void()
Jul 11, 2009, 9:42 AM
It has been some time ago. I recall being asked for a story, though. Had an urge to scribble a bit this morning. Not much but BrotherJack, "yer welcome to read it so long as yepitktlonferus when I visit." Hopefully I'm not butchering Skosh, or you may understand it. If not, put us a kettle on when I visit. Tea or that damn Yank coffee is fine, even common tea. Meanwhile, please do read and enjoy this short story. Anyone else may read it as well. Comments & critiques are welcomed. But don't be offended or surprised if I do not reply to them. It's an odd habit of mine to let these birds go free. :)
_Brownstone on Seventh_
by Benjamin K. Badgley
Her dress was coarse, nearly burlap held up with spaghetti cords. Out
to the deck she went. No one seemed to notice her. Drinking glasses
clinked while ice cubes watered down cheap rum or vodka.
The house was built sometime in nineteen thirty-three. Everyone
contributed a unique signpost of history. It was a doctor's house.
Some doctor who used experimental treatments for patients unable to
speak or pay.
Word spread this doctor kept an animal locked in the surgery,
downstairs. It fed off amputated body parts, rattled the furnace
piping when hungered. Kids had gone in of evenings over the years and
were never seen again.
Night air makes fear tumble off like so much sackcloth. A gentle coo
matching a fresh smile, oil canvas of sunrise. Her name was Alicia.
The doctor treated her sister for a malady involving tummy aches.
Inside the din swelled and eddied as someone got a card game in the
works. Alicia watched the cards. "Doctor played with cards, too. Took
one into my sister's belly. Then took out part of her." She turned and
faced the road.
A blood soaked gown hung on the wrought iron fence. It only needed a
few steps, then nothing appeared on the fence. Alicia was heartbroken.
Lights came on from downstairs. Slit basement windows gleamed in the
night, cat's eyes. Rattle, bang, rattle.
The animal was hungry. Into the house I went. Alicia made the room
extremely cold. "You all need to leave. Stop laughing! My sister is
down there dying!" On cue the host of the party opened the basement
door. He had gone after more liquor.
Light revealed an empty concrete box at the end of the stairs. A four
inch round hole covered with an iron grate in the center of the floor
was a drain. No heating ducts were in sight. Alicia screamed and was
gone in a blinding flash.
Later the host revealed feeling much safer in the house. I never
returned in all these years. Newspaper clippings from the time
explained it quite well. Alicia had been under psychiatric care and
confined to that house, her own. Morbid hallucinations racked her mind
because of drinking.
It was a shame the Catholic church buried her as an unclean soul.
Burlap dresses were often given to the dead considered taken charge of
demons. Her drinking came from having lost a husband two years before.
The house, big as any mansion, drove her insane with its emptiness.
No one saw the lady wearing a coarse dress that night. She was a cross
bared for an old friend. Father Julius, who couldn't perform exorcisms
now, felt apologetic for her. But no one ever recalls her story. The
brownstone on seventh has always been a little different, is all. Many
are the stories found in its walls, thank you for letting me share
this one.
_Brownstone on Seventh_
by Benjamin K. Badgley
Her dress was coarse, nearly burlap held up with spaghetti cords. Out
to the deck she went. No one seemed to notice her. Drinking glasses
clinked while ice cubes watered down cheap rum or vodka.
The house was built sometime in nineteen thirty-three. Everyone
contributed a unique signpost of history. It was a doctor's house.
Some doctor who used experimental treatments for patients unable to
speak or pay.
Word spread this doctor kept an animal locked in the surgery,
downstairs. It fed off amputated body parts, rattled the furnace
piping when hungered. Kids had gone in of evenings over the years and
were never seen again.
Night air makes fear tumble off like so much sackcloth. A gentle coo
matching a fresh smile, oil canvas of sunrise. Her name was Alicia.
The doctor treated her sister for a malady involving tummy aches.
Inside the din swelled and eddied as someone got a card game in the
works. Alicia watched the cards. "Doctor played with cards, too. Took
one into my sister's belly. Then took out part of her." She turned and
faced the road.
A blood soaked gown hung on the wrought iron fence. It only needed a
few steps, then nothing appeared on the fence. Alicia was heartbroken.
Lights came on from downstairs. Slit basement windows gleamed in the
night, cat's eyes. Rattle, bang, rattle.
The animal was hungry. Into the house I went. Alicia made the room
extremely cold. "You all need to leave. Stop laughing! My sister is
down there dying!" On cue the host of the party opened the basement
door. He had gone after more liquor.
Light revealed an empty concrete box at the end of the stairs. A four
inch round hole covered with an iron grate in the center of the floor
was a drain. No heating ducts were in sight. Alicia screamed and was
gone in a blinding flash.
Later the host revealed feeling much safer in the house. I never
returned in all these years. Newspaper clippings from the time
explained it quite well. Alicia had been under psychiatric care and
confined to that house, her own. Morbid hallucinations racked her mind
because of drinking.
It was a shame the Catholic church buried her as an unclean soul.
Burlap dresses were often given to the dead considered taken charge of
demons. Her drinking came from having lost a husband two years before.
The house, big as any mansion, drove her insane with its emptiness.
No one saw the lady wearing a coarse dress that night. She was a cross
bared for an old friend. Father Julius, who couldn't perform exorcisms
now, felt apologetic for her. But no one ever recalls her story. The
brownstone on seventh has always been a little different, is all. Many
are the stories found in its walls, thank you for letting me share
this one.