The Mephistophelean House Read Free

room. To embed the hose head underneath the baseboard I reworked the crack back and forth under the floor.
    “The place smells like cats.”
    “There’s something under the floor.”
    “What the hell is it?”
    “I don't know.”
    The baseboard was bilgy.
    “I wonder how long it’s been empty.”
    “A long time, by the looks of it.”
    I rolled the vacuum down the hall, an inch of dust was on the wall, the hardwood, ceiling, windowsills were pocketed in cobwebbed filth. I got a bucket and some rags and opened up a garbage bag. The broom kicked up a frowsy din, the bucket instantly blackened, the grim white room ranked fell and stale, the walls were pinned in human nails.
    Matthew sat on a mat.
    “What are you doing?”
    “Yoga.”
    “This place is disgusting.”
    “I’ll smudge.”
    Matthew lit a stick of yarrow and set it on an altar.
    “What’s that gonna to do?”
    “I'm announcing my presence.”
    “Announcing your presence?”
    “And asking unwanted guests to kindly depart.”
    “Aren’t you going to clean?”
    Matthew pointed at the burning yarrow.
    “Look.”
    The smoke was weird.
    I refilled the bucket and returned to the grim little room, working methodically until dark. I got my sleeping bag and lay in bed. I must have fallen asleep for I was awakened by gurgling raucous enough to wake the dead.
    I opened my eyes.
    It was morning.
    Snow was falling.
    I looked out the window.
    The pigeons were in the Walnut tree.
    The trap door was open.
    Something was coming down.
    The pigeons flew away.
    The trap door dripped on the floor, black marking a sign of wear, not a stain or mold as I had originally thought. The grim little room narrowed and I found myself going downstairs. The white door was open. Barefoot on the basement floor a stranger to myself I saw the melting snow begin to bleed and change to something else, etching icy picric fingers round the very spot I stood, while I tried to move my body but my efforts did no good. A sparking cord plugged in the line was floating in the cement through, the crushing weight then left my chest and I began to hack and cough, so I jumped and grabbed the iron railing, swinging up across and bounded up the basement staircase through the black mold and the rot.
    Matthew poked his head in the kitchen.
    “What’s up?”
    “The trap door's open.”
    “What?”
    We went upstairs.
    The trap door was nailed shut.
    “It was open.”
    “Let’s find out where it leads.”
    The hallway led to Matthew’s room.
    “There’s nothing here.”
    “Let’s check the sleeping porch.”
    The sleeping porch was empty.
    “There’s no other exit.”
    “What about the dumbwaiter?”
    “The apparatus is gone.”
    “That’s not all.”
    “What else?”
    “I thought I was sleepwalking. I went downstairs. Water spilled over the floor. I nearly electrocuted myself.”
    “What? Are you serious?”
    “See for yourself.”
    We went downstairs.
    “Look."
    I pointed at the basement floor.
    “Hmm,” Matthew scratched his head. “When did this happen?”
    “Just now.”
    “The floor is level. You say you came down here for no reason?”
    “I thought I was sleepwalking.”
    Spurs and leaders formed a minatory crown.
    The pattern was unmistakable.
    It was the Weeping Tree.
    We went upstairs.
    Matthew went to the scullery and got a head of kale. He set a knife on a cutting board and opened a bag of vegetables.
    “I wonder what’s in that room.”
    “What room?”
    “The room by the flue.”
    “I didn't see any room.”
    “There’s a door. Come on, I’ll show you.”
    “I wouldn’t be caught dead down there.”
    “What?”
    “The stench is overpowering. Who knows what fungi, mold, rayon, natural gas cocktail we just breathed in? I wouldn't go back down there if you paid me.”
    “What about the trap door?”
    “You saw it. It was nailed shut.”
    “But, I…”
    Matthew unpacked a steamer and plugged it in.
    “What are you making?”
    “Kale, wheat grass, and