Cassandra's House, Chapter 1

CASSANDRA'S HOUSE



Chapter One





By Christopher Altendorf



Scot woke up early on Wednesday, which was unlike him. Especially since Tuesday had been such a long day.



He closed up his gallery in Palm Springs for the last time and flew to Phoenix on a late afternoon flight.



Having closed on the old adobe house the previous week, he spent his first night on an air mattress and hoped the movers would arrive soon.



He was surprised at how cold it was in the old house. Then he noticed a window had swung open in the night. Rising up, he closed the creaky old window. This must be first on his list. A very long list it would be, he thought.



The old house was an early twentieth century relic. He had gotten it insanely cheap, but would have to put a lot into it to make it a home.



Scot sold his modestly successful gallery in California to start anew in Phoenix. He hoped to concentrate on his own art for a year or so, then maybe open a gallery. First he would have to attend to the house.



The house sat unoccupied and left to itself for about ten years, according to the realtor. The owner had been institutionalized after a mental breakdown caused by a particularly bad case of syphilis. She had been estranged from her family for years. At last a brother came forward. He gained power of attorney, and decided to sell the old adobe.



Scot had a huge job ahead just cleaning out the house. It was full of old furniture, books, documents, and shoes.



After getting dressed he decided to go out for coffee before starting. Walking out the back door he noticed the guest house in the weeds and overgrowth of the expansive yard.



The realtor had mentioned the guest house, but hadn't been in it herself. Scot did not bother to look either.



The door opened and out strode a guy with long hair, a beard and a gun.



"Who the hell are you?" the bearded man asked.



"Hey, put the gun down, dude. I just bought this place."



"Bought this place? I didn't know it was for sale."



Scot observed the gun.



"Anyway, about that gun."



"Oh . . . Sorry, not used to company. Revenuers, you know. My name is Jack." he offered his hand.



Scot shook Jack's calloused hand.



"Pleased to meet you. What exactly is your living arrangement here?"



"Well." Jack eyed the dirt. "What do you mean?"



"I mean, are you a renter, squatter, what?"



"Oh, hell, boy that's easy. Squatter."



"Well I wasn't planning on this. How long have you been here?"



"What time is it?" Jack howled with laughter. "Hell, that always kills me," Jack continued. "Me and that old coot were, ya know, keeping late hours, if you know what I mean, then she went nuts from the clap. She just kinda disappeared. I stayed on to look after things. I always figured she would come back sometime. She just didn't. I didn't love her." He looked off to the west.



"Hmmm. Well, Jack I could use some help with the house. Maybe we could work out something with the rent. Would that be something you might be willing to discuss?"



"Oh yeah, but I ain't going in the big house. No way."



"Why not?" Scot asked.



"Oh hell, I'm a good Christian man. That house is full of demons, and a succubus. I ain't goin' in there even though I got the blood of the lamb protectin' me." Jack was adamant.



"That's crazy. I didn't see or hear anything last night. Slept well, really."



"Oh hell, they're just checkin' you out. They ain't got a bead on your metaphysical makeup just yet. But you watch, that window on the side was open when you woke up, wasn't it?"



"Uh, yeah, it was. I closed it. Probably just the wind."



"Hell son, I close it every afternoon. About two o'clock. I don't get near the place after sun down. Too dangerous. Every night she comes to the window, usually in her wedding dress." Jack paused and looked toward the adobe. "Then she swings that window open, so them angel babies can get home if they want. Then she calls them. By name. Santiago and Sangria. But they never come. They can't."



Scot looked for Jack to continue. When he didn't, Scot prodded him.



"Go on, Jack."



"They can't because they're in limbo. She never got ‘em baptized before they died of the cholera back after the war."



"What war, Jack?"



"The big one. WWII. She wants ‘em back to make ‘em like her. Demons. Only they won't come back until a good Christian man calls them back to the house. Oh hell, you a good Christian man?"



"I can't say I am."



"Oh hell, that's good news. You might have a chance. Listen, I'll help out around here. Outside. We can talk later, but I sleep during the day so I can keep them demons in at night. You take care tonight. Get yourself a Good Book and get yourself washed in the blood of the lamb. Oh, if you see the succubus, her name is Cassandra."



With that Jack retreated to the bungalow.



Scot, shaken, left for coffee.



Upon his return Scot began to work on the house.



He worked all day, clearing out stacks of document boxes, knick knacks, assorted cookie jars, and shoes.



He kept thinking about what Jack had told him that morning.



Maybe the old lady wasn't the only one whose brain had been ravaged by syphilis.



The Good Book and blood of the lamb stuff was familiar to Scot, who had grown up with Catholic guilt and referred to himself as a born again pagan. Still, Jack's story was a little unnerving.



As Scot was going through the books -- many of which he wanted to keep, he ran across a Bible.



"Well there you go all I gotta do now is that lamb of blood stuff and I am all set."

Scot smiled at his wit.



Opening the Bible, Scot was unnerved to see there were no words.



Ghostly blank pages on crisp perfect white paper.



No Old or New Testaments.



No Matthew, Mark, Luke or John.



No Revelations.



Only what seemed to be a faded vision of a beautiful woman, on every page.



Page after page after page.



As the pages turned, Scot thought he saw the image grow more clear, more beautiful.



He squinted his eyes and shook his head.



The image was gone.



He decided to go visit Jack.



Source: storiesville.com