When the Bones are Good

The door was heavier than I remembered, but the hinges were weak with rust. I leaned in, my body pressed up against the frame and shoved. I stumbled into the room clumsily, gripping the knob still so as not to crash down to the floor. There were tiles missing in the linoleum, and the white, floral white paper had taken on a dingy yellow stain.

I found the lock box in the back corner, stuffed beneath an old tattered, pink armchair wrapped with gold leaf patterns and claw feet. A heavy accumulation of 13 years of dust caked every inch of the room. Every knickknack and every piece of furniture. I tip-toed into the room and crouched down by the edge of the chair, and dragged the box across the floor, plucking it from its hiding place.

“I hope it’s still in here.” I said aloud with a weighing sigh. I knew it would be, after all, I had kept the only key on my person at times over the past decade, and the lock had no evidence of being fiddled with, and the lock box was coated with the same layers of dust as the rest of the room.

I heard no sounds besides that of my own breath. I shivered as I sat crisscrossed on the busted floor, examining each square inch of the box. I squinted when a trail of salty, sweat beads trickled down into my eyes. I peeked over my shoulder and did a quick scan of the room. The tired sun loomed through a single, dusty window.

On the opposite side of the chair, there was a rickety, old wooden nightstand. It had a round tabletop, on top, sat a handsome lamp, designed in resemblance of an oak tree with a dark green shade stained by smoke and age. I smiled at the design and for a second, imagined myself running barefoot and naked through the trees. I could hear the leaves crunch beneath my feet.

In the far corner, across from where I sat, there was a mid-sized, rectangular ottoman. Its color matched the shade of the lamp right down to the stains. I stared for a moment then looked back at the lock box. I lifted the chain with a little, silver key dangling from it over my head and jammed the key into the lock.

“Phew” I exhaled, twisted the key, and popped it open. The dust tickled my nose. I sneezed and bit my tongue in the process. I had a giant glop of snot poking out of my nose and no tissues, so I wiped it on my sleeve and turned my attention back to the contents of the lock box. The air was thick with heat. I wiped the sweat from my brow with a loud sigh. I heard footsteps in the hallway. Were they walking away from me? No. No, the steps were coming towards me.

I swung my backpack around to the front of my body and carefully but quickly, emptied the contents of the lock box into it, locked the box back up and shoved it back into its place beneath the dingy pink armchair. I flung myself and my bag under the bed. The door opened, and I studied the patterns in the cobwebs beneath that dusty old frame as the realtor offered up his sales pitch.

I couldn’t make out the words, but his voice was confident, strong, and persuasive. I’m sure he muttered something about how there are two and half bathrooms in the house plus an enclosed back patio with air vents and heat. I listened to the sound of the trio's footfalls retreating. I listened to the door open and close. Finally, I listened to the lock click tight. I shimmied out from under the bed and brushed the fuzz and dirt from my clothes.

“Aaachoo!” I felt my neck kick back and fling forward with a violent rush and a cold mist spray from my nose. I shook my head, and I remembered my bag was still under the bed. I yanked it out and dusted it off before throwing it over my shoulder and starting for the door.

I stopped in the frame. I admired how the room captured the beauty and warmth of spring. I heard a family of finches singing from the tree just outside the window. I smiled and pulled a box from my pocket. From the box, I pulled a stick which I struck against the box and when the flame was lit, I tossed it onto the bed and closed the door.

I ran down the stairs, pulled my hood over my head, and ran out the door. I ran down the street three blocks. I turned right at the corner of some unknown street, and I ran four blocks more. I ran past Fifth street, but I turned up at Sixth. Finally, after all that running, I made it to my door.

I stuck in my key and gave the handle a little jiggle. I reached for the light switch and stepped inside, locking the door behind me once more. [Phew. I made it.] I thought to myself, and I made my way into the kitchen. I popped a K-cup into the Keurig, added some cream to the cup, and trumped down to the basement.

I set my coffee down on the concrete floor and sat in front of the black sand pentagram. I lit the candles, and I began to recite some ancient gibberish from my great-grandmother's weathered, old, leather-bound book. I stopped. I placed one bone from each man who had stolen my ancestors' land. I continued the incantation once each was in its proper place.

I heard the winds howl and the earth groaned. I jumped as the lightning cracked. I heard the world fall silent as if everyone had taken to the grave at once. I cracked my neck. I listened to the unearthly howl wailing from below. I watched the sickly, long pitch-black arm plunge through the concrete. I covered my ears and grinded my teeth as its dagger-like claws scraped the rocky surface.

I stared into the hollow, glowing orange eyes. The head was almost a perfect circle. Its mouth is a gaping blackhole surrounded by a carousal of razorblade-like teeth. I touched its face with my hand. I leaned in close and touched my own head to the creatures. I felt connected and understood. I shared with it the painful memories of my ancestors. The children who had been raped. The women who had been beaten. The slaves who had been both among other things.

I shared with this creature my pain. I shared my desire for revenge as well. I witnessed my desires transform into a thirst for blood. The sly, lanky, and ambiguous black creature slithered out the window for a midnight hunt.

I woke up and turned on the news. I saw that the grandson of the name who had been acquitted after raping and murdering my great-aunt had been murdered in a brutal home invasion.

“The crime scene is like something out of a horror movie!” uttered Beth Stately from Channel Six news. I looked down to see a strange black cat with striking orange eyes. I smiled.

“Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. Now what did you do?” I winked at the cat, and I could have sworn that he winked back. I made a replica of the room I retrieved from. Saturn, the cat, and I spend a great deal of time together in that room. Reading stories, chowing down snacks, sharing our thoughts, and executing our revenge.