The Mephistophelean House Read online

  “Matthew, garbage is tomorrow. Do you want me to recycle your boxes?"

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “How are we going to do utilities? Everything in my name?”

  “Ok.”

  “So, I’ll write five separate checks and you’ll just pay me, then, each month?”

  “You could pay the landlord too, so I could just write you one check.”

  “Oh. Ok.”

  “Oh, and if you wanted to work out a system where I cleaned the bathroom, like once a month or something, we could keep the place clean.”

  “It's going to take more than that to keep it clean, Matthew.”

  “It’s clean as it is.”

  “That's because I cleaned it.”

  “I don’t make messes.”

  “I don’t think after what happened last night...”

  “What happened?”

  “I found some numbers on the wall in the basement. When I stopped to look at them, something strange happened.”

  “What?”

  “It’s hard to explain. The wall folded in on itself.”

  “Folded in on itself?”

  “I…”

  A knock rattled the floorboards.

  Matthew jumped to his feet.

  “What the hell was that?”

  Matthew disappeared. The front door opened.

  Matthew returned.

  “There’s no one on the porch.”

  “But...”

  “Where did it come from?” but the question, almost half asked, was left unanswered.

  We stared at each other.

  “I’m not going down there.”

  “Ben,” Matthew hesitated, “I didn’t want to say anything, but, you left early this morning, right?”

  “At six.”

  “I thought so. When I woke up, you were in my room.”

  “What?”

  “You were standing over my bed. I looked at the clock. When I looked back, you were gone.”

  Matthew palmed a wad of tissue on the counter and went upstairs to bed. I threw it away and turned off the light, locked the front door, and went upstairs. A purple haze drifted through the winding branches of the Walnut tree. There was a faint scarab of a moon.

  I awoke in the middle of the night with a splitting headache. I went downstairs to get a cup of water and saw the curtain flapping at the top of the stairs. An angelic light shone through the second story window.

  “How could Matthew have left the window open?”

  I climbed the stairs. The curtain rustled, an ever intensifying radiance so brilliant I had to cover my eyes. When I reached out to close the window I heard the fluttering of wings.

  The curtains fell.

  The window was already closed.

  Chapter 4

  The Seven Year Curse

  There’s something in the House. I see It out of the corner of my eye. Matthew’s changed. He’s not the same. I can hear him arguing in his room. I hear other voices too, but nobody goes in, and nobody comes out.

  Matthew screamed.

  I ran downstairs.

  He was on his hands and knees.

  “Look at this!”

  “What is that?”

  I stuck my finger in a swath of slime.

  “Protozoa, maybe?”

  “Some kind of fast growing mold?”

  “Wait a minute. It isn’t over everything. Just our stuff. Everything else is dry.”

  “What?”

  “Look!”

  Our boxes, appliances, and dishes were covered in the same inexplicable excretion. The other surfaces, the cupboards, the floor, the wall, were dry.

  “But,” I reasoned, “the other stuff is dry. Why is it just our stuff?”

  Matthew turned around.

  There was something wrong.

  “Did you know that the human body is composed of cells, and that every seven years, the atoms in your body are different? Atom by atom, you are not the same person you were seven years ago. In seven years the biological apparatus recycles itself anew. It’s called the Seven Year Curse.”

  “The Seven Year Curse?”

  “Every seven years you’re a new person. Automatically.”

  I didn't know what to make of the slime.

  I returned to the grim little room.

  “What’s this?”

  Matthew pulled a knife.

  I jumped.

  I hadn’t heard Matthew come upstairs.

  “I…I used it to cut a pizza.”

  “You mean, you used my knife?”

  I had borrowed the knife for an instant, forgetting to replace it. I was sure it would go unnoticed in Matthew’s tower of dishes.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t use my knife to cut meat.”

  “It was cheese pizza.”

  “Cheese is a meat product.”

  Matthew slammed the door.

  I stared at the wainscoting.

  The harder I tried, the worse Matthew made me feel.

  I could hear him tramping in his room, pacing back and forth. There was a violent argument. Something fell on the floor.

  “Matthew?”

  I ran into the hall.

  Matthew's door was closed.

  “Matthew? Are you ok?”

  I tried the door.

  It was locked.

  “Matthew?” I rested my ear against the door. “Are you ok?”

  The door remained fast.

  “Matthew!”

  I stood in the hall with my hand on the wall and returned to the grim little room and got ready for work before checking my apps for the top listed posts on the news. I turned off the light and then opened the door to the scarious icicles melting, women in anoraks shoveling snow blocking the way I was heading.

  “We’re noticing you didn’t get hit.”

  “Hit?”

  “Some kind of prank.”

  I looked up the street. A slimy coating was plastered over the vehicles on 45th, the same inexplicable excretion I had seen in the Mephistophelean House.

  “I think it was cornmeal and syrup.”

  “All the cars,” the neighbor said, “except yours.”

  I looked over my shoulder.

  The bio diesel was dry.

  The MAX pulled into the Hollywood Station. I found a seat next to the window. I leaned back, chuckling at Matthew, festering in his room.

  “Let your oats and soy save you, you twit. Oh wait, never mind, phantom estrogens.”

  I looked out the window.

  “I don’t care sitting in my chair if I am not polite. In delirium I ride the rails through cityscapes of white. What plague besets my roommate Matt, what pestilence, what blight? A bureaucrat of profane math, a tasker of redundant tasks, who’s temperate teetotaling, conspiracy extolling, coy and cynic plight arouse a sickness hidden and forbidden fills my soul with spite?”

  I chuckled at myself.

  I chuckled at myself all day.

  The MAX pulled into Hollywood at 4 o'clock. It was hailing. I raced up the hill and ducked under the bus shelter. Ice pellets ricocheted like culverins, an upturned graveyard of tables and chairs cobbling Belmont Square, the neon lights of an English pub and a rubble stone orange brick courtyard. I darted out into the down pouring hail and then made for the pub in the Square, the aroma of bangers, tobacco and vinegar saucing the chill winter air, dartboards, lithographs, nautical charts, a throwing arena with movable parts, spirits, lagers, rubicund ales, lists of IBU's bittering scales, a stout pyknic barkeep with cherry red cheeks was racking pint glasses with dishwasher streaks so I ordered a pilsner and sat on a stool, the pub decorated with tidings of yule, the beer on the bartop like subzero honey the barkeep accepted my folded wet money and hoisted the dish rack up on his broad back and set off down the hall under old union jack.

  Someone was standing outside.

  I squinted.

  The hail was like diamonds.

  “Matthew?”

  I open
ed the door.

  The cold air hit my face.

  The courtyard was empty.

  “Matthew?”

  I penetrated the causeway. The professional offices were vacant. The parking lot was fronted by trees.

  “I could have sworn it was him.”

  I cut across the parking lot.

  A figure ran in the hail.

  “Matthew?”

  I cornered the old church and made my way through the easement up the cracked staircase, the Hawthorns a chantry in the snow.

  The lights were on.

  The front door was open.

  “Matthew?”

  I heard a noise.

  “Matthew? Is that you?”

  I climbed the stairs.

  Matthew’s door was closed.

  “Matthew? Were you at Jacks?”

  No reply.

  “I’m coming in.”

  I turned the knob.

  The door opened. The bed was made. The door to the sleeping porch was open. I popped my head in.

  Matthew was not in his room.

  I walked over to the bureau.

  The stick of yarrow was on the altar.

  I picked it up.

  It wasn’t yarrow.

  It was hair.

  “What the...”

  A bolt unlocked.

  I went into the hall.

  “Matthew?”

  Muddy footprints led to the kitchen.

  The white door was open.

  “Matthew?”

  Bespotted by floaters the white door congealed, salvos of hail, the music of spheres. I followed the footprints downstairs to the basement.

  The circuit breaker was open.

  #17 was off.

  I reset #17.

  Light shot under the door to the windowless chamber.

  It was locked.

  “Matthew, are you in there?”

  Nothing.

  “Matthew, is that you?”

  Flies.

  “Matthew, what are you doing in there?”

  Silence.

  Admonished, I banged on the door.

  “Matthew, we’re you at Jacks just now?”

  Silence.

  “What were you doing? Why didn’t you come in?"

  The door remained steadfast.

  “Matthew!”

  Matthew did not open the door.

  I went upstairs. Muddy footprints were everywhere.

  “Oh, damn. I forgot to take my shoes off. Now I’m going to have to mop.”

  I fetched the mop and filled the bucket with water, following my muddy marks to the foyer. The staircase was wet.

  “He must have mopped upstairs.”

  I climbed the freshly mopped stairs. I poked my head in the grim little room. A wet line ran through the abnormal closet room directly beneath the trap door.

  “What the hell?”

  I touched the trap door, the cold wet margin dripping, a piece breaking off from the decrepit stripping. I had a fell feeling regarding the ceiling, wondering what the mop marks were concealing.

  “Why would Matthew mop the closet?”

  I vellicated. I decided to go downstairs and confront my roommate, even if I had to break down the door. I returned to the basement and rapped on the door under the flue.

  “Matthew why did you mop my room?”

  I could hear something moving.

  “Matthew! Why did you mop my room? What’s in the closet? What’s behind the trap door?”

  I stepped back.

  The door to the windowless chamber opened.

  It was empty.

  “Matthew?”

  Strings of digits upside-down, patterns of infinity, the black X like a snake unwound, the pink circle dark energy. I remembered Matthew’s nightmare of the giant metal ball, the black X and bright pink circle side by side up on the wall. The circle glowed, a molten ball of liquid metal glass.

  “This can’t be happening.”

  The dumbwaiter was open.

  A draft blew through the room.

  I looked up the shaft.

  There was a light in the attic.

  “This can't be happening.”

  I took out my phone.

  “911. How can I assist you?”

  “My roommate's gone.”

  “Is he or she a missing person?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll connect you with the police. Just a moment.”

  The line clicked.

  “Portland Police.”

  “Yes. My roommate is gone. He’s missing.”

  “How long has he been gone?”

  When was the last time I had seen Matthew?

  I couldn’t remember.

  “Three days.”

  “Three days?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your name?”

  I gave the dispatcher my personal information.

  “What’s the address?”

  “1331, S.E. 45th.”

  “Could you repeat that?”

  “1331, S.E. 45th.”

  “There’s no such address.”

  “What?”

  “There’s no such address.”

  Static.

  "Hello?"

  “Is anyone there?”

  I looked at the screen.

  I had no bars.

  “Hello? Is there anyone there?”

  “What’s the physical location of the residence?"

  I put the receiver to my ear.

  “It’s…it's a couple houses south of 45th and Main.”

  “The detectives will be there shortly.”

  “Thank you.”

  I pressed end.

  The call had already ended.

  The hail let up. I stood on the porch looking up at the Mephistophelean House. There were windows in the gable that I didn't recognize. The Mephistophelean House appeared to have increased in size. Beneath the wide-capped ridge vent where the soffit underlie I could hear the noxious chirring of the buzzing of the flies.

  An unmarked cruiser pulled onto 45th. Two plainclothes detectives got out and cut through the easement, climbing the steps to the porch.

  “Are you the one that called about the missing person?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Detective Morris. I’m Detective Gamble.”

  “I called about my roommate, Matthew Pierce. He got sick and disappeared.”

  “What sort of illness?”

  My forehead dripped.

  I wiped my brow.

  “I'm not sure.”

  I kept seeing things out of the corner of my eye, deformities, anomalies, spots on the wall, things that hadn't been there before.

  The detectives didn’t seem to notice.

  “Are those your boots?”

  Matthew's boots were on the floor, dripping with melting snow.

  “Yes.”

  “What are those?”

  I looked at my boots.

  “I changed.”

  “Take us to his room.”

  “What time did he disappear?”

  “It would have been Saturday night.”

  “Did you call his family?”

  “I don’t know if he had any family. I mean, he never spoke of any. He never had anyone over.”

  “We’ll take what information you have.”

  “I have three numbers. One is the place he was living before.”

  “Before?”

  “We just moved in.”

  “Oh?”

  “The second is the number of the landlord. The third is his.”

  Detective Morris accepted the numbers.

  “Let’s see his room."

  “It’s this way.”

  I led the detectives upstairs.

  The room was as I left it.

  “In there,” I pointed.

  The detectives put on gloves. Detective Gamble pointed to the sleeping porch.

  “What's that?”

  “It’s some kind of extra room.”<
br />
  The detective opened the door and went inside.

  “What is it Terry,” Detective Morris pulled a canister from a leather bag and sprayed the floor, chair, and wall.

  Detective Gamble popped his head through the doorway.

  “Did you notice anything strange or out of the ordinary? Other than this sickness?”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Anything?”

  “Negative.”

  “Fingerprints?” I asked.

  “Body residuals.”

  “Ahh.”

  “Where was the last place you saw him?”

  “Probably the basement.”

  I blenched.

  Why had I said that?

  “All right. Give me the details. What were you talking about?”

  “He was building something, some kind of personal waste recycling system.”

  “Was building? You talk about him as if he were dead.”

  “Gone.”

  “Do you have any reason to believe he’s deceased?”

  “I don't know what to believe."

  “Let’s see the basement.”

  I unbolted the white door. The fan was on. The door to the windowless chamber was open.

  “It’s damp down here.”

  “Where did see him last?”

  I pointed.

  “Inside there?”

  “Turn on the lights.”

  “The lights are on.”

  “Oh.”

  “What is that?”

  “It’s a dumbwaiter.”

  Detective Gamble stared at the black X and pink circle. The other detective set his case on the ground and withdrew the canister, spraying the floor.

  “It’s no use.”

  I led the detectives upstairs.

  Detective Gamble handed me a card.

  “You can reach Detective Morris through this number.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Anything else you can tell us about him?”

  “I hardly knew the guy.”

  I stood in the Hawthorns, looking up at the Mephistophelean House. Although the detectives found no trace of Matthew, there was one place they hadn’t searched.

  “Ogemtel."

  I snatched the phone from my pocket and dialed the landlord’s number.

  The line rang twice.

  A recorded message played.

  The line was disconnected.

  Chapter 5

  The Investigation

  I know I am not mad, but now I am alone and It knows I am alone. The longer I stay, the less It bothers to hide. Even in the light of day I am perturbed by vague irrationalities, things I can't directly perceive, memories of things which never took place. I pretend not to notice It, but It knows I am pretending.