In Our House: Tantalizing Tales of Terror

To Joseph and Frances Calabro

and

Hugo and Alba Acconci

––––––––

My family and I know you will always be with us . . . in our house.

Duet

Mike Cicero glared at his wicked opponent with a hateful eye, almost growling at it. Through his penetrating gaze, he attempted once again to instill fear into his foe, willing it to concede to his ultimate demands. "You will follow my lead, he muttered. You shall do as I say."

But after twenty life-draining minutes, he sighed in defeat, slumped in his dining-room chair, and lowered his head in shame, right in front of his mortal enemy: an old Remington typewriter that was passed down by his paternal grandfather. He, too, was a writer, but of such great renown that in many circles he was often referred to as the Literary Photographer of the Italian-American Community, a John Steinbeck of Little Italy. Tony Cicero knew his grandson’s desire for telling stories. By the age of seven, little Mike was creating his own alien invasions and monster epics, courtesy of his Crayola box and his rectangular sketchpad. This keen observation resulted in old, wise Tony updating his will, stipulating that his grandson would inherit his own storytelling instrument in the event of his death, which sadly occurred one month later after passing away peacefully in his sleep at the age of eighty-nine. From that time on, Mike loved and used that typewriter as though it were his sacred talisman, an instrument of conjuring creative magic.

But the moment he finally accepted he had writer’s block, he nicknamed it The Metal Beast.

Mike frowned at the metal-toothed monster that squatted before him. Minutes of grave-like silence filled his apartment like a poisonous mist. Without a doubt, the beast mocked him. With that wide, hateful, shiny grin, how could it not? He could even hear the deep-voiced laughter echoing from the bowels of its vast, scaly mouth. Its white tongue flapped at him, ridiculing every facet of who he was, of what he was trying to do for the past year, resulting in complete failure. Eventually, Mike seized the sickening, blank, square tentacle. He could feel the creature resisting, trying to pull back its ivory appendage, but the mechanical demon was no match for him as Mike ripped the tongue from its mouth, causing the unspeakable fiend to screech. The sound was brief, but his disgust worsened as he tore the paper in half, crumpled and threw both pieces in the basket.

Was that really necessary? You didn’t even write your name on the page.

Mike turned toward his muse, who stood over him with a look of disapproval. He liked how Cate was dressed this morning: her tight-fitting jeans snug against her slim hips, dark-blue t-shirt that was one size too small, exposing her pierced navel, her flaming red hair pulled back in a ponytail, and her bright-green eyes and porcelain-colored skin that shone under certain shades of light. Although she looked youthful, her demeanor clearly demonstrated a deep-seated wisdom she had possessed throughout the twenty-eight years of Mike’s existence. Yet, the author had a feeling he wasn’t her only creative vessel. He tried asking her more details about her race and their connection to all the artists of the world, and the only response he got from her was a devilish, secretive grin. He was even tempted to ask an artist who lived upstairs from him, to inquire if he too had a muse that inspired his paintings and sculptures. But he quickly abandoned the idea. Some information was best left alone.

He faced the Metal Beast, still unused, still scoffing at him and his creative impotence. What the hell is the point, Cate? Besides, it made me feel better.

She chuckled, and as he looked back, he saw her stretch her limber form. He enjoyed watching her move, an odd mixture of focused intensity and graceful sleekness that enhanced her sensual presence. She bent backwards, held the position for a few seconds, and then leaned forward, giving him a glimpse of her ample breasts. He couldn’t help but smile. If we made love, would it be considered masturbation?

Cate touched her toes. Mike, you don’t need my help for that. She straightened up, her face flushed and moist with sweat. A typical avoidance mechanism for writers: what they can’t produce on paper, they end up creating a product of a different nature.

Mike cringed as he looked away. I’m not in the mood, Cate.

She playfully slapped him on the back of the head. But I am! Come on, just write the damn thing!

He closed his eyes. I’m trying. For the last frigging year, I’ve been trying. He leaned his head back and groaned. God, I’ve lost it, haven’t I?  I somehow did a bad thing and I’m being punished. My talent is gone.

He felt her hand on his shoulder, making every nerve tingle with such softness. You’ll never lose me, my love. Although there are times when you make me so angry that I want to file for divorce.

He laughed. I don’t think laziness can be a valid reason to divorce somebody.

Stop fooling yourself. We live in Los Angeles. Anything is possible. She gently caressed his hair. He felt soft electrical currents rippling through his scalp. Besides, you are not lazy. We both know that.  You . . . we had a rough year. The job is starting to turn you into ‘automatic pilot’ mode; but you can’t leave it, not yet anyway. And what happened between you and Paula didn’t help matters much either.

He pulled away. Although it had been a month since the break-up, hearing her name always led to the same slow coldness penetrating his heart. It was my fault. If I hadn’t told her I loved her, she would have handled it a little bit better.

She sat down in the chair opposite of him and looked deep into his eyes. Mike, expressing your love wasn’t the mistake. Expressing it to a person who was emotionally unstable was. And you had no idea she was in that bad of a place. Neither did I. She shrugged. Maybe because we did love her so much we didn’t want to know.

Cate looked out the window in silence. Her carefree demeanor transformed to a look of deep sadness and loss. Her soft face seemed to droop all at once, accentuating her frown even more. She shook her head, trying to physically toss the painful memories from her being, then turned back to her mortal partner. Besides, even if you didn’t express how you felt, she would have behaved in the same way. That kind of mentality allows ego to enter the picture. You had no choice but to end it. She was self-destructing and taking you down with her. You gave her a chance to stop the abuse and she blew it. 

Mike felt her logic enter his being. He remembered the past events he had edited out during his relationship with Paula: the controlling behavior, the competitive edge she displayed that went beyond the harmless level, her over-justification in being totally free as she put it, so much so she always implied he was controlling her with every single statement. But it was the alcohol that did it. When a simple discussion of differences turns into two grueling hours of wine-induced arguing—and these moments happened at an increasing rate, he realized he was in an emotional threesome: Mike, Paula, and her addiction. He looked at Cate’s feline eyes, a pair of emeralds whose facets gleamed with sympathy, compassion, and, most importantly for Mike, reason.

When he nodded, she said. Besides, you had this block way before you met her. She just added fuel to a fire that has already been lit. So, she added as she stood up and grabbed his hair with both hands, her eyes burning with enthusiasm. "Get on with it!  Put out that silly fire of yours and light mine! Cate shook his head, causing him to laugh. She released him, stood back, and looked off in contemplation. I’m in the mood for a smoke."  Then, she faded away.

Mike pondered what she said, so much so that he didn’t even notice the usual heat flush he felt whenever she returned to that place in his soul only she had access to. He once asked his beloved counterpart the specific location within his body. She displayed that secretive smile and answered, What makes you think it’s inside your body? Maybe there’s a part of you that serves as a doorway to a dimension that leads to your soul.  And that hot flash you feel is me twisting the knob. Mike then made an obscene suggestion regarding what else she could twist on his body, resulting in yet another mischievous slap on the back of the head by his muse. Still, he was in a mood to smoke. He grabbed a Macanudo café cigar and sat in a chair that was close to the kitchen window.

Mike stared out into the haziness of the Los Angeles skies, puffing on the sweet-flavored smoke that seemed to filter out the stifling humidity, the mundane existence of those he has to work with, the personal demons that not only came from those that are close to him, but his own demons as well. Yet he conquered one major creature by distancing himself from Paula’s self-destruction, gaining a few minor battle scars along the way.

No, he agreed with Cate. The break-up wasn’t the source of his block. He thought about his present employment situation at the construction firm, where other carpenters, lift operators, and many others moved and behaved like drones day after day, performing the same duties while showing no pride or growth in their work. The constant sameness. Even that wasn’t the problem; he was.

He turned toward The Beast once again. He felt sorry for his grandfather’s typewriter: a true writer’s weapon of choice, like a samurai and his katana. This particular weapon produced twenty novels and ten short-story collections during his grandfather’s tenure, stories that possessed the epic nature of Michener, the complex characterization of Faulkner and the eloquence of Erdrich. His grandfather truly kept his weapon sharp with the help of his diligence and active creativity. 

Then the weapon was passed to Mike. Noted results: a short-story collection of science fiction stories called A Sabbatical through Space & Time—which brought minimal press and sales—and a stack of poetry and short fiction kept nice and safe in a trunk underneath his bed from prying eyes, especially his own. The last short story he wrote was a year ago, and the job and his defunct relationship with Paula only exasperated his helplessness even more. He knew for a fact his love for storytelling was strong, but somehow the catalyst that usually stirred up this special reaction had lost its potency. Cate has always been helpful in the past, but even her influence couldn’t break through this impenetrable wall, and damned if he knew what he was going to do.

He shifted his attention back to the smog-layered horizon in dazed silence until he heard music—no, not music, musical notes—being played on a piano from one end of the scale to the other with care and patience. He recognized this practice drill from his traumatic experiences in elementary school choir: Do-Re-Mi. Low to high, then high to low.  Up and down the piano scales. Over and over.

He looked across to the apartment building next to his, and through his neighbor’s window he noticed a young girl practicing on a piano, touching the keys with delicacy.  Although he only saw her profile, she was probably in her early teens, with long brown hair draped across her shoulders. Her slim frame was covered with an oversized white t-shirt that reached down to her thighs. Slender, adolescent legs poked out from her shirt. He narrowed his eyes to look under the piano: he could just make out her petite right foot tapping to the scales.  As he blew out the remaining smoke of his cigar, Mike smiled. To be that age again? He didn’t think so. He snubbed out the Macanudo and, very quietly, tiptoed to the kitchen table.

He sat in front of the Metal Beast, but his mind was far from writing.  The notes she played became a cadence to him. He felt a tapping on his brain. The pattern magically corresponded to something that Paula said to him in bed one night after making love. She was on a roll about her independence, how no one controlled her. She ended her midnight elegy with her proclamation, I don’t need you. You can join me. If he had any sense of that first bad sign, he would have kicked her out of bed, thrown her clothes out in the hallway and said, Fine. If you don’t need me, you can grab your complimentary vibrator and don’t let the door hit you on the way out. But love, being what it was, just edited one of the many warning signs he experienced until he finally had enough. After remembering those words again, the tapping in his head became a firm, intense pounding.

The music made it worse. Up and down, down and up.

Do-Re-Mi-Fa-So-La-Ti-Do!

I-don’t-need-you-you-can-join-me!

He closed his eyes as the notes and Paula’s words hammered against his skull. He opened his eyes, and the Metal Beast grinned at him again. Colors bled to black and white. And those damned scales kept coming, played with awkwardness at first, and then evolved with a type of hungry confidence which generated a sense of envy within him. He didn’t need to see her; he sensed her uncertainty slowly transforming into determination to tame the piano and her hands, an inner drive to dance a special dance that only a player and her instrument would understand.

Goddammit, he grumbled at the Metal Beast as he took another blank sheet of paper and rolled it through its mouth. He focused at the regenerated white tongue. The musical scales taunted, yet pleaded with him as well. Finally, he tapped on the keys along with the music. One measured beat after another. He wrote the title, two sentences, and walked away. There were only two, but for that day it was enough.

My Heart, My Enemy

Why are you, my enemy?

Why are you, the source of my eternal pain?

***

Every night, she played the scales, with hesitancy in the beginning, then with assured confidence as time progressed. And joining her in these practice sessions was Mike and his poem. After finishing a soul-sucking day at his job, he would listen to his neighbor labor on with the notes. In time, he ambled toward his Metal Beast and beat the plastic keys in synch with the tapping of the ivories. One letter at time, one sentence a night. Towards the end of the week, she was playing Chopsticks with a type of mirthful innocence only a teenager could experience. He had finished half the poem by then.

One Monday night, a week after he wrote his first two lines of poetry, he heard her play again, causing him to jump up, race to the kitchen table, confront the Metal Beast—who was recently promoted to Cautious Acquaintance—and performed the dance along with his neighbor. First, the scales, which she marched with an ever-growing confidence. Next was Chopsticks, with added chords instead of individual notes baby-stepping along the way. Following that were her first two complete songs: America the Beautiful and Amazing Grace, with the latter conjuring echoes of Scottish bagpipes that screamed within Mike’s imaginative subconscious. The music floated from the girl’s apartment into his kitchen, hovered above him and the typewriter with teasing expectation, then showered both writer and his instrument with self-possessed inspiration. That night, Mike wrote seven lines of poetry, and for the first time in many months, the typewriter became more of an ally than an enemy. He imagined his grandfather smiling from above.

***

Two weeks later, Mike was on the verge of committing murder.

He couldn’t believe how so much pandemonium can occur within so little span of time. Following his triumphant rise from his creative chasm, an overweight, miserable, ogre of a bully named Chaz Lennox—who served as his foreman at work—suddenly embarked on a mission to berate and borderline professionally harass Mike into almost quitting his job. Each passing day became a test of restraint and tolerance, but the steam kept building to the point where unsettling fantasies of stringing the angry fat man up with fishing wire and hooks actually sounded appealing to him. At the same time, four major publishing companies turned Mike down when he applied for various editorial jobs.

But the cruelty of those weeks climaxed when Paula began to spread rumors to two of his closest friends as to why he really broke up with her—reasons which ranged from his intolerance regarding her quest for ultimate control of her life, to impatience for not allowing for the fact that she was a complex person.  Venom filled his stomach when he remembered that term during their last conversation together.  As soon as he heard her excuse, he finally lost his temper. Paula, no one is complex.  We all have good points and we all have faults. Simple as that.  For a person to say she is complex is just a glamorous way of saying that she has some serious baggage she has no intention of getting rid of! Yours is the drink. So give me a break with this self-indulgent, academic bullshit! 

Mike was still surprised he ripped her that way. He didn’t know if it came from him or from Cate’s protective, biting sarcasm.

Regardless, it was probably that comment which drove Paula to pursue this propaganda campaign against him through his friends.  What hurt him the most was they initially believed her!  Two of them, who knew Mike for almost twenty years, actually believed his emotionally unstable ex-girlfriend, who they sporadically knew for only three months.  He recalled a conversation with a rather naïve Maya, who reasoned with a patronizing sigh, Maybe you were being too rash.  Two arguments shouldn’t be the end of a loving relationship.  It requires a lot of hard work and unconditional support.  Maybe you didn’t give her a chance.

Mike rubbed his forehead, trying to prevent it from splitting.  He answered with restrained patience. Those two arguments lasted four hours each because she’s an alcoholic.  If she’s not going to love herself, she’s sure as hell won’t love me.

A long pause.  Really?  She’s doesn’t look like an alcoholic.

He growled, What the hell are they supposed to look like, Maya? Come on!

There was another heavy sigh before she pleaded, Maybe you just need to understand her.  Maybe you were a way for her to find herself. Maybe she’s just . . .

Mike’s hand clenched on the phone, hard.  Oh God.  Don’t say it, Maya. Please, merciful Lord, don’t let her say it!

. . . a complex person.

He gritted his teeth, utilizing all of his will not to smash the phone against the wall.  After a few precious calming seconds, Mike read Paula’s last letter to him, which included passages like I am proud of my addiction and I have the freedom to be self-destructive if I want to.  Mike then asked her a question he never thought he would have to ask any friend:

Maya, do you trust me?

Another trademark sigh. Well, yes.

Even though both friends believed Mike in the end, the fact he had to justify his actions to them devastated him almost as much as the break-up itself.

And throughout those two torturous weeks, Mike couldn’t write a single word. The Cautious Acquaintance became the Metal Beast once again, and he was on the verge of throwing that piece of garbage out of his kitchen window.

What made it worse was his neighbor’s frustrating attempt to play her first classical work: Beethoven’s Fur Elise, after practicing the piano for only a month. Every night, Mike silently perched himself in front of the Metal Beast as the girl clogged through the sacred work as though she were stomping on the keys instead of playing them. She started off well in the beginning, giving Mike access to his creativity for the moment. Then came an off-note, followed by another fumbling one, and then another, which resulted in a long pause and then she started the whole miserable session once again, causing Mike to lose his train of thought.

For two solid weeks, he climbed that hill with her, only to fall down into the depths of inadequate frustration and severe depression. And that night, the silent laughter from the grinning Metal Beast was too much. He left the table and approached the kitchen window. The girl, dressed in a pink t-shirt and olive shorts, labored over the piano, tripping on the keys with each