Watching the Defectives

By TJ Davis

What would it be like to live next door to a haunted house? When Wes Frazier takes a job as a caretaker for the recently widowed Daniel Malone, he is given strict instructions to never step foot in the neighboring house. Families buy the house but never stay for long. As time goes by, Wes is forced to decide whether or not he should confront the evil next door.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TJ Davis
• Release date: Oct 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463676912

TJ Davis

TJ Davis is an international teacher from Minnesota. His published writing includes five collections of short stories, two novellas, and a travel memoir about his three years living in Myanmar. His short story “Itchy” finished in the top 16 of the Discovery Channel’s “How Stuff Works Halloween Fiction Contest.” His works have also been included in the Chicago Center of Literature and Photography and Moloko House. He currently lives in Sofia, Bulgaria.

Book preview

Part 1

Chapter 1: The Roommate

Daniel Malone didn’t imagine that at sixty he would need a roommate. A live-in nurse would have been ideal, but there weren’t any to be found near Roy Lake in northern Minnesota. On the advice of the sympathetic hospital receptionist at Mahnomen Health Center, he posted a position on Craigslist. Wes Frazier was looking to relocate after losing a job he'd never loved and burying a mother that he had. He'd been scouring the Northwest Minnesota Craigslist ads for jobs and a place to live. He found both with Daniel's offer.

The overture was simple: rent-free living, all utilities paid for, free food, plus a salary of two hundred dollars a week.

Having been responsible for his ailing mother during her final weeks, Wes had lost the inborn disgust of bodily fluids that kept most people from wanting to join in the burgeoning economy of elderly care. The sixty-year-old man's paralysis was not something he had experience with, but he figured he knew what the job demanded.

Wes had sold his car to pay off the last of the funeral costs, which was fine because Daniel still owned a truck that he obviously couldn't use anymore. During their first meeting, he'd told Wes he'd had an accident and lost the use of legs. Wes thought it would be inappropriate to ask for an elaboration, and Daniel seemed fine leaving the details unspoken.

Daniel went to bed early that first night, and Wes spent the final hours of the night unpacking his minimal belongings in the upstairs bedroom. It didn't take long. There were more unused hangers than used ones in the closet after he'd taken out all of his clothes, summer and winter. On the small desk, he plugged in his laptop. The view from the second floor was pleasant: the only neighbor’s house was surprisingly modern looking, and in the distance, some far-off lights showed the scattered houses resting in the valley below. A For Sale sign for the next door swung lazily in the wind. He went to bed thinking that Daniel was nice, albeit a bit shy.

After his alarm went off, he helped Daniel into his wheelchair and served him a simple breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee. Daniel asked him to go in the closet next to their front door and get him the BB gun inside. Wes brought it out, wondering what would the old man had in mind. Daniel opened one of the kitchen drawers and took out a box the size of a small brick which contained hundreds of small metal balls. There must have been ten boxes in the drawer. Daniel closed the drawer, put the small box in his lap, and wheeled himself unto the porch. Wes handed him the BB gun, sat down with his half-finished cup of coffee, and watched in silence as Daniel loaded it and set his sight on the birds flying around the house next door.

The sound of the shot was quieter than Wes had expected. A hard puff followed each pull of the trigger. A few birds scattered from the shots, but Wes didn't see any of them fall.

Which ones are you aiming for? he asked.

Swallows and starlings, he said, keeping one eye closed and aiming again. Pests.

Wes didn't know the difference between the two, but he assumed they were some of the smaller ones that flickered around the corners of the glass house. Daniel aimed and shot again. The BBs hit the wood of the house with a quiet plinking sound.

Aren't you worried about breaking the windows? Wes asked.

Nope. Not strong enough. Hits the window, bounces right off. Doesn't even make a scratch. If it hits the stone, they bounce right off. The BBs get buried in the wood sometimes. But what can you do?

Wes didn't know what to say to this, so he didn't say anything. The old man had a look in his eyes that Wes didn't expect from his kind demeanor: anger. Maybe that was the key to remaining spry as you got older. Daniel seemed to function extraordinarily well for his age, except for his lower half. His fork hadn't trembled while they had eaten their breakfast, and he seemed to have a steady aim. Despite that, Daniel was a terrible shot. He didn't hit a single bird even though he must have pulled the trigger twenty times.

I suppose we ought to get on with the exercises, Daniel said. Would you mind getting me out of this pissed diaper and then giving me a quick wash?

Throughout the day, Daniel always asked, never demanded, when he needed something done. Every request was asked with his eyes down on the ground or off in the distance. The amount of eye contact Wes received during his first few days made him think that he was constantly doing something wrong, though he couldn't imagine what.

Wes followed Daniel to the bathroom, changed his diaper (which Daniel refused to call an incontinence pad) and helped him into the bathtub so he could wash up. Daniel kept talking while he did this, so there was never an awkward silence. He had a gift for small talk, keeping the conversation away from anything personal. Wes took this as a signal that Daniel didn't want to have any such questions asked of him either. That was fine. It was a job. He didn't need to hear the old man's life story, and Wes didn't feel like dredging up his recent memories. In fact, he tried hard to avoid them at all costs. Luckily, Daniel could talk about Twins baseball for hours on end.

After he’d toweled himself off, Wes helped Daniel with his exercises. He eased the old man on the buffed wood of the living room floor where there was the most space. Hip rotations to start with. Rolling his ankles. Toe rotations. And ending with leg rotations. In actuality, Wes was the one doing the most strenuous work, moving Daniel's lower half to maximize circulation. Then he would relax while Daniel did sit-ups, push-ups, and some work with free weights to maintain his strength.

That first morning, after helping him back into his wheelchair, Wes was given a list of groceries. Daniel handed him his keys. Wes had to pull up the seat when he first got in, wondering who the short person had been that had driven the truck last. The grocery store was about ten miles away and small enough that everything was found quickly. The faces of the locals were a strange mix of smiling and suspicious. When he got back, he found Daniel in the kitchen with all sorts of pots and pans out.

Listen, Wes. I don't mean to come off as ungrateful, but your cooking tastes like shit.

Wes dropped the bags on the kitchen counter and stood with his arms on his hips.

Well, I'm sorry, Daniel. Then again, it looked like you left a clean plate this morning.

Don't get all pissy. I'm going to teach you how to cook. Wash your hands.

Wes received his first cooking lesson. Daniel kept his eyes on Wes' hands and the various pans, demanding to be listened to precisely. He kept a flat wooden spoon at the ready, and he would hit the back of Wes' hand whenever he deviated from his exact instructions. After a carton of eggs, Wes could make a halfway decent omelet, both a golden brown one and a creamy French one.

That's better. See that? You serve that to a woman for breakfast, and you just might be able to hold on to her. Unless you're gay?

Wes was surprised, not because the question offended him, which it didn’t, but that Daniel was asking a personal question at all. No. I'm straight, Wes said.

Either way. None of my business. But speaking of which, you can't ever bring a date back here. Do you understand? No friends either. No one. He looked up into Wes’ eyes for the first time that morning, and it was a disconcerting sight. Daniel looked scared.

Why not? Wes asked. He hadn't planned on bringing anybody over, but still, he was living there. It was kind of his place for the time being as well. Daniel had never mentioned anything about this during their Craigslist messages or their one phone call, and it made Wes wonder what other surprises would come and why the old man seemed so afraid.

Because that's my rule. You don't like it, you can go. You've got no rent. No lease. Can leave anytime you want.

And you can just kick me out anytime you want?

The movement of Daniel's jawline made it look to Wes like he was chewing on the inside of his cheek. I'm not some paranoid cripple.

The word was out there now. Wes had thought it more than once since seeing the job advertisement, but he never would have said it. But there it was.

I never said you were paranoid. Or that you were a...that you were that. I just asked a question. It doesn't seem like a normal rule.

Daniel sighed. You're just going to have to trust me. I'm serious. You can't bring anyone over here. Ever. Friends or family or one-night-stands. I value my privacy. You have no idea how much it took out of me just to put out that ad that got you here.

Wes' anger was stifled by the sight of Daniel starting to cry. Embarrassment fish-hooked his eyes away from the sight, but a dark impulse made him steal a few glances. To push that part of himself away, he got busy washing the dishes and putting the food away, the colder items already making the plastic bags wet. It didn't help the embarrassment. It was just as horrible to hear an old person cry as it was seeing it. But the urge to look was kept at bay by keeping his eyes on the plates and pans. He might not have been able to cook, but he knew how to keep a home clean.

For his part, Daniel got himself under control and was silently impressed by how quickly Wes remembered where everything was in the kitchen. Never having installed a dishwasher, Wes didn't just have to wash the dishes by hand, he also had to dry them off and put them back where they belonged. The sink and the counter were spotless by the time Wes wiped his hands dry.

With the exercises and lunch done, they had the afternoon to themselves. Daniel watched TV from his bed in the living room while Wes draped his leg over an easy chair and looked on his phone. After the hottest part of the day ended, he went in the garage, took out the weed whacker and the mower and worked outside for a good hour. He came back in, sweating through his shirt.

You want me to weed the garden? he asked.

No...no, Daniel said softly. I made some lemonade. Want to have some on the porch with me?

Wes accepted, and they sat on the porch, facing the empty house next door, sipping their drinks.

Chapter 2: The Architect

1954

When Douglas Taylor first caught sight of Frank Lloyd Wright's Fallingwater, he grabbed his sketchpad and drew it from every possible angle. Whenever he passed a newsstand, the young architect would flip through flimsy pages of every magazine that might mention the remarkable building. He even sent Wright a letter full of technical questions. Douglas received no reply, yet that didn't deter him. All that glass. The way that the building was both within and without the green landscape and flowing water. Once he saw the possibilities of cantilevers, those seemingly gravity-defying structural supports that projected into the air, his life took on a purpose that few ever find. It was only a matter of finding a future homeowner with pockets deep enough to make the blueprints in his mind a reality.

So many dreams are like playful dogs with tennis balls in their mouths, approaching close but never quite within reach. Slowly, unrealized dreams run out air, deflating a little more every day like undisposed birthday balloons, but Douglas was patient, and he kept his dream alive.

It took five years of waiting before Alfred Hitchcock released North by Northwest and the architect found his man: Thaddeus Halford.

Halford visited Taylor's office in Bagley, Minnesota wanting an estimate for the construction of a standard two-story house. The office still reeked of stale cigarettes from the previous renter. Douglas Taylor ran a metal-bladed fan nonstop to counteract the smell, which meant the various papers on his desk had to be secured with all manner of impromptu paperweights. Binders of building codes for Clearwater County, Minnesota. Rocks from building sites. Even with the fan, the room sweltered in the July heat. When Thaddeus knocked, Douglas invited him to take off his coat and hat before offering him a glass of water. Halford politely refused and revealed pictures of the plot of land he'd purchased.

Somehow, Thaddeus Halford had acquired property near the highest peak of Clearwater County, the delectably named Strawberry Mountain. Douglas’ mouth was indeed watering, but it had nothing to do with pomological associations.

The architect asked him if he'd seen Hitchcock's latest movie.

Loved it. Cary Grant really knocked it out of the park. Like Douglas, Halford was in his early twenties. He had a strong jaw and gave the room the potpourri scent of Old Spice. Both shared the lean, hard bodies of World War Two veterans. Thaddeus removed a handkerchief from the suit coat folded on his lap and wiped his forehead.

What did you think about the Vandamm House? Douglas asked, trying his best not to appear overeager.

The house where what's-his-name lives near Mount Rushmore?

Mason Vandamm. Yes. That one.

I can't say I recall it all that much, Thaddeus said, rubbing his chin. Lots of windows. And I seem to remember it jutting out of the cliff.

Exactly! What would you say about doing something similar? The architect was the youngest Thaddeus had visited that day, and he also had the longest hair, great waves of brown that swirled whenever the fan rotated towards him. Thaddeus had kept his hair in the same buzz cut the US government had given him. Long hair made him suspicious, but the architect's obvious excitement gave the reticent Thaddeus a small pump of curiosity. Still, he was a man dubious of surprises.

That sounds quite expensive, Thaddeus said.

It would be more than the house you've suggested, but you have the perfect...I mean look at this site. He lightly slapped the top photo with the back of his fingers. Perfect for it. See how the top of the mountain flattens right here? Douglas asked, dragging the nail of his index figure across the two-dimensional landscape. And the foundation looks like the perfect kind of rock needed to support the cantilevers. Perfect. Tell you what. I'll waive my fee for drawing up the plans. I'll even give you a free plan for the kind of house you wanted to build in the first place. That's two estimates for free. If you're not happy with my idea, then we can build the other one.

The silence in which Thaddeus considered his offer made Douglas take short, rapid breaths. Perhaps he had come on too strong. The fan oscillated as if shaking its head at his folly.

But across the desk, Thaddeus was already picturing what it would be like to live in such a modern house. He figured there was no harm in seeing his proposal. Thaddeus agreed to give it a try. The architect promised to call Thaddeus as soon as the plans were ready. They shook hands, and Thaddeus slipped his suit coat and hat back on before marching out the door.

The remainder of the day, and throughout the night, Douglas worked as if possessed. By midnight, his office trashcan was overflowing with crumpled drafting paper. The air was still hot and humid from the day’s heat, and mosquitoes had joined Douglas in his office. With the pink shavings of rubbed erasers in the cuffs of his shirt, he fell asleep on the couch tucked in the corner of his office.

When he woke up, the finished drawing was sitting in his lap. He didn't remember making it. But the lines were perfect. He checked his math. He flipped open the binders and checked the zoning requirements.

It was perfect. He felt tears welling up in his eyes and couldn't believe he had made something so perfect.

He quickly sketched the standard house that Halford had originally requested, using all the tricks of the trade to make his plan look as plain and dull as possible. He lowballed the estimate for his preferred design and gave the maximum amount for the dull one.

Douglas emerged from his office and had to squint at a sun that had already climbed high into the sky. He drove home for a quick breakfast and shower. That afternoon, instead of telephoning Thaddeus as they'd agreed, he drove to the apartment where Halford was temporarily living. He met the man's lovely fiancé, Ruby, a short woman in a polka dot dress that was plain-looking but immediately charming. She set out lemonade for the three of them on the kitchen table where Douglas had dropped his two rolls of paper. Even before she'd sat down, Thaddeus had begun his sales pitch on the dull house in a perfunctory manner, but when it came time to explain the real house, he unrolled the plans like it was the Torah. He observed their eyes crisscross the paper, trying to glean which of the two was more excited, and he found it was Mr. Halford. The man still had the urge to impress his young wife, so Douglas spoke of the design as if it were a mansion.

He pointed out the seamless connection of floor to ceiling glass that would make the home appear to be part of the hilly landscape. When viewed from outside, the house would give the illusion that it was floating. He compared Thaddeus to Cary Grant and the recently renamed Mrs. Halford to Eva Marie Saint.

When the amount of cost inevitably came up, it was Ruby Halford who brought up the wise point that estimates and final costs tended to be vastly different, and with an estimate already so high, and such an unusual design, how could they be sure that the price wouldn't double or even triple before they even bought the furniture for the incredibly large living room and open kitchen?

This was the part of the conversation that Douglas had been dreading. The house was going to be expensive. There was no getting around it. He tried his first attack: Douglas swore on his mother's grave, without divulging that his mother was living a perfectly healthy life in neighboring Wisconsin, that he would do everything possible to keep the price within or even under the estimate. That wasn't good enough for Ruby, and Douglas respected her for that, despite knowing her attitude was the biggest roadblock to realizing his dream. He tried to appeal to her vanity by having her imagine throwing fancy dinner parties and wowing their guests with beautiful sunset views. That didn't work either. She kept coming back to the bottom line, the cost. She transitioned from talking to Douglas to pointing out to her husband that maybe they had rushed buying the land, that maybe it would be more prudent to have a modest house so they wouldn't have to worry about getting in too deep.

Douglas was at a loss as to how to convince her. He could almost hear the farting of a balloon rapidly losing its air. Luckily, Thaddeus was as illogical as any man in love, and he wanted to impress his wife. He assured Thaddeus that money was no issue when it came to providing for his family. Then he patted Ruby's stomach, which made her blush.

Douglas jumped right in, asking her questions about the unborn baby, and wouldn't this upstairs room be perfect for a nursery, and if there happened to be a little brother or sister in a few years, wouldn’t they love the other upstairs bedrooms? Always better to have too many rooms than too few when you're building a family, right? Thaddeus interrupted before she could even begin to protest, pointing to a corner on the blueprint where he could build her a bookshelf, and guaranteeing she could decorate every square inch of the house however she pleased, as long as he could have his precious birdhouses. When Thaddeus mentioned that, Douglas glanced out the window and saw that their apartment balcony was full of colorful birdhouses of all shapes and sizes. The two men stopped talking, both unconsciously leaning toward her expectantly. Ruby, confronted with so much enthusiasm and pressure, broke into a smile and said yes.

They all shook hands and signed the proper documents, and Thaddeus promised he would work tirelessly to have the house ready within the year. He meant it.

Thaddeus drove back to his own home and thumb-popped the cork of a bottle of fifteen-year-old scotch. He put on a vinyl recording of The Battle of New Orleans by Johnny Horton and drunkenly sang in his living room. It had taken five years, but he'd finally found a way to build his own Fallingwater. He fell asleep wondering what sort of name his design should be called.

The hangover of the next morning didn't deter him from starting the process of finding a team to start building. Once construction began, the team fell into a rhythm that they had never experienced before or after. It was as if the house wanted to be built, and they were replacing something that had always been there. All the while, Douglas monitored the progress of his aspiration coming into being, a smile constantly on his face.

He kept his promise. The house was completed within budget and a month ahead of schedule at the beginning of June 1960.

He never did think of a catchy name for his greatest architectural achievement. Not that it would have mattered. After the summer of 1970, it became the Halford place.

Chapter 3: The Warning

Wes Frazier had originally signed up to be there for summer and move out in the fall, but he liked the house, he enjoyed Daniel's company, and it was nice to take a break and have time to enjoy a nice, simple life. He agreed to stay on indefinitely.

The offer had come from Daniel during a soft orange sunset, while they were sitting on the porch drinking some lemonade. Daniel had taught Wes to include some mulled mint in the mix during one of his culinary lessons.

How long has it been for sale? Wes asked about the house next door. He watched a mosquito float around before landing on his forearm. He tried swatting it but missed.

About a month now. Maybe somebody will be moving in soon. But it would be better if they didn't. The sound of a passing car grew and receded into the night. Nobody ever turned their vehicles onto Strawberry Mountain Lane.

Why not? Wes asked. It looks like a cool house.

Because it's haunted.

Wes chuckled and tipped the glass high enough that the ice cubes tumbled down to his lips.

I'm serious, Daniel said. You've got to promise me you'll never go over there. Especially at night. If you do. You're fired.

Wes looked at him, and his smile fell. You're serious? You think it's haunted?

Dead serious. Do whatever else you want. Smoke pot in your room. Buy a drum set and play through the night...well, maybe not that, but never go near that house at night.

Daniel, I don't know. That sounds a little...crazy.

Maybe. Probably. But it's not. No matter how it sounds to you, it doesn't change the fact. Promise me.

Why are you telling me this now? If you really think it's haunted, wouldn't that have been something to learn like, I don't know, on day one?

Just promise me. He held out his hand, and when Wes shook it, the strength of the grip told him that Daniel believed everything he'd said.

The first blizzard of the year arrived in November, not as violent as the weatherman had predicted, but bad nonetheless. Wes spent the early afternoon shoveling the snow while a crockpot filled with bubbling chili waited on the counter near the sink. Daniel sat at the kitchen table, doing a crossword puzzle with his afternoon cup of coffee. Wes came into the living room through the door to the garage, red-cheeked and sniffling. He stomped his boots on the welcome mat before closing the door behind him. The house was warm and welcoming.

Coming down pretty hard out there? Daniel called from the kitchen. He wrote EPEE in one of the corners of the crossword.

You bet, Wes said, beating his gloves against his thigh before tossing them on the wooden chest beside the door. He slipped off his jacket and hung it up. He spoke loudly so Daniel could hear him from the kitchen. I'll have to get back out there in a couple of hours if it keeps up. I'm guessing the snowplows don't come along on Strawberry Mountain Lane very often. He slipped off his boots.

"No, they don't. But