Selling a House of Evil on a Buyer's Market

Deep within the dark house, a creak was heard. In the blackest corner of the basement, a small rodent turned his reflective eyes quickly to the echo then ran off. A stiff breeze blew through the cellar as a crow flew out the window, away from the shrill sound it had heard. The real-estate agent walked through the front door.

"Well, I'm quite sure a bit of oil will take care of that," said the real-estate agent, Mr. Stevens, in a very British, slightly foppish, all too casual voice.

He was followed by the client, Mr. Wallace, who gave the door's hinges a good look as if he knew what to look for. "Yes, I suppose so." Then, Mr. Wallace took a good long look around the main room he had just entered.

"So, Mr. Wallace, what do you think?'

Mr. Wallace paused as he looked over the room. "Kind of Gothic, don't you think?"

"Well, it does have character."

That was an understatement. The floor was darkened rosewood that produced a dark red color that made Mr. Wallace just a little uneasy. On one of the walls, the unpainted wood almost had the image of a screaming face in the grain, when seen from a distance. The handrail of the stairs was the purest black. A thick layer of dust was unsettled by opening the door and was just beginning to resettle. And, cobwebs decorated every corner.

"Yah, Bela Lugosi's character."

"Still, do give it a look. You said it yourself; 'the location is perfect'. The house can be fixed to your standards."

Mr. Wallace took the advertisement out of his pocket. "I guess so. Good neighborhood, ocean view. Ooo, two bedrooms. By the way, I've been wondering what H.O.E. stands-"

"Moving right along, shall we give us a look at the kitchen?"

Mr. Wallace took a look back at the advertisement, then decided that the question could wait. "Um, Sure."

Mr. Stevens lead the way to a very large kitchen. The stove itself seemed large enough for a man to crawl into the oven. The counter had a chopping board with one of the larger variety of butcher knives embedded slightly into it. Mr. Wallace could see the faintest image of a red stain.

"The refrigerator and stove come with the house. Though, if I play my cards right upon your behalf, I do believe I can include a dishwasher in on the deal."

Mr. Wallace turned his attention to the refrigerator which was impressive as far as refrigerators go. These things are designed to look impressive. The cautious consumer will always check first, so Mr. Wallace opened up the door in order to see just how much space the device really had. He had the door opened just long enough to see that the refrigerator did, in fact, have an inside. He closed it right after as he did not wish all the heat in the world to be sucked in by the apparatus.

"Does this place still have power? That fridge is as cold as Hell."

"I should think so."

Mr. Wallace stopped for a moment on that remark. He opened his mouth, then decided not to ask. He just went over to check the pantry instead. It was a rather large pantry. One that Mr. Wallace believed might have been large enough to fit a small maze into.

"Ah, yes. The pantry." Mr. Stevens broke the silence. "I have heard from sources that that pantry had been modeled after the same pantry used in the film, 'The Shining.' Well, I don't know about that, but it is quite large enough to stick quite a few things into and still have ample area to hide the evidence." Mr. Stevens followed that up with a laugh that sounded as sincere as a laugh could sound while still being obviously insincere.

Mr. Wallace looked back to Mr. Stevens after that. "This house doesn't have any such stories attached to it? Does it?"

"Not yet."

The joke was in poor taste, but Mr. Wallace could handle it.

"On to the pool room, then?"

"Uh, why not?"

The poolroom was yet another impressive sight. Even though there were five individual lights, set as if they should be equal spaces away on a circle, the room was dimly lit. The fan had five blades, one pointing to each light. Below that was the pool table with three cues arranged in a triangle and the six balls in the center of that triangle. On the dartboard, six darts were obviously placed in specific position. Five darts were arranged as the lights, and one dart was in dead center.

"You went through a little work setting this up." This time it was Mr. Wallace's turn to break the silence. "Didn't you?"

"Well, my superiors like to look impressive. And, it helps to be impressive when your price is as well."

"Yes, I could use a bit more light, though. You know, brighten the place up a bit."

Mr. Stevens waited a little bit in thought. "I suppose so, but, this house is supposed to have a type of character. Dark lighting is to be expected when..."The last few words were mumbled.

"To be expected when what?"

"Off to the upstairs for a look at the bedrooms then?"

Mr. Wallace tried to ask his question again, but before he could, Mr. Stevens was already on his way to the stairs. So, Mr. Wallace could only catch up for the continuing tour.

The trek up those stairs was an interesting, if quick, experience. The length of the stairs seemed to double in length when he stood at the base. A deep red and white stained glass window stood just beyond the top of the stairs with an image Mr. Wallace couldn't quite make out. The actual trek up the stairs took about ten seconds longer than he thought it should.

Maybe, he thought, it was some trick of the light.

By the time Mr. Wallace got to the top of the stairs, he was quite sure that the red figure of the stained glass window was falling. He wasn't quite sure what that figure was supposed to represent. But, it did make him feel just a bit more secure knowing that much.

A quick turn took both Mr. Stevens and Mr. Wallace into a master bedroom that to Mr. Wallace look like a master bedroom. The bedposts were made of spiked obsidian. In the walls, the grain reflected off the black paint. That reflected grain in the black paint showed several dancing figures that looked more than a little like the figure in the stained glass window. Then, Mr. Wallace's eyes met the window. Outside that window, the darker side of dusk had just enough light to show dead, leafless trees. Mr. Wallace knew, or at least he was pretty damn sure, that the time was no later than four thirty and the spring season had produced very healthy, full leafed trees.

"Now, that is very wrong." Mr. Wallace, once again, broke the silence.

"This is not a bedroom. This place would give me nightmares."

"Well, yes," said Mr. Stevens, "but that is to be expected when you live in a house of-" he stopped right there and left a silent pause. His limitations were getting in the way. If he lied to Mr. Wallace, there would be no deal, because of false advertising.

"House of what? Darkness, House of Goth?"

After but a moment of being visibly nervous, Mr. Stevens went right back to his British, foppish, and utterly relaxed demeanor. "You'll notice that this bedroom is larger than most master bedrooms you will find, even in this neigh-"

"House of what, Mr. Stevens?"

Mr. Stevens paused again. He would have seemed in thought, if he had the slightest bit of movement. But, when Mr. Wallace interrupted, Mr. Stevens went completely still. It was as if time had been fiddling with the remote control to the VCR.

"House of what, Mr. Stevens?" Mr. Wallace repeated the sentence slowly, as if he were speaking to someone who didn't speak English and speaking slowly would give the words more time to cross the language barrier.

Mr. Stevens turned his eyes to Mr. Wallace, but nothing else. The same part of Mr. Steven's mind that knew the chances of Mr. Wallace believing the real-estate agent had suddenly turned into a statue were slim to none was the same one that was still willing to give this ploy a good shot.

"Tell me Mr. Stevens."

That was a pretty good indication that Mr. Stevens's ploy wasn't working. Not that Mr. Stevens wasn't willing to continue giving it a shot; it was just that he knew, personally, what could happen when you take a ploy past its effective time. Mr. Stevens relaxed.

"House of Evil." The British accent had been dropped for a contemporary American accent.

Mr. Wallace was in a state of flux. Not unlike Schrodinger's cat, Mr. Wallace both believed and disbelieved Mr. Stevens at the same time. He seemed to be waiting for something to happen that would collapse one truth and leave the stronger truth to affect reality.

"This house is a house of Evil."

That didn't do it.

"It says so right on the ad."

That didn't do it either.

"H.O.E. House of Evil."

Neither did that.

"I suppose you need proof."

That would certainly help the process along.

The figures in the reflected grain of the black paint began to dance. One of the figures stepped out of the wall to offer Mr. Wallace a deviled egg with a touch of paprika sprinkled on it and the smallest leaf of parsley next to it.

When Mr. Wallace reached out to touch the deviled egg, the weaker reality collapsed. When he ate the egg, he knew that this was a house of Evil. And, fittingly, the demons knew how to make a good deviled egg.

"Oka-ay." Shock is an amazing thing. It allows you to act calmly and rationally when you really shouldn't. "So, how, exactly, is this a house of Evil."

"Well, like the House of Straw, the House of Sticks, and the House of Bricks, this house is a House of Evil. It's pretty much made of the stuff."

Mr. Wallace showed obvious signs of confusion.

"Well, the foundation is greed and sloth. We find those to be the best elements for a foundation of Evil. The windows are grains of Evil melted in the Fires of Hell and then set for windows that really last. And, the floors are waxed with Evil."

Mr. Wallace scratched his head for a moment. "Where's the third six?"

"Excuse me?"

"In the pool room, there's a six ball, six darts, and there has to be a third six."

"The room does have six sides."

Mr. Wallace mulled that one over in his mind for a split second. "That makes sense if you think about it."

"So, are you a taker?" There was a quiver of anticipation in Steven's voice.

"That depends. Do I have to sign over my soul to Satan?"

"Not all at once," Steven's assured him. "It's a part of the lease that you commit an evil act once a month. You know, steal something, torture an animal, and stop settling for the lesser Evil when you vote."

"Do I get to change the decor?"

"Oh, yes. Your House of Evil will look any way you like. Just don't bring in too many Stars of David or such. Has a bad effect on the structure. I'm sure you understand." Steven's eyes looked hopefully into Wallace's eyes.

"Do I get the dishwasher?"

"You can count on it," Steven's said, his face beaming with pleasure.

"Sounds like a deal to me."

Bio:Adam is a student at Bradley University in Peoria Illinois, where he is studying literature and creative writing.

E-mail: wingedbeast@hotmail.com

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