Untitled

By: Becky Chen

The house was a magnificent piece of real estate- two stories, two bedrooms (one of which would be converted to an office), and a large backyard well suited to her dog for quite the steal. It was right on the borderlands of the city’s center and outer ring, just outside the noisy urban sprawl. She hadn’t a clue as to the nervous demeanor of those agents and lawyers. Why would people be reluctant to obtain such a fine home just because of the previous tenant's misfortune? If they had been killed within the property, she would understand, but that wasn’t the story. He went missing, and while that was a tragic reality, it wasn’t necessary for the home to carry any stigma. The released police reports (she had read them, knowing better than to buy an unwanted house without research) had detailed that the man failed to show up at work the morning he went missing, but there’d been plenty of evidence to suggest he had left the house. He was likely abducted after leaving, so why be afraid of the house he used to live?

Looking around though, she amended that perhaps she shouldn’t have put so much credit in the pictures- photographs always look the way the person taking them want, and realtors are trying to sell you something. Especially this one, with her anxious, overeager tone, the woman (sporting a tight bun, and put together outfit, the kind of person who’d gasp in horror at completing a crossword in ink) showing her around the property was clearly desperate to sell the home. It was too late to regret any decisions, now- five months out of college, her starting salary would not grant her the financial flexibility to take the purchase back. After the months of filling out forms, making phone calls, talking with lawyers, realtors, and googling an embarrassing amount of details she was supposed to know already, as an official functioning adult member of society, she wasn’t sure she would take it back.

A month after “officially” moving in, she had decided to inspect the property further, seeking to invest in well overdue renovations. The wallpaper was disgusting, and she’d have to do some serious fixing of the leaky bathroom sinks and showers, but that was a thought for later. For now, she collapsed onto the finally situated bed (in the only room that didn’t have molding floral designs plastered on its walls), dog fed, watered, and asleep. She might have come to regret not removing the wallpaper immediately upon the property’s purchase, if only she lived long enough to arrive at that thought.

Months pass without any major issue, as well as they could at that point in her life. Though, Biscuit had been having..something different happen to her. She had not observed any unusual behavior from him, though the evidence was undeniable. The dog is irritable in the new change in environment, perhaps? Biscuit was hardly badly behaved, and at thirteen years old, is hardly within the age to begin developing puppy problems. Yet, the peeling of the paint against the brittle wallpaper (that she had yet to change, to preoccupied and financially shaky) suggested light scrapes that could hardly have been done by anyone else. Uncontrolled urination could be a sign of Biscuit’s aging, and so doggy diapers, and pee pads could be the only viable solution, for now. It wasn’t as if she was the one leaving foul smelling excrement on the old furniture, and Biscuit is the only other living thing residing within her new, old home. She decides that renovations can be postponed as she saves money for getting a dog caretaker while she is away.

The house was old, and as an overworked new employee at an accounting firm, the old creaks from the infrastructure that almost seemed to follow her through the house as she made her way to shower and into bed in the darkest hours of the night from which she arrived home were disregarded (or hardly noticed at all anymore, four weeks in) in favor of the few hours of dreamless respite to chase away her exhaustion. If she hadn’t been so preoccupied, maybe she would’ve noted the human sized indentations on the plush armchair within the living room. Perhaps if she had rounded a corner up rather than straight up the stairs, she would have noted the absence of her dog in his usual spot. Instead, she collapses into bed after a shower, and wakes up..an hour, maybe, later to a methodical dripping sound she is unable to locate.

Irritated, she trudges to the bathroom, silently making a mental note to get a plumber as she twists the shower nozzle tightly closed. When the dripping fails to stop, she trudges down to the kitchen to check the sinks, to find them also not to be the source of the noise. It can wait for later, she decides, grumbling as she makes her way to bed, the whispers of sunlight through her window illuminating her room just enough to see into a closet- oh, that’s the dripping sound. There is a, her, dog trussed up onto the ceiling, a pool of blood beneath him. She doesn’t even get to process before the man drives his knife into her skin, her last thought being of the uncanny similarities between the face of this man, and the missing one.

When the woman drops to the ground, he drags her to the little opening between two broken pieces of drywall, hidden beneath the molding, floral wallpaper. Winding underneath the tunnels and passageways, he makes his way to his...family. They spend the day preparing, and as nighttime bestows upon them her gentle darkness, they celebrate. Everyone huddled together within a circle, eagerly awaiting the performance, a beautiful dance they have as often as they can, paying respects to the ancient Aztec religions. The man, the one who was responsible for this successful hunt, stands in the middle, wearing what they had spent all day preparing. They share songs, stories, and laughs, after they offer the woman’s heart to their gods, and the successful hunter continues his dance, wearing his cloak of human flesh. 

For the members of the underground, it is a good night, one full of love and celebration. Above the floorboards, a woman of 25 is missing from her bed, and a faithful old dog is trussed up on the ceiling of an old closet, the steady, methodical dripping finally halting just as the celebrations wrap up, right underneath.