The Grave House Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text Copyright © 2016 David Garaby

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  AHouse of Contradictions

  The Proposition

  Enter the Storm

  The Encounter

  Romanticize the Monster

  The Crust of Blood

  Interview

  Adam/Nina

  A Matricidal Bitch

  Monsters and Chimeras

  Instant Gratification is for Pussies

  In the Studio

  Consciences are Liabilities

  Let Misery Sleep

  Not in Dallas

  The Party.

  The Old Woman

  A Grave Woman

  A Grave House

  Bertha leaves the Castilian

  The Deepest Low

  Like Lovers and Children

  Shrill

  Epilogue:

  "Kiss me or kill me. I'll have it no other way."

  —Margo Sullivan

  On Monsters and Chimeras

  AHouse of Contradictions

  January 19, 2014

  BERTHA STAGGERED UP the grand staircase carrying a silver tea-tray containing a needle and a vial. At the head of the stairs rested a full-length mirror from which she stared at her haggard state. Her thinning hair clung to her head like a light, auburn and gray colored cowl. She wasn’t beautiful in her younger years. One expects youth and beauty, a customary combination that nature failed to marry. Her hair began thinning at a very young age. She thinks it was seventeen, but forgets the fight she had with Antonia Washington and the way her hair easily tore off her scalp. It didn't even bleed. It was as if the hair longed to detach itself—to free itself from the unpleasant facade it framed. Androgyny became masculinity in a matter of decades, leaving behind a fragile and tall silhouette devoid of femininity.

  She turned away from the mirror and headed through the narrow corridor of the old hacienda towards her employer's office.

  The white carpet shifted beneath her shoes as she framed the doorway. The room, with its sleek modern interior design, was an indignation to the old home’s skin. Bertha regarded Margo Sullivan, who spoke with her agent on a conference call.

  "And the point of this trip is to what, build a fanbase where a fanbase already exists?" Margo opened her balcony and lit a cigarette. Bertha could see angry clouds rolling in the distance, ebbing their way towards the town of Diller, Texas. The dreary January afternoon coated the room in an eerie blue glow. "You're telling me things I already know, Tim, things that are neither relevant nor pertinent to the success of this show. I have no interest in being interviewed by that ridiculous woman again. Get her off our contact list."

  She focused on a pile of invitations laying on Margo’s glass desk and remembered the upcoming party. Margo would turn fifty-seven in two weeks. Call the florist and order white mandevilla flowers, thought Bertha, those are the only flowers she likes. She also remembered to buy more vials of Kemproxin from across the river in Mexico; heaven forbid they run out again.

  "We simply will not accept those terms," continued Margo. "We’re in a position to walk. Remember that, Tim. There are other venues. I’m not going to share space with Mitch Auburn. Mitch Auburn! The gall! That pretentious white-trash redneck. You tell them, Tom, you tell them that we will walk. I have friends in the McLann. Or the Hawthorne Gallery in Austin."

  Margo admired herself in the full-length mirror. "No Tom. We can always move the show to Austin. The McLann has hosted my work before. Tell them I will not accept those terms." Glamorous and regal, her fitted black skirts and flowing geometric print blouses were a staple in her wardrobe. She was a light-skinned beauty with voluminous, shoulder-length black hair. Strong eyebrows arched over sunken but piercing green eyes. Black and white chic, this aging painter was known for more than just her surrealist art, she exuded grace, even if her light was dimming. She was striking, even in these late years, but now the protruding jowls and gnarled, long fingers signaled the end of an era. "No. No, Timothy," Margo snapped. "She is most definitely not welcomed at my party. I’m trying to have a good time, you know. Don't bring Reuben either, or that fat wife of his."

  Bertha cleared her throat, "Morning." Margo did not raise her eyes, she acknowledged Bertha's presence with a brush of her hand.

  Bertha grimaced, raised her head high and continued her march down the narrow corridor. She stopped at the last door of the hall, rattled through her pockets for a key, and exhaled deeply as she pushed the heavy door open. A musty smell filled the room--then came the stench of urine. Fresh. "Damn it," she muttered and closed the door.

  "Virginia." The voice was hoarse and aged. When did she begin sounding like her grandmother?

  The heavy drapes kept the room dim, hiding the old woman's presence. Bertha could see the frumpy silhouette sitting at the foot of a bed. The shadow's voice sounded disoriented: "Ya son las Tres—Is it three already?" The old woman scratched her small head, lazily turning to face Bertha.

  Virginia wore a floral nightgown and carried a peculiar odor. She was getting fatter, she looked particularly swollen around her legs and stomach area. Bertha was put in mind of those morbidly obese people she saw on television at night. Those fat fucks who ate their emotions with a side of gravy and self-pity. Bertha couldn’t understand them, the lack of willpower, and sheer self-respect. It's bad enough the world was so disgusting, seeing those deformed lumps of nothing made the world just a bit bleaker. She wondered how people ever let themselves get so fat, so disgustingly large. Virginia's case was simple, though: she knew it was the lack of exercise, but it didn't help that the old woman would beg the maids for cookies. Even that mousy Nina would sneak into her room and deliver those sugar-free pecan chocolates she loved. Bertha found ten wrappers under her bed three weeks ago. "You think this is some joke?" she screamed. The old woman simply widened her eyes and shrugged off the accusation. She'd mouth off at her in Spanish. That's what angered Bertha the most, being cursed in foreign tongues.

  Relocated from her home in Norton City over fifteen years ago, Virginia was Margo's mother, an eighty-year-old spit-fire who still retained some of the snap that made her former lovers split. Weak skin clung to her fragile and shifty bones. Bertha was hired to look after Virginia when she slipped from her bed and broke her hip. It was a clean break, but Virginia refused to walk again. Bertha stayed on, remaining her live-in nurse and Margo's personal assistant ever since.

  "We're going to have to walk you more," Bertha smirked at the old woman. "You're getting too fat Virginia. Jeezus, we're not going to be able to wheel you out of here by Christmas if you keep it up. Might have to make the dinner out of you."

  "Callate," she grunted. "Pinche gringa pendeja."

  Bertha shook her head. "Well, that's the first time I've heard that one," Virginia inspected the small room. "You're just quick with them one-liners today. Got any more colorful names you'd like to use on me, you damn dirty spic?"

  Virginia's eyes growled. "Bastarda."

  "Shit, that's the same in any language, you silly bitch." Her teeth were variants of gray.

  Even though Bertha bathed her every three days, the old woman always carried a pungent odor, a scent given by time and unmistakably mortal. She sneered as she caught a whiff of Virginia’s decay.

&
nbsp; "Silly, stinky old bag," she slapped on the blue rubber gloves and felt over the bed. "If you wet the bed I'm going to put the diaper on again. You've got to get up. The bathroom's not more than six feet away, Virginia. You need to move. You can't just piss yourself and think it's alright. It's disgusting! Don’t you get tired of living in filth?"

  The old woman crossed her arms, she looked like an overgrown child having trouble accepting a punishment. Virginia twisted her face. "No siento mis pies. No me quiero caller. Bastarda!" She grunted defiantly. "Donde esta mi hija?"

  "English!" snapped Bertha. "You know your daughter doesn’t like it when you speak Spanish." She set the tray next to Virginia’s night stand. "Margo wants you to speak English. Would it kill you to remember that?"

  "She pays you," she replied, "Not me. I can speak in any language I want. Tell her to show her face. I haven't seen her in weeks."

  Bertha set down a new bed pad. "Well, maybe if you didn't smell so god awful she'd visit you more often. Who wants to visit a momma who smells like toilet water?"

  Virginia scoffed, "The bark protects the tree." Bertha pulled open the curtains, letting the blue glow flood the room. Virginia stared out the window. Her face illuminated almost instantly. "Look! The red one. The funny, fat red one! Look at the little bird, it came to visit me. They always come to visit me. Visits me more than my Margo does," cooed Virginia.

  Bertha shook her head, there was nothing at the window. She fixed the bed sheets before reaching for the old woman’s arm.

  "Dejame!" Virginia snapped. She jerked her limp arm, guarding the withering appendage like a toddler protecting a beloved toy.

  "It’s your medicine. You need it, Virginia."

  The old lady smiled. "I don't want to sleep anymore. I've slept enough in this house for a lifetime. Don’t give it to me today. I'm going to die soon. We die in September. You know that, right? All of my family has, right in the middle. This is my year. It's my turn," she widened her grin.

  Bertha scoffed, "We’re nowhere near September you senile old bag. It's the middle of winter. Besides, I'm supposed to keep you alive. That's why your daughter hired me. And I always do a good job."

  "No," remarked the old woman. "Killing me would be very productive. You could spend the rest of your afternoons kissing my daughter's ass. Following her around like a silly little puppy. I know you want to. I may be old, but I see the way you look at her. I know what kind of woman you are," she laughed coldly. "You can focus your attention on making her fall madly in love with you. No need to waste your time on me. June is the perfect time for weddings. Maybe you’ll have enough time to finally get your way," her laugh carried phlegm.

  Bertha's face burned red, her jaw was pressed tight. "Give me your damn arm, Virginia. I’m not going through this anymore. You let this slide in, or I can make it painful. You know I can."

  Virginia reluctantly extended her limb as Bertha dabbed her shoulder with an alcohol wipe.

  "Last chance, Bertha. You can always just put in some bleach or some ammonia." Virginia had a twinkle in her eye.

  "Why not both," Bertha raised the needle, filled it with the Kemproxin. She tapped it twice.

  "Don’t do it."

  "It’s my job." Bertha let the needle pierce the loose flesh. It crunched through the layers, popping every cell methodically.

  Virginia grunted as the needle receded.

  "There," said Bertha as she helped Virginia lay back down. "Maybe you'll keep quiet for once. Stop dropping things and waking people up in the middle of the damned night."

  "I’ve seen you," said Virginia suddenly. She massaged the injection site lightly. "I’ve seen you follow her into the little house she made, to the grave house. I’ve seen you carry this same tray. What do put to sleep in there? And the people. What...what are you two hiding in there?" The old woman's eyelids sank. The dosage would keep them closed for the next twelve hours.

  Bertha abruptly threw a blanket over Virginia then pulled out the bed strap, fastening her in place. Before she left the room, Bertha walked toward the window and looked down at the grave house, the small mausoleum at the north-east corner of the great property. Margo's husband was buried under there, in time it would house Virginia's body.

  A thick cloud had blanketed the estate, turning the grave house's stucco exterior a brooding gray hue. Dying ivy formed wrinkles around its facade. The stained glass windows and the two stone lions guarding the entrance appeared hungry and noxious. For a moment, she thought one of the bronze lions tilt its head and squint its eyes.

  The wind picked up, causing the old mesquite tree branches to dance sporadically under the darkening sky. It was a hellish twisting of bark and leaf. Bertha shook her head and inhaled deeply, only she and Margo knew the real threat that lived beyond the wrought iron doors of the grave house. Bertha turned back towards Virginia. The old woman wore a blank expression, the cold, stoic pleasure of unconsciousness. She suddenly thought about what might happen if Virginia were to repeat those words to anyone; to Nina, to Dr. Waller, to anyone else. What if she felt brave enough to share what she had seen? What she suspected?

  The gardener's head popped from behind the grave house. Rafael's brown skin looked black under the haze of the impending rain. He was trimming the shrubs along the sides of the structure and felt her eyes. Rafael turned back and waved at Bertha, who did not reciprocate the gesture. She could not hear him, but he pointed to the black sky above him, formed a simple smile. His orange garden gloves bounced up and down as he mouthed the words: "She's coming." Bertha suddenly thought she saw his face morph. His eyes turned completely black, and the smile became maniacal.

  She's coming, Bertha could almost hear his voice, dark and foreboding. She felt a knot in her throat, and her heartbeat intensify.

  When the rain stopped later that afternoon, she ordered Raphael to board up Virginia’s window. It was the last time the old woman saw daylight.

  The Proposition

  January 24, 2014

  ONLY A HANDFUL of runners and elderly dog-walkers perused the narrow arteries of the university. Adam Betancourt was thankful for his jacket, it came with a hoodie which he draped over his head and covered his auburn colored locks. His mind was busy that morning. He couldn't help but dream of Justin Carr, his now estranged boyfriend. The dream was too vivid to ignore. It was a sentimental regurgitation of the time they first met. The quiet pain of waking up next to a cold pillow reminded Adam of his impending loneliness. He felt the vibration of his cellular telephone. An email message from his best friend Ashley Harris flashed:

  "It is a time to be brave. To be strong. To not worry about others and their opinions. It is a time to be gracious. To be kind to your body and soul. To celebrate love...The one you had and still mourn. But above all, the one that is yet to come. And stay. Remember who you are. Be that person. Love that person. Others will follow."

  "Damn it," he whispered as his eyes filled up with tears. Adam removed a pair of sunglasses from his backpack, covered his red eyes and made his way down the sidewalks along Gregor Hall.

  Melancholia drooped his otherwise statuesque face, but his body remained unfazed. Muscle and lust blended deliciously, creating an appetizing visual feast. Both male and female runners slowed their pace to admired the early morning vision. He was of average height, a clean looking twenty-eight year old Art History graduate student who never worried about money or material success. He was fortunate in both looks and strong paternal financial backings. An effortless beauty, he was the kind of guy who made the seconds pulse a bit slower and made you question your iniquities. The crowning jewel of the delicate vision were his eyes. The reptilian, sometimes iridescent, eyes only a Renaissance maestro painter could capture. One felt as though his gaze belonged on a Bernardino Luini painting. Their haunting beauty seemed to follow your every move.

  An inane monologue blasted in his head: a scorned lover repeats the best and worst of conversations, and, even more sickening and depressing, that god-dam
ned "Someone Like You" humming incessantly in his subconscious. Nothing short of divine intervention could stop the images of Justin from swarming into his mind. It had been seven days since he received the call. Just like that, what is now was. No more. Four years and empty (but at that point they most certainly were not) conversations and promises to kiss goodbye.

  He tried to clear his thoughts by shifting attention on the older runner who zig-zagged past him at the corner of Kinney and 2nd Avenue. Even in his advanced age, and with the peppered and thinning hair, the runner was much better looking than Justin. Taller, too. Tighter in the middle and heavier in the back; wouldn't that be a step up from the flaccid, limp body which housed the very arrogant and self-important twenty-two year old Justin Carr. When one loses love, it's always best to win a trophy to rub into a former lover's face. But this scheme didn't quite work out in Adam's world. He loved differently, he loved intensely, with unwavering dedication, something which was lost for most other Millennials. It was regrettable, but it was there, staring at him with that same tiresome grin. It shook its head mockingly: Loneliness, you old bitch, you haven't aged a bit. He knew he had been broken, one does not shake off four years in a matter of weeks after all, but he knew he needed more time to let the pieces mend and replace the parts which Justin had stolen. Justin, what a stupid name, anyway. Who the hell keeps a name like Justin in this economy? Adam couldn't help but laugh at his own inane observations. He wasn't as bad as he thought. Although he was injured, the blood had stopped running. He could feel his heart begin to crust.

  He concentrated on the mission: get to the university, speak with Dr. Hudd, and find out about the "big opportunity." His professor emailed him the day before asking to meet him in his office early, before eight. "Good news" and "a great opportunity" were used liberally, but he couldn't help but wonder why after two semesters of scathing criticism his professor would have even considered him for such a "monumental task." A woman slowed her pace and stared at him with a flirtatious grin. He quickened his pace and lowered his head.