Gothic story - THE MAN

THE MAN

                A number of years ago, there was a couple who lived in a town near a city near a lake that was right next to their state's national park. Their house was situated five houses down from the Wife's mother's, and four houses away from her sister's. The Husband was never really pleased by this.

                They got married in their twenties and settled down in this house in this town near a city near a lake right next to their state park. The years went on, as they tend to do; and the couple began to bicker, as they tend to do. Small things such as leaving the milk carton empty, turned to bigger things, like the Wife screwing the mailman.

                As the rift between the two grew larger and larger, the Wife  grew more and more aware of the obnoxious habits the Man  she had married carried. He was a CEO at a bank that made their fortune giving faulty loans and demanding enormous interest rates.  He relished sending notices that payments were overdue, and often insisted on paying people a visit in person to inform them that their house was to be foreclosed on. He was incredibly messy, and often left a week's worth of clothes strewn across the bedroom floor. He insulted his sister- and mother-in-law at every turn, insisting that anything to do with them was disgusting and he would take no part in it. He also formed secret separate bank accounts, slowly shifting their money into them which left her scrambling, trying to figure out where all the money was going. She was never aware of the secret bank accounts, of course, but she always had an inkling that her banker husband was bamboozling her out of her money.         

                All of the fault couldn't be put upon the Husband, though. The Wife wasn't exactly agreeable.  She talked incessantly about the state of their finances, forced him to spend three meals a night either with her mother or with her sister, and she insisted on keeping the house in a complete state of cleanliness.

                "You never know who's going to see it," she said once as they were cleaning in preparation for a vacation. When he pointed out the obvious ludicrousness of  the situation, she replied, "If our house catches  on fire while we're away, I won't be having the firemen judge us." He reluctantly continued cleaning, but he could feel his annoyance building in the pit of his stomach.

                And, of course, she had the unfortunate habit of sleeping with the man who delivered mail on a daily basis. Not that her Husband particularly cared. They had married young, and as his parents' marriage had failed, he harbored no expectations for theirs to be a happy one. It was about the pride and principle of the matter to him, and as long as his Wife remained an avid Christian, divorce was out of the question. And so they lived on, trapped in complete and total hatred of each other.

                Over time, they both developed coping mechanisms for dealing with each other. The Woman found comfort in cleaning; she spent hours scrubbing bathroom floors and organizing kitchen cabinets. She would even stop by her mother's and sister's homes and straighten up a bit, which annoyed those family members considerably. The Man took to driving. Being a successful banker, his pocket never hurt for gas money. He would drive for hours, to no real end, just trying to get away from her. He often took up residence in a hotel or B&B for a stretch of time, collecting a string of impermanent friends, girlfriends, and assorted favorite restaurants.

           

             One hot and dry night, the Man found himself driving down a long stretch of highway. Having driven for over five hours, he made the decision to stop and stay at a motel along the side of the road, thinking that he would return home in the morning, as he had four foreclosures set up for the next day.

            Next door to the motel was a rundown bar, a red and orange blinking sign read, “Ho e’s Bar and Grill”. He hoped that the “P”’s bulb had just run out.

            He closed the door of his car with a loud, “thunk”, that seemed to resonate across the empty parking lot. Even though it was almost midnight, the heat from the day had left steam rising from the asphalt, creating an ominous veil as he walked towards the motel. He paused and looked over his shoulder at the bar.

            “One drink couldn’t hurt,” He said to himself. His words had the strange muffled tone that comes from sound in an otherwise silent area.

            The inside of the bar was no more cheerful than the outside. While it became obvious from a sign hung over the door that the name actually was ‘Hope’s Bar’, the place seemed to have very little of it. Formerly shiny, red linoleum booths were ripped and faded. Stools at the bar were broken and chairless, just metal poles sticking up from the ground. The wall’s paint was chipped, the white paint giving way to the green underneath.

            As the Man walked in, the bartender looked up, surprised. “Hey, there!” he said in a gruff voice, clearly meant to sound friendly, but said in a rather tired and unwelcoming way. “Haven’t had customers in here for some time.”

            “Hello,” the Man said warily. He sat down at one of the remaining stools. “I’ll just have one beer.”

            “Anything in particular?”

            “Surprise me.” The Man took off the light jacket he was wearing, putting it on the seat beside him. The air conditioning was apparently broken, and the heat was stifling. The Man just hoped the motel wasn’t in the same condition.

            The bartender slid the glass across the counter to the man sitting alone. “You actually caught us on our last night in business,” he said absent mindedly.

            “Oh, really?” the Man took a sip of the beer. It tasted sour, but not in an altogether unpleasant way.

            “Yeah, not that many customers around here. Surprisingly.” The bartender smiled sadly at the man, who just stared in response. “My daughter’s gone, anyways. We were only keeping it open in case she needed something to fall back on. My wife and I, that is.” He paused, took a cloth out of his apron and started wiping the bar in slow circles. “Hope. Her name was Hope. She- we lost her.”

            “I’m so sorry,” the Man said slowly, not sure how to respond.

            “Made friends with the wrong sort of people. We always warned her…” He trailed off, staring at the counter. He looked up suddenly. “Anyways. Enjoy your beer.” He abruptly turned and walked through a door behind the counter.

            “Crazy old man.” A whisper beside the man made him jump out of his chair, facing the newcomer.

            “How long have you been standing there?"

            The stranger just smiled, exposing one gold tooth, "I've been here the whole time. Hadn’t you noticed?” He tilted his head as he asked the question, his long, greasy light brown hair falling in sticky strands across his face. Other than his golden tooth, his teeth were almost blindingly white, and strangely sharp, giving the man an odd, wolfish look. He looked about sixty, with frown lines creasing his forehead. His eyes were a light, muddy brown, an almost yellow color near his pupils. The thing that struck the man as he looked at the unfamiliar person was how skinny he was. He looked almost emaciated.

            "Name's Ron Morgan." The stranger said, leaning close and shaking the Man's hand firmly. He smelled musty and woody, like he had been locked in a dry and warm room for quite some time.

            "Nice to meet you," the Man replied hurriedly, still trying to figure out when the other man had come in. He pulled his hand away quickly, realizing that his hand was sweating profusely.

            "I haven't seen you around here before," Ron sat down on a stool two down from where the Man had been sitting. He had on a long trench coat that folded underneath him when he sat. The Man could see beads of rain dotting the collar.

            "Just driving through." Ron stared at the man intently, like he was trying to see through the layers of skin and see the person buried underneath. The Man shifted uncomfortably, suddenly even warmer than he had been when he had entered the bar.

            "I'm going to make you a deal." Ron pulled out two packs of matches and set them on the counter of the bar.  "I'll give you what you most desire, and you'll give me what I need."

            The Man started. Was this some sort of drug deal? Maybe a pimp? He wiped his hand across his forehead, wiping beads of sweat away. "And what is it I supposedly desire?" He questioned cautiously. Could he get arrested for even talking to someone about this sort of thing? And what sort of thing was it, anyways?

            Ron laughed, leaning casually against the counter. It was an odd position for a man of his age. He looked completely at ease, despite his withered frame. His trench coat hung off of his shoulders, looking like a shirt with missing shoulder pads. His suit, while finely tailored, was rumpled and baggy on him, clearly not intended for such a skeletal person. "Freedom," He replied simply. There was a bulky gold watch on his wrist, and it hung limply near his palm, his wrists too skinny to support it.

            "Freedom." The Man repeated, weighing the word in his mouth. "From what, may I ask?"

            "The devil herself," Ron smiled, a joke with himself. "Your wife, of course!"

            "Oh," the Man stated. "Her." For some reason, despite the ridiculous circumstances (a stranger at a bar offering to get rid of his wife. Clearly realistic.) his head began to swim with the possibilities. No more dinner with his in laws, no more cleaning five times a day, coming and going as he pleased, he'd finally be able to focus on his work, no more awkward encounters with the mailman. Ah, yes. The mailman. Maybe it would be for the best if his wife were to simply go away.

            "And, in return, all you'd owe me... Well, let's just say it's a favor." Ron flashed another eerie grin. "I won't even ask for it until you're on your deathbed. That's a guarantee."

            "Freedom." The Man said the word again, trying to comprehend its meaning. "Alright. Say I agree. What would I have to do? Hypothetically, of course." He rushed the last three words out, not wanting to agree to anything too early.

            "Have a smoke. That's all it takes. One cigarette." Ron picked up the box of matches farther from himself, a red, plain box and fished around in it for a bit. He left a black box sitting on the counter. Finally, he pulled out a solitary match. On the side it was etched one word, "freedom". Out from his coat pocket, he pulled another box. This time he didn't poke around at all, just slid out a single cigarette. Now he looked into his companions face. "So, are you game?" His mouth wore a bitter smile, almost as if what he was saying was a cruel joke. His eyes, though, told a different story. They were dark and serious, and reminded the man of a predator approaching his prey.

            "Why not," the Man forced a laugh. "It's not every day you get the chance to ditch your wife!" He could feel his smile growing hysterical, the corners of his mouth turning up until tears sprung to his eyes. Why was he doing this? He didn't want to do this. Or did he? Did it really matter? Ron was obviously crazy. What's the harm in humoring a clearly mentally ill man? What if he wasn't, though? What would this deal even entail?

            He was suddenly aware of his surroundings again. The broken chairs. The chipped walls. The forlorn looking booths. He looked down and saw that his feet had left imprints in the dust. His swallowed hard when he realized that the man standing next to him had no such footprints surrounding him.

            The Man looked up suddenly and grabbed the cigarette and match.

            He closed his eyes as he inhaled, smelling the harsh smoke and feeling his mind clear.

            His eyes still closed, he heard the bartender open the door and re-enter the room.

            He didn't open his eyes as he heard the bartender scream at Ron to get out, to never come back, that he had been told that already, cries that he was not welcome in this establishment.

            When he finally opened his eyes, the bartender was sobbing quietly, his face buried in his arms on the counter. Ron Morgan was gone.

            There were still no footprints.

            The Man returned home the next morning to the flashing of red and blue lights in his driveway. The police cars were parked haphazardly, the front wheels ending up on his carefully manicured lawn.

            He walked in to his home in a town near a city near a lake near the state park, the one that was five houses down from his Wife's mother's home, and four houses away from his wife's sister's home. He walked in and almost ran straight through yellow tape.

                His Wife was on the floor, wearing a white dress. Her hair was in a tangled cloud above her head, spread out above where she lay on the ground of the living room. The most noticeable thing, though, was the rusty stain pooling from her chest. If it had been a  picture, the Man would have found the stark contrast between the red blood and her white dress strangely beautiful.

                But it wasn't a picture. It was his Wife, on the floor, a steak knife thrust into her chest, her eyes looking off into the distance, glassy. He still felt very little remorse, though. He noticed that above everything else, including his wife's death: how incredibly not-sad he was.

                He felt the cold metal of handcuffs biting into his wrists as two policemen forced him out the door.

                His sister- and mother- in- law were sitting four houses down, on the porch, crying. The mother glared at him with incredible fury. The sister was too hysterical to look up, her shoulders quaking with sobs.

                As he was forced into the police car that had ruined his beautiful lawn, he saw a UPS truck situated two doors down. He could see the mailman inside with his head in his hands. He noticed how strange it was that a man who had never even lived with his wife felt such pain in her passing, and he didn't even feel a thing. Funny how the world works, he noted.

               

SOME TIME LATER

                Death row is a strange place, he noted. But possibly not stranger than the rest of the world. Either way, you're just waiting to die.

                Death row had made the man very existential.

                He remembered the day he had come in. The room he had been placed in was situated next to a girl named Hope. Both of them had been sentenced to death. Both for murder. Hope had killed her friend. Even after three years of living side by side, she still maintained that she hadn't done it, that she'd been framed. "I hated him," Hope sobbed, "Dear god, did I hate him. But I didn't kill him! I didn't!" Her voice would always rise to a scream, her indignation filling the prison.   

                The day he was moved to the prison they shared, she was having one of her "episodes" (or so the staff liked to call it). She was shaking and crying in the hallway, screaming that the devil had made her do it, that he had forced her hand. He was being led down the same hallway at that time. She saw him and gave a piercing scream.

                "He's gotten you too!" She screamed, pulling at her long dark hair. Her eyes were ringed with red and she was frighteningly skinny. "You sold your soul." Here she lowered her voice to a whisper and got very close to the man. "You're doomed, just like me." It was then that the staff pulled her away and locked her in her room again. They always meant to send her to a mental institution, they said. They never seemed to get around to it, though, and after three years living next door to the man, Hope died in her sleep, the night before she had been scheduled to be killed.

                The Man was fairly happy in prison. The only thing he ever missed was telling people that their homes were being taken from them, and the looks on their faces. He enjoyed the solitude, and found he had a lot of time for reading books. While other prisoners went insane around him, he seemed to thrive on the schedules and rules of the prison. Time passed, and, if possible, his soul grew even colder. Remembering Hope's words, though, he took to praying every day with incredible zeal. He never forgot Ron Morgan, or the promise he had made to him. He didn't believe in the devil, but if that's what Ron was, the man wasn't going to be taking any chances.

                Slowly, his day of reckoning was approaching. The night before he was set to die, he got his last look out a window.

                It was a hot and dry night, much like the one on which he had met Ron Morgan in the first place. A fog had rolled in as well, although he couldn't tell if it was natural or coming from the asphalt. He took his last look around, and again noticed that again, he didn't feel anything. No fear, no happiness, nothing.

                What a strange life I've lived, he thought with a sigh. A strange life indeed. For the first time in years, he thought of his wife. Despite her death, his memory of her was still tinged with hatred. He only remembered her as a vile woman and didn't regret his decision to do away with her at all.

                A sudden noise from behind him gave him a start.

                He turned. He wasn't surprised to see Ron Morgan standing behind at his cell door.

                "Long time no see," the Man said resignedly. Ron smiled. If possible, he looked even more emaciated, the bones in his arms stand out sharply.

                "Cigarette?" He asked simply, holding out a pack. The man shook his head slowly. "Well, you know why I'm here."

                "To  collect your debt." The Man suddenly remembered something. The night Ron Morgan had first come to meet him, he had been wearing the same trench coat he was wearing now. Its collar had been covered with little droplets of water, like Ron had recently been out in the rain. If the Man remembered correctly, that night had been during one of the driest stretches in that area's history.

                "To collect my debt." Ron took the black box of matches out of his oversized trench coat pocket. He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. He threw the used match on the ground and crushed it with his foot.

                The Man crumpled to the ground. A black fog slid from his body and filled the room. Ron inhaled deeply and smiled.

                His skeletal body began to began to fill out, his suit slowly stretching to fit the way it had been made to. He stood up straight, now looking more like a man of twenty rather than sixty. As the Man's soul was sucked into Ron's body, he became revitalized.

                Satisfied, Ron's eerie grin returned to his face, and he looked around the empty cell. No signs of the man that had once lived there remained. He turned and walked away, leaving the cell door ajar.