The House, The Pig by Edward Lee

malnutrition through which some prettiness still managed to leak out, like light under a closed door, a big-eyed human scarecrow. Long inky straight hair and skin that was oddly pallid and bright at the same time. She was probably mid-'20s but looked pushing 40, obviously worn out by dope, alcohol, and overall atrocious living. Melvin had seen her sitting by the dumpster at the Chinese carry-out it had taken him a FUCKING HOUR to find. It had been in the phone book with an address that appeared to be near the county highway, so he'd jumped in his father's HUM-V, thinking it would be just down the road. Wrong. The house truly was far removed from everything. Which makes sense, he'd thought. If Dirk and the realtor hadn't been bullshitting. A safe house, ideally, would be located remotely. A safe house, yes. But... "A snuff house?" he asked the girl. Wasn't snuff powdered tobacco that Europeans sniffed up their noses? Somebody made powdered tobacco at this house? Then it clicked in Melvin's book-smart but otherwise very naive brain. Snuff movies. But that was just an urban myth, wasn't it? Such types of films didn't really exist, surely. Who would want to watch them? he wondered. He'd offered to give the skinny girl a lift, to opportunize his predicament. Melvin, only now, realized why she might be sitting near the dumpster: for scraps of edible garbage from the restaurant. He hadn't seen anyone so destitute since he'd written that unpleasant piece on the homeless shelters in S