by Hunter Shea
Matt settled into a loveseat next to his father’s lounger. All told, there was one couch, three loveseats, and two lounge chairs in the room. None of them matched. They all looked like he’d taken them from someone’s trash. None of this furniture had been here when he was growing up, but it all looked older.
A million motes of dust floated in the shafts of sunlight that dared to stab through the yellowed blinds.
“Have you ever been to the new stadium?” Matt asked, steering as hard as he could away from politics.
“Why would I spend all that money when I can watch them here?” He took a swig from his glass.
“I was there once. It was nice except for one thing.”
His father’s gaze moved to the corners of his eyes. “What’s that?”
Matt smirked. “It was full of Phillies fans.”
“You still in love with those pussy Yankees? Yeah, you would be. Anyone soft in the head can root for the front runner.”
Matt struggled to keep from laughing. How much did the fates hate him to send him crawling back to the one place he swore he’d never return? And now there wasn’t even his mother to break things up from time to time.
“What the hell’s so funny?”
The crowd roared when the Braves centerfielder made a diving catch for the third Phillies out. Boos rained down on the Braves as they trotted off the field.
“I’m just happy to be back, pop,” Matt said.
His father scowled at him as if he had a screw loose.
Chapter Three
West came down for dinner when his mother called up to him that there were grilled cheese sandwiches in the pan. He hoped the bread didn’t have mold. He ate with her in the kitchen. She served his father and Grandpa Abraham in the living room. He’d stopped there long enough to see the Phillies were mounting a comeback. It was seven to five and the Phils had two on with one out in the eighth. Both men were engrossed in the game.
The plates she found were thin and cracked, the blue design on the circumference nearly worn off. He was afraid to touch it lest it shatter. Carefully, he picked up his grilled cheese. It was just the way he liked it, a little burnt on the edges, the cheese so hot it poured out like lava when he bit into it.
“Good job,” he said, fanning his open mouth.
“I wish there was something I could give you on the side, but all I found was a can of sardines and hash. I didn’t think you’d go for either.”
“Maybe that’s why old people smell that way,” he said. “It’s their diet.”
She ruffled his hair. “Then I promise your father and I won’t spend our golden years eating fish and hash in a can, offending your delicate senses.”
He raked his hair back in place with his fingers, careful to first wipe the cheese off on his pants. Why did she insist on doing that? He wasn’t five. It was an old habit she’d resurrected over the past year, as if pretending he was younger would make them forget how crappy the present had become.
“Sorry,” she said, biting her lip. “And I promise better food tomorrow after I’ve had a chance to go food shopping.
“It’s okay,” he said, eyes on his plate. Shifting gears, because he could feel her sadness building, he said, “Hey, who had the room I’m in?”
She nibbled on the corner of her sandwich. There was no way she’d eat more than half. “I think that was your Aunt Stella’s.”
“Did I ever meet her? I’ve heard you and Dad mention her before.”
“No. She passed away when she was a little girl. I think she was seven or eight at the time. She was older than your dad. He doesn’t remember much about her.”
A shiver sprinted down his back. “I’m sleeping in a dead girl’s room?”
His mother rolled her eyes. “She didn’t die in the room. I thought you wanted to live in a haunted house.”
Recovering as quickly as he could, he shrugged her off. “I didn’t say it like it was a bad thing. It’s just…weird.”
“You have nothing to worry about. Your father said she drowned in a pond between this property and the next. I always thought that might explain why things were so tough growing up for your dad. I’m not sure how I’d be if I lost you. As parents, you can’t imagine living without your children. Your grandmother, the few times I met her, always seemed a little lost. It was like a part of her was somewhere else, which I suppose was to be expected.”
Swallowing a huge bite, West asked, “How about Grandpa Abraham? What was he like back when you first met him?”
She pushed her plate away, most of the grilled cheese untouched and cool. “If your grandfather is one thing, it’s consistent. You get me?”
Oh, I get it. A consistent asshole, West thought.
To his mother, he smiled and slowly nodded.
“But your grandmother once confided in me that he was a sweet, loving man who loved to dance and sing.”
“Grandpa Abraham dancing and singing?”
“She neglected to tell me when this incarnation of Abraham Ridley existed. I have a hard time even picturing him as a carefree child.”
“You hear any more squirrels in the basement?” he asked. He’d been waiting for their little thumps ever since he sat down.
“I think they went to their little nests in the trees for the night.”
He asked her to make another grilled cheese, which she did, but she had to use the end of the loaf of bread, the piece he usually tossed or ignored. Starving because he’d skipped that horrid lunch, he downed it anyway. When he looked in on his father and grandfather, they were both asleep, heads angled on their necks so they were leaning toward each other.
“Mom, check it out,” he whispered, chuckling.
Grandpa Abraham was snoring like a wild boar. His empty glass was nestled in his crotch.
West guessed his father had taken one of those anxiety pills. The only time he slept this early was when he was on those meds. He couldn’t blame him tonight. They all needed something to take the edge off.
Although with Grandpa Abraham asleep, the mood in the house made a definite, positive shift. It was like stepping out of the driving rain into a warm, dry shelter.
His mother found two old, crocheted blankets draped over the empty lounge chair, gaps in the weave large enough to stick your leg through. She gingerly placed them over the both of them, motioning for him to back out of the room.
“I almost want to take a picture. They look so cute,” she said.
Unlike most of his friends, West didn’t have a cell phone. That was one of the first ‘luxuries’ to go. His parents promised they would get him one soon, now that they had cut their expenses to the bone.
“They’re all yours. I’m going upstairs to read,” West said.
She pulled him in to kiss his forehead. “After we meet the movers at the storage place tomorrow, how about we grab some lunch out? There’s a great diner a few miles away that serves huge plates that could feed an army for under five bucks.”
“That sounds cool. Goodnight, Mom.”
He knew she was trying to make this as easy on him as possible. It would be too cliché to play the pissed off teen, huffing and bemoaning their situation every time he opened his mouth. That phase had come and gone when the shit first hit the fan. Flashing her a smile, he headed up the stairs.
The shadows in the house had deepened. There was a light fixture in the ceiling of the upstairs hallway, but he couldn’t find the switch.
Walking past his grandfather’s room, he caught the spoiled scent of laundry way overdue for a trip to the washing machine. He wondered if the man ever changed his sheets. He looked like a dirty sheet kind of guy.
The nicked and scarred floorboards creaked mightily. Grandpa Abraham said he was in the bathroom a lot at night. West wondered how long it would take him to get used to the racket before he could sleep through it. Until then, he was sure each step would snatch him from his sleep.
The green paint on the walls was flaking in too many places to
count. The floor was littered with broken bits of plaster from the ceiling.
He had to admit, it was kind of creepy up here alone. Was it the good, fun kind of creepy, or the crap your pants kind of creepy? The jury was still out.
Closing his door so he couldn’t see down the hallway, he grabbed a random book from his shelf. It was Brian Keene’s Ghoul, one of his favorites. He’d read it at least four times.
Settling into his bed that was more of a beanbag chair, minus most of the beans, he flipped the dog-eared pages to the first chapter. Laying the open book on his chest, he reached for his headphones and put them on, selecting New Year’s Day from his playlist. The band described their music as haunted house rock, with lead singer Ash Costello belting out eerie melodies atop a hardcore, gothic beat. They were the perfect complement to this entire day.
Reading Ghoul, his eyes kept shifting to the words over the bed.
WE SEE YOU
Who the hell would write that on a ceiling? And who was the message for?
***
The storage facility was in a nearby town called Stroudsburg. It had a pretty cool Main Street lined with shops, Irish bars, and small restaurants. It wasn’t much of a drive but it would be really hard for him to walk to it. It was a shame, because he could see himself wandering the place over the summer, finding the best spots to hang out, maybe even meet some kids his own age.
West spotted a small record store that sold vinyl. Vinyl! He’d heard that vinyl was the one true medium to listen to music the way it was supposed to be heard. A few of his friends had jumped on the record bandwagon last year when places like Barnes & Noble started selling reissues of classic like AC/DC’s Back in Black, Led Zeppelin’s Led Zeppelin IV, and End of the Century by The Ramones. It was a cool way to gain exposure to music they might have never caught on to. Anthony had a portable record player that he’d set up with wireless speakers.
Newer rock bands jumped on board, much to West’s delight. He thought the old stuff from the 70s was cool, but he preferred his bands like Five Finger Death Punch, White Zombie, and Motionless in White. He wondered if the store carried their albums.
He also wondered if he’d ever get a record player.
Even though it was the first week of July, the weather was cool. The sun slipped in and out of the slow moving clouds. The street was pretty busy for late morning. West liked it. It felt more like home. Nothing like that old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere.
His mother’s phone rang.
“Yeah. We’re not far. Okay, we’ll meet you there.”
Dropping her phone in her pocketbook, she said, “The movers are five minutes away. We better hustle so we can make sure they don’t break anything.”
Because there was no room for all their stuff at Grandpa Abraham’s, they had to rent the storage unit. He’d heard his father argue his case that they should have just sold all the furniture, but his mother wasn’t having it.
West was glad his mother won out. It gave him hope that someday soon, maybe, he’d be back in his own bed.
The movers were muscular Hispanic guys with matching shaved heads and tattoos on their forearms. One had a warm smile, one of his top front teeth gleaming gold, and the other looked like he’d rather be anyplace but here. West felt a kinship with the scowling dude.
It only took a little over an hour. These guys were as fast as they were strong.
After they were done, his mother slipped the new padlock in place and they went out to lunch at the diner she’d told them about.
When their plates arrived, his father said, “It’s good to see some old things remain the same. When I was a kid, you could eat until you burst for two bucks.”
“You must have come here a lot, because you had a little more around the middle back then,” his mother said, poking his stomach with her fork.
West had the cheeseburger deluxe, the burger so big, the bun could barely contain it. And there were enough fries to feed three. He slathered them in salt, pepper, and ketchup, letting it all marinate before he dove in.
No shock, his mom had a salad with no dressing. He did get her to eat two fries, which was a small victory.
“I know it’s hard to think about more food, but we are stopping at a supermarket before we go back to…home, right?” West said.
“That’s a necessity, unless we want to live off moldy liverwurst,” his mother replied.
“Maybe Grandpa Abraham will loosen up if we make him our fresh sauce and meatballs,” West said.
His mother smiled. “Spoken like a true man who thinks with his stomach. That’s a very good idea.”
They stopped at a ShopRite and filled a cart with essentials. His father waited in the car, holding his head. The spins had taken over. He’d definitely hit his limit for the day. West knew it frustrated him, not being able to do something as simple and mundane as food shopping. It frustrated all of them.
Driving away from Stroudsburg felt a little like leaving home all over again. West watched civilization fade away, stores and crowds and humanity replaced by flat farmland.
There was a surprise waiting for them when they pulled up to the farmhouse.
At least ten cats were on the porch, faces dipped into three bowls that had been laid out for them. He could tell they were outdoor cats because they were long and lean and a little on the raggedy side.
“Are those all Grandpa Abraham’s?” West said.
His father squinted through his headache, taking in the mewling posse of felines.
“I’ve never known him to like cats before, or even dogs for that matter. I wasn’t allowed to have pets. It looks like he’s become the crazy old cat guy.”
“How are we going to get past them, Matt? Some of them could be territorial.”
West jumped out of the car. “I’ll clear the way, Mom.”
“West, be careful! We don’t know if they have rabies.”
Mothers were so exasperating. Every stray animal had rabies, every lawn had poison ivy lying in wait, and Halloween candy was full of razors and poison.
A black and white cat with pale, yellow eyes looked up from its feast when he stepped onto the small porch.
“Hey you, getting your lunch on?”
He stroked between its ears. It bumped its head against his leg, and then went back to eating. He petted tails and backs, most of the cats ignoring his presence. When the food was gone, they peeled off one-by-one.
He looked back to his mother, who stood by the car with a couple of shopping bags.
“That wasn’t so scary, was it?” West said, wiping cat hair off his hands.
“I’m not a big cat fan.”
“I know. You tell me that whenever you see a cat from fifty feet away.”
“Okay, smarty, go grab some bags.”
West nudged the bowls aside so they wouldn’t trip over them. He found a folded piece of paper under one of them. He picked it up and unfolded it. It was a note. He read it out loud.
“’A gift for the new blood.’”
“What the heck are you talking about?” his father said. He leaned against the car, his cane a tripod between his legs.
“That’s what the note says.”
West handed it to his mother. Man, was it weird.
A tiny alarm chimed in the back of West’s brain.
“Maybe your grandpa left it for the cats to read,” she joked, dropping it in one of the bags. “I’ll ask him.”
As they stepped into the house, he thought he heard distant pounding, but it was hard to tell through the clatter of their own footsteps on the creaky floor.
“Wait, stop,” West said.
His mother sighed irritably. “Why?”
Nothing.
Okay, now I’m hearing things.
“Never mind.”
Chapter Four
Grandpa Abraham was nowhere to be found. After they got all of the bags inside, they took turns calling for him.
“Guess he’s out doing whatever the hell he
does,” West’s father said. “I’d lay my money on him warming a stool at the Post, playing poker.”
“Can he still drive?” West’s mother asked, filling the refrigerator with milk, eggs, cheese, and yogurt. “I know he has that junker Dodge outside, but it looks like it hasn’t been turned on for years.”
“Lord only knows. Hey, he has his routine. I plan on keeping out of his business as much I can.”
West found the pantry. It took some effort opening the door. The wood had warped, scraping against the floor. Inside the small room were empty shelves, brooms with frazzled bristles and lots of empty, dusty mason jars. An apron hung on a hook on the back of the door. It smelled old and musty, so much so that he had to step away and let it air out.
“When’s the last time this was opened?” he said, waving at the air.
“That was my mother’s domain.” His father leaned forward in his chair enough to peek inside. “Looks like he cleared everything out when she passed away and just closed it up.”
“When did Grandma die? Didn’t she used to give me those little root beer flavored lollipops?”
His father nodded with a sad smile. “That was her. She bribed you with candy every chance she got. You had a way of making her laugh. Now mind you, my mother was a pretty serious woman. I always wondered what she was like before she met my dad. I have a feeling she just adapted to his personality, though the good and happy parts shined through every now and then. Man, when you were born, she shined more than I’d ever seen her. You had just turned six when she died.”
“What did she die of?” He stopped himself from asking if she died in the house. Even if she did, he wasn’t sure his father would admit it to him.
He tapped the center of his chest. “She had a bad heart. Smoked like a fiend until she was in her fifties. The doctor eventually convinced her to quit, but the damage was done. It’s why your mother and I tell you all the time we’ll beat your ass if you take up smoking.”
West looked out the window over the ancient sink. A lone figure was walking in the field toward the house. Leaning on the lip of the sink, he teetered forward until his nose brushed against the screen. The sharp tang of metal and dust made him totter back to his feet.
