Bentley Little - The House

He stared at the television, watched the mother and the father kneel before the wall, calling to their little girl, and it came to him.

The House.

That was it. The House. The home in which he'd been born and where he'd spent the first eleven years of his life. He could remember very little about the House, only flashes of images, portions of events, but there was something about it that reminded him of the girl lost in the walls.

There'd been something scary about the House.

The fact that he could recall almost nothing at all about his childhood home disturbed him. He knew why, of course, and though it wasn't really surprising, it was unsettling to realize just how easily he fit into that cliched niche, that stereotypical pattern so often exploited by headline-grabbing doctors and the media during sweeps weeks.

He couldn't remember because that was where his mom had died.

He was disappointed in himself that he was so predictable, so typical, and the thought occurred to him that everything else that seemed to be happening--his uneasiness, the shadow, the doll--could all be part of some psychological problem that could be traced back to this one event.

But that wasn't be possible. He'd lived a perfectly normal life all these years. The normal, happy life of a well adjusted man, a husband, a father. The House had not affected him at all.

Perhaps his long stretch of unemployment had put stress and pressures on him that he couldn't recognize, wasn't able to acknowledge.

He should try to find out if that was the case. A psychiatrist would be the best idea, he supposed, but he was loath to go that route. Despite all the positive propaganda distilled through the media over the past decade, there was still a stigma attached to it in his mind, and he couldn't picture himself lying on a couch, spilling his guts, and letting some stranger give him advice on how he should act and how he should feel and how he should live his life.

Besides, they didn't have the money for it.

And, truth to tell, he didn't really believe that his perceptions were off, that what he was thinking, feeling, and experiencing was part of some mental disorder or buried emotional problem.

He had seen the shadow.

There was something wrong with Tony's doll.

There was a reason for him to feel uneasy.

A psychiatrist might be able to help him remember, though. Might be able to recall his memories of the House.

Why did he think of it as "the House"? he wondered.

With a capital "H"? He wasn't sure. He couldn't even get a clear picture in his mind of the House's exterior.

Or his bedroom. Or any of the other rooms inside the structure. He could see only a long hallway. And a dark corner with a window seat. And an image of an overflowing bathtub.

Had there been a doll in the House? A doll like Tony's?

He wished his dad were still alive. His dad would help him remember.

Daniel stared at the television as The Twilight Zone ended and a commercial came on. It was not normal for him to block out such a large part of his life. And to such an extent. He acknowledged that that was of legitimate concern, but what worried him far more than the fact that he was repressing his childhood memories was the idea that they were somehow connected to what was going on in his life now.

And that Tony was being drawn into it.

Whatever was happening, he wanted it to end. He didn't want to see strange figures or unusual events, and most of all, he did not want anything to happen to his wife or his son.

It had been a long time since he'd gone to church.

Several years. But, sitting on the couch, he closed his eyes and folded his hands and, for the first time since he could remember, prayed.

"Dear God," he said softly. "Please keep Margot and Tony safe. Don't let anything happen to them. Help them be healthy and happy and live until they're a hundred years old. Amen."

Margot picked up Tony after school, and they stopped by the grocery store before coming home. Daniel helped his wife carry sacks from the car, while Tony went straight to his bedroom.

He noticed the doll's absence immediately.

"Mom!" He was running out to the kitchen even as Daniel was setting down sacks on the counter and Margot was putting milk in the refrigerator.

"Mom!"

Frowning, Margot closed the refrigerator door and looked up. "What?"

"Dad took my project! He stole my project!"

Margot glared at him. "You didn't ..."

Daniel looked at her, shrugged. "I threw it away."

She glared at him. "Why did you do that? You didn't have to do that."

Yes I did, he wanted to respond, but he kept silent.

"Mom?" Tony said, imploring her with his eyes to somehow bring back the doll.

"Where is it?" Margot demanded. "Where did you put it?"

"It's gone." Daniel turned to face his son. "And that's the end of it."

"Mom!"

"Why is it so important?" Daniel asked him. "What's so important to you about that doll?"

Tony reddened. "It's not a doll!" he yelled.

"It's a doll. And why does it mean so much to you?"

"Daniel," Margot said warningly.

"It's my project!"

"It's not something you're doing for school. Why are you doing it?"

"You can make another one--" Margot began.

"No!" Daniel shouted, and both of them jumped. He pointed at Tony. "You are not going to make another one! Do you hear me?"

The boy said nothing, looked to his mom. Margot was silent.

"You are forbidden to make one of those things again. And if I catch you doing it, you'll be grounded for a month. Do you understand me?"

Tony angrily turned and stalked down the hall, slamming the door to his room.

"I mean it!" Daniel called after him.

"What was that?" Margot demanded. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

He shook his head. "You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

"I just don't like that doll."

"Why? It's evil?"

He whirled to face her, thrilled that she'd seen it too, but when he met her eyes he saw only anger there. She was being sarcastic, he realized.

"You need to get some help," she told him. "I don't know what's happening with you, but I don't like it. You need to see a psychiatrist."

A psychiatrist.

It was a chance, an opportunity.

But he didn't take it.

"I'm not going to a shrink," he said.

She looked at him. "You need to do something."

"I just don't want a doll like that in our house." He turned without looking at her and walked out to the family room. He switched on the TV, the local news, and a few moments later he heard her angrily slamming cupboards and drawers as she put away the groceries.

Laurie Laurie sat across from Josh at the small wrought-iron table adjacent to the coffeepot at the rear of the bookstore.

She hadn't slept well all week and when he'd called her on it, she told him about the dreams.

In a way, she was grateful. It had not been a conscious thought, but clearly she'd felt the need to talk about what was happening, and when her brother commented on her haggard appearance for the third time and sat her down, demanding Laurie tell him what was wrong, she did. She told him everything, beginning with her encounter with the girl in the alley, giving detailed descriptions of each and every dream, explaining how she'd lain awake as long as possible, not wanting to fall asleep. She was not embarrassed discussing the sexual nature of the dreams with Josh, but she did tone down her reaction, ashamed of how much she had enjoyed the encounters with the child.

The dreams had changed since the first one, evolved.

It had happened slowly over the past two weeks, and at first she wasn't even aware of it. The girl had sucked her in with sex, had used intimacy to gain her trust, but the dreams had become increasingly nonerotic , increasingly grotesque and chaotic, and they were now to the point where she considered them nightmares.