Tim Meyer - The Switch House

That cursed place.

The woman had said, If you think you need help, please seek me out. Help. Of that, Angela needed plenty.

During the drive, she replayed the woman’s generous offer over in her head. Angela didn’t exactly know what to make of it. If the woman was trying to assassinate her, offering help was hardly the traditional approach. Or was it?

Maybe it’s a trap? All part of her little mind game. To break me down. Make me see shit that isn’t there, then build me up with empty promises. Only to take it all away again.

Her mind began to work against her, conjuring up ways to fit all the misshapen pieces into the complex puzzle that had become her life. Maybe she can’t enter the house on Trenton Road. Maybe she needs me to come to her. Maybe it’s all part of her twisted design.

Or maybe just the opposite. Maybe the woman wasn’t trying to kill her. Maybe the house itself sought violence, maybe because of what had happened there. What she did to [we do not speak his name]. Maybe her actions opened a locked door, let in whatever was waiting on the other side.

No. Impossible.

Maybe she’s just trying to help.

She thought she’d phone Barry on the way to, number one—question him about Rosalyn, and number two—help pass the time. The six-hour drive to the Vermont border would be long and boring, and Angela hated long, boring drives. She called Barry but the prick didn’t answer. An hour later, he called back.

“What’s up, superstar?”

“Oh stop.”

“What? You’re going to be a household name in a few short weeks. Guaranteed.” And she would, only not in the way Barry Harrison intended. “So… what can I do for you, sweetie-pie?”

“I’d like to know more about the woman who stayed in our house.”

A brief silence lingered. “Rosalyn Jeffries?”

“Yes. Her.”

“Why?” Is everything all right? She didn’t, like, do anything to the house, did she?”

Angela’s breath caught in her throat.

“Angela?”

“Yes?”

“Why do you want to know about Rosalyn?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on. Don’t be coy with me. Tell me. I thought we were buddies?”

“We are. We are.”

“Then tell me.”

Frustrated, she growled. “It’s just the house, man. The house is weird. I’m getting super strange vibes from it.”

“Okay. That’s it?”

“Yeah. Isn’t that enough?” She suddenly grew suspicious of her former producer. He acted like he knew something but he wanted to know what Angela knew before spilling the whole story. “What do you know, Barry?”

“I know nothing.”

“You don’t sound like you know nothing.”

“What do you want to know, Angela?”

“The woman. What’s her deal?”

It was Barry’s turn to exhaust a breath of frustration. “She’s just some nutty old woman we chose to be on the show, okay. That’s it. She lost her husband a few months back, around the same time as…you know,” [we do not speak his name], “and we thought it’d be a good match. She was a little odd on set. She kept rambling on about a bad aura, how her husband’s ghost wouldn’t show himself there, and some other crazy shit that’s going to make for some kick-ass television.”

“Whoa, whoa. Slow down. Her husband’s ghost wouldn’t show himself there?” Her brow climbed to the top of her forehead. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Yeah, her words, hon. Not mine.”

Angela shook her head as she passed the big, green LEAVING NEW JERSEY sign. “I don’t like that, Barry. You should have told me.”

Another pause. “Did you… do you know?”

She didn’t like the smallness of his voice. “Know what?”

“Nothing. Never mind.”

“Barry?” She grunted with heated frustration. “What do you need to tell me?”

The producer sighed, filling her ear with static. “Okay, look. Promise you won’t be mad.”

“Why don’t you tell me and I’ll decide if it’s worth getting mad over.”

“Okay. Here it goes. I did some research on Rosalyn Jeffries. After we got her into your house, I got weirded out by her. You know, like I said, she was talking about some wild stuff. She was obsessed with the supernatural, spirits and demons, and, for whatever reason, she was convinced something wicked was taking place on Trenton Road. Something sinister. I believe her exact words were ‘corrupted shadows’, or something like that. Now that I mention it, a lot of what happened there is kind of foggy.”

Angela noticed how hard she was gripping the steering wheel; color had bled from her knuckles, rendering them a row of eight white bumps.

“Anyway, I did my research.”

“After you hired her?”

Barry clicked his tongue. “We did a background check prior, but nothing came up. Honest, Angela, if I had known, there was no way we would have put her on Switch! I want you to know that.”

Angela’s neck constricted, every muscle, from her chin down, tightening like a screw. “What did she do, Barry?”

“Angela…”

“WHAT DID SHE DO?” she screamed into the phone. Her car swerved, nearly side-swiping the maroon van next to her. The man in the vehicle honked his horn, rolled down his window so he could shout obscenities, and capped his tirade off with a middle-fingered salute. Angela smiled at him and returned her attention back to the road. She found a calm place in her mind and huddled there. Her nerves simmered. “What did she do?” she asked again, softly this time.

“According to Google, Rosalyn Jeffries got mixed up in some local cult back in the sixties. I guess you could call it a coven, a group of witches. The only reason there was any documentation of this cult—called The Sisterhood of Sin , in case you wanted to know—was because in ’68, one of their members died. A woman. She was found all burnt up, head to toe. Baked to a crisp. There was an investigation, according to the article, but nothing was ever done. No charges were brought against any of the members, especially their leader, a woman by the name of Ester Moore.”

Barry stopped, and the big man’s heavy breaths filled her ear.

“What else?” she asked, clearly irritated.

“That’s it. Honest. I wouldn’t have even found anything if it weren’t for her picture and the caption citing her name.”

“A Google search. After she signed on for the show.”

“I had to dig deep, Angela. This wasn’t the first hit, mind you. I think the article was on the twelfth page. Don’t ask me why I went beyond the first couple.” She heard him swallow and sensed he was on the verge of tears. She could tell this situation was eating away at him, and, though she probably had every right to, she wouldn’t press him. “I just felt something off…”

“Barry, want some advice?”

“Sure…” he said, his voice strained.

“Fire your investigators. They suck ass.”

She hung up. Next, she dialed Abbie. Her psychiatrist picked up on the first ring.

“Angela? I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon. How are you feeling? Is everything all right?”

“Eh, I’ve been better.” She proceeded to tell her about Barry’s confession. “I know. Crazy stuff. But it could explain a lot about what I’m experiencing lately.” She opened her mouth, but realized what she was about to say and who she was about to say it to.

“Angela, these manifestations. They aren’t real, sweetheart.”

“I know. I just… I don’t know what I just said. I know how insane that sounded. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s fine. You’re just confused. Look, why don’t you drop by the office later. I can clear my afternoon and—”