VRHH - Chapter 1: Moving Day

Chapter 1: Moving Day

It’s moving day. We’ve been steadily moving into the rental since yesterday; however, today is the day we make the “big” move. It’s a Saturday in May, in Texas. There are only two temperatures in Texas in May; hot and hotter. I am feeling somewhat sentimental. We are getting ready to leave the house in which both of my kids learned to walk and talk. I remind myself that the memories don’t live in the house, but rather in my mind, and with the advances of modern technology, on videotape. I realize I’m doing nothing to dispel the stereotypes of women with my sentimentality, but a girl’s gotta have at least one flaw, right? Anyway, I digress.

My mom and I go over to the rental to see if everything is in order. We bring a few small boxes with us in my car. The neighbor with the grotesque car collection is outside watching. He sits on his porch and stares out into the street. I can see him glancing out of the corner of his eye over at us. He refuses to look directly at us and never says a word. I now know two things about my new neighbor: He collects burned out rusting cars in his backyard and he sits on his porch watching absolutely nothing, avoiding eye contact with other people. I found it strange, but I didn’t think much of it. Why should I? I don’t know the guy and perhaps he’s just having a bad day. Maybe he had bid on eBay for another burned out rusted car and lost to some 15 year old boy in Alabama. Who knows?

We go inside and discover that the air conditioning is somehow off. I thought I turned it back on after the cleaners had turned it off the day before. It’s stifling inside. I feel as if I’ve walked into the pits of Hell. There’s a noise upstairs. It’s what sounds like a door opening. I look at mom and put my finger to my lips. I slowly walk over to the stairs. I’m painfully aware that I’m not armed with anything. I grab a small lamp. What the hell? It’s better than nothing. I walk on my toes up the stairs. Once I’m at the top, I creep around the corner. All the doors are open except one: it’s the room that is across from the room we intended to give to our son. At this point my heart is beating as fast as it can and the house is hot. I begin to sweat. I hear a shuffling noise. Slowly I open the door. The room is small with a closet that has sliding doors. There is one window on the wall to the right of the entrance when you are walking in. The blinds are closed and the room looks eerily gray. The closet doors are open at least. There is no one in the room, no one hiding in the closet. In fact, there is no one at all upstairs other than me and my sad little lamp. I walk back down the stairs and tell my mom I didn’t find anyone. We bring in the boxes and walk out of the house. Burned-out Car Guy is still sitting on his porch looking at nothing. I get in the car and I look up at the eyes of the house. For a second I thought I saw someone standing there, but when I look again, there is nothing there.

We are back at the “red house,” as my daughter calls it, otherwise known as our soon to be sold house. The truck is packed with the first load. I tell Paul about our strange experience at the rental. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” he says. “Houses make noises.”

“I know. It was just strange and then there’s that guy sitting on the porch. It’s just all very strange. And that pot is still out back and that stupid tire.

“It’ll be fine. It’s only temporary,” he says. I realize that’s his new mantra. Whatever helps him sleep at night.

The truck contains our bed so tonight will be our first night in the rental. This makes me feel uneasy. I realize that there have been an awful lot of strange and annoying events that have happened since this house came into the picture. My husband continues to chant his mantra and I try to match is mood but something won’t let me. After an entire day of moving, we are spending the first night in the house. My parents are here still and will be joining us for our first night in the rental.

The neighbor is still sitting outside. I wonder what he is thinking about. He’s staring out at the street. The sun is going down and dusk is fast taking over the sky. He is lanky. His deep brown hair is cut short and he has a large brow and sunken cheeks. For one moment he turns his head my way and opens his mouth as if he is about to say something, but just at that same moment, my mom walks out and asks about dinner. Burned-Out Car Guy turns back to the street. We go inside the house for dinner. After dinner I go back outside, but he has gone into his house or somewhere other than the porch. I notice the neighbor on the other side is out. There’s a car parked in front of his house. The neighbor goes up to the car and he leans in the window. The neighbor looks back at me and I look away trying not to stare. I decide to go into the garage. He doesn’t see me still standing there. He pulls something out of his pocket. I can’t really see what it is. He hands it to the guy in the car and the guy hands him something in exchange. The car drives to the end of the street, circles the cul-de-sac and leaves. The neighbor looks around and walks back towards the house, but then his phone rings. He stops. “Yeah. Come on by.” He hangs up and goes inside. I see another car coming down the street and it too stops in front of his house. He comes out again and the same sort of transaction occurs.

“Great,” I think to myself, “I’m living next to a drug dealer and a psycho car collector.” I couldn’t have known at the time how close I was to the truth of the thing. I go inside the house and put my son in bed. I hear a noise in the room across the hall. Just as earlier in the day, when I go inside there is nothing there. I look out the window and I can see the cars. They look like eerie statues in the darkness. I see movement in the yard with the cars. It’s him. He’s walking through the graveyard of cars. A car cemetery. He lifts the tarp on one of the cars and I see how severe the damage is. It has obviously been wrecked, probably rolled. The roof is caved in and the outside metal is scorched. Why would he want this car? It’s beyond repair. I watch as he caresses the car as if it were a person. His mouth is moving as if he is speaking, but I can’t hear whatever words are coming out and it is too dark for lip reading at the angle his face is to me. He looks up at the window and I realize he can see me looking at him. He walks into the light. I see him mouth something at me and I understand exactly what he is saying, but I don’t understand the meaning. It is one word, “bones.” He covers the car back up and goes inside his house without any other attempt at contact. I can’t imagine why he would mouth the word “bones” to me. I think he must have some sort of mental disorder. None of it makes any sense.

As I lay in bed, shadows dance across the walls. I turned the closet light off before bed, but it is back on now. Paul is asleep so I can’t ask him if he turned it back on. I can hear traffic in the street. My sleep that night is troubled with dreams of melted cars driving up to the neighbor’s house with skeletal drivers.