Abandoned Black House Night Song

A story about a new maid and an old house.

The man was unsuccessful, but it didn’t matter. He had been born into money, and so he had a home. He had a wife and servants. He had a new maid, who was younger than the maid’s he’d had before, and more beautiful.

Everyone comes to the Abandoned Black House when they have nowhere else to go anymore. Thousands arrive every day. They stand outside of the door with their heads in their hands. First they’re stripped to the skin and blasted with icy water. Then they’re given a knife.

He had noticed her stocking earlier in the day, and the day before, and many times in the weeks since she had started working for him.

They press the knives to their necks. We watch to see if their hands quiver. We look for signs of doubt. Frost forms on the window and flakes away. The pipes moan. Their veins pulse.

He was generous with his servants. He liked to think he treated them almost like they were part of the family. When the cook's sister had a miscarriage, he gave her two days off so she could go visit her. The cook's sister was a very religious woman, just like the cook, and when she insisted on having the fetus properly buried, he even contributed a small amount towards the funeral expenses.

If they hold the knife steady, we put them to work in the steam room. The steam room is at the bottom of the world. If the knife falters in their hand, another door opens. There’s nothing behind the door. The night consumes them.

This generosity, as he saw it, should be reciprocated. When he put his arm around the new maid's shoulder, she shouldn't shy away. As he had explained to her, he meant it purely in a fatherly way. He wasn't sure she had believed him, but the next time he did it, she stayed still. This was enough for him. He wasn't sure he believed what he had told her himself.

The steam rises out of grates in the floor. The steam rises from somewhere even deeper than the bottom of the world. The grates are in a grid pattern. White tiles cover the space between them. The grout always needs to be cleaned. We have them scrape the filth out with their fingers. Like everywhere in the Abandoned Black House, there's very little light.

The hot water was out in the servant's bath, so the new maid asked if she could use the bath connected to his wife's room that night. His wife was away, visiting her mother. His wife was often away, visiting her mother. He was pleased with the request. The new maid was starting to adjust. She was starting to understand he wasn’t such a strict man. Naturally, he gave her his permission.

They crawl in circles on their hands and knees. The steam scalds their flesh. In the effort of trying to get out the filth, their fingernails chip and peel. Rashes tend to develop on their genitals. The organs become red, inflamed, painful to the touch. They're never the same after that.

Later, he imagined her in the bath in his wife’s quarters. He imagined how the soapy water would glisten on her breasts. It had been a long time since he had seen his wife like that.

At night, the claw of a monster floats out of the old haunted cabinet in the corner and scratches us while we sleep. In the steam room, everyone leaks and shivers. They dream they are being crushed between two giant slabs of radium glass.

He was in the hall, by the stairs, when she came out of the bath. Out of his wife’s room. When she saw him standing there, she hesitated for a moment, at the top of the stairs. She was surprised. He was surprised, too. He couldn’t remember why he had been standing there. He felt confused.

In the Abandoned Black House there are a thousand bedrooms with filthy mattresses with tangles of snakes on top of them. The snakes are like a clump of regurgitated hair. When someone gets locked in with them, they’re still expected to sleep.

She smiled at him, uncertainly. He smiled back. She came down the stairs. She was in her night clothes. They were modest night clothes, as they should be for a servant of her station, but they were still night clothes. She looked very fetching. Her hand was on the banister. He grabbed her wrist. Black smoke blew in through a small window at the top of the stairs.

Sometimes an outline appears around things. The skirting stands out from the gray wall, glows orange or yellow like a weak flame. At these times, anything can happen. A door can be unlocked. Judgement can be passed, or withheld.

He came up the steps quickly. He pressed himself up against her. He tried to kiss her but she bit his lip. She screamed. He felt insulted. It hadn’t been that serious. He was just having some fun. She should have played along. She screamed again. She needed to get control of herself. He put his hand over her mouth. He put his other hand against her throat.

There are certain places in the House’s rooms where we never look directly. In some corners, severed heads rotate on ceramic discs. They’re always rotting, but they never go away. In other places, there’s nothing but dirty rags and mangled shoes.

Her mouth made a faint squeal. Her eyes bulged.

In the attic, a crowbar leans against the wall. An axe is embedded in the floor. Sometimes shards of broken mirror are found in front of the window, in the moonlight. There’s always a bat flying around outside.

Something was wrong with her. She was acting hysterical. He just wanted to calm her down. She shouldn’t get so excited over a joke. A simple bit of fun. Now she had fainted. She had misunderstood everything. He slapped her. There was no response. He slapped her again. There was still no response.

When we take them out of the steam room, they’re always surprised by where they go next. They always expect it will be different somehow, more meaningful. It takes them a long time to understand it just goes on like this.

When his wife asked him what was bothering him, he told her she was imagining things. He looked annoyed. She dropped it. By the time a body washed up on shore, fifteen miles down river, fish had eaten away its face.