Monster House
by Reese Whitaker
I can’t do this.
Failure washes over me like a burning waterfall scalding my skin.
Lifting my hand to turn the key, I hesitate as if the moment the car turns off, my life will forever change. My head falls forward to rest on the steering wheel, and my trembling hand falls from the key to my leg, leaving the car to idle.
I count to fifteen. I try to compose myself. I fail.
This morning’s phone call flares to life, and the heated words ring in my ears. Aunt Elaine asked if I would be at the house, although she already knew the answer, by asking, she’s telling me to be there. My husband and I can only spare two days, I told her; we refuse to leave our children longer.
After yet another reminder of my mother’s impending release from the hospital, she asked me to arrange the house to accommodate my mother’s walker. The conversation is a repeat of many we’ve had in the past few weeks. Explaining to her cleaning, repairing, and rearranging the house would take longer than two days, is useless. The work should have started weeks ago, as I suggested. She ignored my comments, but she’s not oblivious, she knows what’s lurking behind the closed doors.
Distance gave me the courage to ask the question weighing on my mind for many years, “Why didn’t you take me out of that house?” Tears always accompanied this thought and I refused to let them fall as I asked, “Didn’t you love me, even a little bit?”
“Of course I loved you, what a stupid question to ask. I couldn’t just take you away- she’s your mother- you belonged with her. I had my own kids to worry about anyway.”
“How could you leave me there?” I asked back. “The house is a pit.” I squeezed my eyes causing the tears to gush for a second.
Inhale. Stop the tears. Exhale.
“Does it really matter now?” She asked and I sensed she thought this conversation wasn’t worth her time.
“Yeah,” I managed to croak out, “I didn’t have to grow up like that.”
“Well… you turned out fine. It didn’t hurt you one bit. The past’s the past.” I shook my head as if she could see me through the phone. No, the past never stays in the past I thought.
Taking my silence as an invitation, she kept talking. Repeating her mantra, she expressed my duty to take care of my mother should be first; I owe it to her, even though I have a brother and sister. They wouldn’t take this on I knew; both of them live this way also. It became clear to me, my aunt also doesn’t want the job, unlike like my mother, my aunt likes cleanliness. With the passing of my father five years ago, family responsibility seemed to drop to my shoulders and I couldn’t shake it off.
I lift my hand once again to turn off the car hopeful it will end the instant replay in my head. I swallow, eager to dislodge the sudden lump appearing in my throat. Turning to face my husband, I brace myself to show him my secret for the first time. When I left, it stayed hidden in a deep, dark, dirty place.
It has a name.
Monster House.
It’s powerful; a secret I don’t want to share.
Goose bumps run down my arms as I think of what I’m about to do. My heart races. My breathing takes off. I become dizzy.
“It’s time,” I tell him. He nods.
We leave the car and I take my husband’s outstretched hand, although I’m scared to. Near the sidewalk, we stop and take the in the sight of the neighborhood and the house.
Under the cloudless sky, mailboxes stand at attention and dew shines off the leaves of tranquil shrubs. Trimmed trees dot the landscaped yards, and flowers beds grace the edges of mowed lawns with budding smiles. In an almost eerie way, the homes look the same now as the moment I walked away. Bright. Shiny. Elegant.
In the midst of perfection sits Monster House. Its peeling paint lay in ribbons on the ground, the remaining faded long ago. From here, I can see the warped and rotten siding, bugs snaking their way through the maze of split wood. A shutter on the left of the house hangs at an odd angle, and the window lacks a screen. A rusty dryer missing the door, rests near the porch that looks heavy with the massive accumulation of garbage piled upon it. Dressers, chairs, vacuums, kitchen appliances, molded books and newspapers, clothing, an old stereo, the heaping mounds of junk and trash mask the view of the front door.
Stacked near the garage, black bags of waste overflow the top of trashcans like miniature mountains. A cat or raccoon has dug into several, the torn bags leaking their contents to the ground. Small mounds of trash have gathered on the cement and pieces have blown around the yard. I wonder if the wind has carried pieces to the neighbors’ yards and whether they’ve silently picked it up, or in anger thrown it back here.
The lawn stretched before us is bare in places, like raw burns on flesh. My feet cramp knowing I was never able to run through the grass in this yard as I do with my children back home. Black stains mark the driveway and knee-high weeds sprout from cracks leading up to the porch steps. Carcasses of flowers lay wrinkled and dry in the flowerbeds surrounded by rotten beams of wood. Trash decorates the lawn in places where the weeds lie low, a bike and various toys add to the debris littering the yard, and it reminds me of a picture I once saw in a magazine depicting the aftermath of a tornado. Despair dips from the roof, floods the yard and leads right to my heart.
The urge to flee consumes me as it did years ago. Seeing the Monster House causes me to fail to keep my emotions under control and soon they’ll bust forth like a dam breaking during a storm. Now my husband witnesses my secret for the first time, and I ache to go back to the moment when he was unaware of my dark past.
I shiver as the warm morning breeze caresses my arms and a ripple of fear runs through me as I wonder what he may be thinking. Does he see the mess as my mess? Will seeing this reduce me from a human to a pile of rubble in his eyes? I know he loves me, but part of me will always doubt that someone could love me and not see the monster standing before us.
I don’t want to share because I know by telling my story what it becomes. It’s unbelievable that someone could live this way. People laugh at the reality TV stories, the news clips, the pictures they show. Shame, anger, fear, sadness, hopelessness are words unknown to those sitting back eating popcorn and watching the creators of those pain filled environments show off their sickness for the world. I know them. They are familiar.
I am the child of a hoarder.
By admitting this, I reveal where I come from. Layer by layer the cover to these emotions peel away, and inside, raw and sore, I am. Exposed.
I close my eyes, and images take form in the blackness.
In a rapid-fire secession, I see the house as a whole, and then room by room, then snapshot by snapshot, scenes of my life appear.
I’m sifting through pictures in my head. Too young to remember the early years, I have to rely on these, not so much memory. I see a new house seated in a small rural town surrounded by cornfields and farms. The bright house with yellow paint and deep brown shutters seems to shout out, “I’m a happy house.” Flanked by immaculate homes on both sides, I can almost see its smile.
The years pass, and slowly the house transforms. Moving from picture to picture, I see the story and watch how the house with its happy yellow color turns into a house of gloom with sad peeling paint and rotten siding.
Gradual, maybe it starts with a few dirty dishes and baby bottles, piles of unfinished laundry, a scattering of toys, some leftover food, an accent table piled with things never finding a home... it builds. A visitor to the house wouldn’t question the disorder; a woman with a few small children is bound to face a mess as the day drags on. Family members may suggest a day of cleaning or offer to help straighten up the disarray. However, as the years pass, the mess grows and the gathering starts.
As I grew, the Monster House grew. Trash begins to gather in the corners of rooms. It seemed as if nothing made it to the garbage, even though bags line the roadside on trash day. The piles of rubble continued to grow out of control, the basement layered with clothing, broken furniture, old car parts, trash, resembling an indoor landfill.
The house rots from the inside out.
The scene changes and I’m in the past.
~~~~~
I sat on the edge of my bed, eyes burning, stomach churning.
“Get out here now and clean this crap up!” she yelled again. “You kids are worthless. Don’t expect to go anywhere until this house is spotless!” The words rang in my ears and I covered them. Today isn’t the first time I’ve heard the words shouted. I thought about telling her to get up and do it herself. She’s at home every day while I’m at school. She doesn’t work, she doesn’t clean, she doesn’t move. It’s not my fault the house is messy.
Part of me wanted to yell back, stomp my feet and scream the stuff isn’t mine. It hurt to breathe and I wanted to rip something, hit or kick. The urge to run out there and pick up the first thing I found and throw it at her sprang to life. I wanted her to hurt the same way I hurt. I both loved and hated the word clean.
I craved clean like a drowning person needs air. I sought the sweet scent of clean, and yearned for the day when I could walk through the door and embrace it as I would an old friend. I planned and dwelt on details, but I knew the chances of cleaning the house alone were slim; I had no idea where to begin. I couldn’t be sure which things needed keeping or if I should throw them away.
Another part of me longed to give up, to curl into a ball and cry. I wished someone would take me away, burst through the door, grab me up in their strong safe arms and carry me out of this house of ruin. I lay in bed at night dreaming of being somewhere else far away. I felt as though I didn’t belong here, like an alien in a foreign land. I dreamt of spaceships and other planets, and for a moment, I thought of wishes coming true. Early on, I learned dreams fade when you open your eyes.
The older I became, the bolder I grew. I swore at my mom and shouted how I wouldn’t clean a mess I didn’t make. I stood, eyes narrowed and dared her to make me clean. Sometimes when I challenged her, she’d smack my mouth. Other times, like now, she’d just hurt me with words.
I slowly rose from my bed and made my way into the hall. I stepped over and on clothing, toys and trash, moved around boxes and a broken ironing board. I noticed a cat lying behind it, making a little home, something like a tent behind it I thought. I wondered where the other cats were hiding.
Passing the bathroom, I saw the bathtub crusted with lime and hard water stains. How anyone could get it cleaned was beyond me. I had tried before, on bended knees, scrubbing hard with a sponge but nothing came off the sides; the gritty touch of it left me feeling the same. Duct tape held up trash bags hiding the rotted walls surrounding the tub. I thought they’d cave in if I touched them too hard and I wondered if I would do the same. If someone touched me too hard, would I fall down. Would anyone find me?
Crusted toothpaste coated the sink and part of the broken faucet. Someone tried to fix the problem by using a tool of some sort and I wondered who came up with this hopeless attempt. Around here, broken items refused to die and a sort of mending takes place with super glue or tape. Duct tape is a favored method, proven here by the layers holding the two ends of a cracked toilet seat together.
Wet and molded towels littered the floor, empty toilet paper rolls and shampoo bottles tossed about, and piles of clothing covered the stained flooring. Fixing the carpet would be impossible. As the years passed, cat and dog feces stained it, leaving a strong odor behind, a huge reminder you must be careful where you walked. A few times my dad brought home used carpet to replace the stained; soon it looked as nasty as what he replaced. He attempted to change the carpet elsewhere in the house, but like the bathroom, it morphed into an unsanitary pile of fibers.
One day, I thought, I’ll have a bathroom of my own, and it will smell like flowers on a sunny day, not mold, mildew, and feces.
I watched my feet as I walked down the hall so they would remain somewhat clean. Looking over into a bedroom I saw papers piled high on the dresser drawers so stuffed they couldn’t close. Bedding lay on the floor and boxes lined the wall. A path lead to the bed, and little room existed to walk anywhere else. A threadbare beach towel half covered a window, but boxes and an old mattress concealed most of the view. Part of a sandwich rested on a makeshift table near the bed and I wondered how long it sat there.
I couldn’t start here.
I moved on.
In the living room, my mother sat in her favorite broken chair. I can’t remember the chair being new. She wasn’t paying attention to the turned on TV, but held a book up to her face, engrossed in the story line. A half-naked man and woman adorned the cover and I shook my head. She’d never know I passed through. At least the yelling had stopped. Piles of books, cola cans, and chip bags sat around her throne and for once, I gave thanks.
The living room mimics the rest of the house, piled high, almost ceiling high in places. Seating is sparse since the flower print sofa hides under the mess but two plastic lawn chairs are nestled in the chaos, creating space for two more. Only the handmade fireplace in the corner contained little junk, soon though, I knew trash would fill it and come winter I would be the one digging out ashes and newspapers.
Rounding the corner to slip through the small opening to the kitchen, I stopped when pain startled me. Looking for the injury, I saw blood dripping down my calf. A wire coat hanger sticking out from a pile of rubble scratched my leg. I bent down and pulled the hanger with more force than necessary causing me to fall backwards into the heap behind me. I flung the offending piece of metal not caring where it landed. Clenching my teeth, I moved forward on my quest to clean.
Several garbage and brown paper grocery bags lay half-open with waste leaking to the kitchen floor. I had no clear memory of a trashcan used in here. The kitchen counters piled high with dishes, old or moldy food, and anything else not put away. Cereal boxes, empty or half-empty ketchup bottles, jars of spices – some years old – and countless other things made a home there. A tower of glasses sat near the edge of the sink and wobbled as if they would fall over any second. Flies danced along the edge of a yogurt container, spoon sticking out; the yogurt half eaten.
Stained dishcloths partially hide the missing cupboard doors, and the whole kitchen reeked of burnt mouse feces, or at least what I imagined it to smell like. In my mind, I could see the mice coming out, four at time, each running in a different direction searching for uneaten food, leaving behind their waste. Spilled food and drink repeatedly ground into the carpet and tile created a black sticky mess while dust mixed with grease hung from the ceiling. Clear containers holding flour and sugar, were no longer clear, a film only a lab could identify covered them all.
I looked at the dark webs hanging from the ceiling and secretly I wondered what would happen if I took a match to them. Would they light up easily or would it take more than one try? I knew in that second I wanted the Monster House dead. I wanted to dance around it as it burned to the ground, taking all the trash inside with it.
I walked around accessing every inch of the house. Winding my way back to my bed, I curled into a ball, staring at the wall until sleep overtook me.
I didn’t clean.
The house revolved in a never-ending state of chaotic filth. During my fifth-grade year, Lora and her family moved to my neighborhood, their location on the curved road gave the family direct access to view the Monster House daily. As they sat down to dinner each night, the Monster House dominated the view from their kitchen window. I never understood her family’s purchase of the house with the canvas of chaos it displayed.
I envied Lora for her home with its porch lined with colorful cement flowerpots. The white and black trimmed home - even the cars - seemed to shine whenever my gaze fell upon them, like gems set out for me to covet. When I went to play with Lora, her mom’s creased expression told me I didn’t belong, as if my presence would mar their shine. Every time I saw her, I craved to tell her how sorry I felt, like she knew I’d committed a crime and I should be ashamed. When she allowed Lora to play at my house, she never let her come inside and upon leaving each time her mother inspected Lora before allowing her back inside her own home.
Not many kids played inside our house, and trying to think of a solution, I moved my bedroom to the basement, but I never invited any of them over. I created a small space of my own in the middle of wreckage that seemed to grown on its own. Sitting in a chair, feet propped on a rusted chest freezer, I watched as a mouse climbed the cinder-block wall. I never set a mousetrap, knowing it would be useless, it may kill that one black mouse, but another would soon take its place. I saw the hole in the wall where they came in, I could see right outside under the front steps.
Holding the phone to my ear, I watched the mouse scatter around the ledge of the wall. Although every pore in my body screamed for me to confess, I didn’t tell my friend about the mouse or the state in which I lived. I wanted to talk to someone, anyone, about this place, but I couldn’t. I knew they would laugh at me, judge me; think they were better. They’d be right.
Moving my bedroom into the belly of the Monster House didn’t work.
I moved back upstairs.
Keeping to myself, I never invited friends over, especially boys. Picturing the Monster House swallowing the kids, their frantic parents screaming and running around, digging through trash trying to find their loved one, kept me silent. I figured the parents would blame me. Like in a cartoon, the judge would tower over me and pound his gavel pronouncing me guilty as charged. Life sentence to the Monster House. No time served.
As the years passed, I tried to control the unknown. I’d ask friends to meet me at work, waiting outside for them to appear. Only once, it didn’t play out the way I intended. Disappointment clouded my drive home; my friends hadn’t met me there. Slowing the car to pull into the driveway, I noticed a car I hadn’t seen before. It hit me – they were in the house. Working my way to the door, shame crawled up my legs and burrowed in my belly, my chest. Opening the door, the stench hit me first thing and I cringed knowing this smell also met my friends, probably lingered on them. My gaze met the soft-brown eyes of the first boy, the one I liked, and the shock and disbelief were evident on his face. I knew from this moment on, he’d only see the Monster House in me. He’d lost the directions to the restaurant I worked in, so he’d called my house, my mom told him to come meet me here. I never saw him or his friends again.
Late on a Friday night, my senior year of high school, the scene from the year before almost replayed itself. Wandering down into the basement where my adult brother made a living room and bedroom, I noticed a girl sitting on his broken down couch. I recognized her from first period chemistry class.
Our eyes locked.
In a moment, I hated her. I hated him.
He had taken the liberty to share my secret with someone from school. She sat there, eyes fixated on me with question, mouth slightly agape.
I panicked. I ran. I wanted to die.
When others weren’t around, she made fun of how I lived.
Looking back, I believe everyone knew my secret. I am still too afraid to ask most of the adults why they didn’t take me from the house if they knew the truth so long ago.
~~~~~
As I twist the doorknob in my hand, I can feel my husband standing just behind me, close enough his warmth reaches me, giving me an invisible sense of support.
With a slight twist and push, he will see the guts of the monster for the first time.
I want to give up, pretend I’m sick, fake a heart attack. Thoughts like these run through my head faster than I can comprehend them.
Release its hold. Let go. Show him.
“This is where I grew up,” I finally say, “and once inside you’ll see why I never brought you here. Why I hid this from you.”
I give a slight push to the door but before I can step in, his arms wrap around my waist. He pulls me close and hugs me so tight I think I might break.
“No matter what is beyond that door,” he whispers in my ear, “nothing can ever, ever change how I feel about you. You’re not a house, and you’re not what’s inside this house, and you’re not responsible for the mess. I don’t love you for where you grew up. I love you for you. I. Love. You. We will do this together.”
With those words, my husband destroys any power the Monster House held.
I take him in.
