Trespasser (Part IX)

Posted on December 28, 2014 by R. Richardsson

Spring is mostly the bearer of good news. WIth Spring comes warmer weather. Just as the men enjoy working beneath the sun, so too, do the women their chores, and the children to play their games. With the Spring come the blossoms on the trees and the rebirth of many gardens, flower and vegetable alike. Smiles are more frequent as people pass one another, and as the new season chases away the malaise that has hung over them the past few months.

With spring also comes the ill effects of allergies, or the kind of illness that comes when the seasons shift. Most often these are simple maladies, such as a cold or sinus congestion. Sometimes it brings with it the flu, or the type of infection that rattles deep in ones lungs.

This was such the case for the Robinsons, who would not be enjoying the warm sun anytime soon. As Winter faded into memory, and during the kind of warm day one should be out soaking up the sun, they were both battling a particularly nasty flu.

It had been several hours since either had been sick, but because their bathroom was closer to the living room, they were both bundled in heavy blankets on their couch. A ten gallon bucket, which Davie had earlier brought in from the garage, sat between them at their feet. Its original purpose had been to catch anything they might sick up, in the case that they couldn’t get to the bathroom in time. Now, it was a convenient trashcan for their tissues.

“Davie, honey? I think I’m getting hungry. WIll you go to the kitchen, and fetch me a cheese sandwich, dear?”

“Anything for you, love.”

Davie groaned as he sat forward, reluctant to leave the warmth of his wool cocoon. When Keesha looked up at him in concern, he forced a half-hearted smile in return.

“You alright?”

“No,” he answered. He looked as if he were going to say something more, but he suddenly hiccupped. When she went to repeat her question, he held up a finger, turned, and ran through the kitchen door. His hip crashed into the corner of the dinner table, sending him careening out of the path of his first target and directly into one that would have to do; the sink.

Keesha was going to scold him for sure, for the mess he was making, but at least he had enough sense to empty his stomach in the side with the garbage disposal.

Several minutes later, he turned on the cold water and splashed his face. It felt good against his feverish skin, and it helped to bring his watery eyes back into focus.

“Davie? I hope you cleanin’ that up!”

“Yes, love,” he answered, ashamed.

As he set about that unpleasant task, he heard something that hadn’t reached his ears since Bryer Street lost Sammy; the sound of a child’s laughter. He lifted his attention through the window over the sink, smiling as he sought its source. His heart froze, however, at what he saw.

Vanessa Rowen was sitting on the edge of her family’s property, playing with figurines she had lined up on the sidewalk. This wasn’t anything unusual for her, as it was one of her favorite places to be while she was playing. She said she liked the see the cars up close when they drove by. It was the person with whom she was playing that caused his unease. Andy was sitting cross-legged before her, playing with what looked like a model car.

From any other point of view, it would have looked completely innocent. She would do something with her figurines. He would say something and smile, and she would giggle as if it was the most delightful thing she had ever heard. It wasn’t this image that sent chills though his body, nor was it just from the flu that he was suffering.

Every so often, while they played, Andy was nonchalantly taking pictures of her with a camera he had strung around his neck.

Trespasser (Part VIII)

Posted on November 14, 2014 by R. Richardsson

As time is wont to do, Summer became Fall, Fall became Winter, and Winter became Spring once again. During these long months, the people of Bryer Street had become very accustomed to seeing their new neighbor, whom they came to know as Andy.

Andy was like ole Sammy D. in some ways. After his first steps into the sun, it was more and more common to see him out for an evening walk. At first, he would offer an awkward nod or smile as he passed. Sometimes he muttered a shaky “Hi” or “How ya doin today”, but unsure of how to follow-up, he would make a clumsy excuse and shuffle on.

He knew more about cars than any of the residents would have ever suspected, he looked more the type to specialize in some form of computer technology, and would occasionally remark a ‘spot on’ diagnosis of a problem based on the sound an engine was making.

He gained a bit of admiration amongst the men. It was nothing they spoke of openly, but whenever he passed, they greeted him a bit more honestly. The women were cordial, but their trust wasn’t to be earned so easily. They continued to watch him with wary eyes whenever he passed and their smiles only masked their true expressions as they studied his every move.

Andy was very much like Sammy, in that he quickly grew to be a fixture in the community. Everybody knew of him within hours of his first appearance. Each person had their own story to tell about the strange young man from up the street.

“He knows so much about cars. It’s like he’s got the gift…”

“How can he afford to pay for that house when he never leaves for work?”

“He’s good with the children. They seem to like him too…”

“He’s sick. That must be why he stays home all the time!”

There were many different stories about the strange, young, Andy From Up The Street. Some were darker than others and none were more creative than those of the wives, told on rainy days from behind the safety of their curtains. Others were hopeful, with such imagined histories that included untold fortunes or entrepreneurial genius.

Though they spoke of possibilities, no story could be so much farther from the truth. They spoke of vast fortunes, and while he did not possess such a thing, he did have enough money to satisfy his particular needs. They spoke of illness, and much like the pipe dreams of hidden wealth, this, too, was not completely true. Though he was ‘as fit as a fiddle’, as the previous owner of his house might have once said, there was a certain something about him that wasn’t quite right.

Andy From Up The Street, because his neighbors didn’t yet know his last name and they were coming to accept that the previous resident was truly gone, was indeed, very sick. There was an itching inside of him that occasionally needed scratched, a desire that had to be catered to, and it had been far too long since he had given in.

Trespasser (Part VII)

Posted on October 17, 2014 by R. Richardsson

Several days passed without further incident. Though put off by the anti-social behavior of their new neighbor, they weren’t yet willing to give up on him. Many discussions were held over the phone by the wives. The men stood in their garages, visiting over a beer and an open hood, contemplating the implications of what had transpired that day. All agreed that maybe it was just nerves. Maybe he was unused to his new surroundings and needed some time to adjust.

This seemed to prove true when, less than a week later they got their first good look at him.

He was short and somewhat on the thin side, some might even say scrawny, at what looked to be only five and a half feet with his weight barely into the triple digits. When he first appeared on his front porch, it was without flair, and had there not been at least one of the wives gossiping about him that morning, he would have gone unnoticed.

He stooped slightly as he walked and from a distance he might have been mistaken for a much more advanced age than he actually possessed. His steps were deliberate, one might even say methodical, and he seemed to be weighing the pale faces that watched him from their homes below. He could have been anybody’s teenage son, for his boyish features betrayed the appearance that distance had told.

His features were unremarkable. While he wasn’t pleasant to look upon, nor was he the opposite to behold as well. If it wasn’t for the newness of his presence, or for the fact that he was filling some pretty big shoes by moving into this particular house, they might have quickly forgotten all about him.

He stood with his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his black slacks, occasionally rocking from heel to toe where he stood, seemingly enjoying the fresh cool breeze coming in from the north. Hanging from the upper body of his gangling frame, untucked and blowing lightly in the wind, was a white, and very wrinkled, dress shirt.

His hair hung limply over his face, obscuring most of his features but for a slice of the right side, and what did show was smiling ever so slightly. He knew they were watching. He had seen the moon-shaped face of the woman who had approached him with her husband. Even now, she attempted to hide behind the curtains of her kitchen window, her mouth excitedly jabbering into the receiver of her phone. There were two others as well, one watching from where she knelt as she picked weeds from her around her flower bed, and the other from where she sat on her front porch swing.

His teeth appeared from behind his lips and the latter curved upward, revealing a toothy grin that could easily put a wolf to shame, which in of itself wasn’t very far from the truth at all. Making no effort to hide himself, he formed an ‘O’ with his lips and tonelessly pushed out the notes to ‘Pop Goes The Weasel’ as he tucked his shirt into his slacks.

One by one, the faces turned away from their windows, back toward the flowers they should have been focused upon, or into a magazine that just happened to be sitting close by, all suddenly uncomfortable as they realized they were the ones being watched. When he came to the part of the verse that required a pop, instead of acknowledging the sound, he tightened his lips together and sucked in noisily as he blew a lewd kiss in their direction. It was all he could do but contain his laughter as those remaining in his line of sight squirmed uncomfortably, and it took every ounce of control to finish the last few notes as he turned to walk back into his new home.