Thursday, July 27, 2017

Chatterbox House (Finale)

Did last week’s installment of the Chatterbox House story catch your attention? Well, here’s the climax. Remember that last week our nameless protagonist was taking down a non-load-bearing wall between two upstairs rooms to make a master bedroom suite. Interested in hearing about your reaction.

*****
Courtesy of Geograph
CHATTERBOX HOUSE
Infuriated by my groundless fear, I took the wall down with little further difficulty. Once that was done, I confirmed my earlier judgment. The two rooms melded perfectly, giving the suite pleasing proportions and a roomy feel. In the process of gathering splintered two-by-fours and plasterboard onto a tarp to carry to the trash, the familiar rush of muffled voices that weren’t voices surrounded me. I caught a few audible words: father and stairs and ruining. And the word home pierced my consciousness several times.
The voices grew louder… no that wasn’t right. Intenser. They grew more intense as I gathered the four corners of the tarp and hoisted the load over my shoulder. Grabbing the sledge, I walked into the hall to the head of the stairs. After shifting the load more comfortably over my shoulder, I prepared to take the first step of the steep, elbowed flight. Sweat broke out under my arms as the sound of voices and the flutter of indistinct, invisible things surrounded me.
While my left foot was still in the air, someone—or something—pushed me. Maybe it wasn’t a push, merely pressure, but it was enough to throw me completely off balance. I stumbled to the second step and felt myself going over. Dropping everything, I managed to clutch the bannister with both hands and prevent my fall, but wood and chips and nails and sawdust slid down the staircase and through the railing to the hallway below. Wood and glass splintered as the hammer dropped onto a table beside the stairway.
As I leaned against the unstable bannister, holding the railing in a death grip, I had the impression of something rushing at me, of air pressing against my face, of some force trying to dislodge me. My breath came in gasps. My stomach churned. My heart raced. Surrendering to a nameless fear, I let go and bumped down a stairway turned into a slide by the debris of the trash I’d been hauling out. I banged to a halt against the wall where the stairs turned to the left. In a panic, I glanced toward the top of the stairs and caught the terrifying ephemeral outline of a woman… a young woman, her indistinct face contorted by rage standing with hands on hips. Other amorphous shapes hovered at her shoulder.
Scrambling to my feet, I vaulted over the bannister and came to an abrupt halt as a wall of orange flames rose in front of me. The sledgehammer had crashed through the table, taking the lamp and old-fashioned electric clock to the floor and smashing the can of alcohol I’d put there to be out of the way. Live electric wires ignited the alcohol. The worn carpet and bits of trash littering the floor were not only flammable, they were combustible.
My first inclination was to run for the fire extinguisher in the kitchen, but I raced straight out the back door and around to the front of the house as smoke began to escape from gaps in the window and door frames. I had my keys and billfold, but my cell phone was up in my bedroom. That was all right. I had no intention of trying to extinguish the flames. The screams and wails coming from inside the building discouraged me from that. I had the feeling that nothing could expel the evil residing in Chatterbox House, so let it burn to the ground. The heat of the hngry flames shattered windows, feeding the fire oxygen. The place was totally engulfed in minutes.


A month later, my life had more or less returned to normal. I’d found a place to live and the insurance papers had been signed. The arson investigation turned iffy a couple of times, but eventually, my story of the incident became the official record. Of course, I’d left out a couple of details, such as the mysterious voices and the push on the stairs.
As soon as I had a chance, I visited the town’s newspaper morgue to learn more about the history of Chatterbox House. The original owner, a man by the name of Horace Humbolt, had died in 1958 from an unaccountable tumble down those same stairs that had nearly gotten me. He was elderly but not infirm. His five daughters had been questioned, and the eldest was suspected of having a hand in his accident. But eventually the ruling of accidental death prevailed. One article contained pictures of the family, and there she was… my phantom. Elsa, the eldest, looked exactly like the figure I saw at the head of the stairs wearing the same hateful look. One by one, in the succeeding years, the sisters had died in that house. All seemingly of natural causes. Elsa was the last to go.
There were tenants over the years, but none lasted long. They all complained of voices. In time, locals labeled it the Chatterbox House. And I knew how accurate that name was.


*****
Well, was that worth waiting a week for? People who know me say I ask ill-advised questions (like that one), soliciting rude answers. It must be a character flaw… I can’t help it.

Let me know what you think of the story at dontravis21@gmail.com.

Remember, the March 21 release date of The City of Rocks has come and gone, and the book is now available. The following are my contact information and the DSP Publications links:

Don Travis Email: dontravis21@gmail.com
Blog: dontravis.com
Facebook: Don Travis
Twitter: @dontravis3


As always, thank for being a reader.

Don


New blogs are posted at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Thursday, July 20, 2017

Chatterbox House (Part 1 of 2 Parts)

 After last week’s bit of fluff, let’s go for something with a little more meat. I hope you enjoy learning about Chatterbox House.

*****
Courtesy of Geographic
CHATTERBOX HOUSE
Chatterbox House. The name intrigued me as much as the bargain basement price for the vacant property.
I bought the old Tudor with overgrown greenery at the end of Englesbury Lane six months ago without knowing its history or even the origin of the strange name. That was just what folks called the place. I knew that the previous owner died some years back from a fall down his staircase and that five daughters lived with him at the time. That was the sum total of my knowledge—other than the fact that the house had lain vacant for two years.
I settled in for a few days before starting to modernize the place, choosing the old-fashioned kitchen as my initial project. According to my budget, I could spend up to $25,000 in repair and refurbishing and still make a killing off the place. The one acre, semi-rural lot would easily accommodate another home if I chose to go that way.
The first time I took my crowbar to the cabinets over the sink, a scream reverberated through the house. The impression was so real that I paused before applying the tool again. This time, it appeared to be only the squeak of old boards as they came free. I quickly ripped them out and measured for new cabinets. I’d build them myself rather than buy pre-fabs.


As I washed up in preparation for bed that first night after starting work on the kitchen, I thought I heard a woman’s voice in the next room. I grabbed the antique, discolored porcelain knob and turned off the running water. Nothing.
Then a murmur. A second voice seemed to answer a bit more sharply.
“Who’s there?” I called.
Silence, but it was a restless silence—whatever that meant.
I grabbed a towel to dry my face and walked into the bedroom. Empty. I opened the heavy, brocaded drapes and peered into the darkness outside. The yard light exposed an expanse of green, clipped lawn. Nothing unusual. Certainly no strange women. Snorting in exasperation, I went through the house room by room without discovering intruders. After that, I completed my ablutions and turned in.
I was almost asleep when something brought me wide awake. Whispered voices. More than one. More than two. I wasn’t certain, but I thought they were all female. Damnation, had my womanizing youth caught up with me at age thirty?
I sat up in bed and caught a single word. “Hush!” Mature voice. Softly spoken rather than whispered. Then a smothered giggle. Enough moonlight poured through the open drapes to see no one was there. Shivers played up and down my back. The hair on my arms prickled. Impulsively, I hit the button on my bedside radio and soft swing music floated through the room.


Once the kitchen remodel reached completion, I turned to the dining room. The large, built-in hutch was quality work, so I decided to leave it in place and simply refinish it. I’d no sooner applied my sander to take off countless layers of paint than that anguished scream came again. I froze. My back puckered fiercely. I had the impression of multiple eyes staring at me. I whirled. Nothing there. After drawing a shaky breath, I returned to my work. Once the paint was removed from the beautiful natural maple of the hutch, I used alcohol to remove the original shellac. Then I moved the can of alcohol to an out of the way place in the hall near a table at the base of the stairs.
The dated, tufted velvet wallpaper was next to go. There were no more eerie incidents during that laborious process, but I felt the weight of something—disapproval?—as I worked.
This house didn’t like what I was doing. That thought gave me a jolt. A house was wood and brick and nails and paint. It had no likes or dislikes. It was just… there.
Once finished with the dining room, I inspected my work, pleased with the renovation thus far. This house was going to be one grand showcase when I finished. The logical place to proceed would be in the living room… or as the family called it, the parlor. That brought me to a halt again. How did I know they used an old-fashioned term like that?
Deciding to ignore logic, I tackled the bedrooms upstairs. There were five of them, and simply by tearing out a non-load-bearing wall, the two smaller ones would make a great large master bedroom suite, complete with its own bath and lounge area.
As I lugged a sledgehammer up the steep stairs, it seemed to grow heavier and heavier with each step. Shrugging it off as my imagination, I selected the spot where I wanted to begin the demolition and lifted the sledge over my shoulder. All of a sudden, I found myself on my butt. Reason said it wasn’t possible, but the weight of the head of that hammer had thrown me off balance. I’m an experienced builder to whom many weird things had happened, but for the life of me, this just didn’t seem possible.
Embarrassed—even though there was no one to witness my humiliation—I got up and drove a hole in the interior wall between the two rooms with one mighty whack. No screams this time, but I had the impression of gasps… and a distinct “Oh, no!”


*****
What’s going on here? Has our nameless hero happened on a house with a soul, or is it something else? Perhaps something more sinister. Tune in next Thursday for the finale.  Let me know what you think of the story at dontravis21@gmail.com.

Remember, the March 21 release date of The City of Rocks is right around the corner. The following are my contact links:

Don Travis Email: dontravis21@gmail.com
Blog: dontravis.com
Facebook: Don Travis
Twitter: @dontravis3


As always, thank for being a reader.

Don


New blogs are posted at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Thursday, July 13, 2017

Honey Bunny



Thanks to Mark Wildyr for his guest post last week. Just a reminder that DSP Publications is bringing out a revised edition of his novel, CUT HAND on October 31 of this year. Hope you will read it.

As for this week, let’s go for a little bit of fluff.

Courtesy of Max Pixel

Courtesy of Cliparting.com

*****
HONEY BUNNY
          Everyone said we belonged together. After all, her name was Honey (not a nickname), and mine was Bunny (really not a nickname—dammit). To be clear, she was Honey Bartholomew while I was saddled with Jonathan Throckmorton Bunny III. As if two of them weren’t enough, already. With a name like Jonathan, you’d think everyone would label me Jon, right?
          Not so. Too much could be done with my last name. Like: Here comes Bunny hopping down the sidelines. Touchdown! I’d heard that one for two years now. I held a dance at our house once, but when everyone labeled it the Bunny hop, that was it. No more dances. My junior yearbook held a picture of a toothy rabbit standing on his hind legs eating a carrot labeled Our Jonathan.
          To be fair, Honey didn’t have it much easier. She was always her daddy’s Honey Bee. The local librarian refused to issue her a card until she produced a birth certificate to prove Bunny was not a nickname. Of course, she was often Honey Bun, which morphed into Sticky Bun. She swore that if her Aunt Bertha said she was as sweet as her name one more time, she was going to stomp on the old gal’s ingrown toenail.
          Alas, the thing that pulled us together ultimately drove us apart. Our names. One too many times she heard that refrain Look, there’s Honey Bunny and announced we were through, finished. Kaput. After loudly proclaiming she wasn’t shallow enough to let that tear our relationship asunder, I finally became convinced she was.
          So Honey moved on to a guy who was named John Jaar. Couldn’t she see what was rolling down the pike at her?
           That was all right. I hooked up with a gal I’d had my eye on for a while, a perky brunette named Mildred Bugsliatta. Unfortunately, everyone in school, including the teachers, called her Bugs.
  

*****
Wow! Where did that come from? To be honest, I have no idea. I just woke up one day, and there it was rattling around in what’s left of my brain. Let me know what you think of this rant at dontravis21@gmail.com.

As the March 21 release date of The City of Rocks approaches, I’d like to give you my contact information and the DSP Publications links:

Don Travis Email: dontravis21@gmail.com
Blog: dontravis.com
Facebook: Don Travis
Twitter: @dontravis3


As always, thank for being a reader.

Don


New blogs are posted at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Thursday, July 6, 2017

Dummy, a Guest Blog Post

This week, we have a guest blog post from a fellow Albuquerque (and native Okie) author Mark Wildyr. Hope you enjoy his short story.

*****
Courtesy of Pixel
DUMMY

By Mark Wildyr

Experienced at looking below the surface of things, Winston Barstow instantly picked up on the attractive youth lurking beneath an accumulated cover of grime. Cursing the rush hour traffic, Win fought his way around the block for a second look at the boy striding down the opposite side of the street.
          Yep, the kid would be prime when he cleaned up: pleasingly masculine gait, broad shoulders. Definitely worth a second look. Eighteen or nineteen, Win judged, as he circled the block for the third time. When the guy trotted across the wide intersection called Five Points, a traffic cop’s nightmare, Win eased the car to the curb, risking the wrath of drivers behind him.
          “Need a ride?” he called through the open window, hoping his appearance wouldn’t discourage the kid. Experience had taught him that his large size often put off strangers, but it also allayed suspicion that he was gay. He looked and acted all man, all very big man.
          The youth’s gray eyes narrowed suspiciously as they swept the sleek Cadillac Seville. He nodded once but appeared wary as he climbed into the passenger’s seat, spilling soot and grime onto the rich leather upholstery. Easing out into the traffic, Win ignored his rider for a moment before holding out his hand, eyes still on the road ahead.
          “Win Barstow,” he said. “Where you headed?”
          A grimy paw gripped his hand in a firm shake, but there was no reply. The man glanced over at the boy who laid a finger on his lower lip and shook his head.
          “You can’t speak?” he asked tentatively. The boy shook his head again. “But you can hear all right?” That brought a nod. “Then we oughta be able to communicate just fine.”
          The boy grinned, and a small tablet materialized in his hand. It was one of those plastic toys children inscribe with a stylus and then lift to erase the writing.
          Under Win’s persistent prodding, the youth scribbled a few sketchy details about himself. Dominic Starling was an orphan or a runaway, Win wasn’t sure which. He lived alone near—but a world away—from Win’s exclusive penthouse condo. He eked out an existence at odd jobs down at the railroad yards. Intrigued by this handicapped kid’s upbeat attitude, Win offered the boy some clothes left behind by Mario his last lover, an affair that ended so badly he had shied clear of further involvements.
          Although he eagerly accepted the offer, Dom stubbornly balked at getting out of the car when they halted at Win’s building. Too dirty, the boy wrote in frantic protest. Need to clean up! Understanding the youngster had to be handled gingerly, Win agreed to bring the clothes to a nearby park the next afternoon. The kid relaxed as soon as the Seville turned down a long street that grew more dilapidated with each passing block. Win enjoyed a final look at the youth’s trim form as he jogged out of sight around the corner.
          Win parked in the secure underground garage below his building in a pensive mood. Although only forty-eight, he was already semi-retired from an immensely successful career in turn-around management. He had personally acquired, salvaged, and resold half a dozen faltering companies over the past twenty years, becoming wealthy in the process.


          Precisely at six o’clock the next afternoon, Win pulled into the lot near the tennis courts at the park where Dominic waited. Win’s throat seized up as he watched the boy approach the Caddy. What was it about the kid that grabbed him so much? He mentally compared Dom to Mario. Hell, there was no comparison! Mario was sleek and beautiful and vain and practiced. This kid’s grace was awkward, his demeanor strangely innocent for one who lived on the streets. And he had a stronger maleness than the Marios of the world could ever attain.
          He was surprised that Dom’s hair was a windblown brown. Last evening he’d thought it was black… soot, probably. Dom looked halfway clean today. Most likely washed out of a basin somewhere. Win realized the boy was taller than he remembered. Probably a good six feet, although his he carried no more than 170 pounds.
          Dom waved hello and stooped at the driver’s window. “Get in,” Win said.
          Apparently, the boy had decided to trust him because he promptly walked around the front of the car and piled in. Win reached over the back of the seat and plopped a brown paper bag into Dom’s lap. The boy’s eyes grew into saucers as he hauled out the rich duds. His soul was in his eyes as he turned to Win. The need to refuse such an expensive gift was plain to see.
          “Forget it. They won’t fit me, and my friend’s not coming back. They’re yours. Same for the socks and underwear in the bag. Those are brand new, not even out of their packaging. Hope everything fits.”
          The words brought a dazzling smile. However dirty the rest of him got, the kid kept his teeth clean. Win took the next step.
          “Look, you need to clean up in a proper bathroom. Come on up to my place and take a good shower. Then you can try on the clothes, and we’ll see what alterations they need.”
          Something akin to panic clouded the boy’s eyes.
          “It’ll be okay. I park right near the elevators, and we’ll be in the penthouse in a minute flat. I insist!”
          Dom didn’t agree, but neither did he bolt as Win negotiated the few blocks to his building and navigated down into the underground parking area. Dom was slow to exit the car, but once inside the apartment, the kid lost his reticence. He scurried from window to window, gawking at the city spread out below them. He found Win’s telescope set up in the study and pointed out small boats in the narrow river meandering in a wide, sandy channel and scanned the dense cottonwood bosque lining either bank. Dom scurried out on the rooftop terrace and leaned over the railing so far Win feared for his safety.
          It turned into a pleasant evening. Dom emerged from a long shower clothed in his new duds. The kid preened unconsciously as he examined himself in the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door. Win was stunned. Although he had been convinced an attractive youth lurked beneath the grime, he hadn’t truly appreciated what a jewel the boy was. Gleaming, soft, brown hair. Handsome, engaging features. He was solidly handsome without being too perfect, too regular, too fragile.
          In that moment, Winston Barstow realized his life had changed. He did not know if Dominic Starling would ever respond to him physically. But it didn’t matter. He had responded to friendship, and Win recognized that was sufficient. He wanted this boy… this young man in his life on whatever terms Dominic wanted.


*****
Leaves us wanting more, doesn’t it? Thanks to Mark for helping out this week. Let me know what you think of his story at dontravis21@gmail.com.

As the March 21 release date of The City of Rocks approaches, I’d like to give you my contact information and the DSP Publications links:

Don Travis Email: dontravis21@gmail.com
Blog: dontravis.com
Facebook: Don Travis
Twitter: @dontravis3


As always, thank for being a reader.

Don


New blogs are posted at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

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