Паланик Чак - Колыбельная (Lullaby)
sf_horror
Чак
Паланик
Колыбельная (Lullaby)
en
Ilia
ilia@kuliev.org
FB Tools
2005-01-26
1D9A3CC8-4E8A-4135-84B4-CBC443F71078
1.0
Lullaby
LULLABY
Prologue
At first, the new owner pretends he never looked at the living room floor. Never really looked. Not the first time they toured the house. Not when the inspector showed them through it. They'd measured rooms and told the movers where to set the couch and piano, hauled in everything they owned, and never really stopped to look at the living room floor.
They pretend.
Then on the first morning they come downstairs, there it is, scratched in the white-oak floor:
GET OUT
Some new owners pretend a friend has done it as a joke. Others are sure it's because they didn't tip the movers.
A couple of nights later, a baby starts to cry from inside the north wall of the master bedroom.
This is when they usually call.
And this new owner on the phone is not what our hero, Helen Hoover Boyle, needs this morning.
This stammering and whining.
What she needs is a new cup of coffee and a seven-letter word for "poultry." She needs to hear what's happening on the police scanner. Helen Boyle snaps her fingers until her secretary looks in from the outer office. Our hero wraps both hands around the mouthpiece and points the telephone receiver at the scanner, saying, "It's a code nine-eleven."
And her secretary, Mona, shrugs and says, "So?"
So she needs to look it up in the codebook.
And Mona says, "Relax. It's a shoplifter."
Murders, suicides, serial killers, accidental overdoses, you can't wait until this stuff is on the front page of the newspaper. You can't let another agent beat you to the next rainmaker.
Helen needs the new owner at 325 Crestwood Terrace to shut up a minute.
Of course, the message appeared in the living room floor. What's odd is the baby doesn't usually start until the third night. First the phantom message, then the baby cries all night. If the owners last long enough, they'll be calling in another week about the face that appears, reflected in the water when you fill the bathtub.
A wadded-up face of wrinkles, the eyes hollowed-out dark holes.
The third week brings the phantom shadows that circle around and around the dining room walls when everybody is seated at the table. There might be more events after that, but nobody's lasted a fourth week.
To the new owner, Helen Hoover Boyle says, "Unless you're ready to go to court and prove the house is unlivable, unless you can prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the previous owners knew this was happening..." She says, "I have to tell you." She says, "You lose a case like this, after you generate all this bad publicity, and that house will be worthless."
It's not a bad house, 325 Crestwood Terrace, English Tudor, newer composition roof, four bedrooms, three and a half baths. An in-ground pool. Our hero doesn't even have to look at the fact sheet.
She's sold this house six times in the past two years.
Another house, the New England saltbox on Eton Court, six bedrooms, four baths, pine-paneled entryway, and blood running down the kitchen walls, she's sold that house eight times in the past four years.
To the new owner, she says, "Got to put you on hold for a minute," and she hits the red button.
Helen, she's wearing a white suit and shoes, but not snow white. It's more the white of downhill skiing in Banff with a private car and driver on call, fourteen pieces of matched luggage, and a suite at the Hotel Lake Louise.
To the
