Liam had always been a bit of a melt.
We had known him since the early days of secondary school, and this fact alone was the main thrust behind our friendship. His glasses were wonky, his jeans too long in the leg. The collars of his shirts were always askew. But he liked a joke, and enjoyed a pub trip. Spending a few hours with him was perfectly pleasant, as long as you kept him off one topic.
Haunted houses. The kind found at fairgrounds and theme parks. Liam loved the grinning skeletons and plastic spooks hanging from the rooftops. Adored the staged creaks and fiberglass tombstones. Worshiped at the neon glow of the signage.
Over the years he amassed a wide collection of books on the subject. Their history. Their design. Even full blueprints. He never stopped waffling on about the technical details. These one way conversations always ended with him insisting that one day he was going to build the best haunted house in the world.
This seemed like a feasible dream at school. But the years went by, and we joined Liam in wearing glasses, and had to dye our hair. And he still banged on about haunted houses. It was hard to talk about interest rates when one member of the group interrupts to explain how monsters glow in the dark. A few dropped him from their social life. I stuck to a drink every Christmas.
Then one day an invitation to his grand opening dropped through the letterbox, a cartoon ghost floating above a time and place.
Liam ignored all messages for more details. My wife laughed, but I had to find out what was at that location.
The field was over half an hour from the nearest town. The wheels of my tyres complained from the mud at the last five hundred meters. But Liam stood in front of a wooden shed, waving with full enthusiasm.
The building was not much taller than his six foot frame, and less than the length of my car. A paper sign on the wall told me to keep out. I kicked a stone, and patted Liam’s shoulders when he gave me a hug.
'I cracked it,' he whispered. 'Success is not about replication. Originality is the key. Take a peek.’
I popped in. Just to take a peek.
The smell was upsetting. Mackerel pate served with bleach. Although the far wall was a hand stretch away, I was not convinced my hand would reach. Brown stains dotted the packed dirt floor.
That was when I noticed the shape crawling across the ceiling. Something pale and veiny, a peeled grape mixed with a maggot, moving at the pace of a spider on its silk.
That was enough for me. But then the issue was the door handle had slipped away, and left my fingers touching the rough grain of a solid oak beam.
Line: Mackerel pate served with bleach.
