Nobody Loves a Poe

What a night that was.  Now I'm sitting exhausted on my rumpled bed, thoroughly spent but exhilarated.  A small part of my soul is wondering if it was all just a dream, but I mostly know that it wasn't.  At least I feel that it wasn't.  There's an easy enough way to prove it to myself.

I go through the living room towards the old guest room, now hidden behind a rather handsome bookcase, if I do say so myself.  I pull The Classic Mystery Collection out of the fourth shelf up and squint into the little hole behind it.

It is still there.  Just as I'd known, even if I was too gleeful to believe it completely.  Sprawled on the floor, now bare of carpet, it was groaning softly.  Probably just regaining consciousness as I had been minutes before.  Suddenly it realized it didn't know where it was and heaved itself to its feet with a squeaky grunt.  Its eyes darted around the bare room, floor and walls stripped of all decoration and comfort, and it started panting in a panicked way.  Huh, "panicked".  Of course, I'm only projecting what I think I would feel.  I have no idea if it feels anything at all.  Well, if it doesn't feel anger, it does a remarkable job of approximating it; it starts bellowing my name and stomping around the room in that familiar manner, kind of lurching about, like Frankenstein's monster.  There's a recessed light in the ceiling so I can keep an eye on it, but I start to feel a glimmer of nervousness that it will notice the small hole in the wall.  I replace the book quietly and begin my daily routine.  But it is the first day of a new world for me.  A world where I know it won't find me again.                                                                                                      
The day goes by normally, doing my work, having my lunch with colleagues, making small talk.  I do my best to put my secret at the back of my mind, knowing it would not be smart at all to let people know I had something cooking, so to speak.  At the same time, I cannot bring myself to forget it completely.  It is just too enjoyable.

When the end of the day comes, I hurry home and race on tiptoes, like a child, to the bookcase.  I gently remove the book again and peek into the hole.  It was on its back, arm thrown over its eyes.  Still breathing, raspily.  I wonder if it has been screaming while I was at work.  No neighbors close enough to hear it if it did.  It doesn't move for what seems like a long time, and I grow impatient, tapping on the wall.  Stupid move.  It flies to its feet, bellowing, "You have to let me out of here!  This is illegal!"  I replace the book and back away from the wall, hoping I haven't given my position away.  I realize the light has been on all day, and was on the whole night too.  It must be tired now, without a good night's rest since waking up in a strange room.  I go to the upstairs crawlspace to switch off the light and hear it roaming its space, still shouting.  Good.  It doesn't seem to have figured out where my tap had come from.  I'll be more careful in the future, though.  I wonder if the noise will keep me awake tonight, but in the end it doesn't.  My satisfaction puts me to sleep without any trouble.

I start awake in the bleak grayness of the morning, sure it has escaped and is stalking the house for me.  I listen for any sound at all in the dim early of the day, but there is nothing more than the blood pounding in my ears.  I creep out of my warm bed and out to the bookcase.  Everything is in place.  The light is out in the room and I don't hear it shuffling around inside.  Even though it's earlier than usual, I am awake, so I start my day.  Before leaving, I go upstairs to switch on the light and hear thumping and scrabbling noises from the room below.  No shouting though.  Too thirsty?  Too bad.  I go off to my regular life, much calmer than the day before.  My prize is now surely mine, and the specialness is wearing off.  You can get used to anything.

Well, you can get used to anything if you want to.  Some things are not worth getting used to.  Some problems need to be kicked in the face.  That was what I did.  Unfortunately, instead of breaking off the weed, I hit the hornet's nest, and my only options were to run or to exterminate.  I couldn't run.  Not far enough, anyway.  Extermination was the only choice left for me.  I still remember feeling incredulous that it had agreed to meet me for drinks, and the joy and triumph in its eyes as it strode in the door of the bar.  Could it really have convinced itself that I was in fact deeply in love with it after all?  It didn't come to argue, but drank down the beer I had ordered for it and commenced to gloating questions about whether I was sorry.  I don't remember what I actually said, but the act was apparently convincing.  When the drug kicked in, one of the waiters helped me get a taxi and load it into it.  The driver helped me unload to my door.  And no neighbors saw me pull it inside.  Nobody saw me leave a while later, alone, back to the bar where I complained quietly to the bartender about how much whiskey dick sucks.  I drank another beer in private victory.

Now my problem is behind bare walls.  It waits, grunting and mewling, for any sort of stimulation.  I watch its clothing grow ever more rumpled and filthy, and I know there will be some scrubbing to be done later.  I wait with anticipation for the skin to shrivel and peel.  I savor the voice growing thin and harsh.  Maybe I'll be lucky and make a mummy.  Won't that be a treat for future archeologists?  Such a luxuriously large burial chamber!  And I'll be sure to leave it a crown to wear in its dusty eternity.