Today Is: Wednesday, November 20, 2019 04:40 PM. Our Topic of the Week: Quagmire
Questions?

Check our Help area first!

Comments? Suggestions?

Contact us now!

We like hearing feedback from members on how to improve the site!
 
 
 


 
Author Name: FreeSavanahB 8 Comments
Date Added: October 17, 2004 22:10:32 Average Score: (Needs 2)
Views This Week
Members: 0
Unique Members: 0
Guests: 121
Total Views
Members: 12
Unique Members: 48
Guests: 732

Type: Unspecified
Category: Short Stories Add To Favorites | Text Only
 
The House Across the Road
I live in the house across the road from the town cemetery. I got it cheap, it being where it is, but Iím not afraid of the dead. The dead wonít hurt you, itís the living you have to watch out for. I have a twisted leg so I donít get out much. My entertainment is mostly sitting on the porch watching the world go by. Once in awhile, I hobble down to the cemetery and sit on one of those cement benches folks use when they visit the dearly departed, but, mostly I sit here, rock and watch.

Thatís what I was doing the day I started seeing the funny comings and goings at the big Victorian house across the road next to the graveyard. It was kind of strange, really. The old lady that lives there never goes out, as a rule, but here lately she has made her way over to one of the gravestones on her walker pert near every day. I also noticed she started leaving a candle burning in the window at night. It was like she was scared of the dark or something. Curious, it seemed to me.

Ned Blaylock, from the VA, delivers groceries here to my house once a week. I think itís only fair since I got this bum leg overseas in the Korean Theater during war time. Theater! Thatís a laugh, it wasnít a theater it was a blazing hellish inferno! I still have the occasional nightmare where Iím back in action and pissing myself.

Anyway, when Ned dropped by with the sacks the other day, he filled me in a little on the old ladyís story. Seems the old dame, in her youth, was engaged to this WWII soldier who was shipped out to the south pacific. The young man was Silas Maconís uncle, Marty. She, being the honorable type, up and married the town mortician in his absence. Thatís how she came to be living in the nice old house. Mr. Crather, the mortician, has long since gone to meet his maker but the old lady just keeps hanging on. Ned said she is in her eighties now.

The soldier she threw over for the embalmer came home wounded and lived just long enough to tell his trifling Ďsweetheartí that he still loved her and she would be his in the end even if he had to meet her in hell. All this happened sixty years ago today, in nineteen and forty four. Korea was brutal, but nothing like the horrors of the big one with the Germans.

The only other thing old Ned knew for sure was that the old lady and the mortician had a baby mighty soon after the nuptials. Of course, those first babies can come at anytime, itís only the rest of the kids that take nine months. The little mite died almost as soon as it was born and the happy couple didnít have any more younguns, as I understand it.

Now there are folks here Ďbouts that question the cause of death of both the baby and Silasí Uncle Marty. The mortician signed a lot of death certificates, in those days, and he was fifteen years older than his young bride and plumb besotted with her. Itís said that she was a real looker in her day. There are them that whisper just maybe he didnít want that soldier anywhere near his woman and had no urge to raise another manís child. There are others that whisper the little bride didnít want any complications threatening her newly attained social standing in the community, and her old man was just la la enough about her to cover it up. I donít whisper anything myself. I wasnít here then so I donít have a clue what happened.

Now, for the strangest part of the story. The other night we had one hell of a thunder storm! It was blowing and raining like Godís own wrath had been cut loose. I was having a bad night with both my gimped up knee and old war memories so I was up wandering around most all night. Iíd gone out on the porch to sit in my rocker to see if I could shake the pain and the sound of shells ringing in my ears. I had just got sat down when, between thunder crashes, I swear I heard a baby crying. Now, any fool knows that there wouldnít be any little babies out on a night like that, but still, I was almost sure there was a baby wailing over at the cemetery.

I wasnít getting any sleep anyway so I put on my slicker and started hobbling my way down the path that leads to the road. I no more than got half way down when the door opens to the Victorian house and the old lady comes out. She was dressed in a white house coat of some sort, looking like a specter. Jumped up Jesus, she scared the crap out of me! I kind of eased over close to the hedges so she couldnít see me and inched my way up closer. I started hearing voices, but before I could get to where I could see, I heard the most blood chilling scream it has ever been a manís misfortune to hear!

I ran, as best as I am able, across the road with the rain beating me in the face and lightening flashing. I slipped in the mud twice and busted my ass for my trouble. I got to where the scream came from and there was the old lady. She is laying face up in the rain looking like she had just peeked in the gates of hell and didnít much like the view! Lying beside her was an old monkey doll. You know the kind women use to make out of gray work socks for little kids, only this one was made out of military issue green. When I glanced up and saw the name on the headstone I lit out of there in a hurry. It said Martin Macon, 1922 Ė 1944Ö

I still live in the house across the road from the town cemetery. I still spend a lot of time sitting on the porch rocking and watching, but I may have to rethink that, Ďnot being afraid of the deadí statement. Now, what in the hell did I do with that bottle of pain killer?
Author's Notes:
Happy Halloweeeeen!
Report Offensive Poem.

'The House Across the Road' Copyright © SavanahB
Copyright is property of the above author or group. Reproduction in whole or in part is strictly prohibited.
Click here if you feel this poem is in violation of a copyright.
 
Click here to send this poem to someone!

Comments:
Comment By: FreePaul Peter McLean on February 7, 2006 06:38:59 PM Report
Great story Savanah. It held my attention from start to finish, and I thought you portrayed the character of the narrator well.
Comment By: FreeThe Bag Lady on November 18, 2004 03:16:40 PM Report
Wow, Young Lady~!!! This is super chilling, and I loved it from start to pain killer finish~!! I found myself hearing the thunder, seein' the lightnin' flashes, and most of all seein' that darned monkey~!!! Now, I shall be like the others, NOT ABLE to look at one of those dolls~!! Great work, Savanah~!!! Sorry to be so late in commentin'----been away for a spell..
GOOD READ.....
Margaret...the old bag lady, carryin' some candles....
Comment By: FreeLeonard Wilson on October 19, 2004 03:52:07 AM Report
This couldn't be better.:O) I'll be honest with you...Most narative stories bore me to tears.I like to see people,in conversation.But, you had me interested from the first line,on...Just SPOOKY good FUN, kid...Loverly...len
Comment By: PremiumMary Lou Allen on October 18, 2004 08:44:02 PM Report
Hahaha! Oh, my gosh, Savanah. This is absolutely peerless. I love it. You have made this guy so real I think I know him. A really good pain killer or two can make me see green monkey dolls, too. This is a wonderfully constructed story. Very well done. ML
Comment By: Freeerma todd on October 18, 2004 03:39:20 PM Report
I use to have one of them sock monkey's. It was made out of a sawmill sock...This is one scary story. Now i'll be lookin over my shoulder all night, cause i sit with my back to the door...Erma
Comment By: FreeGay Johnson on October 18, 2004 02:24:49 AM Report
Creepy Savanah. I'm glad Richard is coming home tonight so I will be able to get some sleep. LOL
Gentle Dove
Comment By: Freejoia on October 18, 2004 01:49:43 AM Report
Chills are crawling down my spine, ducky, this sounds more like a story than a tale...I am not sitting up by myself anymore...
Comment By: FreeLubaina on October 17, 2004 10:52:05 PM Report
Such a moving piece. Brilliantly crafted and presented. Wonderful to read. Thank you for sharing your wonderful talent.
Lubs




 


Check for Announcements.
on our Home page!

User poems are sometimes graced by images and textures stored on our site
courtesy of GRSites.com, Sandy Hradil, and Sherri Emily.


Welcome, Guest!

Become part of our
friendly community
of on-line writers!

Join today!
 
Username:
 
Password:
 
Forget Username or Password?

Members On Line: 0
Guests On Line: 87
Members in Chat: 0


Happy Birthday


 
We Thank You!

For your donations
and subscriptions!

Creative-Poems.com
P.O. Box 7931
The Woodlands, TX 77387

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
monovalent-defence
Copyright © 2003-2017 Creative-Poems.com.  All Rights Reserved. Use of this site is subject to certain
Terms of Service rules which constitute a legal agreement between you and Creative-Poems.com.
By providing links to other sites, Creative-Poems.com neither approves of, endorses, or gurantees
any information, opinions, or products found on those sites. Users follow links at their own risk.