"Are you sure we should do this?"
Heather gave me a playful, but firm punch on the shoulder. "You said it yourself, that report looked really sketchy. There's definitely something going on." She looked out the windshield to the sprawling lawn ahead. "Besides, even if we're wrong, what's the worst that could happen? McAfee kick us out of his house?"
I nodded, but grimaced. I drove up the driveway, which was long, and lined by trees. All of the greenery leading up to the house was impressive, actually. The other yards on the nearby streets had been respectable, but everything here had a sort of vibrancy that the other lacked. The grass and leaves were so green, and as we neared the house, I could see that the hydrangeas were in bloom. Each were vibrant pinks and purples, and appeared meticulously taken care of. Not a single wilted petal on any of the plants.
We got out of the car, and took in the fresh air. Even the breeze smelled sweeter here. As soon as we had rounded the corner into Rhodes' Creek the drops had stopped, but it didn't even have that musty, after-rain scent. The water that remained gave everything the glistening effect of dew in sunlight. "This place is great," Heather said, taking in the view. In nodded in agreement.
The house was stark white against the blue sky. It was one of those Tudor style homes, with sharp points of gabled roof, and a tall stacked chimney rising on the side. I was nervous, but I walked with Heather up the sidewalk, I was thinking about what I was going to say, trying to arrange my exact words in my head, but something was distracting me-- the hydrangeas.
They were perfect, like I had first thought when we drove up. But up close, there was something not quite right about them.
In school, we learn about the basics of thermodynamics. The first law is simple: energy cannot be created nor destroyed. Almost like saying we have to work with what we've got. But the second law is the one that really screws us.
Entropy. Over time, everything is working towards chaos. My science teacher used to tell it to us like this: if you left a wooden shed alone in the woods for one hundred years, it would begin to decay. The wood would rot and splinter, ivy would force itself between the planks, until eventually, all that is left is a pile of rubble. Without you ever laying a finger on it.
Everything in nature is constantly working towards its own destruction. No matter what.
And yet, these hydrangeas-- there wasn't a single imperfection among them. No browning ends to petals, no stems that refused to bloom. No bite marks from hungry caterpillars. And the smell, though subtle and pleasant on the breeze, was strange at this short distance. It was almost too strong, too concentrated. It smelled like flowers, but in the way a banana-flavored candy tastes like banana.
I walked over to one of the trees by the driveway. "What are you doing?" Heather asked, still halfway to the door. I reached out a hand, and touched the bark, before quickly pulling it back. I crouched down to the grass at my feet, and tugged on a few blades. They stayed put.
I walked back over to Heather. "What was that?" she half-laughed.
"I think you're right," I said a bit breathlessly. "I think there's something strange going on here." I motioned to the flowers in front of us. "They're all fake."
Heather scoffed at first, but then when I didn't return her smile, she leaned forwards, and felt for herself. They were high quality, to be sure, but there was no mistaking it. Nothing around here was alive. It was all synthetic, plastic or something similar.
"What the hell..." she said under her breath. Then, taking a few steps into the flower bed, she leaned a cluster of flowers towards me. "Look." Nestled in the blooms was a tiny bumblebee, the rump half-dusted with pollen. Slowly, Heather raised her hand, and gently rubbed her finger against the insect's wings.
Nothing. I didn't fly, it didn't even crawl.
"Amazing, isn't it?"
Heather straightened up quickly as we both turned to see a man standing behind us. Though he was in reality 50 years old, he looked much younger. His skin was gently tanned, and his build was athletic. His hair was combed to the side, not a stray hair out of place. He wore pants ironed to perfection, and a buttoned up shirt that was just as prim. He smiled at us. His teeth were so white they almost glowed, and his skin didn't crease around his wide blue eyes. So blue, I thought he might be wearing colored contacts.
"Sorry," I said quickly, reaching out my hand. "I'm Samuel Singer. This is Heather Dyer." I cleared my throat. This was always the part that chased people away. "We're with the Moonlight Gazette."
He kept smiling, but he only looked at my outstretched hand, "A member of the press?" He said, through clenched teeth.
"Hardly," Heather spoke up beside me, much to my relief. "We're from Habitsville, which is small enough, but we aren't even the biggest news outlet in town." She tried for an easy-going smile. "Besides, you know how print media is these day."
He kept smiling. "No, I don't."
Heather's expression faltered. "It's uh... not doing well."
"Oh," the man said, and his smile immediately dropped to a frown. His eyebrows, which had been slightly raised in excitement, instead furrowed inward. He looked like someone trying to make the expression that means sadness, without feeling any actual pity in reality. "I'm sorry."
"That's why we're here," I jumped in. "We were hoping we could talk to Tommy McAfee. We wanted to do a feature on him in our column of Moonlight."
As soon as I said this, the man's expression shifted, back to that same smile he had to begin with. Like someone had switched a flip. "You're in luck. I'm Tommy McAfee," he said brightly, and my heart sank. I was hoping he wasn't. "Let's go inside and talk."
Then, he turned on his heel, and began walking up the sidewalk, and towards the door. Heather and I exchanged the same uneasy glances, but neither of us turned back.
"Is it about the garden?"
"Excuse me?"
Tommy stopped waling and turned back around. "Your story. It's about my garden, correct? I saw you two admiring it. A completely perfect, pristine, artificial landscape. No allergies, no pests. Paradise." He gazed around at his flowers. "My parents made it. It's one of the few things I have left of them."
"It's lovely," Heather said politely.
"Thank you," he answered. "Now come inside, and we can talk about more about it. You can take a tour of the green house, too." He started to turn away, but my voice stopped him.
"Oh,"I started, unsure of how to proceed.. "It's really incredible, for sure. But that's not what we wanted to talk about." Tommy McAfee stopped, but kept smiling at us both. He didn't say anything.
"We wanted to talk about 1980," Heather said quickly, verbally ripping off the band-aid.
It was a strange thing to watch, Tommy McAfee's face. His plastered on smile fell, but only for a fraction of a second. His mouth flat-lined, his too-blue eyes blinked, and then he had regained his composure. "Huh," he said calmly. He looked at Heather more intently than before, and then turned towards me. We met eyes only for a moment, before I had to look away from his intense gaze.
"Good."
I hadn't expected him to say that. I also didn't expect him to turn once again and continue to walk towards the front door. But that was what he did. And Heather and I followed. Thinking that this meeting was going better than we had hoped.
In reality, it was going much, much worse.
I had told Heather that she had been right, that there was something strange going on at Tommy McAfee's house. But, she had been wrong, too. Heather said the worst thing that could happen would be that Tommy McAfee would kick us out of his house before we could get our story. But that wasn't true.
The worst thing that could happen is that Tommy McAfee wouldn't let us leave.
​
Have you ever made a decision, and almost in the very same moment, deeply regretted it?
That's how I felt after I first stepped into the McAfee house. The same sickly-sweet smell of the synthetic hydrangeas drifted in with us, but that wasn't the only problem. Heather stiffened behind me, and I knew she felt it too. And the worst part was, the house itself was fine. It was painted a cool, crisp light blue. The white molding and wide windows made it feel airy and open, not the least claustrophobic. It was still sunny outside, and the beams streamed in and onto the wooden floor. No, the house wasn't inherently creepy on its own.
Someone had made it that way.
"Let's sit in the parlor, shall we?" Tommy said, a casual hum to his voice as he led us.
The parlor was where things became problematic. The furniture itself was, again, fine-- a gray sofa that appeared new, two cream armchairs that looked the same. There was a fireplace that was spotless, devoid of ash or wood. Above it, a strange oil painting, a still life I couldn't quite make out. On the opposite wall, a large framed mirror.
But, the devil was in the details.
I'm no interior decorator, by any means. But it looked like two drastically different styles were at war with one another in this room. The clean, plain, classic look of the furniture-- and, the, well, demented quality of the accessories.
Every surface that could be covered with a doily, was. But not the thin, parched white lace of a family heirloom. There were messily concocted, most not in complete circles, some with huge gaping holes made into them. They hung off of the sides of the tables, a few nearly sweeping the floor. They were all different colors and materials, and the overall effect was... disconcerting.
Deep navy blue curtains hung, pressed, from either sides of the windows. They had been ironed, and had not a speck of lint on them. But, for whatever reason, it looked like someone had cut out large squares of the navy and sewn in jaggedly cut shapes of completely different fabrics. Some were checkered, some plaid, some striped-- and all were loud, bright colors. Lots of orange and purple. And each were messily sewn into place with thick, red yarn.
I was trying not to stare around the room, especially because I was intensely aware of Heather opening ogling her surrounding from where she stood next to me. "You have a really nice house," I said gently.
"Oh, yeah, very nice," Heather said absentmindedly.
Tommy smiled brightly at us. "Please, sit," he said, and motioned to the sofa. He sat in one of the armchairs, and I could see they, too, had been given a similar patchwork job as the curtains.
The sofa, on the other hand, had a large tear that went across nearly the entire length of the sitting portion, like someone had raked a knife across it. Then, it had been messily mended, haphazardly sewn back together with that same thick, red yarn. To say I was uneasy would be an understatement.
But Heather sat, so I did too.
Tommy stared at us for a moment, and we stared back. Then, just as I was about to break the silence, Tommy did it for me by abruptly getting to his feet. "Would anyone like some coffee?"
The sweet smell, plus my own nerves, was making my stomach turn. "No thank you," I said, but Heather perked up.
"I would love some, if it isn't too much trouble," she said politely. I tried to give her a nudge with my leg, a sort of I-don't-want-to-be-here-for-long nudge, but if she understood, she ignored it. "The ride here was sort of long, and I could use a pick-me-up."
I suppressed my frown. I had come to Rhodes' Creek from Habitsville, but I had picked up Heather only about 15 minutes from the McAfee house. She had been finishing up an interview for another story she had been working for, and had agreed to help me with my column because she would already be in the area.
Tommy's smile, if possible, got wider. "No trouble at all, I was going to make myself a cup anyway." He walked towards the doorway. "Be right back," he said, before disappearing around the corner. It sounded vaguely like a threat. But I blamed that on my own uneasiness.
"What are you doing?" I said to Heather in a hushed whisper. "Don't drag this out, this place is creepy. Let's just get the story and get out." There was urgency in my voice, but Heather didn't look like she was paying attention. Instead, she was staring at the fireplace. Then, wordlessly, she rose up and strode over to it.
"I wanted you to take a look at this."
She motioned to the oil painting that hung on the wall. I looked back at the doorway, to make sure Tommy was still away. I had no idea how far away the kitchen was, but I somehow knew that letting him catch us examining his house any closer than we needed to would not be a good idea. I stood beside Heather, and looked at the painting.
"What am I looking at?" I asked. The paint was put on thick, in smatterings in gray and blue and white. I had never been much of an art critic, either.
"It's the parlor," Heather said, and as soon as she said it, I could see it. The sofa where we had been sitting, the arm chairs, the fireplace-- and even painted above it, the very painting we were looking at. The only difference-- everything was on the wrong side. The sofas were on the left instead of the right, the arm chairs the opposite.
And another difference: there was something on the sofa.
It was undefined-- a smudge of lavender in the center, and lines that resembled arms and legs. I couldn't tell what it was, and yet, a shiver went down my spine.
I shook my head. "That's weird, you're right," I said. "Weird is good. Weird is why we're here."
Then, Heather moved back towards the sofa, and sat down, right in the center. "What are you doing?" I asked. "Leave some room for me."
She still wasn't listening, although this time, she was staring at the opposite wall, the one with the mirror. She looked for a second, then stood up quickly. She grabbed me by the shoulders, and shoved me into the exact spot where she had sat.
I gave a grunt, but before I could protest, she pointed at the mirror. "Now look at the mirror." I did, and at first, I was confused. I saw myself, I saw the sofa, the chairs...
"Oh," I said, and Heather smiled. "Oh."
The painting, for whatever reason, was the exact view that a person sitting in the center of the sofa would have, if they were looking at the parlor through the mirror.
"What does that--" I started, not entirely sure of where my question was headed, but I was cut off. Footsteps were approaching.
But they weren't human. I tensed up at first, until I recognized the noise-- the soft, padded feet and swaying walk of a cat.
And then it appeared, through the doorway. It was long and lean. It was a cream color, like the armchairs, and thick white fur around its chest. It's paws were bright white, like tiny gloves. I could see the white fluff extended down its stomach, making it look plumper than it probably really was.
A sigh of relief went through me. I don't mind cats. This was fine. I moved over on the sofa, and Heather sat back down beside me, both of us intrigued by the visitor.
Its eyes were a bit concerning. They were dark, probably brown, but they looked black and blended in with the pupil. It sat down, after walking a few steps into the room, and stared at us. Not in the distracted manner that an animal stares at another animal. It seemed strangely... intelligent.
"Come here kitty cat," Heather cooed to it, snapping her fingers lightly as she leaned towards the cat. To my surprise, it came. It rubbed against her legs and gratefully accepted her hands on its fur. "Pet the cat Sam, it's sweet," she said teasingly, but I didn't. If I had felt queasy before, the oil painting had made me absolutely ill. I shook my head, but Heather insisted. Before I could stop her, she picked up the cat, and put it on my lap.
"No, I--" I started, instinctively holding the cat around the middle. As I did, I quickly jerked my hand away. The cat slid out of my lap, and trotted towards the door. It disappeared, and I turned to Heather. "I swear I just felt--"
Before I could finish, we heard footsteps, this time heavy and decidedly human. It was Tommy, with two cups of coffee on small plates in either hand. As always, he was smiling. Heather and I both smiled weakly back.
"Now," he said brightly. "Where do we begin?"
Now that we were inside the house and Heather and Tommy had their coffee, I knew it was time for the interview. This was what I had come here for, and I knew I was potentially about to get answers to questions posed decades ago. But I wasn't thinking about any of that.
I was completely certain I had felt a zipper on that cat's stomach.
---
Credits
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