George Angus, Tumblemoose Writer

From: http://www.keyourcars.com/2009/06/26/current-house-rules/

Per request, here is a podcast of one of my short stories.  It’s just under 7 minutes.

Enjoy!

Listen to the Podcast

Here’s the text version:

Sickhouse by George Angus

At the end of the day, he was certain it was the goddamned house.  There was no way so much grief and sickness could be born of happenstance.  Could a physical structure hold such malevolence?  If not the structure itself, was it an entity?  Mila thought about it and decided it didn’t make too much difference.  He had already decided what he was going to do and entity or structure notwithstanding – he was going to take care of that sonofabitch.

Mila knew there would be consequences.  He didn’t care.  How much worse could things be, really?  Everything he knew, owned and loved had been taken from him over the course of a year, a lifetime.  If everything had been gone is a single, terrible event, Mila may have been able to cope.  It was the incessant, puttering little parade of misfortunes and tragedies that had a cumulative effect.  The total of the parts were indeed greater than their sum.

The view from the street gave no clue of the toxicity that lay on the other side of the well-groomed hedges.  A plain fronted home with twin dormers and a wrap around front porch greeted anyone who cared to walk up the walkway.  Built in the early ’40s, and nothing too special about it. The oversized front door was a crimson red, brass mail slot and hardware accenting the entry.  A large oak provided shade to the front yard in the summer, and plenty of leaves to rake in the fall.

Walking in to such a setting should invoke feelings of home and hearth, memories of Thanksgiving gatherings, sweet and filled with laughter and good times cherished by all and passed from generation to generation.  Such imagery was not present here.  Entering the walkway and crossing the property line proper, even the sunlight took on a slight, barely noticeable metallic glint.    The first time it would be hard to spot, but after the house took its first bite, the entire appearance would change from the victims perspective.

Mila had moved his family into the sickhouse after searching for weeks to find a good house in the neighborhood close to the school he thought was the best match for his two boys.  Griffin and Talcott were twins.  At the ripe old age of 10, they were in many ways talented and wise beyond their years.  Mila knew that any old public school would bore the boys to tears.  Bored boys are boys apt to get in trouble, even boys with as much on the ball as these two.  Their mom had suffered some kind of early mid-life crisis and took off to parts unknown.  He was happy enough to have the boys and he guessed that was all that really mattered.

He had no way of knowing that the cut he suffered on  his knuckle, catching it on a nail as he turned the key to the front door for the first time, would just be a small taste of what this abomination had in store.

Three months in and the boys had fought off meningitis.  Griffin sicked up first, Talcott a day later.  Hell, the twins had spent about a half an ear infection between the both of them since they could walk.  Less than three months in the sickhouse and they damn near died.

Two weeks after they kicked the “screamin’ meanie Jesus” to the curb, The tranny blew in the truck.  As just a corporate worker bee, Milas did ok financially but there wasn’t a whole lot left at the end of a month.  The Ford fix coincided with the arrival of his tax refund, so that was a good thing, but a trip to Sea World with the boys would have to be pushed back a year.

Milas took these setbacks with his usual good grace.  That would change when his boys were taken away by the sickhouse.

They weren’t really supposed to be alone that night.  The sitter was there, but he stayed up after the boys went to bed, and sat on the back porch texting his buddies about plans for the weekend.

Gas water heaters fail all the time and carbon monoxide kills.  Milas would never be the same.

Near catatonic since the funeral, Milas meandered through the beast that took his family.  Yes, he could see it now, all too well.  The house, the God. Damned. Sick… House!

Head hung down, sitting in the low back easy chair.  Hands draped over the arm ends, a Marlboro between his fingers – lit, ash nearly to the filter, unsmoked.  Late afternoon sunlight filtered into the silent room.  Now he knew.  The choice was obvious and an easy one at that.  The sickhouse was going to burn, Milas would see to that.  Tonight.  Evil burns best at night and this evil would burn especially bright.    Milas knew it in his heart.

He twisted the black plastic cap off of the gas can in the shed.  The flashlight showed the can had about a gallon or so, and the sweet vapor rose to meet his nose.  He stole a glance back at the sickhouse, flipped it off and smiled.

Chuckling softly, his barely held grip on reality loosening, Milas trickled the petro along the edges of the walls throughout the first floor.  He tossed the empty can into the center of the living room and pulled the flare from his back pocket.

Striking the end of the flare against the friction cap produced a sulfur hiss and bright red jet of flame.  Milas looked at the flame and tossed the fusee into the corner.  “Fuck you.”

With a loud “whompf!” the gas caught.  Milas turned towards the open front door.  As he stepped towards the opening, the door slammed shut with brutal, supernatural force.

“No!!!!”

He reached for the handle, knowing that it would not turn.

As the flames closed, the walls crackled and cackled.

The sound of gentle laughter filled his ears.