Billy Goat Gruff

[Author's note: This is somewhat autobiographical. It takes place around the Providence house on Dante Street where I lived until I was 5. I tried to write it the way I remember thinking.]

I pedaled my new red tricycle around and around the flat patch of cement that was the back yard of our house. On each lap, I dinged the silver bell mounted on the handlebars. My mother was hanging wet laundry on the clothesline – stoop, shake, stretch, peg-peg – and she looked up and smiled. I tried to catch Bernard's eye from where he knelt digging in his little garden. He snapped his old gray head up every time I dinged the bell, but he didn't smile. He just looked.

We lived in a huge castle with three floors. It had balconies like a castle, but I wasn't allowed to play on them because they were too high. And it was owned by a land Lord and a land Lady, just like a real castle. All the other houses on Dante Street had three floors too, but I think ours was the only castle.

My mother said our house had three stories. I liked stories, and my father read me a story every night before bed. The first story in our house was Elsa, and this man she was married to, Pete. Elsa had yellow hair and smiling teeth and was very beautiful. Sometimes, I could hear them play records, slow songs my mother called romantic. I imagined them dancing to the music, and wondered if Pete was kissing Elsa. I would have. You were allowed to touch ladies if you danced slow. I knew how to do the Mexican Hat Dance, which I had seen on our TV, but that was a dance that you did alone, and it was too fast for kissing.

The second story in our house was the best, because it was ours. We had our own door, with a keyhole that you could put the key in and also peek through. We had a kitchen, where we ate, and a living room, where our TV was. My father was a car mechanic, and he came home with the TV one day after work. It was very heavy, and my Uncle Ralph helped him carry it up the stairs. My mother got that frowning face she had when she thought we spent too much money, but Uncle Ralph told her the TV fell off a truck, and she lost her frowning face and pushed Uncle Ralph a little and told him not to do that any more. I think my father must have caught our TV when it fell off the truck, because it wasn't broken at all. That was very lucky. It had a round window about as big as my head, and you could see real people on it, though they were all gray, not like at the movies where they're every color.

The third story was that Bernard lived on the floor above us. I never dared to go up the dark stairs from our door to his. Bernard was eighty, my mother said, which meant he was old. He was big, bigger than my mother, even bigger than my father. His hands were like catcher's mitts. He wore bib overalls every day, and a long-sleeved flannel shirt, even in summer. He had heavy leather work boots with thick soles that would smash me like a corn flake if he ever stepped on me. Sometimes, if I played too loud in our house, he would stomp his big feet, boom-boom, on our ceiling, and my mother would make her shh sound and I would try to be quiet. His face was covered with whiskers as pinchy and white as a toothbrush. He wore a denim apron when he worked in his garden with his tools, which was the only thing he liked in the whole world. I knew that Saint Bernards were big friendly dogs, but this Bernard wasn't a saint and he wasn't friendly. He was a mean old troll, and he lived right upstairs from us.

I learned about mean old trolls from the "Three Billy Goats Gruff" story my father read to me. That story was my favorite. There's a troll who's mean to the billy goats gruff, until the biggest and strongest billy goat gruff knocks him off the bridge into the water. I asked my father if I could have a billy goat gruff to knock Bernard down. He didn't say I could, but he didn't say I couldn't, so I kept thinking about where I could get a billy goat gruff from.

Instead of a billy goat gruff, my father brought me my red tricycle one day after work last week. My mother got her frowning face again, until my father said it was Second Hand. That meant it was a special kind of tricycle that I had to use both hands to steer, and I was always careful and never went near the Street. I liked ringing the bell the best, but that was the part Bernard didn't like at all.

That day when I was riding around, my mother went back in the house to get another basket of laundry. Bernard looked up at me from where he was kneeling in his garden, and said, "That a nice bike, sonny." He thought my name was Sonny. He pointed right at the bell on the handlebars and said, "You be careful or somebody steal it on ya."

Sometimes I couldn't understand what Bernard was saying. He had a deep growly voice and almost no teeth and talked funny. My mother said that was because he came from the Old Country, which was where old people came from. I wondered why he had left the Old Country, and hoped he'd be going back soon.

I couldn't tell why, but what he said scared me. I saw bad guys steal things on TV. My mother and father liked to watch stories where bad guys stole things. Bad guys wore dark suits and hats, and had guns. Good guys caught the bad guys and put them in jail, where they have iron poles so the bad guys can't get out the door. If I was in jail, I could squeeze between the poles because I was very thin. But I still didn't like the bad guys stealing things, and I didn't want them to steal my tricycle. That's why I always kept it right next to the back stairs, which was far from the Street and was very safe.

I thought that maybe I could ask my father to lock my tricycle in the cellar. The cellar was dark and quiet, and chilly even in summer. I didn't like to go down there, because it had spider webs and hiding skeletons. But each floor in our house had its own little room in the cellar to keep things. Bernard kept his special garden tools locked in his room. Elsa, and that man Pete, had a little room, too, probably with married stuff. My father told me that the rooms were made of plywood covered with chicken wire. I had never seen a ply tree, but I think it must be something like an oak. There was an oak tree near the end of Dante Street. I couldn't figure out chicken wire, though. Sometimes I thought it was made of chickens, but when you looked at it, it was iron, not feathers or anything. Or maybe chickens made it, but I didn't think that chickens could do that. It didn't look much like chickens either. Chicken wire was a real mystery.

Anyway, I thought maybe my father could put my tricycle in our little room and lock the door. Then my tricycle would be safe.

But I forgot to ask him.

*****

The next day, I ran down the back stairs to ride my tricycle, but it wasn't there. I didn't know where it was, and I began searching for it. I wondered if maybe my father put it in the cellar after all, but I remembered that I never asked him to. Then I thought that bad guys stole it, and I ran to tell my mother. She came out, drying her hands on a dishtowel, when I told her. She put her hand on my shoulder and we walked all around outside the house looking for it, even near the Street. She kept shaking her head and making a huffing sound.

When we got to the back yard, we saw Bernard there, kneeling in the dirt, digging with his tools. My mother asked him if he had seen my tricycle.

He looked up at us. "Hey, that's no my job. You take more care, not be ding-ding-ding alla time."

"I know it's our responsibility," my mother said, in the slow way that made me scared when I was in trouble. "But we can't find it. Have you seen it?"

He scrunched up his face in a toothless grin and shrugged his big shoulders. "I don't see it all day. Maybe some other kid musta took it, huh?"

My mother stared at him in a scary way. "Maybe," she said. "Come on," she said to me, and guided me toward the house.

I looked back at Bernard. He was back to his garden again, back to his tools. But he raised his head slowly and looked at me with something dark in his eyes. I knew then that he was the one that had taken my tricycle. He wasn't wearing a dark suit or a hat, but Bernard was a bad guy.

*****

When my father got home from work, my mother told him what happened. I watched my father when she told him she thought Bernard might have taken my tricycle. His eyes got squinty and his mouth clamped shut. When he stood up, he had never looked bigger – just like the biggest billy goat gruff. My father opened our door and started upstairs, and my mother ran after him and told him not to do anything foolish. He didn't answer her.

My mother and I stood in the kitchen and listened. We could hear my father talking in a loud voice upstairs. He said something about a kid's bike and hand it over.

Bernard's voice was low and almost laughing. "Why I take kid's bike?" he asked.

I wanted to shout, "It was the bell. He doesn't like the bell." But I didn't, and my father didn't say anything else, either. Then we heard his footsteps, and the door upstairs slammed, and he was coming down the steps.

He frowned at my mother and spread his hands. "What can we do? We don't have any proof. Maybe it wasn't him anyway."

My mother sighed and went into their bedroom. She closed the door.

My father touched me on the shoulder and said, "I'm sorry."

*****

I was sitting in my chair at the kitchen table, kicking my legs back and forth, thinking hard a lot. What I was thinking was: where was my tricycle? Bernard stole it, but where did he put it? He didn't have a car, and he never went anywhere, so he must have hid it in the house or yard someplace.

But if it was outside, I would have seen it. There wasn't any good place to hide things. When we played hide-and-seek in the yard, my mother always found me. In my head, I could see the outside, and I drew a big X over it.

I didn't think it could be on the first floor, either. Elsa, and that man Pete, would tell me fast if they had my tricycle. Elsa liked me, and when she watched me ride my tricycle she would laugh, and touch Pete with her elbow, and then pat her tummy with her hand. I drew an X over the first floor, too.

We sure didn't have it on our second floor. Another big X.

I thought about Bernard on the third floor. He never carried anything upstairs. My mother said, as big as he was, he had a bad back. I thought all of him was bad now, but she meant that he couldn't lift things good. Even when the groceries came, he had the boy from the store bring the bags up for him. If he couldn't even carry his own food, I didn't think he could carry my whole tricycle up. I drew another X.

Then where could it be?

And I thought: the cellar! Maybe Bernard pulled it down the stairs into the cellar, and locked it inside his room there.

I jumped up. I wanted to tell my mother and father where my tricycle was, where Bernard was hiding it. But then I thought: how could we get it? If Bernard locked it up, he sure wouldn't give us the key.

But maybe it wasn't locked right now, maybe only sometimes. I didn't tell my mother and father anything, but I quietly opened our door and walked on my toes down the stairs to the cellar by myself.

It was almost night now, and darker than I'd ever seen it down there. I thought about the skeletons, and tried thinking about Mickey Mouse instead. "Mic-key Mouse," I sang to myself, "Mic-key Mouse."

The light in the cellar was on a string, I remembered. I reached out my hand in the air and moved it around until my fingers touched the string, and I grabbed it and pulled. The bare bulb lit up every bit of the cellar, and I felt a little better. I still kept singing "Mic-key Mouse" though, just in case.

I walked over to Bernard's little room and looked at the door. A heavy iron lock was holding it shut, the kind of lock that takes a key. I poked my finger in the hole and twisted, but it didn't open, and I didn't have a key. I looked up at the door, which was very tall, and then I noticed something: the rooms didn't go all the way up to the ceiling. There was a space at the top, over the plywood-and-chicken-wire wall. I could fit over the top and get inside.

I started climbing up the wall. It was real easy. Chicken wire is good for climbing, because your fingers and toes fit right in. Maybe that's why the chickens like it.

When I got to the top and peeked over, I couldn't see inside the room. The light from the bulb didn’t stretch in there. I let go of the top and fell down, right on some nice soft burlap sacks that Bernard used in his garden.

It was dark in the little room and so quiet that even my own breathing sounded loud. I smelled damp and dirt and something like the little turds Tommy Morton's hamster makes. The light actually did peek in a little between the plywood boards, and after a while I could see better.

The first things I saw were Bernard's special tools, all lying carefully on an old towel near the door. There was a big trunk that looked like a pirate's treasure chest. I wondered if maybe Bernard used to be a pirate. Then I thought maybe not. My gramma had a big trunk like that, and all it had was clothes for ladies. And she wasn't a pirate, either. There was a chest of drawers, and a small table, and some cardboard boxes.

And in the corner was a heavy gray cloth with something underneath. I pulled the cloth up, and there was my tricycle! I smiled and jumped and almost rang the bell on the handlebars, I was so happy. I had been right after all.

Then I thought: how can I get my tricycle out of this room? I pulled and pushed at the door. It didn't open from the inside either, even though there was no lock on this side. I looked up at the top of the wall and gulped. I didn't see how I was going to get even me out of this room, never mind my tricycle too.

I sat down and felt like crying. If I did cry, someone would hear me and come down and find me. They would open the door and see that Bernard had stolen my tricycle.

But then they would see that I had climbed into Bernard's room, and I suddenly thought that maybe I wasn't supposed to do that. And then I remembered I shouldn't even have left our floor without telling my mother or father. I was in trouble! I had to get out of here myself somehow. And then maybe figure out how to get my tricycle too.

I looked all around the room. The boards were right up against the cellar wall. But the wall was all crooked: it had bumps where big rocks stuck out, and other parts where the boards didn't even touch. Down low on one side was a space where maybe I could squeeze through. I hunched down, and stuck my head out. I felt better, just having my head outside the dark little room, and I started wiggling out.

Then I stopped, thinking. My tricycle would never get out through this hole. But maybe there was something else I could take with me.

I crawled back inside the room. I wrapped up Bernard's special tools in the old towel, pushed them through the hole first, and then squeezed through myself.

I hid the towel full of tools outside near the back stairs, where nobody could see them.

When I ran back up to our floor and tiptoed quietly into our kitchen, my mother came in, saw me, and said, "Look at your clothes! I told you not to crawl behind the stove again. Into the tub, young man."

*****

The next morning, I was playing with my cowboys and Indians on the back steps, while my mother hung up more laundry. My cowboy hat was on the ground, near my feet.

Bernard came jumping up the cellar stairs. He was frowning even more than usual, and his hands were shaking.

He saw my mother and yelled, "My tools! She gone! Where my tools?"

My mother stuck one hip out, folded her arms across her chest, and pouted at him. "What's the matter?" she asked, not friendly.

He had to catch his breath a lot, telling her that his tools were missing. He locked them in his little room last night, and today they were gone.

My mother sighed, and said, "Oh, all right. Wait here, and I'll look around the house for you."

She stomped away around the corner of the house, saying something as she went. Bernard just stood there, looking around like he was lost.

I said, "If you help me find my tricycle, I'll help you find your tools."

He gave me a look and waved me away with one of his big hands. "No bother me, Sonny. I'm no foolin' here."

"But I'm real good at finding things. Look at what I found already." I reached under my cowboy hat and pulled out one of his little shovels. "I'll bet I could find the rest. If I got my tricycle back."

He stared at the little shovel and his hands stretched out for it. He looked from me to the shovel and back again. "Where … where …" he said. Then something changed in his eyes as he looked at me. It was like he was trying to smile, but he forgot how.

He licked his lips. "You wait here," he said. "I maybe think where those kids musta took her." He went down the cellar stairs in a jerky fast walk.

My mother was coming around the other side of the house, looking around carefully, when Bernard climbed up from the basement again, this time holding my tricycle. He set it on the ground just as she got to the back yard.

"Mommy," I called. "Bernard found my tricycle!"

She stopped and stared at my tricycle, and then at Bernard.

He wiggled his feet like he had pinching rocks in his big work boots. "I looking for my tools," he said with his toothless smile. "I find he bike in back the fence." He pointed at the fence between our yard and Tommy Morton's.

He was saying a lie. I could tell. I looked at my mother, to see if she could tell, too.

"That's wonderful," my mother said, but like she didn't believe him. "I'm sorry, but I didn't find your tools."

"That's okay, mommy," I said. "I'm gonna help Bernard find them."

"I see," she said, then went up the stairs to the house, looking back at us once from the doorway.

When she was gone, I pulled the old towel out from behind the back stairs.

Bernard scooped up his tools with real happiness, hugging them to his chest. "You good boy," he said, patting me on the head before he hurried over to his garden to dig.

My mother came outside with another basket of her wet clothes. She looked at Bernard digging in his garden with his tools. Then she looked at me. Her face had a funny look as she started to hang up the wet clothes.

I got on my tricycle and took a spin around the cement. I reached for the bell.

Ring, ring!

The Brick

[Author's Note: This is what happens when you read too much H.P. Lovecraft. At least I didn't use the word "eldritch".]

When I stepped off the bus, I turned left instead of right, and that made all the difference. I always automatically turn to the right, walk to the end of a long block, and then proceed left to my office. I still don’t know why I turned left that day, but I thought I could simply bear right and right again at the next corner and everything would be the same. But I was wrong. Nothing was ever the same again.

It was a short distance to the right-branching street, and a short block to the next right turn. I stopped with a shock.

I looked back at the main avenue I had come from, clogged with cars, trucks, and buses in the usual morning snarl, pedestrians of all sorts criss-crossing randomly along the sidewalks. I swiveled warily to face this new street – just one block over from the rush and bustle. There was no one here at all. The street was strangely empty of vehicles, even parked cars, and I was the only living soul in sight.

I began walking the deserted byway. It was refreshing in a way to walk those empty sidewalks, without having to constantly be on guard against colliding with others. It was actually quicker to use this route, I realized. Yet, as I made my way down the long block, I could not stop the rising feeling of disquiet. How could it be that not one other person had found their way to this street? What did they know that I did not?

I reached the end of the block and looked back. The street was still empty. I shook my head, turned back onto the street that led to my solitary office, and continued on my way.

*****

After work that afternoon, I returned the same way that I had come, along that street, curious at what I would find. Not in such a hurry, I noticed my surroundings more. I looked for a street sign, but there was none. I hadn’t noticed that before. A street without a name.

On the left of the street were a fenced parking lot, then a small two-story cinderblock office building, then a wooden storefront, and another fenced parking lot. To my right were a small fenced lot, and a very large red-brick building. In fact, I realized, that brick building took up most of the block on that side. Something about that building caught at my consciousness, but I didn’t grasp exactly what.

None of these buildings appeared to be doing any business for, again, I was alone on the street. No vehicle, parked or moving, and no other person.

Although I was in no hurry, I found myself walking quickly to the end of the street, where I could catch sight of the main avenue again. Jammed with traffic and people as before. I looked back at the street. Empty. No one came there.

It was, I realized, a shunned street.

*****

The next morning I observed these peculiar buildings more closely as I passed. The store was vacant, cobwebs in the windows, dust lying thick on the floor inside. The windows in the small office building were dark and grimy, its entryway carpeted with minute drifts of undisturbed sand. The brick building – the brick building was ancient, dried, and dull. Yet, there was something else about it, something out of place, which I could not put a name to yet.

These places were dead and decaying. Something had sapped the life from them, and from the very street itself. There was something draining about this silent empty street, some deadening force that seemed to lap like a chilling sea at the edge of my consciousness.

*****

On my way home, I perceived for the first time how thoroughly the desolation of the nameless street pervaded. Along the sidewalk on either side there were cracks, just as you can see in any sidewalk in the city. Yet not a single blade of grass grew from any of these cracks. I had never seen such thing before. Always at least one blade of grass poked hopefully upwards toward the sunlight. But this entire street was devoid of green. There was not a weed, tree, or stick along its entire length.

Besides this lack of plant life, another observation insinuated itself in my mind. Birds roamed over every other part of the city, landing where they wanted on buildings or fences. Not here. No pigeon landed here. No bird even flew through the street. No other animal ventured here either. No stray dog. No darting squirrel. Not even an ant. It seemed that every living thing avoided this street, just as people did.

Finally, as I reached the end of the block I felt something or, rather, felt the lack of something. There was no wind in this place. No movement of the air. No breeze to move the dust sifted in the doorways. No breath to disturb the cobwebs in the windows.

In the entire street, I was the only source of movement and life. I began to wonder what had drawn me – and only me – to this deserted and deathly place. What had steered my steps that day – was it only a few days ago?

Before turning back to the living city, I glanced back. For whatever reason, my glance settled on that massive brick building that so overshadowed the entire street. I turned away quickly and left.

*****

The next day my attention was drawn to that brick building. What was there about it that was so disturbing? It was taller than the surroundings, about five stories it seemed, so that it loomed over all. It was also wide, its dominating presence running nearly the length of the street. As I passed, I tried to see how deeply it extended back from the sidewalk. I could just make out its end, and concluded that it must be nearly square.

It was while my gaze was running along its side that I finally noticed , and nearly gasped. I had been looking for a side entrance into the brick building. There was none, which was not so unusual, I rationalized to myself. But I then looked automatically for the front entrance when I realized: there was no front entrance. In fact, as I swept my eyes along the front and side, I could perceive no door, window, or any other break in the continuous brick wall.

I hurried back to the other end of the building and examined it rapidly. There were no doors or windows along that side either. It had been this anomaly, this aberration that had nagged at my consciousness.

I took a slow step backwards into the empty street and surveyed the building inch by inch, left to right, bottom to top. Row upon row, floor upon floor of blank silent brick.

My mind rebelled at the sight. Who constructed a building with no doors or windows? What purpose could such a building serve?

My gaze fell from the vacant, dull façade of the edifice to the still and lifeless street. The emptiness seemed to emanate from the structure somehow. The silence now had an unnerving edge to it.

I flicked a glance back up at the brick building, and then quickly away again. I walked slowly onwards to the end of the street, trying to keep myself from breaking into a run.

*****

In the afternoon, I crossed to the opposite side of the street from the brick building. As I walked, it moved across the sky to eclipse the day’s weak sunlight, drawing me within its shadow. The silent rows of bricks blurred past. I didn’t look back at it.

When I at last reached the main avenue, an eerie possibility occurred to me. Either that building was as empty and lifeless as the street it overhung, or it was not.

*****

On the bus to work the next morning, we halted briefly beside a small forgotten cemetery. My eyes swept idly over the twisted undergrowth and the dull gray stones, silent and inert. As the bus began moving again, I saw a crypt. I turned my head to examine it until the edge of a building blocked it from my view.

The crypt was of plain white stone, dirty now with the years and the city. Green tears from its copper roof had stained the outer walls. There were no windows. There was no door.

I considered this as I turned back in my seat. I had probably passed that cemetery a thousand times in the past. Why had I only noticed it now?

*****

As I walked onto the nameless street, I scrutinized the brick building with careful consideration. Could this possibly be a resting place itself? A crypt?

It was conceivable – barely conceivable. But what could possibly demand such a vast structure? It could not reasonably contain many – occupants. It would take years to fill such a space. In the middle of a city, people would notice such peculiar activity over the years. Besides, there was no door. There was no space where a door might once have been, then since filled in. You couldn’t have traffic in and out of a building over a period of years without a door.

No, if there was no door, then whatever was inside had been put there once, and only once, then sealed forever within mute brick walls.

Yet, was there a door? That was the question now. All seemed to depend on that. If I could find a door, I could dismiss these wild ravings. From what I had seen of the front and sides, I had assumed that there was none, my mind had made that leap, that assumption. But I didn’t know.

I had nearly reached the end of the block when it occurred to me that I had never seen the hidden back of the building. There could be an entrance there, even more than one entrance, and windows. This could well be an ordinary building, a storage company, say, around which I had woven a fantasy with dread and disturbing implications that had no real basis in fact.

I hesitated about how to proceed. I shrank from investigating the back of the building closely. Still, I wanted to know. I had a craving to know, whatever the truth might be.

I retraced my steps to the near corner of the building. The fence of the parking lot beside it was too close to permit walking along that side. I strode deliberately to the farther corner. A narrow walkway led along its side. I steeled myself, then plunged ahead. Tangles of ancient broken fence snatched at me like blind things as I passed, grabbing at my clothes.

The building was fully as large as I had thought, and it took some time before I reached the back at last. I turned its corner expecting – no, hoping – to see people entering and leaving, climbing ordinary steps to everyday doors, a regular array of windows gleaming in the sun. I stopped and stared, breathing heavily.

The back of the building was utterly blank. Rows of bricks, undisturbed for years, weathered, dull, silent, extended along its face. Something like a sob escaped me.

I made my way back to the street, stunned, and then on to work, slowly, heavily, my mind whirling with possibilities.

*****

It was raining that afternoon. I was in too much of a hurry to examine the brick building closely. I didn’t need to see its looming mass with my eyes. It loomed now in my mind.

A building. Built once. Sealed once. Yet, with what inside?

Constructed to house something. Some thing. Bricked up.

Protected? Hidden? Or trapped? Locked away?

What lay within that building?

*****

The next day was clear and sunny, and that may be why I did finally notice it. Previously, I had perceived the building as a whole of brick, all the same, all identical. Yet now it seemed that this was not so.

As I went by the building, scarcely glimpsing it at all in my passage through that desolate street, my eye was drawn to one particular brick. Even now, I cannot say what drew my attention there. Certainly, its color was no different from hundreds of others. It was the size and shape that bricks are. Yet, something was special about it. Out of the hundred thousand bricks in that mass of building, that one commanded notice.

It was slightly to the right of the center of the building, and about five feet from the ground. As I passed, I turned my head to examine that one brick briefly. There was nothing that made it different, but something made it different.

*****

In a way, I couldn’t wait to return that afternoon to the street I now regarded with dread and foreboding. I walked straight toward the building, prepared to be unable to find that one brick, ready to admit that it was all my imagination. But that did not happen.

I was still fifty feet from the building when I saw it, and knew it was the same one I had noticed that morning. I strode directly to it, an action I now think back on with astonishment. I stood and looked at it. Then I moved my gaze to the brick next to it, and tried to convince myself – a little desperately – that it was as noteworthy as the first. I couldn’t do it. The other brick was ordinary. The first brick was not.

I moved right up to the building, one hand actually touching the wall to steady myself. I stared at the brick. It was only a brick. What was there that was special about it?

Without thinking, I reached my fingers up to touch the brick, and immediately stumbled backward and stared. This could not be. This was not possible.

The brick had trembled.

After a long moment, I stepped forward again, cautiously. I drew my hand near and, with a movement that stretched to infinity, placed my fingers against the brick. Once more I felt a trembling, a minute but undeniable vibration in the brick. I had to will myself to keep touching it.

Then I let myself draw my hand away, and very deliberately touched another brick. Nothing. No vibration. I touched the first brick again. A definite quivering.

It was not a constant vibration, like a motor. Nor was it the kind of throb you feel from the city, the bumping of trucks on the road. Instead, it was like some motion originating from within the building. Movement. Stirring. Shuffling.

There was something alive, or rousing itself to life, within that building.

*****

I was glad for the weekend, for the few days away from that street, that building, that brick. I was able to lose myself in other activities.

Even so, my thoughts would relentlessly return there and turn the matter over and over for my consideration. There was a kind of logical unfolding of the thing within my mind, although the screaming illogic of the thing was beyond reason.

This place had been built long ago, that was clear, yet within the time when red brick was used for construction. Within a hundred years, then. There was something inside the building, or else why would it be built? From the uniformity of its façade, it had been built all at once, without doors or windows. Yet, the thing it housed could not have been monstrous to behold at the time, or there would have been some notice taken of the thing, and of the building. The place would be infamous instead of forgotten. Therefore, whatever the building was constructed around was not something shocking in itself.

Then I remembered that little crypt in the cemetery again. An older structure, certainly, far older than the building. An outrageous idea presented itself. What if the red brick building had been erected around something else? Enclosing another building entirely? That inner structure could be very old, even ancient.

I shook my head. Where had that thought come from? Why would I think that? And yet, I did. In my mind’s eye, I could almost see that inner structure, primeval.

Suppose, then, that it was something disturbing. Why wall it up that way? The answer seemed obvious: because you did not want to tear it down or disturb what was within. What was within? Something dead. Something conquered once and thankfully laid to rest. Hidden. Forgotten. Better to make another building as an outer shell, hiding the original.

The original crypt, my mind amended. A crypt on a gigantic scale, surely. Therefore housing either one gigantic entity or many individuals. Ancient, besides. Unknown. But suspected. Oh yes, suspected. And feared. Perhaps justly so.

So, they built the brick building, fading with time to insignificance. A curiosity on a side street, and nothing else. Businesses opened nearby. People came to that street, and worked, and passed by every day. It was ordinary. It was dormant.

Then something happened. The shadow of the building fell across that street. The businesses died. The people left. Life fled.

And now something else had happened. One person had been called to that street. One person’s footsteps had been guided near the building again. One person had been summoned.

Why? Why me? Why did this stream of thoughts and images cascade unwanted, unstoppable, through my mind?

Why me?

To see that brick. That one brick that was identical to every other brick and yet different, somehow different. Trembling. Shuddering with the motion within. Something awakening. Something emerging from long sleep. Something walled up and meant never to be released.

At that moment, I was seized with a frenzy. I wanted to rush out and take a pickax to that brick, to smash through that façade, to take down that wall. But why? To see? To know?

Or to release?

*****

I did not bring a pickax with me on Monday, but perhaps I should have. I walked up to the brick, to give it one look as I passed and then be on my way. But it had moved, and I nearly cried out.

Its right side was pushed slightly out of line. A sifting of mortar dust lay on the bricks below. Something was pressing that brick out from the inside. I gave it one last horrified glance, then broke and ran down the street.

*****

How slowly that day passed. How many times my mind returned to that brick. How I continually turned myself back to my work with deliberation born of desperation. How I longed to never see that street – and that building – and the brick – again.

Still, when it was time to leave, I knew I had to return there. My mind was no longer my own. Something within that building had already reached out and laid its touch upon me. How else these thoughts, these confused and rambling horrors? How else this compulsion to return? To return where I had no desire to be, ever again. I walked like a condemned man and when I reached the turning to the street, it was with immense reluctance and helpless resignation that I gazed along it.

The brick was lying on the sidewalk before me. I stood staring for a long time, and for a long time all I could do was stare. Finally, I took one unwilling step forward. Then another. Against my will, and yet drawn, drawn as surely as if a wire were fastened around my waist, reeling me slowly in.

My steps brought me irresistibly to where the brick lay. I could see where it had struck and scarred the sidewalk. I stood on its red dust. I looked down at it, disbelieving my senses. I stooped and touched it. It no longer vibrated. I grasped the brick and straightened again.

I looked at the brick in my hand. It was so ordinary. That’s when I heard the sound from beside me. I turned and looked straight through the gap left in the wall, straight through to the interior of the building, at what was waiting within.

I did scream then, and tried to cram the brick back into the hole. With all my desperate strength, I shoved against it, but it was being pushed out again by that hideous something far stronger than I was. Finally, shoved loose, the brick fell from my numb fingers, and I looked up again through the opening.

I ran. I ran toward the avenue, to the city, to safety, to sanity. I looked back in time to see the entire front of the building collapse in a deluge of bricks. A shape, partly hidden in the swirl of mortar dust, was uncoiling and emerging. There would be no escape for us this time.

Troublemaker

[Author’s Note: This story was actually published, in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine in May 2002. For some reason, I like stories where people get away with outrageous actions.
As usual, ignore all the embedded links: they go to ads.]

Carl woke at dawn, stretched, and turned off his radio-jamming machine. It was his own invention. All through the night, it transmitted a powerful signal of static that made radio communication impossible for miles around. It was really quite clever, actively seeking real radio sources to tune in and block. No one could trace it to Carl’s apartment, either.

When Carl’s neighbors complained about the strange static that interfered with their radio listening, he would nod and claim that it bothered him, too. Then he would suggest that it might be a government project of some kind. That usually ended the conversation.

He dressed and left his building. He had a busy day planned today. His first stop was the market on the corner.

The shopkeeper smiled at Carl, and he smiled back at her. He was the kind of customer she liked. Always well dressed. Plenty of money for even the most expensive items. Didn’t bother her for help finding anything. And never complained about shortages.

As Carl perused the shelves, he didn’t notice any shortages at first. Ah, butter. There were only two packages left. He took them both. And only one box of a popular cereal. He took that, too.

He paid for his purchases and chatted about the weather while the shopkeeper wrapped everything neatly for him. He thanked her and they exchanged smiles again before he left. He walked around the corner and threw everything away.

He checked his watch. Plenty of time to stop by the coffee shop. He was pleased to notice a large truck parked outside. He glanced into the back of the truck, gave a minute nod, and entered the shop.

He smiled at the waitress and ordered a strudel to take with him. The waitress liked Carl, also. He always took his pastry away, so there was nothing to clean up. And he even gave her a small gratuity, just as if he ate it there.

“Best strudel in town,” Carl told the truck driver drinking coffee at the counter. “You must try it.” And Carl bought the truck driver a strudel. The truck driver thanked him. Carl smiled at him, thanked the waitress, and left the shop.

That should delay him a bit longer, thought Carl. He walked to the front of the truck, out of sight of the shop, and opened the hood. He made an adjustment that took only seconds and closed the hood again. The truck would run for a while, then break down. It would be a puzzling problem for a mechanic to fix. Carl dropped the strudel into a trash bin. He hated strudel.

He was whistling as he mounted the steps to the large government building. Few people were at work this early. At the small stand, he bought a flower. The old woman who ran the stand liked this young man. So handsome. So well-mannered. And not many stopped to buy flowers these days. She arranged the blossom in his buttonhole. He thanked her with a smile and walked to the stairs.

Carl didn’t work in the building. Carl didn’t really have a job, not really. While most of the many workers in the large government building walked up the stairs, Carl walked down them to the basement.

He passed down a long corridor and opened a door at the far end. It was noisy inside from all the machinery. No one was there.

Carl found the main electrical junction box, then followed the large power cables that led from the outside. He found a place where they were scarcely visible, hidden in the shadows near the ceiling. He pulled a crate over so he could stand and reach the cables.

From his pocket, he took a small bottle of acid. He unscrewed it carefully, and used the dropper inside to drip the caustic liquid onto one of the main power cables. The acid hissed as it chewed through the insulation and the metal within. Carl stopped when there was just a slender whisker of wire remaining.

When everyone was at work later in the day, they would use a lot of electricity. This would heat up the wire and it would snap. All the power to the large government building would be lost. When they investigated the cause, they would find a badly corroded power cable.

He got down from the crate, and carefully poured the rest of the bottle of acid along the top of one of the furnaces. No doubt, it would have its effect one day.

Carl left by the rear entrance. He had to walk quickly to reach the train station on time. He bought his ticket for the train on track 6. Another train was preparing to leave on track 2.

Carl studied the posters of wanted criminals that were displayed on the wall of the train station. Then he went to a public telephone, put in a coin, and called the police station. He described one of the wanted criminals in great detail, and said that he had just seen the man board the train on track 2.

He waited a few minutes. While he waited, he dropped something into the coin slot of the public telephone. It looked like a coin, but was actually another of Carl’s little inventions. Once inside the telephone, it would pop open with a coiled spring, piercing parts of the mechanism. The telephone would not work again.

Carl boarded his train. As it left the station, he noted with satisfaction that the police had arrived, had stopped the train on track 2, and were beginning to search it. It was a long train.

His train trip was very enjoyable. He hardly ever got to leave the city these days. The countryside was lovely this time of year.

It took well over an hour to reach the little station. Before he left the train, he placed a small stink bomb on the underside of his seat. It would go off in about twenty minutes, rendering that car of the train unusable.

On the platform of the little station, he bought his return ticket and mailed the letter in his pocket. The letter appeared to come from the exclusive military school for boys located in the same town as the station. However, Carl had written the letter himself. It was addressed to the parents of a boy at the school, and told how his poor grades and questionable behavior made it necessary to consider his expulsion. It set a date and time for the parents to visit the school and meet with the headmaster.

Carl’s train arrived on time and he returned to the city. He spent the rest of the afternoon visiting several tall buildings. On the roof of each building were powerful searchlights that would play about the sky at night. He scattered packages of bird seed around and on the large lights. Soon birds would come to eat the seed and foul the searchlights with their droppings.

When it was dinnertime, he was hungry after his long day. He chose a busy restaurant that was popular with servicemen on leave because it was cheap and the food came fast. He ate a full dinner, including the soup. Before he left, he broke a small glass vial in the coatroom. The vial contained a concentrated strain of influenza. Within days, many of the customers of the restaurant would be sick.

Back at his apartment, Carl read for a while, then prepared for bed. He gazed out his window for a long time. He had an excellent view of the building across the street, swathed in the blood-red banner with the black swastika.

He thought for a few moments about his day. Food shortages. Vital aircraft parts delayed. An entire ministry plunged into darkness and inactivity. Their precious train schedules thrown off. Another public telephone out of service. An important colonel called home. Anti-aircraft searchlights blinded. Soldiers spreading sickness among their units.

He smelled the small flower he had left on his dresser. It had been a good day. He yawned, turned on his radio jammer, and went to bed.

Fluffy

[Author’s note: Our cat turned 14 yesterday. I don’t think he’s ever had an adventure like this, but, if you’ve ever had a cat, you know they can turn up almost anywhere, doing almost anything.]

The sound of the back door opening woke me from a delightful nap in my favorite sunny spot on the floor. I stretched myself on my scratch pole before sauntering down the hall, with my tail in the air, to investigate.

The Woman and The Girl must be coming home to feed me. Yesterday, they left with suitcases, abandoning me to the care of Neighbor Lady next door, who fed me dinner last night. They probably couldn’t wait to get back and see me.

But it wasn’t them. I stared at two strange men, each carrying two leather satchels. One of them, smelling of hamburgers, was saying, “I still don’t like us comin’ here.”

The other one, fragrant with the scent of tuna fish, replied, “Don’t be stupid. This is a perfect hideout. After us robbin’ that bank, the cops’ll be watchin’ every road out of town. My cousin ain’t gonna be back for a week. We’ll just stick here overnight and beat it tomorrow when the heat dies down.”

Hamburger frowned. “But what if someone spots the van?”

Tuna laughed. “Who cares? It’s around the corner, ain’t it? There’s prob’ly a hundred white vans in town. The cops can’t search ‘em all.”

I tried introducing myself, by rubbing Hamburger’s leg and asking for a snack.

“What the – !” he exclaimed, springing back.

“It’s only a cat,” Tuna said. I didn’t like his attitude.

I tried rubbing Tuna’s leg, but he walked away.

“C’mon,” he said. “We’ll stow the money in the cellar.”

They opened the basement door and clumped downstairs, carrying their satchels. I followed, in case they had any snacks. They stuck the bags under the steps and stomped back upstairs again.

I smelled the bags: not food. More like paper. They were shut tight, which was frustrating. They might have left the bags open for me to inspect. I complained loudly, but they didn’t listen.

Back upstairs, I walked around the kitchen. If these two weren’t going to feed me, then who would? Suddenly, I remembered Neighbor Lady. She should be here any time now. I bounded up onto the windowsill to watch for her.

She soon walked over from her house. I jumped down and waited by the door. Wouldn’t she be surprised to meet these two?

Hamburger said, “What’s that cat doing now?”

Tuna moved a window curtain to peek outside. “Holy cow! Somebody’s comin’ to the door. Hide!”

Both men scrambled up to the second floor. They were probably too shy to meet Neighbor Lady. I feel the same way about some people.

A key scratched in the lock, and old Neighbor Lady entered. I greeted her politely.

“Yes, Fluffy, I’ll feed you soon,” she said, showing the proper attitude.

I tried telling her about the two men who were too shy to meet her, but she just said, “Yes, yes. Hush now.” Some people are very poor conversationalists.

She opened a can and scooped Fishy Surprise into my dish. “There you go,” she said.

I was too busy eating to thank her.

She was staring at the basement door. “Hmmm. I could have sworn I shut that door.”

I looked up. If she wasn’t interested in the men, she probably wasn’t interested in their satchels, either. I continued eating.

“Did you open that door, Fluffy?” she asked.

“Not me,” I said. “Ask those men. Hey, here’s one now.”

I could see Tuna walking stealthily along the hall, trying to peek into the kitchen.

Neighbor Lady didn’t notice him. She was still frowning at the basement door.

I walked up to Tuna. “Hi,” I said. “Ready to meet Neighbor Lady?”

He waved his hands at me. I watched his fingers intently. Did he want to play? The Girl sometimes twined yarn around her fingers for me to play with. He backed away, and I followed him, just in case.

Back in the kitchen, Neighbor Lady muttered, “Well, I must have imagined it, Fluffy. You certainly couldn’t open it.”

The basement door slammed, which was disappointing. How could I investigate those bags now?

Tuna had fled upstairs, so I returned to the kitchen. Neighbor Lady was running fresh water into my bowl. “There you go, Fluffy. Have a good night. See you tomorrow.”

I said goodbye and she left, locking the door. Tuna and Hamburger snuck carefully downstairs.

“That was close,” said Hamburger.

“Yeah. I didn’t count on no old lady comin’ over.”

“Let’s keep outta sight until we leave.”

“Good idea,” said Tuna.

They returned upstairs while I had a drink of water. When I followed them afterwards, one bedroom door was locked. I tried calling them, but they told me to go away. Fine houseguests!

I went downstairs to sleep on that comfy couch. Soon I was dozing, dreaming of mice.

*****

Next morning, the men woke me again, getting ready to leave. They brought the leather satchels up and headed for the back door. I was still curious about those bags, so I followed.

They weren’t very quick closing the door, and I slipped outside. They walked along the sidewalk, with me following easily. They opened the back of a white van and put the satchels inside.

When Tuna turned to shut the van’s door, I leapt inside near the bags. He slammed the door, then both men got into the front seat, and we started moving.

Again, I examined the satchels: still tightly closed. I tried gnawing at one of the straps, but it was no use.

Hamburger said, “You see that cop car?”

“They ain’t lookin’ for us now,” said Tuna. “Just drive past.”

They were watching something that I couldn’t see. Wanting to take a look myself, I jumped onto Hamburger’s seat and stepped onto his shoulder.

He screamed and jerked the round thing he was holding. We started moving sideways, straight toward a tree. I jumped off just as we hit it. Both men flew from their seats and cracked into the windows.

The satchels hit the door, and one burst open. Small, greenish papers flew into the air, just as a policeman stuck his head in the window and ordered, “All right. Step out of the vehicle.”

I began chasing the fluttering papers happily. I knew that this visit would be fun!

The idea behind "Stories I Apparently Wrote"

Writing is a funny thing. You start with an idea — zing! — usually while you’re getting out of the shower or making a tricky left turn across traffic. You manage to write it down on a scrap of paper that you probably lose. But the idea still sticks in your mind, and other bits start attaching themselves to it, accreting like flakes to a snowball. Characters. Setting. Dialog. Action. And, yes, the perfect title. Sweet.

The story nags at you, but you’re too busy to write it. It plays over and over in your mind, like a favorite movie scene on a loop. Subtle changes occur. His shirt. Her laugh. Sometimes you wonder where you might have read this story, then you realize: you’ve never read it, nobody has, because you haven’t written it yet.

So, finally, ten uninterrupted minutes appear in your life and you write down the story. Only it takes two hours, and when you finish, it doesn’t seem quite right. Something’s missing. But at least you wrote it down and it’s — yes, remembered — saved in a file somewhere.

The changes develop soon afterwards. Right, he tells her this and she replies that. It’s a melon, not a peach. And what if — yeah! You rewrite and rewrite and rewrite. Successive approximations to that original zing of a thought. You find the scrap of paper and don’t recognize the idea at all. But at least you can toss the note.

Then what? You want people to read it. Because this is communication, not talking to yourself. You want to share this idea. You want someone else to be entertained, to be distracted from the nasty world, to feel that zing. “Hey, listen to this!”

But nobody wants to publish it. Nobody. No magazine. No book publisher. Nobody. “Go away, kid, you bother me.”

So, you give up on that. These days, you don’t need black words on white paper. You don’t have to sneak past the editors and the agents. You can bypass all that and go directly to the readers.

That’s the idea behind this blog. Stories I apparently wrote. Free. Trying to complete the circuit. Looking for readers, no experience necessary.

See what you think.