Fiction Friday #139

“Turn left up here”
“At the big Oak?”
“Yeah, that’s it” she said with that youthful exuberance that drew him to her “can’t wait to show you the place.”
“Can’t wait to see it, honey.”
She looked at him lovingly as he navigated the turn. His chiseled features were what had attracted him to her all those years ago. And they never failed to turn her on.
Long Street was lined with meticulously maintained Cape Cods with exceptionally well manicured lawns- the kind that often graced the covers of lawn and garden magazines. Most of them occupied by those who could ill afford their lavishness, living well beyond their means. Those houses, while nice on the outside with nice cars in their driveways, had very little in the way of furnishings inside.
“It’s that one right” she said as they rounded the turn in the road, revealing her childhood home “… there.”
Pulling the car to a stop, he looked at her, confused.
“What the hell” she exclaimed.
The lawn looked as if it hadn’t been maintained in years. The house itself a spectacle in neglect: cracked, peeling paint, broken windows, a piece of soffit dangling from the eave, suspended by one pathetic nail. A sign hanging on the picket fence read

Condemned
Bryer County 1/22/10
To be demolished 2/30/10

A twelve-year-old boy approached from their right on a red Schwinn; she rolled down her window. “Hey, little boy.”
Curious, he replied “yes?”
“Do you know what happened here?”
“What? The haunted house?”
“Haunted … “ she asked herself, confused “yeah, that one. Why do you say haunted?”
“That’s where the boogeyman lives.”
“The boogey …”
“Yeah. Mister Riley used to live there. He went crazy years ago, when I was little, and let his house fall apart. All the grown-ups around here didn’t like him.”
“Mister Riley … John Riley?”
“Yes ma’am, that’s him.”
“Brown hair, kinda looked like Sylvester Stallone?”
“Who?”
“Rambo … Rocky …”
“Rocky! Yeah! That’s who he looked like!”
A lump formed in her throat so large she had to force herself to speak again. “Do you know what happened to him?”
“He went crazy last year and killed Tommy Carter next door. Tommy kept kicking his soccer ball in Mister Riley’s back yard. The police found lots of animals buried in his back yard.”
“Pets?”
“Dunno. But they found hundreds.”
Dazed, she stared at him, not knowing what to say.
“Ma’am, you okay?”
Snapping herself out of it, she replied “yeah, I’m fine. Thank you.”
They boy kicked the pedal and crept away. “Holy shit.”
The man in the driver’s seat looked at her, placing his hand on her knee, and asked “What’s the matter?”
“John Riley …”
“Yeah?”
“… is my uncle.”
“Your uncle? I thought you said your family sold this house when you were a teenager?”
“They said they did – but …”
“But what?”
“… Uncle John died when I was nine.”

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