Post by Pez on May 18, 2009 22:25:03 GMT -6
*Ding
Dong*
The slight delay in the doorbell’s chime put a grin on Liam Crowley’s crooked face. He quickly adjusted the brim of his hat before gently resting the crate of milk bottles on the front step. He swiftly swapped out the few empties and waited patiently by the door. He absently turned one of the glass containers in his hand while he stared blankly at the fine red door in front of him. The sun’s mid-morning rays struck the bottle through the porch’s terraced construction. Liam’s milky-white eyes filled the reflection.
A shuffle from inside shuttled Mr. Crowley’s heart into his throat. Through careful preparation he had managed to make this meeting an assured thing. He placed the empty, fragile bottle back into its slot and put the crate to one side. The screen door swung inwards, and then the main door swung outward with a soft click and creak. In its frame stood a beautiful woman of around thirty-five. Coffee-colored hair spilled around her shoulders, framing her radiant face. Liam stared longingly at her chocolate eyes, gently sloping nose, full lips, and slender neck. His eyes instinctively followed the trail down and eyed her robust bust and gentle curves. He was utterly captivated by her beautiful figure.
Liam quickly cleared his throat and looked her in the eyes once more. A nervous motion caused him to instinctively tug at his prematurely-grayed hair. He shifted his eyes from her startling beauty, down to the milk bottles. “I…uh…filled the bottles for the day, but I’m going to need to request my monthly payment Ms…”
“Parker,” the woman replied. “but please, call me Beatrice.” She fluttered her long lashes, causing Liam to shift nervously. “Yes ma’am—I mean, Ms. Par—I mean, Beatrice.”
Beatrice giggled at his schoolboy-like behavior. “I’ll get your money on the double, Mr. Crowley. In the mean-time, by all means come in. I have some lemonade on the counter, and I’m sure a working fellow like yourself could use all the refreshment you can get.” She beckoned Liam inside with a wave of her hand, which Liam obediently followed.
Liam gazed amazedly around Beatrice’s house. It carried an air of sophistication, with a hint of modern flair. At every turn of his head, he found a rustic piece of furniture with a history that Beatrice was only too happen to explain. “Ah yes, this table was brought back from the Indies by my late husband Johnathon. He said that he managed to haggle its seller down to a mere twenty dollars, yet its actual worth is more than a thousandfold that!” “Oh, that rug is authentic tiger skin, don’t doubt that. Johnathon shot the little rascal himself!”
Liam continued to let Beatrice show him through the grand estate. His hand casually flicked the cool metal object in his pants pocket. He reflected on how easily things had been put into motion for him to be in the same neighborhood, let alone the same room, with this woman. His thumb graced the release switch, but he was careful to leave it be. For now.
Liam, wanting to savor the moment, tapped Beatrice on the shoulder. “Do you think we could extend this into a full tour?” he asked. “Your house interests me greatly”.
“Why certainly,” Beatrice smiled. “I’d love to show you my things.”
Liam followed absently as Beatrice continued to lead him from room to room, commenting again and again on the eclectic furniture that was interspersed through the house. Liam’s attention was capture by a collection of rather large swords hanging in the study. “Were those collected by your husband as well?” he asked.
“Why yes, nearly everything of note in my house was given to me by my dear husband. He left me just recently, but I still pine for him every day.” Beatrice pointed toward a desk on the far wall of the room. Above it hung a regal portrait of a distinguished man in his late forties. On his thin nose rested a pair of wiry spectacles which framed his beady eyes. A sneer rested casually on his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” Liam expressed. “I can’t imagine how you must feel.”
“Fret not, my friend,” Beatrice replied. “I have not yet gotten over him in spirit, but my mind has found its own agenda.”
Beatrice led Liam out of the study and through the den, taking special time to point out the television in the middle of the room. “Isn’t it fascinating?” she remarked. “They beam images right into your own home, into a simple box! Granted, they haven’t worked all the kinks out, but its so much easier than reading the dull newspapers.” As they finished with the den, the TV sputtered out a few choice words from the news report:
The TV’s drivel was lost as the pair entered the kitchen. Beatrice glided gently over to the refrigerator. “You wanted a glass of lemonade, right…Liam, was it?” Liam’s nerves almost betrayed him at the sound of his own name. “Yes ma’am,” he responded. “Oh please,” she exclaimed, “do drop the formalities. They’re too stuffy for my taste.” She began to pour a glass of crystal-clear lemonade. “No ice?”
“No ice,” Liam responded. “It waters down the taste.” He eased up gradually behind Beatrice, his hand returning to his pocket. He walked gently to her slender figure and placed a hand on the countertop. “So, where is my payment?”
Beatrice turned, cup in hand, with a devilish grin. She placed both glasses on the counter and looked Liam in the eye. “I see you’re an impatient one. I suppose I should pay you sooner, rather than later. You are a busy man, after all.”
“Busy like Azrael,” he replied. Beatrice gave him a quizzical look, but she shrugged and gently grabbed his wrist. “Follow me.”
Liam’s collar grew flush as he was led through Beatrice’s abode. She squeezed his wrist with intense feeling and nearly pulled him up a spiralling staircase. Liam’s hand groped in his pocket ever more for the cold contact of metal. He gently pulled the blade from its hiding place and held it in his hand, thumb on the catch.
Beatrice rounded the corner to the bedroom, her heeled feet clicking a staccato overture through the empty halls.
Liam opened the catch, fully extending the switchblade’s steely grin.
Beatrice thrust open the door to the darkened bedroom, a ravenous smile painted across her elegant face.
Liam closed his eyes and thrust himself forward into the darkness in front of him.
Beatrice let go of his hand, a moan escaping her lips.
Liam turned and wildly swung the blade. In a moment of pure bliss he felt the blade connect—
--with wood.
Liam opened his eyes, only to be greeted with a solid oak door separating him from the woman he had hunted for. He removed the blade from the door and reached for the knob. His hand grasped blindly over the area where the doorknob should be, yet only emptiness reached his palm. In a panic, his hand flailed across the wall and struck the lightswitch.
Liam turned and saw the room he was in. Not a bedroom, but a small walk-in closet. It was almost entirely empty, devoid of any brooms or mops, linens or towels. All that remained was Liam and a single slumped figure in the corner.
Liam gently approached the figure and reached for a pulse. As his hand reached the man’s neck, the head rolled neatly off its resting place and onto the floor. A pair of sunken eyes stared into Liam’s soul, their dread magnified through a wiry pair of spectacles. Liam spun wildly and saw dozens of nooks and crannies in the closet, each filled with a twisted corpse comically draped in an aging milkman’s uniform.
In the kitchen, Beatrice poured herself a glass of lemonade. Liam’s hoarse screams echoed throughout her home, causing Beatrice’s ravenous smile to return. She sipped gracefully from her chilled glass, sighed, and looked toward the staircase.
It’s like he never even left.
Dong*
The slight delay in the doorbell’s chime put a grin on Liam Crowley’s crooked face. He quickly adjusted the brim of his hat before gently resting the crate of milk bottles on the front step. He swiftly swapped out the few empties and waited patiently by the door. He absently turned one of the glass containers in his hand while he stared blankly at the fine red door in front of him. The sun’s mid-morning rays struck the bottle through the porch’s terraced construction. Liam’s milky-white eyes filled the reflection.
A shuffle from inside shuttled Mr. Crowley’s heart into his throat. Through careful preparation he had managed to make this meeting an assured thing. He placed the empty, fragile bottle back into its slot and put the crate to one side. The screen door swung inwards, and then the main door swung outward with a soft click and creak. In its frame stood a beautiful woman of around thirty-five. Coffee-colored hair spilled around her shoulders, framing her radiant face. Liam stared longingly at her chocolate eyes, gently sloping nose, full lips, and slender neck. His eyes instinctively followed the trail down and eyed her robust bust and gentle curves. He was utterly captivated by her beautiful figure.
Liam quickly cleared his throat and looked her in the eyes once more. A nervous motion caused him to instinctively tug at his prematurely-grayed hair. He shifted his eyes from her startling beauty, down to the milk bottles. “I…uh…filled the bottles for the day, but I’m going to need to request my monthly payment Ms…”
“Parker,” the woman replied. “but please, call me Beatrice.” She fluttered her long lashes, causing Liam to shift nervously. “Yes ma’am—I mean, Ms. Par—I mean, Beatrice.”
Beatrice giggled at his schoolboy-like behavior. “I’ll get your money on the double, Mr. Crowley. In the mean-time, by all means come in. I have some lemonade on the counter, and I’m sure a working fellow like yourself could use all the refreshment you can get.” She beckoned Liam inside with a wave of her hand, which Liam obediently followed.
Liam gazed amazedly around Beatrice’s house. It carried an air of sophistication, with a hint of modern flair. At every turn of his head, he found a rustic piece of furniture with a history that Beatrice was only too happen to explain. “Ah yes, this table was brought back from the Indies by my late husband Johnathon. He said that he managed to haggle its seller down to a mere twenty dollars, yet its actual worth is more than a thousandfold that!” “Oh, that rug is authentic tiger skin, don’t doubt that. Johnathon shot the little rascal himself!”
Liam continued to let Beatrice show him through the grand estate. His hand casually flicked the cool metal object in his pants pocket. He reflected on how easily things had been put into motion for him to be in the same neighborhood, let alone the same room, with this woman. His thumb graced the release switch, but he was careful to leave it be. For now.
Liam, wanting to savor the moment, tapped Beatrice on the shoulder. “Do you think we could extend this into a full tour?” he asked. “Your house interests me greatly”.
“Why certainly,” Beatrice smiled. “I’d love to show you my things.”
Liam followed absently as Beatrice continued to lead him from room to room, commenting again and again on the eclectic furniture that was interspersed through the house. Liam’s attention was capture by a collection of rather large swords hanging in the study. “Were those collected by your husband as well?” he asked.
“Why yes, nearly everything of note in my house was given to me by my dear husband. He left me just recently, but I still pine for him every day.” Beatrice pointed toward a desk on the far wall of the room. Above it hung a regal portrait of a distinguished man in his late forties. On his thin nose rested a pair of wiry spectacles which framed his beady eyes. A sneer rested casually on his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” Liam expressed. “I can’t imagine how you must feel.”
“Fret not, my friend,” Beatrice replied. “I have not yet gotten over him in spirit, but my mind has found its own agenda.”
Beatrice led Liam out of the study and through the den, taking special time to point out the television in the middle of the room. “Isn’t it fascinating?” she remarked. “They beam images right into your own home, into a simple box! Granted, they haven’t worked all the kinks out, but its so much easier than reading the dull newspapers.” As they finished with the den, the TV sputtered out a few choice words from the news report:
…milkmen disappearing rampantly around area. Most recent occurrence from around Hampburg area. One body has been found with multiple stab wounds and uniform missing. If you have any information, call “1-542-43…”
The TV’s drivel was lost as the pair entered the kitchen. Beatrice glided gently over to the refrigerator. “You wanted a glass of lemonade, right…Liam, was it?” Liam’s nerves almost betrayed him at the sound of his own name. “Yes ma’am,” he responded. “Oh please,” she exclaimed, “do drop the formalities. They’re too stuffy for my taste.” She began to pour a glass of crystal-clear lemonade. “No ice?”
“No ice,” Liam responded. “It waters down the taste.” He eased up gradually behind Beatrice, his hand returning to his pocket. He walked gently to her slender figure and placed a hand on the countertop. “So, where is my payment?”
Beatrice turned, cup in hand, with a devilish grin. She placed both glasses on the counter and looked Liam in the eye. “I see you’re an impatient one. I suppose I should pay you sooner, rather than later. You are a busy man, after all.”
“Busy like Azrael,” he replied. Beatrice gave him a quizzical look, but she shrugged and gently grabbed his wrist. “Follow me.”
Liam’s collar grew flush as he was led through Beatrice’s abode. She squeezed his wrist with intense feeling and nearly pulled him up a spiralling staircase. Liam’s hand groped in his pocket ever more for the cold contact of metal. He gently pulled the blade from its hiding place and held it in his hand, thumb on the catch.
Beatrice rounded the corner to the bedroom, her heeled feet clicking a staccato overture through the empty halls.
Liam opened the catch, fully extending the switchblade’s steely grin.
Beatrice thrust open the door to the darkened bedroom, a ravenous smile painted across her elegant face.
Liam closed his eyes and thrust himself forward into the darkness in front of him.
Beatrice let go of his hand, a moan escaping her lips.
Liam turned and wildly swung the blade. In a moment of pure bliss he felt the blade connect—
--with wood.
Liam opened his eyes, only to be greeted with a solid oak door separating him from the woman he had hunted for. He removed the blade from the door and reached for the knob. His hand grasped blindly over the area where the doorknob should be, yet only emptiness reached his palm. In a panic, his hand flailed across the wall and struck the lightswitch.
Liam turned and saw the room he was in. Not a bedroom, but a small walk-in closet. It was almost entirely empty, devoid of any brooms or mops, linens or towels. All that remained was Liam and a single slumped figure in the corner.
Liam gently approached the figure and reached for a pulse. As his hand reached the man’s neck, the head rolled neatly off its resting place and onto the floor. A pair of sunken eyes stared into Liam’s soul, their dread magnified through a wiry pair of spectacles. Liam spun wildly and saw dozens of nooks and crannies in the closet, each filled with a twisted corpse comically draped in an aging milkman’s uniform.
In the kitchen, Beatrice poured herself a glass of lemonade. Liam’s hoarse screams echoed throughout her home, causing Beatrice’s ravenous smile to return. She sipped gracefully from her chilled glass, sighed, and looked toward the staircase.
It’s like he never even left.