Read Online Just North of Nowhere by Lawrence Santoro - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lawrence Santoro
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Fantasy, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Paranormal & Urban, Mythology & Folk Tales, Fairy Tales, Horror | Supernatural
Ads: Link
street. “No,” he said again and eased down the way looking for a place for the night.
Chapter 4
BEST NOT GO WHERE STRANGE THINGS WANDER
The damn bike! Yes, there was Vinnie, the old house, the radio, Crista-whatever her name was-bell, the Italian woman, all that had Bunch on edge, but the damn bike got him started. Here's the way it went: summers, every year, Bunch went back to the bridge down by Papoose Creek. Come winter, he’d crawl out, walk to town and find someplace to hole up. Maybe, maybe not!
Simple.
Not that he'd have been a stranger. Everyone knew Bunch. Every day, summer, winter, whatever, he'd bee-bop down Slaughterhouse to Commonwealth; look for work, do work, keep eyes on the terrorists (throw them a little scare maybe), maybe drink a beer on the house at the Wheel or take a meal at the Eats in ‘change for whatever.
Folks treated him. In return for which, Bunch did jobs as needed. Living under his bridge, he didn't much mind being alone or sleeping the winter cold; the friggin' racket from the Indian wars out past Papoose Creek was irritating—and that got worse, winters—but the last six months, there had been that old house! Damn thing showed up across the creek—just showed—one morning after a big ass thunderstorm. Houses didn't do that. Bunch knew houses and houses didn't just show up!
Not much gave Bunch the willies. That old shack did, a one-room place on low stilts squatting at the edge of the forest. The water rippled just a little there, where Papoose Creek joined the Rolling River. The bank on the far side from Bunch's place was a flat sandy flood plain rising to a little clearing. The clearing was scattered with dark stumps. In the right light, the stumps stuck up like black, rotted teeth, so much green moss on them, it looked like a hundred years had gone since the trees had been cut for that damn shack. Hell, the stumps could have been left from the cutting and building—they sure looked it!
They weren't! They hadn't been there. Not before the house showed up. Overnight there it was: house, stumps, moss and all.
Bunch was not curious. He was that smart, at least, smart enough to avoid curiosity. What was there, was there. He was here, his side of the river and creek.
Bunch almost never crossed the creek. Not at that place. No reason to.
Since the house showed up... Well, best not to go where strange things wander. Wasn't fear, just polite good sense.
He watched.
Some days, a window might catch a flash of sun and peer across the water at him. Some days not. Same sun, maybe the window was looking somewhere else. Some days, where that window had been, a drooping shutter lazed half-shut, or sometimes just a wooden side where the window was, day before.
All summer the place hunkered down by the edge of the trees. Creepers and climbing vines wrapped it, branches from the forest bowed down to shade it. Every day, maybe, a wood cat, a squirrel or little brown bird, would land on the porch, or creep up the steps, cock its head, raise its beak, hop along the warped boards to peer in, taste the air from out the house's cracked-open door. After a bit, the critter might hop, flitter or slither inside.
Bunch might watch until he got tired of it or until something came along for him to do and he'd go do it, but he never noticed anything coming out.
If anyone had asked, Bunch would have said, “That place is full of strange.” No one asked. What the hell, it wasn't their dealy. And, Bunch? Well, Bunch knew enough not to trust a place as wanders. He figured, if anyone wanted something done about the thing, they'd ask! Some days Bunch didn't even bother looking across the creek.
Then, the damn bike showed up.
One morning, there it was: in the mud by the bridge, his side, near where he slept.
First he thought, the damn bike might have to do with the house. Both just showed, both by the river. So at first the bike gave him similar willies.
After a few days of keeping eyes
Chapter 4
BEST NOT GO WHERE STRANGE THINGS WANDER
The damn bike! Yes, there was Vinnie, the old house, the radio, Crista-whatever her name was-bell, the Italian woman, all that had Bunch on edge, but the damn bike got him started. Here's the way it went: summers, every year, Bunch went back to the bridge down by Papoose Creek. Come winter, he’d crawl out, walk to town and find someplace to hole up. Maybe, maybe not!
Simple.
Not that he'd have been a stranger. Everyone knew Bunch. Every day, summer, winter, whatever, he'd bee-bop down Slaughterhouse to Commonwealth; look for work, do work, keep eyes on the terrorists (throw them a little scare maybe), maybe drink a beer on the house at the Wheel or take a meal at the Eats in ‘change for whatever.
Folks treated him. In return for which, Bunch did jobs as needed. Living under his bridge, he didn't much mind being alone or sleeping the winter cold; the friggin' racket from the Indian wars out past Papoose Creek was irritating—and that got worse, winters—but the last six months, there had been that old house! Damn thing showed up across the creek—just showed—one morning after a big ass thunderstorm. Houses didn't do that. Bunch knew houses and houses didn't just show up!
Not much gave Bunch the willies. That old shack did, a one-room place on low stilts squatting at the edge of the forest. The water rippled just a little there, where Papoose Creek joined the Rolling River. The bank on the far side from Bunch's place was a flat sandy flood plain rising to a little clearing. The clearing was scattered with dark stumps. In the right light, the stumps stuck up like black, rotted teeth, so much green moss on them, it looked like a hundred years had gone since the trees had been cut for that damn shack. Hell, the stumps could have been left from the cutting and building—they sure looked it!
They weren't! They hadn't been there. Not before the house showed up. Overnight there it was: house, stumps, moss and all.
Bunch was not curious. He was that smart, at least, smart enough to avoid curiosity. What was there, was there. He was here, his side of the river and creek.
Bunch almost never crossed the creek. Not at that place. No reason to.
Since the house showed up... Well, best not to go where strange things wander. Wasn't fear, just polite good sense.
He watched.
Some days, a window might catch a flash of sun and peer across the water at him. Some days not. Same sun, maybe the window was looking somewhere else. Some days, where that window had been, a drooping shutter lazed half-shut, or sometimes just a wooden side where the window was, day before.
All summer the place hunkered down by the edge of the trees. Creepers and climbing vines wrapped it, branches from the forest bowed down to shade it. Every day, maybe, a wood cat, a squirrel or little brown bird, would land on the porch, or creep up the steps, cock its head, raise its beak, hop along the warped boards to peer in, taste the air from out the house's cracked-open door. After a bit, the critter might hop, flitter or slither inside.
Bunch might watch until he got tired of it or until something came along for him to do and he'd go do it, but he never noticed anything coming out.
If anyone had asked, Bunch would have said, “That place is full of strange.” No one asked. What the hell, it wasn't their dealy. And, Bunch? Well, Bunch knew enough not to trust a place as wanders. He figured, if anyone wanted something done about the thing, they'd ask! Some days Bunch didn't even bother looking across the creek.
Then, the damn bike showed up.
One morning, there it was: in the mud by the bridge, his side, near where he slept.
First he thought, the damn bike might have to do with the house. Both just showed, both by the river. So at first the bike gave him similar willies.
After a few days of keeping eyes
Similar Books
