I

Something in the house was rotting.

It had been a steady drip from the ceiling, something leaking from the firmly locked attic of the newly dubbed Dudley house.

Plip. Plip. Plip.

Do you remember me? an imaginary voice seemed to ask him. You’ve been here before.

Ghosts lurked within the walls, muffled by wallpaper and clawing at the wood floors, crying out with every creak of the old boards. The house had been built in the mid to late 1800s as all of the old farmhouses up the hill and solid brick homes that dotted the thicket-choked woods and west were. The suburbs nearer to the entrance of town were only new as of the mid-1900s, most of those houses constructed of shoddy vinyl, cheap wood and mint tile. They spoke of a promised lifestyle, of the agritourism the town had once been known for and fancy little cocktail parties to celebrate the local elections as the poodles in their pleated skirts gathered around the black and white moving pictures. They sang with an era desperate to be born only to be snatched away as a child from its cradle and left a dream’s cadaver.

But the old farmhouses had been crooning their sweet sorrows forever, bellowing from the smokestacks and char-smothered chimneys the toil of hard labor and cold, sleepless nights. With every breath of the wind, they winced and sighed, beams shifting and settling as they exhaled.

Plip. Plip. Plip.

The house was born long before Winston was a thought.

And it would remain when he ceased to be so much as one.

Something above the house was rotting.

Dripping steadily from the water stain in the ceiling beneath the locked attic at the top of the stairs, something dark and rancid wetly slapped the boards and slithered between the cracks, thicker than water and reeking of something spoiled.

You’ve been here before. She let you in.

On the wall of what was once assuredly a child’s room upstairs, doodles were drawn in black crayon, some little person or monster tucked away in the low corner of the baseboards with the blocky initials K.N. scrawled proudly beneath it. The faded features had been contorted into something screaming with mouth agape, or perhaps it was the accumulated filth that had given it a face in the first place.

Plip.

They dripped from the floor to the ceiling, soaking into the water stain in strange reverse.

The kitchen sink was clogged with poorly discarded food, offering solace to invading insects that the drain flies made bold use of.

Something rancid rested within the pipes, most assuredly offering a later problem to the newly arrived family.

Something below the house was rotting.

Winston stood at the bottom of the old staircase staring upwards at the water stain through tired, half-lidded eyes as the steady sound of the dripping became muddied with the pervading whistle of tinnitus that grew louder and louder in his ears like white noise. Dull thoughts circled the back of his mind like blackbirds, mundane thoughts of “what color paint does the bathroom need to be?” and “should the couch sit near the window or the far wall?” as the sight before him hardly scratched the surface of his awareness.

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The screech of his young daughter cut through the fabric of his consciousness and the voice of his wife wormed its way through the opening to ask “did you get all of the boxes inside?”

Winston finally broke eye contact with the ceiling spot to turn his attention to the ashy-haired woman seated on one of the unopened boxes labeled “living room”, the toddler on her lap gleefully shaking about her googly-eyed doll to watch the pupils rattle.

“Huh? Oh. Yeah. All empty. I’ll take the truck back in the morning,” he answered, rubbing the side of his face with one hand with exhaustion.

“Don’t forget to call Bill about the furniture,” she said as the child swatted her doll to the floor then proceeded to whine noisily now that it was out of her reach.

“I talked to him this morning. He said he’ll be here tomorrow around noon.”

“Well, call him again. Where are we supposed to sleep tonight if we don’t have the beds?” the woman asked him tersely.

“We have blankets, Marie. We can…” Winston took a short breath as he combed his fingers through his fine caramel hair. “... lay them out on the floor. Pretend we’re camping. We have those pillows in the car.”

“On this dirty floor..?” Marie asked with a scarcely concealed note of dismay as she surveyed the dusty wooden floor.

“Well, we can clean it,” Winston sighed, gesturing to the floor with a sweeping motion of his hand. “We’re gonna have to at some point anyway. Colette’s allergies are going to keep us up all night otherwise.”

“That reminds me, did you get in touch with the doctor here? We need to make sure we pick up her medicine first thing in the morning before we run out.”

“Yes, yes. I did.” Winston exhaled with a nod to nothing in particular, shifting his coffee gaze towards the kitchen where the wall-mounted landline rested as the child continued to whine and cry out. “I will… I will call Bill and see if he can get here any sooner. Hopefully he’ll pick up at this hour. And then I’ll take care of the floor. And tomorrow morning, I’ll pick up Colette’s medicine and take the truck back.”

“What was the name of the doctor again?”

“Anderson. Juliette Anderson.”

“You already talked to Anderson?”

“Yes. I did.” Winston said stiffly, those whines and whimpers drilling deeper into his temples. “I just said I got in touch with the doctor.”

“You don’t have to be testy with me. You could have just gotten in touch with the office and not the doctor himself so I wanted to make sure.”

“Her, Marie. Her name is Juliette. She’s a woman.”

“Why are you being rude?”

“I’m not-” The man shook his head and let his hands fall to his sides. “I’m sorry. Okay? I’m just… tired. Let me call Bill and get to work on the floor.”

“Thank you,” Marie said, leaning down to finally pick the toy up for the girl and cease the cries. “And you already called the water and power companies?”

How else would the lights be on? Winston wanted to ask but bit his tongue firmly, instead silently and hastily excusing himself to the floral-printed kitchen off to his right.

“Winston?” Marie called upon realizing she wasn’t receiving an answer.

“I’m on the phone!” Winston called back despite not having yet dialed as he held the phone in his hands with his finger lightly resting on the buttons.

Plip. Plip. Plip.

He could still hear it somewhere above him, somewhere above the ceiling, one drop at a time.

“Marie, do you mind getting a bucket from the pantry and putting it under the leak upstairs? I’ll call a plumber first thing in the morning, too,” he called only to be responded to with “I’m busy, Winston!”

“Can’t you put Colette down for a minute?”

“On this floor?”

“Then take her with you. You’re just grabbing an empty bucket, Marie.”

“Aren’t you on the phone?”

Winston begrudgingly set the phone back into its cradle and shuffled to the pantry door, jerking it open after a couple of attempts as the door was jammed in his frame. “Gotta be the humidity…” he muttered to himself, leaning down to pick up the plastic bucket from the linoleum and taking it out of the room.

“What did Bill say?” Marie asked as she still remained seated on the box.

“He didn’t pick up,” he lied and trudged upstairs.

The bucket was placed beneath the leak with a loud plop and immediately began to slowly fill with the drip, drip, drip from the attic, sludgy brown quickly taking refuge along the edges of the interior. It sounded louder now as the plastic bottom acted as a drum, Winston watching each drip balefully.

“What are we getting for dinner?” Marie called from downstairs. “I’m not cooking until that kitchen is clean and I can’t go grocery shopping until tomorrow.”

Winston’s eyes never left the contents of the bucket, dimly imagining it overflowing and filling the house, drowning him and everyone in it. “Whatever you want, Marie. Whatever you want.”