"Peter And The Dead Men" - Page 3

It was like some giant monster had a baby, and the monster kid just stacked his giant toy blocks at random to build what was supposed to be a house, because no sane human would have ever built it.

The wood had lost its paint years ago, and the weathered gray planks crumbled silently in the sun. The shutters were black and peeling. A couple of tall, gnarled trees grew against the side walls, and overgrown bushes spilled out into the knee-high lawn.

It looked like a haunted house. Or an abandoned building. Or both.

“Oh no,” Peter whispered as a look of horror crept over his face.

“Peter, I know it looks…interesting, but it’s a great old place. I grew up here, you know.”

“You made me leave Carlos and Steven and Ben for this? I left my friends so we could live here?”

“Peter, don’t do this. Not now. Not in front of Grandfather. Smile, okay? We’ll talk about it later.”

Peter looked out the windshield, up ahead of the car. There, standing in the overgrown grass by the front steps, was a crazy old man to go with the crazy old house.

He was tall and gangly like a scarecrow, though a well-dressed one: black pants, white long sleeve shirt, gray patterned vest, a tie knotted under his collar. He looked like he was going to church.

But if his clothes looked dressy, his face just looked scary. Wild, piercing eyes blazed from beneath bushy brows. A scraggly white beard sprouted from his cheeks and jaw. He was bald on the front and top, but thin wisps of hair clung to the sides of his head.

Grandfather Flannagan.

Peter had never met him. Grandma Flannagan had flown out to California a couple of times, but she had died when Peter was four. Peter could barely remember her. There were some faded photographs of her smiling in front of their apartment, and equally faded memories of a sweet lady who gave him candy when Mom wasn’t looking.

They had never visited his grandparents’ house here, and Grandfather had never visited them. Suddenly Peter wished one of the two had happened, because if it had, Peter would have fought a lot harder to stay in California.

“Who’s dat scare-wy man?” Beth whimpered.

“He’s not scary…that’s my daddy. He’s nice, you’ll see,” Mom said, though something in her tone wasn’t exactly reassuring.

Peter looked in the mirror and smoothed his sandy brown hair, then looked down to make sure his shirt and shorts didn’t have any ketchup or mustard stains. Normally he wouldn’t have cared less, but something told him he was about to get a military inspection.

Gravel crunched under the tires as the Honda pulled up to the front of the house. Peter watched uneasily as the old man peered inside the car, straight at Peter’s face.

Mom was the first out. “Hello, Dad.” She smiled, and gave him a little hug.

“Mrm” was his only reply.

She opened the car’s back door and unbuckled the kiddie seat. “This is Beth. Um, don’t mind the bathing suit."

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Copyright © 2008 Darren Pillsbury. All rights reserved.