Content warning: Domestic violence. If you are based in Sweden and experience domestic violence, you can contact Kvinnojouren and Kvinnofridslinjen.
When the couple first moved into the old house on Jericho Road, you paid them little mind. Many had come and gone: The pruny old woman that died of heartache, the filthy gang of youths, the little gray men in suits, so faceless that you barely noticed them. The House was all that mattered, in the end. The House was the world.
Oh, you got a quick glance as they unpacked their things, sure. You saw the man carrying large boxes, one at a time, while the woman flitted back and forth, her small arms overflowing with loose things; keychains, envelopes, pacifiers, a tangle of jewelry. The man plodded from room to room, sure as an icebreaker ship, while the woman moved erratically around him.
But they were impermanent, irrelevant. You were the House’s breath: the arbiter of its halls. You were the wood creaking at night, the sensation of being watched, the old dry blood between bathroom tiles. And they did not interest you until that one night.
It was a pale November afternoon, all snowmelt and bone-colored skies. When you were alive, you might’ve wrapped yourself in quilts and refused to move altogether. Incorporeality has its benefits, undeniably.
You remember watching the woman, April, sitting heavily on the leather couch, gravid stomach swelling over her lap. Her eyes reflected the light of the television like pale glass orbs, and she wore the shock-still unbreathing poise of a field mouse; unmoving, so as not to attract the hungry gaze of hawks.
Misery spilled in large, pearlescent beads; not as tears, but as a crown of sweat on her brow. But the thing within her—oh, it was a feast of life. You wanted to curl yourself around it, to let the bright sunshine of the unborn warm you, like the sun cannot anymore. You held yourself back. No need to pluck an unripe fruit. Not when it could mature into a fine meal, with time.
The heavy screech of the front door pulled you into a cold breath, exhaling into the living room proper. The floorboards shivered under the booted footsteps of the man—Matthew—as he dropped something heavy on the counter. It sounded like tin cans and sloshing liquid.
“I don’t know why you keep watchin’ that crap,” he said.
Her voice was low, frightened. “There’s something weird about this place, Matty. I don’t like how cold it is.”
His dry laughter intermingled with the icy crack of a can, the rising fizz of its contents.
“Heard on the news that gettin’ knocked up makes you crazy. Didn’t know it was gonna be this kinda crazy.”
“Matt, please. I swear I saw something last night. Maybe we should call someone.”
“Yeah, I’ll call the cops and tell ‘em my wife had a nightmare. Sure they’ll make it a priority.”
His voice dripped with disgust. Instinctually, you placed yourself in front of the pale sun of her stomach. Guarding your prize.
April shivered.
“Honey, it’s so cold.”
“God—I have to paint the basement tonight. Have you even seen the state of it?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, and you leaned in to lick the heartbreak from her neck, pooling at the hollow of her clavicle.
Sour; crisp like a spring apple. Fine, for an appetizer.
“Just wonderin’ if you were helpin’ out, or just laid in bed all day,” he muttered.
“I did,” she insisted. “I made some dinner. I was going to fix the laundry, too. I was just—”
“Just taking a break. Right.”
“I really did see something,” she cried.
Matthew turned towards her, and she flinched like a bruised dog. In a breath, both of their faces shifted; his into fury, hers towards terror.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
She did not.
“The least you could do,” he spat, taking another step forward, “is appreciate the work I do for you. I come home from workin’ aa-ll day, and my own wife won’t even look at me.”
She cowered, like the blankets could shield her from his fury. But she had too much flesh to hide, and he was too aroused by the thought of correcting his injustice. Face flushed, his eyes were black, hungry pits.
“The least you could do,” he hissed, “is touch me.”
This was the catalyst; he lunged forward, grabbing her underarm before she had time to flee. In instinctual fear she fell forward, trying to protect her stomach from the incoming blows.
Something long forgotten wailed within you; a flash memory of hands around your neck, of hot breath turning wet as you buried two bullets in the leg of your husband. The bloodied fury in his eyes as he unloaded the last one into your throat.
No, you thought. Not this time.
Reaching in with spectral hands, you pulled – and something in her bony chest gave way. April let out a howling scream. The plug came unstuck with a terrible, fleshy schlunk. Water gushed forward in a fountain, and you felt the marble of sunlight fall under her feet.
Prayed to the God that has shut you out that it would live.
You poured yourself down her throat. Her ribcage bloomed like a flower, spine cracking and lengthening; so too did her fingers, growing into sharp, blackened claws.
Matthew fell down on his backside, cowering in animal panic. She was the monster now. There was no more easy prey; this was a room full of beasts. April landed on his panting chest; a fanged, howling terror. Her eyes were amber sparks of fury, peering through a waterfall of dark hair. An angel of divine fury, covered in the blood of the impenitent.
You felt her hands part flesh, and imagined it to be your husband. Oh, it was good to have a body. Warm. Strong. You tasted the worthless pleas on his bloodied tongue. The House sighed as his body slackened helplessly: a final, satiated exhale.
The meal was almost as sweet as you had hoped.
Written by Sigrid Östenberg.
Cover photo by Douglas Fehr.