The House

Chapter 1 - Day 1: This is Quaint?!

"Belle..." he moans. "Cuz... Looney Tunes..."

"No Belle anything! Nothing Belle or Bellish or Cuz or Looney anything at all! Nothing else out of you, just the number. Right now!"

I know I'm sounding a bit like a shrew, a dominating one,... but this is Craig. Craig always brings out my best side. In fact, lately, Craig brings out most people's best sides. Besides, I'm standing on a patio, and there's a storm brewing; there's no time for being nice.

Craig makes a compliant grunt-like noise, and then there are the sounds of potato crisp bags rustling and beer cans tumbling over one another. Is he even sober? The rugby commentator and the crowd are going ballistic in the background. 

They are apparently as astounded as I am that the thing on the couch can move more than its hand and jaw.

Some more grunting, some muttered cuss words, even a snort and a burp or two and... was that a fart just now? Craig comes back on the line.

"You made me miss a try," he says. I doubt that he truly cares about that. Craig doesn't seem to care about anything much these days.

"Yeah, well, you made me miss lunch."

He really did. The map he'd given me was garbage. I got turned around more times than I can remember. The trip was supposed to take about two hours but ended up taking closer to three and a half hours. I'm hungry and exhausted. It's starting to get dark, and rain has been looming for the last 15 minutes or so of my journey.

The plan was to get moved in as quickly as possible, stuff my face with whatever I could whip up, take a really hot shower and crawl into the nearest bed, in exactly that order.

The plan was not to stand on the threshold of a dusky room filled with shadows and a smell as if something died in its depths. The sun is setting, and raindrops begin to plop loudly on the broken tiles of the canopy covering the small patio I'm standing on.

Craig reads the number, and I wish I'd thought of a way to capture it before he started.

"Hold a sec," I order (I'm being very authoritative today) and go down on my knees to dig through the torn box of art supplies I'd had the wisdom to throw at the door when my foot went through the last step on my way up to the patio. I find a red cray pastel and a sketchpad.

"Go," I say, flipping the pad on its face so that I can write on its back.

Craig munches and crunches his way through the number and ends in a dispassionate cheer-burp. His team must have scored another almost-try or something on the verge of being exciting...

"Does he have a name?"

"Sean Maitland..." The answer comes surprisingly fast. "Why?"

Why??? 

"Well, I don't want to call him Hey You when I ring him about the electricity."

"Oh, the caretaker..." The incessant crunching starts up again, and from the grunts on the other end of the connection, he is making himself comfortable on the couch. "Uhm... can't see... uh... looks like... Tom... something..."

"Tom... Something? That's really specific."

"Can't make out the surname, the letter is really smudged... think it's..." Is he sniffing or licking the paper? I can't be sure, but knowing Craig, probably both. "Yeah, it's relish and mayo..."

Trust Craig to use an important letter as a coaster. I'm about to ask him more about the letter when it hits me.

"Then who the hell is Sean Maitland?"

"The guy who just stopped a try." He actually sounds a bit astonished that I can be that ignorant.

"Why the hell would I want to know the name of...?! Ah, whatever! Never mind... Thanks..." I'm about to hang up when I have another thought. "Keep your phone close to you because if Tom Something can't help me or the number is wrong, or anything pisses me off further, I'm coming through the mouthpiece to kill you."

"There's no mouthpiece... What kind of old-assed phone do you think I-"

"Bye!" This time I do hang up.

I start to punch in the number for Tom Something; then I remember that I'd wanted to ask Craig why he never told me about the existence of the letter. A letter containing important information, such as caretaker numbers and who knows what else.

I close the dial screen, afraid I might forget again and open Craig's contact in the chat app.

"Take a picture of that letter and send it to me, please." I press send, thanking God that when He'd decided to pack up and leave this gloomy backwater, He'd at least thought to leave some cell phone towers standing for the less fortunate. The signal isn't great, but it's there.

I make a mental note to call Craig if I don't receive the image soon... if my phone still has power by then and the waning signal remains existent...

My plans have changed. 

I'm going to get the electricity going, take a look at the place, and if it is just as dreary and creepy without the musty darkness helping along the atmosphere, I'm getting back into my car and driving home... Even if there is a storm and it takes me all night...

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