I have started a smallish story I would like to share. It is Beyond the Supernatural (hopefully not beyond repair) and a draft.
I do not know whether I can keep this up, if the below is any good or if there is any interest. The first I cannot make any promises on, on the latter two I would love some feedback.
Feeling brave today,
Kind regards,
Hendrik
***
1 - Chief Mulligan
"... Mailman, bring me no more blues,
One little letter is all I can use..."
(Buddy Holly)
The suburban neighbourhood was peaceful, his house clean and lawn neat. The man lay awake in bed and starred at the ceiling. Nothing much happened in his part of town. That had become uncharacteristic starting with the seventies so he should be happy. He was not. Ever since he had turned 67 he could not sleep longer than 4 or 5 hours a night. Too much time for his mind to work. Too many memories of the non-good sort. Too old.
5.30 sharp the alarm clock rang. A dreary sound but one that had lost all of its dread – and promise – ever since Marvin Mulligan had retired from the Army seven years ago.
He got up. Bare feet shuffled over the wooden floor boards and he switched on the coffee machine. On automatic, as every morning. Coffee had been prep’d as every evening. It was inevitable that Chief Mulligan would now get the milk from the front porch. It was likewise inevitable that he would think of his estranged son. As every day, he shook the sentiment off with a characteristic grunt.
He picked up the two milk bottles. He should have changed the order after Penny had died. He had not. He was dimly aware that he could not change the order without admitting that she was really gone. Just the same as he was unable to erase the now useless speed dial with Hogan’s number. Marvin would not use that and it would have to be a cold day in hell for his son to give him a call. He cursed his Irish sense of family, sentimentality and stubbornness wildly. He opened one of the milk bottles and took a large swig and sat down to read yesterday’s newspaper. Nothing is older than yesterday’s paper, his son had “explained” to him. His son speaking down to him had hurt. Journalist. Big newspaper. Famous university. Who did he think had paid for the tuition, the Pope? Reading yesterday’s paper was a small revenge, like telling his son where he could stuff today’s news. Yesterday’s headlines were bad enough. He turned to the sports section. Aside from the now fashionable hyperbole and the drug scandals the sports section made him feel at ease. His team was still there, still middling. He should go to the stadium and watch a game, he thought, but noise and crowds made him nervous, no order. With that thought he remembered the coffee machine. It took its time these days. The thought made him cheer up a little, at least the coffee machine was definitely more calcified then his bones felt sometimes. Marv got his coffee, army mug, 4 sugar, no milk, and sat down in his armchair.
After a while the doorbell rang. Marv was surprised, got up to check the door. Carson the mailmen stood on the porch with an odd manila envelope. “Hey, Marv, great day, huh? Sun is shinning and you got mail.” What’s great about that, thought Marv. Carson needed a shave from crown to chin more badly than the Tasmanian devil to look respectable and his uniform needed a press, preferably with the mailman still inside. “Need my signature, Carson?” “Nope. But I bet it is a legal thing, big city law firm 5 names LLP!” Mr. I cannot wash if it means my life even nodded gravely at that. Snoop! “Perceptive as your mother.” Marv fished a dollar bill out of his pocket, “Here’s a buck, son, get some soap and now get off my porch.” It might have been the complete tonelessness in which the old man had said that, it might have been that Marv could still press 140 lbs. and looked it, but Carson took the bill and left as quickly as he could.
Marvin Mulligan was no longer used to mail, let alone mail from some legal beagles. The envelope was apparently filled good. He did not know the law firm. Come to that he did not know any law firm, let alone from New York. He thought of throwing the thing in the trash right away, rarely did some good come from a legal letter, but some residual curiosity won.
He went inside, took a kitchen knife from one of the drawers and opened the envelope. When he put the knife to the envelope he got the same feeling as with that booby trap in ’82. It is just a letter, get your act together, Marv, he mouthed.
The knife cut the silence of the house as it tore the stiff paper of the envelope with ease. Marv took out the papers inside, a letter lay on top.
When he read the first few lines, he felt faint. The knife clattered to the floor.
***
