Part 1 (2/2)

”How does fifty percent off sound, Mrs. Stewart?”

”I know, I know. It doesn't even sound fathomable. All you have to do is buy one product at full price and we'll practically give you another at half the cost!”

”But you don't have the new and improved model. Our engineers have really outdone themselves this time. The accessories are mind-boggling. And it's practically indestructible. Mrs. Stewart, if you order today, I'll put my personal guarantee on every item.”

”Wonderful! I'll put you down for two . . . hold on. Yes. Yes, sir . . . my supervisor has just informed me that orders over fifty dollars qualify for free s.h.i.+pping.”

”Great! I'll change the order to three then. Mrs. Stewart, your order should be at your door within fourteen business days. You have a lovely day and take care of yourself.”

”I'll definitely try. Goodbye, Mrs. Stewart.”

Sheldon Delaney let the phone receiver roll off the tips of his fingers. The hollow ring of it settling back into the carriage was a familiar and intimate melody of relief. It meant he could return to a life cut off from the outside world. To Mrs. Stewart, or any number of other customers, Sheldon was part of a bustling business environment-a boss hovering over his shoulder, co-workers mindlessly buzzing about, contributing to collective productivity. But in reality, there was only him, a phone strategically placed on the (his mother's) kitchen table and a never ending list of numbers.

He worked alone, peddling the extraneous from a catalogue to those who neither needed nor could afford it. But the job opportunities for an individual who refuses-who finds it physically impossible-to take a step outside his home are limited. This job was about the only opportunity to be had.

So he grinded out a living. Conversations with the unacquainted were as painful as a visit to the doctor's office. But the process was well worth the agony, because once the call was disconnected, he could look up, glance around his empty home, and breathe in the relief of being absolutely alone.

Solitude.

”Nothing out there for me, anyhow,” he mumbled and rubbed a palm through his coa.r.s.e, black hair. He was still sitting at the kitchen table, filling out an order form for the lovely Mrs. Stewart. ”You know what happened last time I went outside on my own . . . ain't that right, momma?”

At that very moment, Momma glided into the kitchen. Still, after all these years, so graceful. She ran a cold, vaporous finger along his neckline as she pa.s.sed. It gave him comfort and made him s.h.i.+ver all at the same time. He watched her open a cupboard and then close it. She walked past him and proffered a smile before disappearing into the living room. Sheldon returned the smile. It felt good seeing his momma like that, just as he remembered her, before that day, before she was taken. Even if she wasn't real, it felt good.

Sheldon was real, and unlike the immortal images of his mother and father, he had finally grown up. Changed. The little boy had grown to be a man, grown into the high cheekbones and far set, almond eyes of his mother, and eventually he filled his father's broad muscular frame, but in many ways, he had never got up off the kitchen floor. The ma.s.sacre of Daddy and Momma was always fresh in his mind. The absolute nail in the coffin was that he had lain down in all their muck and couldn't help but gaze into the eyes of the thing responsible for it all. And at that very moment he made a promise to himself. He remembered chanting it over and over again, right then and there on the blood slick, linoleum floor of his childhood home: I'll never leave again. No go outside. Never again. Never leave. No more. It's safe in here. Outside is bad. Is wicked. Evil. The Horribles.

I'll never leave again.

He had yet to break that promise. Had never willingly broken that promise, anyway. There was a time when people had forcefully removed him from his home. To fix him. But mostly he still felt broken.

After he finished filling Mrs. Stewart's order, he stood up from the small kitchen table, stretched his arms high and yawned. He stepped away from the table and prepared himself for the routine.

Call it his own version of fire watch-walking a worn and well-rehea.r.s.ed route in the interior of his home. He had a mental checklist that had to be completed each and every day. Sometimes, twice. Occasionally, the routine filled every waking minute in a twenty-four hour period.

Check all the doors: front, back, and bas.e.m.e.nt.

The closets, cupboards, behind the shower curtains, under the bed.

Flip the latch on the windows.

Hesitate, each and every time, over Momma's kitchen sink, next to the window that horrible thing had escaped through. Shake the mist of poisonous memories away and double-check the lock.

March, march, march. Walk the perimeter. Be proactive, be ready for them.

Anyone in the yard, ducking behind the bushes, crouched beneath the sill? You never know. They're clever. That one horrible thing could easily become many.

Are there any gaps, anything overlooked? Can they get in? Am I safe? Will I ever be safe?

The Horribles. The Horribles were out there. He couldn't see them but sometimes he was sure he could hear them breathing. Sometimes, at night, he could imagine their wet maws pressed against the window or the bottom of the door. Sniffing for him. Wanting him to come out.

His father was there with him, helping secure the house. Or a version of him. They walked together from the lime green painted (Momma's favorite color) kitchen into the narrow hallway. Sheldon ran a finger above a collection of family photos while his father walked behind him. Mom, dad, and child at the beach. A holiday photo. A young Sheldon at the pitcher's mound. Good times were frozen in those photos. He was with the ones he loved. But the blurred reflection within the gla.s.s frames showed him completely alone. Not even his phantom father was revealed.

Only the living were reflected back.

He made his way into the bungalow's small living room. Everything was still there: a leather couch off to the left against the wall, painting of a cozy cabin hanging above; his favorite recliner tucked in the corner to the right, next to the fireplace, below oak-finished stairs leading to the second floor; a rowing machine he visited once a day for forty minutes placed next to the recliner; TV below the picture window, curtains drawn; books stacked neatly in each corner and occupying the bulk of a coffee table in front of the couch. It looked the same as always. Lived in. Comfortable. The way his parents had left it.

His father sat down silently on the mantle of the fireplace and rubbed his hands together. Sheldon bent over to grab a paperback from the table. The clatter of the metal flap on the mailbox startled him. He s.h.i.+fted his attention from the book, to his vapid father who seemed to melt like wax, to the front door. The noise was unnerving. He hadn't even heard footsteps on his porch.

The mailman didn't come 'til three. And Evan normally brought the mail in for him. This was something different. It changed his routine, his pattern. Not good. Not good at all.

Should he wait for Evan to bring it in? A voice inside ordered him to see what was in the mailbox.

Go see what it is, Sheldon. Take care of it. Then get on with your self-inflicted imprisonment.

He froze, building up the courage to continue, one foot on the kitchen linoleum and the other resting on the carpeted hallway. His body tensed and he listened carefully. Still no sound of an intruder. Then he jumped up like someone had suddenly run a dirty current through the floor. He slowly and meticulously made his way to the front door, almost low-crawling the last few feet. Pausing to take a deep breath, pulse already beginning to double, he quickly yanked the door open. The bells and whistles started to screech in his ears the instant the door creaked open. His vision blurred and the pressure on his temples felt like he'd been placed at the bottom of the Mariana trench. He thought he could see the Horribles emerging from behind bushes, pa.s.sing in cars, climbing from the sewers cut into the curb of the road. They wore hoods and boots with metal buckles. He closed his eyes. A little better. Not much. With eyes still clenched shut, he shot a hand up and to the left, blindly searching for the mailbox, and scooped out a single piece of paper. Quickly shutting the door, he collapsed to the floor, exhausted after the brief exposure to the outside.

And this was just to retrieve the mail. Imagine how it would be . . . outside.

He waited for his pulse to wane and then looked down at what he had grabbed.

The paper looked to be made of recycled material. Too thick and uneven. An a.s.sortment of browns, reds, and black speckled the paper. It was oily and slick to the touch. He a.s.sumed it was homemade, probably out of hemp or some other hippie product. It smelled organic, too, like pond water or swamp. There was something else just below the organic smell, an almost sweet scent, but he couldn't make it out.

”What is this?” he smelled the paper and rubbed it against his thumb and index finger. ”What am I supposed to do with this, huh?”

He opened it up slowly, still trembling after his excursion beyond the threshold, but at the same time cheris.h.i.+ng a little sliver of something different in his life.

Come one, come all As the twilights doth fall When the dusky sunset curtain parts Births the traveling motor parade Baubles and trinkets galore!

All free for those who implore Please, join the traveling motor parade this Sat.u.r.day for family fun on two wheels.

”A parade?” He closed his hands around the pamphlet and squeezed as if it had a neck. ”Oh, no! You won't get me out of the house.” Sheldon balled the piece of paper up and tossed it across the room where it landed next to the sofa. ”I should put razorblades on the bottom of my mailbox . . . that would keep them out.”

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