“Ma-me,” the boy said, removing his eye from the hole in the bathroom wall.
“Honey?” a voice called from somewhere close. “Honey, where are you?”
“Ma-me.” The boy looked at the hole with little emotion. There was a moment of hesitation where he thought he might return his eye to the hole to see what it would show this time around. “Ma-me.”
“Honey?” The voice was behind him now. Footsteps knocked on the wooden floor of the hallway.
The boy turned.
A figure stood in the doorway, shoulder resting against the door jamb. “There you are, mister.”
The boy looked back at the hole.
“What is that?” his mother asked. “Looks like this house needs a few repairs, huh?”
Mother had a peek inside the wall. She smiled. “Well, this house is just full of surprises. Isn’t it?” She winked.
“Ma-me.”
“Yes, mommy will have this patched up in no time.”
More footsteps, the trampling kind, sounded up the stairs and down the hall. An out-of-breath woman appeared in the doorway, holding her chest and swallowing air. “Sweet Lord!” she said. “I’m so glad you found him.”
Mommy patted her son on the head, kissed his cheek. “Yes. He’s quite the wanderer. You never know where he’ll end up next.”
The woman in the doorway smiled. As she regulated her breathing, she rifled through her purse, removing a whole stack of stapled paperwork.
“Well, we must hurry. We have three more houses to hit before noon. I think the next—”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Ma’am?”
“We’re going to put in an offer on this one.”
The real estate woman shot her an odd glance, and then surveyed the walls, their filthy condition. “Are you sure?” she asked, with a forced, fading smile.
“I’ve never been more certain about anything in my life.”
With her smile completely gone, the woman set her house-hunting itinerary down on the sink. “Mrs. Wilson,” she said, averting her eyes and pulling at her lower lip with her teeth.
“Please,” Mommy said, grinning, “call me, Abbie.”
“Abbie,” the woman said, manufacturing a smirk. “This house… it has a little bit of a history, as I’m sure you know.”
Grinning, Abbie nodded. “I know it well.”
“Then, I must insist—why are you so keen on purchasing this home?” She winced as if the answer might inflict pain. “I can’t even get people to drop by during an open house. I’ve tried everything. Cupcakes. Gift card giveaways. I even offered coupons for free massages. Nothing works. And then here you come, calling me out of nowhere, asking to see 44 Trenton Road in Red River, and—I’m just a little baffled, that’s all, Miss Wilson—I mean, Abbie.”
Abbie’s grin widened. “I understand.” She patted her son’s head. “I guess this place just feels like home to us.”
The woman glanced over at her son’s expressionless face, then back to Abbie. “Okay,” she said, finding a smile that passed as genuine. “Okay then, let’s do this!”
Abbie smiled, laughed a little.
The real estate woman smiled, laughed a lot.
Abbie looked down at her son. “We finally found our home, William. We’re finally here.”
William looked up at his mother, Abbie Wilson, who went by many names, the woman who once called herself Ester Moore. Then, he returned his lazy gaze to the hole in the wall. “Ma-me,” he said. “Ma-me.”
“That’s right,” Abbie said, hugging the child. “You and Ma-me are finally home.” She whispered into his ear, “The perfect place for all your brothers and sisters.”
The real estate woman didn’t seem to hear this last part and waved them out of the bathroom, starting to ramble on about paperwork and how they should head back to the office and get started on their offer right away.
Abbie grabbed William’s hand and led him out. Before they crossed the threshold and entered the hallway, William looked back over his shoulder, his eyes locking onto the hole on the far wall.
“Ma-me,” he whispered.
That was all he’d ever whisper.
AFTERWORD
Every so often, my wife will pitch me ideas. Most of them are terrible (don’t tell her I said that!). Sometimes—rarely—I actually like one. The Switch House started out like that. Late one night, she woke me up to tell me this “amazing” idea. It went something like this:
“A husband and wife go on one of those house-swap reality shows and when they come back, their house is haunted.”
She told me all about the woman with whom they switched houses with, how she should be responsible for hexing their old home. I kicked the idea around for a couple of hours and put my own spin on it. I introduced the strained relationship between the husband and wife, the loss their family had endured and continue to deal with, and, of course, the dream goblins. She wasn’t too keen on the latter. No supernatural elements was something she was very keen on. But, I didn’t listen. I had already made up my mind—the dream goblins stay.
And so they did.
And I’m really happy with how it turned out. Her? Well, as of this writing, she hasn’t read it yet. I suspect she will enjoy it, though it’s not something I’d wager on.
I guess I’m writing this afterword to give my wife the credit she deserves. I mean, she deserves way more credit than just coming up with the plot for this story—after all, I constantly refer to her as the “glue” that holds our family together; without her, we’d all undoubtedly fall apart. So anyway, she came up with the framework and I fleshed out the characters, their motives, and I wrote the thing, and here we are. Even though my name is on the cover, she’s definitely left her fingerprints on this one.
I had a lot of fun writing The Switch House. It was both familiar and unfamiliar territory for me. I feel the nature of Angela’s “decision” was one of the darkest things I’ve written, and there wasn’t a drop of blood spilled in that flashback scene. I enjoy a good kill scene as much as any horror fan, but sometimes the most terrifying stuff comes from the horrible decisions people make—especially involving the well-being of their children. Sadly, if you turn on the news, these stories will appear right in front of you. I can’t think of anything more heinous, and I won’t lie to you—writing that scene made me feel icky inside.
And that feeling is where the unfamiliar territory comes into play. Maybe I would have felt differently five years ago, before I was the parent of an autistic child. But now—no way. Icky all over. I shivered every second while writing it.
But I think that makes for the best kind of horror.
At least, I hope.
I’d also like to thank the following people who’ve helped in some way or another during the making of this book: Tim Feely, Matt Hayward, Chad Lutzke, Todd Keisling, Glenn Rolfe, Chuck Buda, and Curtis over at Cedar Hollow Reviews.
Also, a special thanks goes out to my wife for all she’s done. I’ll throw a big ol’ THANK YOU to you, dear reader, for entering The Switch House with me. I hope you’re not too changed by what you found here. However, if you do dream of alternate worlds between your walls, endless blue rooms occupied by the dead, and dilapidated houses that sit on the edge of nowhere and everywhere all at once—please don’t blame me.
Blame my wife.