The Glass House

 

It had been nearly a decade since The Book had been published. I won’t reference the title because there is a good chance you have read it, and whether you loved it or hated it, I find that once people learn I am the author of The Book they can’t see past that. I cease to exist as an autonomous individual and instead become a living book review forum where they project all their criticisms like word vomit.

While The Book was financially lucrative enough, even good money dries up in time, and fans and publishers alike were past the point of agitation with my lack of pages. I was fading into obscurity, yet I could not seem to find even an ounce of inspiration. This is why I said yes to the ounce of mushrooms offered to me by a pretentious hipster at a mutual friend’s house party. If inspiration wouldn’t  come to me naturally, I figured I could force it with the help of hallucinogenic drugs.

Procuring the drugs would not be enough by itself. I had tried to jump start the creative drive with various substances more than a few times in the past decade, so I knew that setting would be key. I needed to trip in a place with character; a place with some soul that I could leech from. Most importantly, a place with little to no distractions of the technological variety. I called my almost estranged sister to see if I could stay at the cottage on Cape Cod. Technically our father had left it to us both in his will, but I had no interest in it at the time and it had been my sister and her husband who had kept it in proper repair.

As always, my sister seemed more then mildly annoyed to hear from me, dropping some hints about missed birthday parties and some jabs about being “too famous for family”. But she also seemed happy to hear I had some interest in the old family vacation property, perhaps hoping I would offer to put some money towards needed upgrades and repairs. I made a mental promise to myself that if I did manage to find inspiration at the cottage, I would see to it that some cash flowed her way. And then I packed my bags and took the fall time drive from my home in Brooklyn to the little town of Wellfleet on the outer shores of Cape Cod.

The drive to the Cape was much as I remembered it from childhood. A new restaurant here, a renovated shop space there, but overall, it had that same aura that still managed to occasion my dreams. It was pre-dusk, and the scrubby trees had a distinct autumn appearance, not quite foliage but notably different than their mid-summer luster. There is something both spooky and remarkably gorgeous about Cape Cod this time of year, and I felt a tingle of something that could be akin to creativity as I pulled off the main road and onto the causeway at low tide. The cottage was effectively on an island, with the causeway getting cut off when the tide was at its peak.

A recent rainstorm had rendered the dirt roads on the other side of the causeway into puddles of sand and mud, and I was glad I had remembered to spring for a rental with four-wheel drive. To be honest, it would be hard to forget how messy these roads could become; I still had keen memories of bumping up and down on the hard bench seat of my father’s old Ford, the back loaded with suitcases and beach gear.

I approached the cottage and saw that from the outside my sister had changed little about the place. New windows and likely a new roof at some point, but the same weather faded cedar shingles and the same breathtaking view of the harbor. I listened to wind whisper past the tall beach grass as I found the key that she kept hidden under the floor mat and let myself in the front door.

Inside the cottage had changed drastically. As a child it was barely habitable; a vacation property that had been passed down several generations and was now in the hands of a man who was good with a hammer but had little to no sense of décor. My mother had passed shortly after my sister’s birth, but clearly my sister must have inherited a sense of interior design from her as the place was now an adorable cross between Cape Cod classic and modern chic. 

This is perfect I thought as I stepped out onto the deck and watched the sun melt into the ocean waters below. I would not take the shrooms on this night, as I wanted to settle in first before altering my consciousness. Instead, I opened my computer and stared at a blinking cursor as I drained several glasses of wine. I tried to summon pleasant childhood memories; even an opening sentence would be a triumph at this point. But I was too damn hung up on The Book and each time I started to type I realized I was still using the same voice, telling the same story, just doing the same boring God damned thing.

I went to bed more than a little buzzed and a lot pissed off and woke to sun slanting through a gap in the curtains of the bedroom window, stabbing directly into my eyeball. Feeling groggy I showered, ate some of the food I had brought, and then prepared myself for my hallucinogenic trip. I began by taking a long walk to re-acclimate myself to the neighborhood. It was always possible I’d wander when under the influence, and it would be helpful to try and memorize some landmarks.

The neighborhood had changed a lot since my childhood, back when most of the cottages here were much like the one my family owned; tiny, seasonal spaces occupied by blue color folks whose great grandparents had bought at the right time. Now most of the homes boasted big dollar upgrades and I wondered what my father would think of this. He had never been a fan of ostentatious displays of wealth, and as I walked uphill, I saw the most decadent thing I’d seen in some time; a massive glass house perched at the hill’s peak with 360-degree views of the ocean. For my part, I was impressed, but also a little embarrassed for the residents. I could see directly into their home and currently a man was milling about the massive kitchen. He wasn’t doing anything particularly private, but it still felt like I was spying on him, so I turned and headed back to the cottage.

The rest of my shrooms preparation involved hydration, a sad attempt at meditation, and grilling a big greasy burger that I threw the nasty shriveled psychedelics on top of and smothered with cheese. I could never seem to eat once I was tripping, so I had found from past experiences it was better to go into these things with a full stomach.

As with any hallucinogenic, it took a while before the drugs went into effect. I passed the time getting out some notebooks and pens and scattering them about the tiny cottage so that if inspiration struck, I could jot down my notes. I kept my laptop tucked away and I turned my cell phone turned off (there was hardly any reception anyways). To fit with the with vintage vibes of the cottage, my sister had a record player with a stack of eclectic musical selections that made me they came from whatever was in the sales bin at the thrift shop. Still, there was a decent jazz album by some saxophonist I’d never heard of, and I grooved to that for a bit until I decided that the mushrooms were garbage and I’d been hoodwinked by the smug little hipster.

Of course, that is the precise moment that the trip began to take effect.

It started with the lights looking a bit brighter than usual and so I turned them all off except for one Himalayan salt lamp that cast a pink hue through the tiny cottage that seemed increasingly beautiful. I switched the jazz to some corny 80s rock band, which prompted me to fall into a fit of giggles most unflattering of an adult. And then the trip grew deeper, and the walls seemed to ripple, and I knew why that douchebag hipster had described these shrooms as “some life altering shit”.

For no reason whatsoever I began to think about every mean thing I had ever said to my sister, and I wanted to cry, and then I wanted to call her, and then I remembered my phone was off and I grew angry and said aloud to nobody, “she’s not so perfect either! You shouldn’t cast stones at glass houses.”

And that is precisely when I remembered the glass house. And I suppose at this point in the trip I thought I had a brilliant idea for a metaphoric tale about a glass house. Elated by this I ran into the dark night air and promptly fell to the ground.

The stars above me were so magnificent, each twinkle magnified into a throbbing quasar, and I could not stand so I quivered on the cold, hard, rocky New England ground in a peculiar mixture of icy terror and pure ecstasy.

Eventually I realized I wasn’t just quivering; I was shaking hard from the bitter cold of a fall time New England night by the seaside. I managed to command my muscle groups to act in unison and stand, stumble indoors for a jacket, and then march one foot in front of the other down the soggy dirt road and towards the glass house atop the hill.

It was very dark, and I was very high and very much alone. I became acutely aware of my solitude as the lights of the cottage faded and I could only make my way by the dim glow of the cold and distant stars. Jagged tree branches seemed to hover over me, swaying and creaking in an unseen wind, and I hunched over as though to make myself smaller to avoid their detection.

Despite my state of mind, the glass house was not hard to find. It sat brightly lit, like a massive lighthouse beacon upon its ocean cliff perch. To my hallucinating eyes, it was both glorious and grotesque; a ball of light revealing all its innards. 

I thought I might puke as I hovered in the shadows at the fringe of the property, but amazingly my eyes focused. Within the glass house, I saw the same man I had spotted earlier as he paced the kitchen once more. This time he was not alone. He was speaking with a woman and at first they both seemed so wealthy and attractive that I felt like a purveyor and was caught between a strange attraction and deep feeling of self-loathing. But then I realized they were fighting; their arms moving about in rapid expressions of agitation that were apparent even from my far off distance.

I wondered what they were fighting about. I recalled similar fights in my many failed relationships. I slipped through time and space and into my thoughts and then—there was an explosion of red from inside the glass house and I was jolted from my revery. I was certain it was a part of my mushrooms experience, but no, the red was very real and very evident within the brightly lit home.

I focused in closer now, stumbling a few steps forward when in fact I should have been retreating, and I could see a thick, red substance trickling down the glass walls. I could see the slumped form of the woman on the floor beneath the torrent of ruby liquid. And through the wall of red, I could see the man staring out into the night. Staring at me.

I turned and I ran. I fell far more times than I can count, scraping my palms, busting open the knee of my jeans. Every shadow seemed to leap out at me, and for a dizzying moment I was certain I was lost in a thicket of creaking branches.

And yet, I made it back to the cottage. I slammed closed what now felt like too flimsy a door and flipped the inconsequential doorknob lock. I turned out the lights and crawled across the floor in the dark, seeking out my cellphone. I couldn’t find it and I sobbed, knowing I had been spotted by a murderer. Knowing he was coming for me.

At last, my hand landed upon the familiar rectangle shape of my phone, and I clutched it like a lifeline, drawing it close and feeling the comfort of its glow as I powered it on. An annoying animated logo seemed to take an eternity making its way across the screen, and then the home screen revealed itself. My eyes fixated on the top right corner of the screen, waiting to see if I had cell signal. One bar appeared.

I let out a breath that had been building in my chest to the point of near explosion. I dialed 911 and waited. And waited. And then, certain the mushrooms were warping my sense of time, I looked back at the phone and saw this message; “No Cell Signal Found.”

“Lying piece of shit!” I hissed, though whether out loud or in my mind I could not say. I kept trying to redial but eventually I must have passed out, because when I awoke daylight was creeping through the windows and I was lying stiff on the hard wood floors of the cottage.

I scrambled to find my phone which was just inches from my face now and saw I had nearly full service, so I pounded those three digits into my phone once more, but as soon as it connected, I immediately hung up. 

I needed to take a moment to re-assess. What had I actually seen? Here I was lying on the floor after the most massive psychedelic trip of my life. In truth, I was beyond fucked up; I couldn’t even be sure I’d left the house let alone witnessed a murder.

I inspected myself and saw that my shoes were coated in dry mud, the knee of my pant was indeed ripped, and my hands were throbbing from multiple shallow scratches. It seemed I had in fact left the house; but had I actually seen that man kill someone? I had to at least take a peek at the glass house before I called the authorities and made an ass of myself.

I will admit that even in the light of day of I was terrified to make my way back up that hill towards the glass house. I tried to stay towards the fringe of trees, as though they might protect me in some ways.

I stayed as far from the house as I could, peering from behind the crooked spine of a stumpy fir as I assessed the kitchen space where I had seen blood spatter the night before. Yet now there was no blood, just a perfectly clean pane of glass. In fact, I now watched as the man sipped from a mug in his bathrobe and a woman in a robe of her own joined him just moments later.

My face grew hot with embarrassment and then I felt a surge of relief. I had dodged a major bullet by not calling the police. I trudged back to the cottage, slept many hours, and then woke up and wrote like I had never written before. I wrote about a couple living in a glass house in Wellfleet and imagined a tale of jealousy and deceit leading to the tale’s climax in which the husband shoots his wife.

My second book was not nearly the same success as my first. It received a lot of criticism, which is why when I got a phone call about it, I felt annoyed and exhausted. “What about the damned book do you want to know?” I snapped.

“Everything” said the voice on the other end. “My name is Detective Jones, and it would appear you are the only witness to an ongoing murder investigation.”