The House Page 15

  "Of course not, silly." She held a pleated, beige sun-dress up against her. "How does this look? Too revealing?"

  Melvin's knees trembled, his vision focusing again into a hyper-clarity. He could see each thread of the dress's pale fabric as it lay half-covering one sumptuous breast. His eyes panned down to the plush tummy; he could even see the fine, transparent hairs wisping up from her groin in an adorable line to encircle her navel. "No, that's fine."

  "Good." She skimmed the dress on, adjusting the bosom. Melvin wasn't sure, but he thought he might be close to ejaculating in his pants.

  "I feel..." Gwyneth paused in an unfocused moment. "Weird but good. Do you?"

  Now that she had the sun-dress on, Melvin regained more of his sentience. "Weird? No, not really."

  "Mmm." She looked around. "I...like this room. In fact I like this house. All of a sudden I feel more creative than I have in years."

  I feel HORNIER than I have in years, Melvin thought beyond all doubt.

  "I can't wait to make a lattice with those bird bones. In fact, I'm going to go look for some more when you're gone."

  She was all spaced out, as usual. She silently drifted about the room, appraising it. "Do you...smell something musky?" she asked without looking at him.

  Maybe your vagina? "Nope," Melvin said.

  "Oh, but..." She closed her eyes and inhaled, a hand pressed above her breasts. "I know it's not my imagination. There's...something." She shook her head. "It turns me on in some bizarre way."

  Melvin's eyes narrowed. He had smelled something odd in his own bedroom but it was something unpleasant. Just stale air. This woman's a screw-loose, he decided. He was watching the ghost of her perfect rump slide beneath the sun-dress.

  "Look here." A corner of the new wallpaper was peeling. When Gwyneth pulled some of it back, the sheetrock beneath appeared spattered with something. "Could that be blood?"

  "It's water stains," Melvin assured. When her back turned to him again, he couldn't help it. He squeezed his crotch and nearly groaned. His pipes were dripping. If I don't jerk off soon, I'll have a stroke...

  Now she was looking out the window into the back yard, her finger pulling back a drape. The sunlight revealed the crisp outline of her naked body beneath the beige dress. When she turned, having spied something outside, Melvin couldn't shake the inexplicable sense of macro-vision he'd seemed to acquire today, couldn't escape the notion that his eye—when it came to Gwyneth—had turned into a zoom lens of the highest quality. The image locked now: he could see every protruding detail of her nipples beneath the dress's beige fabric...

  "What's...that, I wonder."

  Melvin looked over her shoulder, through the glass. "It's a dog pen," he said of the small, fenced in area. He looked back farther, noticed an old wooden structure. "And there's a stable."

  Unbidden, her lips turned up in a mischievous grin. She giggled, then droned in that low, cool, easy tone of hers: "I guess...they used to...keep...animals here."

  Then she moved quickly out of the room without another word.

  (III)

  Melvin jerked off hard in the cramped little bathroom, grinding his teeth at the tsunami of images boiling over in his head. He almost stamped his feet. Just a few strokes was all it took, and then curls of his sperm were floating in the toilet water. That sun-cut silhouette of Gwyneth's bare body beneath the loose dress had been it.

  He flushed and let out a long breath. I have a feeling I'll be doing this quite a bit for the next week.

  A phone book in the kitchen had given him a vague idea of where the nearest Chinese restaurant was: at the little strip mall near the junction for Route 10. This was where Melvin had, in this order: picked up Squirrelly near the dumpster, let her eat the entirety of the Chinese food on the way back, received the first sort-of handjob of his life, and learned quite a bit about the Vinchetti House.

  At least I have something to start on, Melvin thought after dropping Squirrelly off at the strange compound at the bottom of the hill. He drove back up to the house, loins still tingling—and damp—was about to pull into the drive, but then he slapped himself on the head. Nitwit! All he had to show for his trip—besides some decidedly spermy underpants—were several very empty bags from the Chinese place.

  He spent the next two hours driving all the way back, reordering everything he'd purchased earlier, then returned to the house again.

  The place did smell odd when he came back in. What is that? There was nothing "musky" about it at all. Had a mouse died in the wall? Soon he was grateful for the aromas pouring off the bags of carry-out. He was hungry himself now but when he looked in Gwyneth's bedroom, and searched the rest of the house, she wasn't to be found.

  Is she out in the woods somewhere? he posed to himself, looking for more of her ridiculous bones?

  He'd need to find her, but—ever the dutiful writer—he prioritized something else first. Off the kitchen there was a little den of sorts, or perhaps it had been a pantry. This was where he'd set up his laptop to write his article. Squirrelly gave me some great info, he remembered. I need to get it in my notes.

  He took the next twenty minutes to tap Squirrelly's tale about her sister seeing ghosts in the house, leaving out some of the less palatable material ("She probably OD'd or they just said fuck it and finished her off in a snuff. I heard she said something to piss Vinch off and they cut off her arms to use her in kinks.") Seems best to just leave it as a mafia safe-house, he decided, where murders occurred. And actually, the gist of what Squirrelly had told him corroborated some of the realtor's claims. More and more, Melvin's enthusiasm about the article grew. So what if it was bullshit?

  Later in the week, he could do some refined data searches on Paul Vinchetti Jr., find out more about him, his operation. The perfect padding! he thought like any good journalist.

  Just as he was finishing up, though, his fingers froze over the keys.

  He'd heard a voice from the living room. He was certain. And it sounded like the voice had said:

  "Knuckles! Get me Dick Nixon!"

  Melvin lurched up, a bit nervously. Was someone in the house? The voice had been distinctly male, and distinctly carrying a Jersey accent.

  "Is...anyone there?" he peeped.

  He edged into the living room. Must've been someone outside, he realized, because he'd left the door open; only the screen door was shut. At that same moment, he heard gravel crunching under tires, saw a car pulling up in the driveway past the Corvette and Hummer. But not just any car...

  A police car.

  Melvin prickled, confused. Where'd that voice come from? I know I heard a voice...

  It had to have been the cop in the car. Maybe talking on his radio? And the words had merely carried into the house through the screen door.

  Yes. That was it.

  Melvin hustled out to the driveway.

  The car's doors read OSWEGO COUNTY SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT. A sharp-dressed cop got out, his expression elusive behind mirror sunglasses. A big brawny good-looking guy with a buzz-cut like a Marine's. An extraordinarily large pistol hung holstered off one hip.

  "Hello, sir," the cop said and nodded.

  "Huh-hi," Melvin said.

  "I'm Sheriff Jeff Funk; I'm the head of the county sheriff's department up here in Oswego."

  "I'm Melvin Paraday." Melvin felt enfeebled. "Is there...any problem, Sheriff?"

  "No, no, I just drove up to check on you. Your rental agent from Syracuse called us up to let us know you'd be up here for awhile. I just wanted to drop by, make sure everything is all right."

  "Everything's fine, sir," Melvin assured him but still felt strange himself. "I'm a journalist and I'm up here to write a piece on old houses in upstate New York."

  "Oh, a writer." Was it Melvin's imagination or did Sheriff Funk seem suspicious? "Well, you picked an interesting house. Oswego's a nice county full of fine people. We wouldn't want anybody writing bad things about our county. You wouldn't be doing that—" Funk slipped up his
sunglasses—"would you, Mr. Paraday?"

  Melvin's enfeeblement was knocked up multiple notches. "Nuh-nuh-no, sir. Whuh-what do you mean?"

  Funk let his sunglasses slide back down. His face blanked as he spoke. "This house has a history, and not a good one. Lotta folks have spread rumors about it, rumors that it's haunted."

  "Huh-huh-haunted?" Melvin responded.

  Funk smirked, big brawny arms crossed now. "Do you know what happened in this house in 1977?"

  "No, er, well, I did hear something like it used to be owned by some big mafia boss," was all Melvin admitted.

  Sheriff Funk nodded curtly. "Yes, Mr. Paraday, that's correct. It was a safe house for the mob, and they supposedly used the house for a studio—to make underground pornography. Snuff films, films of women being raped and beaten, films with women consorting sexually with animals. And in 1977, one of the men who made these movies went berserk. Chopped up a bunch of people with an ax."

  Some of Melvin's unease took a step back. This information had been hinted at before—from Dirk and his brother, from Squirrelly—but just now it occurred to him that what Sheriff Funk had just told him was still more corroboration. More support for the article! he realized.

  Melvin lied smoothly. "Oh, good Lord, Sheriff, I didn't know anything about that; I had no idea. And I'm not even writing about the house itself anyway. It's an area piece. You know, get out of the gritty big city and rediscover New York's natural beauty. Come to Upstate with its trees and hills and rolling green pastures. That sort of piece."

  Funk's head tilted. "Oh, well, that makes me feel better. Oswego County is a beautiful county indeed, and we'd love to see an article like that. I guess being a cop for so long's made me a bit cynical. We're always suspicious of the worst motives."

  "Well, set your mind at ease, Sheriff," Melvin continued to lie. "There won't be anything about haunted houses or the mafia or murder in my article. It's just a weekend travel piece." Now Melvin seized an opportunity. Sheriff Funk clearly believed him...and police officers were always a wealth of information about their jurisdictions. "But I am curious about something. That ranch down at the bottom of the hill? What exactly is it?"

  Now Funk seemed pleased to be of help. "Oh, it's no ranch. That's the old Epiphanite compound. After all these years, that's what people still call it."

  Melvin was intrigued. "The Epiphanite compound?"

  "It was a religious cult, you might say, hardline fundamentalist Christians. They actually settled down there in the 1800s. Sort of like those Amish folks. They believed that electricity, cars, telephones, things like that, were all evil things. They lived off the land, never left the property for all that time."

  "But it doesn't appear that anyone's there now."

  "Oh, no. It was actually kind of strange. They disbanded and were never seen again. The property's been unoccupied ever since."

  "Where did they go?"

  "No one knows."

  "When did they disband?"

  "1977 as a matter of fact, same time as the murders, but there's no way that the two are related." Suddenly Sheriff Funk's gaze dragged off into another direction, to the side of the house. "Wow, my hat's off to you, Mr. Paraday. That's a...mighty attractive woman."

  Melvin glanced beyond the Sheriff. What's wrong with her? She looks— He wasn't sure. But Gwyneth stood in the yard on the side of the house. She wasn't walking or doing anything. She was just standing there, looking at them, her face drained of expression.

  "Hi, Gwyneth!" Melvin called over. "This is Sheriff Funk. He just stopped by to see how we were doing."

  Sheriff Funk nodded, tipped his hat.

  But Gwyneth's expression—or lack of expression—didn't change. She remained standing there in the grass, barefoot, the lightest breeze ruffling the sun-dress about her preposterously perfect body. Dusk dragged the sun down behind her, against the contours of her physique to bezel-sharp crispness. Even through the dress, Melvin's strangely zooming eyesight could make out details of her pubic tuft in that precious gap which existed at the joist of her thighs.

  Her eyes were looking at them but...not really seeing them. That's the impression Melvin received.

  "The, uh, the Chinese carry-out food's in the kitchen," Melvin called back to her. "I'll be right in to heat it back up."

  Funk seemed less aware of Gwyneth's behavior and more centered merely on her body. His eyes flicked to Melvin, then to Gwyneth, then to Melvin, then back to Gwyneth.

  "I congratulate you, Mr. Paraday. That is about the best-looking woman I have ever seen in my life, if you don't mind my saying so."

  "Uh, no, not at all," Melvin replied. God, why is she just standing there? Why can't she say something, or just walk away? She looks like she's in a trance! "She's, um, she doesn't talk much. The artsy type, always into her own thoughts."

  Funk came close to chuckling. "Any woman who looks that good and doesn't talk much? That's the ultimate woman. Your wife or girlfriend?"

  Jeez... "Neither. She's my stepmother."

  If Funk had been sipping coffee at that moment, he surely would've spat it across the yard.

  "My father married her a few weeks ago," Melvin hastened, "and had her come up here with me because he's out of town. Plus, this area seemed like a good place for her to work on her art."

  Finally, Gwyneth turned, her erect breasts excruciatingly defined by the descending sun. In her hand she limply held one of her bottles of Hershey's Syrup, the straw sticking out.

  Then, very slowly, she walked away, almost as if she were drifting.

  "An artist? You mean, like, a painter?" the Sheriff asked.

  "She does mosaic work and mounts it on wooden plaques. Crosses, crucifixes, Christian symbols, that sort of thing."

  "Really? My wife collects religious mosaics. Maybe I can...have a look at some of it sometime."

  The conversation was degrading. Melvin suspected that the Sheriff's wife had no such interest at all. He was simply fishing for an excuse to see Gwyneth's bodacious body again. "Oh, sure. Stop by anytime," he said, unable to think of anything else. But then something did occur to him. The voice he'd heard. "Oh, Sheriff, by the way. Do you have anyone on your department named Nixon?"

  Funk's brow flexed. "Nixon. No, I sure don't. Why do you ask?"

  "It sounds silly, but just when you were pulling up, I thought I heard someone say the name. I thought maybe it was someone on your police radio."

  Sheriff Funk shook his head, arms still crossed. "There hasn't been any radio traffic for the last hour." Funk raised a finger. "Of course, out here in the hills, voices can carry a long ways." He looked off the hill. "Might be someone down at the compound. I think I'll check now that I'm out here."

  "I thought you said it was unoccupied."

  "Well, what I mean is there's no authorized tenants. Every now and then, though, we'll get a few transients shacking up there. Low-lifes, you know? Bikers, fugitives. Might be someone like that down there whooping it up, and the voices carried up here."

  Melvin doubted it but at least it was a consideration. "Yeah, I'll bet that was it." If anything, it had sounded more like the voice had issued from inside the house.

  But how could that be?

  "Oh, and I guess you already know that this deep in the county rural zone there's not much in the way of entertainment or stores," Funk informed him. He was clearly making small-talk now, clearly hoping that Gwyneth might reappear, give him a last gander at her wares. "But I guess you already found Herbster's Shopping Center down by the junction. You mentioned Chinese food, and that's the only place you could've gotten it this side of Rochester."

  "Oh, right, the little strip mall," Melvin said. "So there's nothing closer going north?"

  "No, sir, I'm afraid not. But there's a little grocery store there too, and a tavern, and a video rental. Oh, and a great little pizza place. Pretty much all you'll need if you're only staying a week or two."

  "That's good to know, Sheriff," Melvin remarked, "tha
nks." He couldn't wipe the image of Gwyneth's nipples from his mind. Even when she was out of view, he could still see those nipples down to their last pores. Jeez, I'm going to have to go jerk off again. This is crazy!

  Funk squinted past the side of the house again, disappointed. "Well, I best be on my way, Mr. Paraday. I hope you and your w—...er, your stepmother enjoy the scenic beauty and fresh air we've got to offer up here. I'm going to go check the old Epiphanite compound now, but if you need anything, or if you have any problems, give the sheriff's department a call and ask for me."

  "I sure will, Sheriff. Thank you, and have a nice day," Melvin bid.

  But just as Funk was turning to leave, a final question ignited. "Oh, Sheriff? Can I ask you something?"

  "What's that, Mr. Paraday?"

  "The murders you mentioned in 1977... Was the killer apprehended?"

  Funk sternly shook his head. "Nope. He disappeared and never resurfaced. We have APB flags for him in every police-index computer in the country. We were able to ID him from his fingerprints left on a carving knife he used to cut...parts off a body on the kitchen table. His prints were previously on file because he did time in Maryland for grand larceny. He stole a bunch of camera equipment from a public broadcasting station, of all things."