"For a nation - "
photo by aperitive.
There is a house on the hill which children and teenagers have snuck out to on moonlit nights for dozens of years. Every town has such a house. They have varied names; the house on the hill, the haunted house, the house in the woods. The particular house which I describe is called The Devil House. The stories of what happened here to give it such an infamous reputation vary, depending on who is doing the telling. Some say devil worshippers live here, others say murders have taken place deep in the wooded property, and others say that you can see cars protruding from the ground with people trapped inside. I am perhaps in the best position to testify whether the stories are true. I live in this house. I bury the cars. I chase my guests around the property with an ax in my hand. It’s a big production, really, to sustain the reputation of living in a Devil House, like directing a Broadway show. The imported statues of demons are placed on either side of the front steps, the projector aimed at the guestroom wall so that a wraithlike figure glides across in a slow loop. Why do I go to all the trouble? For the love of bringing out in people that feeling of being alive, which is best experienced in the moments before they think their life will be taken from them. Terror is an underrated emotion. I do it to keep the tradition alive, I do it for the art of it, and I do it, every once in a long while, to kill someone.
