I’m standing across the street, as usual, from the haunted house I walk by everyday: the house that attracts the beautiful people. I am unable to meet its stare—as if the house lives with a pair of brazen-red eyes watching the passersby, and scanning for the beautiful, the fearless; the pretentious ones in this small town; the valor—I seem to lack. They dance the nights away in this haunted house.
A nightmare led me here
The paint is chipping in sporadic locations (even where there is no paint to begin with,) the air is dead and emotionless, outside. There is a more than eerie tune wallowing through the gutters, or maybe there is no sound at all. It’s hard to hold my grasp on reality when facing this house. Feeling its cold hands molest me from across the street.
I feel vulnerable and naked where it can see me, but I have too much to do today. –No time to indulge in the familiar, unknown smell dancing up my thighs and in my nose.
When I start walking again the cold air seems to hit my face like a razorblade, and I start to miss the dead air in front of the house, where I once stood minutes ago—for an hour. My face bleeds chills and shivers through open sores from the impact.
I’m late for work.
A mile away, in the heart of downtown Boulevard, population of 17,496 minus 872 (where the 872 people have gone is a mystery to me, and everyone else) stands a queer white building that everyone fears. The ones who come here enter crying, either/or leave crying. The blinds are always shut so no one can spy on the whores inside. I’m an exception; I guide these whores to the promise land. I feel their broken hearts and growing pains. I am the one that schedules the killing of babies. I am the secretary sitting motionless behind the sliding glass window, waiting for you to approach me and tell me all your problems.
The clock ticks away and I continue to space out, which is routine for me just as much as bleeding every month. My mind drifts up to the door of the house that always seems to grab me in. I am there. In front of me the door handle looks rusted, but it’s made out of plastic. It turns easily to my surprise and I push the door open, listening to it growl as it opens wider, revealing a hall with a dim red light at the end saying, “follow me, lovely, don’t be scared—
“Excuse me, I need help… Now.”
My eyes drift up from the stack of papers I was supposed to be filling out, my hand disconnects from my face, and I sit up to see a tense young woman biting her finger nails and she looks at me through nervous eyes. She’s unlike the usual girls that come in here, wearing baggy clothes and hair over their face to cover their ashamed faces. She is vibrant—through her paranoid expression. Her hair is brown but flows on her body like gold, and her figure is slender dressed in glamorous rags.
“Don’t be scared,” I say to her as soon as my eyes stop wandering her features and my mind stops making judgments.
“Don’t be scared. Yeah, that’s right.” Her muscles relax and she reaches out to touch my hand, through the half open glass window, “That’s what they say to everyone. I think you’d fit in. I was once like you. I like you. I want to taste you. Come in.” She taps my hand to signal the end of the conversation, and turns towards the door.
As she walks away from me and out the door, her left hand (the one that tasted my skin) hangs down by her side, drumming her fingers on her hips. She left a familiar smell in the air and I instantly knew what I was going to have for dinner. Meat.
My mouth is dry and it’s dark outside. The streetlights are my only warmth against the razor blade breeze, and an olive green scarf is wound several times around my neck. My stomach moans to be fed, and I try to comfort it by thoughts of food, when I make it home. I can’t seem to get myself out of the routine daze I put myself in. An image of a beautiful woman is stuck in my mind, and her touch is still warm on my hand.
I almost fear walking by the house this time. This night is different from the rest. Usually I walk by and hear strange noises dancing in the motionless wind, around this house. Sleep is my only motivation to walk on and reach my home. This time I stop, turn, stand, and walk in.
I’m standing face to face with the haunted house that haunts me in my sleep. The blazon-red eyes seem to be at ease, as if finally accepting me and welcoming me, instead of its usual glare of rejection. It whispers in my ear, “we were lovers in our past lives, I can feel you between my legs.” Immediately I find myself opening the door, like parting the legs of a virgin homecoming queen. —So delicately and gently, but with ferocious intentions hidden in the smooth skin of my hands. I see the red light down the hall like I did in my dream. The air and smell is much different, and my body begins to shake with fear.
“Don’t be scared,” the house croons. “Let your hands explore my walls and the colors of my voice.”
I reach the light and my head starts to swim. I lose my grip on reality and my mind goes numb with pleasurable fear…
They deceived me in my dream; they watched me from every angle as I walked through their haunted house. Unsteady walls and tilted beds lay spewed, catty corner, everyone is screaming with their legs. Moaning with their heads, and watching me drop tears from my eyes so confused and misled.
There was a sex-room where people danced together and their music mixed with the others, creating a horrid smell and sound in the air. My feet led me to a hole in the ground, which I did not see myself sink into. It was filled with liquid that stung my skin, and I fought the urge to escape. I soon found it impossible to get out, and began to feel lethargic, pregnant with hopelessness. I sank, down, as they laughed at me and welcomed me to their world.
Tall men in top hats stood standing against the wall closest to me. They tipped their hats and bowed their heads at me, watching me sink further into this dream.
I then found myself being undressed by a handsome man. His hair stuck up in the middle of his head while the sides were tousled, as if to look like a style. His hands cupped my face but his eyes looked straight through me. He was new but knew what he had to do. He took off his mask to comfort me, as if sinking into my unleveled world; he began to sing to me in the only way men know how. I felt the shock between my legs. He was parting the legs of his first (of many) virgin homecoming queens tonight; mine. My fingers grasped the skin on his back. My stomach tightened and my back arched all on its own, as if my body had a mind of its own.
I was new, but I knew what I had to do.
The music that mixed in the air became vague and hard to hear; I could only hear ours, his. The others glanced at the two of us as if to eat up our pleasure; soak up our musical tune, my uncontrollable moans of discovery.
And I then discovered why the others felt so comfortable here. Here in this sex-room, apart of the haunted house in my dreams.
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