The House Is Quiet

All characters are over 18. This is a work of fiction, and all characters, locations, and events are imaginary. This short horror story was written for the Halloween Story Contest 2023, and though there's sex in it, it's neither romantic nor sexy. It's a tale of pain and of a sadness that lingers after death. Caveat lector.

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I sit by the window and wait. I'm unsure what I'm waiting for, or why. It occurs to me that I should be hungry, as I have not eaten anytime recently, but I feel nothing. No pain, no need, no urges to feed or stretch or defecate or move or live. The house is quiet, and so am I.

Perhaps I will always be here, waiting. I can't say, anymore than I can guess how long I've been here.

There's a book next to me, and it's open. I glance down because there's no reason not to, and the pages are filled with words, and the words are filled with feelings and meanings.

I remember.

I was an unemployed teacher, but I'd previously been a teacher of English literature. I had a novel, perpetually unfinished. I had a wife, perpetually unhappy. I had friends, neither close nor numerous. I needed work and I moved here when a job opened up at a nearby college. The job would pay well enough, and I bought this house with much of my remaining savings, expecting to earn enough to replenish my coffers quickly.

Agnes, who was my wife, did not wish to join me here. She told me she'd remain in the town she grew up in, where her parents had lived and died. I was sad, but hopeful. Perhaps in time my success here would call to her. Perhaps she'd want me again. Perhaps she'd forgive me.

The house was empty, not merely because it had no other people or furnishings before I came, but in the sense that I could feel a lack here. An absence.

In the evenings I would sit and grade papers, and the wind blew across the broken roof tiles and whispered to me of loss, of regret, of pain that lingered and slowly ebbed until it was a hollow shell. I'd rise after my grading and pace the bare floors and try to plot my novel, but no ideas came, no inspiration. If I ever had a muse, she had long since abandoned me.

On the weekends I'd clean the house and perform what small repairs were within my skill. I was no carpenter, but I could fasten a loose floorboard. I was no glazier, but I knew how to install a store-bought window when I discovered a crack at the bottom of the pane in my bedroom. Mostly I would sweep and dust. There was always so much dust.

One Sunday while I was cleaning, I found the book under the stairs.

It was a diary. I remember opening it to the middle at random and finding an entry.

December 13, 1883

Horace took me harshly again last night. I did not bleed this time when his member penetrated my bottom, but I cried out in pain so he struck me fiercely. He does not love me. He does not love anything or anyone. I have taken all love from him and left him only anger and disappointment.

I flipped to the first page and read, wondering whose suffering I held in my hands.

September 21, 1875

Mama gave me this diary today and told me to record my thoughts herein.

I am to marry Horace Jones. He is 35 years of age, nearly twice my 18 years. Mama tells me we will have plenty of money, as his butcher-shop is quite successful. He is tall and strong, with black hair and dark eyes, and he smiled down at me when Papa shook his hand and agreed to the dowry. His face is pleasing to my eye, and I think we will have many children and a good life together.

Martha Walthrop

I flipped through the book, and a picture fell out from somewhere near the back. Its faded sepia tones showed a woman of indeterminate age, clad in widow's garb. Her face could perhaps have been pretty, were it not for the absence of joy and life and animation. It troubled me that I could not see her eyes through the thick veil.

I flipped to one of the early entries and read on.

August 9, 1878

Horace insisted I take his member in my mouth again last night. I do not mind, as it is comely and of a good size, and it brings him much pleasure when I suck upon it. He tells me that a good wife will do whatever her husband wants and needs, and I wish to be a good wife to him. This much I can do for him and I do it gladly.

When he lay with me afterwards, once again I did not please him. He complained that my nethers were too dry and that I shook like a leaf as he thrust into me. I do not know how to better please him. He becomes unhappy and angry with me each time and I feel the weight of my failure severely. It is my fault he cannot put a child in me, we both know it.

Something about the words, some existential void behind them, chilled my soul and left my heart barren as Martha's womb. That poor woman, blaming herself for her crude husband.

I remember putting the book down and sitting by the window and thinking. What I thought, and for how long, eludes me now. I remember going to my bed that night and dreaming.

Martha came to me in my dream, wearing her new dress. Her bosoms were shapely and I pulled the dress down roughly, exposing them. She did not cry out but stood still as I grasped them, letting me do as I wished. Her subservience pleased me. I pushed her to her knees and pulled my member out of my breeches, and thrust it into her soft mouth. I was very hard, and she carefully and dutifully sucked on me until I spent. I felt unaccountably weary after and told her to prepare my bed.

My alarm roused me from the darkness, and I was confused and blinked absently at the sunlight that peeked in around the drapes. It was a school day. I remembered my dream so vividly that for a moment the idea of teaching my students felt like the dream, and Martha the reality.

I remember shaking this off and going to school. I taught. I came home. I graded papers. I tried to write and failed. Time passed. The house was quiet.

One night, I read Martha's diary again, picking a random entry a bit more than halfway through.

April 22, 1886

Papa's funeral was quiet and somber. Horace stood silently as I prayed over the casket, wishing God in Heaven would take pity on Papa's soul and let the angels carry him to his Eternal Reward. Mama would not stop sobbing, until Horace went and had words with her. I do not know what he said, but she was quiet thereafter, and Horace soon took me home.

He was excited by something this evening, moreso than usual, and he was very rough in handling me. He complained about my bodily indifference, but I am not indifferent. I just do not know how to better please him. His hands are large and strong and I have many bruises where he grabs me and squeezes until I cry out. When I do, he strikes me, and his member is harder after this, and then he forces it into me. I am accustomed to this, and I quietly accept and let him penetrate my bottom or my womanly parts as he pleases. I cannot do more than quietly accept.

Though Horace is displeased with me, I remain his dutiful wife.

I slept, and dreamed of Martha. She did not struggle enough for my taste. If she would not properly bring me pleasure, at least I wanted her to react, to show emotion. I slapped her bosoms and left a hand-print on them, and the sight aroused me more than words can express. She remained silent, but I did not mind. I held her down and had my way with her. It was very like laying with a corpse. I wondered if I would prefer laying with her while she was dead.

The alarm rang for a while before I awoke, unsure what the sound was or what I needed to do. Was it a fire-alarum?

No, it was time to rise and go to school and teach. I shook off the dreams and staggered into the shower. There was no hot water. Had there been, on previous days? I was unsure.

The house was quiet.

I went to school, and I taught, and I came home, and I graded papers. Time passed. Sometimes, I read the diary. I remember skipping to a page near the end.

January 3, 1895

The house is quiet. I rise, and I bathe, and I dress, and I eat, and I think. I do not miss Horace. I pray that God will have mercy on his wicked soul, and on mine.

It is so quiet now that he is gone.

The house is quiet, and so am I.

I remember putting the book down. The house was very quiet. I do not remember going to bed, but I remember dreaming.

Martha was wearing that ratty old dress of hers again. Her face was expressionless as always. She did not react, did not give me what I wanted. I wanted her to scream, to cry, to care. Something more than the nothingness I saw in her eyes. I could not even find passion to force myself into her; her vacant face sapped my will and left me empty. I was not hungry, but I made her cook for me. The meat was bitter and I slapped her, to teach her the error of her sinful ways. To teach her what a bad wife she was. I was so thirsty, and my throat was swollen and I could not breathe, and her face, unchanging, looked down at me as I fell.

I sit by the window and wait. I'm unsure what I'm waiting for, or why. I'm tired, so tired. Sometimes I sleep, and I dream of her face, her cold unchanging face, judging me.