing as I run to shake Catherine awake, shushing her as she comes to, mumbling complaints. I’m practically hysterical at this point. I can hear the pounding and rattling still and I fear the next sound will be the glass shattering. “What’s going—?”

“Shhh-shh-shh.” I’m shaking so much my voice is unsteady.

The pounding stops. I pull Catherine’s hand, trying to lead her to my little fort of safety. Fear and worry are etched across her face. There’s more knocking at the door, this time more polite. Catherine looks at me a moment before slipping from bed and heading out of the room.

“No, don’t answer that,” I whisper after her. “Don’t answer that. Catherine, don’t. Please don’t.”

A moment later I hear the door open.

House Down the Hill, Part 4

The next night I wake to screaming again, the voice shrill and sounding so close. It stops the moment I wake. Just as I’m ready to dismiss it as another nightmare and fall back asleep, it starts again, sounding more distant but more insistent and terrified. I jump out of bed and go to wake Catherine.

“Catherine,” I whisper. “Catherine, wake up.”

She murmurs something under her breath and rolls over. I shake her shoulder roughly, the screaming continuing incessantly. Catherine sits up groggily asking, “What’s the matter,” and the noise stops. I’m sure I look a bit insane, spinning around, trying to remember from which direction it came.

“What’s going on, Suze?”

“You didn’t hear it?” I ask, turning the blinds in the window to peer outside.

“Hear what?” she asks confusedly, rubbing her eyes.

I stare at her, open mouthed and wide eyed. “The screaming. It was so…so loud.”

“What screaming?”

“You really didn’t hear it?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Suze.”

I sigh and close the blinds again. “I’m sorry I woke you up, Cat.”

“You okay?” she asks, already lying down again.

I nod and leave for a drink of water. I’m tempted to grab some ice cream, but I resist. I raise the blinds in the living room, peering outside for some source of the screaming. It couldn’t have been from too far away, not with as loud as it had been.

BAM!

I jump at the sound and my eyes go immediately to the house down the hill. It sits there, almost like it’s staring up at me; it looks quiet and empty, innocent. And yet there’s something about it that’s laughing at me, daring me to accuse it of being up to no good.

Closing the blinds, I set up camp on the couch with another Charlie Chaplin flick. After half an hour, it becomes obvious things won’t be like the night before. The house is in my mind and it feels like its peering in through the window, mocking my attempt to put it from my thoughts. I grab some earbuds and clear out the storage containers from under my bed, building a fort of sorts. It’s hidden from the windows and, though something sinister still seems to be lurking about, it’s enough to allow me to fall asleep to the movie.

The next day, Catherine asks if I had woken her up the night before. I apologize for it as I start replacing things under my bed. She gives me a strange look and then says, “I couldn’t remember if it had been a dream or not.”

“I’m sorry,” I murmur, hoping the conversation will end.

“Are you sleeping all right?”

I nod and ask her if she wants eggs for breakfast. “I’m craving eggs.”

“Sure,” she says carefully. I can feel her eyes watching me all the way to the kitchen. “You know, I thought I was dreaming.”

The pan is melting a pat of butter. I find myself concentrating really hard on what I’m doing. If I have to walk past that place today, I don’t want last night on my mind, not with as mocking as it had seemed.

“You know you can talk to me about it, whatever it is, right?”

“Yeah, of course.” The eggs are cooking beautifully, and I feel tempted to make three or four for myself instead of two with a slice of toast. Though this would have cued me to take a pill, I have already missed so many doses from an insanely busy schedule I have stopped taking them. Instead, I’m developing and relying on my own willpower.

Catherine thanks me for her eggs a short while later and doesn’t pursue further conversation. I can tell she’s worried though; her eyes on my back are as unsettling as the house’s intense presence the night before. I take comfort in knowing hers is in concern and not menace.

House Down the Hill, Part 3

By early February, I finally feel empowered to make some lifestyle changes and it starts with a prescription. I still choose not to exercise at the rec center, but I make a more concerted effort to walk to and from the main campus as much as possible instead of going in the morning and chilling out there until the end of the day when I have group meetings. The walking is a good start, I figure, and it’s not too demanding.

The only real downside is going past that heinous house more often. It’s worst in the afternoons when most people are in class or elsewhere on campus. Despite the abundance of sunlight, there’s something cold and eerie about the place, its vibe spreading like a high tide over the sidewalk. I tell myself it’s just my imagination; the hair raising on the back of my neck and the strange gust of wind as I cross the driveway are the stories psyching me out. At those times, I feel as though there are eyes, somewhere behind those boarded up windows and condemned walls, watching me and waiting. For what, I’m unsure. But I shrug it off the next moment, putting it from my mind, and am soon entering the safety of my apartment.

“Catherine. Catherine!” I sit bolt upright in bed to silence. My heart is pounding and my breath sounds loud enough to wake the neighbors. Across the room, Catherine is mostly hidden beneath her giant pink and white comforter, the colors and swirling design distinct despite the darkness. I jump out of bed and stumble, my legs shaking under me. She’s breathing softly and nothing appears to be out of the ordinary.

I wait a moment longer. Still she sleeps as soundly as ever. My mouth is dry and my body is still shaking from the shrill screaming I think I heard. For a moment, I believe I might be able to go to bed again, but it’s like a bad dream that persists; the screaming continues, with no obvious cause, the moment I close my eyes.

Pouring myself a glass of water in the kitchen, I sit at my desk to browse the Internet, hoping to find some TV show interesting enough to take my mind off of the nightmare and mundane enough to lull me into a new slumber. I’m proud of myself as I scroll through the list of recommended shows in the comedy genre. I’m already more empowered to turn down my vices—namely unnecessary sweets.

I choose something with Charlie Chaplin and, an hour later, I’m falling asleep on the couch.

House Down the Hill, Part 2

Much of why I chose to live in Campbell this year relates back to my personal health and weight. The three-block walk to and from campus everyday—which strangely felt like it was uphill both ways—would help me to start exercising more regularly. That was the general hope at least. To say I am unhappy with my body is an understatement. I can fill an entire mirror and spend the better half of an hour pointing out every single flaw: the pores on my nose are too big; my back rolls are saggy and catch my shirt to streak it with sweat when the room is humid; my stomach sags down over my jeans, even if the top is supposed to sit at my waist…I can go on for a while. And the whole time this is happening, I only feel more and more self-conscious and wish for an easy fix.

One crisp winter day, I am standing in the bathroom mirror cringing at the sorry state of my flabby upper arms when my roommate comes in, crossing her legs tightly as she propels herself forward in an awkward sort of dance.

“Sorry,” she says, fumbling with the button of her jeans.

I slip out of the bathroom as she yanks her pants down and sits on the toilet. The door blocks the hissing sound when I close it behind me. Deciding I have spent too long today poking at my disgustingness, I rummage through the closet, searching for a sweater from my sister. It’s two sizes too big and never fails to make me feel three sizes smaller than I am. Considering the torture my mind puts me through, it’s a small consolation to not feel as huge for a little while.

Slipping into the heather gray sweater, I leave the bedroom to plop down on the couch with my health science textbook. I cross a leg under me before setting it on the ground, berating myself for thinking I might be smaller than I am and could curl up on the small sofa. Soon, Catherine comes into the main room and starts browsing the selection in the cabinet over the sink.

“Want anything?” she asks, her back to me as she moves to inspect the snack cupboard.

“No thanks,” I reply, though the taste of cool, creamy ice cream melts over my tongue and fills my mouth.

She shrugs and takes out the box of granola and a bag of craisins. “How’s your day, Suze?”

“So-so.” I know she saw me prodding my collection of fatty stores, and it’s not a new sight to her. She usually makes small efforts here and there to share a healthy snack or to try a new workout class with her; the latter is the more humiliating of the two and the reason I continue to avoid going to work out.

“You know, my sister was struggling to lose weight for years. She was practically addicted to chocolate cake.” She’s mixing the granola and craisins into some plain yogurt from the fridge. “They put her on this medicine to help suppress her appetite. She’s lost a lot of weight because of it. She was telling me about it the other day when she called about her wedding.”

My textbook is trying to tell me something about sleep and healthy stress, but I can’t help but perk an ear to what she’s saying. Having tried just about every diet plan in existence since I was 12, I’m skeptical, though it doesn’t stop me being hopeful.

Catherine adds, “I could get more information if you’re interested.”

“I don’t know,” I admit; did I really want to put myself through another round of miracle fixes? Just because it worked for her sister…everyone is different, after all.

“Well, let me know what you decide,” Catherine says, to which I nod and assure her I will.

She glides to the window and opens the blinds a moment before lowering them again. “God that place is hideous. I wish they would just tear it down already.” Catherine takes her yogurt and walks to the bedroom. Before disappearing around the corner, she smiles at me. At first I think she might say something, her lips even part in preparation. Then she disappears into the bedroom.

House Down the Hill, Part 1

There’s an old condemned house across from the football field. It’s the kind of house most people cross the street to walk past. It looks rather small with the original part made of brick and yellow painted plaster, three stone steps leading to a plain wooden door. And then there’s the extension—white, wood siding with a white door and unpainted, dilapidated wood steps. The white door is stained brown and copper along the bottom as if dirt—or, if you believe the rumors, blood—had been splashed there from some commotion. The windows are boarded up with tagged plywood; any glass they used to hold is long gone, and most of the frames are broken.

The students, especially those living in the apartments just up the hill from there, call it Murder House. It wasn’t until I had decided to live in Campbell Apartments I even knew of the house’s existence. It is so far south of the main campus, with only the apartments and athletic fields nearby. Not particularly interested in sports, I never had a reason to go out that way before move-in. Then again, to say I was completely ignorant of Murder House might be inaccurate; perhaps I just hadn’t bothered paying attention to the stories people weaved of the place before classes. Stories of local high schoolers disappearing in there, shouting from deep inside in the middle of the night, or the front door opening as people passed by just after sundown. Some claim to have seen a shadowy, angular figure wander back into the house before sunrise, carrying something that occasionally resembled a meat cleaver, a machete, or even a chainsaw—their vague recounts bringing to mind something that belonged in cheap American anime.

I tell myself and my friends I don’t believe the stories. I am a mature, logical person and ghost tales are for younger audiences. That doesn’t stop my pace quickening and the hair on the back of my neck rising whenever I pass the house, though. At times, I have to chide my overactive imagination for giving into the rumors, especially at night when my roommate opens the blinds and the house seems just outside our door.

My roommate often complains to company of the house and how it ruins an otherwise lovely view. Our friends agree and busy themselves with sharing the same stories everyone seems to know. They posture for hours whether the tales are true and contemplate holding a stakeout some weekend night in our living room. The stakeout, of course, never happens, but they seem to enjoy entertaining the possibility. None of them really believe the stories, but it’s one of those things people latch onto and half hope is true. If any of it was true, after all, the University surely would have done something by now as it is their property. That, and they sort of promise our parents and guardians to provide a safe learning environment. Allowing a psychopath to live on campus does not exactly qualify as keeping students safe.

Invisible Lines

It’s the top of the world,

but not really.

The Royal Greenwich Observatory,

a tall red and white building atop a

steep gray and green hill under

gray, somber clouds. A large orange

globe sits impaled on a spire

piercing the sky. From this, all the invisible

ships will set their clocks and dash off

around the world. I, on the other hand,

am reminded of a giant juicy peach

slipping down the Empire State Building.

A pigeon hops and flutters across a

glass-like line in the ground.

The students toss bits of bread and crackers

left from snacks and lunch around the pier,

watching him skitter to eat his fill.

He thoughtlessly skips from one side

to the other, not realizing the importance

of being an hour ahead or behind.

How foolish we must seem, making

such a commotion over an invisible barrier

and a fictional concept

such as time zones.

Bed of Tears

Pull the blanket tighter.

Feel its warmth, like a

friendly reminder the world has not ended.

For it hasn’t.

Classes continue as if

nothing has happened and no one could

bother to notice if something had.

This room is safe.

Untouched by anyone uninvited,

it is the one place left to curl up and cry.

Dying could be an option

as well, considering how bleak everything looks

from the bed.

No one seemed particularly shocked

when it happened, when he gave up

with a curse and all capital letters.

His temper had been bound to flare,

but maybe that had been the goal all along?

Thousands of miles had been filled

with yelling, fighting, a green-eyed monster

over something that never happened,

and probably never would have.

And when the distance was reduced,

silence unforgivingly invaded and any

love felt, lost.

Turn the pillow to the

cooler side, for surely it has dried

by now. Let it soak up the tears that make this bed.

I have made it,

and until some saving grace determines otherwise,

here I shall lie, alone.

Gravity and Yoga

Breathe in

Positivity, light, wholesomeness, love

Breathe out

Stress, anger, thoughtlessness, mistakes

Focus on your breathing

Floating…

Racing thoughts cease

Breathe actively

Weightlessness surrounds me

Feel your breath—

White nothingness abounds

—fill the back of your lungs

A pure silence before unknown

Engage your diaphragm

Discomfort, falling and strain

Ignore the intruder

Follow the path—

Internal serenity found despite an incessant voice

—your breath takes—

Floating easily, yet struggling

—through your body

Tethered down, unable to be free

/…/

Silence

Finally able to enjoy floating, unrestrained

Reality rushes back, noise

I miss the voice