It’s How I Use It.

First, a small re-introduction for those unfamiliar with my visage.

I am Grim D. Reaper — Death is my middle name — reaping what Hollywood sows for MovieCrypt.com.

My friends call me Grim D. You do want to be my friend, don’t you? Don’t answer all at once…

As you’re probably aware (or are just finding out), I review films in my precious free time… and I prefer to stay busy. A media website isn’t the best place to discuss my day job, so your generous host Mr. Ranson has offered to provide a platform for me here on ThinkingSkull.com for the immediate future.

So: what shall we talk about? The afterlife? The human condition? Are souls inherently male or female? Is there a God? What really happened before my appointment in Samarra?

Maybe I’ll throw up a video every once in a while. I hear it’s what all the kids are doing these days.

If you have a suggestion, leave a comment.

~ Grim D.

“The Calling”

I could go into detail about the meal that followed, but I am reminded of omissions that must be exacted. To that end, allow me to sprinkle a few details from both before and after our impromptu supper.

Following my week-long stay at the infirmary and another two at home, the better part of a month had passed since Mr. ********* had fallen ill. My body needed rest but my mind did not, so I slept less than I should have. Confined to my quarters, I sifted through the finances left to me by my predecessor. It was clear he had no head for numbers, sitting on a horde of wealth and opportunity yet barely able to stay ahead of his creditors.

Amos agreed the calamari was an excellent starter.

After securing the computers, I researched day trading for stocks. In this modern age, it was all run by machines using programs that bought and sold for you, and I was exceedingly good at making predictions in money movement. I leveraged those early successes to pay off interest debts and free up credit, enabling larger investments to be made.

The seafood bisque was suitably rich and creamy. I was sorry only for ordering a cup instead of the bowl.

Staring into the ceiling at night, dreams escaped me… until after Eren’s touch at the Court of Food. In the nights that followed, my slumber drifted more into memory than a dream: a desolate place where nothing grew, the ground was as black stone and the sky devoid of stars. The sole source of illumination was a still pool of liquid — my pool, knowing of others nearby like myself. To us, there was no pain, no strife, and no existence, merely time without end.

I chose the pecan-encrusted mahi-mahi. Amos decided upon a platter of fried shrimp and catfish.

Our pools were windows into other places, worlds more interesting than the barren realm we occupied. The emotions of living beings could be sensed across the threshold, mortal entities heard and observed, a corporeal existence denied to ourselves. We were beings of power only able to yearn for pleasure and pain. We each searched for connection beyond the pool, seeking a being that could perceive us on a familiar wavelength, one who could be influenced and seduced.

Coffee and a slice of Florida Key Lime cheesecake are always good finishers.

Whenever one of us encountered such a being, we nurtured that relationship as either an inner voice or an invisible friend, hoping for a unique opportunity to present itself. In the instant a corporeal form was sufficiently weakened due to illness or damage, our dark spirit could displace the waning soul an instant before the being expired, allowing us to save it for ourselves. Whenever successful, our brethren would disappear as would their pool, as though we never were.

“Trust the process.” Eren’s words.

Call it possession, occupation, or merely displacement, it was an irresistible calling, and I knew I had done it many times… at least in my dreams.

When the server returned with the check for our meal that evening, I asked what payments they accepted. As she easily named them, I suggested to her in my mind that we were very important, and the meal should be complementary for those befitting our status, repeating it in my mind like a whisper into a lover’s ear. After a flustered moment, she excused herself to consult with her manager. I implanted the same thought into his head as he came to the table personally.

“Is there a problem?” I asked.

“Your money, as they say, is no good here. We’re happy to have you. Was there anything else?”

I gave Amos an earnest look of surprise. He looked worried but said nothing.

“Yes, if you please,” I replied. “Total the checks of everyone else dining here tonight and put the total on this.” I handed him a card, suggesting the idea it was a matter of pride to accept my offer.

“Very good, sir.”

It was my full intent to tip half the amount. It was the least I could do for my involuntary test subjects.

Amos leaned forward, speaking too loudly. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m no one of consequence… or to be trifled with.”

End Part One

Chapter 11 Coming Soon

Or start from the Beginning

. . .

“Conspiracy Theory”

“Shades!” Amos could barely contain himself. He had an easy smile projecting a sense of trust and genuine interest.

I climbed into the back of his taxi. “You approve of this look?”

“If you were a little grubbier, you could pass for a blind beggar.”

“I think I prefer ‘Professor.'”

“Duly noted. Home again, home again, jiggety-jig?”

As we left Baybrook Mall on the way back to Texas City, I began thinking through my encounter with Eren. With assurances I hadn’t been hallucinating, there was evidence of tampering in my back story. Amalthea called Amos, and Amos directed me to Eren; Amos was always nearby whenever I called, almost as if waiting for me. Even the neighbor across the street from my assumed residence might have been involved, and I was beginning to feel manipulated.

It was time to see what kind of influencer I could be.

“Amos,” I began, “how long have you known Amalthea?”

I was careful to sound casual about it as if it were an accepted fact, but Amos hesitated as I expected he might.

“Oh… you mean the nurse?”

I concentrated as I stared at him, imagining my own voice as his inner monologue. He already knows. Eren must have told him.

Amos let out the breath he was holding. “We go back a ways. She asked me how you were doing.”

“I’d probably still be sparring with my neurologist if it weren’t for her, so I owe her that.”

Then again, maybe not. As the drugs were wearing off back in the hospital, the final encounter with my neurologist’s shiny head might have been influenced by my will and not merely words. Could it be I had unwittingly compelled the doctor to sign my release?

I thought about the online maps from earlier. We weren’t that far from the water, which was my initial fascination with Kemah Boardwalk, but Galveston Island was just to the south.

“I need a change of scenery,” I told Amos without any influence. “I’d like to see the Gulf of Mexico today.”

“Are we cruising the seawall this evening?”

“Indeed we are.”

Detouring off the expressway onto Highway 3 and merging onto I-45 South, we drove to the end of the interstate past the quaint Old City Cemetery before crossing the island to the aptly named Seawall Boulevard. Amos turned left, heading east in the far right lane closest to the beach and minimizing an obstructed view.

I shuddered upon seeing it. The gulf might as well have been an ocean. Not the clearest waters, but the vastness of it captivated me. I had no recollection of swimming, but I felt drawn, wanting to be immersed or even drowned in it — a spiritual connection.

“You’re awfully quiet back there, Professor. Did you want to stop somewhere along here?”

“Is that an amusement park up ahead?”

I heard him chuckle; it was comforting. “The Pleasure Pier, if you’re into carnival rides.”

I caught a reflection in the side mirror of the low sun. “Turn around and drive west, please.”

The view heading toward sunset was better. Evening lights were coming on, contributing to the aforementioned carnival atmosphere. It’s noteworthy to mention there were people everywhere, but my mind disregarded them, as if Amos and I were the only ones there after some terrible apocalypse.

Ahead I saw a glass-front restaurant with a giant blue crab decoration on the rooftop like in an old monster movie; how could any tourist resist such a sight? “Let’s stop there. I’m famished.”

“Sure thing. Call me for a pick up when you’re done?”

“I’m afraid not, Amos. I’ve been dining alone for weeks, and I would enjoy the pleasure of your company. My treat, of course.”

Continue Reading In Chapter 10

Or start from the Beginning

. . .

“Touched In the Head”

“You’re serious?” I asked.

“As a coronary,” Eren answered.

The disheveled young man wearing a black apron over a red shirt behind the burger counter looked utterly bored. “May I take your order?”

I couldn’t believe I was doing this. “One French fry, please.” I tried sounding enthusiastic.

“Small, medium, or large?”

“No, just a single fry. One.”

He actually winced. “Um, we don’t sell them like that…”

“You may charge me the full price, but I only want one fry. A good one.”

Chin perched on folded hands over the counter and swaying like an eager child, Eren gazed up fondly at the menu before elbowing me when the cashier hadn’t moved.

“As fresh as possible with a dusting of salt,” I added. “Served in the large container.” I handed a payment card to him.

He pushed some buttons on his register. “Okay, anything else? What about your kid?”

Looking down suspiciously at Eren, words were being mouthed up at me in silence. Not a fig-ment.

I flashed a reassuring smile back to the cashier. “Just the fry, thank you.”

Seated at a table with our order, Eren fussed with the French fry, gazing happily at it but still waiting for… something.

“It’s getting cold,” I said. “Eat it.”

“Perfection takes time.” Eren blew slightly on the potato stick. “You have to wait until the oil dries up just enough to achieve maximum crispness.” Satisfied at last, the fry was consumed in a single bite, followed by an eternity of euphoric chewing.

I took the moment to press. “You never did tell me what you are.”

“A scamp is as good as anything else you might call me,” came the answer with a wink. “You’ll understand better once you come into your own. Trust the process. This isn’t the first time you’ve been reborn. And thank you.”

“For the French fry?”

“For the distraction.” The snack was swallowed at last. “Scavenger squirrels bore quite easily, even more than fry cooks.”

Secrets were not something one kept from scamps, apparently.

“Honesty is the best policy.” Eren grinned. “Ready for that aforementioned help, Professor Cultro?”

“It’s not going to hurt, is it?”

Faster than I could blink, a single finger was touched to my forehead.

It felt like being pushed off a cliff… and everything that comes after.

After the falling sensation ceased, I found myself in a reclined position. It felt comfortable at first, with panic setting it when I noticed the leather straps binding me in place. A room came into focus, followed by voices. The lights above me were blinding.

“He’s coming out of it… how did it wear off so quickly?” A man’s voice.

“We’re not ready yet. It isn’t taking. We’re losing him…” A different man, sounding less assured.

The voices originated from two men with faces out of focus, but the cut of their matching shirts and embroidered vests suggested what Eren had call The Roar. Next to me was an apparatus, glass tubing and metalwork of some kind, and my bound arm was pierced by a wire connected to this device. My sleeve was rolled up, and I could see I was dressed similarly to them, like part of a gentlemen’s club. Did we know each other? It all seemed familiar…

“Who is that? No one is supposed to be in here!”

One of the lights was knocked aside. I couldn’t make out the face, but the silhouette of a top hat and distinctive outline of a frock coat were visible. I felt cold metal pressed to my forehead, right where Eren had touched me.

“This will speed you on your way,” spoke a new voice, not near enough to my ear to sound like the gravelly whisper it was. “Until the next time around…”

A metallic click preceded the explosion that shattered my consciousness and cast me into watery darkness.

“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”

My eyes snapped open, but for an instant I couldn’t move.

Slumped in the chair, many of the same people Eren had stolen food from were all looking at me.

The big man, the one I warned Eren away from, was speaking. “Are you hurt?”

“Why would I be hurt?” I replied.

“You screamed.”

I glanced about as I tried to sit up. Eren and the fry container were gone. I looked toward the burger counter, but it wasn’t the same cashier as earlier. Had it ever been?

“I must have fallen asleep,” I said. “I had a nightmare, I think.”

“So, you’re good?”

I nodded, and people started to drift back to whatever they were doing before.

Sitting in quiet contemplation waiting for everyone to forget about me, I pondered my situation. When had I fallen asleep? Did I dream Eren up? A nightmare sounded preferable to a hallucination, but it had all seemed real, both the scamp and the memory. I couldn’t leave it alone without some sort of verification.

Hobbling back over to the burger counter, I never got the chance to ask my question.

“Hey, it’s one-fry guy!” the cashier’s familiar voice echoed from the kitchen area as he emerged. “Where’s your weird kid?”

Continue Reading In Chapter 9

Or start from the Beginning

. . .

“Bright Lights, Scamp City”

The Bay Square Drive sign over the road had seen better days, looking like it was melting off of the metal. It appeared Texas was as warm as I was led to believe.

Amos dropped me off at a large entrance, with doors that opened themselves for consumers. I’d seen as much on television, but what I didn’t expect to see a Sears sign looming overhead. I recalled the catalogue — Sears, Roebuck, & Co. — and here it was, a larger-than-life version I imagined filled with objects that could be held, purchased, and taken home.

Inside, I walked as far as I could before stopping to sit on any convenient bench when I grew tired. Amos was correct: elders were indeed making use of the indoor city, Everyone seemed to be in a hurry, and I was getting lapped. It was very bright — too bright — from the sun streaming through glass skylights to artificial lighting illuminating store fronts.

For those I supposed couldn’t afford a shop of their own, vendors took up the spaces between them like street carts in a Turkish bazaar. One sold eyewear in different colors, with so many styles and choices it was dizzying. One pair and style stood out to me, with lenses like black circles and very different from the modern angularity of other frames.

“Want to try those on?” a pleasant woman asked.

In the mirror she provided, I looked like Casey Stenge waiting for a pop-fly into the Dodgers’ outfield.

There was a discount for two pair, so I accepted, and wearing them took away the strain from my eyes. Why didn’t everyone wear these? The frivolity of goods and merchandise in this time were excessive but also individual, with myriad options with which to make up one’s own fashion.

The centralized Court of Food (not it’s name, but the amusement was there) was where people finally stopped, seated themselves, and dined with disposable cutlery. Every age, race, and class passed through the court, oblivious to anything outside of their individual little worlds. Talking on their telephones; stuffing their faces; ferrying shopping bags between establishments to buy more.

Dressed in gray clothes suitable for exercise while watching everything through dark lenses, I was wholly ignored, among them but not with them, the disconnection of a mere observer. My circumstance, however, was by no means unique.

I wouldn’t have even noticed the little scamp if they hadn’t moved.

A slight figure in oversized clothes, their chin was exposed from the cowl of a woven poncho with a red-gray Spanish motif, with their fingertips extending from loose sleeves. It fit more like a cloak down to their knees; have I mentioned how fascinating the textiles and colors are in this era? Sea-green bellbottomed leggings peeked out from beneath the poncho, too long and dragging behind closed-toe sandals.

What drew my attention was the person didn’t move like the child they could be mistaken for. There was no awkwardness or missed steps, only deliberate moves — like a dancer or a scavenging squirrel — and utterly silent. It was the periodic moments of stillness that held my eye, as if the person might disappear if I dared look away. The scamp was removing individual potato sticks to eat from the cartons from various diners, none of whom seemed aware of the obvious thefts.

A particularly large man — with seemingly two of everything in the court on the table in front of him — made the scamp hesitate, presumably weighing the risks of being caught. I imagined what someone’s head would feel like caught in the grip of the man’s enormous hands. Instead of the confident swipe from other victims, fingers moved with caution as a wry smile widened beneath the scamp’s cowl.

I wouldn’t do that, I thought, as if I could dissuade the act by will alone.

The scamp froze. The smile soured.

When I blinked, they vanished from my sight as though never having been.

For a moment, I began to reconsider my early release from the infirmary, wondering if the neurologist had been correct after all.

“How dare you influence me!” came the lilted voice from behind, almost in a giggle.

Turning to look, the scamp was perched atop a table, the cowl pulled back. A smooth youthful face was framed with sandy pixie-like hair, but I couldn’t decide if they were a boy or a girl… or a child at all. Mischievous eyes sized me up, perhaps deciding what kind of threat I was. I said nothing and waited.

The wry smile returned. “Dude, turn down the surface thoughts. Think in lowercase. It’s like you’re screaming at me. Is this seat taken?” The androgynous scamp plopped down onto the bench next to me.

I grew more certain I had lost my mind. “What shall I call you?”

“Aaron,” came the reply. Or had it been “Erin?”

I chose not to ask the obvious question.

“Fun, right? They have a great word for it here: ‘fluid.'” There was a waiving hand gesture to go with the term. “I’ll go easy on you today, not-so great old one: I’m leaning feminine, but I reserve the right to change my mind on a whim. I mean, shouldn’t everyone?”

“Spell it for me, if you please. Your name.”

“Gasp! You’ve tricked me.” The giggle again. “It’s E-R-E-N. Does that settle it for you?”

“It will do, Eren. Now, what are you?”

Eren leaned back, reassessing. “Oh wow. You’re still working it out, huh? Lucky I found you this soon so I can get on your good side. How long’s it been this time?”

“How long’s what been?”

Those mischievous eyes took on a curious expression. “What do you remember? What’s clouding your thoughts and trying to poke through?”

I was about to describe my patchwork of interests, but Eren appeared to be seeing whatever popped into my head, even looking overwhelmed by it. As an obvious figment of my imagination, it never struck me odd Eren could read my thoughts or move without me seeing, but it did bother me someone might take notice of me talking to myself.

“The Roar!” Eren leaned back onto the bench with outstretched arms and closed eyes, drawing in a deep breath in fond recollection. “A time when we were whispered about as part of the natural order, not cast out onto the fringe or viewed as bad omens.” Eren turned and fixed me with a stern look. “And I take offense to being thought of as imaginary. What if I said I made you up? How would you feel? Jerk influencer…”

“You say that like it’s a title.”

“It’s what you are.” That unblinking stare again. “Have you even picked a name yet?”

I hadn’t.

“You have. You’ve already answered to it… Professor.”

“‘Professor’ isn’t a name; it’s a title.”

Erin smiled wide and leaned in close. “In your case, it’s a prefix. ‘Professor Tenebris Cultro,’ the soon-to-be influencer of all things terrestrial… once you come into your own. I can help you with that, if you want.”

“Out of the goodness of your heart?”

“What heart? It’s gonna cost ya, dude.”

Continue reading In Chapter 8

Or start from the Beginning

. . .

“Letting Sleeping Beasts Lie”

It had taken over two weeks to gain the strength, but at last I could walk — albeit slowly — without the accursed walker. Among the things stored in one of the back rooms was a crook-end cane, and I was happy to learn I could get along with it and speedier as well. Being an incidental dewdropper, I wanted to do some walking outside of the house, away from neighboring eyes and in a place with something to see.

Fortunately, a means of conveyance was just outside my front door.

A glossy sign glued onto the back of the squat orange car declared it “The Beast.” I couldn’t have agreed more, but what interested me was the freedom to go anywhere I chose. In my recollection, motor cars had outgrown the imitation of the carriages they were replacing. The more I thought about sleek styling, spoked wheels, and glass-with-gold accents, the more pathetic The Beast looked: a modern Tin Lizzie. No, the word I’d read for these colorful polymers was plastic, so a Plastic Lizzie, then.

I had a try at it. With instructions from my telephone research, I identified the correct key for The Beast. Place your key in the ignition. Your ignition will be located to the right of your steering wheel, just behind it. Done. Turn the key all the way to start the engine. There was a click and a cranking sound just before the engine came alive; the successful self-sustained combustion of the engine jarred me into releasing the key, allowing it to slip back into the “run” position. Why did I think it would have been more complicated than that? Of course, the vehicle was pointed in the wrong direction…

After an hour of trying pedals and figuring out the shifter while still not moving, it became clear I needed instruction. I might have possessed a license to drive, but I had either lost the skill or was thinking too hard about the task at hand. The Beast’s incessant dinging mocked my ignorance every time the key was inserted, before or even after starting it correctly. What did it want from me?! Using my right leg to push pedals instead of walking also caused it to ache — something else I wasn’t used to — so that was enough of that.

A quick telephone search of “places to walk” suggested a helpful near me and provided a map — all the information in the world, just for the asking. There was a place north of here called Kemah Boardwalk, so I reached out to Amos.

“You don’t wanna go there in the summer,” Amos explained after I climbed into the back of his taxi. “Too crowded, too hot out, and too expensive.”

Disappointing. “I require a locale to walk comfortably for a few hours and sit whenever I need to, preferably with things to look at while stretching my legs. I seek a recommendation.”

Amos chuckled. “You sound like a damn college professor. Extra wordy, y’know?”

“Noted.” His assessment was out of line, but it wasn’t wrong. “Your recommendation, then?”

“Baybrook, probably.”

“Is that in a different city?” All these Texas towns seemed to run together.

“It’s a mall up in Webster, about half an hour from here.”

“What’s in there?” I wasn’t familiar with the term, and my inflection on the last word gave me away.

“Stores and restaurants, lots of ’em. Old folks walk laps inside for exercise out of the heat and rain.” Amos turned toward me from the driver’s seat with an eye of suspicion. “You’ve never been in a mall? Where’re you from?”

“New York,” I answered without thinking. I wasn’t sure why I had said it, and I wondered if it were true.

“Guess it’d be different up there.” He eyed me through the rearview mirror. “We’re going to the mall, then?”

“We are,” I nodded.

“You got it, Professor. And I’ll even drive past your favorite hospital so you can give ’em a one-finger salute — no extra charge.”

Continue Reading In Chapter 7

Or start from the Beginning

. . .

“Forensic Homesteading”

My wake-up call was a thunderclap.

I had fallen asleep last night on a tattered couch depicting wilderness scenes of game animals… the same couch I assumed Mr. ********* was discovered unconscious upon before transport to the hospital. Being daytime, the path taken by the medics from the front door to the couch was revealed, with furniture and such moved to permit a gurney across the room.

The sound of rain pouring off the roof like a waterfall was viewable out the windows. Daylight revealed the disarray of the combined dining, kitchen, and living areas, all in desperate need of housekeeping. There was a hallway into additional rooms which thankfully included a bathroom.

It would do for a start, and I had much to learn.

Getting around was going to take time. The longer I wasn’t using my legs, the more numb they felt, so I needed to find excuses to move… which meant using the walker. After managing to pick up everything that looked like rubbish into a waste can, I used the cocktail table for organizing my medications and routine, all documented upon a handy legal pad. Using a slender translucent ink pen with no obvious means (or need, apparently) to refill it was nothing less than a marvel.

Not that the story need be long, but suffice it to say I understood my predicament. Convincing the hospital staff I wasn’t enduring a crisis of identity was simple enough, but Mr. ********* must have had a profession, some responsibilities, or at the very least a source of income. This house, by my estimate, was too much for one individual, and a casual look through a hallway and shelves of photo frames suggested my predecessor had inherited a family home and certainly lived alone.

I had no desire to know him, but I might have to convince others that I am him… at least for the moment.

To that end, there was a need to inventory the home: every shelf, every box, and every corner. All of it would be sorted into what to keep, what was to go, and anything questionable in between that may require more specific attention.

It was going to take some time, I had no idea how much time I had, and my new world was brimming with fresh distractions.

For example: my mobile telephone — which resembled a plain cigarette case but housed a miniaturized Babbage Engine capable of miraculous things — mostly worked by touching words or symbols appearing upon the glass surface. My predecessor’s fingerprint could also act to verify and initiate capabilities, but so far I had enjoyed accepting incoming calls and using the speaker option to converse as though in the same room.

A minor observation: touching things that interested me on the telephone delivered additional content, yet the television in the home did not. It seemed inefficient unless one considers the effort of going to the screen to do so. Advertisements often mention convenience, but I fear they are mistranslating idleness. Then again, perhaps the television I’d inherited might not be the newest model including such features.

In any event, the primary function of the modern telephone appeared to be finding buyers and pitching sales. So far I had been offered vehicle warranties, the ability to pay off my tax debts, requests to support local politicians and who I should cast a ballot for, and I had won all manner of things as long as I provided financial information beforehand. It was odd hearing the varying inflections of the English language spoken by operators from around the world — I would often ask where someone was calling from — and this device didn’t even need a wire. Something else I learned quickly is these individuals don’t enjoy questions or engaging in conversation deviating from their intent, and it was immensely satisfying whenever my caller touched their red “end call” symbol before I did.

Maybe it was meant to all be a game, so of course I started keeping score… and I won quite often.

One of the back rooms was an unkempt office, full of useful papers and other accounts. In addition, I discovered what I later learned was a laptop computer, with a larger picture frame than my telephone but with a mechanical typewriter as a means to enter information. For things that I couldn’t remember ever having encountered prior, it wasn’t lost upon me they were too easily figured out. I intuitively understood the layout of the keys but could recall no training or practice in typing — or being a secretary — so something of my former self carried forward in my mind. It was the only explanation for how fast I was learning to navigate the world and this life.

Did that indicate my memories of being someone else could return… and the me I knew be forgotten?

Continue Reading In Chapter 6

Or start from the Beginning

. . .

“Tu Casa Es Mi Casa”

Waking up inside a hospital with no memory of how you got there makes for an interesting adventure when you’re leaving it behind — more so when multiplied by a century.

I was somewhere in southern Texas, near Galveston according to my driver, a place creatively called “Texas City,” of all things. To my disappointment, I saw neither an abundance of cactuses nor oil wells, but there were plenty of elevated cement roadways and all manner of vehicles to occupy them — fast, too. I couldn’t dwell on any one thing for long. There would be time for that soon enough.

Four lanes merged into two as the roadways narrowed, the traffic dwindled, and the buildings grew farther apart. The evening sky was growing dark by the time we arrived, stopping at a neglected fence line surrounding an overgrown plot of land, maybe a couple of acres in size. The only source of light for the mysterious single-story home was one of the same too-bright electric lamps stretched out from their wooden poles along all of the other roadways. The back end of a small hideous-orange car was visible at the farthest edge of where the light could reach.

“This is it,” the driver said.

It certainly was. A casual glance around suggested my nearest neighbors across the street groomed their properties far more diligently and kept their dwellings in better repair than my predecessor. Were my finances destitute?

“It’s twenty-nine fifty. I’ll get your walker out of the back.”

Did he mean dollars and cents? For a ride in a ten cent box? Dining out for a month shouldn’t cost that unless it was catered at an upscale hotel. And who was my walker?

There were enough bills in the wallet to cover the expense plus a bit more, but it was seeing the aforementioned walker that was a source of distress: the two-handed foldable metallic crutch intended to afford some freedom of movement to me was similar to the one I tried with the physical therapist. Amalthea must have arranged for it… and all without mentioning it to me. I intended to be free of the accursed apparatus as soon as mortally possible.

“Do you need help up to the house? Looks like a heck of a walk from the gate.”

“I’m perfectly fine, but my thanks for your assistance.”

After hastily leaving me a card with his business details, the driver departed for another fare. His name was Amos, no doubt named for the third of the Twelve Minor Prophets.

A set of keys among my belongings included a small one fitting the front gate. There was a hushed sound that droned over the area, not unlike distant roadway traffic, while the barking of a lone canine came from a few houses over. While fumbling with the oversized lock, I noticed a silhouette in my neighbor’s window.

I was being watched.

My world had grown empty and silent on a dark street devoid of life, and my residence presented the least-friendly appearance in the neighborhood.

I smiled in the direction of my watcher.

Yes, I was curious about who lived here, too.

Continue Reading In Chapter 5

Or start from the Beginning

. . .