....Continued from The Old House: An Unforeseen Evil
Quito had witnessed enough and had controlled himself too much. Hastily, he retraced his way out of the house. After closing the last door, he breathed real air for the longest time.
The house is evil, he murmured.
The house is evil, he murmured.
As he was leaving, he stepped on something soft that instantly crumbled beneath his foot. He looked down and saw his candle. Like the candle, his innocence was lost and shattered. He went to his bicycle and rode, heading off to the one place he knew he should be going to.
The river was as it was since he left it, still placid and silver under the majestic moon. Quito stood on the bank, trying to comprehend everything – the practice, the men’s egoism, the women’s concern and the horrors of the old house. When he finally realized them, he closed his eyes and relived the events of the night. Naturally, the swelling in his short pants commenced again. Stripping off all his clothes, he plunged into the cold waters of the river, swimming and performing the only strokes habitual to him.
On the nights that followed, Quito would visit the old house and later on, dip into the comforting river. And on the nights of the weeks that followed, he would no longer detour to the river. Instead, he would stay much longer in the old house, exploring the powers of his manhood.
T.H.E. E.N.D.
Image courtesy of The Witching Hour.
