‘What will you do with them?’ #2
I don’t know what I want any more. I don’t understand what’s happening.
I can’t decipher Steve’s cryptic questions, his odd advice, his concern for …
For what? Is he worried I’m about to expose myself in some way?
That the stain will reveal something? How can he know something but also not know it at the same time?
I wave a hand to indicate that the men should head upstairs ahead of me, and all three oblige.
Halfway up the stairs, distracted, I nearly walk into Richard, who has stopped dead.
‘What is it?’ I ask when he doesn’t immediately move.
‘Someone walking over my grave.’
‘What?’
‘Have you never heard that expression? It’s when you get a little shiver, moving through an unexplained cold spot.
It used to be said that it was caused by someone walking over the place where, one day, you’d be buried.
But I think it happens when we walk through a place where someone else, in the past, met their end. ’
Behind his back, I roll my eyes and think, OK sure, yeah, Psychic Dick.
We all file into the bedroom. I point to the spot where, beneath the carpet, I know the stain is waiting, and say, ‘It’s under there.’ But when I look up, I see three faces staring, open-mouthed, at the word painted in red rage on my wall.
I’d completely forgotten about it.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ I say, waving a hand. ‘Happened before I moved in. I’ll be stripping that wallpaper anyway, so … Here, help me get this carpet up.’
Bob and Richard oblige, but Steve’s gaze lingers on the wall.
When the stain reveals itself, there are sharp intakes of breath.
Bob tilts his head, taking it in. ‘That’s different to what I was imagining.
Open that window, would you, Richard?’ He rips the plastic wrapper on his Marigolds.
With an elbow he pushes the door all the way back against the wall.
‘We need to ventilate as much as possible.’ To me he says, ‘Don’t worry.
It’s perfectly safe.’ But then he takes a pair of plastic goggles out of a pocket and puts them on, which doesn’t exactly reassure me.
There’s a moment of absurdity when, perhaps because of the gloves, the nuances of releasing the safety cap on the chemical prove too complex for Bob. Sheepishly, he hands it to Richard, who is gloveless and goggle-less and opens it easily.
‘Right,’ Bob says then, gingerly taking up a kneeling position on the floor next to the ‘head’ of the stain.
Richard takes a step closer.
I take a step back.
Steve stands with his back to the wall, lined up almost perfectly with the T in BITCH, his brow deeply furrowed.
When were you last here?
He could only mean before everything. Ten years ago, with Jason. The Murder House Club claimed they’d been watching the house for nowhere near that long, but what if Steve has been watching it longer?
What if he saw me here, back then, with Jason?
What if he knows what I did?
It feels like we hold our collective breath as Bob tentatively tips the bottle over until a small trickle of clear liquid comes spilling out. He only lets this happen for a moment before he rights the bottle again, and we watch as a coaster-sized patch of the stain turns dark with moisture.
I think of a man turning into a body. Growing still, getting cold, bloating up, changing colour, seeping into the floor beneath him.
If that’s even what happens.
All I know about decay comes from macabre TV shows and movies. Dead bodies get stiff but then that stiffness goes away again. Fingernails blacken. Funeral directors glue down eyelids to stop them from popping open.
Beyond that, I don’t know.
I don’t want to know.
On the floor, nothing is happening at all. No bubbles. No foam. Nothing.
And then Richard says, ‘Mr Dead House does say it can take a few minutes.’
I am sure I’ve misheard him.
Bob nods. ‘Yeah, that’s true.’
I look from Bob to the stain, then to Richard, to the stain, then back to Richard again. ‘Sorry – Mr what?’
‘Mr Dead House,’ Richard explains. ‘Daniel, I think his actual name is. Mr Dead House is the name of his channel.’
‘His channel,’ I repeat.
‘His YouTube channel,’ Bob says, sitting back on his heels.
‘He’s, like, the most popular murder-house enthusiast in the US.
Over a million subscribers.’ His eyes are bright and his tone is reverential; he’s describing this man the way a small child might talk about their favourite superhero.
‘He’s even supposed to be getting his own TV show. ’
The smell of that chemical crap has spread to where I’m standing. I can feel the sting of it in my eyes, but I don’t think the pounding at my temples has anything to do with it.
‘Bob,’ I say evenly. ‘Have you done this before?’
He looks surprised that I have to ask. ‘Well, no. There isn’t exactly a wealth of opportunities.’
‘This is our very first stain,’ Richard says excitedly.
And that’s it, that’s the moment.
When I realize I’m a complete fucking idiot.
These guys aren’t experts on anything. They’re full of shit.
They talk about a woman murdering her husband as if it’s a fact, but the only actual evidence they have to support it is gossip.
They implied that, mostly recently, no one wanted to live in this house after such bad luck befell the previous owners, but I was in prison and didn’t even know I owned the place.
And their dramatic tale of glass breaking, guards coming to the house, the woman’s scream, the man never being seen again – that wasn’t anything.
That was just me and Jason, and I know Jason was here plenty of times after that.
The Murder House Club don’t actually know anything, and I should’ve known that from the start, because they’ve never mentioned the only crime I know for a fact actually happened here.
One that was investigated by the Gardaí, written about by the press and tried in public court.
My crime.
I was too busy being relieved that they never mentioned it to question what it said about them that they didn’t know.
But now I do: they’re idiots.
‘You know,’ I say, rubbing at my temple, ‘I’m not feeling very well.’
Bob looks down at his bottle of sodium whatever-it’s-called and frowns.
‘Say no more,’ he says, getting to his feet. ‘We’ll get out of your way.’ He looks at the floor, uncertain. ‘Will we put the carpet back or …?’
‘No, no,’ I say. ‘It’s fine.’
‘You have my number if you need anything else. And, ah, it was good to meet you and thank you very much for letting us in.’
I nod. ‘No problem.’
‘We can see ourselves out.’
Steve is looking at me questioningly, but I can’t figure out what he’s asking and I’m not sure I care any more.
Richard throws me a quick ‘Bye,’ and then all three are gone, hurrying out of the room and down the stairs. I don’t hear any conversation, which makes me imagine a ferocious exchange of meaningful looks.
I wait to hear the newly installed lock click shut.
I look down at the floor—
And see that the stain is bubbling.