The Dark Brick House--a short story

 

Wendy disliked Tuesdays. Because on Tuesdays, she had to walk all the way up Gould Street, on the far end of town, to elderly Mister Blackwell’s house, where she did small chores for him and sometimes even shopped for his groceries. Other times, she would read to him, usually choosing a sea adventure book from a vast library inside his enormous, castle-like house.

To get to his house, she had to turn right at the top of Gould Street and go another quarter mile or so on another, even smaller street. That street, as far as she know, had no name at all, and never had. It was just simply the street that led to Mister Blackwell's house, which was half made of gloomy gray brick, and half made of some exotic wood or other, which was painted black. Anything that wasn't black, like the trim and the windows and the garage door, was off white and rather drab.

On that particular day, Wendy was in an especially foul mood because it had begun to rain and she’d forgotten her jacket. I’m seventeen years old, for chrissake, she scolded herself as she walked, her pink and white tennies working overtime on the wet sidewalk. You'd think I’d have the sense to dress appropriately. When she finally reached the tall, black iron gate at the front of Mister Blackwell's property, Wendy pulled at the lock. It didn’t budge. It never budged, because he always forgot to unlock it for her. She sighed, dropped the lock and chain back into place, and shook the fence, causing it to clang and bang. “Mister Blackwell?” she yelled. “It’s Wendy!”

Nothing happened for several moments when, almost comically, he sprang out of the large, double front doors wearing a handsome brown suit, and smiled at her, his gray-white hair slightly askew on the top. “Wendy, dear! Come on in. I do apologize. I always forget to loosen the lock.”

“Yes, you do,” she said, grinning. “At least this time I wasn't out here for twenty minutes.”

“Oh! Always the joker. That was one time. One time! Come come, you must be thirsty. It’s such a warm day and you’ve been walking.”

“I could use a drink,” she said.

“Good, good!” he said, wrestling with the key in the lock. It loosened with a click and the large gates swung inward. “I've just brewed some coffee. Something-Blue, or other, they call it. Supposed to be really rare. Lord knows they charge enough for it.” He winked at Wendy and motioned her through the gates.

Wendy followed him through and along a cream-colored cobblestone walkway to the double doors of his house, and inside. “What’s that smell?”

“Oh! That’s the coffee, dear.”

“Doesn't smell like it,” she said, her nose pinching up. Her parents had let her start drinking coffee when she turned sixteen. Folgers, mostly.

“Well, they say it’s super rich. I dunno.” He shrugged. “Maybe it’s terrible and we’ll end up sharing a Squirt soda.” His smile put Wendy at ease and she, too, smiled. “I’ll get you a cup. I’m dying to try it!”

While he was in the kitchen, Wendy surveyed her surroundings. Although she’d been in the house a hundred times before, something seemed different this time, but she couldn’t decide what. Everything seemed normal. There was nothing broken and there were no sounds. Still, there was something, wasn't there? Maybe it was the strong scent of the coffee, she decided, and kicked it to the back of her mind as Mister Blackwell reentered the room with two mugs.

“Here we go!” he said, and slid one across a small wooden table near Wendy. He motioned to her to sit on a gaudy red and gold couch that seemed to be out of fashion by at least a century, but probably two.

She sat, and it was as uncomfortable as it looked. “What are we doing today, Mister Blackwell?” she asked.

“Well, I figured we could just have a sit, for a few moments, and drink our coffee, maybe have a chat.

She sat back in the ugly, stiff red and gold couch, and told him that she’d had a crush on a boy at school, a senior, who drove a loud blue Camaro but that her parents, the overprotective morons, wouldn't allow them to talk, citing that his family was known more for bar fights than for schools and degrees and that was that, the matter was closed.

“Well,” he said, “that sounds just terrible. Awful! Say, drink some of that fine coffee and let’s go see if there's anything that needs tending in the back yard.” She smiled and sipped her coffee, which was only now cool enough to drink. Mister Blackwell, apparently, liked his cuppa joe very, very hot. She brought the cup down from her lips as Blackwell watched in anticipation. “Mmmm! This is really rich! I don’t know much about fine coffees, but this has to be one of the best.”

“Yes, that’s what they say. Anyway, I’m glad you like it! Bring it along, let’s take a look-see in back.”

Wendy followed Mister Blackwell through the house and to a tall white door with black speckles. He opened it, and Wendy saw a large, rectangular hole, freshly dug into the ground, in the middle of his great big, grassy yard, in between a woodpile and a croquet set. “What’s that?” she asked.

He smiled at her. Even as her vision blurred and she dropped her cup, he smiled at her. Even as her knees became wobbly and she lost her footing, he smiled at her. Even as she went limp and fell to the ground and stopped breathing, he smiled at her.

After several moments, he set his cup down and rolled Wendy up in a big carpet that used to be under the table where they had sat and chatted just minutes earlier, and carried her toward the hole in the ground.