Insomniac Nightmares

The house was empty, but not still. It had the feeling of a held breath, the storing of something waiting for the right catalyst for an explosive outpouring of that withheld energy. It had waited, biding its time, sitting nonchalantly on the corner of River and Third, unremarkable and uninteresting.

Then, two years ago, it had taken a turn. The Deleons moved in. Nice family. Four children, ranging from 14 to 22. Single mother. Not wealthy, not poor, doing alright. The house approved; they were just what it had been waiting for, just what it needed.

It was hungry. Always hungry. It sang to them of its hunger, though they remained ignorant. All but the eldest child. Alonzo. He listened, he heard, because he was hungry too.

The things he hungered for were different, of course; what would a house want with women, money, fame? Very little, obviously. But he hungered, and he heard, and he did as he was asked.

Six gunshots and a rope, and it was done. He shot little Larissa in the back of the head while she was sleeping, and the house sang louder. Her blood seeped into the floorboards, and Alonzo didn’t notice or care how quickly it faded from sight. When his other sisters, Melissa and Dana, came to check, they were gunned down as well. Two shots for Dana, once in the hip, the other through the chest. His aim was better for Melissa, and she hit the floor with half her face torn off. The house sang.

Alonzo had waited downstairs, not worried that the neighbors might have heard, not concerned that someone else might come knocking before his mother came home. The house had made sure things were quiet, and would make sure only the right person walked through that door. When she opened the door, dropped her keys on the counter and made her way into the kitchen, Maritza didn’t see Alonzo lurking beside the fridge. One bullet, straight to the heart, and she was done. She was done, but the house wasn’t.

It sang, and Alonzo obeyed. He climbed into the attic, and threw a rope over one of the heavy beams. Humming to himself, he tied a knot and put his neck into it. Smiling, still humming, he stood on a stepstool, tightened up the slack in the rope, and kicked the stool out.

The house was pleased. Six years it had waited for fresh food, ever since the original inhabitant had died in his sleep, and then only six months to turn the whole family into a feast.

Then that unremarkable nature was cast aside. Everyone eyed the house, whispering grim rumors and turning the truth into an urban legend worthy of a bad movie. The house was satisfied; it slept, but did not dream.

But now it was awake again, and hungry. It had sung the siren’s song, hoping to catch the attention of the right person. The house had discovered that the notoriety it had gained from its last meal had not yet faded, however, and people were still wary. It knew they called it the murder house, and while the idea pleased it, it made luring in fresh prey much more difficult.

But then the new one had come. He hadn’t cared about the history; if anything, it seemed to excite him. The house whispered to him, and he responded. It asked him if it could come inside, visit in his mind the way others would come to visit the house, and in the depths of his subconscious, he agreed.

The house was pleased. But now it had to wait. The meat had to be seasoned, the table settings placed, and it would take time.

But the house knew that it would feed, and soon. Likely a far better spread than Alonzo had been able to provide.