Inheritance

The house was massive. At least, it was massive by Amy's standards. If her father had been an A-list actor, or a business mogul, or king of some small country, she might have considered the four story estate modest. But her father was a mechanic, and her mother was a baker. The three bedroom, two bathroom apartment she'd grown up in had less square footage on the floors, ceilings, and walls put together than the house no, the mansion had in the front atrium alone.

And it's mine. All of it. The atrium, the house, everything in the house, all the land for miles in any direction. And the money . . .

According to the lawyer she's spoken to that morning, she'd been left enough money that she didn't have to work another day in her life. Or the life after that. It was quite an inheritance, and unexpected as well. She'd never even heard of her great uncle.

Not until the day he killed himself.

He must've had some kind of falling out with the rest of the family. She'd been to all of her father's family reunions and nobody mentioned him. Even when Amy called her father up with the exciting news about her unexpected inheritance, he'd seemed bizarrely nonplussed. When she'd invited him and her mother to come down and see the place with her, he'd come up with some transparent excuse and gotten off the phone as quickly as he could.

Probably just one of his moods, she thought with a sigh. I'll give him a week to get over whatever's bugging him. If that doesn't work, well, I'll pay off the note on his truck and see if he's more receptive.

In the meantime, she'd just have to enjoy her amazing good fortune on her own.

The place wasn't perfect: the color scheme was drab, and though there were three towns within driving distance, they were all far enough away to make casual commutes somewhat inconvenient. But it was free, and she could now afford to redecorate the place.

Amanda Connor stood six feet inside the front door, breathing slowly, trying to take in the massiveness of it all, both figuratively and literally.

It was the first good thing that had happened to her in a long time. After a series of bad relationships, and several years working in a call center, contacting people who didn't want to talk to her to try to sell them things they didn't need at prices they couldn't afford, she'd needed something good to happen to her.

And then, like a dream, the phone call. She was disconcerted to hear that she'd lost a relative that she'd never met, but the silver lining on that cloud was particularly bright.

So bright that it took her breath away. So massive that it made her dizzy.

Once her initial dizziness abated, Amanda decided to explore. The living room, off to her right, connected to a dining area, neither of which struck Amy as particularly interesting. She passed on the stairs, preferring to explore one floor at a time.

Something about the hallway on the right just seemed to call to her. It was actually smaller than she would have expected. Looking at the door, it occurred to her that it would look like a closet when closed. It was probably an entrance to what had once been servants' quarters.

The house was old enough that they had likely once had servants. And the rooms she passed by, though they seemed to be used now for storing old furniture, were obviously designed to be living quarters.

I could rent out the rooms!

Amy had some old college friends who were looking for a change, she could give them decent prices, and she wouldn't be stuck in the house by herself all the time.

Enamored by the idea, she hurried into one of the rooms. The carpets had been taken out, for some reason, but some of her friends were pretty handy, they would probably be willing to exchange some work for the first month or two of rent.

Maybe three or four months, she realized, as she flipped on the lights, revealing the stains on the walls. And they might be wary about a house this far from anywhere potential jobs. I could give them jobs around the house, I suppose. But how long would that last?

She put the idea on the back burner and exited the room. There would be time to think about renovations and roommates later. She would probably need to get some professionals out to look around anyhow. Copper stains like that probably came from leaky pipes, and if her pipes were leaking, chances were there was a lot more work involved than a fresh coat of paint and new carpets.

At the end of the hallway she came to the only closed door. When it didn't give at her first twist, Amy worried that it had been locked, but after a little jiggling, it opened with a creaking groan, and Amy flipped on the light switch as she stepped into what had to be the servants' dining room. The only other entrance to the room was a pair of swinging doors directly across the room from her.

Whatever table and chairs the place had once housed had long since been removed. In their place, the room had been lined with china cabinets and wardrobes, dressers and shelves. All of the furniture, starting at the china cabinet to the right of the swinging doors, all the way around the first corner of the room, appeared to be filled, completely filled, with random knickknacks. Cigarette lighters, playing cards, watches, folded garments, there was no apparent rhyme or reason to the collection or its order.

It was a riddle, a mystery, a story untold. Amy felt giddy, like she was ten years younger, digging through her parents' attic, dressing up in old clothes, and pouring over pictures and love letters.

She stared at it all with a sense of wonder. Half way down the wall to her right the collection simply stopped, mid shelf, on a fine oak bookcase. Every piece of furniture past that, all the way around the room, seemed to be quite empty.

Amy felt an odd tingling in her fingertips, and a strange, lightheadedness as she scanned the room. It felt . . . important. She moved forward, opening the china cabinet next to the door for a better look. A soiled and torn shirt made of linen sat between a tarnished earring and a pair of glasses with a broken lens.

It's too organized, she thought as she looked it all over. Set up like it's on display, but a display of what? Half of this is crap, mixed in with antiques.

The only thing that seemed to connect the objects was their apparent age. Moving down the line, she continued to scan the items. A revolver, a necktie, a silver flask, the objects were still random, but they became newer and newer as she walked, until she reached the last shelf, where a cell phone sat, one of the new ones that she'd been dying to get ever since it came out. Unfortunately, picking it up, she found that it was broken, cut almost clean through.

Disappointed, Amy set it back down. To her surprise, her fingers still tingled, she still felt short of breath, excited by something. This room contained a mystery, no doubt about that, but she had not discovered anything promising, yet she still felt exhilarated.

The girl scanned the room trying to sort out just what it was that made her feel this way. Her eyes stopped on the swinging doors.

She could feel her heart race at the sight of them. For the life of her, Amy couldn't begin to guess why, but she was drawn to those doors. Drawn to the room behind them.

And before she'd even decided to look inside, she found herself pushing her way through those doors. Her head was fairly humming with anticipation. She couldn't feel her feet touching the ground.

The kitchen was spotless, and well lit. It had been renovated, with large, gleaming sinks, and marble countertops. Extra space for slicing and dicing was available on a large island in the center of the room, over which hung a rack of knives and pots and pans.

A grate in the center of the room made for easy cleaning, and a large, heavy metal door looked like it must open to a walk in freezer. It was everything a chef could want. Too bad Amy's culinary skills were limited to frozen dinners and the occasional bowl of Ramen.

At least, that's what they were so far. With equipment like that available to her, she might just take a cooking course or two and see where it led.

Amy opened one of the cabinets, curious to see what kinds of foods were available for her to work with. The cabinet, however, was completely empty.

Odd that someone would go to the trouble and expense of renovating this room, only to leave it bare of anything to work with.

She moved to the next cabinet, and the next. They were all empty of anything edible. Even the walk in freezer had been cleaned out. She did find plenty of dishes, silverware and towels, and, in a small cabinet in the corner of the room, she found a collection of old cookbooks.

She was about to close the cabinet when one of the books caught her eye. Smaller than the rest of the books, and bound in leather, it appeared to be a small journal. Amy pulled it out and undid the clasp in front.

The Journal of Joshua Connor, the first page proclaimed.

Amanda stared at the page. Her great uncle's name was Sam, not Joshua. But then, the journal appeared to be quite old, the pages yellowing, and the handwriting consisting of elaborate and precise loops.

She carefully turned to the next page and began to read.

Joshua, it seemed, had been a successful architect. His interests, however, were more unusual, at least for his time. Joshua had been obsessed with ancient history, and long dead religions. Amy read quickly, page after page, absorbing the peculiar life of a man whom, she became more and more certain, she was somehow related to.

A dozen pages or so in, Joshua had just begun describing the decline of his second marriage when Amanda opened to an illegible page. Water had been spilled onto the pages and, flipping through, Amanda was disappointed to find that most of the book had been ruined. Outside of an occasional word, everything was smudged. She did notice, as she flipped through it, that his writing began to change, becoming more and more cramped, the calligraphy giving away to small block letters.

It wasn't until the very last pages that Amanda found anything she could make out. Joshua had given up on telling the story of his life by that point. Instead she found odd symbols and notations, it appeared to be some kind of attempt at a translation, something about immortality and some long forgotten, half-god.

As strange as that seemed, the line that captured her attention most completely was at the very bottom of the very last day.

Live as long as you can live with it.

She reread the line, then reread it again. "Live as long as you can live with it." She murmured out loud, shaking her head. Her father had told her once that there was some mental illness in his side of the family. This was probably one of the people he was talking about.

Amy turned her attention back to the kitchen. She stepped forward, reaching up to touch some of the gleaming pots and pans.

A creaking sound caught her attention and she turned. Her hand brushed the edge of one of the knives. The cut was painless, but deep, a sudden gush of blood splashed onto the counter, then to the floor.

"Dammit!" Amy clamped her left hand around her bleeding right, and raced to the sink. She shut her eyes as she stuck her hand under the nozzle and turned on the water. She'd never been very good with blood, especially her own. It took her a second to realize that the water hitting her hand felt wrong. It was thick. She opened her eyes and stared. Some kind of sludge was pouring into the sink. Dark globs coated her injured hand.

"Son off a BITCH!" Amy pulled her hand out of the sink, shutting off the flow of slime. She raced over to a drawer where she'd found towels. The grime seemed to cling to her hand, but her blood flowed freely, soaking the towel.

Amy yanked a second towel from the drawer and wrapped it as tight as she could around her hand. Her great uncle hadn't had a home phone service, she remembered the lawyer mentioning something about that. And her phone didn't work out here.

She cursed under her breath and started moving for the door. On her second step, she stepped in a pool of her own blood, and found herself staring at the ceiling as she fell onto her back.

***

Amy woke up feeling woozy. Woozy and hungry and a little bit confused.

She was laying on a cold, hard floor, and her head hurt.

Then she remembered. Blood, sludge, the whole thing came back in a rush. She shook her head and forced herself to sit up. The world spun for a moment, but settled back in after a few seconds.

There was something wrong. It took her a few seconds to put her finger on the problem: there was no blood. She'd cut herself pretty badly. Blood on the floor, on the counter, in the sink.

She pulled herself to her feet for a better look, but there was nothing there. Everything was clean, completely clean, like new.

Amy looked down at the towel wrapped around her hand. Her hand felt a little numb, probably from being wrapped so tightly for so long. She unwrapped her makeshift bandage slowly. There was plenty of blood in that, though it was dried out, making her wonder just how long she'd been lying on the floor. Pulling away the bandage, she examined her hand. A long pink scar marked where she had cut herself, but the injury had closed up, almost miraculously.

Running a finger along the cut she found it still tender, but still it did not bleed.

Some small black crustiness coated her hand. Too dark to have come from her, Amy was confident it was the dried remains of the sink sludge. She wiped it away, the dried crumbs falling to the ground.

She'd hurt herself, she knew that without question, but the evidence of her injuries were gone. The blood she'd spilled on the floor was gone. So was the gunk that had come out of the sink.

Amanda turned to the sink and twisted the handle, curious to again see the sludge. Instead a stream of crystal clear, ice cold water gushed from the tap.

"What the hell?"

She looked from the sink to her hand and back.

It's like we've exchanged blood, me and the house. She felt the left side of her lips curling upwards in a strange grin. It was an expression she was unaccustomed to. And the thought in her head, it felt . . . foreign. It wasn't the sort of thing she'd think.

Maybe I should get that hand looked at. There was an odd texture to the thoughts, like someone was whispering them into her mind.

A chill ran down Amy's spine. But, wherever the thought had come from, it made sense. She'd cut herself. And that stuff from the sink, that didn't look healthy. She should at least get herself looked at.

She had maps of the neighboring towns in her car, she'd find out where the nearest hospital was and get someone to check her over.

***

"Uh, excuse me?" Amy leaned out of her window.

The man with graying hair and green scrubs glanced up at her. "Ma'am?"

"How exactly do I find the entrance?"

The older man pointed over his shoulder. "The emergency room is right through there."

"Oh! No, no, this isn't an emergency, exactly." It was distinctly not an emergency, she'd gone so far as to stop to grab some food on her way in. As hungry as she was, though, nothing on the menu had appealed to her.

"Then you should probably make an appointment with your regular practitioner."

"Don't have one. Or, more accurately, I don't have one in town. Sorry, I'm new to the area. I just had this little accident." She extended her hand as she spoke, displaying the cut, which looked a little bit more impressive out here in the sunlight. "I'm sure it's nothing, but I kind of wanted somebody to take a look at it and tell me that nothing's wrong. I'm being ridiculous, I know."

The man stepped forward and took her hand, looking it over, carefully. "It doesn't look that deep. Just clean it out well and wash with hot water."

"That's what I was going too do, only, well, it's a new house, and when I turned on the water it came out all funky, I'm mostly worried that I gave myself some kind of infection when I was trying to clean up."

As she spoke, Amanda's eyes moved over the doctor. He was old enough to be her father, actually, he was probably a little bit older than her father, and he wasn't particularly attractive, but something about him seemed appealing.

It wasn't until her eyes moved to his face that she realized how aware he was of her interest.

"It's doubtful that there was anything dangerous in the water. If you want to be thorough, you can bring a sample here and I can get someone to look at it for you."

"Are you sure you don't want to come get a sample yourself?" The words were out of her mouth before she'd known she was thinking of saying them.

The doctor, she was sure he was a doctor of some kind, let a lusty smile slip across his face. "I suppose I could make the time. Where do you live?"

Amanda's first instinct was to stop herself. This wasn't her. She didn't pick up strange men, especially older men, wearing wedding rings. He wasn't even her type.

But the warm feeling spreading through the pit of her stomach wouldn't be denied.

Everyone I know has done something crazy in their life. It was the whisper, again. Wasn't it? I deserve to enjoy myself. And it isn't my fault if he's married.

"I live a little ways out of town," she answered, unlocking the passenger door. "It'll be easier if you just come with."

***

"You inherited this?" The doctor, Chuck, craned his neck, trying to take in the entire house as he followed Amy through the front door.

"Yeah." She dropped her keys and purse on a table in the atrium before heading towards the hallway to the servants' quarters. My dad's grandfather's brother, or something. Apparently he never had kids and wasn't close to anyone, so he picked a relative, wrote a will, and blew his brains out."

"That's too bad. I mean, that he killed himself. I mean, kind of fortunate for you, but sad." Chuck stumbled over his words as he hurried to follow Amy. "Did he leave a note?"

"Pardon?" She headed towards the door to the dining area. She'd left it open in her rush to leave. Now, approaching it, the thing reminded her of a mouth, a gaping maw, though she couldn't begin to explain why.

"A suicide note, did he leave one?"

"Uh, no." The lawyer would have mentioned that. Wouldn't he?

"So, do you know why he killed himself?"

"He couldn't take it anymore." Amanda answered without thinking.

"Couldn't take it? Couldn't take what?"

She stopped, just inside of the kitchen. "Uh. Life?"

"Okay." The doctor gave her an odd look and moved into the room. "Nice kitchen. Do you cook?"

"Not yet."

"Fair enough." He walked over to the sink and turned on the water.

Clear liquid flowed down and into his waiting palm. He raised his hand to his face and sniffed. "Seems normal enough to me. Better than the tap water at my house, actually."

Amanda stepped forward, raising herself up to sit partially on the island. "Well, it wasn't like that when I turned it on the first time.

"Sometimes pipes get a bit grimy when they aren't used for a while. You probably cleaned out whatever was clogging it up."

He turned around, and found himself inches away from Amy.

She reacted without thinking, grabbing the back of his head with one hand to pull him into a kiss, as she slipped the other hand under his shirt, running her fingernails over his flesh.

"Shit." He said when he pulled away.

"You don't want to?"

He pulled her forward and kissed her back in answer, bumping her head against one of the hanging pans.

"Sorry."

"Shut up," she replied, pulling his shirt off.

In a matter of moments both were naked. Amy leaned onto the cold marble as he entered her and proceeded to thrust furiously.

In the back of her mind, Amy couldn't help but wonder at what was happening. She'd never slept with anyone on the first date, much less at their first meeting. She wasn't acting like herself.

And, to be frank, the doctor wasn't very good. In fact, the utensils swaying over her head were more interesting than his arrhythmic motions and disturbing facial contortions.

It was odd, looking up and seeing those knives, all pointed down, all rocking back and forth on hooks that couldn't secure them that well. But it was less worrisome than exciting. Hell, one of the blades had already tasted her blood.

Which one?

Amanda reached up, her fingers touching the tips of the blades, making them sway more furiously.

Her fingers stopped on one of the bigger knives. Grabbing the sides of the blade she lifted it off its hook and flipped it over to hold onto the handle.

Chuck made an odd noise.

Looking into his eyes, Amy saw a mixture of fear and excitement. She wrapped her legs around him, held the knife to his throat.

Chuck made a guttural sound and continued his thrusting, eyes locked on hers.

She smiled and moved the knife away from his throat. She set the flat of the blade on his naked arm and drew it down, teasingly.

Chuck let out a pained yelp, and Amy could feel him softening inside her.

Looking at his arm she realized that she hadn't placed the blade as flat as she'd meant, a long, red line ran down his bicep.

Chuck started to pull away, but Amanda locked her legs around him. Normally disturbed by the sight of blood, she found this streak strangely exciting. Or perhaps it was the expression on his face. She'd never been with a man who was afraid of her. It made her feel powerful.

And hungry. She was still so hungry.

Chuck pulled away again, harder this time, a look of anger on his face.

Anger. With her. The cheating bastard was actually judging her.

And what a coward. A part of her mind was screaming at her that the thoughts weren't her own. But the truth was, she couldn't be sure. Look at him. A doctor, quivering at a little blood.

Amanda sneered at the man and whipped the blade at him, leaving another long, red streak, this one across his chest.

He pushed away from her, and this time she let him go. Off balance, the man stumbled backwards, reaching back with his right hand to steady himself. Instead of counter, though, his hand fell into the sink, and into the drain.

Chuck started to move away, but stopped. His hand was stuck.

Amy laughed as she pushed off the table, grabbing his wounded arm hard enough that he let out a yelp. She sunk her teeth into his shoulder, biting for blood. Behind his back, she extended her arm, using the tip of the knife blade to flick the switch.

A deep, powerful grinding sound filled the room, and the doctor screamed in agony.

Amanda laughed. She couldn't help herself, it was hilarious. A healer so unable to handle his own injuries. His warm blood ran down her body, and Amanda felt a hot jolt of pleasure in her now empty nethers.

She let out a moan and twitched. The twitch jerked her arm and she sliced into the doctor's neck.

His scream died down to a gurgle, and Amy's orgasm redoubled as his life blood sprayed over her.

Amanda slipped to the ground, into the pool of blood forming next to her victim's spasming body. With her eyes slit, she watched as the doctor's body was slowly pulled up and into the sink. Not like a garbage disposal at all. Like a mouth, sucking a piece of pasta in.

As another wave of ecstasy rocked her body, Amanda let her eyes close and sank into the pleasure.

***

Amanda opened her eyes and stared, for the second time, at the ceiling of her new kitchen. It was pristine. Still.

Shouldn't there have been blood on it? There had been a lot of blood, hadn't there? When she'd killed that man.

She killed a man.

That didn't sound right. That didn't sound like her.

She sat up and looked around.

There wasn't any blood. Not on the walls, not on the floor. She stood. The countertop was clean, the sink . . . there was no blood in the sink, just a ring. A wedding ring.

Amanda reached forward, then stopped. Her hand was covered in blood. Well, half of it was, the other half was . . . completely clean. The half that had been laying on the ground. Like the floor itself had licked it away, absorbed it off of her.

Like the house itself drank his blood off of me.

Amanda's breath caught in her chest.

It was insanity.

Out of the corner off her eye she saw something.

The doctor's scrubs were laying on the floor, where she had tossed them. They were soaked in blood, except, she discovered as she picked up his pants, where they had been touching the ground.

Turning the scrubs over she laid them back on the ground. Immediately, streams of blood poured off of the cloth and ran down to the drain in the middle of the floor.

Consumed.

Joshua Connor, her great, great, great grandfather, or something like that. He'd been an architect, the kind of man who might build his own house. And with his interest in old religions, forgotten religions, maybe he'd found something. Maybe when he built his house . . . .

"No." She shook her head. "It's impossible. And it's ridiculous."

But what if it wasn't impossible? What if he'd done it? Imagine the deal he might have made. What was it he'd said? You can live, as long as you can live with it.

Who didn't want to live forever?

Amanda stared at the scrubs laying on her floor. She'd always considered herself a moral person, a kind person, someone who would never put her own wants over the needs of others.

What if they deserve it? There are people who deserve it. This one was an adulterer, wasn't he? He betrayed his own wife, his own vows.

Amanda felt lightheaded again, dizzy. She couldn't do that, could she? Could she?

She shook her head again, she was too tired to think about this, too tired. She needed to shower, and she needed to sleep.

Amanda picked up the wedding ring and headed into the dining room, looking it over as she walked. She set it down on the shelf, next to the broken phone, then headed out into the hallway.