The Chimney

© 1999 Lucy Piotrowski
All rights reserved.

In the early spring of 1987, Dennis Hucksley moved back into a house full of ghosts. Mother's spirit was recent and strong, father's weak and distant, but both phantoms swirled invisibly around him, taunting him with their stale presence. In the living room, covered chairs and sofas stood as spectral shapes, silently inviting any stranger to find out what dark secrets lurked beneath the washed out linens. Rumblings of exaggerated April showers grumbled in the suburban sky, the muted light casting a greyish hue over the dismal and quiet rooms.

Dennis had last seen this house through 16-year-old eyes. Now, at 32, he had inherited the run down bungalow of his youth, whose spirit seemed to have died with his mother. In the living room where he sat, heavy drapes sagged shamelessly on weakened window rods, the carpet sallow and worn. The couches were tired and settled, shapeless under old sheets. Lifeless. It only whispered old memories now—in this room, a joyous Christmas eve where a little boy sat by a beautiful tree with his parents; in the kitchen, that same little boy listened with tears in his eyes as his mother told him that his father didn't love them anymore, and that he had left and was never coming back. In the foyer, a tall, slim boy with a duffle bag slung over one shoulder, silently saying goodbye and closing the door on the past.

He pushed the memories away. It was just an old house now, it couldn't hurt him anymore. But new problems plagued him now. The 15-year-old boy who had left this place with so little had come back a successful advertising executive. But something had gone very wrong that very afternoon, and all of a sudden his promising future seemed doubtful.

The confrontation with his boss—Rodney Howard the Third, of the Howard Corporation. Dennis had been given a shot at the latest advertising campaign for Howard Hardware. Where the handyman is your friend, Dennis thought sourly. Months of preparation went into a series of TV commercials featuring beautifully decorated rooms with happy families interacting within them. It was going to be Dennis's crowning moment, but that afternoon, during the board meeting, Rodney quickly and deftly crushed it with a private agenda.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, we have just viewed a campaign for Howard Hardware, which has been submitted by Dennis Hucksley. I thank Dennis for his tremendous effort; however, I have made a definitive decision that the campaign needs a more direct message."

There was a confused murmur among the other board members. Dennis was speechless.

"Please, everyone," Rodney continued quickly, ignoring Dennis. "I have put a campaign together myself, one that I trust that you will agree with. Please run the tape," he called.

The scene was hardware store. At center screen stood Rodney Howard the Third, smug and grinning.

"At Howard Hardware," he boomed, "our handymen are trained to help you buy all the equipment and accessories you need to build and decorate your home right—at an unbeatable price."

As he spoke, the camera panned the different aisles of the store. Back to Rodney. He was now standing arm in arm with someone dressed as a life-sized wrench.

"So come to Howard Hardware," the duo piped up, "where the handyman is your friend."

Dennis was livid. That was a more direct message? Dennis searched the faces around him. All eyes avoided his and hands were put together, to applaud what Rodney so cleverly tried to disguise as good marketing. A dancing wrench? Maybe Rodney should be his own first customer—the guy seemed to have lost a few screws. The best work of his career had been replaced by a dancing tool! His temper snapped and red anger swam before his eyes.

He stood up from his chair and walked slowly and deliberately toward the front of the room.

"Rodney, what have you done?"

"I'm sorry Dennis, I'm not sure that I understand."

Silence in the boardroom.

"You know exactly what I'm getting at, Rodney. I spent months on this campaign. Why didn't you tell me that you never had any plans to ever use it? You could have saved me the grief and the humiliation, not to mention all of the hard work!"

"Dennis, son, look. Big business doesn't always go as planned. You've had it fairly easy with me over the last few years, but everyone takes couple of hits down the road of success. This just happened to be yours."

"I don't buy that, Rodney," Dennis said, the anger and humiliation building as the stares of his coworkers bore into his back. "It was a good presentation. You had no right—"

"I had every right, son," Rodney interrupted. "Time is money, Dennis, and I do not have one more penny to waste on this conversation. We are finished here."

"We are not finished here," Dennis breathed. "We had an agreement! I've got a contract! I ... I—"

Rodney grabbed Dennis's arm.

"Don't you threaten me, boy," Rodney growled under his breath.

"Let go of me!" Dennis yanked himself away from Rodney's grip so forcibly that the old man teetered on his heels and fell sideways. His nose connected with the corner of the boardroom table with a crunch. He landed hard on the floor and his hands jerked to his face, eyes wide with surprise and pain.

"My nose!" he moaned. People rushed to his side. Dennis could only stand and stare, his heart beating a mile a minute. It had been his fault. His boss was lying on the floor of the boardroom with a broken nose, and it was his fault. He knelt down. Rodney's eyes found his.

"Get out of here," the old man growled from between his palms. "You've done enough."

When Dennis reached his office, his coworker Andie Briggs was leaning on his desk. He worked with her most of the time and slept with her some of the time. Right now, he couldn't handle her. When she saw his harried expression, she became concerned.

"Dennis, what happened? You look like you want to kill someone. Did you have a fallout with Howard?"

He turned to her, eyes flashing.

"Grounds for war, more likely. Look, Andie, I really can't talk about this right now. I just want to be left alone so I can cool off."

His voice trembled with anger, and he was trying hard to control himself. But instead of leaving, she moved closer.

"You don't really mean that," she cooed. "You look like you could use a stiff drink or something."

An office romance had been the last thing on his mind when he had first met Andie, and their relationship had been almost accidental. He had been under a lot of strain creating the Howard Hardware presentation, and there had been many late nights. Melissa, his girlfriend of three years, traveled extensively. He knew in his heart that the excuses were lame, and he knew he was weak. But he would deal with his character flaws another day. Right now he needed to deal with Andie Briggs.

"Look, Andie," he hissed through his teeth. "When I say I want to be alone, I mean it. I should have put a stop to this before—hell, I shouldn't have even started it. Please, just go."

She slid off his desk and furiously straightened her skirt. Her eyes blazed with hurt and anger.

"Don't just think that you can brush me off like this, Dennis Hucksley," she warned, her scarlet cheeks a deeper red than the gaudy blush she usually wore. "Mr. High and Mighty has a bad day and then decides to turn into a good boy? I don't think so. Last I remember, you were knocking at my door, mister."

She strode by him, and slammed the door behind her. Dennis guessed that she would probably be back, but he didn't care. All he could think of was dancing wrenches and broken noses.

Yes, his future with the Howard Corporation was indeed doubtful. Looking around the darkening living room, Dennis suddenly felt lonely. He thought of Melissa and wished in the worst way that she were here with him. But thoughts of Andie intruded. She hadn't come back, but he knew he had not heard the last of it. Thinking of her words, he knew he would have to do some damage control. Andie wasn't the type to keep her mouth shut if she'd been hurt. He'd have to be careful.

Dennis shivered. Dank, chilly air invaded the house from every dark corner, and on impulse he decided to make a fire. Dennis changed into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, then went out to the garage to gather a few armloads of wood. He piled the logs haphazardly into the fireplace and clumsily stuffed some newspaper in between. The wood caught easily, but almost instantly smoke began to fill the room.

"Damn it!" Dennis swore, and tried playing around with the flue. The knob turned sluggishly in his hand, but did not give. He ran into the kitchen for a pail. Awkwardly, he stumbled back to the hearth and threw water on the flames. The fire hissed viciously and smoke recoiled into his face.

Dennis stamped on the charred wood with his boot until the fire was completely out. Then, coughing, he went around and opened the windows and doors . Slowly, the smoke began to clear. Approaching the fireplace, he played again with the flue. Something was stuck up there, or else the mechanism had rusted over. When had been the last time his mother had used the chimney? It was just like everything else in this place, old and worn.

"What a day, Ma," he said to the air. "Crap at work, crap at home...." His voice trailed off. He was too pissed for words. He took his boots off and threw them at the fireplace, then went upstairs to shower and go to bed.

The alarm rang at 7:30 a.m. Dennis woke and propped himself up on his pillows. He felt unsure of what to do. Misunderstandings, disagreements, could eventually be smoothed over, but Dennis had been responsible for Rodney's broken nose.

I guess that's one handyman who is no longer my friend, Dennis thought to himself. He guessed that he was now out of a job. His first opportunity to start cleaning the house. He cleaned off his boots, and swept up the charred mess he had made in the living room. The spectral sheets were removed and the furniture seemed to breathe a sigh of relief to welcome the open air. Minor repairs to leaky faucets, whose incessant dripping had driven him mad at night. Cobwebs and creatures were battled with in the garage and the basement. It had been a long time since anyone had disturbed their peace.

Early afternoon came, and Dennis collapsed on the couch, overheated and exhausted. He had just about dozed off when the nervous jangle of the doorbell bolted him awake. He opened the door to a teenager wearing ripped jeans, a faded cap and a black T-shirt proclaiming the name "Bob's" in stark white lettering. A cigarette hung precariously from his lower lip. Dennis spoke before the boy had time to talk.

"Look kid, I don't want any of whatever you're selling." He started to close the door, but the youth stopped it with a well-muscled arm.

"Hey man, take it easy. I'm not selling anything. Bob's chimney cleaning at your service. Great job for the cheapest price."

"How would you know if I needed my chimney cleaned?"

"I don't, but I betcha it needs one. Most folks don't bother with shit like this until someone like me actually brings it up. Call me a door-to-door salesman with a product that people actually need. But like I said, it's cheap. Cheapest price in town. And besides," there was a gleam in his eye, "I do the job special."

He grinned a mouth full of yellow teeth and, for that one moment, he seemed much older than he looked. Dennis was unimpressed by the less than tasteful way the kid was advertising, but good timing had knocked on his door.

"Special, eh?" Dennis repeated. "That's a strange use of terms, isn't it?"

"Well, I'm a strange sort of guy. But you won't be disappointed." He gutted his smoke casually on Dennis's front stoop.

"You seem to have made me an offer I can't refuse," Dennis said. "How's 10 o'clock Sunday morning to you?"

"Perfect." The kid slid his hat back from his eyes, then offered the same hand. "Name's Richie. Richie Cobb. See you at ten sharp. Pleasure doing business with you, Dennis."

With another sour grin, he turned and walked away. Dennis stood and watched him go, trying to remember when he had told the kid his name. Inexplicably, he was left with a lingering sense of unease.

Richie showed up at 10 a.m. Sunday, true to his word. Again, Dennis felt there was something strange about the kid that belied his age. It was his eyes. The colour was an indeterminable shade of yellowish green, almost like cat's eyes. His pupils were very dilated, even in the bright sunshine of the morning. There seemed to be a wisdom somehow—no, that wasn't quite right—a knowing behind them.

"—Dennis?"

"Oh, sorry?"

"I said payment is $75 even."

"Yeah, fine, fine. Let me just get my wallet."

"Gotcha," Richie nodded. He reached into his sleeve for a pack of cigarettes, lit one up, and dragged deeply. "Take your time." He exhaled slowly and made himself comfortable on the front stair.

"Don't you need more than one person to clean a chimney?" Dennis asked, returning with the money.

"Nah," Richie replied. "Technology is great these days. It's a snap."

Later that morning, while Richie was working, Dennis sat at his desk. He held an envelope in his hand with his written resignation inside. He turned it around and around, handling it like it was a fragile piece of china. If this piece of paper were given in, his life would be different, and Dennis wasn't sure he would like the change. He had given 12 years of service to Howard Advertising. Now there would be nothing, and he would have to start over. But what choice did he really have?

He was spared of the dreaded trip to the office when Ada Barnsworth, Rodney's secretary, called him. Rodney wanted to meet with Dennis; in fact, he wanted to come by Dennis's place later in the evening.

"I'll tell him that 8 o'clock will be fine with you," Ada informed him formally. Then, in a softer voice, she told him that no one blamed him for what happened. "If you ask me, I think the old coot got what he deserved. I think he may want to make peace. It must be important anyway, if he wants to meet with you outside the office. Good luck, Dennis," she finished, and hung up.

Dennis put the letter down. He decided that he would wait until he heard what the old man had to say, and take it from there.

The next call came from Andie. He knew it was a mistake, but he brushed her off quickly and hung up. He had too much on his mind at this point to play cat-and-mouse games with her. He was playing with fire, he knew, but more important things took priority. She was beginning to annoy him.

Richie finished cleaning the chimney by midafternoon. He used the washroom to clean up and then wrote a receipt for the work.

"Any problems?" Dennis inquired. "When I lit the fire the other night, I think the flue was open but smoke still backed into the room. Was there some kind of blockage?"

"Yep," Richie answered, but did not elaborate.

"I guess my mother sure did a good job getting that thing plugged up somehow."

"It was nothing a pro like me couldn't handle," Richie replied cryptically. "But it's all ready to go again."

Dennis again wondered at the vague way in which the kid spoke. Strangely, it seemed as if they were talking about two completely separate things. Richie finished the receipt and handed it over to Dennis.

"Thanks," Dennis said, and handed him a ten.

Richie crumpled the bill into his front pocket. He started down the walk, and suddenly turned back.

"By the way, I'm sorry about your mom. She was a nice lady." He winked at Dennis, then got into his pick-up and drove off.

Dennis was caught off guard. How did the kid know about his mother? Then he chided himself on being paranoid. This wasn't the biggest community, and the kid was probably the grandson of one of his mother's friends. That would also explain how he knew Dennis's name. Dennis closed the door and went into the kitchen for a beer.

Dennis's doorbell rang promptly at eight that evening. He had been nervous as the eighth hour approached, but he told himself that things would work themselves out. As soon as he opened the door, however, he knew that would not be the case. Sound the call to arms.

"Hello," Rodney said formally. He nodded his head curtly as he spoke, and straightened up. He's trying to intimidate me, Dennis thought. But it's not going to work, 'cause he looks like an idiot with a big wad of gauze where his nose is supposed to be.

"Rodney," Dennis returned coldly. "Won't you come in."

Rodney strode haughtily past Dennis into the living room.

"Would you like a drink?" Dennis asked mechanically.

"No, thank you," Rodney replied. "Our business is brief." Trying to seem casual yet threatening, Rodney reached out and leaned a stubby hand on the fireplace mantle. He crossed one foot over the other. Dennis settled himself on the couch.

"Let me get right to the point. We've known each other for quite a few years now, and let me be the first one to say that this is not the direction I had anticipated for our relationship."

He lost his carefully planned out intimidation routine as he began to pace the room.

"In the interest of the company, Dennis, I feel that your behaviour in the boardroom was both inappropriate and unacceptable. Chaos occurs when employees step over the line to question authority, especially in front of other employees."

"What about me?" Dennis retorted bitterly. "What about all the hard work I put into that project? You didn't even have the decency to tell me to my face that you were going to dump it. I was humiliated, because you were a coward! Is that how you run your business, Mr. Howard?" Dennis stood from the couch, holding Rodney's gaze. His adrenaline was pumping, and he was ready for a fight. So was Rodney.

"Mr. Hucksley," Rodney returned the formality. "It is really a shame that I did not realize your incompetence sooner. You should know that, in this world, things like this happen all the time. They happen to insignificant pieces of shit like you by powerful people like me. And by the way this situation has unfolded with petty threats, one can easily see why you are and always will be an insignificant piece of shit, and why I am and always will be in power."

"You son of a bitch," Dennis breathed. "You know that I deserved better than what I got from you."

"Well, dear boy," Rodney clucked under his breath, and wandered casually to the fireplace, feigning interest in the pictures that lined the mantle. He turned to face Dennis, grinning triumphantly.

"You are going to get exactly what you deserve. Like I always say, if you can't swim with the sharks, then you'd better —Uh?"

Rodney grunted suddenly, his words cut off. He looked down. His pants cuff had started to slide up his shin by some invisible force, exposing his argyle sock and sock suspender underneath. His leg looked somewhat distorted. He tried to move, and yelped as he felt a sharp stab of pain up through his knee.

"What the hell?!" Rodney shouted to Dennis, bewildered. "What the—ohmygod, what the fuck is this?"

Dennis could not answer. All he could do was gape at the old man. Impossibly, the skin on Rodney's leg was being pulled—no, sucked toward the open cavity of the fireplace. Dennis blinked and rubbed his eyes in disbelief, but nothing changed.

Rodney squawked in alarm as he fell to the floor, his leg dangling crazily in the air behind him. The skin was stretched away from the bone, and he looked like a misshapen marionette. Dennis was momentarily reminded of a toy he had as a kid, Stretch Armstrong.

"Help me!" Rodney cried, frantically grabbing at the short piles of the carpet to try to pull himself away from the fireplace. "Goddamit, help me!" he screamed.

Rodney's right leg was almost completely up the shaft. His other leg was on its way but was bent and the bridge of his shoe was caught on the upper brick of the opening. He shrieked in pain as his knee bone snapped; and then the leg followed easily after the first. He was now hanging on to the wood container by the hearth. The bandage on his face was dripping with blood, his face bloated and purple, his eyes bulging wildly from their sockets. His coat and shirt were bunched under his armpits, his belly dragging over the marble as the thing continued to eat him. Dennis stood where he was, frozen. He vaguely heard Rodney's cries for help, but could not move to help him. His mind was shutting down his mental circuits, and the scene unfolded like a horror movie before him. What a terrible flick, Dennis thought idiotically. I want my money back. That made him laugh, a hysterical, high-pitched bark that almost matched Rodney's screams.

But now Rodney had stopped screaming. His hands had let go of the wood tray and lay limply on the marble hearth. He had disappeared up to his waist, his bloody face smeared in the charred ashes of the fire from the week before. He looked like a Santa Claus who had come down the chimney head first and had gotten stuck. His belly began to bulge grotesquely as the thing kept sucking, a balloon distended with too much air. The skin started to pucker, and he looked as if he would explode. His throat was working convulsively, but emitted only low, guttural grunts. Large blue veins were popping out on his arms and back and began to leak blood. Then, with what seemed like a large force, his belly gave and Rodney Howard the Third disappeared into the chimney.

Dennis stood where he was for a long time, his mind a chaotic, crazy thing. Slowly his mind began to decelerate, and he let himself down on the couch. I do the job special. It's all ready to go. Richie's voice echoed dully in Dennis's head. I do the job special.

He had done that, all right.

What the hell just happened here? Dennis demanded of himself.

He's gone, an inner voice spoke up. He got sucked up the chimney and he's gone.

But where did he go? Dennis lamented. Is that bloodied wreck somewhere up inside my chimney, or did he get sucked into some time warp or different dimension, like a Twilight Zone movie or a Stephen King novel?

Calm down, Dennis, the inner voice soothed. It doesn't matter where he's gone to. Something crazy did just happen, beyond comprehension. But think a little. Whatever it was just did you a huge favour. He was going to make your life hell, but now Rodney Howard the Third is no longer among the living. Don't you know what this means?

No, Dennis whined. He was shivering.

Yes you do. C'mon, wake up! You are going to be at work tomorrow because Rodney came over tonight and apologized. He gave you your job back and everything is hunky dory. And Rodney won't be around to say anything different, ever.

Dennis smiled strangely.

But you have to be smart, the inner voice continued. You can't leave any sign of what happened here tonight. When he doesn't turn up in a few days, people will start asking questions, and eventually it will be found out that you were the last one to see him. First things first, you have to clean up this mess. Then you get rid of his car. After that, get your story straight. The two of you worked things out, and he left around nine. Got that?

"Yeah, I got it," Dennis said out loud. He looked up at the fireplace and shuddered. Was he going crazy? Did it really happen? The blood on the marble hearth told him yes. Dennis walked slowly to the kitchen. As he was running a towel under the tap, he glanced at the clock. It was a quarter of nine. It was almost comical—technically speaking, Rodney had left before nine. But to Dennis it seemed like hours, painfully slow hours as he heard Rodney's cries and watched the man get swallowed into the brick opening. Wet towel in hand, he returned to the living room. He approached the chimney when he caught himself. The thought of what he had been about to do made his blood run cold, and he felt his bladder release.

What if the thing sucked him up, as well?

Dennis put the towel to his face and held the coolness there a moment. He ran it back through his hair and then let it hang limply at his side. He felt sick.

Now what, genius? he asked himself. How do I know that thing, whatever it is, won't do the same to me?

I think you know the answer to that, Dennis, the voice answered. It's your chimney. Don't you realize by now that Richie showing up at your door was no coincidence? Remember how you felt there was some double-talk going on? Richie was sent to you because you needed an answer to your problems. It doesn't want you.

Dennis understood.

He took a deep breath, composed himself, and advanced slowly. He bent to his knees, which were stiff and tense, and the joints popped painfully. He reached the towel out in one trembling hand and held his breath as he gingerly lowered the towel onto the hearth. He felt the cold smoothness of the marble beneath the thin material, the surface dead and unforgiving. His heart was pounding deep in his throat and he was very aware of the wetness he had created in the crotch of his pants moments before. His hand was still. The seconds crawled by.

Nothing happened.

Cautiously, he began to soak up the blood, trying to blot out the vision of Rodney's knee snapping like a chicken bone. Eventually he picked up a little speed, finally convinced that whatever had taken Rodney had no designs on him. It belonged to him.

When Dennis was finished in the house, he went upstairs to change his clothes. He threw his soiled pants disgustedly into the laundry. Pissing yourself had to be one of the most humiliating things that could happen to a grown man, and Dennis was briefly reminded of a guy he had known in elementary school, Alan Raker. Alan was caught by his mother as he masturbated into his pants while he hid in his closet. Dennis and some other friends came by to get Alan that afternoon after school, and his mother had dragged him out of the house by his ear and explained to all of them how Alan had acquired the wet mess on his pants. Alan never again spoke to any of them and had transferred schools before month's end.

Fading back into his present nightmare, Dennis hunted around for a pair of gloves to put on when driving Rodney's car. He panicked when he realized that the car keys had probably gone up the chimney along with their owner and breathed a huge sigh of relief when he found them among the ashes. Outside he stood for a long moment, listening. The night was quiet. He discreetly got into the car and rolled it back out of the drive in neutral, with the headlights off. On the road, he kept his speed down. He drove to the industrial district by the waterfront and left the car behind an abandoned warehouse that was isolated in one end of the district. He felt like a shady criminal in a bad detective movie, and he could not comprehend his own calm and methodical disposal of the car. Where had this calmness come from? Chimneys don't just come to life and eat people, yet here Dennis was, covering up tracks of that very situation as if were no big deal. It was probably an insane calmess, like being catatonic. He could imagine being caught and jibbering to the police how his boss was sucked up his chimney. He could also imagine the cop picking up the phone and dialing up the looney bin. We got a live one for ya.

Turning his collar up and trying to look inconspicuous, he wearily started home.

Dennis reached his front doorstep just after 10:30 p.m. It had taken him barely an hour and a half to erase all trace of the incident, and it was a wonder that there had been no blood on the carpet. He felt frustrated and worn, with an inner restlessness that one might feel when they know they're having a nightmare but cannot wake from it. In his case, the nightmare was real, and there would be no Auntie Em telling him it was all a bad dream in the morning. As Dennis walked through the living room into the kitchen, he glanced at the hearth. It renewed the sick feeling in his stomach, and he again heard the brittle snapping of Rodney's bones. He drew a sharp breath and squeezed his eyes shut until his stomach gymnastics subsided.

As the coffee brewed, Dennis sat motionless at the table, his mind trying to sort out the events of the evening. What was that thing connected to his house? It sure as hell was not a purely architectural structure. And why now? Why him? He needed to talk to the kid. Whoever or whatever he was, he had done something more to that chimney than just clean it, and Dennis was badly in need of some answers. He tried the phone book with shaky hands, but there was no chimney cleaning service listed under "Bob's." He ran upstairs to his mother's old bureau to find her address book. He turned to "C," but did not find anything close to "Cobb." As he tossed the address book back into the drawer, some small, thin papers freed themselves from the pages and fell to the floor. He picked them up and sorted through them absently. One of the papers stopped him cold. He recognized it as identical to the one sitting in his wallet—a receipt for a chimney cleaning. Handwritten across his mother's receipt were the words, "Thanks for your business, Richie." He stared at it in disbelief. That couldn't be. The kid couldn't be more than seventeen; and the receipt was already yellowed with age. Then again, considering the events of the evening, maybe it wasn't so hard to believe.

So Richie had cleaned his chimney years before. Could the same thing have happened to his mother all those years ago? He recalled his own words earlier: "My mother sure did a good job plugging it up somehow." Then, with a dull thud in his head, he remembered Richie's response: "But it's all ready to go again." Richie had been sent to him because he needed an answer to his problems. His stomach turning anew, he fearfully searched out the date on the yellowed note. A week after his birthday; the year his father had left.

"Oh my God," Dennis breathed, and fell to his knees onto the floor. 'He was a drunk and a gambler and he didn't love you.' What had his mother done to his father?

At eight sharp the next morning, Dennis Hucksley walked through the doors of Howard Advertising. On the way to his office, he was stopped by Ada.

"Nice to see you, Dennis," she said to him. "Can I take this to mean that you worked things out with Rodney last night?"

Dennis smiled.

"Yes, Ada, everything worked out just fine. And thank you for asking." He continued towards his office.

Later that morning, there was a tentative knock on Dennis's door. Andie peeked her head in.

"May I come in?" she asked.

Dennis regarded her pleasantly.

"Of course, Andie. Please, come and sit."

She came in and softly closed the door behind her. She was guarded.

"Can I take this to mean that everything is okay?I guess everything is fine with your job and all, but you know, us."

Dennis watched her for a long moment, but she could not hold his gaze and looked away uncomfortably.

"Andie." His tone changed to one of hardness, and she looked up sharply.

"Did Rodney talk to you about my situation? Besides me, you were—I mean, are, the closest to him in this company."

"Yeah," she admitted. "He actually had a lot to say about it. And none of it was nice. Frankly, I was surprised to see you this morning. He told me that he was going to blackball you from not only Howard Hardware, but the local competitors as well. He must have had some change of heart last night."

"Yes, he must have," Dennis echoed blankly. He was nervous. Would any of this really work? He was becoming increasingly paranoid—he imagined that everyone who looked at him could see his guilty heart and his bloody hands. With renewed confidence, Andie sat forward in her chair, leaning towards Dennis as if she had some delicious secret to tell. Of sorts, she did.

"By the way, Dennis, I saw Melissa this morning in the coffee shop." Her expression was coy. Dennis flinched. "She got in early this morning and had to go straight to work, so I assume she hasn't had a chance to be in touch." A lazy finger found a lock of hair and began to coil it.

"I would very much like for you to reconsider the way you left things between us this past week. Otherwise," her eyes gleamed, "I may be inclined to join Melissa for her morning coffee one of these days and have a pleasant chat." She leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs.

Silence.

A vein slowly began to throb in Dennis's temple. This simply could not do. Melissa could not find out about Andie; it would break her heart. He could not give her up. He looked at Andie and smiled.

"Come over here," he demanded.

She regarded him suspiciously for a moment, then slowly rose and walked around the desk. His arms circled her thighs and he looked up at her.

"Anything I said before was said out of frustration. You caught me at a bad time, is all. But that's all over now."

For someone who considered herself such a player, she was actually quite naive and easily convinced. She slid into his lap.

"There won't be any need for early-morning conversations over coffee, Andie. I'm sorry about everything."

"It's okay, baby," she whispered huskily, and drew closer. He kissed her then, soft and lingering.

"I have an idea," Dennis whispered back. "Why don't you come to my place for dinner tonight. We could explore that 'something more' that you offered in our last conversation."

"You got it," she said, kissing him once more and pressing herself momentarily against his crotch. "What about Melissa?"

"Don't worry about that. I'll take care of Melissa."

"Okay, I'll be there at seven." She blew him a seductive kiss and closed the door lightly behind her. She did not notice the cold, hardened expression that came over Dennis's face as she left.

At seven o'clock, Dennis was sitting calmly in his living room. His hands were folded casually on his lap, his expression blank. But inside his head he was screaming. The mental clockwork of his brain was working overtime, and he felt he knew what it was like to be going crazy. He had known a girl in high school who had experienced some sort of breakdown, Annie Hartman. She once tried to explain to him what went on inside her head.

"You hear things, Dennis," she told him. "You hear things and you see things. The voices come and take over your mind, and you become trapped. After that, it's Game Over. Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred."

Her words now resonated dimly in his head.

"I'm not like that," Dennis spoke out loud. "I'm not sick. I saw it happen. I saw him get sucked up my chimney. I am not crazy."

The noise in his head got louder, a sound like the white noise on a TV set. He clutched his hands to his ears.

"Make it stop!" he shrieked to no one. It stopped. And out of the silence he once again heard the inner voice.

You're not crazy, Dennis. You know it happened. Get a hold of yourself.

Dennis did.

Andie will be here soon, and you can't make her suspicious. Everything has to go smoothly. You know what to do.

(You hear things ... then it's Game Over.)

"Who are you!" Dennis screamed.

(Do not pass go..)

Don't be silly, Dennis. You know that I'm you. I'm the calm rational side of you.

(...do not collect two hundred.)

"But I'm not a murderer," Dennis said weakly.

No, you're not. But under the circumstances, you have to look out for yourself. Don't you know what will happen when the police question Andie about what Rodney said? And what about Melissa? Do you want to let Andie's fingers do the walking? Do you want her to reach out and touch the wrong someone? Now, don't bail on yourself, and don't get paranoid. There's no one in your head except you. The voice subsided.

"Then why don't I believe you?" Dennis asked aloud. He had been doing a lot of rationalizing the last two days, but that particular voice in his head seemed somehow foreign. Maybe it was this cursed house talking to him—hell, maybe it was the chimney. He tried to compose himself as he heard a car pull up into the driveway.

Dennis met Andie at the door. She kissed him on her way in and handed him a bottle of wine.

"If we finish this, maybe we won't make it in to work tomorrow," she hinted.

He tried to smile at her, but it turned out like more of a grimace.

"Maybe," he croaked. She looked at him sharply.

"Is everything okay, Dennis? I mean, you sound a little forced. Are you having second thoughts?"

"N-no, I'm fine," he stammered. "I'm still just a bit bothered by this whole thing with Rodney. Um, let's go into the living room." She followed on his heels into the other room, unbuttoning her blazer as she walked. Dennis felt pools of sweat under his arms, and thoughts were racing through his head like the Indy 500.

"Why don't I pour the wine while you make yourself at home, Andie?" he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

"Okay," she replied dutifully. "But hurry, in case I get lonely." She sauntered into the living room. He watched her from the door, mentally pushing her to walk around the room to the fireplace. But instead, she removed her blazer and eased herself down on the couch.

Dennis stood. He panicked. How was he going to do this? His palms became greasy with sweat, and he nervously loosened his tie. He suddenly lost his grip on the wine bottle and it went crashing to the floor, shards of glass flying everywhere. Eyeing the mess, he realized that his nervousness had just provided the perfect scenario. Dennis peeked through the kitchen door to Andie, who had sat up at the noise.

"Everything's all right," he sputtered. "But I'll need to get us another bottle of wine. Small accident." Her expression lightened.

"Need some help?" she offered.

"Actually, my broom is in the garage. Would you be able to pass me the fireplace brush and pan instead? It'll work just as well."

He was sweating freely now, his heart pounding deep in every vein, his manner desperate. She didn't notice. She got up, and it seemed to Dennis that she crossed the floor in slow motion. He watched, fixated, her every agonizing step towards the hearth. His thoughts were frantic, his breath spastic. He sounded asthmatic. As she reached out a hand for the fireplace rack, Dennis somehow was able to find the strength to shut his eyes. His hands flew to his ears, and he rotated blindly towards the kitchen. His body protested the awkward movement as something popped in his left shoulder. He stood that way for a long time, hearing only his rapid, wheezy breathing and his pummelling heart. More time passed. Carefully, Dennis lowered his hands from his ears. Nothing. He braced himself for a scene similar to Rodney's, gritted his teeth, and turned.

The room was empty. The only disturbance was the knocked-over fireplace rack. It was over. Sighing with relief, he lowered himself to the floor and waited for the Jell-O feeling to leave his legs. When he felt a little better, Dennis repeated the drill of the previous night, and left Andie's car right next to Rodney's at the waterfront. Although he had done it only once before, it felt all too familiar. Back in the house, he cleaned up the broken glass. Then he approached the fireplace and picked up the rack. He realized that he was weeping. He slid to his knees and faced the fireplace, as the tears openly streamed down his cheeks. He felt himself torn.

"I don't know whether to love you or hate you," he whimpered to the fireplace, as he dried his tears with the back of his shirt cuff. The black opening stared back at him like an eyeless socket. This entire thing was too much for him to handle; he was beyond his rational wits. Guilt and relief fought a silent war for dominance in his mind. Suddenly he grew very tired and needed to lie down. Heading towards the stairs, something on the couch caught his eye. Andie's blazer. He picked it up between two fingers like it was diseased; he felt a chill up his spine even touching it. He threw it into the fireplace, with the intention of burning it in the morning. It could wait until then.

Nightmares ravaged his sleep. He tossed and moaned, but his unconscious was unmerciful and would not allow him to wake. He stood in his living room, and a bright fire blazed in the fireplace. In the blue flames he saw Andie's face. It was distorted. She was laughing at him.

"It's yours, Dennis, but you cannot control it," the Andie thing said. Then the face changed and Melissa's face appeared, soft and innocent. She looked at him questioningly.

"Dennis—?" she started, and then her image disintegrated into the flames. The fire exploded out of the opening. Dennis shook in his sleep as the fire engulfed him, but still did not wake. Then he slowly slipped into a deeper, calmer sleep, where a great blanket of darkness held him and rested his conscience for at least a little while.

The next day was a nightmare in itself for Dennis. Tired from a restless night, he went through the motions of work. Rodney's disappearance was the news of the office, and rumours were rampant, although no one had yet questioned Dennis. Melissa called him before lunch. She had tried calling the night before, but no one had picked up.

"I must have been in the shower," he lied, figuring she had called when he had been getting rid of Andie's car. In his panic over Andie, he had completely forgotten to phone Melissa. He didn't even want to entertain the thought of what would have happened if she had just decided to come over. She arranged to come see him after work.

"I missed you, Dennis," she told him over the phone. "I can't wait to see you."

She sounded so sweet, so safe. In reality, she was the only sane thing he had left to hold on to; she seemed almost a saviour. By the end of the day, his mood had improved, and he was impatient to see Melissa, to hold her.

As Dennis pulled up to his driveway, Melissa was dropped off by a friend. Quickly parking his car, he ran to meet her, gripping her tightly and taking in her sweetness. Oh, things seemed almost normal again. She was surprised by his intensity. She pulled away and looked into his eyes.

"Dennis, you look terrible, as if you haven't slept in days. What's been going on?"

"Things have been tough at work, is all," he managed, and broke her gaze. He wanted to tell her everything, but he was scared. She would probably think he lost his mind, and it wouldn't be far from the truth. He felt he had one foot in the rubber room.

"Let's go inside." He kissed her deeply and led her into the foyer.

"I'll put some coffee on, and you go sit and relax," he instructed, and headed for the kitchen. Melissa took off her coat and wandered casually through the hallway after him. Passing through the living room, she noticed a splash of colour from within the fireplace. A coat? A sweater?

"Dennis, there's something in your fireplace," she called to him.

"What's that?"

"A coat or something in your fireplace."

Dennis froze at the kitchen counter, coffee grinds spilling like sand from the filter in his hand.

Andie's blazer.

He had forgotten about it. His throat dried to sandpaper, his tongue became a dead thing in his mouth. But somehow he found the words as he threw himself into the living room.

"Melissa, NOOO—!" he shrieked in horror. But it was too late. She was already by the hearth, reaching an innocent hand towards the blazer. In that one agonizing moment, she turned and looked at him, her eyes questioning.

"Dennis—?" she started, and that was all she had time for. Her hair flew upwards as if it were caught in a wind current, and her neck momentarily stretched like an elastic. For one sick moment he thought her head would rip clean off her shoulders. Her body jerked and spasmed upward into the shaft, whipped from side to side and bouncing helplessly off of the brick. One of her shoes was shaken from her foot and landed on its side by the hearth. It was over in seconds. Dennis had lunged at her from across the room, but it happened too quickly. He landed squarely on his stomach, her shoe bare inches from his outstretched hand.

"NO, NO, OH GOD, NO!" Dennis screamed horribly. He lay where he was, unmoving, clutching the shoe in his hand. As night fell, he no longer wept. A vacant surrender crept in like the Sandman, and as he drifted into a hazy sleep on his floor by the fireplace, he remembered his dream the night before, and Andie's words. It belongs to you, Dennis, but you cannot control it. With those words circling like vultures in his head, Dennis checked out for the night.

Morning came. Dennis had moved to his couch, still clutching Melissa's shoe. A voice spoke up in his head.

Dennis, man. You've got to snap out of it.

"Leave me alone," Dennis muttered.

I can't do that, Dennis. Listen, you have to get a hold of yourself. People will start asking questions.

"Shut the fuck up," Dennis said quietly. "It's Game Over. None of it matters anymore. Get the fuck out of my head." He settled back into his troubled haze, and the voice reluctantly subsided. He sat.

Night fell once again. Dennis sat comfortably by a blazing fire, sipping chamomile tea and watching the news. The fire crackled and hissed pleasantly. The doorbell rang. Dennis carefully put down his tea. He went to answer the door, but not before carefully removing a lady's brown leather pump from his lap and placing it in a cabinet. Two young police officers waited on his front stoop. One of them consulted a small notepad, and then looked up at him.

"Mr. Dennis Hucksley?" he inquired.

"Yes, that's me," Dennis answered politely. "What can I do for you officers this fine evening?"

The other officer cleared his throat.

"This is in regard to the disappearance of your employer, a Mr. Rodney Howard the Third, and another co-worker of yours, a Miss Andrea Briggs. Their abandoned cars have been found by the waterfront. We would like to ask you a few questions."

"Of course," Dennis said pleasantly. "It's quite chilly out here. Please, won't you come in and warm yourselves by the fire?"

He smiled sweetly.

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