Darkhouse

After I perused Facebook for ten minutes, learning absolutely nothing interesting about the people in my life (or slightly outside of my life, as seems to be the case with Facebook), I changed my status to a song lyric and moved on to read my sister’s blog.



Ada started this fashion blog about six months ago and she’s actually been doing really well with it. She’s always been very fashion-forward. How can she not be when she fits into all of our mother’s hand-me-downs? Our mother used to be a model way back in the day, so she has tons of designer goods in storage. Of course, with my generous thighs, big ol’ bubble butt and giant rack, I don’t wear the clothes as well as my sister. They’re not my style, anyway.



But I appreciate the way my sister can rock the designer stuff with vintage items and apparently so does everyone else. Just by posting a picture of herself every day and writing a blurb about what she was wearing, she gets tons of hits to her blog, enough so that she started making money from advertising.



It’s funny, my sister and I kind of grew apart when I went off to college. I guess the age difference was really apparent, and to be honest, I had no idea how to relate to her. She was a preteen when I left and when I came back, I still wanted to treat her like my cute little sister.



Now, because we’ve had a year bunked in the same house again, I do feel closer to her. She is starting to become more like a friend, which is great in some ways, but sometimes I wonder when I should play the role of the big sister. When I see her posing flamboyantly in a skimpy outfit on display for the entire world to see, I can’t understand what she’s after. I wouldn’t feel comfortable putting myself out there like that. But the last time I mentioned she could become a prime target for stalkers (or even worse), she just brushed it off and made the point that mom approved.



I’ll admit that I am a little jealous, which is kind of ridiculous because I’m her older sister. But she’s got her path; she’s following it and making progress.



The exact opposite of me.



My cell rang, leaving that depressing thought in my head as I answered.



“Hi, pumpkin,” my mother said in her lilting voice. She still had a faint Swedish accent but for the life of me I couldn’t really hear it.



“Hi, Mom,” I answered with a sigh, knowing she was just checking up on me to make sure I was all in one piece.



“How are you feeling? Any troubles?”



“No. I’m fine.”



“How is work? You still have a job, right?”



I let out a puff of air again and muttered “yes.” This was her daily question. The daily reminder to not even think about quitting my job. It’s like she knew.



“Listen,” she continued, “what are you and Ada doing this weekend? Uncle Albert was hoping we could all get together.”



My dad’s brother Albert lived on a huge plot of beach-side land on the foggy Oregon coast and thanks to the proximity to us we often drove out there to see him. He was divorced and lived alone with his twin boys, Matthew and Tony, two nineteen-year-old troublemakers.



I had nothing planned for the weekend. If I didn’t go to the coast, I would just end up sitting at home and having a Lost marathon by myself.



After I told her I’d be there and hung up, I stretched back on my bench, the sun heating up my maroon leggings, and half-heartedly nibbled on some cut-up veggies. I eyed a nearby Subway and almost succumbed to the call of a melted bacon sub but resisted.



I finished up and plodded back to the office, defeated by the drudgery of the nine-to-five life. The sun teased the freckles across my nose and the lightest breeze tossed my hair so I could see the shades of violet dye in the black strands. I wanted to stay outside, surrounded by the quaint buildings, the golden green trees, the people bustling to-and-fro in lives more exciting than mine, and most of all I wanted these last rays of summer to last forever. But duty called, as it always did.



I walked into the lobby and waited for the elevator. As I stood there on the cold, hard tiles, I felt the presence of someone behind me. Strange, I didn’t see anyone when I came in, nor did I hear the door open or close behind me.



A creepy feeling swept over me. I remembered the dream I had. Suddenly, I felt inexplicably afraid.



I hesitated at turning around. In my “overactive imagination” I thought I would see something horrible, but I did it anyway.



There actually was someone there sitting on the white lobby couch. It was an old lady who looked like she was trying disastrously hard to be a young lady. She must have been about eighty, wearing a red taffeta dress adorned with tiny pom poms and outlandish makeup smeared across her face. She had exaggerated purple eyeliner, Tammy Faye Bakker eyelashes, a swipe of orange across her sagging cheekbones, and most disturbing of all, red lipstick that was half on her lips and half on her teeth. She sat there smiling broadly at me. Frozen, it seemed, or locked in time.



I tried to hide my shock—I don’t know how I didn’t see this piece of work when I came in—and gave her a quick smile before promptly turning around. I felt relieved when the elevator doors finally opened.



I walked quickly inside and hit the close button before anything else. I looked up at her as the doors closed. She was as still as ever, the wide, maniacal-looking grin still stretched across her face. Her eyes, white and unblinking, did not match her smile.



The doors shut and I let out a large sigh of relief. I had actually been shaking a little bit. That horrible feeling lasted for another five minutes until I slipped on my headset and the daily barrage of rude callers and impatient visitors wiped the scene out of my head.



CHAPTER TWO



“Is that what you’re wearing?” my mother asked.



It was ten a.m. on Saturday, and I was too tired to handle anything coming out of my mother’s mouth.



Ada and I were loading our luggage into my parents’ car when my mother spied the outfit I had on for the day. From her tone, I assumed it wasn’t “family appropriate,” though it was pretty much what I wore every day. Combat boots, black leggings and a long mohair sweater with deliberate rips throughout it.



I sighed and tossed my bag in the car. I put my hands on my hips and glared at her. She stepped into the passenger seat slowly, neatly, wearing a black shift dress with yellow strappy wedges and matching trench coat. Her perfectly highlighted blonde hair was piled into a loose bun on top of her head and framed with huge Chloe sunglasses. She looked like the perfect Hitchcock heroine and I wondered if that’s why I had such an affinity for Hitchcock’s films. But then I noticed the disappointment in her face, realized how inappropriately she was dressed (we were going to the beach, for crying out loud) and remembered I liked Hitchcock’s films because of their macabre view of mankind.



“Why, what’s wrong with it?” I asked her while exchanging a glance with Ada. She shrugged with a don’t get me involved look in her eyes.



“You’ve got holes in your sweater, dear,” Mom said. “Your cousins will think we can’t afford to get you new clothes.”



“Oh, whatever Mom,” said Ada, who was dressed sensibly in pastel skinny jeans, ballet flats and a black furry vest over a shrunken Alice in Chains T-shirt (which was my shirt, of course. Like she knew who AIC was). “The original price of Perry’s sweater was well over $100; luckily she got it for $40.”



I frowned at her while we got in the back of the car. I had no idea how she knew such random things about my life.



Knowing what I was thinking, she added, “I saw it for sale online. I knew you’d buy it. It’s just skuzzy enough.”



“OK! Off we go!” Our father’s bellow shook the whole car as he jumped in the front seat. He adjusted the rearview mirror and gave us a wink. Thankfully, he didn’t hear our conversation because anytime money was mentioned in our family it just became primer for a blazing argument.



Dad was a robust man with a hearty laugh and a heartier appetite (hence his ever-expanding “wine” belly), who identified dearly with his Italian heritage. Though he and his brothers were second generation Italians, you would never know it. They spoke Italian fluently, especially with their hands. It was dangerous to get my father talking when he drove, or anytime really. I remembered when Ada and I bought him this Italian classic film collection and in his enthusiasm he whacked me in the face. I think my mom was quite pissed off after that, probably because my dad does have quite the temper as well. Don’t get me wrong, my father has never purposely hit me or anyone in my family, but when his face turns red, his cheeks puff out, and his small stature suddenly becomes about ten feet tall, he becomes the most feared creature on earth.



He’s a bit of a workaholic too, which doesn’t help. He’s a history and theology professor at the University of Portland, so we don’t get to spend as much time with him as we probably should.



I get more traits from my father than I do from my mother. We’re both overtly sensitive but with me, I can’t hide it. Sometimes I feel like I’m just a giant orb of vibrations and feelings that knocks everyone flat on their back, whereas my dad just puts it somewhere else (fuel for a later explosion). One big difference between us is his unwavering faithfulness. He just accepts things and moves on. I always have to question, always have to argue and always have to ask why until I’m blue in the face. I wish I could let things go as easily as he does.



For example, on this day, as my father drove us down the I-5 at a leisurely pace, I couldn’t stop thinking about yet another dream I had, whereas he would just pass it off as an ordinary nightmare and move on. But as long as I’ve been alive, “ordinary” was a term rarely applied to me.



Last night had been a normal Friday. I practiced a few songs on my guitar (I felt guilty for having neglected it), did laundry and watched a Family Guy episode or two before hitting the sack. Maybe it was the coffee I had so close to bed, but I couldn’t sleep for the longest time. I just tossed and turned as my ears picked up the slightest sounds, from Ada snoring lightly down the hallway to the faint rustle of the maple tree outside my window. Even the glowing numbers from my alarm clock made my room turn into a supernova.



I must have fallen asleep at some point in the night because I woke up with a start. My body felt ice cold from the inside out, like an IV drip was seeping into my bones and filling them with liquid terror. My breath was frozen. All my limbs were outside of the sheets, stiff as boards. They felt exposed and naked and I had visions of some monster coming and gnawing at them, or perhaps a small hand coming out from underneath my bed and peeling my toes and fingers off. I wanted nothing more than to stick my arms and legs inside my sheets and keep them safe. The fear was so real.



But I couldn’t move. Not because it was physically impossible but because I didn’t want to.



Someone was standing in front of my door. At first, I thought it was my housecoat hanging on the hook. My room was as dark as I’d ever seen it, and without turning my head to look, I knew the lights on my clock went out. As my eyes adjusted to the depths, I remembered that my housecoat was still in the dryer and this “thing” had dimensions and breadth to it.