The House

Chapter 1 - Day 1: This is Quaint?!

My first reaction after parking my car on the broken paving and looking up at the dying old house is: "Quaint, my ass!"

My second reaction, when I nearly fall through the rotting patio stairs on my way to the front door, comes in a yelp of pain and a stream of words too spicy to repeat while my box of art supplies crashes into the front door.

My third reaction is when I manage to unlock the rusty lock and push open the front door with a groaning creak loud enough to wake the dead. I utter something between a squeal of shock and a grunt of disgust at the smell.

My fourth reaction comes when I flip the light switch just inside the front door, and a big fat nothing happens. The interior remains dark and musty, smelly and uninviting. Dust particles are lazily drifting in the cloudy light coming from the open door. 

This reaction consists of me whipping out my phone, finding the right contact and stabbing the dial button.

"Craig!" I yell before he even manages to finish his greeting. "You said this house was, and I quote 'pretty and quaint, rich in history and character.' You did NOT say that it was squalid and putrid, rich in bad odours and horror! Come on! The lights aren't even working!"

To be fair, I should have seen the once elegant main gate (rusted, broken, overly heavy and hard to open) and the winding, unkempt, pitted driveway as a warning of less awesome things to come. 

Actually, I should have seen Craig being in the mix as ample warning...

"You said you wanted somewhere inspiring to paint and stuff. Art students like that kind of shit... The ad called it an artist's dream." Craig says in a bored voice.

"And I really needed the money," I swear I hear him say under his breath.

"An artist's nightmare, maybe..."

I can definitely hear him eating something crunchy, and in the background, a commentator is going on about a missed try. I can imagine Craig lying on the couch, wearing a dirty t-shirt and faded track pants, snacking on beer and chips, while he watches the rugby world cup matches, re-runs and highlights, only showing some vague signs of forced enthusiasm when his favoured team scores. 

I can imagine it because I've seen it more times than I'd wanted to. I'm lucky he even answered the phone.

"I don't do creepy paintings."

"Weeeeell..." and the crunching continues.

"Craig!"

"I'll call someone to check out the electricity," he sighs through a mouth full of chips.

"Someone?"

"There's a caretaker... munch-munch, crunch-crunch... he takes care of... munch-munch, crunch-crunch... stuff..."

I trust Craig about as much as I trust the steps leading up to this house. No... I trust Craig even less. "No. Text me the number, and I'll call him myself."

A long, mournful, life-lying-on-the-couch-is-so-HARD sigh. I'm beginning to question my ability to make rational decisions. 

I mean, I trusted him enough to pack the things I'm going to need and to drive all the way out here to God-Left-and-Hasn't-Looked-Back-Since-Back-and-Beyond-of-Ever to a house I somehow believed was going to be "pretty and quaint and rich in history and character" and yank me out of my un-creative slump to create the paintings I require for my final year evaluations. 

I really believed that!

Or I was just really that desperate... For crying in a bucket...

"No, I have an even better idea. READ me the number NOW, and I'll call him."