Dissension (7 page)

HOUSE OF SECRETS

Anthony eyed Mikey for a minute then shook his head.  "Which beach did she head to?"

"Rocks, but did you hear me?  Mrs. Clark killed her freaking husband."

"Yeah I heard you and you sound stupid.  Seriously Mikey, you wake me up for this?  I’m going back to sleep,” Anthony said dismissively then started to head back inside.

“No really!” Steve shouted as he grabbed his shoulder.  “I was there. I saw it...I saw it.  The ambulance was pulling up on our way over.”

Anthony knew Mikey was keen on making everything sound overly important, but Steve rarely went along with any of Mikey’s ill-conceived ideas.  If Steve said it happened then it happened.

“Fine,” Anthony replied.  “Let’s go.”

“We gotta get Mit first,” Mikey smiled and jumped on his bike, which looked freakishly small when he rode it.

Sighing, Anthony grabbed his long board.  He pushed off into the street and followed after Mikey and Steve.  They rode around the corner and stopped outside of a white, colonial house with maroon brick pavers.

"Mit get your ass out here," Mikey yelled.

"His mom's home dude," Steve warned him.  "Watch your language."

"Who cares, she deaf."

Mit stumbled out of the house, stuffing a blueberry muffin into his mouth.  He pulled a rusty mountain bike from around the side of the porch and climbed on top of it.

"One of us really needs to get a car," he grumbled.

Mit was a fiery Irish kid, who was just about normal in every way.  But his IQ, which he would never mention, just about doubled everyone around him.  He was the shortest out of the group, but was normally the first to dive head on into a fight.

The path to Mrs. Clark’s house was ridden flat throughout the summer. The dilapidated house next door had been turned into a makeshift nightclub by the neighborhood kids.  There were always parties going on and liquor bottles scattered across the lawn.

That was how all the rumors started in the first place.  A few drunk kids peeping through window and the legend of the "Crazy Clarks," was born.  Over the years it'd just gotten worse and now it seemed to have reached it's peak.

Mikey cut through the grass in front of the vacant house and jumped off of his bike. He ran over to a tattered wooden fence that separated Mrs. Clark’s yard from the house that everyone called "the hub."

“See look,” Mikey said with an excited grin on his face.

Anthony walked up to the fence and peered through the cracks.  Sure enough there it was, an ambulance sitting right in Mrs. Clarks driveway.  Two paramedics strode out of the front door rolling a gurney with a sheet over it, presumably covering Mr. Clark’s body.  Hobbling behind them, a distraught Mrs. Clark sobbed, wiping her face with a checkered handkerchief.

Her hooked nose jutted outward like a crooked finger.  Her shiny, gray hair glared under the morning sun.  The pair of silver cat-eye glasses she wore made her appear more menacing than a little old lady could ever hope to be.

She was a fragile lady, roughly seventy years old; although the boys were certain she was approaching two hundred. Her little, frail legs were barely able to carry her to the ambulance.  She stopped at the back and one of the paramedics helped her into the cabin.

As Mrs. Clark stepped onto the platform, she slowly turned her head and looked towards the fence.  Her greying eyes met Anthony’s and he dove to the ground, praying she didn’t see him.

“She winked, she winked at me,” he puffed.

“I told you...I told you that crazy lady had it in her,” Mikey said with conviction.

Before Anthony could reply, the ambulance cranked up and backed out of the driveway.  They didn’t bother to turn the sirens on, which to Anthony was a morbid indication of what Mikey and Steve already suspected.

As the ambulance silently rolled down the road, Anthony slowly got to his feet.  He watched the truck vanish around the corner as the last of the morning fog dissipated.  With a skeptical look, he turned to Steve.

“So what did you actually see?” he demanded.

“I saw stuff and I don’t like your attitude,” Steve snapped back.

“Seriously man, what was it?”

Steve rolled his eyes.  “Well, I got up this morning and started my normal scan of Becky Geller’s room,” Steve paused, smiling as his mind drifted to Becky who he'd been actually stalking for the better part of a month.

“Snap out of it Romeo!” Mikey said and clapped his hands.

"We're gonna date.  I just know we are...we have all the same interests and her mom volunteers with my mom.  It's destiny."

"Look, I don't doubt your skills with the ladies Steve, but Becky is out of everyone's league.  Just tell me what happened," Anthony replied.

“Yeah, well I looked over to crazy Clark’s house, ‘cause you know I said she was gonna kill him.  I just knew, only a matter of time.”

Steve reached into his pocket and pulled out a Twinkie.  He shoved it in his mouth and continued talking, sending crumbs into the air like little rockets.

“The curtain was closed, but I could see their outlines.  And the old man, he was sitting down eating and then she just hit him.”

Everyone edged closer to Steve, glaring at him like greedy little pigs.  They hung on his last word, waiting for the dramatic conclusion.  Steve stared back at them blank-faced and after an awkward silence he blurted out.

“That’s it!”

“What?”  Mikey fumed.  “That’s it?  You said she killed him.  Dude you’re mental?”

“She hit him and he fell down and didn’t move.  And now, they just carted a body out all covered up.  What do you think happened?”

“Hit him with what?” Anthony jumped in.

“The hammer she had. I told you she had a hammer.”

“No you didn’t,” Mit rolled his eyes.  “Maybe that’s the part you meant to say when you were stuffing your face.”

With a huge grin, Mikey moved back to the fence and slung his foot onto one of the boards.

“I’m going in.  There’s gotta be evidence!”

“Are you crazy?  What if someone’s home?  What if they come back?” Anthony reasoned with an uneasy face.

“Dude, she killed her husband and just left in the ambulance. I’m pretty sure no one’s home,” Mikey retorted.  "Besides, we're starting high school tomorrow, imagine how cool we'll be if we have pics of the Crazy Clark crime scene.

“You’ve got me sold,” Mit said as he stuffed his phone into his back pocket and jumped on the fence.

Anthony looked to Steve hoping for support, but he was already making his way over the fence with considerable effort.  Anthony shook his head from side to side and huffed. 

“You’re not leaving me here alone,” he snapped.

He quickly slung his leg over and leapt the fence, landing quietly on the other side.  Kneeling down, he looked up at the aging two-story. The shadow cast by the looming building seemed to cover the entire yard.  "Can't believe we're doing this," he mumbled.

With a thud, Steve landed behind him, falling hard on his side.  Pieces of broken wood fell off of the fence as he staggered to his feet in pain.

“Good job,” Mikey laughed.  “Follow me.”

They scurried across the lawn in a single file line.  Anthony considered turning back several times, but knew Mikey would never let him hear the end of it.  Mit and Steve were pretty much all in, they couldn't wait to snag a few pictures of the house that the neighborhood had been obsessed with for years.

Mikey darted up onto the porch and stooped by the heavy wooden door.  The rotten wood beneath their feet squealed and screeched.  A creaky, old rocking chair swayed slowly as if someone had just gotten up.  Everything about the house told Anthony that going inside was a bad idea.

“The door’s open,” Mikey turned back and whispered.

Before Anthony could object, he slowly pushed the door forward.  It creaked loudly and the hinges whined like a cranky infant.  As the door swung wider Mikey grinned then stepped into the house, vanishing into the darkness.

Mit quickly followed behind him.  Anthony threw his hands up in desperation and cursed them under his breath.

“Well, we came this far,” Steve said and shrugged his shoulders.

"This is dumb," Anthony retorted.

Steve nodded in agreement then stepped into the house.  Swallowing the lump in his throat, Anthony followed after him.

The house was old and ragged, but enormous.  It had a damp, musky smell and odd noises squeaked in the darkness.  The walls were covered in dark green wallpaper and the wooden floors were broken and decaying.  They’d obviously been the meal of choice for millions of termites.

A gust of foul wind blew through the house and the front door suddenly slammed.  The old windows rattled from the vibrations and an ominous wave moved through the air.

A dusty staircase spiraled upward and faded into the shadows.  Anthony stopped at the foot of it and stared up at the dilapidated steps.  He thought he could hear whispers coming from the darkness, he was almost certain he heard someone talking.

“This way,” Steve shouted back at him.  His voice echoed around the room.  “Cool,” he chuckled.

Anthony stared up the stairs a little longer then followed him down the hall.  They slowly made their way to the left of the house towards the kitchen.  Steve was certain they were eating breakfast when the assault occurred.

The house played a symphony of sounds with each step they took.  With every creak and crack they froze and looked around anxiously.  The cramped hallway made keeping quiet nearly impossible for the clumsy quartet.  It was only by sheer luck that they made it through the house without breaking anything.

The kitchen was an old fashioned galley style with an island in the center and pans hanging overhead.  There was a little nook in the corner with a table just big enough to seat two.

A strong smell of ammonia lingered in the air and it was obvious someone had spent time cleaning.  The rest of the house lay covered in dust and reeked of moth balls, but the kitchen was spotless.  The tile was recently mopped and Anthony had to grab Steve’s arm to keep from falling on the wet floor.  The counters were shiny and neat and everything was stowed away.  The table was cleared off except for the center where a tiny wooden mallet lay. 

“I told you!” Steve screamed, his voice booming loudly. 

Mikey slapped him in the back of the head and sneered at him. 

“Shut up, are you trying to die?”

Steve grinned and continued to celebrate in silence.  He’d just found the smoking gun in a virtual game of clue.  The mallet was small, but looked quite deadly.  It had a wooden handle, but the head was jagged and metallic.

They all stood around the table staring down at the supposed instrument of death.  Each envisioned their own version of how Mrs. Clark had bludgeoned her husband.  It was like a “
Who Done It
,” mystery unfolding before their eyes.

Anthony could see it playing out like a movie in his head. Mrs. Clark bringing her husband his plate of morning eggs.  Mr. Clark taking a bite and then complaining about how undercooked they were.  Then, wham!  She clobbered him over the head and ate the eggs herself.  Anthony laughed to himself at the vision.

A grandfather clock ticked loudly in the corner, masking the sound of the car pulling up outside.  They were all too caught up in day dreaming to take notice of the muffled voices as they slowly neared the house.  It wasn’t until keys jingled into the lock on the front door that they snapped back into reality.

“Thanks for the ride sweetie,” Mrs. Clark waved to the driver as he sputtered off.

She reached for the rusted door knob and fumbled with the keys.  Mumbling under her breath, she finally found the right key and jammed it into the lock.

Mikey froze, his face drained of all color.  Mit spun around towards the hallway, his eyes as wide as dinner plates.  On instinct they all turned to run at the same time and collided into one another.  The thud of them falling to the floor was masked as Mrs. Clark slammed the front door.

“Darn sticky door,” she spattered.  “Mr. Crusty get down here.”

Anthony choked on his words as he started to speak.  It was as if all the air had suddenly been sucked from room.

“Who is Mr. Crusty?” he whispered in a harsh voice.

Everyone shared the same look of worry and confusion.

“Mr. Crusty, you get down here now.  I’ve got work to do.”

Anthony’s heart pounded as the stairs creaked slowly.  This was it, they were trapped and Anthony was certain they’d soon share the same fate as Mr. Clark.  He glanced back at the mallet and swallowed the lump in his throat.

“What were you doing up there?  Well, answer me,” Mrs. Clark demanded.

Anthony held his breath straining to hear what Mr. Crusty would tell her.  There was a bit of rustling then a hushed “meow” followed by a giggle.

“Oh Mr. Crusty, mommy’s not angry with you.  Just a little sad is all.  You want some milk I bet, come on let’s get you some.”