Friday 31st October
I’ve had it with that meddlesome bitch. Just as forecast, her brief stay has extended into a full-blown holiday and she even bought along a priest to bless the house after blowing a few bumps in the night totally out of proportion. Reverend O’Leary is little more than a doom monger, this portly prick picked up on the dark energy the moment he wiped his loafers on our mat and began harping on about evil residency or some bloated bullshit like that. Apparently he is from another chapel as the local clergy have long since given up trying to make sense of this building and its supposed curse. I heard him blathering on and, when Lori asked me to introduce myself, I made use of that deaf ear I have learned to adopt and let them get on with it. Edith made excuses for me, as she does, in an attempt to conceal her true feelings. I have her number, reverse psychology may seem to serve her well, but it will all come out in the wash. I keep getting these urges, to start with they were faint, but each time I hear her acidic tones it just makes we want to stroll up there and tear her eyeballs straight from their sockets. I’m sure I noticed a swing ball post amongst the mess down here, that’s a game that I could play in solitude and batting her piss-stained orbs around all afternoon could act as the perfect stress relief. I’d hit them hard so as to tangle those suckers up.
With all the high drama playing out feet above my pulsating head, it has been hard to reclaim my mojo. However, I still managed to graft away for a good half hour while she was raiding the clearly labeled food from my fucking fridge. Of all the things she could have chosen to fill her fat cheeks with, she had to pick my prime rib. If she cared one iota about her daughter then she wouldn’t have her stood at a grill when she hasn’t slept in days but she doesn’t give a flying Frisbee about anything other than getting one-up on me and draining her daughter’s resolve enough to gift me the irritation. I want to cut her, all I can think of right now is how deep I could bury the hatchet. I already know she is staying overnight as she complained about her bunions and didn’t think the drive back would be a wise idea. I disagree, I think it would have been plenty wise to leave before I fertilize my lawn with her remains. Actually, strike that, she’d suck any moisture out of the ground and I’d be left with a barren wasteland. Maybe the crevice in the wall would supply a more snug fit for her dead duck feathers, I could seal her into her own mausoleum, then piss in the crack every time I get that tweak in my bladder. I’m sure if I aimed the jet well enough I could ricochet my urine into her hollow sockets.
Of course, luring her down here would pose something of a conundrum. If I am to state my discord then I think a good old family meeting is in order. Everyone round a table, no holds barred, gripes laid out and nothing held back whatsoever. Show me a pustule that doesn’t ultimately crown in a head and I’ll gladly lance it to prove you wrong. I’m the man of this house, while she is fast asleep later, likely hanging by her crooked toes in the closet, I’ll be fucking her daughter’s asshole in the next room and making her scream my name for dear life. What am I thinking, she needn’t unpack her opportunistically prepared suitcase as she won’t be needing a tumbler for her dentures on this occasion. I have a woven basket to catch every last one of those rancid tombstones and the Tooth Fairy can go jump if she thinks she’s getting her grubby mittens on them. I’ll grind them with my pestle and mortar and use them as sawdust for my stools. I want her to eat my shit you see, I’ve been hoarding my feces all day like a cunning squirrel as all three on-site lavatories are out of my current jurisdiction. Everything happens for a reason.
I’ll sit down this evening after my dinner date and peruse my novel. It’s coming along fantastically, if I really knuckle down I may have it finished by dawn, and I’m ever so curious to see the path it has taken. I just know it is plutonium, the energy has been flowing ever since I first slid the bolt across. I was beginning to ponder whether I had lost my touch you know, what a difference three days can make. I owe that all to Amityville. Never before have I felt so utterly uncorked, no second thinking when I’m in my element and barely any first thoughts either. I’m a passenger, this excites me infinitely as it is as though I am telling somebody else’s hard luck tale, channeling from the greats of horror folklore. None of them have it all figured out, they are along for the ride, and know how to roll with the punches. I am absolutely assured of one thing, whatever is being churned is the work of genius. In years to come, my work will be lined up on some musky second hand bookstore shelf and that’s the kind of digs I fully intend on my fiction cohabiting. It matters not whether it’s successful anymore as money is superfluous to requirements now. All the cash in the world won’t bring my family back.
I’m going to go upstairs now. First I shall be taking that corroded pickax to my mother-in-laws midriff, it must be an injury she can live with for enough time to see the reds of my eyes and realize what she has brought upon herself. Second thoughts, Lori doesn’t deserve to see her own flesh and blood getting disemboweled, she may be an irritant but she’s still my wife. I’ll kill her first, one swing straight to the head case should grant a sufficiently swift release and it’s unlikely Edith will be able to shuffle her replaced hip joint far by the time I retract my sharp edge and relocate it. I’ll drag her carcass down here before the kids become privy and have a little playtime with her before furnishing the fissure with her epidermis. Her skin is all about the elasticity so, with a little elbow grease, I should be able to insulate the space and maybe have enough surplus to craft a new skin for my tablet. They say keep you enemies close, well under my nose is right where I can keep a beady eye on that cunt. I haven’t decided what to do with Ellie, Sammy and Timothy yet; a stern talking to should suffice but who knows what could transpire if they choose to rub me the wrong way. Daddy has had a long day, lots of high drama to cope with, and I have told the girls time and fucking time again to tidy their rooms. Even Timothy’s incessant blubbering is getting my goat right now. I think I just discerned my final nerve unraveling. Game time.
This will be my final entry. Call it my epitaph as, after tonight, I don’t think the sun will be shining much longer. I’m sat here as I scribe this, for once fully aware of my actions, clarity has been restored and I think I have the ending to my parable. I’ve been sat in this same spot for the last three hours, have barely moved a muscle. In that time I have read and reread my prose and I have to say I was somewhat perplexed to discover that the journal I have been writing since moving day is, to this point, word for word the exact same as what is within those bindings. I had no idea art could imitate life so symmetrically, but once you begin to question yourself as a writer, you’re bound for a slippery slope. By remaining true, real, clear and sincere in what I have wrote, I have finally put paid to my hesitant endeavor once and for all. My most personal work by a long chalk then? Absolutely, this is insight into the darkest reaches of my imagination, only ever fantasy, I would never actually harm another soul. I guess it has helped to write out my infuriation, rather than bottling as is customary. Better out than in after all.
I guess drawing from experience was the only way to wrestle this out but it hasn’t been without its drawbacks. My wish was for solitude and it has been provided. I can’t hear a single peep from upstairs so, by my estimations, they have traveled back to Brooklyn and left me to my own devices. I didn’t see this coming but, even if I’m had, I’m not convinced I would have prevented it. I have no intention of starting another, how would I ever be able to top this anyhow? Instead I shall sit and reminisce over happier times and bask in my own glory for finally writing my epilogue. I always felt a strong connection to these particular fixtures and fittings, something about Amityville just cried home to me and I doubt I will ever leave this place now. I have everything I need to thrive, that music box is of great comfort to me and I have re-homed my favorite painting beside the hole in the wall. I think I may go and sit in there now, while I ponder what to do next. The truth is that I’m feeling pretty lethargic, it feels as though I may well have served my purpose, suppose it couldn’t hurt to kick back while I await feedback.
My audience seem pleased with my endeavor. Praise has been almost unanimous although they did hint that the ending could do with some work. They are pushing for a slight reconstruction, closure is the word that they used. Every story must have a beginning, a middle, and an end. Right now it is too sketchy, they aren’t best pleased with the amount of restraint I have used and wish to finalize the tale. I am to be sent on a scavenger hunt of sorts, to the tool shed to be precise where, if their memory serves, there is a singular flask of rat poison which has never had its seal broken. I have absolutely no idea that I’m writing this, auto-pilot has been activated as they don’t trust me to get this done. I’m not offended in the slightest, I actually feel rather honored to have my own ghost writer. Tying things up never was my strong point, I have come too far to let my head rule my heart. My blackened heart.
I have done as was asked of me. I have my refreshments and even stopped to glance over my handiwork. Very impressive even if I do say so myself, who would have thought that a severed windpipe would emit so much fluid? Timothy won’t be crying, not tonight, he’s out for the duration. Lori finally got to catch up on some well deserved shut-eye, although considering I sliced off both her eyelids, I guess that is only figurative. My special girls are dead to the world too. The real kicker has been Edith. What a resplendent draught excluder she provides, this room has warmed up no end since stripping the marrow from her bad bones. I hollowed out her skullcap and it looks like it will hold at least a liter of my tonic. I’ll need to plug up her eye sockets so as not to waste a single drop, I’ve earned this tipple after such a committed display. It’s highly noxious, a few mouthfuls swilled should do the trick. By the time the crippling stomach pain kicks in and I remember once more exactly where I am and what I have just done, it will matter not. By then I will be at one with Amityville, inexplicably joined.
I’m positive that a place with this much character won’t remain on the market for long, somebody else will soon have their carpet slippers at my door and the decor will likely change to accommodate their individual style. They will attempt to put their stamp on it but, beneath the garish emulsion and obligatory family portraits, the walls will still breathe. You can paint it shocking pink from roof to foundations and it’ll still be Amityville. Every house has its whispered secrets, but not many have the voice to vocalize their intent. I still maintain it was a steal, should it suit then I’m sure another family will become very much at home here. Sometimes you just know instantly that you’ll see out the rest of your days someplace. I knew, it was fated from the moment I turned the key. Family begins at home and it’s only right that it should end there also. I shall leave my final draft right here, alongside the music box, for the next occupant to stumble onto. I think they will find it a most enlightening read.
Truly, Clearly, Really, Sincerely,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2014