Odd Things
By Richard Tabaka
Copyright© 2014 Richard Tabaka
No part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the Author. Your support of author’s rights is appreciated. All characters in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The sudden knock on her door startled Kay out of the trance-like state she'd been in as she daydreamed her way through the women's magazine she'd been reading. Sitting at the small kitchen table her thoughts were of decorating the new house she wished her family could move to, a place she could truly call home. She hated this house. The layout was good, the size was fine, the location wasn't bad, but she had never really felt comfortable here. There always seemed to be such a, crypt-like coldness to this place. It held all the comfort of a gravestone. Looking upon the walls she saw only the cold, gray light of the Winter's day that filtered in through the windows as the sun rode a low line across the southern sky. She thought back to the day she'd selected the color for this room at the local home improvement store, olive sage it said on the color strip, soft, warm, not too dark. The house now seemed to consume all those wonderful qualities from that color leaving behind only a lifeless drab. As her fiftieth birthday loomed, she wanted only to move from this place and the constant pall she felt here. Sliding her chair out, her thick stockings unable to ward off the chill of the icy linoleum floor, Kay heard the knock once again, perhaps a little less pronounced than the first. Probably just a religious group out searching for the faithful or perhaps a sinner to convert, she thought, missionaries of an ever dwindling army, braving the cold Winter day to spread the word of God and the promise of salvation.
She glanced out the small, clear, glass portal in the center of the stain glass oval that was the window of her front door and saw a man, she guessed to be about her same age, huddled on the porch as the wind driven snow swirled about, flakes chasing flakes in a frozen waltz while a few took rest on his collar and hat. A black Fedora hat that sat neatly atop his bespectacled head, a Borsalino like her father used to wear in the 60's, the kind of hat few men wore anymore, and a dark knit scarf wrapped once around his neck and tucked neatly into his black woolen over-coat. She didn't recognize him but he looked harmless enough as he waited patiently out in the cold December snow. With that she opened the door feeling the, icy, unwanted draft as it scurried past her without welcome.
"Yes, can I help you? She asked as she remained sheltered behind the cold steel cased door.
"Oh, hi," the man replied as if startled that someone had actually answered the door, "I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time?"
"What is it that you want?"
"Forgive me," he started as if searching for the words, his gaze drifted down, across his slender, hooked nose, for a moment before returning to her eyes, "I'm Harold Meachem, I used to live here long ago. I've come past here a lot and wanted to stop before. You'll probably think that I'm crazy," he paused, "but I have to ask. Do you like it here?"
Kay paused not knowing what to say, it seemed an odd question. There was no sales offer or plea to redeem her soul but the question had relevance. Before she could form an answer he continued.
"What I meant to say is...do you ever experience anything...odd around here?"
The question might have struck another person as odd indeed had Kay not experienced so many bizarre moments these past two years. Her house had been nothing if not "odd" since the day they moved in. It taunted and teased and, on more than one occasion, terrified her, as if it wished her to go mad or simply leave without question. This house was never a home but left her feeling more like an unwanted guest who, having overstayed their welcome, couldn't be cast aside soon enough. She felt a quiver of excitement deep in her chest.
She watched her breath as it rolled out in a cloud and spoke, "It's freezing out, please, come in Mr. Meachem?" Kay opened the door further and stepped to one side.
"I really don't want to be a bother Miss," he replied, stepping across the threshold.
"Please, I'd like to talk to you if you have a few minutes. Meachem? That name sounds familiar."
She closed the door as Harold Meachem stepped in onto the rug and took off his gloves and loosened his coat. The white flakes of snow seemed resistant to the warmer air inside, remaining stoic and frozen on his lapels and upon his hat.
"Sure is a bitter wind out there," she said, "My name is Kay, by the way. If you'd like you can just take off your shoes and I'll make us some fresh, hot coffee."
"Oh that sounds wonderful," he answered as he slipped off a pair of rubber overshoes and set them neatly aside.
"I didn't even know that they still made those," Kay said, looking down, "my father always wore those."
"I'm a bit old fashioned I guess," Mr. Meachem offered in his defense.
"Please, let me hang your coat," Kay offered, surprised that his glasses had yet to fog over. The thick, black frames suggested authority, a teacher perhaps.
"Oh, thank you," he replied as he slipped off his coat and hat.
Kay place them neatly on a hook nearest the door and led the way to the kitchen with Mr. Meachem in tow and motioned toward the table. "Please, have a seat."
As Harold Meachem sat down in quiet repose, Kay busied herself with the coffee maker and fetched a pair of cups from the cupboard closest the sink, rising slightly onto her toes as she did.
"Can I take your scarf Mr. Meachem?" Kay asked noting that he still kept it wrapped tightly around his neck.
"Oh, no thank you. Perhaps after I warm up a bit," he said raising his hand to his throat and resting it there briefly.
"You asked if anything odd ever happens here? I take it you had your share of experiences too. The answer, Mr. Meachem, is yes. Odd isn't the half of this house."
"Please, call me Harold," he said shifting slightly in his chair, as he crossed one leg over the other, "what kinds of things happen here?"
"Doors open with no explanation," Kay said as she glanced his way, studying his face to see how he might react. He returned her stare without expression.
"The attic door I'd wager," Harold replied as though reminiscing.
Kay's pulse quickened. "Yes, the attic door. How did you know?"
"Has the basement door over there ever slammed shut in the middle of the night?" Harold asked as he nodded toward it.
"Yes, yes it has," Kay answered sensing what she thought verged on fear in his eyes. The coffee maker gurgled, chuckled and softly hissed forth a fragrant aroma as steam rose lazily above it, drifting in gossamer wisps before returning to the ether. Kay sat down across from Harold and looked into his timid eyes. Eyes that hinted at hidden knowledge. She wanted to know more, much more. "My husband thinks I'm crazy. Not really crazy but...he doesn't believe. He thinks I'm just easily spooked and imagining things. He'll be home soon. Perhaps you could stay long enough to meet him. To tell him what you've just told me. Please?"
"He won't get angry with me, will he?" Harold asked.
"No. He's a good man and gentle too. He just doesn't believe in..." Kay's voice trailed as if she weren't allowed to say the word.
"Ghosts?" Harold Meachem finished her sentence for her.
"Did you ever see one here?" Kay inquired further.
"No. But they're around to be sure, of that I'm certain. There was a murder here long ago. More than one in fact."
Kay rose from the table, her heart beat pounding faster having heard his words. She walked over to pour the coffee. Lifting the pot from the coffee maker,
she turned to pour some into the cups but the counter was bare.
"They'll most likely return in a day or two," Harold said as if he knew what was on her mind. "Little things always disappear and return in the same place a day or two later. Don't they?"
"Yes. Sometimes they come back in a different room and on occasion they never return. But you knew that before you asked. Didn't you?" Kay asked, feeling a step out of time, that odd feeling you get when the flu is about to strike you, that dreadful, quiet, stillness that hangs over the body like an unseen shadow.
"Yes, I suppose I did," Harold answered flatly.
Kay brought down two new cups and filled them with hot coffee and set one down in front of Harold Meachem. She filled a saucer with a dozen or so cookies from a brightly colored package on the counter and set them down on the table between them.
Harold Meachem held the cup with both hands as if to savor the warmth, hunching forward slightly as his gaze turned toward the table. He returned the cup to the saucer without drinking but kept his hands wrapped around it. "The basement gives you the creeps too. Especially the bathroom and that old cellar room just off to the right of the steps. That cellar was where the first murder took place. And years later an artist killed his wife there too. Overcome with grief he was found a few days later, hanging in the attic. I often think that evil has a