(Warning: Strong Language)

"No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality."

- Shirley Jackson, The Haunting of Hill House

The Cottage

"Motherfucker! Peter cried, shaking his fist at the sky. The downpour had turned into a deluge. Did God turn on the faucet or what? "You won't beat me, you jerk-st-"

A smack of wind sprayed droplets in his mouth. Coughing and sputtering, he slipped in a puddle and fell to one knee, muddy water soaking into the left leg of his brown khakis. "Fuck!"

Another gust tore his hood off, letting rain pelt his light-brown hair. Yanking the hood of his blue raincoat back on, he stood up, mumbling and sneezing. Water dripped from the tip of his nose.

He jumped at a flash of lightening. It lit up the dark, tree-lined road; thunder followed, shaking rain loose from the leaves. My cell phone doesn't work. Freak storm shows up! I'm officially in a nightmare!

Peter's rental had broken down and, like an idiot, he'd decided to walk back to town. Now I'm lost, ankle-deep in mud, wet grass, and misery. "Where the hell am I?" He blinked rapidly to keep rain out of his eyes.

"Oh for fuck's sake," he stopped under a large oak and reached under his coat. Unzipping the waterproof pocket of his sea-green fanny pack, he pulled out his flashlight and map. He clicked on the light, holding it with his teeth, and had just unfolded the map when a blast of wind tore it away.

He watched it vanish into darkness and thickets. "SON OF A BITCH!" He screamed, stamping in fury. "Here take this too!" He threw the flashlight away, instantly regretting it as it smashed into the oak's trunk and went out. The night became absolute.

"Peter, you fucking idiot-jerk!" He yelled, feeling around the oak's roots. He found pieces. It's useless. He placed his back against the oak and slid down until his butt rested on the soaked turf.

Hot tears pricked his eyes and ran down his cheeks, mixing with the cold rain. I could be in a room with a hot shower and a warm bed right now. He'd come here on personal business and to tell about his wonderful Sealand Company.

Sealand.

His apartment sat on top of the headquarters of his beautiful company. Placing his face in his palms, he shut his eyes and wept. I wanna go home. I want my chair. He often sat in his favorite chair on the balcony of his home, overlooking the sea. Sometimes seagulls perched nearby and he'd feed them breadcrumbs.

"You're lost, idiot," he admitted.

A movement in the corner of his vision made him look up. He rubbed his eyes, squinting. Deep in the forest, somewhere in its dark heart, shined a light.

A house? Hope crept into his heart and he rose to his feet. Thank God! Civilization!

Half-stumbling, half running, he cut a path through the forest. First thing I want is hot cocoa. A warm fire. Sealand. He tripped on a thicket, yelping, he fell into a wide clearing before the source of the light. A two story, shingle-roofed house, its second story jutted out over the wooden front door. Grimy windows, their panes in square shapes, were on either side of the door and on the second floor above. Moss covered half its exterior.

Brushing off wet leaves and twigs, Peter straightened his clothing, went to the door, and, seeing no doorbell, rapped on it. After a couple minutes, he did so again. He was just turning to search around the house when the door swung open to reveal a taller man in a gray sweater vest.

Those eyebrows. Peter then corrected the thought to that eyebrow. The man scowled and Peter forced himself to stop staring.

The man raised his lantern, glass encased its wax candle, the light made his eyes appear yellow-hued. "May I help you?" his words punctuated by a sharp crack of thunder.

"My car broke down," Peter explained, jerking a thumb over his shoulder, "And I got lost. The name's Peter Kirkland."

"I'm Arthur Kirkland."

"Wow! We share the same last name?" Peter laughed, adding, "Maybe I'm your long-long twin!" The man looked unamused. Sheesh, can't take a joke? What a jerk.

"Come inside," the man said, stepping aside. "No one should be in this foul weather. You look dreadful."

Yeah and you look like a bouquet of roses. You're practically as pale as cottage cheese! Peter almost retorted, instead muttering, "Thanks." He entered, the man shutting the door behind him. "I thought I was done for 'til I saw your light."

"Light? Oh that. Yes, it often guides lost souls here," Arthur said, his voice distant. Peter quirked an eyebrow. Is he being figurative? Arthur gestured at a coat hanger in the corner. "Your coat is sopping wet. You can leave it there."

"Thanks," Peter said, unbuttoning the front and shrugging the coat off. "At least my clothes are still fairly dry."

"You must be hungry. I have soup," Arthur said, heading for an opening to another room. The lantern's light threw his shadow long over the floor of the entryway and staircase that hugged half its wall. Oaken floorboards creaked with each step he made.

"Thanks, but I'd really like to call the company about my rental," Peter said, eyeing an old dial phone on a nightstand by the stair landing. Dial phone? What dinosaur uses that?

He was already reaching for it when Arthur said, "Power is out as are the phones."

Damn.

Peter's gaze went up, as if called, to a large portrait above where the stairs turned left and disappeared into the second floor. A flash of blue lightening revealed an oil painting of a blonde man with glasses. Rain and wind pelted the glass window. The trailing shadows of the droplets distorted the man's grin, transforming it to a grimace.

A relative?

"Coming?" Arthur asked, "It's not good to linger in the dark."

"Er, right," Peter said, turning to join Arthur when something snagged his foot. He caught himself on the floor and glanced over his shoulder. What tripped me? A loose floorboard?

"Careful."

The planks look in place. Leaning closer, Peter noticed a stain in the wood. Is it water from where my coat dripped?

Arthur's light faded as he left the room. "Hey wait!" Peter cried, crawling to his feet. He stayed in the light, the edge of the shadows chasing his feet. That jerk!

After passing through a drawing room, Peter only able to see a little of a sofa and a brick hearth, they entered the kitchen. A wooden island split it and dominated the black and white tiled flooring. An iron stove with a kettle and a pot, ladle sticking out of it, stood at the back against the room's brick wall. Coal embers glowed a dying red behind the oven's grill.

Arthur set the lantern on the island and gestured at a rickety stool. "Sit. Please. I'll fix tea."

"Er, sure." Thanks for asking, Peter grumbled in his head. "Is it hot?"

"The electricity went out just as the kettle was boiling," Arthur said, pulling an apron off a hook on the wall.

Peter clapped a hand over his mouth to keep from snickering. Are those pink frills? Is it his wife's? Peter thought of the light in the second floor window. The house shuddered, wind and rain pounding it. The walls seemed to moan with each blow.

"Lucky you heard me over this," Peter commented.

"I was waiting," Arthur said, taking two white porcelain teacups and their saucers out of the cabinet above. He placed then on the counter, his back remaining to Peter.

"For me?"

"For the postman." Arthur put a matching bowl down as well.

"A little late for him, isn't it?"

Arthur shrugged. "Would you like some cold pea soup? It's leftover."

Peter's stomach growled as if answering for him. "I guess that's a yes. Soup sounds wonderful. I could eat a pony right now."

Arthur chuckled. "And how do you like your tea?"

"Two cubes of sugar."

"No milk?"

"Bleh, no thanks."

"Alfred liked milk," Arthur sighed, "I mocked him for it, but now I find it quite endearing."

"Who's Alfred?"

"He was my lover," Arthur said, picking up the kettle with an oven mitt. He poured it into the cups, Peter could hear the liquid sloshing in.

"Lover?" Peter processed that and blurted out, "You're gay?"

"Does that offend you?" Arthur's tone seemed frostier. "You can take your chances in the storm if you like."

"No, no. I'm fine here. Doesn't bother me a bit. Just surprised is all. Is...er... he here now?" Peter looked up, remembering the light in the second floor. That's what I saw.

"No, he doesn't live here anymore." Arthur ladled soup into the bowl. "We aren't together anymore."

"Sorry to hear that. His loss."

"And my twin sister's gain."

Twin? Peter remembered his earlier comment. Idiot! "He dumped you for her? That must sting."

"Not as much as I thought it would," Arthur said, turning around, he carried a wooden tray over. "Careful. The tea's hot." Arthur set a cup before Peter, a bowl of sugar cubes, and a bowl of soup.

"You knew they'd get together? So Alfred wasn't gay?" Peter said, grabbing a spoon that Arthur offered and slurping up the soup. So hungry. Some dribbled down his chin.

Arthur clicked his tongue and, opening a drawer, pulled out a napkin and handed it to Peter who wiped his chin. With a heavy sigh, Arthur said, "I have friends. Good friends. I've seen them since as far back as I can remember," Peter's confusion must've shown because Arthur added, "the type only I can see."

"Oh." Peter felt his eyebrows shoot up. Oh my.

"I'm not mad. I thought I was once, but now I know they're real."

"Oh."

Arthur sighed again. "I know you don't believe me. Alfred never did either."

Peter picked up his tea cup and blew on it. Don't be alarmed. Don't let it show on your face. "S'kay. I had imaginary friends too when I was young. One of mine was named Big Jerk."

Arthur rubbed his temples. "One of my friends could read the future."

"Uh-huh," Peter took a sip. He winced as the hot liquid burned his tongue, but swallowed anyway.

"Her name was Bellflower and I went to her - just before I'd leave for the States."

"Oh, you lived there?"

"For a time," Arthur explained, "Bellflower told me I'd meet a man. A hero I'd fall for."

"Alfred?"

"At first, I met someone else who looked like him. But when I met the real Alfred, I knew. I also knew he'd never be mine."

"But you were together, right?"

"An illusion. I never truly had him. Bellflower tried to warn me. He was destined for my sister. So I attempted to ensure they never saw each other, not even a photo. But their destiny was too strong..."

"So they hooked up?"

Arthur's grimaced. "I wouldn't use that term, but yes. They met not far from here."

"Wait, you saw it?" Peter could tell.

"I don't remember how I got there, but I stood at the edge of the tree line, observing them from afar." Peter shivered, conjuring an image of Arthur hiding in bushes, glaring at the young lovers. Eerie. "Seeing them together didn't hurt like I thought it would. I felt... happy," Arthur said, a hint of smile on his lips. "Alfred smiled for her in a way he never did for me. And I realized, the two people I adored most were happy."

Peter took another gulp of soup. Very flavorless. "So you live here alone?"

"My friends visit." Ah, right. His imaginary friends. "And sometimes others come. Like this Russian fellow. He seems lost and always says he's looking for his sisters."

"A Russian? Just wandering around here?"

"Only when it snows," Arthur replied, his eyes taking on a distant look. "I feel like I knew him once. Sometimes I can almost remember his name, but it's fuzzy."

"I'd call the police. He's probably a vagrant."

The shadows quivered, the house groaning as the winds howled louder. What was that? Peter looked around, feeling like a moth fluttering around in the belly of a beast. Why do I feel so uneasy?

"Memories of Alfred are clear as a bell, but everything else is vague. Like pieces of my life are cloaked in fog." Does Arthur have Alzheimer's? Peter wondered. "Here comes the B-52 bomber," Arthur chuckled.

"Huh?"

"Ah, forgive me, Just something Alfred used to say."

"I see," Peter said, forcing himself to laugh. He set down the spoon and yawned, stretching his arms. "Must be that storm, but I feel exhausted."

"Would you like to stay here 'til morning? The upstairs bed is free."

"That'd be great." Peter did feel sleepy. His eyes had begun to droop and he yawned again, this time involuntary.

"This way," Arthur said, tossing his apron on the island and picking up the lantern.

Peter followed Arthur back to the entryway, their footsteps echoing loudly. Somehow louder than the storm. Arthur was already three steps up when something caught Peter's foot and he spilled forward, grabbing the banister.

"Sorry," he mumbled, wide-eyed and glancing around. The same spot.

"Careful," Arthur warned, heading upstairs, "The shadows are deceptive."

Peter frowned, but hurried up. As Arthur's lantern passed by the painting from earlier, Peter saw it more fully even in the dingy lighting. "Wait," he said, "Is that Alfred?"

Arthur paused, but did not look back. "It is. And it was quite a feat getting him to stay still enough to paint that."

"You made it?" Peter was impressed. Way better than my stickmen.

Arthur nodded and stepped onto the second floor landing. They went down a long oak hallway to an ajar door that light leaked out of. "The room is untidy, but the bed is made. Sheets are clean. I was looking for something earlier and left my other lamp up here." Arthur pushed the door open, but did not enter. "It's yours for the night."

"Thanks." Peter blinked in surprised. A four poster bed with a dark red canopy dominated the room. A nightstand sat next to it and a cushioned chair. On the opposite side was the window, lacy curtains were tied back and on the sill sat a lamp with oil burning in it. "It's lovely."

"Alfred left his PJs. I can get them for you."

"Ah, that's okay. I'll sleep in my clothes," Peter said.

"Suit yourself." Arthur tapped on an oak door to his right in the hallway. "This is the loo if you need it. Have a good night." Then he left.

That's it?

Peter shook his head and shut the door, relieved to have privacy. The light was low in the lantern. It'll go out soon. He wondered what Arthur was looking for. Rounding the bed, he found his answer.

The other side had six stacks of books all neatly arranged and within reach of the bed. It's like a little library. A clipboard with a paper clipped on top sat on one of the stacks. Crouching down, Peter found more under the bed and a game of chest.

He slid the wooden board out, motes of dust stirring, he sneezed and coughed. Cobwebs covered the pieces. Geez, who last played this? Alfred? He suspected so.

He frowned and bent lowering, spotting the corner of a paper hanging from the underside of the bed. Peter reached under and pulled out a sketchbook. The pages were yellowed and most of the drawings were charcoal, all signed by Arthur in his curvy signature. Peter flipped through them.

Fairies, unicorns, and...

He paused on one. A man with glasses was drooped against a chair, his eyes shut and his expression serene. There was a sad, troubled downturn to his eyebrows though. Alfred. Did Arthur sketch him while he slept?

This must be Arthur's room. I'm staying in Arthur's bed. The thought perturbed him, but a crack of thunder reminded him he had few options. Beyond a musty smell, the bed looked fine. A quilted bedspread neatly folded over it.

As he flicked through the last of the sketchbook, a photo fell out. A crease ran down its middle and its edges were water-stained. There were stains in the middle. Teardrops? The photo featured Arthur leaned against Alfred, a faint smile on his lips. Alfred had an arm slung over Arthur and was grinning. Alfred's other hand extended out of the photo, a sign Alfred had taken the picture.

Dappled sunlight splashed light and shadow across their features. The nook of an oak could be seen in the corners.

Peter turned the photo over and read a scrawled, messy hand-writing:

Yo Artie,

Dood, bitchin' picnic right? Told ya, ya should get out more. Get a bitchin' tan complexion like me.

- Your Hero,

Alfred.

Several words had been crossed out and corrected in red ink. Commas had been added. Arthur corrected Alfred's writing, Peter thought in wry amusement.

Tucking everything back in its place under the bed, Peter looked at the books. All were flat, worn, and about to fall apart as if they'd been read many times. One in particular lay open and flat on the floor. The title was: The Haunting of Hill House. Examining it, Peter found a page had been torn out. The one on the clipboard.

He leaned over and, in the dimming light, noticed one sentence underlined on the page in black ink. The line had been drawn so straight that either someone used a ruler or had been very anal. Arthur? The underlined sentence read:

"All I could think of when I got a look at the place from the outside was what fun it would be to stand out there and watch it burn down."

The light of the lamp darkened and went out, leaving Peter in blackness. He peered around the room, shivering. I'd better sleep. The sooner morning came, the better. The storm was beginning to fade, the wind and thunder receding. He crawled into bed and snuggled under the thick covers.

This place creeps me out.

He felt like he was in grave.

Don't think that. He yelled in his head, throwing the covers over his head. You'll wake soon!

Somehow, despite the adrenaline rush, Peter drifted off...

OOO

Fingernails raking across the oak, he crawled, lifting a hand for the door. "Please," he managed, choking on his own blood. He tasted iron in his mouth. It dribbled from his lips, his nostrils, and his every orifice.

His vision blurred, the door becoming fuzzy.

"A little longer," he begged. I want to hear the postman pick it up. I'm waiting for that."

"Now, now. Time's up Arthur," chuckled a low voice. He stiffened, his blood going cold.

"You," Arthur wheezed.

"We had a deal."

"You lied," Arthur gurgled, tears stinging his eyes. About everything.

His gaze shifted enough to see those sandaled-feet, but he couldn't raise his eyes higher. You're a devil, he wanted to say.

"I'm...still...waiting," Arthur gasped. His vision tunneled. Everything went dark.

Alfred.

OOO

Peter tumbled out of bed, hitting the cold, oak floor hard. He blinked in shock, staring at the floor. What was that?

The first thing he realized: Peter had been huddled in a fetal position before he tumbled off. The second thing: A lingering cold in his back.

A terrifying thought entered his mind: Was someone laying next to me?

His body's every sense screamed, "yes". But his mind refused to believe it. You're being silly. Letting a dream get to you. He took in a sharp breath and lifted himself up, turning his head toward the bed. He sighed in relief. Empty.

See. No one was there, he told himself, standing up. Early morning sunlight filtered through the dusty air. He paused, his eyes widening. On the pillow and bed next to where he'd laid was an indent. Like...

He grabbed his fanny pack off the floor and snapped it on. Not wasting a moment, he threw open the door and skipped the toilet, he headed for the stairway. Just in your head, he thought.

And yet it lingered, a feeling that someone had been pressed against him.

"Arthur?" He called, but his voice faltered. The house seemed different in daylight. Darker as if the light made the shadows more menacing. "Arthur?" He practically whispered, gripping the banister as he descended the rickety stairs. Peter felt like an invader in this place.

Summoning what courage remained, he called, "Arthur?"

His anxiety grew and he cared less and less about finding Arthur. All he craved was to be out of this house. His imagination had become pregnant with horror, teaming with images of shadows moving and shifting just on the edge of his vision. His eyes darted everywhere, trying to watch all around.

Breath quickening, he clapped a hand over his mouth, muffling a cry. His knuckles went white as his hand gripped the railing.

No, NO! It can't be!

But at the bottom of the stairs where he'd tripped twice last nice was a dark red stain. Memories of his dream flooded him, drowning him in its reality.

Fingernails raking across the oak...

He remembered that vividly. The scratch marks were clear as day.

He snapped and not caring about his raincoat or anything. He leaped over the stain, sailing over it, he landed by the door. Ripping it open, a smell filled his nostrils. Rot. A cold draft kissed his nape and something whisked by it. Like claws. Slender fingers.

He threw himself out, landed on the wet stone of the path, picked himself up and bolted down a path that he'd not noticed last night. It curved sharply right. The path was large enough for a small car.

Finally, when the house was out of sight he slowed, catching his breath. His lungs felt on fire. "You idiot," he pressed his knuckles against his forehead. "Letting yourself get spooked." He shook his head. And giving up a perfectly good raincoat.

But he didn't turn back. He headed down the dapple-shaded road, the air was fresh and scented with pollen. Ah Spring.

He sneezed.

I hate it.

Birds chirped everywhere and roses bloomed along the roadside. By the time it intersected with the road, he felt like it'd all been a dream. He'd convinced himself of that.

Need to find my car. Maybe walk the rest of the way into town.

He had just turned onto it when he spotted a postman, brown satchel slung over his left side, heading up the road. He raised a thick brown eyebrow at Peter.

I was waiting for the Postman. Peter shuddered, remembering Arthur's words.

They passed each other, Peter slowed though, glancing over his shoulder. Sure the postman would turn and head up the path. When he skipped it, Peter halted. Frowning, he shouted, "Hey, you missed a house!"

The postman glanced at Peter, but continued on. "Hey! Peter shouted again, marching over. "You can't just skip someone."

The postman stopped, turning around. "Sir, are you speaking to me?"

"Of course. Arthur Kirkland's up there waiting for you," Peter said, pointing at the path.

The postman laughed. "No one's up there waiting for me. Arthur's been dead for five years." Peter felt like stone. "He died up there at the foot of the stairs. They say Alfred."

"Alfred?"

"Yeah, this sunny fellow with glasses. He found Arthur. Heard he was almost inconsolable afterwards. They say there was so much blood ole' Arthur practically floated in it. Never knew he was sick. He never looked sick, but he did stop leaving his house several years back."

"You're lying," Peter said. You're a devil, those words floated back from his dream. "I was at the cottage."

The postman chuckled. "Sure you were."

"I was!"

"Uh-huh," The postman rubbed his mustache. "I have deliveries to make so-."

"The Kirkland Cottage is there!" Peter screamed, pointing at the path. "The man needs you."

"Okay," the man sighed, pointing at the path, "Right up there?"

"Yeah."

"Lad, there's nothing up there but ruin. The cottage burned down five years ago. Magistrate concluded some punk kids must've done it."

"No," Peter said, shaking his head. "I stayed up there!"

"Then you slept in an ash-heap. Now if you'll excuse me. I have letters to deliver. Good day to you sir."

A chill wind blew against Peter, rustling the grass around him. The path somehow seemed darker.

Don't.

Yet his feet moved as if by their own will. He had to see. Had to know. With each step, the air felt thicker and his heart pounded louder as if it would burst from his chest. Arthur's words echoed in his head, I'm still waiting.

Peter rounded the bend. His mind went blank. "No," he whispered, sinking to his knees. "It can't be."

Grass had sprouted through gaps in what had once been a stone path leading to it. The house itself was nothing but a shell of burnt-out brick, charred timber, and broken glass. One of the upstairs wall had survived enough that its broken window resembled the empty socket of a skull in Peter's mind. He thought of one laying askew on the hinge of its own jaw. Moss hard grown over everything as if the Earth was reaching up to reclaim the cottage.

His eyes raked over the disrepair, absorbing what he saw. Then he felt it. A chill air touched his nape. Hairs rose. Then he smell it like something reeking of the grave. A fetid breath that ticketed his ear. Time seemed to stop, his eyes widening at a second shadow standing behind his own.

"I'm still waiting," Arthur crooned.

Peter screamed, whirling around onto his back, his butt scraping the grass. He saw nothing. Nothing! He shrieked in his mind. Scrabbling onto his feet, he tore off down the path. His feet tangled and he spilled forward, skinning his palm and knee.

I see nothing! Nothing!

He ripped up grass by the roots as he yanked himself up. He ran, never looking back, haunted by those words.

I'm still waiting.

Some part of him knew there was one more.

Alfred.

NOTE:

And there it ends, our duet. No more waits. But unlike a wasted life, a good story can be revisited. Turn back to the beginning and everything resets to zero. While the events cannot be altered, they can be experienced anew.

Should you ever find this longing upon you, simply go back and let the loop unfold once more...

I leave you with one final quote from "The Haunting of Hill House":

"Within, walls continued upright, brick met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone."