The House

My first reaction after parking my car on the broken paving and looking up at the dying old house is: “Quaint, my butt!”

My second reaction, when I nearly fall through the rotting patio stairs on my way to the front door, comes in a yelp of pain and a stream of words too spicy to repeat while my box of art supplies crashes into the front door.

My third reaction is when I manage to unlock the rusty lock and push open the front door, and it groans loud enough to wake the dead. I utter something between a squeal of shock and a grunt of disgust at the smell.

I flip the light switch just inside the front door, and a big fat nothing happens. The interior remains dark and musty, smelly and uninviting, while dust particles lazily drift in the cloudy light coming from the open door.

This leads to my fourth reaction to the house, where I whip out my phone, find the right contact and stab the dial button.

“Craig!” I yell before he even manages to finish his greeting. “You said this house was, and I quote, ‘pretty and quaint, rich in history and character.’ You did NOT say that it was squalid and putrid, rich in bad odours and horror! Come on! The lights aren’t even working!”

To be fair, I should have seen the once elegant main gate—rusted, broken, overly heavy and hard to open—and the winding, unkempt, pitted driveway as a warning of less awesome things to come.

Actually, I should have seen Craig being in the mix as ample warning...

“You said you wanted somewhere inspiring to paint and stuff. Art students like that kind of garbage... The ad called it an artist’s dream,” Craig says in a bored voice.

“And I really needed the money,” I swear I hear him say under his breath.

“An artist’s nightmare, maybe...” I grumble.

I can definitely hear him eating something crunchy, and in the background, a commentator is going on about a missed try. I can imagine Craig lying on the couch, wearing a dirty t-shirt and faded track pants, snacking on beer and chips, while he watches the rugby World Cup reruns and highlights, only showing some vague signs of forced enthusiasm when his favoured team scores.

I can imagine it because I’ve seen it more times than I wanted to. I’m lucky he even answered the phone.

“I don’t do creepy paintings.”

“Weeeeell...” and the crunching continues.

“Craig!”

“I’ll call someone to check out the electricity,” he sighs through a mouth full of chips.

“Someone?”

“There’s a caretaker... munch-munch, crunch-crunch... he takes care of... munch-munch, crunch-crunch... stuff...”

I trust Craig about as much as I trust the steps leading up to this house. No... I trust Craig even less. “No. Text me the number, and I’ll call him myself.”

A long, mournful, life-lying-on-the-couch-is-so-HARD sigh answers my request, and I’m beginning to question my ability to make rational decisions.

I mean, I trusted this guy enough to pack the things I’m going to need and to drive all the way out here to—God left and hasn’t looked back since back and beyond of ever—to a house I somehow believed was going to be “pretty and quaint and rich in history and character” and yank me out of my uninspired slump to create the paintings I require for my final year evaluations.

I really believed that!

Or I was just that desperate... For crying in a bucket...

“No, I have an even better idea. READ me the number NOW, and I’ll call him.”

“Belle...” he moans. ”Cuz... Looney Tunes...”

“No Belle anything! Nothing Belle or Bellish or Cuz or Looney anything at all! Nothing else out of you, just the number. Right now!”

I know I’m sounding a bit like a shrew, a dominating one,... but this is Craig. Craig always brings out my best side. In fact, lately, Craig brings out most people’s worst sides. Besides, I’m standing on a sad-looking patio, and there’s a storm brewing; there’s no time for being nice.

Craig makes a compliant grunt-like noise, and then I hear what sounds like potato crisp bags rustling and beer cans tumbling over one another.

Is he even sober?

The rugby commentator and the crowd are going ballistic in the background. They are apparently as astounded as I am that the thing on the couch can move more than its hand and jaw.

Some more grunting, some muttered cuss words, even a snort and a burp or two and... was that a fart just now? Then, Craig comes back on the line.

“You made me miss a try,” he says. I doubt that he truly cares about that. Craig doesn’t seem to care about anything much these days.

“Yeah, well, you made me miss lunch.”

He really did. The map he’d given me was rubbish. I got turned around more times than I can remember. The trip was supposed to take about two hours, but ended up taking closer to three and a half hours. I’m hungry and exhausted. It’s starting to get dark, and rain has been looming for the last 15 minutes or so of my journey.

The plan was to get moved in as quickly as possible, stuff my face with whatever I could whip up, take a really hot shower and crawl into the nearest bed. In exactly that order.

The plan was not to stand on the threshold of a dusky room filled with shadows and a smell as if something had died in its depths. The sun is setting, and raindrops plop loudly on the broken tiles of the canopy covering the small patio I’m standing on.

Craig reads the number, and I wish I’d thought of a way to capture it before he started.

“Hold a sec,” I order (I’m being very authoritative today) and go down on my knees to dig through the torn box of art supplies I’d had the wisdom to throw at the door when my foot went through the last step on my way up to the patio. I find a red cray-pastel and a sketchpad.

“Go,” I say, flipping the pad on its face so that I can write on its back.

Craig munches and crunches his way through the number and ends in a dispassionate cheer-burp. His team must have scored another almost-try or something on the verge of being exciting...

“Does he have a name?”

“Sean Maitland...” The answer comes surprisingly fast. ”Why?”

Why???

“Well, I don’t want to call him Hey You when I ring him about the electricity.”

“Oh, the caretaker...” The incessant crunching starts up again, and from the grunts on the other end of the connection, he is making himself comfortable on the couch. “Uhm... can’t see... uh... looks like... Tom... something...”

“Tom... Something? That’s really specific.”

“Can’t make out the surname, the letter is really smudged... think it’s...uhm...” Is he sniffing or licking the paper? I can’t be sure, but knowing Craig, probably both. ”Yeah, it’s relish and mayo...”

Trust Craig to use an important letter as a coaster!

“There’s a letter?!” I exclaim, really angry now. “You told me all the info would be waiting for me here in a letter left at the house!”

“Oh...”

Making a strangled sound of frustration, I’m about to ask him more about the letter when it hits me: “If the caretaker is Tom Something, who the hell is Sean Maitland?”

“The guy who just stopped a try.” He actually sounds a bit astonished that I can be that ignorant.

“Why would I want to know the name of...?! Ah, whatever! Never mind... Thanks...” I’m about to hang up when I have another thought. “Keep your phone close to you because if Tom Something can’t help me or the number is wrong, or anything makes me mad... madder, I’m coming through the mouthpiece to kill you.”

“There’s no mouthpiece... What kind of old-as phone do you think I-”

“Bye!” This time, I do hang up.

I start to punch in the number for Tom Something, but then I realise that I need that letter, which apparently contains important information, such as caretaker numbers and who knows what else.

I close the dial screen, and afraid I might forget again, open Craig’s contact in the chat app.

“Take a picture of that letter and send it to me, please.” I type and press send, thanking God that when He’d decided to pack up and leave this gloomy backwater, He’d at least thought to leave some cell phone towers standing for the less fortunate. The signal isn’t great, but it’s there.

I make a mental note to call Craig if I don’t receive the image soon... if my phone still has power by then and the waning signal remains existent.

My plans have changed.

I’m going to get the electricity going, take a look at the place, and if it is just as dreary and creepy without the musty darkness helping along the atmosphere, I’m getting back into my car and driving home...

Even if there is a storm and it takes me all night...