Trespasser (Part XXV)

Posted on February 1, 2016 by R. Richardsson

For the next two days, each of the men began working on their carefully laid plans. Vacation time was put in, tools and materials were gathered, and a room where they could conduct their grim business was being prepared. Very little was said between any of them during this time, for what had needed to be said had come out over the poker table.

There was a different kind of storm coming to Bryer Street, one in which the clouds would rain crimson.

John and his brother were the most active. While Rob helped in gathering what they would need, it was the brothers, father and uncle of the victim, who were the most invested in the plan.

John slaved for the comforts of his family. Over the last few years, his job had come before his personal life, so that the bills were always paid and food was always on the table. It was something that he loathed, but it was also something that had to be done. As a result, he found himself often at the breaking point.

Donnie had recently returned from a tour overseas. As a soldier, he had seen things that most people could only imagine, and even then, only in their worst nightmares. Like his brother, he suffered from the years of duty, but, in a more personal way. He fought evil on a day to day basis, fueled by his emotions of grief and repulsion, so that the world could be a little bit better place to live.

And while the things he had done haunted him, he actively sought ways to come back from the nightmares that had chased him home. Had a former resident of their community still been around, he would have been able to appreciate the ways Donnie used his time. When not with friends and family, he was an active instructor and mentor at the local halfway house for displaced children.

As they finished putting in the last nail to their project, John grabbed his cell and called the number to third member of their group, a man who had something just as personal at stake in all of this.

“Hello,” came the answer of his raspy voice.

“It’s ready,” John said flatly. “How are things on your end?”

“The missus is packing up to go to her mother’s,” he said quietly. “Though she’s none too happy about it.”

“We’ll work that out after…” John’s voice lingered for a moment before the other cut in.

“No, I understand. I’m not worried ’bout her now. She’s been mad at me before. How’s Rob doing with his part?”

John glanced over to his brother, who had similarly called the final member of their group. Donnie caught his inquisitive glance, smiled, and gave the thumbs up.

“Everything’s going as planned.”

The silence broke on the other end, as the other suddenly broke into a fit of coughing, all through which John patiently waited.

“Are you sure you’re good to go Davie,” he asked with concern.

“I’m good, John. I mean, I’m hurtin’, but I’m good enough for what’s to come.”

Trespasser (Part XXIV)

Posted on November 19, 2015 by R. Richardsson

Many hours had passed since having heard his daughter’s story. The clouds had blown in from the north, carried by the bitter winds that had preceded it, and now blanketed the sky. What little remained of the light dwindled as the coming storm choked out its life, making way for the inevitable darkness to come.

John sat quietly in his den, but he was not alone. There were three other men in the room, all listening as he recounted the morning’s events, all looking at the grim evidence that backed his story. Where there was normally a chip dispenser, which they used for their monthly card games, was a soiled pair of girl’s panties.

In any other circumstance, there might have been excitement in the air. They may have had a bead of sweat on the tops of their brows, and many possible scenarios would have already been dreamt of, or spoken about. Any other time, there would have been the sharing of sexual tales, of conquests real and imagined, and nervous laughter would have filled the air.

This wasn’t like any other time.

The mood in the room was somber, the air; thick with tension. The panties weren’t of the kind belonging to a grown woman. They weren’t one of the many styles of lingerie used to ‘raise’ the interest of a potential lover, either. These were nothing more than the simple cotton underwear that might come in packs of three to five, of which no man was ever meant to see.

They belonged to his daughter.

“Y-you’re sure about this,” a nervous Rob Hammond cautiously asked. “There’s no way she could have accidentally…”

John shook his head back and forth, angrily, pounding a clenched fist on the table to interrupt his friend’s line of thinking.

“She wouldn’t lie to me, Rob,” he growled through clenched teeth.

One of the other men in the room, who had been pacing back and forth in thought until up to this moment, stopped behind John and put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Easy buddy,” the new voice said from behind him. “It’s not that we don’t believe you, the evidence is plain to see! I think that Rob, like the rest of us, wants to be sure on this before we do anything.”

“Donnie, if you had been there…”

John choked as his emotions reached a boiling point. He was furious, but, when he began to recall the look on her face, he was hurt beyond comprehension. Grief struck him as acutely as if her life had been taken from her, rather than just her innocence.

Donnie, John’s older brother and the only person who didn’t live on Bryer Street, leaned forward and embraced his sibling, wrapping one arm around his chest and placing his left cheek against his brother’s right. Rob stood, quietly, and walked around the table to place a supporting hand over his friend’s.

The remaining person in the room, and the only one who had yet to say anything, slowly leaned forward until the light revealed his haggard face.

“Whatever you want to do, John,” he said slowly for emphasis, “we’ll stand behind you one hundred percent.”

Trespasser (Part XXIII)

Posted on October 23, 2015 by R. Richardsson

Vanessa sat quietly in her room, staring across the table she used for tea parties, at the three guests she had invited over this morning. Barb, who looked lovely in her pink flowing gown and perfectly applied makeup, smiled sweetly as she waited for the latest gossip to begin flowing.

Ted, the rougher of the three, leaned slightly to the left in his chair. A true bear if there was one and covered in splotchy brown hair, which was falling out in places, he was the quickest to lose interest in such affairs. However, she had known him since she was a little girl, and she trusted him with every fiber of her being.

Finally, there was the Professor. She was sure that he had a name, but he looked so intelligent, with his enlarged head, that she had figured him to be the type of character who could easily build time machines, and flying cars, and such! The Professor, however, wasn’t a person. He was a small mouse, with brooding eyebrows and a long pink tail. He had come with a taller, dumber, looking companion, but she had long since lost it.

“Thank you all for coming,” she began solemnly. “I’ve gathered you here because something terrible has happened.”

There was a collective gasp, or, at least that’s what she had heard, but in truth; Barb only continued to grin, with that vacuous expression of hers. Ted only leaned a little further out of his chair, and the Professor only glared at her from atop the pile of books he was perched upon.

She paused for the longest time, longer than she had originally intended, but it wasn’t something that she could help. It had sounded good in her thoughts. She would tell her closest friends first, and then her mommy. This way, when she did it for real, it wouldn’t be so hard.

When it came time for her to utter the words, she couldn’t do it. Instead, hot, bitter tears began to pour down her cheeks. She began to cry, but not out of loss or sadness, but out of hurt and fear. She had been hurt in a way that was hard for her to accept, or understand. It made no sense to her, what he had done, and it was just as embarrassing for her to even think about, than to actually say!

Crossing her arms on the table, she buried her head, hiding her shame from those with whom she spent most of her time. If she couldn’t face them, then who could she possibly ask for help?

Soft moans grew from the depths of her soul, rising through her lungs, and escaping with the anguish that filled her. They were sounds that no child should ever create, sounds that would break that hearts of any who heard them.

Sometimes, when it’s hardest for one to tell their story, something happens that makes the way for it to come forth. In this case, her cries reached the ears of someone who shouldn’t have been home this day. His heart sank beneath their weight, threatening to suffocate him beneath the pure emotion that filled them, but instinct would not keep him still.

” ‘Nessa, honey, what’s wrong,” he cried frantically as he burst through her bedroom door.

“Oh Daddy,” she wailed, “I’m so sorry.” She buried her head in his chest and bawled tears normally reserved for grieving mothers, or widows. They were tears from the man who had just lost every last thing he owns, or they were tears of the infant who hasn’t eaten in days.

She cried until there was no breath left inside, trembling in the arms of the one person who had always done his best to protect her from harm. And when she was done, she told him her story.

And, by the time it was finished, his eyes had narrowed, and his brow was as furrowed with the Professor’s. Only, instead of thinking of the next greatest invention to build, he was thinking of ways to take someone apart.