November 06, 2018

PodCastle 547: Every House, a Home

37 minutes

* Author : Evan Dicken

* Narrator : Tatiana Grey

* Host : Summer Fletcher

* Audio Producer : Peter Adrian Behravesh

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Originally published in the Utter Fabrication anthology by Mad Scientist Journal.

Rated PG-13, for the weird ways of houses.

Every House, a Home

By Evan Dicken

“I guess nobody wants haunted houses, anymore.” Derek checked his reflection in one of the Cape Cod’s filmy windows, teasing his hair back to mussy perfection. He glanced back at me. “That was a joke, Natalie.”

I gave him my best approximation of a smile.

He blew out a long puff of air. “Never mind.”

The house wasn’t haunted, which was a shame. A ghost or two would be just the thing to calm it down. The Cape Cod was faceless, without history or meaning. Sandwiched awkwardly on a scrubby half-parcel between two mid-century colonials, it felt out of place and forgotten. A decade ago, the lot had probably been wild, but some developer had come along and crammed a factory home where it had no place being. I even recognized the model: Sea Breeze. There were maybe a hundred in Columbus — same light-blue vinyl siding, same asphalt shingles, same fake shutters, same concrete porch with the same three white-painted pillars. It shouldn’t have had a feel, let alone a personality.

“I just don’t get it.” Derek brushed by me to tug the “Open House, Sunday, 1–4 p.m., PRICE REDUCED” sign from the freshly replanted lawn. “Two bed, two bath, decent schools — a good starter house. It’s these millennials, they’re all about apartments and lofts nowadays.”

“That isn’t it.” I kept my response short, clipped, careful not to get lost in exposition. Instead of relating an article I’d recently read about how millennial housing choices were related to finance rather than preference, I knelt on the lawn, squinting at the row of boxwood bushes in the front bed. Derek’s landscaper had just put them in, along with a layer of red mulch and a couple perennials for accents. Not a bad job, but I could already see the resentment building — leaves beginning to brown, shoots of crabgrass and shepherd’s purse poking through the beds.

Derek came back up the walk to join me. I noticed he kept a good ten feet between us, like he was afraid I might lunge at him. It was hurtful, especially since I’d been working with him for years, but I knew better than to say anything. People think because I have trouble reading emotions that I don’t have any of my own.

I’d never been comfortable around others, or them around me — too many expectations. Every word was a potential pitfall, every exchange fraught. I never knew what would set someone off. Places though, they didn’t expect anything from you except to be.

“Well?” Derek asked after maybe a minute.

“Well, what?”

“Aren’t you going to . . . ?” He twiddled his fingers at the front door. “ . . .feng shui or whatever.”

Another terrible joke. Another terrible smile. “I’m Korean, not Chinese. And you know that’s not what I do.”

He winced. “At least have a talk with it and figure out — ”

“Can’t talk to houses.”

“Then talk to me.” Derek’s expression might have been sad or angry; I never could tell the difference. “It’s what I’m paying you for.”

“It’s a starter house.” I stood to run my hand along one of the pillars, glossy paint cool and smooth beneath my fingertips. I could feel twenty, maybe thirty years of young families passing through,

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