Open House
A Killing Machine Story
Hello, Friends!
I’ve got a new Killing Machine story for you, but first a little housekeeping. If you’re a regular reader of these things, you already know I have a new book out this week. The Boatman just hit Amazon’s top ten list of Horror/Suspense new releases and Bloody Disgusting had this to say about it:
Sometimes all a book needs to hook me is a single indelible image, and the latest from Alex Grecian (Red Rabbit) does exactly that.
Ginger Nuts of Horror said:
It sticks with you long after you’ve reached the shore, like wet sand stuck between your toes. Grecian wrote us a story about what people carry with them and the weight of their decisions. That weight does not lift easily and that is the intent. Clocking in at just about 150 pages, The Boatman is not to be missed.
And Lincoln Michel, author of Metallic Realms and The Body Scout said:
The Boatman embarks as a macabre comedy but Grecian steers the story into unexpected waters, navigating through themes of legacy, humanity, and our destructive impact on the world—while still remaining bloody and funny of course!
Isn’t that nice? If you’re interested, you can get the book here or here or anywhere else you normally get books.
Okay, now that that’s out of the way, let’s get to the story. I normally write little introductions for these, but “Open House” posed a problem for me that I don’t want to reveal until after you’ve read it. No spoilers! So read on, and we’ll talk when you’re done…
OPEN HOUSE
“It’s perfect for us,” Snow called out from the kitchen. “Don’t you think so?”
George was standing at a built-in bookcase in the living room, scanning the spines and whistling under his breath. He saw two volumes of the Nonesuch Dickens he didn’t own, and he wondered whether the homeowners would notice if some of their books disappeared.
“It’s a nice house,” he said.
Snow wandered into the living room. “Did you see the upstairs bathroom?”
He pointed to an upper shelf. “I think that’s a Graham Greene first edition,1 with the original dust jacket.”
“And the deck,” Snow said. “We could throw a housewarming party.”
George turned from the bookcase and stared at her profile. “A party?”
“I’m not saying we would, but we could if we wanted to.”
“Who would we invite?”
She shrugged.
“Anyway, they’re asking too much for this place,” he said.
“It’s been on the market for months,” she said. “They’ll come down on the price.”
She flashed him a smile and walked away toward the front hall.
George sighed. He liked his apartment. It was more than big enough and neither of them owned much. Snow had sold her husband’s house fully furnished and had come to George with nothing but a duffel bag and three cardboard boxes.
But she wanted her own bathroom and there wasn’t enough closet space. The kitchen was too small. Don’t you think renting is a waste of money?
In fact, he didn’t think so. A mortgage would cost at least as much as George’s rent, but it would not include landscaping, plumbing, or maintenance. There would be water damage and roof repairs to worry about, new gutters, a cracked driveway, a leaky water heater.
But there was no harm in looking at houses and it made Snow happy.
***
“I don’t understand,” Snow said. “They can’t possibly sell it for what they’re asking. Why won’t they come down?”
George shoveled a forkful of green beans into his mouth.
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Snow said. She set her fork down and folded her hands in her lap.
“George?” she said.
George took a bite of his chicken breast and looked up at her.
“Will you talk to the homeowner?”
He nodded. He was going to have to buy a lawnmower. He just knew it.
***
“Was that a Graham Greene first edition out there?”
“You noticed that,” Henry Howard said. He had given George a brief tour of his house that had ended at his perfect kitchen. Henry was leaning against the counter. “A British printing that I don’t think was offered here. My wife collected them.”
“Would you consider parting with it?”
“I wouldn’t even know what to ask for it,” Henry said. “But you didn’t come to talk about books, did you?”
“I suppose not,” George said. “How long has this place been on the market?” He was distracted by a shelf full of decorative pots, scaled for a dollhouse. One was painted like a Ming vase, another looked like a watering can with a miniature handle and spout.
Henry smiled. “You like those?” he said.
“What are they for?”
Henry plucked one from the shelf—a tiny Tiki statue carved from a piece of volcanic rock—and turned it over in his hands. “My collection. This one’s from Bora Bora. Most beautiful beaches in the world. You set foot on Bora Bora you want to stay there forever.” He showed George a ring of holes in the statue’s head. “I’ve got a salt shaker for every state I’ve visited, and every country, too.”
“Salt shakers?”
“You might be surprised,” Henry said. “Lots of people collect them.”
“Do you switch them out? Use one for a while, put it away and use another one?”
“I’d never put salt in them,” Henry put the shaker back on the shelf. “To answer your question, I put this house on the market about two years ago.”
“It might sell faster if you lowered the price.”
“Quite honestly, I don’t need the money and I’m not sure I even want to sell.”
“Then why list it?”
“I’ll tell you, George, I’ve lived here thirty years. I love this house and I love this neighborhood, but one weekend I was driving past an open house and I stopped. They had a master bathroom attached to the bedroom and a pool in the back with a lovely marble fountain, and I thought why not upgrade? See what I can get for my old house and invest in something new? I got excited about the idea, so I found a realtor and I started looking around at other neighborhoods, but when an offer came in I’m afraid I got cold feet. I was about to call the realtor and call it all off, but then I changed my mind. Some part of me was still intrigued by the idea of starting over, so instead of taking it off the market I jacked up my asking price. If she sells, she sells and if she doesn’t, she doesn’t. It’s out of my hands, you see?”
George said, “And if I were to offer what you’re asking?”
Henry leaned in close and lowered his voice. “If you did that, I might have to raise the price again.”
“I see.” George pursed his lips.
Henry smiled. “I’ll tell you what, you make me an offer on the house that I can’t turn down and I’ll throw in the books. They’d be hard to move anyway.”
“Let me talk to my girlfriend,” George said.
***
“He won’t let us buy the house?” Snow said.
“Not unless I pay twice what it’s worth,” George said.
“I have money, too,” Snow said.
“Not that kind of money, and it’s not like we can take out a loan. I can’t explain what I do for a living.”
“Then we’ll never have a home of our own?”
“This is a home,” George said.
“It doesn’t belong to us. When Mark and I got married he already owned a house and I moved in. But I always felt like I was a guest. I’m a guest here, too.”
“I don’t feel that way.”
“I’m sure you don’t, but I’m talking about how I feel.”
George used his fork to push a carrot slice around the edge of his plate. “I didn’t realize you were so unhappy,” he said.
She reached across the table and took his hand. “Of course I’m happy,” She said. “But I wish I hadn’t got my hopes up about that place.”
***
“I looked into it,” Isaac said. “The only family he’s got is a niece in Florida named Cindy Howland. She owns a bar in the Keys, plus a boat and two houses down there, one she rents out. She shares custody of her kids, and she started dating her yoga teacher a couple months ago.”
“So she’s got a life there,” George said.
“It’s hard to imagine she’d leave her kids and her new girlfriend to move up here. Not to mention the endless sunshine and the cool vibes.”
“What about the other thing?”
“Matthew Rose Realty. You’ve probably seen that billboard out by the highway. It’s a one man operation and it’s running deep in the red. Rose owes money all over town and this house he’s repping has been listed for years, but your friend Henry Howard isn’t taking offers. Rose needs the commission. It’s not gonna happen and he knows it, but he doesn’t know what to do about it.”
“Talk to him,” George said. “Let him know there’s something he can do.”
Isaac picked up a doughnut and used it to point at George. “I don’t like it,” he said. “Too risky. It’s better when the client comes to us.”
“You’ve done this before.”
“Once or twice, but you’re not like my other guys.” A dollop of jelly squirted out onto the table. “You’re as risk averse as they come.”
“People change,” George said.
Isaac chuckled. He scooped up the jelly with his finger and stuck it in his mouth.
***
Henry Howard was a heavy sleeper. By the time he woke up and followed his nose to the kitchen, George had scrambled four eggs and fried half a pound of bacon he’d found in the back of Howard’s refrigerator.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” Henry said.
“I wanted to talk some more about the house,” George said.
“This is highly inappropriate.”
“Of course it is,” George said. “I know I shouldn’t have broken in, but I wanted to test the security system before I made an offer. I’m not all that impressed.”
“I’ll call my security company right now. You can talk to them about it, and the police, too.”
George spooned some eggs onto a plate and set it on the bar between the kitchen and the dining room. He tipped the pan and slid the rest of the eggs onto a second plate. He put three slices of bacon on each plate and pulled out a stool. “Eat with me,” he said.
Howard hesitated, then sat and picked up a piece of bacon. “You’re deranged,” he said.
“I’m unconventional,” George said. “I think you secretly like that. The idea of adventure and spontaneity is exciting, but you can’t commit to anything new. You’re like one of those knickknacks on your shelf. Empty and useless. You wanted someone to push you out of your comfort zone, didn’t you?”
Henry chewed and nodded. “I don’t care to be called useless, but I suppose there’s some truth to what you’re saying.”
George slid a plastic salt shaker across the table. “Can’t eat eggs without salt.”
“I really can’t decide whether you’re trying to intimidate me or endear yourself to me.” Henry shook salt onto his eggs and picked up his fork. “Either way, I’ll never sell my house to you.”
“I didn’t really expect you to,” George said. He gazed up at Henry’s collection. He counted forty-three salt shakers and tried to guess where Henry had acquired each of them. He ignored the sound of Henry’s plate shattering on the floor, the stool tipping over, the gurgling and the gasping.
When the house was quiet again he said, “Really, Henry, you should have moved to Bora Bora when you had the chance.”
Henry didn’t reply.
George washed the extra plate and put it away. He slipped the shaker of potassium cyanide into his pocket, stepped over Henry’s body and let himself out through the back door.
***
Several offers came in for the house, but only one of them was forwarded to Cindy Howland, along with a recommendation from Matthew Rose Realty that she accept it. There was a stipulation on the bid, and Cindy didn’t haggle.
Who cared about some musty old books?
You’ve read the story, right? Good. Let’s talk about it.
Isaac did not appear in the first draft of “Open House.” Instead, Snow herself hired George to kill the homeowner so they could buy the house. I understand what I was trying to do with that twist. I wanted to advance their relationship and I wanted to show that Snow fully understood what she’d got herself into. I wanted her to be fully in control of her life and her choices. But it still didn’t sit right with me.
So I did what I always do. I gave it to my wife to read.
She said, “If I subscribed to your Substack I’d stop reading with this story.” (Did I mention she doesn’t pull punches?) But I admitted I had similar misgivings. Three of them, in fact…
It’s out of character for Snow.
If I’ve done this right, the thing that makes George relatable is his relationship with Snow. We want him to change, and the fact that he’s capable of being with her means there’s a chance he will change (however slim that chance may be).
Snow lives in a precarious balance with George. She’s a frog riding on a scorpion’s back, and she knows it. If she becomes a scorpion, too, do we still care about them? Is there still a story there?2
So instead of putting this one out last week, I posted another Killing Machine story I had waiting in the queue (“In One Ear”) and took some time to mull this one over, then I rewrote it.
(Here, by the way, is a link to the first Killing Machine story, in case you missed it. From there, you ought to be able to work through them all in order.)
I’m glad George and Snow have a house now. That advances the relationship. And it gives Snow some agency because she picked out the house and insisted on a fresh start for them.
What do you think? Let me know.
As I was preparing to post this, another problem arose. I thought an Edward Hopper painting might pair well with “Open House,” and after some searching I found one I thought was perfect. At the last minute, as I was verifying the attribution, I discovered it was actually an AI extrapolation of Hopper’s style.
Fuck AI!
So I had to scramble to find something else and in the process I discovered the work of Vilhelm Hammershøi whose Open Doors works every bit as well, I think. I’m glad to have found an artist I was unaware of, so it’s bit of a happy accident, but still. Say it with me… Fuck AI!
As always, thank you for reading! I hope you’re doing well. I’ll talk to you next week.
Your friend,
Alex
George and I have a favorite author in common. Years ago, my lovely wife gifted me a first edition of Our Man In Havana which occupies a special place on one of our shelves.
I mean, of course there’s a story there, but is it one I care to tell? Is it one you would care to read? I don’t think so.
A frog on a scorpion’s back indeed. Girl, don’t let your guard down!
I’m truly enjoying George as a character—an assassin in love. He’s still very calculating about his actions which is a very interesting personality trait.
You're killing it, man