Trespasser (Part XVIII)

Posted on June 23, 2015 by R. Richardsson

His house never seemed so far away as it did from Andy’s front porch. His hands were on his lower back, pushing inward as he stretched out the kinks. A few years ago, he might not have felt the effects of such a short trip so acutely, but his age had given him an incurable ache in his bones.

Of course, he had gone to all of the doctors. Visits began with Dr. Callehan, whom he had seen for most of his adult life. After many attempts to diagnose the problem, and after he had tried countless medicines and remedies, he had finally been sent to see the specialists. Not that this had done any good, for these so-called “specialists” had no more answers than those before them!

He had tried to work through the pain for the better part of a year, but it wasn’t long before he’d found his limit. He retired early, with full benefits, and has since worked hard to make the best of his golden years.

He could never claim to be even half the man Sammy D. had been, but there was a part of him that demanded he carry on his memory any way he could. Mostly, he just watched. He was responsible for the remnants of the neighborhood patrol. It had been his idea to form a small weekly group, to get together and discuss the goings on in their community after Sammy had passed. Their meetings, however, consisted of talk about the latest game, of the news, or of their jobs.

Davie sighed, disappointed at how much change had come over the years. Things just weren’t the same. There was a time when he feared for his life, for the lives of his family, from the ignorance and hate of those who hid behind masks. In those days, they wore their masks for everyone to see. They were tougher times, but at least you knew your enemy by the colors they wore.

He ran his fingers idly over the small figurine in his pocket and smiled.

“So much easier in my day,” he said to no one in particular.

He gave one final glance over the houses down the street before turning his attention to the front door. It’s not that he was worried about anyone seeing him on their neighbor’s property, but more of a nostalgic trip down memory lane. So many houses looked the same as they had thirty years ago, untouched by the ravages of time.

All but one.

He turned and regarded the door once more. It was the same door that he had helped the previous owner install a few years ago. How long it had been eluded him, for the door had stood agelessly, barring him from the answers he had come to find.

It was a door meant to keep people out. Built by the finest craftsmen, reinforced with lag bolts, and equipped with the best locks the bank could buy. There weren’t very many people who had the skills or knowledge to bypass the kind of security that had been installed into this door, but then, none of that mattered to the one who held the key.

Davie reached up above the door frame, slowly running his fingers across the smooth wood until they bumped into something cold and metallic, just as he had known they would.

Echoes from the Crypt

Posted on June 10, 2015 by R. Richardsson

Have you seen my skulls?

They are so white and pretty.

Some still have all their teeth!

Others do not.

Others are missing their jawbones.

Others, still, are broken remnants.

Do they seem familiar to you?

They should!

I have written about some of them from time to time!

I wonder who has removed them from their plots?

Hmm. An intriguing question.

Maybe one should remember to return the objects they borrow,

lest they become a part of my collection themselves.

Mm?

They do not smell, my skulls.

The flesh has long since been cleaned from them.

And yet they are home to darker things than worms and maggots.

They hold secrets in them, you see?

My precious, beautiful skulls!

Some are willing to share their stories with you.

While others, they are tough nuts to crack.

Get it? Nuts? Crack?!

HA!

Go ahead my dears.

Take from my pile of bone, something that calls out to you.

You might be surprised at what you find!

Or, perhaps you’ll run screaming in terror!

Alas, poor Readers! I knew them, fellows of infinite

jest, of most excellent fancy. They hath bore me on their backs a

thousand times, and now how abhorr’d in my imagination it is!

My gorge rises at it.

Have you seen my skulls?

Some are clean, new.

They have had quite the attention as of late.

Your hands have wiped away the dust,

exposing them for all to see.

Others, they remain covered in dust.

Forgotten in the corners of my crypt

and staring accusingly at those who pass them by.

It is not my intention to be fulsome, but I must confess

that I covet your skull.

Trespasser (Part XVII)

Posted on June 9, 2015 by R. Richardsson

Time passes quickly, down on Bryer Street. This is especially true for the men who lived in the neighborhood. Most of them, like John, worked hard to make a living. They were gone at the crack of dawn, and often times they stumbled wearily to bed long after the sun had set.

The women, for most of them didn’t work outside of their home, were always busy keeping their houses up. So it wasn’t unusual if they didn’t notice some of the details around them. Most didn’t think twice about something being out-of-place. More than likely, another member of their family moved it while going about their daily affairs.

There was a time when the neighborhood had a way of taking care of any problems that might arise, but those days were long since gone. Bryer Street, in the absence of its longtime protector, had slowly grown into something ordinary. And, even though the residents often gathered together from time to time, each secretly felt that they were growing further apart.

For one, this feeling hurt more than any of the others realized.

It was later in the morning, on the same day that Vanessa would awaken to thoughts of her father’s late night visit, that another of the street’s residents would be entertaining thoughts of his own. Unlike the little girl next door, he knew exactly what had been stolen from him.

On this particular morning, he sat in the rocking chair on his front porch, slowly rocking in the comfort of the morning shadows, and looking at a small object he had placed on the railing before him. It was the only thing left from a day when he could sit in this very spot and happily idle the hours away.

“You’d be turning in yer damn grave,” he mumbled in its direction, as if to speak to the person who’d carved it for him. He groaned in pain as various parts of his body reminded him of his age, not that he needed reminding. “Best to not daydream my day away,” he continued, this time to himself. “I”ve got important things that need a-doin’.”

Davie leaned forward and took hold of the railing with both hands, using it to stop his movements just as much as he was using it to pull himself up, and he paused only to look at the house at the end of the street. The lights were off, not that he could have been able to tell through the morning glare, and the owner’s car was gone.

“Keesha,” he hollered over his shoulder. “I think I’m a-goin’ for a little walk.”

She didn’t answer, nor did he expect her to. She was still feeling a little under the weather and would likely sleep until lunch time. That suited him just fine, because if she knew what he was up to, she’d probably brain him with a rolling-pin.

He chuckled as he took one last look at the figurine on the railing, then nodded his head slowly, as if to confirm that he was doing the right thing.

“It’s what you would have done, my old friend,” he whispered.

A few minutes later, he was slowly making his way toward the end of the street.