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.