Authors: Edward Lee
The House (27 page)
I don't even like her,
Melvin realized, outraged by his erection. Its absolute turgidity made him feel a hypocrite. He tried to think it away but...no dice.
Melvin realized, outraged by his erection. Its absolute turgidity made him feel a hypocrite. He tried to think it away but...no dice.
Fatigue drooped his shoulders. He meant to return immediately to bed but found himself turned around in the living room, thinking of the grim hallucinations.
An image in a piece of film is like a ghost,
he recalled the specter's words. Stupid...but weird. Leonard the murderer had been a "film"-maker, and now he was purportedly a ghost. But over time, the human instinct to create rumors would place a ghost in
any
house where a murder had been committed. It was Melvin's subconscious, he knew, processing the rumors of the house being haunted, then amalgamating the other things he'd learned about the place, and then manufacturing the "ghost," generating a preconceived image of Leonard D'arava, the ax-murderer.
That's all,
he thought.
Nothing really scary about any of it. It's all cerebro-chemical science. It's brain-hormone and synaptic reactivity—the process of human consciousness and its capability to incite imagination.
he recalled the specter's words. Stupid...but weird. Leonard the murderer had been a "film"-maker, and now he was purportedly a ghost. But over time, the human instinct to create rumors would place a ghost in
any
house where a murder had been committed. It was Melvin's subconscious, he knew, processing the rumors of the house being haunted, then amalgamating the other things he'd learned about the place, and then manufacturing the "ghost," generating a preconceived image of Leonard D'arava, the ax-murderer.
That's all,
he thought.
Nothing really scary about any of it. It's all cerebro-chemical science. It's brain-hormone and synaptic reactivity—the process of human consciousness and its capability to incite imagination.
He was staring at the picture above the couch, the pasture.
Greener pastures are closer than you think...
He lifted the picture off the wall—unsure of the roots of the impulse to do so—and saw that it covered a hole in the wall.
Greener pastures are closer than you think...
He lifted the picture off the wall—unsure of the roots of the impulse to do so—and saw that it covered a hole in the wall.
An ugly smell came out. Melvin re-hung the picture and went back to bed.
The grainy darkness converged. When he closed his eyes, his erection seemed to throb harder in some libidinal objection. It, like the hallucination of Leonard—was making a demand of its own. He tried to blacken his mind, to draw a heavy drape across the incessant image of Gwyneth naked and all her feminine details magnified. The harder he squeezed his eyes shut, the more closely he glimpsed each "part" of her, a camera zooming down on each separate and delectable piece of candy in the box.
I don't even like her! Why is my mind forcing me to beat off to her image? Why not Pamela Anderson? Why not Paris Hilton? Or—ooo!—the girl in Lifeforce?
(Bad movie. Great body!) He felt weak, disgusted with himself when he realized he was pulling his shorts off. He could imagine how he looked now: spread-eagled on the bed in the middle of the night, underpants gone, face twisted up like Shemp's as he stroked his penis. The harder he squeezed his eyes shut, the more brightly he saw Gwyneth's body. His testicles jumped up like yo-yo's. The kaleidoscope of sexual parts spun round and round, then stopped:
(Bad movie. Great body!) He felt weak, disgusted with himself when he realized he was pulling his shorts off. He could imagine how he looked now: spread-eagled on the bed in the middle of the night, underpants gone, face twisted up like Shemp's as he stroked his penis. The harder he squeezed his eyes shut, the more brightly he saw Gwyneth's body. His testicles jumped up like yo-yo's. The kaleidoscope of sexual parts spun round and round, then stopped:
On the dainty pink fur-rimmed vulva plumped up with desire.
"Ooooooooooooooo," Melvin moaned.
His ejaculation felt like a long and very fat piece of cooked spaghetti being drawn out of his pee-hole. When his orgasm abated, his hand fell away, his balls dropped to his buttcrack, and he wheezed in a distended breath. In the post-climactic bliss, he truly couldn't move.
When he opened his eyes, Gwyneth was standing next to the bed, looking down at him.
Melvin's heart probably literally stopped for several seconds.
"What are you doing in here!" he bellowed.
She'd been sipping her chocolate syrup through the straw while she watched, but then she lowered the bottle, brought a finger to her lips, and replied: "Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh..."
She placed a very soft and very warm white hand on his chest and got down on her knees. She was looking right at his spent penis and the impressive ten-inch line of sperm on his belly, and the look in her eyes could've been the look in a wino's eyes when spying a bottle of booze.
She took the straw out of her syrup bottle.
She stuck one end in her mouth.
She lowered the other end to Melvin's belly.
And—
"Ssssssslllllllllluuuuuuuuurrrrrp..."
—sucked up all the semen.
Then she stood up very slowly and left the room.
This act comprised the official end to Melvin's first day in the Vinchetti house.
PART THREE
(I)
Melvin wakened close to noon. He noticed no sign of flu, cold, or sore throat.
How did I sleep so late?
he wondered when he looked first at the sun blazing high in his window and then the clock again.
How did I sleep so late?
he wondered when he looked first at the sun blazing high in his window and then the clock again.
But...
He stretched and yawned.
I feel great!
He stretched and yawned.
I feel great!
He felt great, at least, for a few seconds, then the recollection of everything that happened to him last night hit him on the top of the head like multiple flower pots.
Sheriff Funk identifying the Vinchetti-house's killer as a man named "Leonard."
Gwyneth calling Melvin "Leonard."
Gwyneth
denying
calling Melvin "Leonard."
denying
calling Melvin "Leonard."
The name "Leonard" on his laptop.
Gwyneth pissing in the yard and rubbing the piss on her face.
Gwyneth
denying
pissing in the yard and rubbing the piss on her face.
denying
pissing in the yard and rubbing the piss on her face.
Gwyneth looking right at Sheriff Funk when he came to the house.
Gwyneth
denying
that Sheriff Funk had come to the house.
denying
that Sheriff Funk had come to the house.
Melvin sleepwalking into the living room.
Melvin
hallucinating
in the living room.
hallucinating
in the living room.
Melvin masturbating, only to have his sperm sucked off his stomach with a plastic straw.
Whew!
All of this, by anyone's standards, would constitute a
full
day.
full
day.
Melvin sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes.
Oh, man...
Unsocialized nerd notwithstanding, Melvin was possessed of far higher than average intellect. The answer to this dilemma could only be found in one of the two following possibilities.
Oh, man...
Unsocialized nerd notwithstanding, Melvin was possessed of far higher than average intellect. The answer to this dilemma could only be found in one of the two following possibilities.
One,
he thought,
Gwyneth has a serious psychiatric problem, or...
he thought,
Gwyneth has a serious psychiatric problem, or...
Two, I have a serious psychiatric problem.
Melvin considered that probably the worst thing for him to do was seek the answer immediately.
I'm pretty sure I'm not screwed up in the head, so... If it's Gwyneth, I should be able to make that determination soon.
I'm pretty sure I'm not screwed up in the head, so... If it's Gwyneth, I should be able to make that determination soon.
Or:
Time will tell...
Time will tell...
Melvin showered and dressed quickly, then went to find Gwyneth when he noticed an oddity. Dirty footprints had been tracked down the hall all the way back to the back door in the kitchen.
What a mess!
What a mess!
He glanced out the kitchen window into the back yard and saw—
What the hell did that floozy do!
—a hole.
A shovel lay in the grass next to a mound of earth next to where the hole had been dug. And the hole appeared to be on the exact spot where Melvin had seen—or had
thought
he'd seen—Gwyneth urinating with gusto.
thought
he'd seen—Gwyneth urinating with gusto.
"Gwyyyyyyyyyyyynnnnnnneth!" he shouted.
"I'm back here," the cool, detached voice replied.
Melvin wasn't happy. He stomped back to the bedroom she'd converted to a work room, barged right in—
And nearly groaned at the image.
No, Gwyneth wasn't naked now; she was fully dressed in a pistachio-green-satin see-through bra and panties.
The impact of this image—and its suddenness—distracted Melvin as effectively as if a tree had fallen on the house at that same moment.
Melvin began to stir quite unwillingly below the belt.
"So what were you yelling about, Melvin?" she asked. She wasn't looking at him. Instead, she worked in an extreme focus on the project at hand: a cruciform mosaic on a shield-shaped veneered wooden plaque. On the table before her lay assorted tools: tweezers, a small hammer, a magnifying glass, assorted files and squares of emery cloth, assorted tubes of glue, laquer, and epoxy, and a hand-held electric grinder with a conical grinding stone on its end. The tools, evidently, of her trade. A stinky clove cigarette burned in an ashtray, next to which stood a bottle of Hershey's.
"Huh?" she said.
Melvin blinked, those green-satin-covered tits standing out on her chest like monuments. "What?"
Finally she looked up, exasperated. "Melvin! Stop being a space cadet! A minute ago you shouted my name at the top of your lungs. Is something wrong?"
This was useless. Now his instincts were forcing him to gaze at her bare legs, crossed at the ankles, under the table. "Oh, yeah," he finally managed, covering his crotch with his hands. "Did you dig that hole in the back yard?"
The question begged sarcasm. "No, Melvin. It was the good fairies who dug the hole. They were looking for the Leprechaun's gold."
Jeez.
"Well, you tracked the dirt back into the house. The guy who rented us this place is my boss's brother. If the house if a mess when we leave, I could get in trouble."
"Well, you tracked the dirt back into the house. The guy who rented us this place is my boss's brother. If the house if a mess when we leave, I could get in trouble."
Her bare, creamy shoulders shrugged. "It won't be a mess when we leave, because you'll clean it up."
"Oh, that's fair. You dig the hole and track dirt through the house, and I clean it up."
Gwyneth finally stopped what she was doing and looked at him. Sternly. "Melvin. You know I'm here as a favor to
you.
Your father knows that this article you're writing about houses in upstate New York is important, but he also knows that you're not capable of being on your own for too long—"
you.
Your father knows that this article you're writing about houses in upstate New York is important, but he also knows that you're not capable of being on your own for too long—"
"Oh, come on!"
"You're too shy, you're too sheltered, and you're too insecure to talk to people. So I agreed to come up here, too, and keep an eye on you."
"That's ridiculous!" Melvin nearly raged.
"So that's the deal, and, after all, I
am
your stepmother. You don't want me to call your father and give him a bad report."
am
your stepmother. You don't want me to call your father and give him a bad report."
Melvin wanted to punch the wall.
She's got me sounding like the biggest invalid on earth! I'm a little shy! So what? I'm not a little kid who needs a baby-sitter!
She's got me sounding like the biggest invalid on earth! I'm a little shy! So what? I'm not a little kid who needs a baby-sitter!
She diverted her attention back to her work. "It won't take you more than a half hour to fill in that hole and vacuum the house."
Great. Now I'm the maid.
"Let's not forget what we're doing up here. I'm here to work on my art in a new creative environment, and you're here to work on your article." She paused, tweezing a bone fragment onto a layer of glue. "How's your article coming by the way?"
"Uh, fine," he murmured. He couldn't tell her he'd barely worked on it at all. He couldn't tell her he'd spent more time jerking off than writing his article. "It's going better than I expected."
"Good, Melvin," she said as a teacher would say to a toddler in kindergarten when he'd finished his finger painting.
He took one rueful last glance at Gwyneth's breasts. "Guess I'll be getting back to it now."
She looked up again. Sternly. "You mean
after
you go get our lunch, right?"
after
you go get our lunch, right?"
"But there's still leftover Chinese."
"Melvin, I ate what was left for
breakfast.
Because I didn't sleep till
noon.
Now be a sweetheart and go get us something good. Go to pick up some burgers and fries."
breakfast.
Because I didn't sleep till
noon.
Now be a sweetheart and go get us something good. Go to pick up some burgers and fries."
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