“Wrong House”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-20)

The last ebb of July.

It was a typical start to the day. Up at 3:30 in the morning, fans going in the windows, Black Lab already craving a slice of plain bread. My joints stiff with arthritic woe. Cliff Richard echoing in my head, wisps of a dream still left from slumber. I made coffee and checked the phone. Then, took a seat at my desk.

It was time to write.

My canine companion seemed restless. He paced by the door while I scrolled through pages on the computer. I paid no attention to his mood. Steam rose hopefully from my cup. I tapped out a few sentences as the caffeine cleared my thoughts.

A dull thud sounded at the front door. Like the knock of an old, gnarled hand against a tree.

I tilted my head. “Wrangler?”

The dog had suddenly gone into hiding. Likely in our front bedroom. I held my breath until the deep thump of wood sounded again. And again.

A curse spilled from my lips. “What the...”

I approached the door, beginning to tremble. Electricity seemed to crackle in the air, dry and rough with energy. My stomach collapsed inward on itself. I could feel a presence waiting outside.

“Who’s there?”

Silence filled my ears. Heavy, foreboding, and thick. Like deep water, out to sea. I felt a tug toward vacant cascades of nothingness. Dank, black, empty depths of negation.

“Who’s there?” I said again.

Finally, impatience made me bold. I grabbed the doorknob and twisted it forcefully. The door crashed open. I stomped my foot for emphasis.

“Do you know what time it is…?”

A hooded figure was standing on my porch. Draped in a long robe of sackcloth stained with fire-pit ash. He gestured with a hanging sleeve.

“YOU! I HAVE COME FOR… YOUUUU!”

I looked around, frightfully. “For me?”

“YOUUUU!” he wheezed.

I breathed hard. “The lot rent isn’t due until tomorrow. I am expecting a check in the mail...”

“YOUUUU!” he repeated. He pointed a withered finger at my face.

My stomach churned. “Look, I made coffee a few minutes ago. Would you like a cup?”

“THERE IS NO MORE TIME FOR YOU!” he spoke in a rasp of rotting leaves. “THE HOURGLASS HAS GONE EMPTYYYY...”

My hands were shaking. “I get it, you don’t like coffee.”

“COME...WITH...MEEEEE!” he commanded. “NOWWW!”

“Look friend, this is my working time,” I explained. “Things quiet down overnight. This is the best part of my day. The moment to ponder and put pen to paper...”

He was growing angry. “I HAVE ALREADY SAID IT! YOU HAVE NO MORE TIME! HEED THE WORDS OF DEATH! I AM THE GUARDIAN OF ETERNITY!”

I sputtered like a child. “Death?”

“DEATHHHHHH!” he roared.

I considered his tattered robe and scythe. Then began to laugh out loud. “Right! Now I get it! This is hilarious. You knew I’d be up working, right?”

He did not reply. But his breath became more rank and vile.

“Look, you shouldn’t have gotten pissed off so easily,” I said, anticipating that my neighbor had donned the dark garment in protest. “You wanted to stay up drinking last night. I get it. It was a perfect night. In the low 60’s and clear. The last day of this month. Right in the middle of summer. But my bones were aching. I needed some rest. That’s it, just needed to rest. I wasn’t trying to be unsociable...”

His piercing eyes peered from the gloom. “YOU WILL REST FOR ETERNITY, WITH ME. COME TO THE GRAVE, MORTAL MAN! COME… WITH… MEEEE!”

I had begun to sweat, despite the cool air.

“My dog needs company,” I stammered. “And the rent must be paid tomorrow. I have to go shopping next week. With a stop at the Giant Eagle pharmacy. I need more time...”

“THE HOURGLASS IS EMPTY!” he shouted. “DID YOU HEAR ME? I AM THE KEEPER OF TIME! YOUR FLICKER OF LIFE HAS ENDED! FOOLISH AND WEAK AND OVERWHELMED BY THE WINDS OF FATE! SNUFFED OUT LIKE A CANDLE FLAME! YOU ARE MINE NOW, THE PREY OF DEATH! STEP FORWARD AND ACCEPT MY EMBRACE!”

My knees felt like rubber bands. “I really think we need to talk about this...”

“NO TALK!” he exploded. “BOB JAFFE, YOU WILL ACCOMPANY ME INTO THE ABYSS! WE LEAVE FOR DUAT AT THIS MOMENT! HEED MY WORDS AND DIE WITH DIGNITY! THIS IS THE COMMAND OF DEATH!”

“Bob Jaffe?” I said with surprise.

He paused with irritation. “YES!”

I fidgeted for a moment. “Bob lives up the street. But he moved to a nursing home last week.”

The cloaked figure slouched with defeat. “YOU ARE NOT CALLED… BOB JAFFE?”

I wiped sweat from my brow. “Nah. Not Bob Jaffe. In Europe, my surname was Iaac.”

He slumped against the door frame.

“DAMMIT! WRONG HOUSE!!”

Smoke filled the air with a char of stale embers. There was a muted flash of orange coals. A howl of defeat reverberated from my porch.

Then, he was gone.

My Black Lab trudged in from the bedroom. He rubbed against my leg, looking half awake. Bread crumbs lingered in his whiskers.

I needed to catch my breath. The morning had passed too quickly. It was now after 5:30 and my coffee had burnt black on the countertop. A breeze toyed with the curtains. The computer had switched off from neglect. Sounds of a Phil Hendrie netcast whispered from the back room.

I stared at the empty doorway, still tasting ash in my throat. A mood of release had taken hold. I was spared by chance. Given another day. Another spin of the prize wheel. An extra sunrise. Most of all, another opportunity to write.

It was time to make more coffee.

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