Destroyer of Words

a short story by Mark N

The monster dwelled in Prosperity City.

Prosperity City was no more an actual city than it was actually prosperous. The name was chosen by some overly optimistic mining tycoon in the early 1900s, who thought his newly built mines would be the start of a booming new metropolis.

Now, it was only a town, and barely a town at that...maybe more accurate to say village. It was a suburb of the thriving city of Kimberling, whose founders had found the much better mines some hundred years ago and become the thing that Prosperity was only grasping at.

However small, Prosperity was still a happy place, thriving in its’ own way, only moderately run-down as opposed to the majority of the townships of the same size in this portion of the state. It had its’ post office, local diner, 2 banks, 2 & 1/2 gas stations, 3 fast food franchises, good and bad parts of town distanced only by a block or two, and precisely one monster. The monster, being nearly the only object of local excitement (other than the recent installment of a dollar general), received a fair amount of hushed whispers and “did you hear about” stories. But no-one dared go near it.

The monster dwelled at the edge, a fact the other residents were thankful for, on a street thought of as neither the good nor the bad section but rather the forgotten one. One by one, the houses around its’ dwelling had become vacant; some of them deservedly so, as they were falling apart- but others, simply because something had happened to a neighbor,  and said neighbor had left town in the middle of the night without a word to anyone, and no realtor could ever get it to sell again.

The main discussion was whether, in fact, it was a monster or rather a mere ghost. Monster seemed more exciting, but of course it depended on who you asked and which stories the residents’ own quivers held. 

The monster had a roommate, and that was perhaps the most curious feature of the whole scenario; a Mr Orwell Smotherton, longtime resident of Prosperity City, having occupied this earth, the township, and the house itself for some 63 years.

No-one had intentionally visited Smotherton for some years. Maybe it was because of his withdrawn and awkward demeanor. More likely, it was because people knew he kept a roommate there that made them uncomfortable to say the least. It wouldn’t matter much if Smotherton was capable of the token amount of small town hospitality- no amount of lemonade and appropriate chit chat could cover up the rumors that cloaked him. Maybe he could have fought the stench of gossip with some average appearances at the diner or the post office, but the truth was, he never left the house.

Ever.

And the stories had now grown stale, since there were no neighbors left to disappear, no kids brave enough to be spooked, and no-one actually that curious anymore at all.

Until the new girl arrived. 

__________________

She stood out, to say the least; small rural towns in the midwest tend to be rather overwhelmingly white, and she was not. Didn’t bother her. She was used to being stared at, whispered about, and otherwise treated as ‘other.’ Not that she was exactly ok with it… she had just done something that many of her friends could not (and should not have to): “get over it”. Dwelling on others’ perception of her didn’t really accomplish much. It was rarer that she was actually treated poorly enough to fear for safety; but just common enough that she’d taken self defense classes that led to tae-kwon-do classes that led to her being someone you’d never, ever want to mess with, even as unassuming as she might appear. 

And so she pretended, acted as if she was  “normal”, enjoying the small town pace that balanced out the small town prejudice.

She was a literary agent, a job that could be done from just about anywhere, a job that had earned her the ability to stay absolutely anywhere she pleased; but New York City had become exhausting, all the jostling subways and neverending trash and undiscovered writers desperately begging her to discover them. She could take the trash, but the desperate writers were relentless and somehow they always gravitated to her, like magnets on the verge of being knocked off the fridge.

She liked writers, a lot, else she would have found a different occupation. It was just the sheer volume and frequent physical presence of them that wore her out.

She’d received the call one day, that her cousin had passed, and that she was the only one left to pass anything on to. Wasn’t much; just the house, the officiator had told her in a drawl, “but it’s yours.”

The planets had aligned. She hadn’t told anyone specifically where she was going. This made her ecstatic. She’d ended up so far in the middle of nowhere that no-one would “accidentally” find her again; she’d made the jump that her circles had long dreamed about; enjoying the peace of rural America. This overwhelmed the obvious difficulties of poor restaurant selection and hillbillies, made it more bearable, than one more instance of having to decide between sitting next to a tweaked out flasher on the subway or spending a 16 block walk absorbing the trash bag paradise and perpetual honking of Manhattan. Her ex husband had no idea where she’d gone, and that made her happiest of all, for he was the biggest magnet to never let go. She’d go back, she was sure of that, but this time would do her good. Maybe 6 months, maybe a year? Sort of a personal retreat, a sabbatical. Then she’d sell the house and get a better apartment back in NYC than the one she’d been stuck in before.

Sarah didn’t need much. A good internet connection was about it, and against all odds, Prosperity City always had 4 bars. So manuscripts got delayed on the normal schedule, and in the meanwhile she was able to breathe in fresh air and hear the birds sing and take a walk without worrying about muggers or anxious cops. She might face a curious bored skateboarder on his way home from his sonic shift… but this, this she could handle.

Sarah had finished her absolute need-to-responds for the day; she liked to take a break between answering emails and reading submitted work, so she took the opportunity for a midday walk across town. She was still new to the town, waiting to discover that hidden small town diner with the unforgettable chocolate malt, or maybe even simply to strike up chit chat with some old feller who had been in some war and could provide her with input on her own project on veterans and their longterm integration into society (handled by time periods; WW2, vietnam, Iraq, and Afghanistan, specifically).

She walked, briskly, discovering that the diner existed but for whatever damn BFE reason, was closed on Tuesdays, and double whammy, by 2pm even if it were a Wednesday. She made a mental note; they didn’t list chocolate malts, but they DID list fried mushrooms. She’d have to see if they held up… the SUPERSHROOM stand in Brooklyn stood proudly in her memory, challenging her tongue to even think of replacing it.

She stopped thinking about food, knowing her fridge was well stocked with ‘hello fresh’ meals and her hips sure as hell didn’t need anything malted or fried on a Tuesday anyway. She was simply walking, no purpose, no destination, feet moving, her mind running over recent submissions, diving deep into her subconscious to see if anything rose to the top of her mind as the next possible big American novel.

She crossed main street, the whole thing closed by 6pm as if it were a ghost town; to think nothing in NYC would dare close before midnight. She kicked a loose chunk of concrete, formerly sidewalk, now a tripping hazard. It was 76 degrees and rather peaceful. Her mind hadn’t had a chance to drift like this in 10 years.

It was 15 minutes before she even looked at her surroundings long enough to realize she was almost to the end of town. The houses were startling in their differences; here, a historic home beautifully restored to its’ 1890 state- angles jutting out at every possible odd angle,  window trims handsomely finished with purples and golds and teals to reflect its’ former glory. On the other side, a hardboard shack, paint peeling, roof blistered, barely keeping the elements away.

She stopped at the end of the street, beginning to notice that the entire block was basically abandoned. Except for this one.

Before her was a beautiful home, ornately decorated, kept to its’ original magnificence, it’s soffits and fascia and window frames freshly re-done, its’ wooden siding repainted, refusing to yield to the vinyl siding that overtook the homes around it. It took her breath away, decidedly the most beautiful home she’d seen in Prosperity. Or maybe, anywhere.

She guessed at its’ original age, standing there right in front of it, arms hanging limp. She brushed her hair out of her face. 1840? 1845? Somewhere in there. She suddenly found herself delighted with the find; more rewarding than the chocolate malt she’d hoped for. She was hungry no longer, hungry only for more knowledge about this house.

Had it belonged to the current owners’ ancestors? Were the colors original? Had its owners fought in any wars? Were the turrets at the top leftovers from the Civil War?

She was so mesmerized that at first, she didn’t notice- either the vapors that moved about the front porch, nor the old man that sat upon it.  And then it hit her. This was THE house. The first rumor she’d heard, in a town made up of rumors; the haunted house on Petunia street.

The story- no, stories- spun in her head, right about the time she spotted the porch swing gently moving, back and forth, back and forth.

“The monster eats kids!” -a 4th grader, lips stained red with neverending summer popsicles

“Let’s just say...nobody hangs around at the end of Petunia street” -post office worker, handing her the newest stack of not-yet-rejected manuscripts.

“Ah, every town has its’ haunted house, right? “Aw yeah, we got Petunia street hell house…check it out for yourself!” exclaimed a buzzed steelworker in the local bar. He leaned in, attempting discrepancy, but only exuding a loud and spitty invasion of personal space: “but don’t hang out long. Smotherton’ll sick em on you.”

Having a new person in town had given everyone an excuse to rehash it all again.

Here it was, right before her, something that had occupied her subconscious far more than she dared admit before this moment. She snapped herself out of it. She was just interested in its’ civil war history. 

Herself responded back, “liar.”

She was drawn back to the movement; the porch swing continued rocking, a gentle creak giving out each time it went to and fro. It was unsettling to say the least, and she shivered a bit, trying to decide whether to step closer or bolt. It was, of course, only the wind making the swing creak…

Her eyes spun to the being not on the swing, but in the chair beside it.

He looked back over at her and nodded; a sigh of relief ensued. It wasn’t a ghost. It was just a nominally creepy old white fella. “Mornin.” said the fella, breaking the silence, causing her limp arms to gather around her stiffly.

“I wonthurtcha.” he followed up. “Aint’ one o’ them racists sunsabitches. Every man…” he paused, lowered his forehead so that his glasses slid to the tip of his nose, “...an’ woman… born equal, that’s what I always said.”

She didn’t know Smotherton, but she felt just slightly better nonetheless, simply for him addressing the painfully obvious. She walked a couple steps closer.

“Those turrets…” she nodded to the roof. “They left from the civil war?”

“Yes ma’am.” he responded gracefully. “Oldest house in Prosperity City. Granpappy fought to hold it.” He stood up slowly, the swing still swinging, hitting him gently between the backs of his knees. “Not that I agree with every reason he was holdin’ it for. But we worked hard to fix it up anyway. Historical monument!” He nodded to the marker in the front yard, only a few feet away from Sarah. She read it carefully, and nodded.

She was reaching, but why not? She asked. “You fought in any wars yourself?”

He shook his head.

“Only the war of privacy.” he said.

“Oh. I….well I’m sorry to be an invader….” she took two steps back, resuming her original position on the sidewalk.

“You alright. I don’t mind questions. Only stupid ones.” He chuckled to himself.

“Such as?” She answered boldly, her investigative journalism past seeping into her demeanor.

He straightened all the way up, looked up for a moment, and suddenly began to laugh. It was wheezy and dry, but also got stronger the longer he laughed, carrying all the way down the street.

“Either you already know and you afraid to say, or you’re not a true resident yet o’ Prosperity City. Either way…. You have a good afternoon… well, mornin’, ma’am.” He tipped an imaginary hat, walked inside, and slammed the door behind him.

She stood for a good 5 minutes, watching the porch, mesmerized beyond her ability to explain. The porch swing never stopped swinging, even long after the breeze died down to nothing.

____________________________

She got her malt the following day…. Sure enough they had em’, just hadn’t put it on the sign. She cursed her diet into submission and engaged in both the malt and the fried mushrooms, a greasy cheeseburger joining the lineup. It was no Sylvia’s, and it was no SUPERSHROOM, but damn well did the trick. Nothing but salads the rest of the week….

She looked up from her dripping burger and realized she was surrounded by the true inhabitants of Prosperity City. She spotted an older lady sitting up at the bar, someone who had the look of someone that had never left her hometown; filled with bitterness, pride, and information.

“Say,” she spoke carefully, doing her best to aim her words through the crowd and toward the barstool. “What do you know about the house at the end of Petunia street?”

The woman coughed, her lukewarm diner coffee suddenly becoming an irritant of throat and speech. She took a sip of her ice water, the sweat on the plastic glass coating the palm of her hand. Ever so slowly, she took advantage of the stool to swivel around.

“‘Scuse me?” She asked. Not rudely, but abruptly.

Maybe this had been a mistake. Sarah shoved forward anyway. “The house. The one with the marker, at the end of town. I don’t know how long you been here, but I thought…” Sarah paused, painfully aware of the awkwardness of insinuating the the woman was no spring chicken. “Thought, maybe, you knew something about it.”

The womans’ eyes squinted, trying to decide whether to react in suspicion, in delight at the opportunity for gossip, or outright fear of the topic. “Why you ask?” she finally decided.

“Walked past it last night. Just...curious.” answered Sarah.

“Just...walked past it, did you?” The woman pushed her coffee away, as if it were suddenly tainted somehow. She leaned back on her stool, to the extent that Sarah found herself poised to catch her if she accidentally fell backward.

“Well.” she reacted abruptly. “I HAVE been here awhile.” She smirked a bit, as if daring Sarah to guess just how long. She gave up on that game and continued. “57 years, actually.”

Sarah’s eyes widened. She’d pegged the woman at 45. 

“And you asking about demon house…. Well, you’re new here, ain't you?”

Sarah could only nod. She cleared her throat, prepared to ask why it was called that, but the bar stool lady continued.

“We stay away from there. Historic monument...pshhhht,” she spit into her coffee. “Let’s just say no-one goes near there at night. ‘Historic’ is another way of saying ‘haunted’ in this town. I’d recommend you stick to your big city business and stay away from it.” the woman stated firmly, gripping the coffee cup like a weapon. “The past is the past and we may not take part in the future too quick around here, but we know when to leave what’s been left alone. Damn thing needs torn down.”

Sarah shot her head back a bit, as the woman turned back around and asked for a refill as if no conversation had actually taken place. As Sarah sat quietly contemplating what had happened, she suddenly became aware of how silent the diner had become, in spite of being rather densely occupied by locals. She shook it off, and returned to her meal, the last fried mushroom being the pinnacle, guiltily dipped in ranch (as it should be).

Her senses a bit heightened, she immediately picked up on the whisper from the booth behind her. “Why do you want to know about demon house?” the whisper said.

She wasn’t sure whether or not to turn around. Thankfully, the voice continued without her needing to.

“Don’t turn around,” it confirmed. “Why you want to know?”

She carefully cleared her throat, then did her best to whisper in return. “Research.” she said simply.

No response. She fought the urge to turn around, and wiped her now greasy chin. 5 minutes she gave it, with no more whispers. “Fine.” she thought. She glimpsed the swinging, unoccupied porch-swing in her mind, and shuddered just a bit. Overcoming the oddness of the situation, she gathered up the spent napkins, rose in careful increments, threw her trash away and walked out the door.

The whisper followed into the street. But a normal voice now:

“What KIND of research?” asked the voice, directly behind her ear. She was now out of sight of the diner windows, and spun around quickly. Her shoulders sank in relief at the sight of the most non-threatening possible source for the voice: a pimply teenager, skateboard tucked under his arm, eyes red, not yet fully diffused with the object of his munchies.

“HISTORICAL research” she said with great authority.

Skater junkie cocked his head, rolling the red wheels of the board with his thumb, and frowned slightly. “You Georgia’s cousin?”

Sarah nodded.

“I liked her. Sorry to hear about that. Paid me $20 to mow her lawn. I’d do the same deal for you if you want.”

Sarah was trying not to outright laugh at the combination of sympathy and business proposition. He continued. “Anyway, anykinda “research” on Hell house… well that’ll effin’ kill ya.”

She smirked. “Oh?”

“You’re new here. Cool that you’re here. But if I were you…. I’d stay the hell away from Petunia street,”, he said calmly, mustering the last bit of soberness he had in him.

“And why’s that?” She asked, attitude perhaps coming out a bit more than she meant.

“It’s haunted, lady. I know that sounds crazy, but…” he looked at the pavement, embarrassed at the admission. He gathered himself. “It effin’ is. My uncle Donnie…” He looked away. “Went into that house and never came out. We all told him to stay away, you’d think that asshole’d listen to the stories, but NO, had to prove something. Never saw him again. Family said he left, but I know the truth. The house got him.”

She felt for the kid now. He was genuinely scared and uncomfortable about the subject, had obviously been lied to about the dubious whereabouts of his probable junkie uncle, and was also sweet in a way. 

Maybe she’d pay him the $20 next time the grass shot up.

“I don’t have to prove NOTHING and neither do you. Just stay off that street, lady.” And with that, he launched the board under his feet and took off, no more questions for this briefing.

She stood still, listening to the sound of the skateboard wheels working their way down the street, cresting cracks in the worn main street pavement and  eventually working their way down some side street . Ridiculous small town superstition. She rubbed her belly at the onset of aches brought by the most fried food that this country can offer. 

_____________

Sarah woke up suddenly, as abruptly as maybe she ever had. She’d gone to bed early, but certainly not early enough to warrant the 4AM wake-up. It was one of those moments when you just know that trying to go back to sleep would be pointless; unable to sleep, unable to work, caught in an insomniac state that checking emails could only satisfy for 20 minutes or so.

She rejected 4 submissions without even having to read them. She had an instinct about these things;  when you’ve been in the business long enough, you just know when crap is crap, sometimes without even having to read the actual thing. You pick up the grammar in the email, you spot the lack of originality in the plot descriptions, you apply the directed publisher guidelines toward well meaning but poorly presented copies of existing works.

She couldn’t work any more. Nor could she sleep. Internet was suddenly too shitty to catch up on her current netflix binge. She looked down at her belly and poked it. Maybe this would be a good time to work off those fried shrooms.

Walking shoes on, she stepped outside to breathe in fresh, pre-dawn, small town air.

It was beautifully, startlingly, refreshing.

A podcast in her ear, darkness all around she walked. First to 2nd street; then past Boultamont; then, finally, she found herself at the edge of town, back in that place that she subconsciously knew she’d end up at.

“Demonhouse.” what a ridiculous name, unsurprising, she supposed, as she ruminated on the small-town culture. She stood squarely across from it once more, hands on her hips, daring anyone to just try and scare her with some hocus pocus bullshit. And it took a moment, to really notice.

The porch swing was swinging. That is, right up until she looked straight at it; as soon as her head tilted, it stopped cold.

She scanned carefully; searching out for the old man, assuming maybe he had as much trouble as her sleeping, that he was at the far end of the swing, making it go back and forth.

Just enough of the dawn light came through, to confirm to a curious big city woman; there was no man on that swing. 

She narrowed her eyes, studying it closely.

She heard the front door creak, and that was the moment of decision; either quickly walk the other way pretending you didn’t end up here on purpose, she thought. Or… stand your ground, and see what happens.

She stood, fingers clutching the pepper spray that’d surely blind anyone dead or alive.

What she saw, suddenly reminded her of a detail she’d forgotten from the last time she was here. She was certain of it now, that both then and now, there had been some kind of mist or vapor present on that porch. The front door kept opening until finally it slammed open against the frame. No-one walked through. But the vapor seemed to gush out of the door, swirling around, more form than the previous time she’d spotted it.

What. the. HELL.

“Smotherton?” she called out.

Just more swirling, the cloud of whatever it was wrapping around the front porch posts. Then she heard something rise up out of the complete stillness. It wasn’t loud, but of course just about everything is loud at 4am in a small town; there’s no other noise in the air to compete with, so even the tiniest whisper can seem like the greatest roar.

The noise was indescribable; part growl, part whisper, part...singing?

The effect was devastating to mind and body; she felt herself wilting as the vapors playfully danced down the porch steps, and the sing songy growl came with it. She felt, with her last moment of eyes locked on the porch, that it was taking form; it was hard to tell in the dark, but it seemed to have more and more shape with every second.

She did something that made her terribly ashamed; she ran away, almost tripping on an abandoned skateboard as she did so.

____________


It was 8am the following morning.

The door creaked open once more, but this time a man followed it. Smotherton, walked out briskly, not as a sleepy inhabitant disturbed, but the stance of a young man who has been awake all night, ready for anything. He immediately spotted her, causing her to question her decision even more than if some monster had walked out a perfectly normal old man. He was peering into her soul from there across the street as if he knew every secret about them both.

 Sunlight streamed through, but only in selective beams through branches, most of the surrounding yards filled with ancient trees and overgrown brush.

“Well.” he saids softly, his speech carrying across the still morning air. “You jus’ couldn’t help yourself, couldja?” he asked playfully.

“Guess not.” finally answered Sarah, resolving herself to be braver than she had been 4 hours previous when she’d run home and literally hid under the covers. 

Her hands planted firmer on her hips than ever before, she asked calmly, “you got any coffee?” The old man was clearly startled; he hadn’t scared her off, his house hadn’t scared her off, and he didn’t know what to do other than tell the truth. “Well,” he slowly confirmed, “I spose I do.”

She nodded and took step closer.

He continued. “Course you know where you are....” he gestured wildly… “this ain’t the diner.”

The porch swing picked back up again of its’ own accord; Sarah shivered, but walked all the way up to the front porch step. “I like out of the way places. More peaceful.”  she said firmly.

Smotherton nodded grimly, as if she’d chosen to go with him into battle. ‘Alright. Hold tight, lil’ missy.” His eyes darted just for a split second to the swing. “Here’s a chair for you,” he said, offering her neither to follow him inside nor sit on the swing. And with that, he disappeared inside.

Sarah could not be sure, but she felt like the lights from within the house blinked off and on. She walked up the porch steps, eyeing the swing, which now remained motionless. She endeavored to do everything she could to avoid it, pulling the old wooden rocker opposite it and sitting down in it with great apprehension.

15 minutes went by, which was a great deal of time to spend on a haunted porch. She pulled out her phone to distract herself with social media, but reception seemed to have disappeared the moment she stepped onto the historic boards of this 180 year old porch. She cursed silently, then suddenly remembered the skateboard that had brought her close to some doom the night before in the nearby street. It was gone. Maybe her subconscious had made it up?

The old man re-appeared, carrying with him a comically enormous serving tray.

Cream, sugar, a variety of mugs to choose from. Hospitality at a level Sarah certainly hadn’t braced herself for. She sighed, prepared to have a very awkward and crappy cup of coffee with a stranger she didn’t yet trust but also couldn’t seem to stay away from.

Smotherton gently sat the tray on the table that lay between the swing and the several chairs that sat there. Sarah nodded a quiet thanks and carefully took a mug, adding some sugar and then pouring coffee out of the carafe, looking around, hoping that maybe some neighbor was witnessing the event in case something went south. 

There were no neighbors here.

The old man said nothing. He took his coffee black, glanced sideways again at the swing, nodding to himself as if confirming something, and sat in another chair, seeming almost to pretend as if Sarah wasn’t there.

She finally spoke up. “This is… this is the best coffee I’ve had since New york.” She finally said, startled at her own admission. “Well now you know New York doesn’t have a hold on good coffee, now does it?” He looked her square in the eye, and she was unsure how to respond. “Don’t judge us by that shit they serve at the diner” he finally followed up.

She had to chuckle. “Their chocolate malts are sure better than their coffee.” she finally mustered.

He nodded, thoughtfully. “I grind my own beans.” Then he cut to the chase. “No-one has sat on this porch with me in 30 years.” He eyed her again. “Why you here miss?” he finally asked.

“Sarah.” She had to admire his candor. “Orwell,” he responded. He didn’t say anything more, so she went on.  “Just curious, I guess. Trying to get to know some neighbors. I suspect some part of me wants to rebel against pointless rumors, wherever I am. They sure done enough damage where I’m from. I was told this house was haunted. But you seem ok to me?”

He rocked back and forth in his seat a moment. “Maybe I am ok. Maybe this place is haunted. Can’t both be true?”

Sarah smiled, appreciating the playful answer. She answered slowly. “So who haunts it then, if it isn’t you?”

Orwell smiled too, and her guard let down most of the way, even though his eyes were sad in spite of his smile. He didn’t answer the question, of course, but he did answer others. Told her how he’d grown up in this house. How his parents had passed on when he was in his early 20s, and he’d always intended to sell it and move away, but something had kept him here.

Orwell had been a mechanic, working in a local garage, hinting at an inheritance that had set him up where he really hadn’t needed to work anywhere at all. He’d worked on the house over that time, fixing it back up to its’ former glory, piece by piece. The windows had been the most difficult, of course. He’d brought in someone from Philadelphia to do it up right. 

She’d returned the conversation, tell him about her cousin, her formerly frantic lifestyle, her desire to find some peace and get away from it all. He was still incredulous, but he also understood. “IS peaceful in this part of the country,” he’d agreed.

When she’d brought up her occupation though… it felt as if 40 years fell off his face, a boyish eagerness pushing through, then the wrinkles came back and he sat upright, seeming confused by his own mix of emotions.

“So you represent writers, then.” He finally responded, taking a sip from a coffee cup she was pretty sure was long empty. The spark remained in his eye.

_______________

Sarah sat at her desk, rifling through emails on her computer, picking out the easy-to-dismiss ones, too distracted to pay attention to the ones with promise because those required more thought.

It was 2pm, and she was tired; she’d been up a full day’s worth of hours already, and all she could focus on was the conversation she’d had with a crazy old man on a supposedly haunted front porch. She held in front of her an envelope. It was crinkled, now brown from a former yellow, and somehow she’d been more afraid to open it than any submission she’d ever received.

Orwell had handed it to her after 2 hours of conversation, guarding it as if enemies were poised on every street corner to pull it from his clutches at a moments’ notice. As soon as he’d done so, that damn porch swing had started moving again. And she’d gone home.

The envelope itself felt haunted somehow, and she’d treated it as such and now felt ridiculous. She eyed it, sitting there on the corner of her desk, sadly crumpled over the corner. The envelope itself had to be a good 20 years old…

She sat back in her office chair, considering. She distracted herself with the form response to a declined work… “We appreciate your submission, but currently….”

She couldn’t seem to look at anything but the envelope.

She played with the edges of it, frayed like old fabric. Her fingers danced on the metal clasp. She sighed, and opened it. She owed that much… she’d all but demanded it from the old man after he’d finally confided in her. Her boldness had won out, in spite of his embarrassment about it, and now she had taken on the curse of telling him if his work was really worth a damn after he’d hidden his work from the world for 40 years.

The pages inside were somehow yellowed in spite of being contained in an envelope, fragile from too much handling.

She fingered the pages gently, laying them out on her desk. 

_________________

Sarah had waited 2 days, making certain her mind was straight, even passing on scanned copies of the worst from the yellowed pages to friends who answered from across the country. She sat once again on the front porch of demon house, doing her best to ignore the swing, accepting another cup of coffee from the owner of the most feared property in the 4 state area.

She very quietly lowered the crinkled stack of papers, tapping them on the table to sort them into a neat stack. She was silent for several minutes, twice trying to muster the words to match her emotions, coming up with no more than a little consonant and a near-gasp each time.  

“These poems...they’re very beautiful.” finally said Sarah, wiping an unexpected tear from her eye. “Maybe the most beautiful I’ve ever read.” She paused to read his reaction, which simply wasn’t there. “Surely you’ve... tried to publish them?”

“Ah, well.” said the man, trying his best to sound casual. “Just some crap scribbles, that’s what I was always told. Couldn’t stop writing em, but I never put any stock into the quality. No training, no education...naw, good writing don’t come out of Prosperity Shitty.”

“WHO told you that?” Sarah bristled a bit. She’d seen this before; good work shut down without a chance by ignorant assholes who didn’t know better. Meanwhile, the crappy writers fought their way to the top and won out. He didn’t answer, looking down at his empty cup. “Was it your parents?” She hadn’t heard him mention a single other person he’d ever even interacted with, so it’s all she had to go on.

“Naw, naw, they passed before they ever even found out I wrote anything.

You see, I know no-one believes it, but I do have a friend. My friend… well, he’s an odd one, and he gobbles those up, I’m afraid,  if I try to mail them out. I gave up years ago. But I do believe he enjoys them, and knowing that even one other...has read them, well that’s enough for me.”


“Your friend…?”  Asked Sarah. She suddenly felt very cold and uncomfortable. This was apparently the moment she discovered the man was batshit crazy. Maybe this was the moment he grabbed her and took her inside and killed her and ate her, his poems serving as a nice garnish.

And the porch swing began to move again, as if on cue.

Sarah shivered, both in fear and in absolute sadness.

“Should they go out, and should they be read, and published, and publicized, and praised...I don’t know that I could handle such a thing. And it’s hard to say which makes me more afraid; people loving these things I write, or people hating them. So they turn out to be a little dessert for my friend, and that’s the sort of arrangement we have, and it’s worked for near 35 years now, so that’s the way it is, I suppose.”

He leaned forward. “He’s already a little angry that I kept these. It’s like keeping a juicy steak from a starving man.”

The porch swing suddenly began swinging harder, almost violently this time, the papers scattered upon it suddenly shooting up in the breeze and blowing up and down the street in a makeshift hurricane of undiscovered words.

Sarah didn’t even think. She bolted, chased them, chased them like they were million dollar bonds, without a thought to how she might look. Orwell simply sat, maybe wanting to chase them too, but somehow pinned to the porch, frozen in place, watching her go back and forth.

She finally tracked down the last one in the bushes across the street; and it was then that she spotted the skateboard. There was no mistaking it; red wheels, crappy graffiti on the bottom, faded gray top. The kid was terrified of this place.

How could it be here?

When she turned around, Orwell was gone, the front door closed. A mist had begun to gather itself across the entirety of the front porch, growling and singing and solidifying, a wind emanating from it that blew her hair back and sent her running down an abandoned street, clutching an armful of yellowed papers and daring not to turn around. 

_____________


Sarah sat, calm and collected, in the diner, the papers back in a neat stack in front of her, an untouched bowl of fried mushrooms on her table, locals chattering on every side, noticing her but trying not to show they noticed.

She listened for a bit.

“Said he didn’t show up to work today. I’m tellin’ you, pots’ finally got to that kid. If I hadn’t said it 20 times, he’s gonna either end up in prison or in the graveyard. Can’t hold a job, can’t stay off the weed, It’s just sad what it is.”

The greasy man at the counter shoved an outrageous number of fries into his mouth, directing his gaze to the equally greasy man across him, who nodded affirmingly and responded “Bet he’s hangin’ with those shithead skater buddies of his, planning what they can rob so they don’t have to work.”

Both men shook their heads and continued their lunch, drifting to comments about them damn politicians up in Washington and how great the weather was gonna be at the lake this weekend. 

She looked down at the papers. Had she found the best American poet of the 21st century only to discover him a murderer? Or was she the one batshit crazy at this point?

Good God, she should’ve stayed in Manhattan.

_________________

Sarah tossed and turned. She glanced at the clock; 4:03AM. What about 4am seemed to draw her out of bed? She got up, changed into her running clothes, and set out once again.

It only took 17 minutes this time, her pace brisker and her determination turned up to high gear. She stood at the end of the street, revving herself up. She’d come this far. “The HELL you afraid of, woman?” She asked herself out loud.

She heard it, quietly at first, then growing in sound, whistling and growling and singing and seeming almost to laugh, coming unmistakably from the only inhabitable house on Petunia street. (Or maybe the least).

Her steps were slow now, but steady, until she stood 2 houses down, crouching next to a pile of old tires. The swing flailed wildly, and she found herself surprised that it didn’t break off the the supports completely.

Then she spotted something that she liked even less. Something else was on that porch, but it took up far too much space to be Orwell or any other human. No longer vaporous except around the edges, the constantly shifting form moved around the porch angrily, its’ haunting noise carrying up and down the street, blending into the wind. Lights inside blinked on and off, the front door open, slamming sounds coming from the inside of the huge old frame.

Should she call the police?

“And tell them WHAT exactly, dumbass?” she told herself out loud.

She moved in like a covert agent, covered by the darkness of the forgotten street. By the time she was across from the house, the porch was completely still. The inside was not; one light flickered, on and off, on and off, somewhere from the second story, as if signaling her inside.

“Oh WHY didn’t I stay in Manhattan, I’d take the trash and tweakers any day over this shit” she muttered to herself, advancing toward the porch with pepper spray outstretched before her.

__________________

She almost expected something to happen when she crossed the threshold; a hundred ghosts to rush her, or Orwell to lunge out of a corner with an axe.

But there was nothing. And she realized, quite suddenly, that she wasn’t afraid OF Orwell in this moment; she was afraid...for him.

She opened the front door, unlocked, creaking open willingly. She carefully moved forward, eyes washing over the entryway and living room. It was startlingly neat; no hoarding evident, no markers of old man bachelordom that you might expect. “Orwell?” She called.

Sarah actually gasped. The woodwork, the fireplace, the perfectly finished wooden floors; It was the most immaculately preserved historic home she’d ever seen.

She shook off the initial reaction, moving to the left to glance at the kitchen, the right to glance into the parlor. Nothing.

The slamming noises began again making it clear what she’d heard before, coming from upstairs. She could bolt, or she could advance. She steeled herself, clutching the spray harder than she ever had, eyeing an old school poker by the fireplace. She shook off the temptation. “Watched too many damn horror movies”, she said to the living room, and then set her eyes on the ornate woodwork that adorned the stairs leading up, up, and to probable doom.

_________________

“Orwell? You up there?” she called up the stairs, trying to remind herself of every bit of self defense training she’d ever received. She regretted not taking the poker.

Each stair creaked with a different groan, beautifully refinished but still sounding their age. Surprise was an impossible element to gain in an old house.

Her head bobbed around, quickly assessing as soon as the second floor was in sight; 4 doors down the hall, one open, no vapors or monsters or convulsing old men in sight. She almost ran back down for the poker, but her feet pushed forward instead. She could see a light flickering at the end of the hall.

“ORWELL!” she screamed. She didn’t even know why she was calling his name. All indicators pointed toward him being some creepy old schizophrenic white coot that would kill her as soon as he could; but then she remembered the words.

Pages and pages of words, beautifully arranged, intensely emotional, incredibly poignant. She could still feel the yellowed pages in her fingers, holding a kleenex to her face to keep the tears from staining them. These were not the words of a murderer. Orwell could be in trouble, she told herself. He mentioned a ‘friend’. THAT’s the murderer. Find Orwell, get him out. Get him away from whatever other crazy person lived here.

She shoved the first door open, hands out in perfect form, ready to use her training to chop down anyone who rushed her. There was nothing in the room, literally nothing, not a stick of furniture and certainly no homicidal maniacs.

She moved on down. Door 2. Door 3. Same story; left empty, which made sense if truly just one old madman lived in this house. More light illuminated her now, off and on, off and on, streaming from the 4th room.

The 4th door was, by far, the most terrifying; dread building with every other room inspection, knowing that the door was wide open for this room, beckoning her inside, laying a trap that she was knowingly walking into.

She repositioned the spray, making certain the nozzle was pointed outward, not letting her feet stop moving for fear they would turn and scramble back down the stairs.

“Orwell?” she only whispered it now, and this time was met with the response that she dreaded. A whisper flowed out of that room, with an indescribable song and an underlying animalistic growl that made every hair stand up on her neck.

She ran through what would happen when she disappeared; her bosses emailing, then calling, then shrugging it off, hiring someone in her place with little regret. The locals talking about her house being abandoned once more, and how she probably just couldn’t handle this small town life. No sons, no daughters, no parents to mourn.

She thought of the brown envelope and its contents once more, and this gave her resolve like nothing else could. The words… the words she’d read, they were worth fighting for, maybe as much as her own life.  No, more. There were a thousand literary agents that could do her job; but no words to replace what that envelope contained. These words could change lives, influence culture, become history. She was sure of it. But she had to finish this first.

She silently walked through the doorway of the 4th room, bracing herself for anything.

She gasped in horror.

The lights only showed in flashes, the bulb at the top of the room continuing to flash on and off, a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. It showed bones, strewed around the room, and papers. Some yellowed like the ones still on her desk; some white as snow, brand new. They all floated around the room as if suspended by wind, but there was no wind.

In one corner lay Orwell, breathing heavily, crumpled up in a corner, not noticing her, only staring at the opposite corner.

In the other corner was the monster. Fully formed now, vapors coming off of it like a mirage, the monster was teeth and fangs and claws and muscle and terror. It grabbed wildly at the papers floating around the room, eating them, one by one. So lost in its’ devouring of words that it did not even see her.

There were journals, and envelopes, and books scattered around the room with only spines remaining, no pages. The pages continued to swirl in some kind of vortex, with the monster grabbing at them as fast as he could eat them.

“Orwell.” Sarah finally mustered up the courage to whisper. “Come with me.”

Orwell’s gaze slowly drifted to her, his eyes glazed. “Oh Sarah. Hello there. It’s feeding time. You might come back later.” His head jerked back toward the monster, watching. She couldn’t decide if his nonchalance made the situation better or worse.

The monster paid her no mind, even as she stepped fully into the room, aiming pepper spray at it as if a weapon made from vegetables was somehow adequate defense against poetry-devouring monsters.

“You HAVE to come with me now, Orwell.” she said, her words aimed toward the old man, her eyes never leaving the opposite corner.

He shuffled his body a bit, his elbow resting lazily on a windowsill. “Can’t leave, Sarah. Have to take care of my friend.”

She was only angry now. “Old MAN we have to LEAVE. NOW.” she said, louder. The monster suddenly paused mid-bite, a page in its’ clawed hand, its’ dark smokey eyes looking her up and down, not as a threat but worse; as a possible snack.

Orwell suddenly rose to his feet, aware that the monster was deciding whether to finish its’ current meal or devour a new one.

“I think I’ll just stay here. You best get home now. For your own safety.” Orwell nodded toward the door.

“WHY, Orwell?” she eyed the pages suspended throughout the room, suddenly even angrier for reasons she didn’t expect. “WHY you letting it eat your work?!”

Orwell slumped back against the window, while the monster slowly munched a page. Sarah squinted to make sure she was seeing straight. The words were sliding off the paper and into the sharp mouth, some of the stray letters tumbling onto the ground. They evaporated on the shiny oak finish.

“He takes care of me.” Said Orwell finally, shrugging. “He protects me. Protects me against this cruel world. Never had any trouble, long as I lived here, all because of him.” He searched for more words to explain.

“And he loves my work,” he added. “Nobody...nobody could love my work as much as he does. He eats it every night. Loves every word. Says it keeps him alive. He gives me INSPIRATION, Sarah.”

She looked at him with great sorrow, wanting to rush in and drag him out, but afraid to make any sudden movements. 

The monster seemed almost to smile, making no movement toward the new invader, but instead glancing toward Orwell, plucking another page out of the air and stuffing it into into that huge mouth.

Orwell continued, feeling safer now that it seemed the monster wasn’t going to lunge. “I couldn’t write away from him anyway. If I picked up a pen outside this house… no ink I put down would ever be worth a damn.” He stood all the way up, trying to put as much conviction as he could into his words.

“He needs me. And I need him. I couldn’t handle it out there, Sarah. And he’d die without me. It’s the way it is. And I’m sorry you had to see….” He gestured wildly. “But it’s the way it is.”

She leaned back into the doorframe, shocked, exhausted, frustrated. “He is NOT your friend, Orwell. He is NOT taking care of you.” she eyed the man’s bony frame. “You have to leave. Can you do that, Orwell? Can you leave?”

The monster growled, his head moving slowly from Sarah to Orwell and back again.

Orwell suddenly appeared to Sarah as he truly was: a frail old man, taken advantage of, drained by years of abuse, ready to break.

“I’ve always had… always had HIM...I can’t….” Orwell seemed to be talking more to himself than anyone else. He whimpered softly. Sarah edged closer to Orwell. She was in the middle of the room now, the pages circling around her, the monster defensively holding his ground but not moving toward her or the old man.

“I know the world is hard, Orwell. I know it’s scary. But this...this THING... it is not protecting you like you think it is.” She was nearly to him now. “You are more important than him. You are more important than the work.” She startled herself now; the work was almost always seen as more important than the author in her world. “If you never write another word...that’s ok. Outside of this house…. You’ll be SAFE.”

Her hand now touched his shoulder, the monster sitting quietly, neither eating nor poised for attack, though its’ muscles still rippled. The pages floating around the room suddenly all sank to the floor.

Talons clicked on the floor, and claws scraped the wall. The monster wasn’t moving toward them, but it was certainly showing its’ dominance. Orwell slumped back, crying, knees drawn up to his chest. “This is all I know.” He said softly. “Don’t take him from me. He gets me by”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing, and it was then she realized why the monster wasn’t attacking; it didn’t have to. It had Orwell under its’ spell. That’s all it wanted, Orwell and the words he wrote, and she didn’t have enough power to shatter the arrangement.

“Oh Orwell….” she tried not to cry on the spot. “Please…”

He was sobbing now, and his sobs gave way to songs and growls, no longer human in nature, but the same as she’d heard this past week. The monster growled back, joining in the bizarre and disturbing ritual, while gathering up the papers under its’ talons, guarding them carefully, shoving them under its’ grotesque body.

“Orwell…” she backed away slowly. The monster ignored her now, focused only on the old man, and he focused only on it.

She knew now that he would not budge.

______________

Sarah sat in her new Manhattan apartment, 4:02AM, a stack of yellowed pages before her. She hadn’t gotten everything out of boxes yet, but she’d unpacked every page from a brown envelope, laid out not only over her desk but over every surface in her apartment, marking different pages with sticky notes, Evaluating what would go where when the anthology was published.

“In memory”, she typed on her computer. “Of Orwell Smotherton. A man who wrote to satisfy the demons that haunt us all.”