Okay, time to turn on my own little psychological autopilot and drive home. Actually, he didn't even think that, he just did it. For five years he'd been doing the same thing every single workday. Climb into the car. Drive home. Five years of habit. So he surprised himself when he stopped in front of the very house Black had wanted him to visit.
Hmm, Freudian slip, I guess. Freudian complete realignment of driving directions. Like a Freudian GPS. Whatever.
He pulled up to the house and sat in his car looking at it for a minute. Contrary to popular belief, despite its being a crime scene, it was not "toilet papered" with yellow and black police tape. It being an entire week since the latest mangled body was pulled from the place, there was no longer even a single news van parked illegally in front of it. The only clue that the place was a crime was a crudely installed hasp and lock on the front door, secured by a padlock. Well, that and the broken window in the front which made the lock the police had installed completely worthless. The broken window was very large, practically what one might call "French doors," and naturally, was not caused by the same events that caused the death. The broken window was just a bit of random mayhem, kids breaking in to wander around, drink in the lovely atmosphere of death and see if there was anything left to steal.
Zucken was a grey Camry with its door open parked in the driveway. That must be Black's. He got out of his car. I'm here, might as well see what game the damsel in distress is playing. Better than another night alone, anyway. Maybe he'd just give her the interview and take her to dinner. He walked up to her car and suddenly felt a little strange to be arriving empty handed. He almost felt like he should have a bouquet of flowers or a bottle of wine with him. It's been a long time since I've been on a date. A generation, an era. Flowers? Really.
He head a familiar ding-ding-ding as he walked up to the open driver's door. The key was in the ignition and the Toyota was politely complaining. Silly girl, she'll run down her battery. He reached in and took the keys out, then he closed the door. This really wasn't the neighborhood for this sort of carelessness.
He walked up to the house. A nice house, large, pinkish-beige stucco, shake roof. It had little turrets and rounded windows, a suburban house aspiring to be a Gothic-inspired Hobbit-hole.
- More to come ---
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
We now interupt this blook to write a short story - Part One
"Look, I went over there and..." The voice on the phone sounded scared. Maybe not genuinely scared, but human, at least. "Come on, I'm a reporter. I'm trained to be skeptical. But it's just...It scared me."
Mark Zucken drummed his fingers on his desk and wondered why he had bothered coming to work today. The voice was only almost human, he thought, but not quite. Maybe snake. Possibly vulture. Could a snake and a vulture breed and create a viable offspring? Of course, how do you think Times reporter are born? Throw in a background of wolf too, the way these reporters loved to pander garbage science to a sheep-like public.
"Professor Zucken, are you there?"
"Sorry, I was wool gathering.” Ha, good one. Sheep. Wool-gathering. “What was your name again, Miss?"
"Constance Black. Anyway, Professor, I'm at the house right now, and there's just something about this place...I wish you come and, well, expose the fraud. That's why I called you. You're famous for debunking paranormal manifestations, and if could debunk this...well," she laughed a little. "If you could debunk this, I'd be relieved."
Hmm, famous. She called me famous. That was a bald attempt to get his help by stroking his ego. As a doctor of psychology, he could see through that ploy. As a post-pubescent high school graduate, he could see through it.
Of course, he was famous. Famous among crack-pots, that is. Crackpots who actually threatened, threatened, him, who would actually send him hateful, misspelled emails because they were offended by his attempts - mere attempts, mind you - to breath some sense into an idiotic public so bereft of meaning and logic that they just rush to believe any silly ghost story that happens along. It was just depressing. People got stupider and more gullible every year...he didn’t think it could get any worse until that one guy, that stalker, five years ago – Oh, God, what that stalker had taken from him? He was a different person before. But now he was a man who did not involve himself in any way with with paranormal anything.
Zucken tucked the phone against his ear with his shoulder and patted down his jacket pockets, looking for cigarettes. Constance was still talking, sounding more and more scared. What an act. She sure had a pretty, sexy snake-vulture-wolf voice, though. Ah, more inducements. Her apparent fear: an appeal to his male instinct to be a hero. And the sexy, young voice? Obviously an appeal to other male instincts. Did they teach this stuff in journalism school, or did she have a minor in marketing as well?
He searched his desk drawers. Two dead spiders and a dusty Baby Ruth bar wouldn't dare eat without first carbon dating, but no cigarettes. He snapped the desk drawer shut. He quit smoking last month.
Black was still talking. Wind her up and watch her go. Actually, it was pretty decent of her not to bring up what happened five years ago. Goodness knows, it had been in the papers enough; she must be aware of his history. Everyone was. Decent? No, wait. She’s just clever enough to know that bringing up that horror would completely alienate him. So she makes up some silly story and tries a different angle to get his help Yeah, yeah, she's at the house and she's scared. Well, if she were really scared, she wouldn't be at the house anymore, now would she? I ought to change my phone extension to a 976 number. If people had to pay to talk garbage to me, the world's sum total of garbage would be reduced.
He suddenly felt a bitter, black hatred stab at him. How dare this damn reporter? Of course, she wanted to interview him. She’d interview him as an expert on her the “paranormal” aspects of these murders, then she’ll sprinkle in the details of the murder five years ago. He almost could see straight for a second. So his private loss and torment was meant to provide entertainment to this lady’s readers? He put his head in his hands for a moment. His hands came away wet. Stupid allergies making his eyes water.
Black was still talking. No wonder bitterness was called “bitter”ness. He could taste bile on the back of his tongue.He cut Black off. “I know this can’t mean much to you, but six people are dead. Do you think it's decent to sell newspapers by puffing up some silly psychic angle?”
“Mr. Zucken, that’s now what I’m trying to do. Please help me—“
Since Constance Black wasn’t there, he had to make due with giving the phone his tradement contemptuous glance. Okay, he was back to himself again. Nicely acerbic, and all wounds healed.
Mr. Zucken, indeed.
“That would be Doctor Zucken, if you don’t mind, thank you. I simply don’t understand wy an educated woman like yourself would pander to a superstitious public. It's one thing when some old mom and pop hotel tries to drum up business by saying they've got a Civil War era..."
He paused a moment. Was there something wrong with her cell phone, or was she actually shrieking like a horror movie vixen? Oh, please. As his students would say, puh--leese.
"As I was saying," What was he saying? Oh, yes, "Saying you've got the ghost of a Civil War soldier, or even the ghost of a pregnant Flapper Girl who threw herself down a well, well, that's one thing, but these deaths, these horrible deaths ..."
Hmm. Actually, did he have a point? So it's okay to market some dusty tourist trap using old deaths, but it's not okay to sell newspapers using deaths that happened last week? Black would probably call him on that bit of fuzzy thinking. If she worked for The Times she wasn't stupid. She didn't sound stupid. Hysterical, but not stupid. Well, maybe a little. Moot point now. Her screaming had reached a crescendo during his peroration and now the phone was dead.
Screams and hangs up. Ooh, I'm so worried and anxious I just better rush over there and save her. What a hack. I'm going home.
--------------
Zucken headed out to the faculty parking lot and got in his red Miata. Sure, it was a midlife crisis car, he thought. He always that that when he saw his shiny car, but he loved it just the same. And why shouldn’t he have a mid-life crises? He was 44 years old. Let’s see, if this is mid-life, then I’m assuming I’m going to live to be 88 years old. How uncharacteristically optimistic. Zucken figured he was probably over due for his midlife crises.
He turned the key and the engine roared to life like it had waiting for him all day and was excited that someone was going to get to be driven. Zucken shifted gears smoothly; he was proud of his skills, although the drive home was so habitual he hardly needed to think about it. It was only just getting dark, still early evening. He’d head home to his home, cook dinner with Dina, help the kids with their homework and then head to the gym and work out. No, no. That was five years ago. Yeah, five years ago. He pressed his lips together and drove on automatically. He used to hate helping the kids with their math homework; it made him feel so inadequate. What he wouldn’t give to be doing some algebra tonight. Or, heck, they’d probably be doing Calculus by now.
Zucken turned on the car radio, loud. Time to stop thinking. It made his allergies act up.
Mark Zucken drummed his fingers on his desk and wondered why he had bothered coming to work today. The voice was only almost human, he thought, but not quite. Maybe snake. Possibly vulture. Could a snake and a vulture breed and create a viable offspring? Of course, how do you think Times reporter are born? Throw in a background of wolf too, the way these reporters loved to pander garbage science to a sheep-like public.
"Professor Zucken, are you there?"
"Sorry, I was wool gathering.” Ha, good one. Sheep. Wool-gathering. “What was your name again, Miss?"
"Constance Black. Anyway, Professor, I'm at the house right now, and there's just something about this place...I wish you come and, well, expose the fraud. That's why I called you. You're famous for debunking paranormal manifestations, and if could debunk this...well," she laughed a little. "If you could debunk this, I'd be relieved."
Hmm, famous. She called me famous. That was a bald attempt to get his help by stroking his ego. As a doctor of psychology, he could see through that ploy. As a post-pubescent high school graduate, he could see through it.
Of course, he was famous. Famous among crack-pots, that is. Crackpots who actually threatened, threatened, him, who would actually send him hateful, misspelled emails because they were offended by his attempts - mere attempts, mind you - to breath some sense into an idiotic public so bereft of meaning and logic that they just rush to believe any silly ghost story that happens along. It was just depressing. People got stupider and more gullible every year...he didn’t think it could get any worse until that one guy, that stalker, five years ago – Oh, God, what that stalker had taken from him? He was a different person before. But now he was a man who did not involve himself in any way with with paranormal anything.
Zucken tucked the phone against his ear with his shoulder and patted down his jacket pockets, looking for cigarettes. Constance was still talking, sounding more and more scared. What an act. She sure had a pretty, sexy snake-vulture-wolf voice, though. Ah, more inducements. Her apparent fear: an appeal to his male instinct to be a hero. And the sexy, young voice? Obviously an appeal to other male instincts. Did they teach this stuff in journalism school, or did she have a minor in marketing as well?
He searched his desk drawers. Two dead spiders and a dusty Baby Ruth bar wouldn't dare eat without first carbon dating, but no cigarettes. He snapped the desk drawer shut. He quit smoking last month.
Black was still talking. Wind her up and watch her go. Actually, it was pretty decent of her not to bring up what happened five years ago. Goodness knows, it had been in the papers enough; she must be aware of his history. Everyone was. Decent? No, wait. She’s just clever enough to know that bringing up that horror would completely alienate him. So she makes up some silly story and tries a different angle to get his help Yeah, yeah, she's at the house and she's scared. Well, if she were really scared, she wouldn't be at the house anymore, now would she? I ought to change my phone extension to a 976 number. If people had to pay to talk garbage to me, the world's sum total of garbage would be reduced.
He suddenly felt a bitter, black hatred stab at him. How dare this damn reporter? Of course, she wanted to interview him. She’d interview him as an expert on her the “paranormal” aspects of these murders, then she’ll sprinkle in the details of the murder five years ago. He almost could see straight for a second. So his private loss and torment was meant to provide entertainment to this lady’s readers? He put his head in his hands for a moment. His hands came away wet. Stupid allergies making his eyes water.
Black was still talking. No wonder bitterness was called “bitter”ness. He could taste bile on the back of his tongue.He cut Black off. “I know this can’t mean much to you, but six people are dead. Do you think it's decent to sell newspapers by puffing up some silly psychic angle?”
“Mr. Zucken, that’s now what I’m trying to do. Please help me—“
Since Constance Black wasn’t there, he had to make due with giving the phone his tradement contemptuous glance. Okay, he was back to himself again. Nicely acerbic, and all wounds healed.
Mr. Zucken, indeed.
“That would be Doctor Zucken, if you don’t mind, thank you. I simply don’t understand wy an educated woman like yourself would pander to a superstitious public. It's one thing when some old mom and pop hotel tries to drum up business by saying they've got a Civil War era..."
He paused a moment. Was there something wrong with her cell phone, or was she actually shrieking like a horror movie vixen? Oh, please. As his students would say, puh--leese.
"As I was saying," What was he saying? Oh, yes, "Saying you've got the ghost of a Civil War soldier, or even the ghost of a pregnant Flapper Girl who threw herself down a well, well, that's one thing, but these deaths, these horrible deaths ..."
Hmm. Actually, did he have a point? So it's okay to market some dusty tourist trap using old deaths, but it's not okay to sell newspapers using deaths that happened last week? Black would probably call him on that bit of fuzzy thinking. If she worked for The Times she wasn't stupid. She didn't sound stupid. Hysterical, but not stupid. Well, maybe a little. Moot point now. Her screaming had reached a crescendo during his peroration and now the phone was dead.
Screams and hangs up. Ooh, I'm so worried and anxious I just better rush over there and save her. What a hack. I'm going home.
--------------
Zucken headed out to the faculty parking lot and got in his red Miata. Sure, it was a midlife crisis car, he thought. He always that that when he saw his shiny car, but he loved it just the same. And why shouldn’t he have a mid-life crises? He was 44 years old. Let’s see, if this is mid-life, then I’m assuming I’m going to live to be 88 years old. How uncharacteristically optimistic. Zucken figured he was probably over due for his midlife crises.
He turned the key and the engine roared to life like it had waiting for him all day and was excited that someone was going to get to be driven. Zucken shifted gears smoothly; he was proud of his skills, although the drive home was so habitual he hardly needed to think about it. It was only just getting dark, still early evening. He’d head home to his home, cook dinner with Dina, help the kids with their homework and then head to the gym and work out. No, no. That was five years ago. Yeah, five years ago. He pressed his lips together and drove on automatically. He used to hate helping the kids with their math homework; it made him feel so inadequate. What he wouldn’t give to be doing some algebra tonight. Or, heck, they’d probably be doing Calculus by now.
Zucken turned on the car radio, loud. Time to stop thinking. It made his allergies act up.
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