Author's note: I know this series is a bit slow for some of you, but I will tell this story how I want to tell it.
*
By the stairs, between the kitchen facing the street and where I hid, a figure stood hidden in the shadows. It was hard to tell decisively as the form was shrouded in darkness, making any shape seem ominous to begin with, but what gave it away as someone rather than something, was the fact that I saw its glittering eyes staring right at me. And those eyes stared right into my soul as all color left my face, and as a gripping feeling enveloped me from the inside. It was faint and hard to gauge, but it was there. And paralyzed where I sat, I stared right back. I had been scared before, but nothing ever made me as frightened as when I sat behind the dusty old sofa while being watched by this creature here in the dark. Alone with a dark silhouette piercing into me with its gaze.
By how it stood, the figure seemed like it was on its way somewhere, but had stopped dead in its tracks as it saw me. Did it hope I didn't notice? Was it scared like me? Or just startled? What was it even? Was it even human? It looked to be taller than me by the height of its eyes.
"Hey, you boys need to fuck off," I heard a rough voice outside bark at who I presumed was Zach and Jeremy out back. My eyes darted toward the window for a split second, but as I turned back, the figure was gone. Had it ever been there in the first place?
"Whatever, old man," I heard Zach say, but with a small peek I saw the two boys walk away from the house, probably towards the party again. Safe. For now.
As I came out from my hiding spot I once again looked toward the stairs, but nothing was there now either. Curious. I stood between the TV room and the kitchen and tried to peek up the stairs, only to see more darkness. But I didn't dare to make any sort of attempt to go up. No fucking way.
The back door suddenly swung open and Pete, the homeless man I had spoken with before, came stumbling inside. I guess I had been hiding behind where he slept, judging from the blanket and the pillow discarded on the sofa. Pete immediately looked at me but didn't really look surprised nor did he say anything about me being here. He just came walking over, studying me a bit as he slumped down on the sofa.
"You shouldn't be in here," he said, taking his eyes off of me to take off his big jacket.
"I know, sorry. I'll get out," I said, moving toward the front door, and passing the stairs on my way. A small shiver ran through me at the thought of that menacing shadow I had seen earlier. But it was just a shadow, I had to know that.
And as I got closer, I saw a hat stand and a long coat just hanging where the figure had been. My own fear had played a trick on me. I was relieved, to say the least. I also noticed that there was also a door under the stairs, probably leading down to a cellar. Cool air from the basement could explain the movements in the curtains, in addition to wind from broken windows and ragged walls.
"How come you live in here?" I asked out of nowhere.
"I like it here, and somebody gotta take care of the cat," he replied, looking over at me with those kind green eyes. He looked so much like the sage old wise man, though a bit rougher. It didn't feel great that life had found him with ill will.
"You know the people who own it?" I asked. When he eyed me suspiciously I quickly added, "I mean, just curious. It's been here for so long and has always looked like it's a brisk wind away from falling down."
"You're right. It can come down any minute. It's not safe here, so you should get out," Pete insisted. It wasn't meant as a threat, nor as an excuse to get me out of here and leave him alone, but oddly enough as a warning.
"What about you?" I asked.
"What about me?" he asked back.
"Pete!" I heard Dad from outside. Pete sighed heavily.
"Dutiful man, your Paps," he chuckled, his voice as rough and rusty as the wrought iron fence out back. "Good man. You're very much like him. You may not see
me
a whole lot, but as the town's local hobo,
I
see a lot."
"How come you've ended like this?" I asked. The old man didn't seem offended. He just shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't fit in anywhere else," he said, easy as can be.
"Pete. It's not safe in there!" Dad called.
"We better get out and talk to your dad," Pete said. I nodded, giving him a hand out of the sofa.
Pete shoved the heavy front door open, letting me out first. I saw the slight surprise on Dad's face.
"Logan?" he asked, looking at his watch. "You're home early. What you doing in there?"
"Erh, I figured I'd take a shortcut through the house on my way home," I said. Bullshit excuse. No one ever went into that house. For any reason. I knew at least a dozen footballs and baseballs had been left in there. Even brand-new ones.
Dad eyed me suspiciously, but let it slide. I guess he was glad I was home, and even earlier than he'd expected. Pete gave me a friendly double tap on the shoulder, and let me go on my way as the two men remained and chatted for a bit.
*
The day after was like most Saturdays. I had long since read Lord of the Rings for the fourth time, so I spent my first hour awake rewatching the last part of Stardust, one of my favorite movies. Soon the smell of corn cakes and bacon grease filled my nostrils, and I figured it was time to head on down to join breakfast. Did I mention Mom was the best cook to ever walk this earth? Well, she is. My grandmother was southern on my mom's side, and my grandpa was Italian, so the cuisine at home was quite tasty. To make it better, my mom had both French and Irish in her. A lot of tasty recipes have been passed down through generations.
