Katie Mattix

Mrs. Klug

Creative Writing / 2

1 June 2006

It was too much work to find a wife in the first place, why would I want another? Strapped to my bed in the depths of some old house, rotting away from the inside out because of all the people inside it- eating away at each other, at themselves. No one could say which people were themselves, which were others or which were pure figments of the imagination. Every dirty, wasting body entombed in bright white clothe, as if to mask the twisted blackness within. I watched the slow trickle and drip of putrid water rolling down from the ceiling, staining the walls a greenish black from their characteristic stony gray, and shuddered at the mice I know would be soon descending from the broken walls.

Every night they came, driven by the hunger that consumed them, like the house, from inside. Their crazed eyes, bloodshot from fear, stood out of the darkness, out shown by only the flecked white foam that erupted from their greedy mouths. They came to feed, but somehow they always managed to lurk, just nicking my skin with their untamed claws, smothered in the black grit of god knows what. Along with them came the spiders- monstrous sounding with long hairy legs that waved in a synchronized séance pattern as they marched single file down the corridor to my bed- really my slab of damp, bloody stone. How I had ended up in this place, this hellhole of the imagination regurgitated into life, is the crux of my story.

The man sitting beside be, recording what I suppose is to be my last wish (though I can think of thousands of things I would rather have, were they allowed) is a sort of boss here at the house. He is a low-ranking boss of course, but a boss nonetheless. His carefully manicured fingers each carry a long steel point at the end, slightly curved to carve the flesh on any member of the house careless enough to disturb peace. His fingers are the only thing memorable about him- regular face, hair, height- a seemingly regular guy but for his fascination with mutilation. But I digress, though perhaps that is what I am here to tell- that life won't follow your plans and even if you find a job that suits you fine, settle down with a little wife and have a few kids, life will still fuck you over.

In my case I found a fiery red head from New York, tamed her down and we bought a little house together. At the time I thought nothing of the half-underground, bunker-like shelter we called home, but looking back I see that this environment might have set the eight ball rolling, so to speak. You see, the little thing that changed my life, caused me to go from our underground home to this rat-infested torture pit of hell, was that my wife- my "tamed" red head, went crazy. It started small at first with little changes so I couldn't see the signs. She would be gone longer in the evenings after work, our dog disappeared, her clothing and manner of speaking changed. No longer was my relaxed, kind wife there, but she had mutated into an ancient, proper-sounding bringer of bad omens. I never thought for a moment until it happened, that she would hurt me, jeopardize our happiness. But I was wrong.

The first time she took me to meet "Them" was the last, or beginning of forever. The walkway to the house was cracked beyond recognition, and the yard was so overgrown with trees, vines, and shrubs wildly out of control that once the gates closed behind us I could see neither the way we had come, or where we were going. Way back into the expansive property we came upon a set of stone stairs ascending into a vine-encrusted mansion of stone. In the moonlit darkness I could hear scuttling animals disappear into the holes in the steps, a winding, spiral stair shrouded in mist too unnatural for the warm night. French double doors opened by a young angular man of about twenty-five, revealed the interior of the house. The man was robed in thick purple velvet trimmed in black- elegant and ancient looking, contrasting sharply with his long brown hair, swept from his face by a widow's peak. Beauty marked not just his striking face, but his entirety, awing me with his wolfish grin. My wife ran to him in three graceful steps and he possessively drew his hand around her waist, claiming her as his.

"So this is what she has been up to," I thought in a confused daze.

The man of perfection and his lover, my wife, led me across the grand hall covered in deep maroon carpet, chandeliers made of what I can only assume to be diamonds, above stories of staircases spiraled to the heavens, and into a small sitting room. This enclosure was fashionably furnished with crushed velvet everything, and was painted deep blue with golden flecks. The walls held magnificent paintings of more angular men in suits fit for primeval kings.

The man who owned my wife self-assuredly, yet daintily walked (floated really) to a small oak table at the side of a stiff-backed chair wreathed in black lace, and picked up a tiny brass bell. He swung it back and forth so that the bell sounded five times distinctly, and the sound echoed down the copious hallways. Momentarily a similarly beautiful woman with ivory skin and black hair drifted into the room carrying a silver platter ornately decorated with four silver chalices atop it. She had a thick but craftily