1996. Near Reykjavik, Iceland. Staring at the brick home was not a pleasant experience; the lights seeping coolly out of the windows never impressed anyone with kindness or welcoming warmth. If there was any reason for the continued interest taken in the building, it was certainly because of its occupant, a man whose strange walk and unconvincing kindness spoke of foreign intrigue and deep suspicion. To listen to his voice was to hear a semblance of the deep sea's shifting and faint life. He muttered, whined, and let nasal gasps escape each time an unfamiliar character caught his attention. He was forgiving only in that he was distant, too removed to speak of displeasure or inconvenience when approached. That is why his disappearance into the house remains a topic of some debate in the town. Never one to remove himself entirely from his environment, when he purchased the house and did not emerge for over a month the entire matter became of criminal interest. He could've been kidnapped, though no one was sure what value he possessed to a kidnapper. He could've been murdered, but he had no enemies and, beside his newly acquired home, no valuables by which a murder would make any sense.
The sounds came later, from beneath the cracks in the window frames. Slowly escaping, but deafeningly loud, the duration of the event was enough to cause concern among the residents on the street. A subtle wind from inside the house let loose the most cavernous of bellows, the sound of a bagpipe expanding beyond its capacity and exploding in slow motion. Soon the house was a taboo topic. There was obviously someone alive inside. Every night candles would burn inside, casting shadows that made no sense, extending them across the street and into the trees where all manner of perverse actions were played out as though planned by a puppeteer. As though the lights and sounds were not enough, passers by noted the cold air surrounding the old place, emanating ever so slowly from the base of the property, from beneath the ground.
Or so it seemed.
Others passed it off as mere superstition, the effects of an eccentric man on a small town outside Reykjavik. But then came the birthday. He walked out of his door one sunny morning, when the sun was still low and the clouds were cast with purples and oranges. His dress was Victorian. Austere but with a sense of separation. He walked down the street slowly, his mouth tightly closed, only nodding to those who greeted him. Everyone agreed that he seemed to be in a most excited mood. His footsteps fell faster than before, his detached air replaced by his dress, and his attention seemingly restored. Whatever had happened in the house, his mood had improved, making his presence all the more welcome.
It was his mouth, though. Something about his mouth troubled everyone. He refused to talk. But everyone knew why. The house spoke for him. When asked what had happened all those months, locked away inside the house alone, here would merely point. The house would stand there and creek, moaning with the old wood that framed its interior. He would simply walk on. I do not claim to know the contents of that house. But passing him one day I was lucky enough to catch him without his wide-rimmed hat on. He has wiping his brow and adjusting his jacket. I saw it then. String. Thread.
His mouth had been sewn shut. When I appealed to him, begging for some explanation as to what might've happened, he simply pointed down towards the house. I could hear it moan in the wind... or so I thought. It was a windless day and I swear that he had spoken to me. He rushed quickly home that instant and with a horrifying slam, the door was closed and the voice I heard silenced. That house, belonging to the old artist outside Reykjavik, no longer belongs to this land, nor does it have room even in my mind. When I pass it I try to pretend it isn't even there. But, on occasion, that voice can be heard coming from the house and one must assume it can only be the voice of that occupant, speaking from behind his sewn lips, causing the house to move and twitch, as though it were speaking of all the horrible revelations unveiled every night in the trees when those sick puppets dance and leave the town breathless.
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