Story of a Recluse

A Story by Alex

An assignment for Creative Writing where we had to combined elements from different short stories and use them to show our view on something to the reader.

Influences: "The Terrible Old Man" by H.P. Lovecraft, "The Pianist in the Shopping Mall" by Paulo Coelho, "The Price" by Neil Gaiman, "The Glass Dog" by Frank L. Baum, "Hansel and Gretel" by Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm

“I don’t think you understand! I’m telling you the cat was watching me,” said an indignant young girl.

“You’re absolutely ridiculous,” chided her older brother, turning his attention back to the score book perched precariously on a makeshift music holder of stacked books. “The cat may have been looking at you, but he absolutely was not watching you. Now leave me alone, Gretel, I’m trying to practice.”

Gretel opened her mouth to speak, but stopped herself mid-thought. It’s no use, anyway. He’s just too stubborn. She left the room and slammed the door just as a Chopin sonata began to be unskillfully plunked out. The landing she exited to was empty except for a plush bench, made especially for Frederick: their large, black, beat up cat. He had been their step-mothers cat. Gretel often imagined the evil woman had been reincarnated into the feline’s body, for Frederick certainly held that same, malevolent stare. One hard, green-gold eye—the cat’s right eye had been closed for good after so many late night fights—fixed on the little girl as she left the music room, stopping her in her tracks. For a moment, the two stared at each other and said absolutely nothing. Frederick’s frayed whiskers twitched the rest of his body entirely inert. Slowly—so slowly Gretel couldn’t be sure it was happening at all—his kitty mouth turned up just slightly enough to give him a Cheshire grin. Squeaking, like a mouse in fear, she bolted down the stairs, not daring to look back.

Her feet did not slow until she had completely left the house. On the front stop she paused, having to catch her breath that had been squeezed out of her by panic. Deep inhales caused her chest to rise and fall heavily as she stared down Water Street, eyes fixating on the sea. The view was a relaxing one, and familiar faces strolled past her house, waving and offering warm greetings and questions as to Gretel’s terrorized state. A warm feeling of ease kneaded its way through knots of fear, returning her heart to its normal pace and releasing the tightness in her chest. She opened the door to go back inside.

“Oof!”

And she ran right into her father’s gut, causing him to double over for a moment. There was no apology, though the little girl did look at him with big, guilty eyes.

“I was,” he straightened himself, “Just coming out to look for you. I need you to take these extra cans down the street to Mr. Peterson. I overbought cat food this week.”

Gretel shook her head feverously, gold curls whipping softly across her face as they swung. “Can’t Hansel do it?” she whined.

“Your brother is studying. Now, don’t argue with me.” He thrust a brown bag full of cat food into his daughter’s arms and turned her around, sending her on her way.

Gretel had always avoided going to Mr. Peterson’s house. She had been once with her father and refused to go any farther than the gate. The yard frightened her. There were glass sculptures and strange, foreboding tree limbs that hung so low that even she would have been enveloped by their leaves. All the kids in town were rightly afraid of him and rumors spread like wildfire. They never called him Mr. Peterson—to them, he was The Terrible Old Man. He was frail and weak, but certainly capable of murder, they said. He could untwist the top of his wooden cane to reveal a dagger that he himself had carefully made just to fit inside. The Terrible Old Man had been born with single gold-green eye and his left knee had never quite healed from the fall he’d taken when he first moved to town. A fall caused by the practical joke of the town’s children. He never ventured past his gate.

But Gretel’s father talked to him often. At least twice a week, he would go and sit with The Terrible Old Man. Twice a week he brought the Old Man’s sixteen cats food. Sixteen cats… The idea was insurmountable to Gretel. She was afraid of the one cat that lived in her house. Lost in remembering horror stories she’d been told and predicting her ever-nearing demise, Gretel arrived at The Terrible Old Man’s gate much sooner than she would have liked. He did not live in town, but rather a little past the boundaries and down a decrepit cobblestone driveway. The Terrible Old Man did not have a car.

Shaking like a leaf, Gretel twisted the knob and the gate creaked opened. She slipped inside and waited. Waited for him to attack. Waited for the cats to attack. Waited… Her eyes fixed on each glass figure individually, taking them all in through her terrified daze. They were all animals. She recognized a skunk and a few chipmunks, a family of white-tailed deer and a moose. Had she been older and a little less afraid, Gretel would have been able to appreciate the artistic beauty of each piece. The glass sparkled under the sun’s dimming rays as it began to sink below the horizon. Each minute detail had been paid attentions to, though they were smooth and without fur. There was no dust on them, no evidence of the elements. What great care he must have taken to keep them so pristine.

Not wanting The Terrible Old Man to wobble out and be cross with her for hesitating, Gretel swallowed heavily and made her way to the front door, knocking with the brass knocker. She heard no footsteps; saw nothing stir through the marbled glass panes on either side the door. Yet, as soon as she had released the knocker, the door was opened. The speed startled her and, for a moment, she was paralyzed, stuck to the spot. There he was.

His eyes were not gold-yellow; they were a crisp, penetrating azure, slightly sunken—a sign of his age. And there were two of them! No grotesque pit where one of them should have been missing. Gretel stared rudely until she remembered the bag and held it out to him.

“Come in, place it on the kitchen counter for me,” he grumbled, moving aside while she shuffled in. His croaking voice made goose pimples rose on her skin, the hair on the back of her neck stood up. He led her slowly to the kitchen with a steady rhythm of step, ste-clunk, step, ste-clunk, step, ste-clunk. And she followed slowly, light on her feet and ready to run and hide.

She did not expect what she saw. The room they walked through was well lit and enclosed by clean, white walls. But that was hard to see. From corner to corner, ceiling to floorboard, there were paintings; colorful, bright paintings with landscapes and animals and Picasso-esque people. Some were simply splatters and smudges of color. There were several easels set up in the middle of the room as well, and a drop cloth adorned the floor. Gretel’s jaw dropped and she moved even slower than the crippled Mr. Peterson.

The kitchen was at the back of the house, Gretel assumed, as they moved from the painted room into the next wonder. Books. The ceiling rocketed upwards, at least five feet higher than the entrance hall. There were only books on the walls, save for the small book where a fireplace had been squashed between the pages. Books. The fire crackled. This room was not bright. But it was warm and comfortable and smelled strongly of vanilla. There were plush, over-stuffed, over-used arm chairs and a similar sofa. A hand woven rug lay in the center of the room. Gretel could not speak, though she greatly wanted to.

Mr. Peterson moved onward, not realizing—or perhaps not caring—how Gretel could not bear to tear her eyes away so soon. She should have expected more astonishment, but even a child’s mind can only work so quickly. The Music Room was the best yet. Was it possible for a single human to be able to play so many instruments? Sheet music lay stacked on tables, music stands, and littered across the floor. A violin, a flute, a grand piano, a cello, and a harmonica were perched around the room. There were strange, foreign instruments as well. Strange drums and reed instruments mixed with the classical pieces the likes of which Gretel had never even seen photos of. Could he play them all? Now Gretel stopped him.

“Sir… Can you… I mean, can you play them? All of them?”

Mr. Peterson stopped, paused, and then slowly turned. There was a twinkle in his eye. Suddenly, he looked alive. His posture was better, his lips were tilted very slightly upward and his eyes were bright. Oh, passion spilled out of him! Mr. Peterson looked around, a child to whom Christmas had just come again. Gretel felt he was experiencing the sight of all the instruments for the first time, just like she. He nodded slowly and spoke not a word. The art was beyond words.

“A-and the books, sir? Have you read them?”

Another nod.

“The paintings?” Her voice was urgent now, filled with eager curiosity. Who was this man?

He was smiling now, continuously nodding at her enthrallment.

“What about the glass animals in the yard?”

Now he laughed. What a laugh! It was the laugh of a man in love suddenly questioned about the woman of his fancies. “In my younger years, Gretel.” Even his voice was kinder now. Gretel moved to speak again, but was cut off. “The rug in the library as well. One of the easels—the one with the uneven legs. And this too.” He held tapped his cane gently against the ground.

There was nothing to be asked. Nothing to be said. The young mind had no words to express her delight. She followed him to the kitchen and set down the cat food. Bade him good bye, and they walked slowly back to the front door; she didn’t stop. Her mind was too awed to take in anything more. She turned before leaving and inhaled deeply. “May I come back tomorrow?” A day to recover was greatly needed. But she had to experience it again. She wanted to hear him play, and watch him paint, read his books, and help clean the glass menagerie in the front yard.

“I’d hoped you might.”

Gretel’s mind had been changed, and her fear seemed foolish. She smiled at him with the innocence and grace only a child unmarred by society can muster ; then she left the same way she’d come just minutes before. When she returned home, she said nothing to her father about Mr. Peterson; he just knew. There was a certain glow to his daughter; the glow of being deeply moved for the first time. That night, Frederick curled up next to Gretel as she lay in her dark room before her bedtime. She hand ran along his fur and scratched behind his ears and she mused over all the rumors. How silly they were. Her eyes drifted closed and she slept soundly next to the feline she so feared.

Perhaps one rumor held truth: The cane was handmade.