Tim Meyer - The Switch House

“Ma-me,” he whispered.

That was all he’d ever whisper.

Every so often, my wife will pitch me ideas. Most of them are terrible (don’t tell her I said that!). Sometimes— rarely —I actually like one. The Switch House started out like that. Late one night, she woke me up to tell me this “amazing” idea. It went something like this:

“A husband and wife go on one of those house-swap reality shows and when they come back, their house is haunted.”

She told me all about the woman with whom they switched houses with, how she should be responsible for hexing their old home. I kicked the idea around for a couple of hours and put my own spin on it. I introduced the strained relationship between the husband and wife, the loss their family had endured and continue to deal with, and, of course, the dream goblins. She wasn’t too keen on the latter. No supernatural elements was something she was very keen on. But, I didn’t listen. I had already made up my mind—the dream goblins stay.

And so they did.

And I’m really happy with how it turned out. Her? Well, as of this writing, she hasn’t read it yet. I suspect she will enjoy it, though it’s not something I’d wager on.

I guess I’m writing this afterword to give my wife the credit she deserves. I mean, she deserves way more credit than just coming up with the plot for this story—after all, I constantly refer to her as the “glue” that holds our family together; without her, we’d all undoubtedly fall apart. So anyway, she came up with the framework and I fleshed out the characters, their motives, and I wrote the thing, and here we are. Even though my name is on the cover, she’s definitely left her fingerprints on this one.

I had a lot of fun writing The Switch House. It was both familiar and unfamiliar territory for me. I feel the nature of Angela’s “decision” was one of the darkest things I’ve written, and there wasn’t a drop of blood spilled in that flashback scene. I enjoy a good kill scene as much as any horror fan, but sometimes the most terrifying stuff comes from the horrible decisions people make—especially involving the well-being of their children. Sadly, if you turn on the news, these stories will appear right in front of you. I can’t think of anything more heinous, and I won’t lie to you—writing that scene made me feel icky inside.

And that feeling is where the unfamiliar territory comes into play. Maybe I would have felt differently five years ago, before I was the parent of an autistic child. But now—no way. Icky all over. I shivered every second while writing it.

But I think that makes for the best kind of horror.

At least, I hope.

I’d also like to thank the following people who’ve helped in some way or another during the making of this book: Tim Feely, Matt Hayward, Chad Lutzke, Todd Keisling, Glenn Rolfe, Chuck Buda, and Curtis over at Cedar Hollow Reviews.

Also, a special thanks goes out to my wife for all she’s done. I’ll throw a big ol’ THANK YOU to you, dear reader, for entering The Switch House with me. I hope you’re not too changed by what you found here. However, if you do dream of alternate worlds between your walls, endless blue rooms occupied by the dead, and dilapidated houses that sit on the edge of nowhere and everywhere all at once—please don’t blame me.

Blame my wife.

Milo Medlock sat in a tree, the tallest oak in Red River, and waited for the bear.

He’d seen the report on TV last night; a black bear had been spotted sometime between six and nine, going through garbage cans on Southland Drive, near the bay. Three people reported the bear’s presence, and one of them had stood on their porch and shouted at the beast, hoping the loud noises would spook off the bear. But it hadn’t. According to the report, the bear had ignored all human requests and continued sifting through the garbage for edibles. Once it had finished, it hustled into the nearby woods, and no one had ever seen or heard from the beast since, though, the newscasters hadn’t been shy about pointing out that the bear could reemerge any time it pleased.

Milo aimed his bow and arrow down at the ground. It’d been years since he’d shot the thing, and only dug it out for occasions like this. He wasn’t ordinarily a hunter—he’d never killed an animal in his entire life, unless you counted flies and the occasional hornet. Never killed anything bigger than his thumb. But, when times called for it, when the neighborhood was under attack by bears or by criminals posing as post office workers, Milo Medlock grabbed his bow and arrow.

True story: About two years ago, Milo and his wife, Tilda, were watching the news one afternoon when a report came across the screen, informing the good people of Red River to be on the lookout for a dangerous criminal posing as a mailman. Apparently the scumbag was knocking on doors, pretending to deliver the mail, and then breaking into houses. Milo, not having a gun in the house to protect his family from the outside threat, had gone straight for the bow and arrow, the one his father had made him when he was just a small boy, almost forty years ago. Tilda thought the idea was ridiculous—she thought most of his ideas were—but she couldn’t convince him to keep the doors locked and the windows shut instead of sitting on the roof and scoping out potential burglars dressed like mailmen.

“Just let the authorities handle it, you schmuck,” she had told him. “Who do you think you are? Robin Hood?”

He’d told her that he obviously wasn’t Robin Hood, but he was a pretty good shot. He’d practiced regularly in the garage with targets, beer cans and such. He’d never entered any archery competitions, but Roman—a friend from the office—always encouraged him to do so. But Milo wasn’t the confident type and he never could bring himself to complete the online form for Red River’s annual archery contest. He’d known how well he could shoot, but what if there was someone better? Someone more accurate? Someone who could split his own bullseye right down the center of his arrow, just like in the movies. He didn’t think he could handle that kind of defeat. Even though he’d hit that mailman when he’d come strolling up the driveway with no car behind him, no sack of mail on his back, hit him right where he’d intended. Luckily, it had been the burglar, otherwise there might have been legal repercussions of his sure shot. He’d hit the thug right in the leg, through the calf, and made sure not to inflict a mortal wound. He could have if he’d wanted to.

If he’d wanted to.

If I’d wanted to , he thought, as he shifted in his makeshift tree stand. He was by no means a hunter, had never even given the sport any thought; something about killing innocent animals made him uneasy.

But what about the bear? Wasn’t he innocent? After all, the bear hadn’t done anything. Not really. It had invaded a suburban street and raided some garbage cans for food. It’d probably been hungry. It’d just needed some snacks. Something to get by on until something better came along. No harm in that. It wasn’t a man-eater for Christ’s sakes. It hadn’t left the street a bloody mess of haphazardly strewn people parts. It had done nothing except to attempt to satisfy its most basic need—to eat. And it hadn’t shed a drop of human blood to do so.