A/N: Mmmm....it's still pretty damn short...I'm sorry...I'm not very good at writing conclusions of stories...I hate to see the stories end...
Thanks to the reviewers:
TNPD: Saw what coming? Read on and see if you saw what you actually thought you saw coming.
xXxSarahxXx: Sorry I didn't update soner...er...sooner...hehe. I hope this chapter leaves you with the same feeling...hope you had a good Halloween.
RavenForever: You still alive? I updated as soon as I could...
MOMO-CHAN: (yay, you're back!!!) love pending with conclusion...hehe...
mischeif-maker: take a deep breath, and read. So...you went as yourself for Halloween? J/k...sort of...mmm...why does everyone want me to read their fanfics? I'm not the nicest of reviewers. I'll get on it as soon as possible.
iluvdanbyrd: Well, I'm not just going to stop updating...those this one did take its time getting up...another person who wants me to read their fanfic...hm...I've never seen Salem's Lot, so I assume I'll be confused. Maybe...if I have time...
DAGL: Yup. Creepy. I guess.
SteffieWitter26: My lurker in the shadows, now becoming a good reviewer. I noticed you there, adding me to your auther alert and favorites, and I thought you would never review, but you did, and now I'm HAPPY. Or as happy as I can be.
Trisk: (new reviewer) mmm....thanks for the reviews.
Hmmm....where's RT?
Music Recs: Mmm...mischief-maker suggested the Evanescence CD, most specifically tracks 3, 5, 8, and 9. I haven't had the privalege of listening to the CD myself, even though one is within my household. It's just never there when I want to try and listen to it, so I'm secluded to the songs I've heard on the radio. I myself have got nothing...except maybe...hm...nope, nothing.
ENJOY!
Chapter 32: Of Broken Dolls and Ghost Voices
Spinelli held herself still, eyeing the woman before her. Stringy, matted, unkempt hair fell into dark sunken eyes. Chapped lips and chapped skin, lay over her frame like the flesh of a dead fish. The light, from the match, flickered ever so slightly, eating away at the stick licking its way to the woman's fingers. The fire illuminated the woman's eyes and lips and nostrils with an eerie glow. Without a doubt, Spinelli was certain that this woman was in fact the child Mary Anna. But she was tired; her mind could possibly be playing tricks on her.
"All things come back to the beginning, did you know that?" the woman whispered in a childish voice.
"What do you want from me?" Spinelli demanded, pulling herself up as much as she could manage with her legs still bound.
"It isn't so much from as of. And it isn't so much a wanting as a hope, a simple wishing. Like a birthday cake, blow out the candle, make a wish," with a small exertion of breath, the match simmered and dissipated. They were in dark again. "I'm sorry about the dolls," her voice was meager now, small, and unrecognizable from the first.
"Who are you?" Spinelli hissed into the darkness, fear catching the words in her throat.
"Mommy says that I can be a good girl if I just don't touch daddy's dolls...but they're so pretty..." A scoff, and the voice changed, rough and adult, Spinelli had heard that voice before, "Shut up, Brenda, you were always such a whiny bitch." Again, meager, shy, "But then mommy went away, and I didn't need to be a good girl anymore." The rough, adult voice took over again, "Shut up, Brenda. Must you go telling everyone's secrets, again? You were always such a blabbermouth. Tattle tale, tattle tale..." Then the child broke out, "But Victoria, it was all her fault! She said, she said...she said...I don't remember...
"Ya'll need to stop fighting. Mama and daddy, they'll be disappointed. You two were always fighting," Mary Anna now with the unmistakable southern drawl. "Clara's right, Brenda, you are a tattle tale. Always were, that's why daddy didn't want you around no more. Like mama."
"Mommy broke," whispered Brenda, as far as Spinelli could tell, "It wasn't her fault. It wasn't...it was Victoria..."
"Shit..." Spinelli mumbled, scanning the darkness, unable to find the girl with the blood stained hands and cheeks. She returned to her binds, attempting to undo them while her possible attacker was preoccupied. Her heart pounding in her chest. She paused. The talking, it had stopped. Someone was close to her. She turned, jumping, startled. The small face, the round of a woman's face was inches from her, staring at her intensely.
"They talk too much, I'm sorry," she whispered, the voice gentle, and unfamiliar to Spinelli, "But we're here to see you, and we forget that sometimes."
"Who are you?" Spinelli whispered, shakily.
"We're the James' Girls," was the simple, casual answer, "We wanted to talk to you. I wanted to talk to you."
"About what?"
"He would have liked your face," she said, pulling away from Spinelli, falling back into darkness, "So much life in those eyes. So much pain, so much suffering. He liked pain and suffering. He said life was pain and suffering. And life was perfection, after all. He painted perfection on a doll's face. I used to watch, watch him paint them..."
"Who are you?"
"I was the first. The first, but not the last."
"What does that mean?" She was walking, walking through the dark of the room.
"Have you ever swam in the middle of the night? Have you ever played with matches? It always...it feels like you're getting away with something? Doesn't it? Like murder. Now, I know that you know what it feels like to get away with murder. Because you have...or...you thought you had..."
"I didn't murder anyone."
"I know what they say, behind your back. Molly, Victoria, Mary Anna, Clara, Talus, Janine, Patty...I know what they all say. What he says. You're a bad girl. Couldn't keep your hands off the dolls. Had to break the dolls." She shook her head, "Had to break that doll."
"That wasn't my fault..."
"Or so you say. But Clara was there, she saw the whole thing, so did Mary Anna. But we're not talking to Mary Anna, because Mary Anna is a bad girl, she's not perfect. Not like I am, not like Clara is."
"I don't know what you're talking about. You're not making any sense," Spinelli cried, "I didn't break any doll...Mary Anna dropped that one doll when I...it was just a prank...just a joke...it was an accident."
"A...a prank? Fire is no laughing matter."
"But we didn't light the fire, that was Mundy...and even he didn't mean to...he's just a little...he has issues is all..."
"Fires...fires burning...no one lights them, they just start. You all started the fire, the fire that killed Mary Anna. Like daddy started the one that killed Brenda, and Brenda started the one that killed Victoria, and so on and so on. Fires are life, they're life sustaining, they burn and burn and burn. Then they die, as does life. We need these fires to keep going, at least that's what we fool ourselves into thinking. It's not really true. Fires make everything perfect again, it makes everything nothing."
"Why are you telling me all this?"
"Because I want you to know. I want you to know why you can never be perfect too. You are, in essence, evil. You are like a doll, an ugly doll, painted with evil thoughts in mind. You steal what isn't yours, and your heart is darkened."
"I steal what isn't mine?" Spinelli blurted out, unable to control herself.
"Yes. They're hearts. And then you hurt them. You are, cruel, to say the least. Your imperfection mars the world. You burn a fire all your own, killing everything that tries to get close to you. You have darkness in your heart. You think you can hide it, but I can see it there. The boy is Clara's. I know that you're jealous; I saw it that first day, when Clara and the boy found one another. He always said her prince would come."
"TJ?"
"Yes, the boy. They are together now. But there is a problem."
"What?"
"You. You keep distracting the boy with your inherent evil. I think the boy thinks he can save you. Save you from the fire. Moth to the flame," there was the sound of something scraping against the floor, and Spinelli felt her heart skip a beat, "He's a good boy like that. You broke him, a long time ago. But Clara...Clara aims to make it better. They're in love. They made love, you see. So they have to get married. It's not good to do things out of order, like they did, but sometimes that's how things happen. If you love someone..."
"He was mine first," Spinelli whispered, a low, rough statement.
"He was never yours," a cruel cry, not like the calm motherly voice, more like the one Spinelli recognized...harsh and seething. Clara? "He was always mine. But he's the same...the same as the one that was supposed to be dead...the one who's dead now...the failure. You've consumed them with your flaws and imperfections. You've broken them, like dolls. Eating at their souls. I couldn't save him from the flame...the one that's dead now...but I can save the boy, I can save him." There was a scratch, of a match igniting. The woman's face lit up, twisted into a cruel smile. She tossed the match into the boxes, grinning wildly. The flames leapt up almost instantaneously, revealing the whole of the woman, an axe clutched in her hand, stained with blood. "I just have to kill the flame. I just have to kill you." She raised the axe, stepping over Spinelli, "You don't deserve him. I have to take him from you, because you don't deserve him. You don't deserve anyone."
-0-0-0-0-
Butch felt his way around in the darkness. He was used to skulking in the shadows, but there was something eerie and sinister about this night air that bothered even his thick hide. He searched the darkness, his eyes having easily adjusted when the moon, they're sole light source was cut off. He lost sight of Gretchen, or more so, she lost sight of him. He couldn't follow her quick movements after Vince and Ashley A. So now he was trapped in the maze of boxes alone. He was used to being alone, he liked being alone, but... in that shadowed gym, he found himself craving company.
There was laughter, somewhere, and a scream. Butch stopped. Strained to listen. Heard nothing. Continued forward. He stopped again. He had stepped in something. He knew he had. He looked down, made a face. It was wet, thick, clinging to his shoe. He bent, examined it. His stomach dropped. It was blood, it had to be, a trail of blood. It led off somewhere. He followed it, with fear in his heart, knowing with the sickening dread that whoever he found at the end of the trail would be someone he didn't want to find, someone who would most probably be dead. He stopped. There was a figure sitting heavily against the large boxes breathing in sharp gasps, clutching his side.
"Randall?" Butch whispered. The figure moved slightly, glazed eyes looking up at him as he came closer, knelt down. He touched the wound, the gaping hole where the blood oozed. "What happened?"
"I wanted to die alone..." Randall wheezed, moving his arm over the injury, blocking it from sight, "Get out of here..."
"Die?" Butch nearly choked the word out. There was something painful about staring at that small boy. Their lives were similar. Miserable lives. He'd found himself liking the boy, the word 'friend' edging its way on his tongue.
"It won't stop...bleeding...I lost a lot..."
"Shut up, alright, and let me think," Butch muttered, pulling his jacket off.
"Get out of here, Butch. She's angry...she's come to...she's going to kill us all...I don't think she wanted to at first...I could see it...the way she looked..."
"Randall, cut it out. I ain't leaving you," Butch ran his hand through his hair, looking around, "If only Menlo hadn't drunk all the whiskey."
"There was someone else here too...someone else...helping her I think...here, take this..." Randall shoved his gun into Butch's stomach.
"What? No way, man! I can't shoot a gun! I don't know how..."
"It's not hard...just aim and shoot..." Randall argued, "You have to get out of here...you have a lecture to give, remember...those three students will be pretty disappointed if you don't show up..." Butch smirked slightly running his hand over the younger man's sweat drenched forehead. He settled into a seat next to Randall, leaning against the boxes.
"We'll leave together. Take a moment to rest, and then we'll leave together." Randall sighed, which came out more as a gurgled choke.
"It's better, that I die here. It's kind of...poetic I guess. I messed up a lot of kids lives on this playground...ratted out a lot of kids..."
"You've changed, though."
"Well, secrets kill nowadays."
"That has a lot of meaning in our case, you know that?"
"Why are you staying here with me, Butch? I did my fair share of ratting you out back then."
"We had tough lives kid. We weren't much different, you and me. We both wanted attention, from our parents mostly, or any adult figure we could find."
"Miss Finster..."
"Yeah, like you with Miss Finster."
"You think she's still alive?"
"God, I hope not. She was like, what, a hundred when we were in school?"
"She was fifty-seven," Randall scoffed, his words soft, almost fading.
"It's sad that you know that." Concern nudged its way into Butch's voice.
"You think Menlo's okay?" It was odd for him to ask that, but Butch simply shrugged. It was weird, the bond that can form while sharing a canteen of whiskey and drunken uncensored versions of one another's lives.
"I don't think he was ever okay. The poor guy. I didn't think anyone could be more screwed up then me."
"Likewise." They both chuckled slightly at that.
"Randall?"
"Hm...?"
"What is it that you do? You're not an insurance agent, that's for damned sure."
"I'm a government agent."
"Oh." Butch didn't sound convinced.
"I'd get my wallet to show you my ID, but I don't think I can..."
"What branch?"
"CIA."
"Shit..."
"Tell me about it." Randall's head fell to his shoulder, his body lax against the boxes, his voice distant and hollow, "Thanks, Butch..."
"Randall?" Butch straightened, touching Randall's shoulder gently, pressing his fingers to the younger man's neck, frowning, panicked, "Randall?"
-0-0-0-0-
Sam noticed Dave shifting. They hadn't spoken much. Hadn't felt it was necessary. They'd said everything they needed to say.
"You really want to leave the company," Dave murmured.
"Are we going over this again?" Sam sighed, "You'll be fine without me. I'll get to work finding my replacement as soon as we go home and..."
"I'm not bringing it up again!" Dave snapped, "I'm just saying..."
"It's not your fault, Dave, I'm not interested in being a part of the company anymore. Is that really such a big deal?" Sam shrunk against the wall, plucking at his overall strap, "I want to try other things. The company...it's been too much my life lately...and not..." he paused, "I want to find more important things to occupy my time. Like you have." He bit the inside of his cheek. He hadn't meant to say that, for it to come out so bitter. The truth was, he'd dedicated his life to that company, and he'd thought it was as important to his brother as it was to him. But his brother had proven him wrong. Marrying a sleaze of a woman. Then the children came, and it wasn't that Sam was angry, so much as jealous. They'd agreed to focus their energies on their business, that it would be their lives. But then Dave went behind Sam's back, so to speak, and got a new life. And poor Sam was left with no life outside the business. Needless to say, he wanted one.
"Whatever," Dave muttered. He'd been through the same fight with Sam over and over. It got to the point where Dave would just avoid him all together, for fear that so much as being around him would spark the fight. His brother was a passionate man, ambitious, but lacking real goals. He, on the other hand, was decisive, and organized. He had direction. Plans laid out in his mind. He was ashamed to say it, but suddenly, his life plans weren't including his brother as much. There was a rift in their relationship. Having to do, most pointedly, with their differences. Dave frowned. No, it happened way before their differences started getting in the way. It had to do with fifteen years before. They'd started to fall apart then, didn't they? When Sam blamed Dave for their participation in the whole event. Dave froze, perking up slightly.
"What's wrong?" Sam asked.
"It's quiet, that's all. And Vince is gone, I can't see him anymore. You think everything's in action?"
"We didn't get the signal," Sam argued, "Something must be wrong."
"Don't say that."
"Well, it's true," Sam picked himself up, "I'm going to investigate."
"Sit back down," Dave snapped.
"You may tell me where to dig, Dave, but you don't tell me what to do," Sam sneered, pushing his way past. He paused, a chill running up his spine as a scream cut through the cool air. "Something's wrong," Sam repeated, the words ringing of a new truth. Dave was on his feet. Wordlessly, they ran to the front of the gym. Everyone was gone except for...
"Who is that?" Dave demanded, Sam being the first to reach the huddled form by the gym door.
"It's Menlo...he's hurt," Sam cried, by the crumpled man at once, "Ashley T.'s over here as well. She doesn't look harmed but she's passed out."
"The door's locked," Dave hissed, tugging at the handle, "Where are the others?" A gunshot rang into the night air and both boys frowned at the gym door.
"Inside," Sam voiced what both young men had already surmised, "I know another way in, Dave, go call for help."
"What? No, tell me how to get in and I'll go, you can call for help," Dave protested.
"Look, don't argue, it doesn't sound like we have time," Sam sneered, "Just go." Dave frowned, turning to run, and then freezing.
"Smoke," he stuttered, "There's smoke. There's a fire..."
"Inside?"
"Well, duh, inside! Sam, we have to get these two away from the building!" Dave slipped his hands under Ashley T., gently lifting her off the ground. Sam nodded, frowning at Menlo. "I'll help with him, we have to be careful. Check to see how bad he is..." Sam knelt down, pressed his fingers against Menlo's wrist.
"I don't...I don't think there's a pulse..." Sam whispered, "No! Wait, there is one. It's faint." Dave was back beside him.
"Grab his feet, I'll get his head," Dave commanded. Without protest, Sam did as he was told. Between them they struggled to carry Menlo to the other side of the playground where Dave had set Ashley T. With gentle movements, they lay Menlo flat on the blacktop. Sam broke into a sprint back towards the building.
"Call the fire department," he called over his shoulder. Dave's brow furrowed.
"Sam, get back here!" he yelled, "You can't go in there!" But his brother was gone, ducked behind the building out of sight. "Damn," Dave spat, looking around. Where would he call the fire department? He looked down at Ashley T., passed out on the ground. She undoubtedly had a cell phone. It was a good place to start.
-0-0-0-0-
TJ stayed perfectly still, his eyes darting around the room. He could feel the pain in his right arm, ripping through his tendons, his muscles, and his veins. The blood was rushing to the area, eager to help seal up the wound, but spilling out down his arm, racing to his wrist and hand. No one breathed.
"What happened?" Gus finally said. He was on the ground, ducking. A reaction. A good reaction now that TJ thought about it. Maybe a reaction he should have had. Mikey was in much the same position, but closer to TJ. He'd tried to drag TJ down with him. Blood was splattering on Mikey's shoulder and clothes, his hand.
"Are you alright, TJ?" Mikey asked, and the words seemed to shake TJ from the stunned trance. He cried out with the pain finally, his hand coming to his arm. He sank down to the ground beside his friends.
"It's okay," he whispered, "It...it just skimmed my arm..." And taken a considerable chunk with it from what the two onlookers could see.
"A bullet?" Gus demanded, looking around frantically.
"Only one..."
"Randall had a gun...maybe a misfire on his part?" Gus suggested.
"I don't think so," Mikey shook his head, "He looked like he knew how to use the thing."
"Maybe he panicked," Gus shrugged, "It's dark."
"Can we figure this out later?" TJ snapped, "Spinelli is still..."
"Help." The boys perked up, startled. It was a harsh whisper, a girl's voice. "Someone..." Pleading. TJ was up at once, moving through the labyrinth and finding the spill. Boxes, scattered across the floor, squashed open. There was movement, beneath a small cave in the boxes. TJ climbed over them, Gus beside him, with Mikey watching uncertainly. They began moving the obstructions, TJ proving to be little help. Mikey eventually came over as well. It wasn't a long time until they uncovered Ashley A.
"What happened?" TJ demanded.
"Vince...I...where is he? He was with me...but he's gone now..." Ashley A. mumbled, trying to lift herself up. She winced, as placing pressure on her ankle proved to be a painful endeavor. Mikey steadied her. "I can't walk," she moaned, "I think I twisted my ankle."
"From the looks of things, it could have been worse," Gus mused, then lowered his eyes, "Vince could be worse..."
"You guys get Ashley A. out of here," TJ murmured, "Gus, take her out. Mikey, look for Vince, and any of the others...I guess...I'm going to keep looking for Spinelli."
"TJ..." Gus started to argue.
"I'm fine."
"But TJ..."
"Just go!"
With hesitant steps, Gus led Ashley A. back the way they'd come. Mikey stared blankly at the boxes before moving to shuffle through them. TJ looked to his arm, frowning at it. It was bleeding profusely. He searched for something to tie it off, found Mikey holding a cloth before him.
"Thanks," TJ mumbled, taking the offering and struggling to tie it around his injury before Mikey stepped in to do it for him.
"What are you going to do?" Mikey asked, nonchalantly.
"About?"
"Spinelli." TJ frowned at the knotted bandage, Mikey's neat handiwork. Mikey stepped back, looked frowningly down at the spilled boxes, "You still love her. She still loves you."
"That's arguable...I know I still love her but..." TJ sighed. It was no use. Things were complicated now. Things were out of hand. Out of his hands. He'd promised the others that they'd be out of danger, but looking around, they weren't out of danger. It was his fault, again. Taking responsibility meant nothing, people would still die, Spinelli would still be heartbroken and hurt.
"She still loves you, TJ," Mikey's words were convinced. He was convinced he was right. "The way she argued your plan, sending yourself into the clutches of Clara. The way she tries so hard not to look at you when you're around. She wants to hate you, TJ, I think...because that would make it easier on her, if she hated you. But she can't hate you. You two are meant to be together."
"Things don't always go according to plan, even cosmic plans," TJ snapped, "I'm sorry, Mikey, but this isn't going to be a happy ending. I've apologized, told her how I felt, explained everything to her. It's on her hands now. I prefer it this way anyhow, her not talking to me, maybe hating me...after what I did..." he trailed off, looking forward, "Make sure everyone's safe, Mikey, and stay safe yourself." He slipped through the darkness, Mikey unable to call after him, to stop him.
TJ moved forward in the darkness, saw the leaping flames. He heard noise, some motion.
-0-0-0-0-
Spinelli stared up with horror, trying to move out of the way of the axe, trying to escape and knowing it was no use. The weapon was raised, ready to fall and Spinelli tried to shut her eyes, to shut out her helplessness. There was a tap, on the attacker's shoulder, and she turned. A fist flew connecting evenly with the crazy woman's jaw. The axe dropped harmlessly to the ground and she stumbled backwards, revealing a young redheaded woman standing behind her.
"Leave my friends alone, bitch," Gretchen spat, then, drawing her breath in between gritted teeth, and pulling her fist towards her, "That really hurts," she whined, "How do you do it, Spinelli?"
"Whoa, Gretch," was all the bound young woman could muster, then, with a relieved smirk, "The pain's half the fun."
"You..." Clara seethed, tightening her grasp on the axe's handle. Gretchen grimaced, falling beside Spinelli and rushing to undo the tape bonds.
"Get us out of here..." Spinelli whispered, trying to help, and only making things worse.
"You'll be first," Clara howled, stepping forward with the axe raised once more. Gretchen threw the last of the tape to the ground in disgust, going to help Spinelli to her feet. They were too late, the axe hovering above their heads. Another form came from the shadows, tackling Clara, and grabbing her arms.
"Oh man," Spinelli muttered, her voice soft and groggy, "Someone's looking out for me, up there..." Clara fell back, the axe clattering to the ground. TJ stood before them, clutching his side, gasping in pain.
"Get out of here, girls," TJ told them, his eyes completely focused on Clara, who was positively fuming.
"TJ," Gretchen whispered, Spinelli leaned heavily against Gretchen, the heat and emotions and the struggle of the last few days getting to her. She was barely able to stay conscious.
"Teej..." she moaned. He didn't glance to her, his eyes boring into Clara.
"Get her out of here, Gretchen," TJ said steadily, "I'll be right behind you." He saw Clara watch them leave with hungry eyes gleaming in the firelight. Her hair was matted to her head, and both of them were covered in sweat and dirt.
"Why do you protect her?" Clara snarled, "Why?"
"I love her," TJ shrugged, "Why don't you understand that? I care for both of them, and love her." Clara pouted, tears mingling with sweat.
"You love me," she protested, "I'm perfect. She's not perfect..."
"But she is. She's perfect to me," TJ argued.
"She's flawed, you of all people should know that. She's hateful, a liar, she's not very pretty...she hurts everyone..."
"Everything about her makes her perfect. Her flaws make her perfect," TJ whispered, "You're looking at it wrong, Clara. You want to be perfect but it's impossible. You're only human...I love Spinelli, Clara, because she's not perfect. Which makes her perfect for me, because I'm not perfect."
"But...what about me?"
"I don't know if anyone's ever told you this before, Clara, but you're kind of insane."
"I...I..." Clara frowned at the ground, her eyes rolling to the axe beside her. She seemed to fall short. Her mind seemed to be reeling with this statement. Insane? How could she, someone so perfect, possibly be insane? "But...you...I...mama went out...and she didn't come back...mommy, I'm a good girl, I try to be...you should be mine! But then...I...wanted to stop them...I wanted to...mama and daddy, they never got along...I had to go live with mommy, but she wasn't mommy anymore...I don't understand...not perfect...never perfect...far from perfect..." TJ stepped back, he knew he should seize the opportunity to run, but he couldn't peel his eyes from the woman before him. Her face was constantly contorting at each voice change. She seemed to be arguing with herself, talking amongst herself, losing control of whatever she felt she had control of before. "Father was a fool. Perfection is nothing...perfection is everything..." Her eyes lit up, falling on TJ. "You betrayed us."
"What? Us?" She knelt, slowly taking the axe back into her hands.
"I'm not perfect?" she stepped forward, and TJ felt his heart stop, "You'll see, I'll be perfect...we'll be perfect together..."
END A/N: Now, first of all, for all of you wondering. I never said that any of them died, that any of them were successfully killed. I never confirmed any death. SO, there.
A note on Clara/Mary Anna/Brenda/Non-Identified: She's got a multiple personality disorder thing going on, real bad, but just to note. First of all, it's not exactly MPD, because usually in MPD, the dominant personality is aware of the others, but the others aren't aware of one another...yup...also, for telling them apart. Clara says "father" and "mother". Mary Anna says "mama" and "daddy", southern style. Brenda says "mommy" and "daddy". And the unidentified woman says "he" and makes no reference to a mom figure.
Mmmm....REVIEW!
Please excuse any grammatical and typing errors.
Thanks for Reading. Now, go run around the house naked.