Monday, October 24, 2011
There was nothing but cold silence within the house except for the thick noise of the rain. The old man sat in his den lost in the dark. Impatiently he waited. The power had gone off in the house nearly an hour ago and he was becoming agitated at being held prisoner in this blind void. The rain storm was intense and no doubt some fool must of skidded into a power pole, taking their life as well as his power.
“Blasted power company,” he swore. It was two a.m. and he was afraid the power trucks would not make it out to this rural area so late at night and he would be entombed in the dark house. The old house reeked of past generations with it’s musty drapes and moldy carpets and now, confined in blindness, his other senses were now peaked and seemingly the stale odors were now more pronounced. “Blast it,” he muttered.
The old man and his blind brother had shared the house their entire lives. The death of his sightless sibling had left him with little remorse. The constant racket of the blind man’s cane on the old wooden floors had been nerve racking for over forty years. His death had rewarded the old man with a peaceful reprieve from the confounded noise of the cane and shuffling feet. It was with measured pity, that he had refused to give his gasping brother his heart medicine. A desperate moment which resulted in the coronary death of the vital organ and new found peace for the survivor. He had not killed his brother, but merely observed the spastic passing of the unfortunate man.
“Blast it to hell. Where are those damn candles and matches?” He got out of his chair and began to feel his way around the room. Lost in the darkness came a faint cadence.
“What was that?” he whispered to himself.
There it was again! He thought to himself. The wind? Maybe a tree branch outside his window?
“Blast it!” He peered outside the window into darkness.
He desperately looked around the dark room in vain and listened.
“Who’s there?” he gasped! “I know you’re there. Speak up!”....silence. Nothing. The quiet lasted for several stressful minutes. “Hump,” he grunted to himself at being so foolish. “Old house just sounding the death of it’s timbers. Rotting foundation most likely,” he continued to talk to himself in an effort to shore up his nerves. “Where’s that blasted power company?”
“Damn it all…..who are you?” he shouted. Then a cold veil slid over his soul. “William? Is that you? No…wait…what am I saying?? You’re dead! Blast, am I taking flight of all senses?” he muttered.
“Stop it! You’re dead, but I can still hear your cane! Blast it man, you’re dead, leave me in peace…….PLEASE!!!…..I’M SORRY!!!!!!” The old man bumped into a lamp table and then remembered this was where he kept the old Colt 45. You don‘t understand……I had to do it!…….“PLEASE FORGIVE ME WILLIAM!……PLEASE!!!!!
Hank had bolted the mounting struts to the power pole while Pete gyrated the crane from the ground controls and lowered the new transformer in place. “You still have to lower that mounting ring about another inch Hank,” Pete yelled up from the ground over the noise of the rain. Hank was thirty feet up in the lift basket and trying to do several maneuvers at once.
“Don’t know if it’ll move any more, but I’ll try” Hank called down. He took his utility hammer and once again attempted to lower the steel ring that was wrapped around the pole. “Nope, that’s all she’ll budge.”
“Okay, tighten everything up and let’s get the crap out of here fore we drown!” From the dark surroundings came a muffled “BANG!”
“What was that?” called Pete from the ground. Hank looked around and only saw an old Victorian house about thirty yards away.
“Don’t know. Most likely more thunder, and that’s my cue to get the hell down and pack it up.”
“Sounds more than good to me. How bout giving that mounting ring one more shot just to make sure.”
“Okay, but just a waste of time. Been hammering on it for over thirty minutes.”