Chapter 3—Reasonings of a Man

There was another knock, well not so much as a knock, as a string of unending knocks.

I walked stiff-legged to the front door.

The pipe was still warm.

I’d seen the old man smoking before, standing in front of his home, waiting on a package to be delivered late at night. The pipe belonged to him – Mrs. Shoeman would attest to it, and so would Mr. Rogers, and several other neighbors. And that sound I heard earlier was probably him.

I opened the front door. “Mr. Decker.”

He was standing there with a letter in his hand. “Mr. Stockhelm.”

“Call me Luc.” I lowered my eyes, looking at the letter.

“In some societies, shutting a door on a person before their conversation had concluded is considered rude.” He handed the letter to me.

I shrugged, “I suppose you’re correct,” and moved the lamp closer to him, slid the pipe into my pocket, then snatched the letter from his hand. I sorted through my cascading thoughts as to why he was here and why he left his pipe again. It hadn’t appeared on its own. I’d heard Mr. Rogers running out his house yelling for Mr. Decker to stop leaving his pipe on his front doorstep or he might crush it with his foot the next time. My neighbor assuredly did not get the message his annoyed neighbors were sending.

“Could this have waited until morning?”

The night sky lingered behind Decker.

He shrugged. “I found that letter in my mailbox. Delivered to the wrong address, I suppose.”

“Odd.” I inspected the address on the front of the letter. It was correct. “Teddy Shills has this route. Man’s impeccable. He’s timely, and over several years I’ve never heard of him delivering mail to the wrong address.” I examined the letter more closely. It was postmarked and canceled.

“You have the address correct,” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry, I was talking to the letter.” I passed the letter to my hand that held the lamp, keeping it between my fingers and away from the heat.

The pipe was warm—I stressed to myself.

I carefully slipped my hand into my pocket and withdrew the pipe.I couldn’t stop thinking about it. He’d left it in my sitting room. Was it out in the open inadvertently? Or was it to be obvious? Usually, I found it on my porch, to the right. One time I found it in my kitchen when Decker appeared in his timely quarter year visits. I’d let him inside for a moment, and there I’d found it next to the sink after he’d left my home. I was holding the pipe out for Decker to plainly see.

“My pipe,” Decker said.

I cocked my head to one side, examining him while my brow scrunched.

“Your door was open, and I came in to see if everything was all right.” He held out his hand.

I went to place the pipe into Decker’s hand but withdrew immediately. “What were you doing first?”

He looked a bit perturbed.

“Nothing.”

He reached again for the pipe, but I wouldn’t hand it over. “Not until you answer.”

Decker’s lips curled back, and then he spoke in a disgruntled tone. “The door was open.”

 “And you came inside because you were concerned?”

“Yes.”

I handed Decker his pipe. “Where’d you get the pipe?” I turned away and headed back into my front room, letter in hand. “Are you coming?” I said over my shoulder, limping along.

“I bought it coming back from Indianapolis,” he said, still in the doorway.

I heard him shut the door, his footsteps behind me as I made my way to my chair, sat, then waited for Decker to come around and sit in the chair adjacent to me.

I brought the envelope to my lap, feeling the thin paper between the pads of my fingers. There was more going on here with Decker, I just hadn’t figured it out was all. I watched and listened closely.

Mr. Decker was a strange old bird. I never saw anyone visit during the day, only those who came at night. Sometimes late in the night. There might be several of them, but I never thought them to be his friends, rather more acquaintances because they never stayed long. I did look out my window from time to time, suspicious of my neighbor’s dealings. We all should know who we live beside. Though in my case, I struggled.

Are they the kind you want to live next door to? Or are they the kind you want to veer clear of, or even possibly sell your property and move to a different state. I wasn’t sure if Decker was that sort of neighbor, but someone who comes into your home uninvited will make you wonder if additional security on the doors and windows is required.

I looked over at Decker and placed the letter on the table between us, then got up and walked to the table against the wall to my right where I kept my bourbon and glasses. I was tapping the side of my leg with my finger, thinking Mr. Decker had never called for me. He’d never come to the cellar door. A concerned citizen would have done those things at least. I went to pick up a glass and noticed one of them was slightly out of position, to the right maybe five inches. I usually kept the glasses paired next to each other, nearly touching. I tilted my head to the side, still wondering if I had misplaced it, but I couldn’t recall.

I let out my breath, then opened a bottle and poured the brown liquid into a tumbler. “Would you like one?”

“No, thank you.” His voice had a hint of northern, less twang in his enunciation than some locals. The dialect in New Cross was a mix of southern and northern. Decker’s voice was crisp, I’d say. Or maybe his accent was from somewhere else? It could be. He obviously traveled, being his pipe came from Indianapolis.

I finished pouring, placed the bottle on the table, and walked back to my chair.

“Has the weather treated you well?” I said to keep my neighbor occupied.

“Not really. It’s too cold on the road, not good for my aging body. Might snow tonight, but better than the rain that’s made the roads tough to travel.”

I sat and took a drink, thinking of how I might get him to tell me what he’d been doing.

“Yes, well, it is that time of year. Rain, snow, sometimes a little of both.”

“Fickle she is – never a day without mother nature changing her mind.”

The light was low, his face captured in shadows, making him almost unrecognizable.

“What news is there in the city?” More small talk. I wasn’t interested in small talk. I was interested in why my neighbor had come into my home.

“Heard the morgue is to be moved from the inner part of the city to the outer area.” He put his finger to his temple. “Actually, not far from here, past the cemetery.”

“Truly?” I went into my thoughts, but not about the morgue. I could not have cared less about where the city kept their dead so long as it wasn’t near my home.

Did I leave my door open? I tapped the side of the glass with my pinky.

“Well, I suppose they must have it somewhere,” I said.

I placed my glass on the table, adjusted my body in the chair to get more comfortable. “Did you move this drinking glass when you let yourself inside?”

I reached for the letter and opener to give Decker more time to tell me why he really came into my home. As I slid the letter opener inside the flap of the envelope, it made a rasping noise as it moved across with ease.

I skimmed over the letter, not really trying to read it but rather trying to be patient with the old man, to give him a chance to speak, but then my eye caught an unnerving phrase of words.

I scanned the words to make sense of them.

I laughed quietly to myself, though my laughter was cut away as I finished the letter. The words were sinking into my mind.

“Final reprimand?” I said. “For what?”

“A little trouble?” I heard Decker’s voice, and it held a hint of satisfaction, or maybe it was me putting it there after realizing I’d spoken out loud.

“What is this?” I looked at Decker. “Do you know anything about this?” I knew I was irrational; he knew nothing. Though he did know why he’d come into my home. I’d almost forgotten, and I had grown tired of playing this game. It was better to put this to rest and have it out.

I wadded up the letter and threw it across the room. “Thomas Fickle can go throw himself in the river,” I muttered through clenched teeth.

“Who’s Thomas Fickle?” Decker said.

I had to think a moment before I responded. “He’s the short little, hair loosing, bald postmaster.” Just thinking of the man sent jarring pulses through my body.

 “And you, Mr. Decker. What do you have to say?”

Decker cleared his throat. “I have no idea what is in that letter.”

“No. But you did enter my home, came into my sitting room and left when you heard me coming up the cellar stairs. When you got outside, you waited knowing you’d left your pipe. You’d taken one of my bourbon glasses, placed it on the floor to listen to what I was doing in the cellar. And then you had my letter, and maybe you thought to use it to get back into my home so you could easily retrieve the pipe without my noticing. Am I right, Mr. Decker?”

Chapter 2—Ten O’clock

I was stumbling around in my cellar and trying to locate my terrible excuse of a lamp in pitch black. On my way, I’d tripped on the lamp under my feet, scrambled to keep my balance as I fell forward. Down I went, my knee finding a sharp rock that waited for me to careen into it. It hurt… oh did it hurt.

I ran my hand down my agitated leg and onto the ground where I found the responsible stone. I tossed it to the side and heard it ping off the wall.

“Come on, Luc, you’ a child,” I said, pulling myself out of this little stupor.

I took in a deep breath and held it. I let it out slowly. I used my fingers to probe the injury and found it was only bruised. No tear in the fabric, no moisture either. It meant the skin wasn’t broken, the damage not serious.

I felt around for the lantern. A real bargain this lamp. I got it at a local shop, marked down to two dollars, a rebuild no one wanted. I was the unfortunate one to purchase it. It worked; it just burned too much kerosene, because the wicks were rounded, and they tended to soak up a lot of the fuel, and it caused the lantern to burn a bit hot.

I didn’t need to light up the house. Gas lighting was expensive—if I wanted to light my home during the night before bed, it would cost nearly eight dollars a month. I didn’t need to spend that kind of money. It was just me in the house. Even if I wanted to spend the money, it would cost me nearly a quarter of what I earned. I got $1.50–$2.00 per day delivering the mail. How much per day depended on how many hours I worked. If my time was under sixty hours for the week, the pay defaulted to the lesser amount. I don’t know how my coworkers did it—a wife, kids, and the neighbor kids coming over and drinking all the fresh milk.

Not me—I didn’t need those problems. I had different problems—like letting money slip through my fingers just to get out of the house. I got tired of being cooped up at night even though I was out walking all day, and hunting was out of the question. The normal places I’d go were the bar, and saloons, mainly off Vine and Fifth. I’d go out after work, get a drink, eat, listen to music, then come back home and repeat. Life was a carousel, and round and round it went, and nobody got off unless you died. Maybe not even then.

Oh, I liked to gamble too—did I mention?

I liked to bet on fights, sometimes I play poker, but I prefer betting on fights. Because I know how to fight, and I think I know how to pick a winner, it rarely turns out that way.  They’re always throwing fights, I can’t get a break. I know. I’ve got nothing to show for all my years.

There I go again—thinking about things. I tend to do that—just go off to a different place. It’s the thought—I think, and therefore I must follow it. Where it goes, I go. I don’t understand it, and at times gives me problems. Like when I bought this rebuilt lamp. I should have paid closer attention to what the salesman said, but I didn’t. I heard him say it worked, but that was it. Though looking back, because we all know hindsight is twenty-twenty, I might have done better to get a newer lamp, one with a larger reservoir. I wouldn’t be here in the dark acting like a child who scraped his knee and is waiting on his mommy to come and make it better.

I hate being injured. I was used to being hit, but not in the knee. As a boxer, our knees are a must for moving and hitting.

I breathed out slowly and directed my voice toward the lantern. “I could replace you. Maybe get one of those newer, sexier models showing off their lustrous shine and curvaceous glass tops. I could go out, browse the store, try them out, see how they feel in my hands. Once I found the right fit, I’d bring her home, and you’d be out the door.” I snapped my fingers, then lowered my head. “My luck, I would be throwing away my money on something that’s as faulty as you.”

I imagined the lantern saying, “you’re too cheap to replace me.” I chuckled to myself.

I moved toward the direction of the lantern, groping around in the dark. My hand outstretched, I felt the glass, then reached for the base and singed my fingers on the hot metal. I jerked my hand away from the lantern, then pushed my offending middle finger into my mouth for a moment. “Are you getting back at me?” I whispered, then located the lantern, and was careful not to touch its hot metal edges.

“Hey, I was only teasing about replacing you.” I smiled at my own witticism.  I then raised my voice to a falsetto “That’s what you get, Luc, when you play with fire.”.

I heard a sound upstairs. Not that odd actually, for this house had many sounds in it. The boards liked to creak, especially the ones that led to the upstairs bedrooms. The mice made those scratching sounds when they scurried across the floor, but this was a different sound. It resembled a faint scraping across wood, like someone was shuffling along, stopping, then shuffling again. I needed to go investigate, but first I needed to get out of this dark cellar.

“Now to find my way out without further injury.”

I tried to use my memory, thinking of the ground and how far I’d walked from the stairs to the wall. But instead of making a guess, I pressed my back against the wall. I knew the room was over twelve feet in length, and if I used my feet, give or take an inch, I’d land directly in front of the stairs.

I stepped out, counting aloud. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen…” and “ouch.” I stubbed my toe on the bottom step.

“Do you see what you made me do?” Of course, I knew the stairs would not answer, but I hadn’t miscalculated my steps. Or had I? Perhaps my feet had grown smaller.

I probed the staircase using the tip of my foot to locate the step in front of me. Comfortable after finding it, I eased forward one foot at a time, making sure to neither overstep and stub my toe again or under step and miss entirely. Up the stairs, I went, where I stopped at the top of the staircase, completely in the dark.

I listened for any more movement, but I didn’t hear anything. Maybe it was my imagination or a large rat. That must be it. Nothing to worry about in this noisy old house.

I reverted to my memory, strolling past the washroom toward the kitchen. I immediately walked straight into the table, banging it with my hip.

“You’re not supposed to be there.” I felt with my hands, and made my way around the table, shifting a chair as I redirected to the kitchen counter. “I’d do better to get myself a miner’s lamp.” Those lamps worked well—they used calcium carbide and water to produce the gas used by a light affixed to the miner’s cap.

I inched my way closer to where I thought the counter might be, keeping at a slower pace so as not to run into it. Each step I took, I thought I might bump into it, edging closer and closer fearing that I might hit the counter and then I did. Using my hand along its edge, I searched for the kerosene oil.

“I know I left you here.” Along the counter I slowly ran my fingers, feeling the smooth surface, then finding a few rough patches. “A good wax is all you need.”

I felt around more, finding, after a little exploratory touching, the coffee pot – the can of kerosene should be close.

I continued searching, feeling about the counter until I’d located it. “There you are.” The tips of my fingers touched the cool outer skin of the kerosene can. Carefully I removed the top of the lamp, exposing its reservoir. The stout fumes entered the air and filled my nose. I placed the lamp’s head onto the counter, mindful of the heated metal. Next, I poured the oil into the lamp. The liquid forced out gulps of air. When the lamp grew heavy, I stopped, capped the oil, and gingerly placed the can on the counter.

I set the lamp beside it, took out a match from my pocket, and struck it against the back of the matchbox. “Let there be light.” The flame illuminated the counter, sulfur permeated the air. I lifted the cover and quickly lit the wick, then placed the glass globe over the flame.

“All happy now?” I put out the match and patted the side of the lantern. “Of course, you are.”

Off to my right was my square table, covered in an off-white cloth sustained from many years of use, but washed once per week, and surrounded by four wooden chairs. One was shifted out of place from when I had impacted the table earlier. I held the lamp high, and it cast dancing shadows toward the front door to my left. I lowered the lamp and then walked past my cast-iron stove, its flume ascending several feet and bent at ninety degrees into the wall.

The floor creaked under my weight as I moved through the kitchen and toward the sitting room. Passing the front door on my right, I walked another six feet and stopped in front of the stairs that led to the bedrooms. I straightened my arm, raising it high, letting the lamp’s light fall onto the staircase. The shadows flickered, and I turned my ear in the direction of the stairs. I listened to the telltale sounds of the upper hallway. The boards’ creaks are unmistakable and loud. I lowered my arm and continued into the sitting room.

The light from the lamp pierced the dark, driving it back. On my right was my heavy bag for my boxing sessions and my head bag for quick movements to keep my reflexes in top condition. I rotated to the left, the light casting more shadows, this time on a painting of a colonial settlement with men in their suits and women in their Sunday dresses walking a dirt road that led to a white church on a hilltop. Under it was my bourbon table stocked with two bottles and four glasses.

I caught the scent of tobacco. I don’t use tobacco. Someone was here or had been. I continued to scan the room, casting the light over my two cherry-wood sitting chairs with emerald green fabric. Between them was a waist-high table. I continued to rotate to the right, bringing the light to a stop at the fireplace.

I didn’t know what I was searching for – or who.

A knock came from the front door.

I swung about, then caught sight of something to my right. Something I’d missed on the table when I first looked in the room. On my sitting table sat a pipe. I picked it up. Still warm. I smelled it. The scent of burned tobacco was recent.

Looking at the pipe. “Where did you come from?”

The knock came again.

I looked at the door and then looked closer at the pipe. “Has that old man been inside my house?”

I hurried into the hall, past the stairs, and into the foyer. The light flashed over the solid, sturdy oak door.

Again knocking.

I turned my head toward the door, then looked at the pipe. “Has it been three months already?” I muttered.

Chapter 1—Headline

GHASTLY DISCOVERY

A worried crowd gathered in the street on the northeast side assembling strength, and prayer. The hush voices and their disquieted demeanor brought with it an eerie calmness.

A disemboweled torso, charred, its limbs lopped off, and its head missing was discovered late last night. Several detectives viewed the body before it was taken to the morgue for further review and are questioning all witnesses and those in the local area.

Detective Kelly made a statement: “This is the second such case of its kind since September 13. We are searching for the person or persons responsible. We are also searching for missing persons. Any information the public may have in their possession are encouraged to come forward and report it to the police department.”
The victim of this heinous crime has yet to be identified, but rest assure families are looking out for their loved ones a little closer tonight.

H. Riddley

Disgusting I thought. “Who would do such a thing?”

I didn’t know I would find out the answer.

I was resting in my chair, reading the paper, and neglecting to take my stores, the food I’d bought, into the cellar, for several hours mind you.  I took a small sip of bourbon and laid the paper on the table next to me.
            I was distracted from my thoughts by a knock at the door.

I looked at my clock, it was ten.

Who was at my door this time of night?

In an effort, I rose with a gruff, straightened my legs, and stretched the muscles feeling their relief from hours of walking. Taking the lamp from the small table next to me I strode to the front door. I let out a sigh just as there was another knock, and in an agitated state flung the heavy door open, letting in the cool air of winter. I stood rigid, my chin up, and I forced my shoulders to relax.

“Mr. Decker,” I said.

“Mr. Stockhelm.”

“Call me Luc.”

He didn’t respond.

“And I’ll call you Horatio.” I gave him a short smile.

“It’s Decker.”

“So your name is Decker, Decker?”

He just looked at me.

There we stood, two difficult people, trying to be more difficult than the other.   Myself in my flannel nightwear, a day’s growth on my chin, and bags drooping under my eyes. My neighbor in a dark coat, gray beard and hair, nearly my height of six feet and wearing a pair of spectacles. Bothering his neighbors was a habit of his – at least twice a month, coming over at night unannounced, and something I was not particularly fond of, but yet, here he was again.

I studied him, those scuffed brown shoes he wore, his dark overcoat, his spectacles gleaming in the lamp’s light.

“May I help you?”

He still didn’t respond.

Holding the lamp to see him better, I saw not one emotion pass over his features. My shoulders tensed. I nudged the door gently, back and forth, wondering when my neighbor was going to speak. He must have known that I was about to close the door because he broke his silence.

“Is everything well this evening?”

 “Yes, everything is well. Thank you.”

I shut the door, concluding the brief visit, leaving him on my front porch.  

I listened, wondering if he were going to knock again, but he had not. I heard footfalls moving away. I let out my breath. And now since I was up, and about I could get on with taking my stores into the cellar. It wouldn’t take long. I didn’t need to report for work at the post office until eight.

I’d bought five pounds of potatoes and six heads of cabbage from the local market. It was the last bunch for the year. I was lucky to find them—the cabbage was a little on the smaller side.

I needed to bury the potatoes in a bucket of sand and then watch for sprouting. If I found any, all I’d need to do is break the stems off.

The cabbages, I’d cut the heads and wrap those in outer leaves to keep them from wilting. I would need to also pack them in a barrel.

I could have bought my own meat and dried it, but I didn’t. It was the time that it took out of my day, mostly my nights since I worked all day. When I got home, I didn’t want to spend time doing more work. I was interested in exploring the nearby forest, and scouting out places for my next deer hunt. After I bagged a deer, I’d take it to a local butcher shop. That’s how I did it.

My mother could dry meats like no other in Virginia. She was great at it, but for me, it was a chore. I’d learned the steps—how to prepare, clean, salt, and cure the meat. I just didn’t want to do it, and I could still hear my mother getting after me about it.

That’s why I went out of my way to buy a few things to keep around the house. My mother, she would tell me that if I didn’t learn to take care of myself, I wouldn’t be able to take care of anyone else. And I would always tell her not to worry because I would marry a wonderful lady and I wouldn’t need to look after anyone. I got snapped a time or two with a wet towel in my mother’s kitchen over that remark.

In my attempt to keep the house in order, my mother’s tradition, I ambled down into the cellar carrying a small burlap bag stuffed with potatoes and prepared cabbages. I came down here often, but on this night when I’d gone to the bottom stair of the cellar and was standing there with the bag in my right hand, my untrustworthy lantern in my left, I felt a draft.

I felt a draft.

Cellars don’t have drafts.

I knew that everyone knew that, but I felt it all the same.

I stood in its direct path, and I could feel the air, how it moved from the cellar going up the stairwell. 

That was how it felt.

I was in the path of air rising.

The question was, where was it coming from?

I could think of no reasonable explanation for flowing air to be coming from my cellar. It wasn’t possible. It shouldn’t be possible.

 Maybe there was a crack, maybe the foundation was coming loose, which is a miner’s worst nightmare. No one wants to be trapped in a pile of rubble, but I knew the cellar wasn’t going to cave in. I’d been in that cellar enough times. The structure was sound, built with sturdy beams. The room had been excavated to the depth of eight by twelve feet. Off to my left were shelves dug out of the earth at the rear of the room. They were lined with brick and mortar, just as the walls, and shored with large oak timbers.

The room smelled dry and earthy. A good sign. It meant no moisture, not yet. You don’t want water in a cellar. It creates a musty smell, sour, then mold takes hold, and it spoils the food. The food goes to rot, and all that planning ahead would be for nothing.

I knew it wasn’t much food, but I didn’t want it to go to waste. Why would I want that? I needed to find that hole, or crack, or whatever it was causing that draft. If air was getting in, so could water.

I stepped down onto the dirt floor, then placed the burlap bag on the ground. I pivoted around searching for the draft but unable to find it. Then I thought of a quick way to find the draft. I could use my lantern. If I placed the flame near the location of the draft, it should cause the flame to react.

I situated my fingers, holding the base of the lantern and letting the handle slip down under. The brass prongs were hot, and I was careful to lift the soot-coated cover off, freeing the flame. I then gently placed the cover on the ground, away from the steps to my right to get it out of the way.

I kept my eyes on the flame. I went to the left, the flame bending against my motion. In the back-left corner, I stood perfectly still until the flame stabilized. Above me were meat hooks anchored into a large support beam that ran the length of twelve feet. When the flame was calm, I knew there was no draft in that corner.

I moved again, but this time to the center. The flame bent toward me, then danced and flicked side to side. It lasted a few moments, then stood straight, then bent again. It was there, behind the wall, but that wasn’t possible. There was nothing but solid earth behind that wall. I moved closer. The flame drifted side to side, the draft more noticeable. I sat the lamp on the ground, then placed my hands on the wall, feeling for an obvious crack and found one.

There was something behind the wall, then my lantern went dark.