Category: Fiction Factor

The old Queen Anne-style house situated just off the Highway 149 was definitely a fixer-upper, almost to the point of being an eyesore.

The dark grey eaves were in immediate need of major repair, with the edges frayed like a block of cheese that had been nibbled by a rat.

The faded white wraparound porch seemed fine at first glance, but a closer inspection revealed badly damaged spindle work and several rotted boards that made for hazardous walking. The porch columns needed reinforcement, and at least one had to be completely replaced due to a large crack that started at its base and ran all the way to the top.

Some of the bay windows were broken, all of the window treatments were a mess … there was a laundry list of  renovation and restoration needs. Frankly, it was a miracle that a This Property Is Condemned sign hadn’t been tacked to the door.

Still, the house could certainly be restored to its original glory, but it wouldn’t happen overnight. It was going to cost a whole lot of money – and countless hours of work – to make it both presentable and livable.

Frederick and Nettie were hopeful, though; they had seen a realtor come by twice in the last week with two different parties. Whether the potential buyers were looking for a place to live or a place to flip didn’t really matter to the couple as long as someone fixed it up and moved back in.

“It’s been what, 12, 15 years since the Williams family lived here?” Frederick wondered aloud.

“Fourteen years,” Nettie said. “They moved out on March 17, 2011. I hated to seem ‘em go. I’ll never forget waving goodbye to that little girl – Marcy was her name. Such a sweet child. The whole family was good people.”

“They were, they were … Jane and Daryl Williams,” Frederick said wistfully. “Remember that funny dog they had? Dipper. Ol’ Dipper would just stand there and bark and bark at us and Mr. and Mrs. Williams never could get him to quiet down. But Marcy would walk over, look at us and smile. When she did that, Dipper would walk away and go about his business. Course, the next day it all started up again. I guess dogs have short memories.”

A car slowed down in front of the house, and both the driver and the passenger leaned in to take a closer look. They talked among themselves briefly, pointed at the property, then slowly eased back onto the road and drove away.

“Don’t guess they were interested in buying,” Nettie said. “You never know, though. That’s how the Carters found this place, you recall. They rode up in that fancy looking Packard Caribbean and she had on those big sunglasses and that polka dot bandana, and her little bitty husband was gobbled up in that velvety sport coat. It tickles me to even think about it. She walked right up on the porch and decided right then she wanted the place and he just laughed.”

“Oh, yeah, Dee and Desi Carter,” Frederick said. “Now, he was plenty nice and friendly but she was something else … she was something else entirely, and I mean that in a good way. Lordy, she loved to have those big parties, didn’t she? All those people would come around from all over, dressed to the nines, drinking whiskey sours and having a big time. Thing about her, it was like she knew what kinda music we liked and wanted to make us part of it, too. Every Halloween she’d put Down Hearted Blues and Memphis Blues on the gramophone. Every single Halloween, long about midnight. It made me think about those days when you sang and I played and we toured all over the country with W.C. Handy and Bessie Smith. That was awfully nice of her, I think. She’s another one I miss.”

Several families had come and gone, all making an impact on the couple one way or another. Nettie peered outside one of the windows on the second floor and watched as several more cars whizzed by – but not one gave the house a second look.

“Frederick, you think maybe it’s the stories that keep people away? You know, the stories about the murders. Everybody had pretty much forgotten about it, but then those ghost hunter shows started popping up and the next thing you know people start talking about the evil in this house. It ain’t right.”

Frederick glided over to Nettie and put his arm around her.

“Well, sugar,” he said. “The man that killed us was evil, but he’s gone now … went to prison first and now I’m pretty sure he’s in a place I don’t think anybody wants to go. But you and me? We’re just regular ol’ spirits, and this is where we belong. Little Marcy knew it. Mrs. Carter knew it, too. Don’t think anybody was ever really afraid of us, except maybe ol’ Dipper.

“No, this is a happy place. It’s our happy place. If we can just get another family in here, you and me will make sure they’re looked out for. Our house seems more like a home when we have company.”

“Hey, Brenda,” Chandler said, holding the porcelain figurine in his hand, “is this yard sale material?”

Brenda moved in for a closer look, took it from Chandler, and examined it carefully. It was a sad tramp clown holding a red umbrella.

“Honestly,” she said, “I have no idea where this even came from. It seems pretty nice, though … shiny, undamaged. Lots of people like knickknacks so, yeah, we can sell it. Put a $5 tag on it.”

The couple had spent much of the morning in purge mode. They were preparing to move to a smaller house after a decade at their current abode, and like many people had collected far more things than they could ever want or need.

While some were headed straight for the dumpster – cracked lamp globes and a vacuum cleaner that would cost more to repair than replace, for example – others still had enough value to be placed on a folding table and snatched up by pickers and browsers. They’d spend the rest of the day gathering them up and prepping for Saturday’s sale.

So far, Chandler had discovered more than 30 lightly-worn ballcaps, several old but still usable softball gloves, and five wristwatches he was willing to part with because, well, he’d given up wristwatches shortly after smartphones were invented.

Brenda had set out dishes, dresses, a few gardening supplies and a microwave. Still, there were plenty of other items that weren’t going to survive the relocation, and the pair wanted to lighten their load as much as possible.

As Chandler prepared to look in the basement for more treasures, Brenda emerged from  the hall closet.

“Looks like I found an old friend of yours,” she said with a laugh.

Among some of the items she had placed in a cardboard box was a 1970s era plush football doll, complete with a rosy-cheeked cupid face. The helmet was dingy white with a green stripe and the jersey – emblazoned with a green number one – was faded yellow, with cotton coming out of a busted seam on its left side. It was 50-plus years old and looked it.

“Oh, wow,” said Chandler, pulling the doll from the box. “Good ol’ Bruiser … I haven’t seen him in years.”

Chandler eased down to the floor and laid the doll in front of him. He couldn’t remember the last time he had even thought about it, but its reemergence brought back a flood of memories.

He decided around the age of seven that he loved football, and enjoyed sitting next to his father on Saturdays and Sundays watching college and pro games on their boxy RCA console.

“Dad,” he’d ask, “will you take me to a game someday?”

“You bet, kiddo. I promise.”

Chandler remembered the promise was made in 1974, and the promise was kept that same year. The local college team – the Goldenrod State Yellowhammers – was taking on the Carolina Poly Pioneers at Memorial Field.

More than half a century later, details of the experience remained vivid. The game was played on September 8, Goldenrod State won, 35-6, the hot dog he scarfed down was prepackaged in a foil wrapper, and his dad bought him the toy while they were getting soft drinks at halftime.

“It didn’t look like they had any pennants,” he recalled his dad saying as he handed over the doll (along with a watered-down cola), “but ol’ Bruiser here ought to do. He’ll look good on your dresser.”

For years, Bruiser served as a reminder of Chandler’s first in-person college football game, and occupied various spots in his bedroom – not unlike the “Elf on the Shelf.” It shifted from the dresser to the nightstand and – at one point – found itself on a table by the window, nudged between a red, white and blue football on its left and a plastic football helmet on its right.

But like most kids, Chandler grew out of his toy phase, and Bruiser eventually lost his honored spot in the bedroom. Ultimately, he was placed in a closet and eventually buried under other “fossils.”

Somehow, though, Chandler managed to keep the doll. Despite moving away for college, moving back home to get married, moving away again and residing in three different apartments, two different states and four different houses, Bruiser remained – out of sight and out of mind, but always close.

“Hello,” Brenda said in a sing-song voice. “Earth to Chandler, do you read?”

Chandler looked up and shook his head.

“Sorry,” he said, clutching Bruiser in his right hand. “I guess I went on a sentimental journey there for a minute. Dad got me this when he took me to my first football game. It always makes me think of him.”

Brenda smiled.

“Well,” she said. “I can stuff the cotton back in him and sew him up. Make him good as old again – vintage, even.”

Chandler pulled the doll to his chest.

“Thanks, but … as silly as it sounds, I don’t think I want to sell it.”

Brenda knelt down and gave Chandler a kiss on the forehead.

“Good grief … I wouldn’t expect you to sell it, doofus,” she said. “But if you’re gonna display Bruiser in our new house, we need to patch him up. I want him to look good on our dresser.”

The pounding on the front door was relentless, but Dr. Jasmine Davis was in no rush to open it. She was quite used to the routine by now, and knew the two military men would wait for her to let them in, regardless of how long she took.

She rose from the burnt orange Chesterfield sofa, cracked her neck, and slowly made her way to the door, unlatching the chain lock and greeting the stone-faced visitors.

“Hello, fellas,” she said. “I was wondering when you’d pay me an unfriendly visit.”

The youngish men bore the branding of the Empire of Freedom on their brown uniforms, and they were part of the patrol that worked Sector HA-One, a southeastern geographical area of the continent.

“We’re here to enforce compliance,” said the tallest of the two, whose name tag read “Reed.”

“Of course,” she said. “Time to make sure everyone is doing their part to support the Empire. Nothing screams ‘Freedom!’ like forced patriotism … am I right?”

She stepped away from the entrance and allowed Reed and the other soldier, Markum, to enter her sparsely decorated living room.

“It says here that you are Davis, Jasmine, age 38, black female, doctorate degree, university instructor with a specialization in world history, ID number 4151947,” Markum read from a small red notebook. “Is that correct?”

“Everything is correct except for the ID,” she said. “That’s what the Empire tagged me with, and I don’t recognize it because I’m a person, not a number. So, you can go ahead and mark me as non-compliant there. I’m not gonna wear the bracelet. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever.”

Markum made a check with a small pencil.

“According to our notes, in the past six months you have been in violation of the Empire Flag Display Act three times, did not participate in the Empire Freedom Appreciation Day Assembly last year, and there have been reports that during some of your classes you have taught prohibited subject matter as defined in the Empire Freedom Bill of Facts. How do you answer these charges?

Dr. Davis eased back over to her couch and sat down.

“Hmmm … how do I answer these charges? I answer them as I always answer them. I don’t own an Empire flag. If I did, I wouldn’t fly it. I don’t participate in the Empire Freedom Appreciation Day Assembly because if I have to participate in the Empire Freedom Appreciation Day Assembly, I’m not free. And as for banned subject matter, not everyone is afraid of knowledge. Fortunately, there are people who want to learn what the Empire won’t teach, whether you or anyone else in the Empire likes it or not.”

Dr. Davis got up, walked over to a table near the front door, and picked up stacks of paper.

“See these? These are all citations you people have written me for various ‘offenses,’” she explained. “I can either pay the penalty, or go to one of your luxurious Reform Camps. Or – and this is the option I’ve chosen – I can do none of the above.”

Dr. Davis dropped the citations back on the table.

“Dr. Davis,” Reed said. “There were two members of our patrol who came here a couple of weeks ago and never reported back to base. Would you know anything about that, by any chance?”

“You guys are always coming here,” she said. “What you do after you leave is none of my concern. Why don’t you try calling them.”

A hallway off of the living room was bare except for a small blackboard attached to the wall. Dr. Davis walked to it and grabbed a piece of chalk.

“I need to remind myself about the lesson plan for tomorrow,” she said. “Excuse me.”

In large capital letters, she wrote “RED TAILS.”

Markum grinned, and after taking the chalk from Dr. Davis, he wrote, “SPIT FIRE.”

In another time – and another country – those phrases were associated with the Tuskegee Airman, African-American military pilots who fought in World War II.

Today, they are passwords used by those attempting to thwart World War III.

She went back to the living room, lifted up the green area rug, and revealed a hatch. Once opened, concrete steps led to a massive underground facility.

Dr. Davis walked down first, followed by Markum and then Reed, who closed the trapdoor behind him.

The two “missing” patrol members from the last visit was there, along with several other soldiers and civilians. Some were manning computers at an elaborate control center, others were loading supplies onto electric carts, and still more were working feverishly to extend a tunnel system, which was already several miles long.

“Glad to see we have two more for the fight,” Dr. Davis said, shaking the hands of her two newest recruits.