Trespasser (Part XX)

Posted on July 1, 2015 by R. Richardsson

“I don’t know, John. The whole thing seems pretty suspicious to me.”

Marsha stood behind her husband as the two watched through their picture window. Her arms were wrapped around his midsection, hugging him tightly as tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. Outside, and just a few houses down, two police cars still sat in front of the Robinson house. They lit up the entire street with spinning lights of blue and red.

“I mean, why would he be up on the roof in the middle of the night? I thought that his arthritis wouldn’t let him climb on ladders anymore?”

He sighed, shaking his head from side to side as he did. There was no explanation for why his friend would be on the roof. The last time that he had felt the need to be up there, he had come over and asked if he could do it for him.

“It wouldn’t,” he answered softly. His words were choked, and it took every ounce of control that he had to keep from losing it himself. Like most of the residents on their street, he had known Davie for most of his life. They were about as close of friends as two could be, without being blood, and there wasn’t much that he didn’t know about the other.

There was a soft knock from the side of the garage door, and when John looked up, there stood his long-time neighbor; Davie Robinson. He was bundled heavily against the bitter cold, but the look in his eyes showed he drew no comfort from the extra warmth. He could see the pain in them, poorly masked by the smile he wore on his face, just as he could see it in the way he carried his hands; curled and close to his body.

“John! Cold as shit today, huh?”

“It’s fucking miserable,” he answered, returning his friend’s smile. “Care to step in for a few? Maybe have a shot of Bourbon to warm your bones?”

Davie looked once over his shoulder before answering; “Sure, I think I have time fer that,” he said. “But just as long as ya don’t tell the missus!”

“Deal,” he laughed. As Davie warmed up by the space heater, he walked over to the cabinet where he stored his liquor. A moment later, he returned with a glass for each of them, three-quarters of the way full. After a friendly clink of their glasses, both downed their drinks and set the empty container on the counter.

“So, how is the missus doing?”

“Ain’t happy unless she bitchin’ bout somethin,” Davie countered playfully, then; “Oh, she doin’ fine, as always. Keepin’ busy.”

“That’s good, that’s good. What about you? How are you holding up?”

“Not one of my better days,” he answered with a sigh. “Actually, that’s why I’m here. You mind helping me with somethin’?”

It had been just last winter when they had shared that drink together. Davie had come to ask if John would help him with his Christmas lights. It had taken a couple of hours, give or take another break in the garage, but he had been the only one on the roof that day. Davie’s rheumatoid arthritis had been so bad that it was all he could do to even pick up a hammer.

The continued to stand before the window, long after the police had gone, drawing comfort from each other. Neither of them noticed that there was a shadow out-of-place across the street. They didn’t see the dark figure as it blended further into the shadows, nor did they observe it climb the same stairs that Davie had climbed not too long before.

Trespasser (Part XIX)

Posted on June 26, 2015 by R. Richardsson

It was probably a mistake that he had come to be here. He wasn’t the man that he had been twenty years ago; full of youth and free from pain. If the home’s new owner were to come home earlier than he had expected, there would be no explaining why, or how, he came to be inside.

The floor creaked beneath his feet, and even though he had been inside this house many times in the past, it had changed into something completely foreign to him. Where there had been memorabilia from the war was now empty space. Dust collected on the wall where pictures had once been, rectangular reminders that someone had once cared enough to hang something there.

His breathing was slow and uneven. Fear crept into his bones as he stood in this place where he no longer had any business being. It was his home now, if you could call it that. There was nothing here to suggest that anyone even lived in it at all. Only two rooms showed any indication that someone had recently been in them.

The living room, where an old war veteran once proudly shelved his many achievements, where he often shared a beer with his friends, and where he was known to host the occasional football party, was now void of all items save two; an old Victorian chair, and an equally decrepit end table. The latter rocked on wobbly legs.

Both were positioned before the large picture window that faced toward the community. From here, one could see every house down the street.

“Of course you can,” Davie mused silently. His eyes had fallen on the binoculars that rested on the small table. He had seen many pairs of such devices before, but nothing quite like the ones before him. They were black, compact, and could be worn around the head by use of an adjustable band. There were switches on the side, and when he held the lens before his eyes, he discovered that one activated a night vision feature, while the other illuminated everything in red.

Carefully, he returned them to where they originally lay before moving on.

The only other room that appeared to have been used was the wash room. Several rolls of toilet paper were stacked inside the linen closet, toiletries were carelessly tossed upon the counter, and a single towel hung over the shower door. Aside from the fact that this person invested more in toilet paper, than he did in food, he might almost be normal.

Davie was turning to leave with something caught his eye.

At the end of the counter, on the floor, and between it and the toilet, was a small wicker basket. At first, he might have mistaken it for a fancy trash can, if not for the pictures that were laying inside. He couldn’t quite make out who the subject was in the top picture, but it appeared to have been professionally taken.

“Of course it was,” he growled as he remembered the other morning, watching as he snapped pictures of Vanessa, unaware that someone was watching his every move as well. He stepped into the small room and leaned forward to get a better look.

He sucked in his breath with a hiss as he realized that the picture was, indeed, taken of his neighbor’s daughter. His heart began to pound in anger, causing his blood pressure to rise, and his vision narrowed on the image before him. As he lifted it with shaky hands, the thought occurred to him that he was going to kill this little pervert.

The thought never had a chance to finish; at that exact moment, something heavy came down on the back of his skull, and everything went black.

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.