Wednesday 29th October
What a steal. When I first saw the advertisement for this beautiful property I almost choked on my latte. Ordinarily the mortgage for a detached four bedroom mansion such as this would be way out of my ball park and I almost skipped past it without so much as a glance. Then I saw the asking price. My first instinct led me to believe it was some sort of a joke, either that or there would be small print explaining how it was in need of demolition. Nothing, it turned out that not only was it very much sturdy but it was also unoccupied and not part of some lengthy chain. This was ideal, Lori and the kids would be thrilled at relocating to a new neighborhood as they had never really settled in our current location. We’d been here for three years, five of us cramped into a two bedroom apartment in one of the least desirable parts of town. I was the only one happy there but even I admit to feeling a tad claustrophobic and queuing for your morning bowel movement is really no joke. This had both upstairs and downstairs latrines and even its own en suite in the master bedroom. Moreover, the grounds were wonderful and expansive, especially in late Autumn when the oaks strip off for Winter.
I pitched my offer a little lower than the asking price expecting to be outbid. I think that, in my mind, I didn’t feel worthy of such an ornate palace but, to my astonishment, it was accepted instantly and we were informed that moving in could be immediate if we so wished. We so did, three days later and I was up to my eyeballs in packing. It took two delivery vans to fit our wares, we don’t travel light you see. I have been collecting vintage gramophones ever since the compact disc revolution and, considering Ellie and Sammy are both in their teens, the wardrobes alone equated to half the plunder. Doesn’t appear that storage is going to pose any real quandary as the house has numerous strongholds. There’s also a cellar, a touch on the musky side but nothing a few sticks of incense and a lava lamp won’t fix. That was the clincher for me, every man needs a space where he can scurry away to, especially given that Timothy has just turned three and is only just going through the night. Sometimes I’m so exhausted when I retreat from my shitty job but haven’t got a wind down zone. I am between work at the present but have been assured that a man with my resume will have no issue finding work here. This gives me vital breathing space to work on my second novel.
My first book, Heretic’s Journal, sold just enough copies to provide this opportunity but I’m fully aware that you’re nobody until you write its successor. There’s such stigma attached, it’s make or break and, should it break me, then I will be forced into a lifetime of crunching figures. It’s a surprise to me that I haven’t misplaced my social skills in that time, seven years in Accounting is like a life sentence in itself, I went to one Christmas meal and felt like throwing myself beneath a passing tanker after enduring two hours of their excruciatingly dry anecdotes. I learned how to count on Sesame Street, just so happened I was rather adept with numerals. Whatever inspired me to list this profession as my dream vocation when others around me were planning trips to the moon or rock festivals in Memphis, I will never know. I think I wanted the easy way out, if I’m honest. Considering this is my journal, one for me and nobody else, I may as well be just that. Numbers posed no great challenge to me and I knew I could phone in a shift. The bosses gave me three day deadlines, I would have that shit sown in and and a half tops. The rest of the time I would work on The Tryst of Gomorrah and let them pay my ass for the privilege.
I say work on, that’s something of a white lie in itself. I haven’t developed that one past its title as yet. This is the inspirational change I needed to inspire myself. Now that I’m here, every afternoon when Lori gets the boy down for his afternoon siesta, I shall be down here firing off mind rounds. First things first, I need to fill it with my own stuff. Whoever lived here prior to us used it solely for hoarding shit and there are still a few boxes of that silage which I will need to relinquish before feeling fully like the master of my own cavern. Paraphernalia, my book shelf, a nice homely rug to tie the room together; that’s all it requires. I can listen to old vinyl, God I have enough of it. Seventeen crates, filled to overspill with everything from vintage Motown to European Death Metal. I would need to give them their order of course, chronological poses too lengthy and laborious a prospect so I guess I’ll plump for alphabetical. Decisions such as these are of fundamental urgency to a man in his late thirties. Working nine to five to keep a roof over our head sucks away just about all the brain fat if you don’t have your release valve. Mine is music, that and solitude. I’m just a simple man with similarly simple needs.
Amityville has a nice ring to it. I can see us being more than happy here, our own personal slice of an idyllic rural existence. Sure, it’s a fixer-upper and I’m hardly The Pink Panther when it comes to home improvements. But it has a white picket pence, a two-birth garage with remote activated door and a great lawn for barbecues. I can see it now, me burning sausages and burgers because I have a woefully short attention deficit and can’t keep my eyes off my neighbor’s wife’s delectable butt truffles; Lori attempting to win the neighborhood over with her macaroons, even though I broke a molar on one of those bastards last week and I’m fairly positive they were responsible for the death of the family pooch Lucky; Timothy strapped into his push chair looking bored beyond belief; and Ellie teaching Sammy what I hope isn’t the art of fellatio behind the tool shed. I’ll be watching her with the most gawkiest of eyes as the last boy she brought home was three cells short of brain dead, a real walking coma. My girl deserves better than some jumped-up little whelk with eyes far too close together for any father’s liking. I was actually glad we got out before he wormed his way into her uterus. He had date rape written all over his pitted face and, to rub salt in the already extensive wounds, was an arrogant little fuck to boot. Good riddance to bad trash.
Laid back, that’s me. I’ve never been an authoritarian, don’t believe in laying down Murphy’s Law and throwing my weight about, if I did then Lori would kick my ass straight out of my trousers. Neither do I influence things, faith in natural order keeps me from putting in my five cents worth and belief that even the most stubborn turds sink eventually. My main concern was Sammy, who is beyond impressionable and worships the very ground her older sister walks on. Looks like it’s another problem we can tick off the list now that we have found our dream house. Wow, did I just say that. Dream house. I guess Amityville is exactly that, the answer to our prayers at this point in our lives. I’m a staunch believer in fate, everything happens with distinct reasoning, and some things are just meant to be. I could have missed the ad in the local rag and still been none the wiser but, through a hand being lent by some higher order, we’re here now in a domicile most would only dream of inhabiting. Life is a bowl of glazed cherries right now, sex has picked up with Lori since I announced we’d be leaving our squalor. Timothy has his own room which means, with a little more of that fate stuff, he’ll finally start sleeping through and give us some much pleaded mommy/daddy time.
We met back at high school; she was the bashful sort, at least until I slid that ring on her finger. She stood out because she never attempted to, it was almost as though she had no clue as to how stunning she actually was. We both knew within a month of our courtship’s commencement that one day we would have our own family and neither of us were fazed by the responsibility. Sure, our relationship endured a few turbulent spells but since when has that not been the case? We always ended up talking within 24 hours, it would’ve been less but she’s as stubborn as an ox with a stitch that one. Invariably I would apologize; not because I was always in the wrong, mostly but not always, but because it represents the quickest route back to a simple life. I was never particularly argumentative, it seems like such hard work, and I’m averse to that. Now that we have moved into easy street, it appears as though everything is falling into place nicely. Tomorrow I fully intend on scouting the area for Intel, must find local convenience store, tavern, and beaten track to venture off. It may help inspire my prose, put a stop to this writer’s cramp which has plagued me for several months now.
If I have a weakness, and I have no doubt it is not alone, then it would be my tendency to internalize shit. As far as Lori is aware; I’m on the final act, not because I have given her a running commentary on my progress, but because she has never asked the question directly. “How’s it going darling?” That has been the height of her involvement thus far and “Great thanks baby” is the best way to stave off the Spanish Inquisition. She knows how vital this next project is for our collective future, but has no tolerance for fiction, especially anything which tackles the supernatural. This is why I enjoy my own space you see; while she is Keeping Up With The Kardashians, I’m watching Mrs Robinson roll down her stockings and applying her peach blossom face moisturizer but not to my cheeks. There is a certain ebb and flow to any sexual affiliation but, what doesn’t help matters, is that three quarters of her lingerie draw is briefs. We’re not talking of dainty lovelies decorated with little pink bows, these are dirty-white army issue belly hugging bloomers with nothing even faintly provocative about them.
I’m done evicting arachnids from my daddy vault for the evening, after all, it has been one helluva day. Timothy kept us up until four last night, then we were up at six to haul ass. I doubt there’s sufficient in the tank to spring clean and, to be honest, I have absolutely no desire to spend my first night here that way. A couple of glasses of Disaronno, Coke not Pepsi, and ice should do the trick. I’ll choose my audio with military precision, something like Floyd should suit the mood. I stocked up on hash as finding a local human dispensary is fourth on my to-do-list. Lori isn’t fond of me smoking it, says I’m absent minded and grouchy because of it, and I’m fully aware she is right. There’s a window down here, albeit rusted closed, and tomorrow’s first task will be to dislodge it from itself and give this dank little chamber an airing. I know that the boss will have me checking the pipes and generator tomorrow as this is far more vocal a set of foundations than the previous twenty year-old build. It hasn’t stopped creaking and groaning since we set foot inside but I understand that vintage fortifications such as these come with their own exclusive audio.
Speaking of character, it didn’t take me long to deduce that Amityville is something of a diva. I’ve watched The Money Pit more times than I care to remember so I know there will be a few tears and tantrums as it has to endure yet another bickering brood. However, it hit me rather hard and rather fast, immediately I felt the ideas for fiction begin to flourish, I feel as though our spiritual bonding will be most exquisite as these walls promise to have plenty of tales to tell of their own. It fascinates me, who lived here before us? There was no Intel provided on receipt of the paperwork and I kind of like it that way. It lends an air of ambiguity to proceedings and that is just what I need to channel my masterwork. I truly believe this is going to be the start of something beautiful you know. I’ll end there for now, got to get cracking on the old magnum opus and, besides, I can hear Lori calling me up to look at the plumbing. Apparently the kitchen faucet is backed up with thick black sludge. It’s just teething troubles; she will likely made a bigger deal of it than necessary, but Pink Floyd will soon have me chillin’ like a villain again so I ain’t sweating the program none. Our first night in our dream home, feels good to repeat that shit, Amityville it is both a pleasure and distinct honor to make your acquaintance. Now I’m sure I spotted a wrench around here somewhere.
Truly, Clearly, Really, Sincerely,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2014