Derelict

A very long story (unfinished); please mind the paragraph and spacing

                                           1

When Gordon Swanson first laid eyes on the house that sat in dereliction atop Distant Knolls, he knew at once that this will be his temporary residence.  As ramshackle and deteriorated as it was, it certainly fitted Gordon’s specifications on the place. After all, how could a rising horror novelist such as himself receive inspiration if he lived in a fancy duplex in the middle of a bustling metropolis? No ideas creeping in from there, except for the occasional breaking and entering or a few gun-related murders. To Gordon, that was just as simple as child’s play. Not enough gore.

He stalled his aging red Thunderbird nearest the peak of one of the hills, the car choking and farting up oily black exhaust, and stepped out. The sun was high up in the sky, partially concealed behind gloomy cumulus clouds, which was satisfactory since it was practically scorching out here in North Carolina. He was dressed in bland business attire, all grey except for his white button-down shirt, black tie and dark aviator sunglasses; appropriate for the book signing he was about to attend  when he just so happened to drop by this eerily serene place.                                                         The heat of the day struck him like a ton of bricks when he stepped out of the air-conditioned Thunderbird to get a better look of the house (the air conditioning seemed to be the only thing that worked properly in the whole damned contraption anyways). Immediately, small beads of sweat began to trickle from his hairline and stream down his face. He swiped at them with the sleeves of his coat as he made his way up the grassy dirt road to the top of the hill. He was inwardly glad to have bought that deodorant back home at Groveland. He did not want to be stinking and sweating out the pits come one o’clock.                                               The sun had sneaked back into the hazy blue sky, its rays of brilliant shine and summer almost as cruel as the Mongolian sun that occupied the deserts, beating down upon the nape of his neck, burning it slightly. Summer here was a total b***h, and Gordon would’ve gladly preferred the cool Colorado weather any day instead of this.                                                     He arrived at the top at last, squinting through the glare in his dark sunglasses to take a gander at this abode that had so enchantingly captured his attention. He had heard of the LaVerra place before, and from numerous sources. He knew that skeptics and journalists claimed it to be haunted, but, skeptical as Gordon was, he thought it acceptable to at least spend a night or two in this reputedly “haunted” abode.  After all, he is a rising horror writer, and after all, it did pose as quite an amiable place to write a book.                                                     The house itself wasn’t a total dilapidation, but it was acceptable. Surrounded entirely by evergreen spruce and pine, thin vines of blooming jasmine slithered up the eroding brick walls like dark green snakes, and enveloping the windows, which were for some reason boarded with large strips of plywood, already brown and apparently rotting. The lawn itself was overgrown with jungles of grass, high and sweeping in the weak breezes that rolled through the arid atmosphere, and somewhere beneath all that vegetation Gordon scented the reeking stench of decay. It brought back memories of when he was just a boy, scouting through his backyard at his grandfather’s place in Nebraska and discovering the rotting carcasses of recently deceased lizards and grass snakes. Gordon assumed that the corpse of a grass snake or something of the other lay decomposing in the front yard, and he wrinkled his nose.                            The lawn, however, was encompassed by a high brick wall about three feet in height wrapping around the perimeter of the property in an almost perfect square. This seemed to be the only thing that hadn’t survived the years as LaVerra seemed to do. It was cracked and crumbly and in some places collapsed altogether, like a juggernaut had been tossed at it while taking half of the wall along for the ride. The place where the entrance was supposed to be had also been invaded by grass, with the small wrought-iron gate swinging noisily on rusted hinges.       Bits and pieces of dark-red brick were scattered helter-skelter, some barely exposed due to the invasion of the meadow-like grass. Small lizards and bugs skittered along the broken masses, but Gordon had lost his interest in the wall. His gaze had floated, as if by magic, to the house itself. Almost a quarter of a century old (at least ninety percent of that was abandonment), it seemed to glare at this carbon-based human with sinister malice. He stared back up at this marvel.  To him the north side resembled a face, the boarded windows posing as dark-brown eyes, the peeling white-washed door a mouth, calm but chillingly corrupt as the afternoon sun cast dark shadows from the rotting eaves onto the awning above the dirty front porch.                                    A frigid chill spiraled up Gordon’s back, and he shivered. Despite the heat of the day, the thought of the house caused him to break out in gooseflesh underneath the soft cotton of his suit. He smiled thinly, rubbing his arms with his hands to circulate warmth, although the sun was now doing that perfectly. He was going to abide in this abandoned property, no matter what the costs and as soon as possible, and in it he will write his best-selling novel. It was going to be scary, and it will make him rich.                      A slight breeze picked up as Gordon turned to retreat back to his car. He was going to be late for his book signing if he didn’t pick up the pace and---          Something had caught his eye as he was turning to leave. He thought that he had seen something. Something pale-white, lurking in the tall quivering grass like a cat awaiting a possible ambush.  It looked like---no, it couldn’t be. It looked like something repulsive, something human, like an arm or a leg or possibly a---                                                            No, there was nothing in the grass, nothing at all; at least not human.             A trifle bit confused, he shook his head and resumed his departure to his old Thunderbird. As he approached it his eyes slid over his shoulders, back to the house. It sat there like a sentinel guarding something suspicious, something acrid, its “face” staring blankly out at the dark-green pines and spruces.                                  As if it was snarling.                            Gordon brushed the thought away with another quick shake of his head, forcing himself to think of his book signing. He was thinking rubbish. Too much horror fiction and bogus research had gotten to his head, that’s all. It had led him to visit this place; it had led him to believe it all, to think it was all true.   Pull yourself together dude, he thought to himself, just pull yourself together and get a move on.                                He slid back into his car and started the engine. He set it into drive and made his way up and over the hill, with slight difficulty. But when he had passed the house in his rambling sports car, his eyes drifted to the rearview mirror to where the house’s refection vibrated and quivered with the unlevel dirt road. It remained staring at the pines and spruces.                  Staring, snarling. Am I thinking like a crazy man?                                    He shook his head fiercely, forcing himself to keep his eyes glued to the road. He reached the end and hung a left, down another dirt road and traveled the two miles to the small town of Harrison. He tried unsuccessfully to think of something else besides the house, something less creepy. Hell, creepy was his career, for God’s sake!                                                  As he rounded out of sight of the hills themselves and onto the main road (this one not being composed of dirt, thankfully), the thought that he had seen something pale-white lurking in the grass recurred. He pushed it away for what seemed the thousandth time and coasted downhill into Harrison.                 It’s going to be a long day, he thought glumly. Just like old times.                                        He was definitely right about that.                           

 

 

                      _                              _                            _

 

 

 

                Harrison sat directly on the edge of the North and South Carolina border like a top on the edge of a wood table. It just spun its businesses (however small they were) and tried its best to stay spinning, despite the apparent success of other businesses in nearby Greenville. Frequent visitors to this humble town hadn’t stayed very long; they’d pause for a quick bite to eat at Mary’s Grille and Pub, maybe stay for a night at a Ramada Inn, or get a crew cut for seven bucks at Bobby Stevenson’s barber shop. Not much to do but eat waffles, get gasoline, a place to eat and sleep.  The town was small, but it didn’t stop from producing local fans of legendary Gordon Swanson’s psychological and supernatural horror recipes. So when Gordon arrived at Terraces Plaza and Supermarket, he hadn’t been very surprised to see quite a long line of locals waiting outside the fabled World Books Booksellers and Traders.                            Parking his aged Thunderbird into a parking space at the very back of the supermarket farthest from the entrance, Gordon was glad not to be hit by the blinding sun and overbearingly scorching midday heat. Instead, he opened his doors to a darkening sky filled with what seemed to be mile-high storm clouds. The air was calm and slightly warm, and that age-old phrase about the calm before the storm randomly popped into his brain. Odd as it was, he was used to things popping up into his head at odd times and in odd places.                                                     He ambled across the lengthy parking lot for what seemed to be nearly five minutes. When he was less than twentty yards away from the anxious crowd, their edginess began to stir and boil. Here was their idol, the one that kept them up most nights with cold chills and fears of asylums and dark, shadowy places.                                 “Look, there’s the guy! There he is mommy!” someone, a child probably, exclaimed.                                      “That’s him! That’s Gordon Swanson!” another announced to the person behind him. Soon the entire line from end to end broke the news of the final arrival of local superstar Swanson before he had even reached the glass double-doors to World Books. The motto in a small town like this was true; news certainly spread like wildfires.                                                                 “Hello, hello,” he said as casually as he could when he came within earshot of the amazed and baffled crowd. Already people were gently reaching out to touch him; an obese woman clutched her ample chest as if she had just overdosed on cholesterol, a few very young girls gasped and slapped their tiny little hands to their mouths, and farmers and truckers alike in their twenties and late fifties announced that they were a “big fan”, extending their large, muscular hands in hopes of receiving some intellectual good luck from this celebrity. Gordon smiled within himself. It wasn’t very often that his book received this much love from interested fans, and to be honest he quite enjoyed the attention. He paused at the opaque glass double-doors with his fingers curled neatly around the door handle and looked at his fans. They ogled him with wide-eyes, smiles and open mouths; Gordon wasn’t surprised they hadn’t yet mobbed him like they did Alexander Dumas when he wrote The Three Musketeers. He grinned broadly and ushered a small warning:                     “Looks like it’s going to rain, folks. Might want to stop by Dollar Mania and pick yourselves up an umbrella so that you don’t get a shower out in public with your clothes on.” A small fit of chuckles and laughter erupted from the crowd at this little joke, and satisfied, Gordon pulled open the door to the bookstore and walked in.                   As he emerged from the gaining storm outside and the patient people awaiting with their books clutched in their fingers, Gordon was struck speechless by the almost superb silence and peacefulness within the bookstore. There was a strong smell of cinnamon lingering in the air that filled his nostrils and made his eyes water. He blinked once and another thing struck him: the amount of paperback novels in here was astounding. There were books stacked horizontally on one shelf that reached nearly all the way to the ceiling. It stretched from the entrance of the store to way back at the end, where another entire wall was stacked to the ceiling and wall to wall with paperbacks of every color, size, and proportion. To make things better, there were aisles that ran the length of the store in an almost labyrinth-like design.  And, what had happened to be atop those shelves---you guessed it, more books.                               Gordon raised his eyebrows in astonishment. There were very few people in here, but sooner or later it would be jam-packed with locals wanting to chat with this horror novelist and get their books signed and get the hell out of here.  All of this had taken a mere seven seconds.    He craned his neck to look around the aisles. He happened to notice a giant white posterboard resting on an easel with a bright message painted in giant red letters. It read:

 

                      WORLD BOOKS BOOKSELLERS AND TRADERS                             PROUDLY WELCOMES                                                  GORDON W. SWANSON                                               TO SIGN HIS BESTSELLING NOVELS AND          MEET THE FANS!                             TODAY 1 P.M-4 P.M.                                                            DON’T BE LATE!                                

Behind this poster board a small desk sat with a swivel chair tucked neatly behind it. On top of the pitifully small desk a stack of Gordon’s second novel, Misty River, resided with two ballpoint pens resting on the front flap. And what happened to be juxtaposed to the desk in large cardboard boxes, tops open: you guessed it, more of his thinly unsuccessful novel.                                      Gordon glanced at his watch. It was now ten minutes to one, and he had a lot of signing to do by the looks. He walked the short distance to the cashier’s desk on his right to where a frail old woman in a lavender cardigan sweater sat with a Stephen King novel open in her hands. She wore horn-rimmed glasses and her white hair was tightened into a fierce bun with a silk lavender ribbon. She looked up when Gordon approached, and a wan smile crossed her sly face.            “Well I’ll be,” she said cheerily, “if it isn’t the famous writer Gordon Swanson.” She extended her hand and Gordon took it. It quivered slightly in his hand, limp and weak.  “I’m quite a fan of your first book, Mr. Swanson. Actually quite fond of a few scares myself, you know.” She tapped the front flap of the King novel she was previously reading and offered him a small wink. Gordon smiled thinly. This frail old woman was quite the character.                                “I’m flattered, miss---“                       “Terry,” she finished. “Margarie Terry, proprietor of this rather smelly establishment.”                                    “Ms. Terry, my pleasure in meeting you.” He offered his most sincere smile.             “Same,” she replied evenly, emerging from behind the counter and leading Gordon to the back of the store, still clutching his hand in her own. Gordon felt inwardly disgusted at how frail and bat-like it was, crisscrossed with thick, bluish-green veins and fingers like stubby claws with unusually white fingernails like knives. Gordon found himself intrigued by these metaphors, storing it in the back of his mind so that he could pick it out and use it later in a chapter or two of his book-in-progress.                                  As if she was reading his mind, the batty Ms. Terry spoke up. “So I’ve heard you’re starting on a new book Mr. Swanson. Good stuff, I assume, good stuff.”               “Uh, yeah, of course. I haven’t yet begun with it, but I’m positive that it’s going to go pretty smoothly once I get it out of the back of my mind. How’d you know?”                      Ms. Terry was still leading him to the back of the store when she looked up at him and smiled her own wan smile.       “Writers always come out with another book of some sort after their first one hits the markets. It’s natural. I mean look at all the wonderful writers we have stashed to the ceiling in here. It’s amazing.” She motioned to the multitude of books.  “Everyone in here is a winner, Mr. Swanson. You should know that.” Gordon could only shrug. “Of course, that’s true. I guess.” They had arrived at the tiny desk and Gordon walked around it, sitting down in the elfish black swivel chair. He squirmed around in it a little bit, moving left and right to seat himself comfortably enough to last a few hours. Ms. Terry, who stood on his left with her arms wrapped about her chest and that annoying smile slapped across her face, asked Gordon if he was okay with selection.                             “Yes, fine thank you. Just a little too tall, that’s all.”                                  “Then I will see you in a little while, then?”                                                “Yes, yes. Wait---don’t you want me to sign a book for you?” he asked as she turned to leave. She looked back over her shoulder and said, in a sweet tone of voice Gordon found instantly annoying, “No thank you, Mr. Swanson. I’m not that big of a fan.” She returned to her counter and left Gordon to sit behind the desk with his books and the pen in his hand, slightly confused as the first of the locals piled into the bookstore.                            It was going to be a long day indeed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

2

 

 

                By the time the book signing was over, Gordon’s hand could barely write more than a scribble on what seemed to be the thousandth flyleaf; he was already feeling drawn and tired. Moreover, he had been both surprised and amazed at how many people had shown up with wet umbrellas hanging from their wrists, hardback versions of his first novel clenched tightly in their eager, impatient hands. He hadn’t expected nearly half of the small town to show up; hell, he hadn’t expected that many copies of his book to be in the hands of these nice, pleasant people. But hey, he couldn’t complain; it was his first book ever and he was genuinely proud of it being so popular here in happy little Harrison.                                          “Great book Mr. Swanson. Absolutely loved it; no questions asked,” an old man of about seventy in a green sweater and khaki shorts replied. He smiled a big, denture-filled smile that somewhat irritated Gordon. He shook hands with the man (whose name was David Shrapnell, two L’s), signed the book and gave it back.                                     “You are now my biggest fan, Mr. Gordon,” a woman of about the same age as David Shrapnell stated. She donned a purple sweater-vest with what looked like a freshly-plucked jasmine bud pinned to one of the breast pockets.                                                                                                 “It’s my pleasure, Mrs…?”                                             “Oh, it’s Gretchen. Dorris Gretchen. Two r’s.”                                          Scribble, scribble, Gordon thought to himself sourly. Cross the t’s, dot the I’s and get hell out of here.                             “Here you go, Miss Gretchen. From my hand to yours.” The old lady clapped her hand to her thin chest and smiled. “Oh, aren’t you just a dear!” She left Gordon feeling slightly awkward. He shook his head and moved on to the next person, a girl of about sixteen with a bosom the size of Kansas.                                     Finally, the signing was over and as most of the townsfolk returned to their routine lives, Gordon slumped back into the small black cushiony swivel chair, flexing and resting his aching hand for a few minutes on the scratched oak wood before he got up and departed. It was five minutes before he felt almost completely comfortable. He gathered the pens he had tucked away in the inside pocket of his jacket and set the big purple pen with the store’s logo in white letters on the circular body back beside the edge of the desk, pushing in the chair as he did so. As he turned to leave, Ms. Terry was right behind him to wish him well.                                                                                       “Hand hurt, Mr. Swanson?” she asked in that eerily cheery voice. Gordon felt uneasy, and took a step backward.           He tried to answer in a pleasing tone.      “You know it, Ms. Terry.” He flexed his fingers for her to see, that annoying smile reappearing on her withered, furrowed face.                   “Ah, yes. But I had figured you would be used to it, seeing that you write novels.”         ‘Well, I actually I�"“ he began, then stopped. He didn’t want to argue with a frail old woman such as this. Something inside his conscious told him that that would be a very bad idea.                 Ms. Terry nodded, understanding. She turned on her heels and ambled back to her cluttered desk. Gordon followed.                                        “Pardon my curiosity, Mr. Swanson, but may I ask what you will be writing about next? I assume that a popular author such as yourself will be beginning something new very shortly.” They had reached the proprietor’s desk after a lengthy trek through the maze of isles.        “Yes, actually,” he said. “I was thinking of writing about a haunted house this time. You know, simple stuff.”                                       Ms. Terry hopped back onto her stool with the agility of an eighty-year-old and retrieved the novel she had been previously reading before she had journeyed to greet the hip novelist. It was a new one, by a different author: Sphere by Michael Crichton. She propped it up on the desk and flipped to the page she last read.                            “Is that so? I had assumed that Misty River was one of those cheap horror thrills.” Gordon stood by the desk, offended and disliking this woman even more.          “Well, Misty River is actually about this roadside motel proprietor who’s a real nut in the head and---“                                                                     “No need to tell me about the story, Mr. Swanson,” Ms. Terry interrupted. “I have read it already, and quite recently.” Gordon’s face flushed. He was becoming irritated with this old hag by the minute.                                 “That is nice to know, Ms. Terry, but---“                   “Don’t you have somewhere to go Mr. Swanson? It is getting late.” She peered over her book and smiled. Seeing the smile on the proprietor’s sweet, innocent face again and realizing that he had just been interrupted not once but twice, irritated Gordon two-fold. He tried to remain calm.                                          “Yes, as a matter of fact I do. I think I might go out to lunch.”                                  He waltzed out the doors, nearly pissed off now, to the parking lot outside and noticed it glistened with the fresh summer rains. The sky still cast some kind of overcast shadows across the whole town, and Gordon shivered. It wasn’t the unexpected drop of temperature due to the apparently torrential rainfall, it was this plaza.                                              Before he had arrived, the parking lot had been full with parked cars and countless people lined up single file across the whole damned place. Now it was totally empty. It was silent, and somehow the silence scared him terribly.                                        He walked faster towards his Thunderbird, regretting parking so far out. He fumbled for his keys before he even got to the car, dropped them twice, and once he arrived, jammed it into the slot and got in. But before he did, he took a second glance around the area.                     Nothing. Absolutely nothing.                                       He slid into his Thunderbird, slammed the door shut and started the engine. He swerved out of the space like a maniac, departing the plaza and not looking back. His senses came back to him a little bit as he saw a few townsfolk chatting to one another alongside the sidewalk or sitting outside a barbershop smoking a cigarette. But where did all those people go after they got their books signed? It seemed like there were a hundred, maybe more….                                                      He brushed away the thought and kept driving. Where? He didn’t know. He only knew that he had to get away from this place…and fast.                                                        But something he craved, something he enjoyed being a part of, crept back into his mind. He knew he had to finish his work, and he knew just the cure for that disease.                               He turned his sports car around at the next U-turn and drove out of the town, with a single thing planted on his mind; he knew perfectly well what it was.

Author's Note

This is weird.