Strange House
This is my submission for day 16 of The Halls of Pandemonium from Bradley Ramsey, as per the picture below.
Like the content itself, it changes shape a little between story and poem.
It was something mundane
that lead me to the house.
The only detached house on the street.
We all joked it was haunted.
It always just seemed 'dark'.
the aged slates and tiles
faded on the rooftop,
though walls were freshly painted.
Black.
It wasn't plagued by spirits though,
something else.
Something altogether and
decidedly more peculiar.
A letter came our house,
though should have been sent there.
I was eating lunch.
Would take it afterwards.
Sandwich consumed,
I headed over. Letter-in hand.
The house looked normal,
not as dark as I thought it would.
The door was opened,
"come in" yelled a voice.
I approached the door.
Saw a plain looking hallway.
White walls, white doors,
plain wooden flooring.
It appeared quite clinical.
I stepped through the door
It changed.
The walls of the hallway
now covered with scrawled addresses.
I had to duck as large postage stamps
flew by me. Sticking to the walls.
"Just put it on the kitchen table".
I rubbed my eyes,
trying to make sense of it.
Headed down the hallway.
Found the kitchen,
though where there
should have been an oven,
there was a postbox.
The table seemed covered with letters.
I added the one I had and
it appeared to come to life
lifting itself up and sorting the letters.
"I'll be down soon, can you get that?"
the voice asked,
before the knock came.
I headed towards the door.
I opened it. A mechanic.
He stepped inside.
Oil and grease leaving footprints,
they disappeared though.
So did the entire hallway,
it changed shape
into an oval racetrack,
doorframes spaced out around it.
Cars appeared, racing around us,
the mechanic moving
into a doorway.
I followed, dodging the automobiles.
A living room, two sofas.
The wallpaper all made
of chequered flags.
The mechanic sat down.
"Pit stop" he said.
A team rushed out,
surrounded him,
changing parts.
They changed his head.
THEY CHANGED HIS HEAD.
I was stunned, I didn't even
see his clothes change,
looking instead at limbs,
interchanged like Lego.
He stood up, a face of
pure white, smiling,
showing fangs.
Someone handed him a red beverage.
He laughed loudly,
a creepy cackle, chilling the air.
Then he turned into a bat,
flew out an open window.
What the fuck was going on?
"Everything ok down there?"
called the voice.
Down there? The stairs had gone,
I looked out of the room.
The cars had vanished, but the track
and doors surrounding it
remained.
Was I imagining this?
Suddenly a knocking.
It came from the room
that I was last in.
I returned to someone at the window,
climbing in, carrying a basket.
"Fresh meat sir. From Bob's Butchers"
Slightly stunned. "Meat", I mutter.
"Yes, the usual; ham, cured cuts,
leg of lamb, bacon, sausages".
"DID SOMEONE SAY SAUSAGES?"
came a voice.
A man came ambling through the door,
I turned.
Before taking in the man,
I noticed, as I turned, that the room
was now a fully kitted out
butchers store.
The man walked in,
sporting a blue and white apron.
There was something wrong with his hands.
Well, his fingers.
They were sausages....
....uncooked sausages.
He turned to the man
"I thank you for these
fine, fine meats,
they look divine.
"However, I cater for the
sausagey-needs of folks
in these rooms,
in this house”.
He walked up to me.
Rubbed his hands together,
within seconds, he sported
cooked sausages as digits.
"Try it" he implored,
jabbing his pork-filled fingers
in my face, towards my mouth.
They smelt good, to be fair,
though I was not hungry.
He turned to the butcher,
ripping at a finger,
tearing off a chunk
"you try it".
The butcher didn't hesitate.
"It is good" he said,
"but what about your finger?",
pointing to it's half-eaten form.
"No worries. I'm Sausage Jack,
I always get them back".
I stood open-mouthed.
"Anyway, time to go".
He then exited. I followed
but he disappeared,
singing a song and
rubbing his hands together.
Suddenly the front door slammed.
I ran to it and a man in black stood there.
He stepped in.
"I'm here to make the arrangements" he said.
The house changed shape,
back to main rooms downstairs
and stairs going up to the bedrooms.
"Follow me" he said,
pulling a tape measure from his pocket.
I followed, seemingly unable not to
through another door.
The room was small,
too small for two of us.
He measured my height.
I asked questions.
"Why are you measuring me?"
"What is this place?"
He shoved me, pushing me in
quickly pulling the door shut,
locking it.
It was dark, I could touch each wall.
"This is your coffin" he said.
That was the last thing I ever heard.
My writing and subscriptions are currently free, though writing does take time, especially when balancing work and family life. If you enjoy the work and wish to buy me a tea however, please use the button above.
So I’m innocently reading through my Substack feed when I tumble headfirst into this strange Wonderland of a story. The entire time I’m internally screaming leave, leave now. The narrator should have dropped the letter at the front door and left like a reasonable neighbour.
But no, off we go on an adventure, and then we meet Sausage Jack, again, which we know pokes along the edges of my I'm uncomfortable with cannibalism trigger. Dear lord, Gary.
By that point I’d stopped rooting for narrator to leave and started actively urging the narrator to wake up.
And then that ending… 😂
I need more coffee.
This felt like wandering through a dream that keeps changing its rules just before you understand them. The shifting logic of the house was genuinely fun and unsettling at the same time, especially because the story fully commits to its own strange world.