Under The Floorboards, Inside The Walls, Up In The Attic, And Other Ways Of Existing Before AI Could Claim The Brain-Rotted Mental Structure Of Humanity (Here Is Gone)… (Intermission 2-2)

Cycle II: Coming of Age
The Hidden Life
The Record · INT 2-2 (v1.00)
THE HOUSE OF ZAN — Zan

Consent (The Ticket)

This is a piece about a handwritten haunted-house story I wrote in 2002, before AI could make everyone suspicious of punctuation, before every human thought had to become content, and before I knew a story called The House would eventually look less like coincidence and more like my life doing foreshadowing without permission.

The story itself is being presented as an artifact, which means the spelling, punctuation, weird line choices, cursed real estate logic, and one of the dumbest workplace ethics situations ever committed to paper have been preserved as close to the page as possible.

If it starts to feel like I am making a childhood English assignment carry too much symbolic weight, welcome. We do that here.

— Zan

Scene (The Ride)

I.

I was a teenager doing writing, armed with a piece of paper and a pen, creating a story out of my ass.

You won’t believe what happened next!

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Or, to put that in less algorithmically diseased terms:

I was writing.


II.

I did not have consistent access to a computer when I was glowing up.

Sorry, growing up.

This was 2002.

I was in an English class.

Not a creative writing elective.

Not Publication 101.

This was a required English class, unless you were in advanced placement or one of the classes for students with learning disabilities.

Honestly, I could have been in either of those, depending on the day.

Everyone had to be there.

Everyone had to write something.

Which matters because this was not me walking into a room of young writers and trying to be the next Finding Forrester.

This was me sitting in a regular class, with a regular assignment, deciding to make a whole little world because apparently I could not just be normal and complete the task like a good slave student.


III.

Not everyone is a writer.

Sure, people might be more inclined to write in the last 20-some years due to texting, social media, or trying to sound emotionally available on dating apps without giving another person the “ick.”

But before those things became normal, unless writing was part of your field, most people were not casually writing all the time.

So when I say I was writing, I do not mean I was making a caption.

I do not mean I was posting a thought because the world trained me to turn every passing feeling into content.

I do not mean I was filling out a profile with little quips because this was before the invention of looksmaxing.

I mean I was sitting there with paper and a pen, making names, places, deaths, motives, rooms, history, and a cursed piece of real estate like that was a reasonable thing to do for a “let’s see how smart these children are” beginning-of-the-school-year assignment.


IV.

This piece was required to be typed out to be submitted and graded.

Which was a problem, because the story existed in my hand, not fed out by a machine.

I believe there were opportunities to use a study hall or something to do the tedious task of looking at what I wrote, then typing it onto a keyboard.

Having not used a keyboard like that at the time, the task would have been painful for me to do, especially in my “I’d rather be socializing or being by my lonesome” headspace.

Shockingly, I don’t remember how or if this piece was graded.

Likely one of those blackout memories where my mind is like, let’s just forget the parts that hurt and amplify the part that made me feel better.

The sole paper I have has no grade.

Just a marking in my own hand, saying it is Final, with a date of 09/24/2002.

If this piece was graded, it was graded on a different piece of paper, which I likely no longer have.

When I stared at this relic for a bit, I had flashes back to a conversation that might have happened where, if this isn’t submitted typed, it won’t be graded, and will either be graded as incomplete, unsubmitted, or F, as in Fuck You, get a home computer.

I think it was graded as unsubmitted.

Which is funny now, in the kind of way that is not funny if you are still the person it happened to at that time.

Because the thing existed.

It just may not have existed in the right format.


V.

Now, would it have been graded as an A+ if submitted?

Not within a vacuum, no.

If graded against the other writings being produced in the class at that time, and on effort and originality, sure, maybe it could have done well.

But it wasn’t about the grade.

It was about the fact I was doing it at the time.

I was creating a world, names, and so forth that mattered in my universe.

It wasn’t perfect, and at the time I wasn’t calling myself a writer, but I was doing something different than everyone else was doing.

It felt punk at a time when punk was being remarketed to the youth in the form of pop-punk mainstreamers like Blink-182, Good Charlotte, Simple Plan, and Sum 41.

I was probably closer in spirit to Ramones, Sex Pistols, The Clash, and Black Flag, even if I didn’t know their songs as well or realize how important those bands really were.

It is just part of the weather, man.

The same way the paper matters.

The same way the missing computer matters.

The same way the grade matters, even if the grade was never the point.


VI.

If you have ever had a teacher take you to the side and tell you something that is just for you to know, and only you, you are in special company.

Unless that thing is a sexual advancement, of course.

In this case, it was not that kind of life-changing moment.

It wasn’t the most perfect thing that could be said.

It wasn’t meant to make me sound like the best.

It wasn’t even to make the teacher sound like she was championing me over the others she was supposed to teach.

But it was motivating, and that was the purpose.

“You can write circles around all those other people.”

Well, yeah.

Yet, before that moment, until I was validated by someone else, I didn’t believe it.

Because sometimes you need someone to tell you that you are on fire before you realize you are.

Umm…

Terrible example.


VII.

The point, which I’m sure you are wondering at this point, is that I was building worlds with words for a long time.

It wasn’t just one-offs published “allegedly” sexist pieces about prom.

It wasn’t just notes meant to convince the local pool of baddies that I had some value.

It was full stories that existed in their own place and time with their own rules.

I was doing my thing before I knew what my thing was at the time.

If you’ve read the companion piece to this one, I think it proves my smart-ass personality isn’t manufactured.

I was always like that, well before any tools came along to invent personalities for those who lacked one.

This one is different, though.

This is a handwritten story.

Long-form.

Messy. Committed.

A little stupid. A little alive.

The kind of thing that does not prove I was polished.

It proves I was already doing it.


VIII.

So, you might be asking yourself:

What kind of person does it take to build something a certain way and not just say “good enough” when they know it could be better?

Case in point:

This section you are reading right now.

You see, when I finished these Intermissions, hello 2-3 and 2-4, I counted all the sections.

Guess what?

This piece had an odd number of sections.

To say it troubled me would make me sound like I have OCD.

So I’ll just say I decided to add this section to give you, the reader, more value.

Not solely for the purpose of adding another section to prove the point that the world-building is on such a nanospeck level that I apparently need the section count to match the progression of the former and later pieces and be even.

Clearly, I did not think like this when I was younger.

That is why The House was seven pages and not the more satisfying eight pages.

If I had typed it, it likely would have been eight pages.

Maybe even six pages.

Which would be perfect, but not happy.

Because if you know numerology, twenty-eight would be the earliest way to get to a happy and perfect number.

I am not crazy.

I just have a code.

Like Dexter.

And in my mind, I am killing it.


IX.

I suppose you would like to see the story I wrote, flaws and all, to get a glimpse of the relic I am talking about, right?

Look, I was asking a rhetorical question.

You didn’t have to say no.

Anyway, I am leaving it as close to what was written on the page as possible.

The spelling, because there was no spell checker built into the paper.

The punctuation, because everything was new and exciting back then!

The strange choices, because my exposure to real life up to that point was mostly something seen on a CRT TV.

All of it.

Court evidence, basically.


X.

The House – 09/24/2002 – FINAL


Page 1

A picture frame fell from the wall. The sound swept across the house. Sound of the picture frame breaking traviled to every room in the house. The picture inside the frame was of a old man by the name of Walker Percy, A Southern man who owed the house during the civil war. He lived there with his wife Mary Ann Percy and their two sons Jonathan and Robert Percy.

The Night of July 2 1861 Walker’s wife set out to bring food to the Confederate Solders. Their two sons Joined the Confederate army in battle about a month ago. Walker Percy sat in the house alone that night. That was the last time anyone saw or heard from him again.

In present day Memphis, Tennessee the sets there in the same sport for more than 150 years. There has never been a new owner since that night. Strange things have happen there since that night.

A few years back a bank robber decided he would hide in the house one night. Jim Cooper was a used cars sales man turned to Crime after his bussiness was shut down. Jim needed money for his house and his own car, Then one day he snapped like a twig, Mr. Cooper went down to amnonation and bought a gun, ski mask, and a bag with the money sign on It. He hats to bright At half past 3:00 pm he enterd the main street in Memphis.

Jim shot two Cops and


Page 2

managed to steal about $250,000 in cold hard cash.

Jim ran out of the bank to find someone has stoled his car, So Jim had to run on foot. It was getting dark out and he still was running from the Cops. Than he came across the Percy House. He was going to break in the back door, but It was unlocked. Once in the house he made his way to the dinning room, Still a little Shock about what he Just did he had a seat.

Minutes latter neighbors where dealing 911. The reason for this mass hysteria was because of the scream that Just came from the Percy House. Police were on the scene Instantly. There was no body find in the house There was only the money and gun which had Mr. Cooper finger prints all over them. No one seen him again.

Just last year a man was “Killed” by the house. Scott Hammermill was looking for his dog, bob. He was Jogging with bob one day and he ran off. Scott looked for has dog for 2 weeks and still could not find him, He gave up and decided to look for bob at the Percy House. Mr. Hemmermill went in the house but never came out.

Now the house is getting ready for Its next victim Patricia Cook.

A door busted open as If It was blow open with genaid. A Voice entered the room “I did It” yelled Mr. Pink, Mr. Pink Just sold the


Page 3

Troy House on Green Ave. After three years he sold the worst house on Green Ave. Everybody stood up and claped. Everybody expet Patrica Cook.

She was busy on the phone with a client. “Thats the lowest I can sell for” said Patrica. Thats a little out of my price range repiyed the man on the phone. Patrica was getting very frad on the phone with this guy who she been trying to sell a house to for 3 weeks. “Pealse take the house at this great Price” said Patrica. The man replyed with a simple. “Maybe next week”.

Patrica had toomuch and riped the phone from the wall, she than slammed the phone on the desk. They was no looks or “why did you do that”. In this bussiness your lucky to get by one day without being Blad.

The manager peeked his head out of his office. Mr. Brown cleared his throt and called in Patrica. She cleared her throt and headed to Mr. Browns office.

“I think you know why I called you in here” said Mr. Brown, “Because I riped the phone out of the wall” in a cocky way said Patrica. “That too” sniped back Mr. Brown.

“I brought you in here to talk about your bussiness performs. “You have not sold a house in 4 months and that’s way to long said Mr. Brown. “Are you going to fire me said Patrica in a scared tone. Not If you do me a favor said Mr. Brown, Patrica’s mind wondered what could he be talking about.


Page 4

“What kind of favor” repiyed Patrica “Are you famler with the Percy House?”

“Why me” screamed Patrica as she entered the house. Slamming the door benind her. A car motor started symbolizing she had Just lost another customer

“How I’m going to sell this stupid house” she t If I don’t sell this house I’m going to be fired. But right then she had a crazy thought. “I know this place isn’t cursed and I will prove It by staying he one night” said Patrica, “I’ll make a big event of It” grinned Patrica, TV, Paper, Radio and prove to the world this place is not cursed.

She drove to the local Television, Newspaper, and Radio sattian spreads the word on what she is going to do, At first their did’nt belive It, Most people thought It was haux. Thinking no one In their right mind would stay in the house, Soon people Started to believe her,

The next morning a newspaper hit Mr. Brown’s door like every morning, Mr. Brown went out to yet the paper and seen the Headline “local real estate agent stays in Percy House”. Mr. Browns Jaw dropped to the ground.

When e came everybody in the neighbor hood was outside the Percy House. People were holding signs that read like “Good Luck”, “You’re the greastest”, “You can do It”


Page 5

Then their were people with signs that read like “You’re going to die, “Are you crazy” and “your Screwed,” Patrica did not care about the signs that much. She Just waved to the crowd and enterd the house.

As Patrica shut the door behind her she had a strange feeling in her arm. It was If someone grabed her. “It must be the wind” said Patrica. She grabed her bags and went to the living room. She sat on the dusty Couch and begin to unpack.

Afterward she went to take a bath. The people at Basic Electric and Howard Water Company turned back on the Electric and Water. It has been off for many years. She dryed off and went to the bedroom. She got in the bed and begin to fall asleep.

She awoke shortly after falling asleep to a voice. She Jumped out of bed and followed the voice. As she got near she could make out what the voice was saying, “Join us, Join us” the voice said, It sounded like a annoying Telemarketer ureging her to Join the fruit of the month club.

She got down the stairs and looked around. She seen were it was coming from The basement. As She got near the basement door It began to shake. Patrica step forward over just above the door, The voice stopped. “Just the wind” said Patrica


Page 6

She turned and made her way to the stairs. Then the basement doors busted open and to long skinny arms came from the basement. The hand graped her by the legs and began to pull her down to the basement.

She begin to scram and shout very loud. As the hands draged her down to the basement see began to see a face, The face was grotesque. It looked like nothing she see before. Without warning she give the grotesque monster a one-two punch Knocking It back, She than ran back up from the basement and locked the basement door.

She was not sure what just happen, She needed a drink. She went to the Kitchen. She reached to open the Cabinet door, “Aaaahhh” Scremed Patrica. The door handles were hot. Not just stove hot but hell hot. It was so hot It burned the skin off her hand.

Patrica ran to the sink to cool her burned hand. The Cool water on her hand made the pain slowly fade away. After her hand cooled she made way for the door, Tapping the handle to see If It was hot. She Gurb the door knob and twisted the handle. It was locked too.

She than went to the window to break out. They were locked as well. Patrica picked up a Chair to try to break the window. It broke the chair She could not believe It. The house was really cursed

“Knock, Knock” came from a door she did not see before


Page 7

“Who’s there” Patrica she answered to the loud knocking nosie. Than It stopped. Their was no nosie in the room, All nosie stopped. “What the….” before she could say the rest a fat rat drop on her face from above she fainted

She awoke a short time later after the rat fell on her. She started to hear an evil voice. The door she seen before busted open and the evil thing stood In front of her. “You will die” scramed the monster

“What do you want” said Patrica. “You soul hissed the monster. The monster was more than ready to do away with Patrica. Then the front door busted open A Cloud of dust travil through the air as a loud Chainsaw was started up, After the dust Cleared Patrica could see who was standing in the door way.

It was Mr. Brown. The same Mr. Brown that told her to sell the house, The monster begin to hiss and Shout. “You will die” The monster Screamed. Mr. Brown ran up and Chainsawed the monster in two.

Patrica and Mr. Brown ran out of the house, “What was that” said Patrica Catching her breath. “why did you want me to sell the house” said Patrica after not getting a answer for the first thing see ask, “I needed bait” said Mr. Brown.

Patrica went to get his Chainsaw and cut him in two. But she was just happy It was over.


XI.

Yeah.

It’s called The House.

Which, given what happened to my childhood house and the name of this project, kind of comes full circle, in some am-I-really-in-hell-or-heaven way.

The last time I really looked at this piece was right after high school graduation, when I showed it to my grandmother.

She read it in full, which I’m sure wasn’t easy because of age, the poorly lit room, my handwriting at the time, the spelling, the grammar, the transitions, the punctuation choices, and whatever the hell was happening structurally, spiritually, and legally once the chainsaw entered the story.

I remember it because she told me it was really good.

And that really mattered to me then and still does now.

Isn’t that the value in most things?

To show the people you care about what you can do.

Even more important when the person can understand how important it was to you.


XII.

That might be the whole point of this life.

Or at least the part I keep coming back to.

I made something.

It was read like it was worth reading.

That mattered more than the grade.

More than the assignment.

More than whether the school counted it at all.

Because I chose to make the thing.

It’s like when you eat out and pay way too much for a meal.

It was never only about the food.

It was about where you were.

Who was there.

Why you still remember it years later when the receipt is gone, the place may not even exist anymore, and the person you were is mostly unreachable.

The thing existed.

It just may not have existed in the right format.

Back then, the machine was what I needed to make the work acceptable.

Now, the machine is what people use to wonder if the work is mine.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, there was a handwritten story called The House.

Which is either funny, sad, stupid, meaningful, or all of the above.

It doesn’t matter what era you’re in.

Everything is peak-maxed and cooked beyond repair at the exact same time.

No cap.

No, really, I don’t know how to cap this shit off.

Know any good AI apps?

Companion track: “Here Is Gone” – The Goo Goo Dolls


Aftercare (The Comedown)

You do not have to be polished at the start to prove you were real.

Sometimes the proof is rough, misspelled, overcommitted, and somehow still walking around with a cursed house, a real estate agent, a basement monster, and a boss who should have been reported to HR before the chainsaw ever entered the chat.

The machines can help with format.

They can help with grammar.

They can help make a thing easier to read.

They cannot go back to 2002, sit in that classroom for a full semester, pick up that pen, and live a life that predates their widespread adoption.

I existed then.

I exist now.

Cycle II · The Record · INT 2-2

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