COUNTDOWN TO GREATNESS

A few blocks away from John’s parents’ place there was a cobwebbed mansion that two generations of neighborhood kids had dubbed “the haunted house.” It sat far back from the street. To reach it kids had to scale a brick wall, then wade through an acre of dried grass and faded newspapers. Until he was twelve, John was too overwhelmed by the words “haunted house” to check the place out. When he finally tiptoed inside one afternoon it was nothing, an empty thing. He’d spent a half hour picking up pieces of broken chairs, used prophylactics and smelly bums’ clothing.

--Dennis Cooper from Closer



The house had been built on a hillside. There were some steps carved into it that led up to a tiled vegetable garden. Julian dropped down on the third and fourth steps. Henry remained at their foot, smiling back at the house. Its windows were streamed. In the dirt below one was a puddle of purplish vomit, shaped exactly like Texas. “No, what were we saying?” Julian yawned. Henry had started to teeter around pretty weirdly. “Oh…I forgot. I, uh, feel…I guess, dizzy.” He hiccupped, sat.

--Dennis Cooper from Frisk



On rarer occasions he wanders through his sweaty, windowless loft. With its half-finished drywalls and crooked corridors, it suggests a cheap carnival fun house. … As a child, one had scared him so much the police had to come in and escort him out.

--Dennis Cooper from Try



My apartment is more like a very small one-story house, with bread-box ceilings and pink window shades, set among five almost identical units in a small tree-lined court. Sniffles immediately gives himself a tour. I pour him a large glass of scotch on the rocks, at his request. He stops at my CD collection, chooses Television’s Adventure, and slips it into the player just about the time I return with his drink and all the drugs I have stashed in the house.

--Dennis Cooper from Guide



That? Nate said, spotting the first foggy, tree-obscured view of an average, citified house. It sat in a completely impractical spot, several strenuous uphill, twisting, turning miles away from any road. ‘Cos he’d expected a huge nude statue of that George guy at least. I mean, fuck it.

Quiet down, Bob said, and opened the front door a crack. Turns out that inside the hospitable front there was zip, inkiness. Still, thanks to the scrawny, vague inflow of daylight, Nate could guess it was all divvied up into rooms, hallways, and maybe even a staircase, all painted wild black.

It’s a hellmouth, isn’t it? Nate said. ‘Cos there was a definite essence of Satan inside. Some sort of creepy crawly glow. It etched Nate with goose bumps, then spun off a fantasy wherein Bob, no, wait, Leon, yeah, raped him, wait, while The Omen played live, no, wait, murdered him, wait, or—

--Denis Cooper from Period

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