The House Remembers: Day 3
He was at a party - a celebration party - his face artistically made up, and looking his coolest in tight leather trousers and black frilly shirt. All night long he'd been lionised, feted by the famous, congratulated by everyone on the artistic and commercial success of his album, and he was sitting now in a corner of the room listening to the ice tinkle in his glass of bourbon while at his knees, on either side of him, a beautiful young girl, and an even more beautiful young man, stroked his thighs and made adoring noises up at him.
He kissed each in turn on the lips, drained his glass and handed it to the girl.
"Have another one." she said, passing a magically refilled tumbler back up to him. "Doesn't it taste good?"
He sipped at the drink.
"Doesn't it taste good?" she asked.
***
He awoke to another dirtily grey morning with the taste of bourbon in his mouth and a terrible pressure in his bladder. Stumbling into the bathroom he urinated urgently, splashing the toilet seat. When he was done, he looked at himself in the mirror.
"Christ, I look like shit!" he muttered to himself, surveying his lank, greasy black mane and his blood-shot eyes in the mirror. "I really do look as though I've been partying all night!"
From downstairs the telephone began shrilling. "Alright! Alright!", he snarled as he snatched up the receiver.
"Are you really, Davey-boy?" said Big Al, "You don't sound so good to me."
"I've just woken up! How do you expect me to sound! What time is it anyway?"
"Ahh ... about half past noon, Davey. Working late last night, were you? Ideas starting to pan out?"
"Yeah," he lied, "It's starting to look good. Listen, was there some urgent reason for this phone call or are you just harrassing me for lack of anything better to do?"
"Tut!" said Big Al, "I'm hurt, Davey-boy! I'm simply looking after my favourite one-time money-spinner; just concerned about your welfare, that's all. But then Davey always was a grouchy boy with a hangover, wasn't he? Listen, son, I'm pleased that this retreat thing is working, but do us both a favour and don't let the bottle get in the way of the music, OK? I'll be in touch."
Once more Al clicked out of Todd's life and he was left fuming at the receiver. The nerve of the fat fucker! How dare he assume I've been drinking! How dare he lecture me about music! How ...
Wait a minute. What time did he say it was? I've slept for twelve hours? No, it can't be! I must've just lost track of the time last night, that's all. Must've been a lot later than I thought when I went to bed.
"Christ, I've blown nearly a whole day already!" he moaned. "Better skip on breakfast today and get down to work. I guess I could afford to lose a little weight anyway".
He made himself a cup of coffee and returned to the living room.
By mid-afternoon the paper mountain had grown considerably and Todd's temper had worsened. He couldn't concentrate, and the memory of the taste of bourbon from last night's dream kept coming back to haunt him: Christ, but he could use a drink! And, after all, why not? He wasn't really an alcoholic, he'd written some of his best stuff while loaded, and if that fat fucker thought he was drinking then he fucking well would!
He stormed down to the cellar and arrived back in the living room with half a dozen randomly selected bottles and a corkscrew he'd grabbed from a drawer in the kitchen. Extracting the cork from the first he took a hefty swallow from the neck of the bottle.
"Well," he thought, "It's not exactly bourbon, but I guess it'll do."
Leaning back in the settee, his eyes chanced upon something half-buried under the heap of paper on the floor. Pulling it out, he realised that it was the photograph album.
"Funny", he thought, "I don't remember bringing that down." He opened it.
As he swigged at the wine he flipped through the pages. The photographs which fascinated him most were the earliest ones of the house, particularly those which showed the interior of the place. It seemed pretty much as he'd imagined it before he entered on that first day, the hall much as it had appeared to him in his dream.
He found himself continually returning to the very first photograph in the book, which had clearly been taken in the living room. It showed a gaunt, bearded figure in his early thirties sitting stiffly in a high-backed wooden chair. Behind him, dozing on the ledge of the window which looked out on to the garden was a very fat black cat.
The photograph was undoubtedly that of the architect, builder and only resident of the house ever to live a long and peaceful life within its confines (although looking at the grim features that scowled from the photograph Todd doubted that 'peaceful' was precisely the right word to descibe it: at any rate he had died a very ancient man in the master bedroom of the place he had built. The house had then stood vacant for more than a decade before anyone else had ventured to live in it).
Todd had re-read the article that had originally sparked his interest before committing himself to his 'retreat' and he tried to recall the details of the man's life: he couldn't quite remember his name, but he knew that by reputation he was a man for whom the word 'dour' was too gentle a description. A harsh, unbending Calvinist; a humourless, unforgiving misanthrope whose only love, after the death of his wife in some unspecified accident, was the house in which they had both lived.
"Man," he thought, looking at the photograph, "You certainly look as though you believed laughter was the ultimate sin."
Looking up from the album he realised with some surprise that he was halfway through his second bottle of wine. A gentle fatigue was overcoming him. He curled up on the settee and slept.
In his sleep he was swept like a leaf on the wind through the branches of the tall trees surrounding the house, and filling his ears was music: grim, melancholy, but full of dark triumphant power...
When he woke the room was in darkness. He blinked, trying to adjust to the reduced light. There was something strange about the dim shapes made by the furniture in the darkness: it seemed as though it had been moved around and it looked heavier, bulkier than before. He reached behind him for the light switch and clicked it on.
The prim room was just as it always was. He sighed with relief and remembered the dream. More importantly, he remembered the music he had heard, remembered it well enough to write it down, and it sounded good to him as he replayed it in his mind. Excitedly, he reached for his pad and...
No.
"Get the atmosphere right first, Davey-boy!", he giggled to himself.
He lit the candles on the table and turned off the lights. The shadows swelled and claimed most of the room, and immediately began their twisting dance of the night before, as though groping towards some new, solid form. In fact there was one tall shadow in the far corner that almost seemed to be shaped like...
"Jesus, there's someone in here with me!"
He leapt for the light switch and stood panting and sweating for several seconds afterwards in a room of which he was the only inhabitant.
"Christ, my nerves are fucked!"
When he'd calmed down he decided that perhaps working in a giant doll-house might not be quite as creatively stifling as he'd feared. He reached for the writing paper and the half-empty wine bottle.
***
Bird-song finally roused him from his scribbling. Five empty wine bottles stood on the table, the sixth was two-thirds finished, and haphazardly scattered jottings (together with one completed song stored away on the laptop) attested to his night's labours.
He'd never experienced anything like the creative frenzy which had gripped him during the night in his entire life before. Inspired by the music of his dream and the old photographs of the house, he'd begun to sketch out a series of songs which told the story of a house which remembered its maker and strove always to return itself to the way it was when he lived; a house which destroyed those who intruded upon its silent, loving communion with the spirit of He who had made it: a spirit which lived on, infused into its very walls and foundations.
Todd read through his work and saw that it was good.
"Man, what a fucking imagination I've got!"
He happily downed the last third of the bottle, and reached for the light switch, then withdrew his hand.
"Perhaps I'll leave it on. After all, I can afford to pay the bill!"
He giggled and opened the door into the hallway. Strange shadows hung on the walls, looking almost like framed prints. Todd hurriedly snapped on the light.
"Leave that one on too!"
He giggled again, and carried on turning on lights and giggling all the way up to his bedroom. He left the light on in the bedroom while he slept.
He kissed each in turn on the lips, drained his glass and handed it to the girl.
"Have another one." she said, passing a magically refilled tumbler back up to him. "Doesn't it taste good?"
He sipped at the drink.
"Doesn't it taste good?" she asked.
***
He awoke to another dirtily grey morning with the taste of bourbon in his mouth and a terrible pressure in his bladder. Stumbling into the bathroom he urinated urgently, splashing the toilet seat. When he was done, he looked at himself in the mirror.
"Christ, I look like shit!" he muttered to himself, surveying his lank, greasy black mane and his blood-shot eyes in the mirror. "I really do look as though I've been partying all night!"
From downstairs the telephone began shrilling. "Alright! Alright!", he snarled as he snatched up the receiver.
"Are you really, Davey-boy?" said Big Al, "You don't sound so good to me."
"I've just woken up! How do you expect me to sound! What time is it anyway?"
"Ahh ... about half past noon, Davey. Working late last night, were you? Ideas starting to pan out?"
"Yeah," he lied, "It's starting to look good. Listen, was there some urgent reason for this phone call or are you just harrassing me for lack of anything better to do?"
"Tut!" said Big Al, "I'm hurt, Davey-boy! I'm simply looking after my favourite one-time money-spinner; just concerned about your welfare, that's all. But then Davey always was a grouchy boy with a hangover, wasn't he? Listen, son, I'm pleased that this retreat thing is working, but do us both a favour and don't let the bottle get in the way of the music, OK? I'll be in touch."
Once more Al clicked out of Todd's life and he was left fuming at the receiver. The nerve of the fat fucker! How dare he assume I've been drinking! How dare he lecture me about music! How ...
Wait a minute. What time did he say it was? I've slept for twelve hours? No, it can't be! I must've just lost track of the time last night, that's all. Must've been a lot later than I thought when I went to bed.
"Christ, I've blown nearly a whole day already!" he moaned. "Better skip on breakfast today and get down to work. I guess I could afford to lose a little weight anyway".
He made himself a cup of coffee and returned to the living room.
By mid-afternoon the paper mountain had grown considerably and Todd's temper had worsened. He couldn't concentrate, and the memory of the taste of bourbon from last night's dream kept coming back to haunt him: Christ, but he could use a drink! And, after all, why not? He wasn't really an alcoholic, he'd written some of his best stuff while loaded, and if that fat fucker thought he was drinking then he fucking well would!
He stormed down to the cellar and arrived back in the living room with half a dozen randomly selected bottles and a corkscrew he'd grabbed from a drawer in the kitchen. Extracting the cork from the first he took a hefty swallow from the neck of the bottle.
"Well," he thought, "It's not exactly bourbon, but I guess it'll do."
Leaning back in the settee, his eyes chanced upon something half-buried under the heap of paper on the floor. Pulling it out, he realised that it was the photograph album.
"Funny", he thought, "I don't remember bringing that down." He opened it.
As he swigged at the wine he flipped through the pages. The photographs which fascinated him most were the earliest ones of the house, particularly those which showed the interior of the place. It seemed pretty much as he'd imagined it before he entered on that first day, the hall much as it had appeared to him in his dream.
He found himself continually returning to the very first photograph in the book, which had clearly been taken in the living room. It showed a gaunt, bearded figure in his early thirties sitting stiffly in a high-backed wooden chair. Behind him, dozing on the ledge of the window which looked out on to the garden was a very fat black cat.
The photograph was undoubtedly that of the architect, builder and only resident of the house ever to live a long and peaceful life within its confines (although looking at the grim features that scowled from the photograph Todd doubted that 'peaceful' was precisely the right word to descibe it: at any rate he had died a very ancient man in the master bedroom of the place he had built. The house had then stood vacant for more than a decade before anyone else had ventured to live in it).
Todd had re-read the article that had originally sparked his interest before committing himself to his 'retreat' and he tried to recall the details of the man's life: he couldn't quite remember his name, but he knew that by reputation he was a man for whom the word 'dour' was too gentle a description. A harsh, unbending Calvinist; a humourless, unforgiving misanthrope whose only love, after the death of his wife in some unspecified accident, was the house in which they had both lived.
"Man," he thought, looking at the photograph, "You certainly look as though you believed laughter was the ultimate sin."
Looking up from the album he realised with some surprise that he was halfway through his second bottle of wine. A gentle fatigue was overcoming him. He curled up on the settee and slept.
In his sleep he was swept like a leaf on the wind through the branches of the tall trees surrounding the house, and filling his ears was music: grim, melancholy, but full of dark triumphant power...
When he woke the room was in darkness. He blinked, trying to adjust to the reduced light. There was something strange about the dim shapes made by the furniture in the darkness: it seemed as though it had been moved around and it looked heavier, bulkier than before. He reached behind him for the light switch and clicked it on.
The prim room was just as it always was. He sighed with relief and remembered the dream. More importantly, he remembered the music he had heard, remembered it well enough to write it down, and it sounded good to him as he replayed it in his mind. Excitedly, he reached for his pad and...
No.
"Get the atmosphere right first, Davey-boy!", he giggled to himself.
He lit the candles on the table and turned off the lights. The shadows swelled and claimed most of the room, and immediately began their twisting dance of the night before, as though groping towards some new, solid form. In fact there was one tall shadow in the far corner that almost seemed to be shaped like...
"Jesus, there's someone in here with me!"
He leapt for the light switch and stood panting and sweating for several seconds afterwards in a room of which he was the only inhabitant.
"Christ, my nerves are fucked!"
When he'd calmed down he decided that perhaps working in a giant doll-house might not be quite as creatively stifling as he'd feared. He reached for the writing paper and the half-empty wine bottle.
***
Bird-song finally roused him from his scribbling. Five empty wine bottles stood on the table, the sixth was two-thirds finished, and haphazardly scattered jottings (together with one completed song stored away on the laptop) attested to his night's labours.
He'd never experienced anything like the creative frenzy which had gripped him during the night in his entire life before. Inspired by the music of his dream and the old photographs of the house, he'd begun to sketch out a series of songs which told the story of a house which remembered its maker and strove always to return itself to the way it was when he lived; a house which destroyed those who intruded upon its silent, loving communion with the spirit of He who had made it: a spirit which lived on, infused into its very walls and foundations.
Todd read through his work and saw that it was good.
"Man, what a fucking imagination I've got!"
He happily downed the last third of the bottle, and reached for the light switch, then withdrew his hand.
"Perhaps I'll leave it on. After all, I can afford to pay the bill!"
He giggled and opened the door into the hallway. Strange shadows hung on the walls, looking almost like framed prints. Todd hurriedly snapped on the light.
"Leave that one on too!"
He giggled again, and carried on turning on lights and giggling all the way up to his bedroom. He left the light on in the bedroom while he slept.
Comments
Post a Comment