Ghosts
The house hadn’t been
maintained in a long time, its floors were covered with dust and the wood
beneath had warped with time. Lyle had been happy in this house for three long
years and had raised two little boys with his wife Lynda; even now looking at a
framed picture of them he could still remember what that felt like. He’d made
space by the house’s fireplace and left his gun right by his feet while he
gazed around at the torn curtains and the couch hanging open like an empty
mouth, its cushions missing and rusty springs poking through.
It had been so
beautiful once. There’d been a table right by the entrance where they’d placed
a bowl that was always filled with little mints for their guests and there’d
been so many guests. Not for Lyle, no he was the more introverted of the two,
no they always came for his fair haired Lynda who could put together a three
course meal in seconds. Lyle had always been a terrible cook and his dear wife
had often shoved him out of the kitchen because he was always getting
underfoot.
It was here that he
could still remember her like that, not in the hospital with those jagged scars
on her wrists. She’d fallen apart so quickly after the boys…his beautiful wife
had morphed into a shadow that floated about in a permanent daze that no
therapy had ever managed to penetrate.
Lyle put their
picture down and picked up the gun. Getting to his feet and ignoring the dust
that clung to his khaki pants he approached the man he’d tied to a chair. Sweat
had plastered the man’s greasy black hair to his head and his eyes had dark
circles under them. He weakly raised his head and gave Lyle a look that
promised retribution for the state he was in.
“Here we both are
where it all started. I wonder when you broke into our house that night if you
ever considered that things might turn out this way?” Lyle said.
He reached out and
removed the strip of clothing he’d gagged the man with.
“You should have
known I’d never let a punk like you put me in jail,” the man spat out.
“You’re a scumbag. Sooner
or later someone was going to prosecute you for your crimes but you broke into
my house and killed my..” Lyle choked on the words.
“I wasn’t going to
let you put me in jail,” the man repeated.
“Well
congratulations, you’re not in jail,” Lyle said raising the gun.
There was a loud bang
that woke the neighbors on either side of that tragic house. The first to reach
for their phone was Mrs. Carla Mitchell who’d had a lot of trouble sleeping
lately ever since her husband passed away. Her white cat meowed in protest as
she shifted it reaching for the phone she kept by the bedside before dialing
911.
Lyle hobbled back to
the fireplace picking up the gold framed picture of his family. They’d taken it
on their last vacation down to Florida to visit Lyle’s folks. They’d been on
the beach and James had worn the green trunks he’d loved while Sean had been
hugging his parents’ little terrier. There standing in the back in a green
shirt with blue trunks was Lynda laughing and sticking her tongue out at the
camera.
How quickly things
had changed and now there was nothing left for Lyle. No wife or kids, just a
house full of objects and ghosts that would forever weigh him down. Another
loud bang startled Mrs. Mitchell causing her to draw the covers over her head
as she pleaded with the 911 operator to send help quickly.
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