Date: Tue, 16 Oct 2001 07:52:23 -0600 From: Robyn Herrington Organization: University of Calgary Subject: [WRITERS] SUB: CONTEST: Cabin Fever Cabin Fever CLICK You already know my name, and I don t know why I have to tell you again. Nothing s going to change anything. Even I couldn t change it. And anyway, it happened so long ago; what good does it do to go over it now? You ll never believe me, so what does it matter? It s over. That s all that matters. Fine, you won t give up. As I ve told you before, the loud silence started getting to me the morning of the third day of that snowstorm. I could handle it until then, but by then it started tearing at my insides. The worst part was that I couldn t get away from it. John could go outside and work in the garage if he wanted, and he needed to go feed the animals, but the cold kept me in the house because of the asthma John s smoking gave me. That time, like after every big snowstorm, we couldn t get out our backdoor because of the snowdrifts from the hill behind us, and sometimes the front door was impassable too because of the snowdrifts from the hill across the road. More than once John climbed out the upstairs hallway window to go out to feed the animals. At least he got out. I hate being closed in that house. But how beautiful the snow is--how white and pure. They taught me white is perfect like our blessed Lord. I didn t mind the snow. Just the cold. That house always frightened me. Standing over the town like a gothic nightmare, the rambling rooms inside were a large impenetrable maze that I was forever getting lost in--especially in the dark. The three wings, all mirror-images of the other and the large spaces crowded in on me. Hell would be like that house. Never being able to find my way out. Growing up, all the kids taunted me to go to the Psycho House, and I could never do it. No matter how much they laughed at me. We all knew in its hundred plus year history, it had served as a private house, a boarding house, a bordello, and a nursing home for the mentally ill before it sat empty for years. Then we got it. When I told my mother we were buying the Psycho house, she reminded me of when she was the housekeeper there and the syphilis women and their screams. So from the moment I stepped out of the car at that house the first time, the hair stood up on the back of my neck; the cold wind echoed right through to my heart. I pleaded with John to choose another house, but it didn t matter. Marge, the house has everything that we could want--fireplaces, lots of bedrooms for our kids. Even the library you ve always wanted; I ll fill it for you, honey, and we can fill the bedrooms. And, in a few years we will start saving for our dream home. For now, let s just enjoy this one. My heart thumped, but I ached to please my new husband. Smiling up at his handsome face, I nodded, Okay, honey. I ll be happy wherever you are. I tried to ignore his rolling eyes and his fingers biting into my arm. No one would believe me that he wasn t the perfect husband. He charmed everyone in those days--even my mother--and I was proud to be his wife. Oh yeah, you want to hear about the third night of the snowstorm. That night I m so tired, and the cold eats at my bones. I want to take a bath, but I d stay in there too long, and the water just gets cold again. So, instead I stand as close as I can to the fire, but then John yells in the crackling silence, Marge, you dummy, you are hogging all the hot air. How am I supposed to get warm? Then, like every night since Stacie was born, he fell asleep on the couch in his clothes. After the first couple of months, I quit begging him to come to bed upstairs because no sexy nightie or come on would bring him back up to the bedroom. Finally, I asked him why he didn t at least change his clothes. He turned his cold blue eyes on me and said, Why should I? I ll just have to put them on again tomorrow. Leave me alone, woman. It wasn t long after that the footsteps and the breathing began. Disembodied footsteps with labored breaths coming from right behind my ears no matter which way I turned. Even lying in bed, the covers up over my head, cuddling my little girl, I d hear them breathing and their continuous footsteps in my room and in the other wings. Every night was a marathon, and I never slept all night because I couldn t stand the footsteps or the silence. At least I knew where they were when I could hear their footsteps Somehow I thought if John would sleep upstairs, he d protect me from the footsteps and the breathing, but he laughed at me. You mean to tell me people are walking in here? Where are they? I don t see them. I ll stay in the living room. Then he laughed that booming, hideous laugh that echoed far worse than the footsteps. My one sanctuary from John and the footsteps was the library, which only held my mother s Bible. There the breathing and the footsteps were muffled as though honoring the sanctity of the Lord s words. But on the third night of the snowstorm, I couldn t stay in the library because John wouldn t let me light another fire. Finally, the cold drove me to go to the Blue Room, as Stacie called it, for some extra blankets and more candles. I broke down and asked, John, I can t reach the candles. They are way up on top of the closet. I watched his double-chinned, scruffy face close up, and his eyes froze over. The Blue Room always reminded him of our long-awaited child--only a girl--after two stillbirths. But finally receiving God s blessing didn t stop him from making fun of her one night when she was almost three until she d gone upstairs like a big girl to get her Barbie horse. When I stood up, he shoved me back down on the couch. She can do it herself! But not even a pinprick of light pierced the darkness as her tiny feet shuffled upwards. When she got to her room, her agonized screams ripped open the air. John raced up those stairs with me at his heels. With his arms wrapped around her, she whispered, Daddy, the dark breathed at me. My heart clenched. Now my daughter wasn t safe either. Now, even remembering wouldn t convince him to help me go to the Blue Room. Oh, for Heaven s sake, you can get the candles. Use the stepstool right there in the closet. Can t you see that I m listening to the weather report? Quietly, afraid of letting them hearing me, I tiptoe up the stairs, just as Stacie had. But the cold air breathes on me anyway, and it reminds me that my little girl is in the cold ground. At least she s safe. Again in the silence that night, I realize how loud our house is--the creek of the stairs, the rocking chair in the bedroom that I rocked Stacie to sleep in. The refrigerator, the washer and dryer, the furnace, the puff of the gas when I turn the oven on. How the steps and floor creak as we walk on them. And, how the cat snores on the library s only chair. And the breathing. The never-ending breathing. In and out. In and out. In and out. The noise jangles in my head, rumbles through my body. The racket presses down on my chest until I think I ll faint. As I stand in her bedroom, the breathing grows into voices. At first I think they are coming from the weather reports downstairs, but John has already turned off the radio for the night. And the voices are heavier than the silence like the breathing has been. They crawled through my thoughts, their conversations wheedling at me, telling me how to clear all the sin from my life. Clean and simple. Leave. But I can t do that. I have to stay to take care of my husband. The Church says divorce is wrong. I don t want to go to Hell. But this silence, the breathing, the footsteps, the voices are a hell. And the snow outside is my River Styx. Uncrossable by any but the Dead. But still I could hear laughter, their bawdy comments, and, worst of all, the screams of the deranged women who lived there begging to get out. Their cries drilling through the silence. My mother had told me that they, especially the women with syphilis, would beg her to get rid of the voices, to kill them because they couldn t get away. The voices chased them until the women collapsed in a fetal position in the corner. There they might be safer, the women said. Even my mother, a deeply Christian woman, who only worked at the home for a short time, died begging me to rid her of the voices. I think maybe the cold makes the voices stronger. Maybe they were there all along, but that night Oh, oh, I m sorry. I forgot what I was supposed to be telling you. All evening I begged John to sleep with me on the floor in front of the fireplace in his room. The library is too cold. The voices too loud. I can t stand it. He screams, Sleep by yourself! and turning around his fist cracks my jaw. He almost looks like he d apologize, but with a glare, he turns his back and lies down on the couch to sleep. With the metallic taste of my own blood from a loose tooth--see, it s gone now--I sit there and cry without a sound. I don t want John or the voices to hear me. They do anyway. They won t stop. They eat into my brain the fears and the sins of the house. They beg for help! I didn t know how! I can t take it anymore. I can t stand being alone. I pull John off the couch onto the sheets. I won t let him destroy the couch anymore. My mother gave it to me. He struggles, but he s still half asleep. He s tangled in my white sheet. The voices drum on. Loud, boisterous women. Whooping men. The voices peak when I see John s pocketknife. The first slice is lost in John s sweet scream. Thank you, God. He s finally scared. The second is louder. There s only his rasping breath. The third booms in the silence. Even the voices. Finally. It s too quiet. The bloody sheets shroud his body. The voices aren t pleased. They must be kept pure like the snow. But the silence won t stop, no matter how many times I cut him. The slashing at least keeps the stillness quiet. The smell of the blood makes me want more. When I finish his chest, his heartbeat stops, leaving more silence. I need more sound. Any sound. I cut ever so gently through this fingers that tortured me and then through the mouth that mocked me. Finally, I stop slicing, and the silence is at last golden and pure. How I loved that gift of God. Before the snow completely melted, they brought me here. So, there you are. You can turn off that tape recorder now. Telling you again doesn t do any good. What? What! Footsteps? Tiny shuffling footsteps? NO! I saved you! Dear God, no! Please get rid of the voices! I can t stand the voices! JOHN?! Not you too! Let go of me! Leave me alone. No! CLICK -- ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Robyn Herrington New Currents in Teaching and Learning / InfoServe Phone: 220-2561 Email: rmherrin@ucalgary.ca Story ideas are like rabbits that have ventured unwittingly into view. The slightest noise or movement can spook them and they bolt off into the dark undergrowth never to be seen again. -- Adrian Bedford ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~