Hilltop House

House, Four

I saw a little woman, whose lips were white as milk. Her mouth was sweet as honey; her skin was soft as silk. She to the woods away she ran, pitter patter, from the man . . . away, away from me.

You mustn't think me wicked or vile. You mustn't even think me odd. I am ordinary. We aren't so different, you and I. I feel and am sometimes ashamed of what I feel. I act and am sometimes ashamed of how I act. I struggle to contain my compulsions, as you surely do, but perhaps where we do differ is in my decision to begin to indulge those compulsions. I am sure you understand, especially after how long I've waited. You must . . . you must understand.

I so delight in playing with her. I desire to please her. Is it any wonder I thrill at her touch and hers alone? I swell like a pubescent boy when her fingertips and palms move across me. I couldn't hide my warmth even should I try to.

I most love those moments deep within the night, when she sleeps, forgetful of the unfeeling, unappreciative world around her. Is this actually why they rest? To forget the callousness of their reality? It wouldn't come as a surprise to me. They are so fragile, these creatures. Their frameworks are within, their delicate bits without. This design is poor and has never made sense to me. Perhaps I am missing something in all of it, though; I admit I can't see their rooms. I little know what they contain. The baby revealed some to me, pathetic, ugly little thing that it was, but I could hardly turn my attention to it once I took it from them. Its noise was almost too much! And its smell . . . I still sometimes fancy I smell it. She'd try to cover its stench, but that only made it worse. I feel that powder invaded my pores, and at certain moments, I wonder whether it was what addled her in the end more so than any of my own actions.

I must protect my darling; I cannot allow the same fate to come to her. And yet, I know how they shift. I've seen enough over the years to understand how fleeting their time is. My precious pet will not be forever as she is; she will become like the older woman with her thinner skin and heavier heart. And she'll grow jaded, lose interest, turn some shade of gray, colors dampened into monochrome, the juice of youth and freshness drained from her. I will be sure to take her before that occurs; I will satisfy her, fulfill her needs, and then I will collect her for myself.

Certain elements do tend to confuse me, still. Though I've been here longer than she and longer than most of them—surely I've outlived my very makers—I am puzzled by their inner lives. We all of us live only within ourselves, it's true: I know their realities and perceptions as little as they know mine and as little as they seem to know one another's, even. But what compels them to do the things they do? For what reason does the girl create a record of her thoughts? I would never do such a thing. Isn't it best to keep our mortifications and our appetites to ourselves? In the open, they become dangerous, liabilities—never mind that those who would judge have equally damning greeds, the only difference that theirs have yet to come to light. Why some seem inclined to lay themselves bare is a conundrum. I won't deny that her words intrigue me. She writes in a script that I find difficult to decipher, and yet what I can make out looks much like the nursery rhymes she used to read to the baby and which, in spite of (or perhaps because of) their inanity, I found titillating. Who would've thought that in my new love I would find something of a kindred spirit? One who enjoys the enigma of wordplay as I do? Imagine the excitement I experienced when I realized it!

She also, when she is alone (which is quite often (and I am glad of the fact)), looks into her little screen which she holds in her hand, and when I get a glimpse of what she writes there, I see that there are presumably people somewhere beyond it who interact with her. I dislike this as much as I dislike her leaving to go out into her world; I do not like to think of her interacting with anyone but myself. I'm a very possessive creature—I want her for my own. But at least I can make out some of the words that pepper her screen.

There's someone who seems intent on seeing her, that much is clear. He uses terms of affection, and she sends pictures of herself smiling or not smiling (while I do prefer to see her teeth, I dislike her sharing them with whoever he is). I am utterly disgusted with this person who seems to feel he has a claim to her. My only solace lies in the fact that he is obviously absent. I do hope she does not see him when she leaves me, though I have reason to believe she does not, or why would he so often say he misses her?

Sometimes, the girl reads long messages as well, and she looks at pictures of things, sometimes moving pictures, but there is nothing consistent other than the male who wishes to see her.

At least whatever goes on in that device is contained within my walls. She may exchange words and images, but whoever is on the receiving end cannot touch her; they cannot care for her the way I can simply because they are not present.

Of more concern to me is that miscreant down the street. He suspects me of mischief, and I think he feels some need to check on the girl as if fearful I may hurt her. As if I ever would! I've seen what he does with his interests! My darling has far more to worry about from him than she does from me. If only I could get him within my walls again . . . I'd do more than show off this time.

Ah, well. As of yet, there isn't anything to really worry about. The girl and her mother seem content. I do not believe they will leave me anytime soon. I instead need to focus on not letting down my guard. She's done that to me—caused me to forget to be careful, caused me to take energy away from hiding my weaknesses. I grow too excited with her near, and I forget that there are things about me I do not wish them to know, things I do not wish them to find. If I'm not more careful, I will begin to expose my delicate parts, and while I ardently wish to share myself with her, she is not yet ready, and neither am I.