Osseous Slumber - a horror short story

Osseous Slumber

I saw the travel brochure in the lobby of the anger management clinic. Yes, I know the clinic isn’t just for that, but I don’t care. That’s all it is to me. An hour of my precious week that I must throw at the feet of this crystal-loving therapist with chunky earrings that probably hurt her earlobes. Maybe that’s why she’s so stuck up.

It’s either that or losing my job. It doesn’t even help. That waiting room is the blandest, bless this mess, fake potted plant, PTA, live laugh love, storebought brownie bake sale cacophony I’ve ever had the displeasure of sitting in. Just sitting there makes my blood pressure spike. You’d think the doctor would look out for my best interests and prescribe me some medication. So, when a new item showed up in the roster of things to loathe, I needed to take a look.

I don’t know why but I felt almost immediately compelled to go. Maybe it was the unconventional cover. It looked like a haunted house advertisement with some sanitized HGTV-esque logo slapped on top.

The inside is pretty barren, I only remember because it was unremarkable enough for me to take it with me. It lists the prices, bedroom options, and whatnot. “Email graham@hilltoptemple.org to book your stay.” And then a picture of him. Have you ever seen a travel brochure with a picture of the guy who owns the property? There’s only one picture of the property and it’s from outside. What’s that all about?

He’s just an old man, smiling up at me from the laminated folded piece of paper. Crow’s feet? Sure. Like a murder of crows stomped across his face. They didn’t finish the job.

A couple of those old person moles. When do you start to grow those things and how long do I have? Do they even grow, or do they just show up one morning? Waspy translucent white hair, almost cottony. Wiry moustache in the same color. God, this guy looks like he took the first portrait!

“We are not liable for any injuries, temporary or long-term, or destitution done to you as a result of your stay.”

That was what it was. That’s why I was interested.

What the hell does that mean? Who is this Graham son-of-a-bitch and what could he possibly do to me that would result in an injury or destitution? Destitution? I was, and still am, half certain I can take him in a fight, but destitution? How?

Call it morbid curiosity or a death wish or whatever you want, but whatever it is, I find myself with a suitcase packed for the weekend, standing soaking wet in the miserable rain at the bus stop on Pine Street, the only bus line that will both take me there and not shelter me from the rain. I am umbrella-less and raincoat-less and it’s all that news anchor’s fault. He said it was clear skies all weekend, with seventy percent accuracy.

The raindrops are cold. No reason for them to be in the middle of June. I take out the brochure and it immediately slurps up a puddle’s worth of rain. I guess I’ll look at it when the bus driver decides they want their measly paycheck for the day.

I hear the bus before I see it. It’s going to splash me; I just know it. None of the bus drivers in this city give a damn about the people they drive. The job seems to only hire high school dropouts and “reformed” junkies who can barely hold the steering wheel straight. I can barely see the bus pull up through the sheets of rain pelting my hair, but I manage to clamber up the steps without falling or dropping my suitcase in the mud.

The bus driver doesn’t even check my ticket. It seems I could’ve saved the $29.99 I spent. There’s one other person on the bus, sitting in the back, so I take a seat on the driver’s side toward the middle. The itchy 90’s arcade rug fabric seat becomes as soaked as I am when I sit down. A shiver runs through my bones, touching each one to make sure they’re still cold. I can finally examine my pamphlet again.

It's just as weird as the first time I looked at it. The therapist recommended it when she saw I had picked it up. She said a “countryside retreat would do you good.” But as the bus continues to drive deeper into the heart of the suburban wasteland, I’m starting to think her view of countryside is deeply skewed.

I don’t even know long the bus ride is supposed to be. I know that it takes four stops but I have no idea how far apart they are. It doesn’t matter.

I try to sleep since I didn’t last night. The bumpy roads shut that idea down. You’d think the city would care enough to fix the potholes. How am I expected to have my car road-safe, when the roads aren’t even car-safe? Our taxes aren’t going to fix the roads themselves, the government idiots I voted for have to move their asses on their promises.

I think the bus driver tried to make conversation earlier. Oh well.

Should I turn back? Should I ride all the way around back to my stop? It’s irrational. There’s no way a random old man can cause me destitution. If I don’t go, my therapist will cause me destitution by getting me fired. But what if there’s no other options? What if no other job will hire me?

It takes me the entire ride to decide I might as well. I might as well see how this inevitable shitshow turns out.

The bus drops me off at the end of the street, so it’s all on me to haul my things up the hill. I shouldn’t have packed so many extra pairs of underwear. Was I worried I was gonna piss myself? What a joke. The rain is God’s cold piss that wets my pants instead. No, it’s on the bus driver to drive the bus to my destination. You know, his job description.

The other houses on the street are cookie cutter duplexes, much more deserving of a cliché travel brochure. I barely look at them and focus on trudging up the hill.

Each house is one suburban nightmare after another. There’s a soccer ball and net left out in one front yard. Why don’t people have the respect to put things away? No car in the driveway. I take a momentary detour and kick the ball down the hill. Serves them right. I don’t have time to watch where it goes so the next front lawn is what I affix my gaze toward.

Counting these things is the only way I can manage this climb.

Four more. This one with stone steps ruining a perfectly good water-guzzling Americana lawn that seem to have been decorated by children.

Three more. Counting is boring. This is stupid.

Finally, I reach the top of the fucking hill. There’s an old man working on the windows. Quintessential old man, suspenders, thigh high white socks, shoes that I could only describe as loafers, a newsboy style cap; the works. The groundskeeper tries to snap the windows back into place, but they have not been dislocated; they would seem to function perfectly. His back is to me as I approach, and the rain is still falling enough to hide my footsteps, so he doesn’t notice me. I’m already drenched to the core so there’s no point in hurrying this interaction. I clear my throat in an obvious way.

He spins around apologizes to me. He welcomes me to his “humble temple” (which really just resembles an old man’s house), gesturing to enter. I ask if he’s Graham and he grunts. Was that a yes or a no? Does it even matter? He looks like the guy on the brochure but every old man looks like that guy.

He holds the door open so I can shuffle my things through it, which seems odd since his old man arms look like they could snap off if the door were caught in a sudden burst of wind. I should hold the door open myself, but I don’t and walk inside.

He instructs me to make myself at home and shuffles to the stovetop to make tea. Neither sentiment I have ever fully understood:

One

If I were truly to make this my home, there would be a considerably lower amount of newspapers stacked along the walls. Who knows and who cares what happened April 30^th, 1975? I guess Graham here does since it’s on the top of the stack. There’s a tea stain distorting the headline. I could read it if I cared to.

I would take down the tacky woven rug hanging on the wall and put it back in my uncle’s log cabin in northern Vermont where it belongs.

I would rip down the streamers hanging from the rafters and return them to my sister’s third birthday party. My mother said I had to hang them back up but since I was ten, I couldn’t reach. I sit down on the armchair facing the stovetop and hear my mother yelling at me from another time for ruining the party.

I would throw this armchair down the hill so that it ends up on the street and hopefully causes that bus driver to crash. Maybe next time he’ll drop me off at the top of the hill were he should have. I wonder what happened to that soccer ball…

I would take an overdrawn credit card and peel off the yellowed floral wallpaper. Bunch it up and light a fire in the wood stove to warm my bones, still cold from the torrent subsiding outside.

Two

The kettle’s screech interrupts my pleasant daydream. Why is he even making tea? At this point I need a scalding cup of coffee. He didn’t offer tea OR coffee. He said, “I’ll put on some tea,” and then started doing it. He doesn’t know me or what I like. Maybe I don’t want a warm cup of anything, maybe I want a cold glass of apple juice. I take the steaming cup from his hand when he brings it to me and I don’t say thank you.

Graham sits down in the armchair across from me, smiles, and takes a sip from his own mug. The earl grey dyes his stark white moustache until he dabs at it with a pocket handkerchief. I feel like I time travelled to the 1940s or something. Is this man even real?

“What is your name, young man?”

“Don’t you want to know why I’m here? I never said it in my email.”

“Everyone comes here for the same reason, but everyone has a different name. I’d like to know yours.”

I don’t respond. He’s still smiling and that boils my blood hotter than the tea.

“Very well then. Mr. kw92rocket@yahoo.com. I must admit, I’ve never heard that name before.”

I don’t say anything. I’m so tired. The miserable bus ride and subsequent hike to get here drained my energy. All I can think about is sinking into this old man’s overpriced bed and getting some well-deserved sleep.

“The lady before you asked if I was, oh how did she say it? …in cahoots? With your therapist?”

He waits for me to react. Fine. “Are you blind? I’m not a lady.”

“I never said you were.” He’s too calm. There’s no emotion behind the twinkle in his eye. It’s all a façade.

“You said the lady before me, implying I’m a lady.” I spit.

“I said the lady before you, implying someone was here before you and that she was a lady.”

Cheeky asshole. No, I don’t want to think about his ass cheeks. Phrasing, phrasing. I bet the skin has fallen off of the meat beneath, only held on by its attachment to itself. Wrinkly. Gross.

His sickly jovial voice rips me out of my horrendously intrusive thoughts. His one redeeming quality. I force my eyes to focus. “If you wish to retire for the night, there is nothing stopping you.” Perceptive fucker.

I slam my face into the pillow without removing my shoes. My mother scolds me for dirtying my host’s sheets from beyond the grave. He can clean them himself. I’m paying him, after all.

…

I can’t get comfortable. Should I turn over?

No, the right side isn’t good either. I am hyperaware of my body.

It’s too hot. Surely it’ll cool down as the night progresses. After an hour or so, I begrudgingly get up and throw open the window.

Once I’m back in bed, it’s suddenly too cold. I cover myself with a quilt oh-so delicately laid at the foot of the bed. A performative measure of comfort at best.

If I can’t sleep naturally, I should at least try to. I look around the room. A dresser. A grandfather clock. Of course he has one.

I study the clock. 2:00 already?

The sheets are scratchy. Little fibers poke at my pores and wrestle with my body hair through my clothing. I want to remove each individual string in my sheets and pound them with a hammer; get them all nice and soft and new again.

Then it starts. The noise. A gust of wind awakens the house. The rafters in the attic and the support beams in the walls start to moan. It is a low drone at first, but it grows to a discordant choir or shrieking. I cover my ears but it pervades. The sound pierces my palms so I am forced to remove my only barriers of protection.

They are yelling. The support beams are crying and the rafters are whimpering. They whisper my secrets to Graham STOP IT THAT’S PRIVATE and giggle at their own jokes. I can’t sleep.

The grandfather clock reminds me with its imposing presence that it is swiftly morning. Morning already and I have not slept. I do not leave the bed.

The old man knocks. Be quiet.

He enters anyway. The door screams at me to be oiled. BE QUIET

“Good morning!” His chipper voice is like another splinter in my ear piercing the drum. “Ha, well, I suppose it’s afternoon now. I made eggs if you would like them!”

He shuffles off toward the kitchen.

I am sore. My eyes burn from staying open all night. I blink and the crust at the corners of my eyes scrapes against my cornea. The of the windows hinges, too, are tired as they shriek and beg for relief, to feel nothing or at least to be oiled. I need quiet. QUIET QUIET SHUT UP

A whimper escapes my lips. I didn’t make the sound, it just happened.

I finally rise, hoping that moving about today will allow me to sleep tonight. I find the old man napping in his armchair. There is tomato soup on the stove, I smell it hanging in the hallway before I see it, with a note that says something in cursive. I strain my tired eyes to read it:

Mr. Rocket-

Please help yourself to the soup or the leftover eggs from this morning. Awaken me if you wish to talk!

Graham

I really don’t like this funny piece of shit. Has it been an entire morning already?

I crane my neck toward the armchair where he sits. His eyes are closed and one of the newspapers from the wall is open upon his lap. I must sleep too or else I’ll do something I’ll regret.

I change into pajamas this time. The call of the night does not find me. Instead, my mind continues its journey.

Why is this house called a temple? What do temples have that make them not houses? They do call them houses of worship after all, but I can find nothing worthy of worship. All the cloth here is stained with dirt, as table runners in a church are not. And stained glass! Well, the glass is stained alright. But it is not dyed with vibrant colors, no lotuses, no lady in a blue gown, no sunsets, no iconography at all. HE IS HERE Instead, they are stained with dirt and grime, a buildup from the particles in the rain. To witness the act of a leaky roof would help convince construction companies believe that there is a problem that needs to be fixed. Unfortunately, the roof is in perfect working condition.

The house calls to me again. SHUT UP Perhaps I’ll ask Graham what else is wrong with this house.

I force myself to rise, an act that nearly makes me tired enough to fall right back into bed. The hallway is familiar but strange. Distorted in the evening light by murky windows.

Graham has not moved since I left him. Has he passed…? No, surely not.

As I move my fingers to his neck to check for a pulse, I hear it again. The noise. Oh, the noise. The noise of the house. It screeches and grinds and howls at me. All frequencies of sound bombard my ears at once. I feel the foundation shift beneath me, sliding to one side yet I remain poised upright. The groaning and moaning of my surroundings do not distract me from the distinct absence of movement in his veins.

No pulse to indicate a heartbeat.

What do I do? STRANGLE HIM. Should I call 911? What could they do for him now? Should I leave? I have no bus ride until BREAK HIS BONES

…Yes… That might do the trick…

The knives are easy to find. Splayed out on the dining room table he is easy to dissect. The rafters and ribs of the house are calling for him. HELP US

I stab once. A downward thrust straight through the abdomen to get the process started. I will return the favor of hospitality and help reunite the house with its owner.

That stab felt a little aggressive. Perhaps I am getting angry again. I try to remember that tooty therapist’s calming techniques.

5 things I can see: liver, stomach, skin, river of blood, almost bone

4 things I can touch: the wrinkly outer layer of skin, the other side of each slice, which is smooth, the stringy flabby tendons, and the tough gristly muscle

3 things I can hear: EVERYTHING TOO MUCH NOISE THE HOUSE SHRIEKS

2 things I can smell: early-stage decay and the tangy, metallic iron of his blood

1 thing I can taste: no thank you. That’s gross.

I am calm. I scoop out each organ and throw them to the floor. Perhaps the therapist knows her stuff after all.

Peeling skin is similar to gutting a fish. Once you start cutting it sideways it peels away rather easily. I don’t need to do the other side to get what I came for. It is easy to remove the arm and leg bones, but the spine will be harder to reach NO TIME HURRY I’ll leave the spine for later. I may not even need it.

I take the knife and try to clean the bones, but the scraping of steel against bone adds to my aural torment. I decide to try another way.

I am calm. SHUT The echoes of creaking in the attic fuel the fire I use to boil the water. UP I must turn the left femur every twenty minutes to make sure each side is properly submerged. It only takes three cycles on each side for the tendons to peel away like the tenderest pork rib.

With clean bones in front of me, I can begin my work. I take a hammer to the walls and smash through the wallpaper and drywall. Finally, the support beams! I have brought you the support you need!

One of them has buckled and warped and cries out the loudest. QUIET SHUT UP I swing his femur to the ground and with a crack!, it snaps. Not all the way, though. I have to rip it apart with my hands. I use a nearby screwdriver to help me finish the job.

The splinters are easily fitted into the empty space in the wood. I pound a few nails into the bone to keep them sturdy. Can’t have all my hard work be for nothing. Just in case I retrieve the intestines. There’s an awful lot of them stuffed in here. I have to cut them to the length of my work. Some tea and soup spills out onto the table from inside.

“I’m not hungry, but thanks for offering.” I dismiss his dinner proposal. I should finish my work first anyway.

I wrap the rope around the beam to secure the splinters in place. That’s the walls done, now on to the attic. I CAN HEAR YOU BE SILENT

The hinges of drop-down ladder to the attic are creaky and must by oiled. Luckily, have plenty of oil. I go to the deflated, hollowed-out corpse and take a cup. I fill it with my spigot of red oil and fill a watering can with the rest. Returning to the ladder I quench the iron’s thirst and continue my work. I find the rafters in the small, cramped attic. There’s barely room enough for one box up here, but now I can clearly hear where the work needs to be done.

I collect the rest of the extremities’ bones and lay them perpendicularly to the existing wood. This should give the structure more support. The throbbing insulation in the attic is on full view as I inspect the intersections. They could use reinforcements.

Momentarily, I drag the rope up to the attic, leaving a trail of blood and entrails in my wake. I tie each intersection with the rest of the intestines. The tubing is somewhat flexible, but after the first one I find it is easier to tie and then cut off the excess, rather than guessing.

There’s a few left over, so I must improvise. There are some tendons I can use. I tie them together so that they are long enough to stretch across the wood bone compounds and it works like a charm! These looks and feel more like rubber bands, but they do work.

I take a moment to admire my handiwork. Shhhh…

It is quiet. It is silent. There is no noise.

One last thing, I should water the plants while I’m at it. I take my full watering can and empty it outside, over the flower garden. They are happy to be fed.

“That was a nice thing to do.” I tell myself out loud. Positive affirmations. Yes, perhaps the therapist’s messages are finally sinking in.

It is time to sleep. The tiredness is catching up with me as I trudge past the mess I’ve made. Paint and building materials strewn about the floor. I’ll reseal the walls and clean it up tomorrow. In the morning, Graham will be pleased with my handiwork.

And again, I settle myself into the clean, soft sheets: having buried my face deep into the pillow and tucked the quilt under my chin, I feel relaxed and at ease, now with nothing preventing me from blissful slumber; the noise has ceased its maddening arrhythmic torture, as it seems the splintered bones and tendon ropes have fixed the structural dilapidation. Then I get the first night of good rest I’ve had in quite a while.