by R. J. Wolf
“The curtain was closed, but I could see their outlines. And the old man, he was sitting down eating and then she just hit him.”
Everyone edged closer to Steve, glaring at him like greedy little pigs. They hung on his last word, waiting for the dramatic conclusion. Steve stared back at them blank-faced and after an awkward silence he blurted out.
“That’s it!”
“What?” Mikey fumed. “That’s it? You said she killed him. Dude you’re mental?”
“She hit him and he fell down and didn’t move. And now, they just carted a body out all covered up. What do you think happened?”
“Hit him with what?” Anthony jumped in.
“The hammer she had. I told you she had a hammer.”
“No you didn’t,” Mit rolled his eyes. “Maybe that’s the part you meant to say when you were stuffing your face.”
With a huge grin, Mikey moved back to the fence and slung his foot onto one of the boards.
“I’m going in. There’s gotta be evidence!”
“Are you crazy? What if someone’s home? What if they come back?” Anthony reasoned with an uneasy face.
“Dude, she killed her husband and just left in the ambulance. I’m pretty sure no one’s home,” Mikey retorted. "Besides, we're starting high school tomorrow, imagine how cool we'll be if we have pics of the Crazy Clark crime scene.
“You’ve got me sold,” Mit said as he stuffed his phone into his back pocket and jumped on the fence.
Anthony looked to Steve hoping for support, but he was already making his way over the fence with considerable effort. Anthony shook his head from side to side and huffed.
“You’re not leaving me here alone,” he snapped.
He quickly slung his leg over and leapt the fence, landing quietly on the other side. Kneeling down, he looked up at the aging two-story. The shadow cast by the looming building seemed to cover the entire yard. "Can't believe we're doing this," he mumbled.
With a thud, Steve landed behind him, falling hard on his side. Pieces of broken wood fell off of the fence as he staggered to his feet in pain.
“Good job,” Mikey laughed. “Follow me.”
They scurried across the lawn in a single file line. Anthony considered turning back several times, but knew Mikey would never let him hear the end of it. Mit and Steve were pretty much all in, they couldn't wait to snag a few pictures of the house that the neighborhood had been obsessed with for years.
Mikey darted up onto the porch and stooped by the heavy wooden door. The rotten wood beneath their feet squealed and screeched. A creaky, old rocking chair swayed slowly as if someone had just gotten up. Everything about the house told Anthony that going inside was a bad idea.
“The door’s open,” Mikey turned back and whispered.
Before Anthony could object, he slowly pushed the door forward. It creaked loudly and the hinges whined like a cranky infant. As the door swung wider Mikey grinned then stepped into the house, vanishing into the darkness.
Mit quickly followed behind him. Anthony threw his hands up in desperation and cursed them under his breath.
“Well, we came this far,” Steve said and shrugged his shoulders.
"This is dumb," Anthony retorted.
Steve nodded in agreement then stepped into the house. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Anthony followed after him.
The house was old and ragged, but enormous. It had a damp, musky smell and odd noises squeaked in the darkness. The walls were covered in dark green wallpaper and the wooden floors were broken and decaying. They’d obviously been the meal of choice for millions of termites.
A gust of foul wind blew through the house and the front door suddenly slammed. The old windows rattled from the vibrations and an ominous wave moved through the air.
A dusty staircase spiraled upward and faded into the shadows. Anthony stopped at the foot of it and stared up at the dilapidated steps. He thought he could hear whispers coming from the darkness, he was almost certain he heard someone talking.
“This way,” Steve shouted back at him. His voice echoed around the room. “Cool,” he chuckled.
Anthony stared up the stairs a little longer then followed him down the hall. They slowly made their way to the left of the house towards the kitchen. Steve was certain they were eating breakfast when the assault occurred.
The house played a symphony of sounds with each step they took. With every creak and crack they froze and looked around anxiously. The cramped hallway made keeping quiet nearly impossible for the clumsy quartet. It was only by sheer luck that they made it through the house without breaking anything.
The kitchen was an old fashioned galley style with an island in the center and pans hanging overhead. There was a little nook in the corner with a table just big enough to seat two.
A strong smell of ammonia lingered in the air and it was obvious someone had spent time cleaning. The rest of the house lay covered in dust and reeked of moth balls, but the kitchen was spotless. The tile was recently mopped and Anthony had to grab Steve’s arm to keep from falling on the wet floor. The counters were shiny and neat and everything was stowed away. The table was cleared off except for the center where a tiny wooden mallet lay.
“I told you!” Steve screamed, his voice booming loudly.
Mikey slapped him in the back of the head and sneered at him.
“Shut up, are you trying to die?”
Steve grinned and continued to celebrate in silence. He’d just found the smoking gun in a virtual game of clue. The mallet was small, but looked quite deadly. It had a wooden handle, but the head was jagged and metallic.
They all stood around the table staring down at the supposed instrument of death. Each envisioned their own version of how Mrs. Clark had bludgeoned her husband. It was like a “Who Done It,” mystery unfolding before their eyes.
Anthony could see it playing out like a movie in his head. Mrs. Clark bringing her husband his plate of morning eggs. Mr. Clark taking a bite and then complaining about how undercooked they were. Then, wham! She clobbered him over the head and ate the eggs herself. Anthony laughed to himself at the vision.
A grandfather clock ticked loudly in the corner, masking the sound of the car pulling up outside. They were all too caught up in day dreaming to take notice of the muffled voices as they slowly neared the house. It wasn’t until keys jingled into the lock on the front door that they snapped back into reality.
“Thanks for the ride sweetie,” Mrs. Clark waved to the driver as he sputtered off.
She reached for the rusted door knob and fumbled with the keys. Mumbling under her breath, she finally found the right key and jammed it into the lock.
Mikey froze, his face drained of all color. Mit spun around towards the hallway, his eyes as wide as dinner plates. On instinct they all turned to run at the same time and collided into one another. The thud of them falling to the floor was masked as Mrs. Clark slammed the front door.
“Darn sticky door,” she spattered. “Mr. Crusty get down here.”
Anthony choked on his words as he started to speak. It was as if all the air had suddenly been sucked from room.
“Who is Mr. Crusty?” he whispered in a harsh voice.
Everyone shared the same look of worry and confusion.
“Mr. Crusty, you get down here now. I’ve got work to do.”
Anthony’s heart pounded as the stairs creaked slowly. This was it, they were trapped and Anthony was certain they’d soon share the same fate as Mr. Clark. He glanced back at the mallet and swallowed the lump in his throat.
“What were you doing up there? Well, answer me,” Mrs. Clark demanded.
Anthony held his breath straining to hear what Mr. Crusty would tell her. There was a bit of rustling then a hushed “meow” followed by a giggle.
“Oh Mr. Crusty, mommy’s not angry with you. Just a little sad is all. You want some milk I bet, come on let’s get you some.”
The floor ached as Mrs. Clark made her way
towards the kitchen. Anthony looked around in panic, trying to find an escape. There was a door in the back of the kitchen that led outside but it was boarded up.
He looked down and saw the flap of the doggie door. He motioned towards it, but then looked at Steve and decided he needed a new plan.
The creaking grew closer and closer. A suffocating feeling hung in the air. Anthony couldn’t think, he was stuck in place.
“Pssst,” Mikey whispered as he slid into the broom closet.
Relieved, Anthony quickly tip toed across the kitchen. He squeezed into the closet beside Mikey and held his breath. It was a tight fit. Steve was smashed up against the wall and Anthony was trying to keep the broom from going up his nose.
Mit rubbed his face trying to ignore the cloud of dust falling from the shelves. Then without warning he sneezed, so loudly that he startled himself. Mikey tried to throw a hand over his mouth, but he was too late. All they could do now was hope she hadn’t heard them.
Anthony listened as her hobbled steps got closer. He could hear the tiny patter of cat paws against the tile floor of the kitchen. Bottles clanked around as the refrigerator opened.
Suddenly Mit sneezed again. The refrigerator door slammed and everything went silent. Anthony squeezed further into the closet.
A minute passed, then two, then three without a sound. Anthony wasn’t even certain if his heart was still beating. Then he heard someone talking.
“Did you hear that?” he whispered.
“Hear what?”
“I don’t know, she mumbled something.”
Mikey cracked the door and peeked out. He looked around and then closed the door back.
“Dude, there’s nobody out there, you’re hearing things. Let’s go!”
Mikey looked out of the door again. He didn’t see anyone so he stepped out with the others on his heels. Mrs. Clark and Mr. Crusty were nowhere in sight. The only sign of them at all was the small bowl of milk that sat abandoned on the floor.
Anthony hesitantly followed after Mikey as he nervously scanned from side to side. Stepping into the hallway he glanced back towards the window. A glimpse of a gray-haired tiny head bobbed past it.
“She’s going around the back,” Anthony whispered with desperate urgency.
Without another word they took off in a sprint. Like a stampede they collided with the door, almost taking it off the hinges as they burst onto the porch. They dove into the grass in a heap of sprawling limbs. Falling over one another they jumped to their feet and hurled across the yard.
As Mikey and Anthony leapt the fence Steve crashed through the broken panels and collapsed on the other side. Mit followed behind him, jumping over Steve and running for his bike.
“Follow me!” he yelled as he pedaled away without looking back.
They rode like Olympic cyclist, tearing down the street at break neck speeds. Anthony had no clue where Mit was leading them, but anywhere was better than the Clark’s residence.
Slowly the sprawling beach houses began to disappear. The view was now obstructed by large boulders and mounds of sand that protected the small coastal community from the battery of the Pacific’s heavy waves. The sea breeze blew across Anthony’s face as he pedaled further and further away from civilization.
Mit darted off like a jet and whipped around the street leaving a dust trail in his wake. Steve suddenly had a surge of power and sped off to catch him.
As Anthony rounded the corner he came to a clearing where Mit and Steve had left their bikes. Dropping his bike he looked around at the deserted bit of beach they had stumbled upon. It was a part of the town Anthony had never been to before.
Ahead of him Steve and Mit were clearing the berm headed down to the shoreline. He looked back at Mikey who was staring down the vacant road with his mouth open.
“You alright man?”
“Bro, that lady’s nuts,” Mikey mumbled.
“Come on let’s catch up with Mit.”
Mikey took a deep breath and then joined Anthony on his way down to the beach. Mit and Steve found a log and were using it as a bench as they stared out at the ocean.
“How’d you find this place?” Anthony asked as he took a seat next to Steve.
“I come here sometimes. You know, when things get crazy at the house,” Mit said, his eyes still fixed on something in the distance.
Anthony sighed. Mit didn’t have to explain any further, he knew exactly what he was talking about.
“What’s that smell?” Mikey blurted out as he pinched his nose.
“Oh, yeah that thing,” Mit nodded to his right. “Dead whale washed up a few days ago.”
“Dude that thing is rank!” Mikey blurted while pulling his shirt over his face.
Anthony stared at it, trying to take his mind off of the Mrs. Clark drama. It really was a pretty gross sight. The whale had to be at least fifty feet long and had partially exploded. A tentacle and what looked like a sharks fin stuck out of the gapping whole in its stomach.
However distracting it was, it didn’t make him feel much better about almost getting killed by Mrs. Clark.
“So she really did kill him huh?” Anthony asked.
“I told you she was crazy,” Steve snorted. “Crazy Clark, killing people in the kitchen.”
They all laughed. Mrs. Clark chased them from her house countless times and was known for screaming at her husband daily. The idea of her bludgeoning him to death though, felt a little farfetched.
As the wind picked up, blasts of sand whipped them across the face. It was cloudy all day, but now it seemed like a storm was on the horizon. Anthony felt an eerie sensation tingle up his spine and he stood up.
“Looks pretty bad out there. We probably should head in.”
As soon as he got the words out of his mouth the wind died down and the sun broke through the clouds.
“Dude what are you talking about?” Mikey asked as he looked up at the picturesque sky.
“Nevermind.”
Anthony sat back on the log and started to throw shells into the water. He laughed to himself and shook his head.
“This is it huh? Tomorrow we become men,” Anthony declared.
“I’ve been a man. Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Steve shot him a look.
“Yeah bro, I’m with Steve on this one,” Mikey laughed.
They spent the rest of the day sitting on the beach, recanting stories of the summer and joking about how the old bat had gone crazy. Although it made for a fun story, none of them was really sure what had occurred. If anything, they were only half convinced and expected that Mr. Clark would pop back up within a week.
Anthony returned home a little after six and found his mom and dad sitting down to dinner.
“Thought we got rid of you for good,” his dad laughed. Mrs. Dimair smiled and slapped him on the arm.
At the sight of food Anthony suddenly realized he hadn’t eaten all day, unless you counted a smashed Twinkie he got from Steve. Famished, he darted towards the table with outstretched arms. He stuffed his mouth full of bread rolls before his mom could object.
“No sir, you wash your hands,” she scorned.
Anthony grinned and mumbled something in what had to be a foreign language and then shot off to the rest room.
“Your Uncle Frank sent you a card,” she yelled to him.
Anthony’s uncle was just as bad at remembering dates as he’d been at keeping wives. After his fifth divorce he resigned himself to living in the mountains of Colorado, as far off the grid as possible. No phone, no TV, and he only sent and received mail twice a year. He used that fact as an excuse for forgetting Anthony’s birthday.
At least this time he was only three months early. One year Anthony received a card wishing him a happy 6th birthday six months after he’d turned eleven. His uncle was special like that.
Three plates of spaghetti later, Anthony found himself lying in bed on his back staring up at the ceiling. He rolled over and grabbed the birthday card fro
m his dresser. When he opened it up, some strange tune he never heard before started playing.
“My creation, is it real? It’s my creation, my creation, it’s my creation. Weird Science,” the song looped over and over.
How his uncle managed to find a card like that in the boonies was anyone’s guess, but then again that’s probably the only place they had cards like that.
Anthony smiled and read the little inscription telling him to have a weird birthday. His uncle was most certainly awkward. Down at the bottom he’d scribbled a message.
“We need to talk…you’ll know when” it read. His address was sloppily written in the center. Anthony stared at it for some time. What a strange message to put on a birthday card he thought. Sighing, he tossed the card back onto the dresser where it slid off and fell in between the wall.
Anthony kicked his feet back and stretched out on his bed. Tomorrow was the big day, the vacation was over. His summer ended, rather violently he thought. Mrs. Clark was a scary old lady, but a murderer, that was something else. The idea of her creeping around in that old house did make him shiver though.
Anthony felt exhausted. His comfy mattress seemed to swallow him as he yawned and stretched his arms. Suddenly the idea of soccer popped into his head and so did a vision of a slender brunette. Now that was something to think about, Nickie Sutherland. Grinning Anthony rolled over and let the darkness of night consume him.
IV
THE FRESHMEN FOUR
“Have a good day,” Anthony’s mom waved as they piled out of the car. “Don’t forget to bring home your permission slip for soccer.”
Sometimes his mother could show that she was in touch with the teenage plight. After a little convincing, she’d agreed to take them all to school and drop them off a block away. Few things were more embarrassing than hopping out of your mom’s car on the first day of high school. Anthony felt an eerie sense of déjà vu as he watched her drive off. He stared as the little, blue Volkswagen rounded the corner and disappeared. His heart beat a little faster and he smiled at the thought of being a full-fledged high school student.
Together they marched around the corner and stopped out front of the school. Anthony took a deep breath and stared up at the place he’d call home for the next four years. It stirred in him a sense of mixed emotions. Something about its palace-like appearance intertwined with its true nature of confinement made school a paradoxical anomaly.
