by A. I. Nasser
He walked down the small hallway, turning into what was supposed to pass for a living room. He made his way to the large windows, pulling the drapes open and letting more light in. In the back of his mind, he imagined the house screaming at this sudden intrusion, too comfortable with the darkness that had found a home within.
He took in his surroundings with a frown, wrinkling his nose at the smell of dust and decay. If the house had a caretaker, he or she needed to be fired immediately. He fought with the window latches, the hinges creaking in protest as he pushed the glass panes open slightly to let some air in. He knew the rain would find its way inside soon, but the smell of the place was unbearable.
He inspected the spacious room, the furniture covered with sheets that had turned yellow with dust over the years. It would take him at least a day to clean the place up, and he immediately cursed Derrick Fern for putting him there. He cursed himself, too, for agreeing to it.
He made his way back to the hall, trying the lights, flicking the switch on and off in fury.
“Let there be light,” he called out and was greeted by nothing but darkness.
He had hoped he wouldn’t have to drive into town for at least a few days until he had settled in, but it was apparent that he’d have to do it sooner than expected. He walked through the rest of the house, trying different switches, slightly thankful that the lights still worked in the living room and kitchen. His steps left footprints in the dust, and he toyed with the idea of hiring someone to clean up instead of wasting his time.
You have time, a voice in the back of his head seemed to laugh at him. You have six months of this crap.
John made his way upstairs, barely glancing at the empty frames lining the staircase, careful not to touch the banister. The second floor had three rooms, each big enough to be the master bedroom. He settled for the one with its own bathroom and walk-in closet, already deciding on which of the other two to use for his writing space.
If he actually got to writing.
He thought back to the past three years of his life, the ones following the success of his first published novel. He had worked on the thing for years, pouring his heart and soul into it, determined to make it so good that he would finally stop having to pin rejection slips onto the wall above his computer. It had been a hit, and suddenly things had started to look brighter.
The problem, though, was he had no idea what to do next. He had burned himself out for two years writing the bestseller, and his mind had started drawing blanks as soon as he sat down to write the next one. When deadlines started to draw nearer, he had kept Derrick quiet with older manuscripts, none of which were as good as the one he had published. He was riding more on the branding of his name than anything else, and that had kept Derrick at bay for as long as possible.
Now he had nothing to show for the past three years.
John walked into the second bathroom on the floor, switching on the fluorescents that immediately started to flicker on and off.
Add that to the list, Johnny-boy.
His cell phone rang, and he fished it out of his back pocket, cursing himself for forgetting to call Karen as he had promised to.
“Two hours and you’ve already forgotten about us,” his wife said, her voice a bright light in the gloom he was currently standing in.
“I’m sorry.” He ran a hand through his wet hair and watched the drops smack against the floor. “I just got in, actually.”
“So, how is it?” Karen asked, seemingly more excited to know about the house than how he’d been.
“It’s worse than I could have ever imagined,” he said.
“Oh, come on,” Karen said. “It can’t be that bad.”
“You have no idea,” John said, switching off the bathroom lights that were already giving him a headache. He closed the door, knowing that he would probably be using the one in his new room.
“Derrick said this would be good for you,” Karen argued, “and I believe him.”
“Sometimes I get the feeling that you’re happier about me being here than I am,” John teased. “Admit it, Karen Krik, you like having me out of the house.”
“It does have its perks,” Karen played along. “At least I can walk around the house without any clothes on.”
“So, you’re going to basically scar our son for life,” John smiled. “I never had a problem with you doing that.”
Karen laughed, and John suddenly missed her tremendously.
“Okay, I’ll let you get settled in,” his wife finally said. “I have to pick Dylan up from soccer practice.”
“Give him my love,” John said. “Tell him Panda misses him.”
Karen laughed again before blowing him a kiss through the phone and hanging up.
John smiled to himself as he put his phone away, looking up at his surroundings and immediately feeling a lot better.
He had a family to provide for, and if this place was supposed to help him, then he was going to give it a chance.
Chapter 2
The town was everything Derrick had promised. Even if it hadn’t been raining, John could hardly make out anything that promised more than his everyday needs. He spotted an arcade that was probably the only form of entertainment anyone got around here, but the faded paint and the flickering neon sign were an indication that no one cared much about it. He had caught a glimpse of a movie theatre on his way into town, but he hadn’t recognized any of the titles playing.
Just you and the senior citizens, Johnny-boy.
He pulled up to what looked like a market, the sign outside barely visible in the rain and dying light. He raced into the protection of the striped awning, shaking himself as he quickly skimmed the used paperbacks on display in the window. His eye caught his own book, blasphemously dog-eared, the pages wrinkled as if someone had dropped it in a toilet. He knew people had certain reading habits, but he had never felt comfortable with the knowledge that someone might be reading his words during their morning routine.
He pushed into the store, the chimes above his head jingling ridiculously. He scanned the small market, eyeing the rows of goods as he tried to decide what his immediate needs might be. He had tried writing a list of things to stock the refrigerator with, but that had been shot down when he realized the thing didn’t even work. Canned goods it would be.
John grabbed a cart and spent the next hour filling it up, stacking up on beans and tuna, cereal and instant coffee, throwing in a boiler for good measure. He’d have to get a microwave if he wanted to avoid the hassle of cooking.
You’re here for six months, Johnny-boy. Accept it already.
He pushed the voice aside.
“Getting ready for a storm?” the older woman at the cashier asked, looking at the items he was setting down next to the registry and smiling.
John smiled back weakly, wondering if he was actually required to engage in any form of conversation.
“Passing through?” the woman asked, not letting up.
John shook his head. “Staying,” he replied, his voice hoarse. This was a small town, and word spread quickly. He didn’t want to leave a bad first impression with the one place he could get food from.
“Oh? Related to anyone in town?”
John shook his head again and forced a small smile. “I’m staying at the Victorian out on Steel Lane.”
The older woman squinted, her hand hovering over his canned tuna as she inspected him over the rim of her glasses. “Now why on God’s green earth would you do that?”
John frowned at her as she went back to beeping his groceries across her small screen. “A friend said it was a good way for me to get away.” He didn’t even know why he had said that.
“Haven’t heard of anyone willingly staying at that place,” she clicked her tongue. “Should be torn down, if you ask me.”
“Why? What’s wrong with it?”
The woman shrugged. “Nothing, really,” she said. “It’s been empty for so many years you start to wonder why the hell it’s still there
. Kids around here use it as a Halloween dare. The Greens next door wanted to buy it just to tear it down and extend their yard.”
“That seems like a colossal waste of money,” John remarked.
“Not for the Greens,” the woman winked. “Money grows on trees when it comes to them.”
John smiled. It was amusing being part of small-town gossip. He looked over the woman’s shoulder at the lines of bulbs. He pointed to them, and she immediately grabbed half a dozen and added them to the rest of his groceries.
“Do you know anyone who would be willing to help me clean the place up?” John asked. “I don’t think I could handle it on my own.”
The woman placed a hand on her hip and gazed up at the ceiling, thinking. She suddenly nodded and took out a pad and pen from under the register. She jotted down a name and number, ripped the paper from the pad and handed it to him.
“Gina Andrews,” the woman said. “Give her a call. The old bird might not have a lot left, but she’s tough as a nail, that one. She’ll have the place sparkling in a few hours.”
“Wow, that’s great,” John said, pocketing the number and helping her bag the groceries. “I owe you one.”
“Forget about it,” she said with a smile and wave. “Tell Gina that June Summers gave you the number. She’ll give you less trouble that way.”
John smiled and thanked her again, carrying his bags towards the door.
“Do you mind me asking you something?”
John turned to her, shrugging. “Shoot.”
“I’ve seen you before,” she said, leaning on the counter, eyeing him closely. “Just can’t place it.”
John smiled and gestured with his chin towards the book stand. “You have my book on display,” he smiled.
June’s smile delighted him. “Right, that’s it,” she said, waving a finger at him as if he had swindled her. “I knew I’d seen you somewhere before. I’m not good with names, but I never forget a face.”
“John Krik,” he introduced himself, curtsying.
“Well, welcome to Cafeville, John Krik.”
John gave her a thumbs-up and shouldered back out into the rain. He was beginning to think he might actually enjoy it here.
Chapter 3
Hank Pollard parked his truck next to the blue Toyota in time to see its owner wrestle with the bags he was carrying and fiddle with his keys. Hank pulled up his collar and skipped towards the man, grabbing the bags off him before he dropped everything into the puddles that had quickly found their respective places all across Gale Street.
“You’re a lifesaver,” the man thanked Hank as he opened the back door and took the bags off him.
“No worries, buddy,” Hank said, pulling his cap lower over his eyes as if the rain threatened to blind him. “You drive safe.”
Hank left the man and raced into the supermarket, waving at June as he made his way straight to the alcohol row, grabbing a six-pack and dripping water all the way to the cash register.
“Helluva an afternoon, June,” he greeted, pointing to a pack of Lucky Strikes behind her.
“Now what are you doing out in this weather?” June asked, handing him the cigarettes and beeping the six pack.
“Ran out of juice,” Hank said, smiling.
June gave him a knowing look coupled with a smirk. Hank looked out the supermarket window, watching the Toyota pull out and drive away. He cocked his head towards the receding car and asked, “Tourist?”
“Writer,” June winked. “Staying at the old Dean house.”
Hank frowned. “Didn’t know anyone bought that old thing.”
June shrugged and packed the cigarettes with the beer. “I don’t think he bought it,” she said.
“Do you think he’s renting it out?”
“I have no idea, but the Greens are definitely going to be interested,” June said. “They’ve been trying for years to find out who owns the place. They’re going to harass that poor man for anything he could tell them.”
“Damn Greens,” Hank spat. “Think they own the whole town.”
June shrugged and pushed the paper bag towards him.
“Thanks, June,” he said. “You say he’s a writer?”
June nodded.
“Maybe he did buy it,” he said with a smile. “I hear writers make a lot of money.”
“Get out of here, you fool,” June said, laughing.
***
John sat in front of the empty screen, coffee steaming next to him, cigarette in hand.
“Start,” he said to himself. “Start!”
Nothing came, and it didn’t surprise him.
The fact that he couldn’t get any words onto the digital page in front of him was something he had gotten used to over the years. Not that it made him feel any better; his frustration was getting worse by the day, so it would have been rather surprising if things had been any different tonight.
He had set up a workstation in the bedroom, too tired to clean anything else, and he sure as hell was not intending on changing any light bulbs in the dark where he could fall and break his neck. The rest of the house could wait. He would call Gina in the morning.
“Start, goddamn it,” he whispered.
He ran a hand across his face, sitting back and sighing heavily as he stared up at the ceiling. The rain was still pouring outside, tapping like a double bass against his window, a stranger begging to be let in. He looked out at the lights of the nearest house to him. The Greens, he remembered June saying. Their money grew on trees.
John shook his head and pushed back his chair, walking into the bathroom and turning on the water. He waited for the initial stream of brown gunk to pass, then washed his face with what he was hoping was cleaner water. He needed to relax. Stressing out over the writing wouldn’t help. He just needed a good night’s sleep.
The words will come, a voice inside his head said.
He hoped so.
John made his way back to his laptop, shutting the screen without even trying to sit back down and give the creative juices another squeeze. He lit another cigarette and inched the bedroom window open, the cold breeze welcoming, the rain splattering against his face more refreshing than the water in the sink.
He thought about calling Karen, but he knew that it was already too late and she was probably fast asleep, ready for her first day as manager. He hated the fact that he had to leave her during a time like this, but she had been incredibly understanding. He had joked about her being the sole breadwinner of the family, and she had given him a look he was grateful for. Karen was not the kind of woman who would cater to a stay-at-home dad.
He remembered the day Dylan was born, how he had offered her the chance to extend her maternity leave indefinitely. He could go back to teaching high school literature, he had suggested, but she had laughed it off. She had wanted him to follow his passion, and he owed her for being patient, for putting up with the frustration and anger that came with every rejection slip. Sometimes he wondered what he had done right to deserve her.
John blew smoke out the window, finishing his cigarette and flicking it out into the rain. He watched the ember soar in the wind, blown sharply as it fell, and closed the window. He loved the smell of rain, and if it were up to him, he would be out on the porch, legs propped up, watching the water descend from the heavens.
You need sleep, Johnny-boy.
John looked at the bed and pondered how long it would take him to fall asleep, experience proving that it usually took forever on the first night in a new place. This was why he hated book tours.
***
When he heard the crash downstairs, he was in his boxers and ready to turn in. He froze for a second, listening intently for any other sounds that would explain the previous noise. When he was sure no one was moving around, he pulled on a shirt and crept out onto the second-floor landing.
How are you sure there’s no one down there? It’s not like they’d walk in with a marching band.
John thought twice about in
vestigating, straining to hear any movement, a sound that would confirm his fears. When he still couldn’t discern anything, he walked downstairs, flicking on the light switch and cursing when he remembered that he hadn’t changed the light bulbs. He stood in complete silence, hoping that if he wasn’t alone, no one would reach for him in the darkness.
He walked slowly down the hall, turning into the living room where he knew the lights still worked. He switched them on, the warmth of the few bulbs instantly illuminating the space, throwing shadows up where the light didn’t reach.
Nothing.
His eyes fell on the open window, the glass pane large as it swung back and forth in the wind. The rain was rushing in, mixing with the dust, creating patches on the sheets that protected the furniture beneath. On the floor lay a vase in pieces, the source of the crash he had heard.
Frowning, John stepped around the broken shards and pushed the window closed. He wrestled a bit with the latches but finally got them to lock. He was confident he had gone through these motions earlier, making sure the entire house was locked down for the night. He’d have to find someone to change the latches. He didn’t need a heart attack.
Opting to leave the living room lights on, he raced upstairs and locked the bedroom door behind him.
Chapter 4
Gina Andrews was everything June had promised, and more.
John had called her early in the morning, his voice raspy, only a few words exchanged. She knew the house, she had said. She would be there in an hour.
He had been in the kitchen when she pounded on the door, making her presence known, a single bang that rattled the wood in its frame. John glanced at his watch, impressed that exactly one hour had passed since their phone call, and hurriedly made his way down the hall and opened for her.
Gina looked like she had seen the world a dozen times over, and had the scars to prove it. Her face was wrinkled beyond recognition, the only intelligent sign of life radiating from her piercing blue eyes as she smacked her lips and glanced around the inside of the house from the door.
