The House Where Bones Lie

Buried sands and idle hands equal tempered plans for a soon forgotten man.

While up above and so down below, the deeply rooted tree devours its own; Clutching tightly to rotted bones and sinking graves of withered stone—it does more harm than it should to crawl unfettered—for to wilt and die is nothing but to sit on weighted, borrowed time.

This story—my story—it doesn’t begin in the water, hell it doesn’t even end there. Unfortunately for me it’s much, much worse—you see—my story ends where yours begins, or at least that’s what the old-man would have me think. Shrink-wrapped rolls of four-foot pieces of carpet were all that was left of the house on 15th and Main—the remnants of my house; my beautiful house where my beautiful wife and my beautiful kids lived. Or rather it’s the house we would live in some many, many years later—if only I could make it back, back to that safe, simple, boring life I left behind. Little did I know.

I’d never, ever, ever ask another question I didn’t need to know the answer to.

Hell—If we're being honest, I'd only ever asked to see a bit of history, my history, the history of the house my grandfather had willed to me. Nothing had ever been said about it, no word of mouth, no pictures—save for one, my grandfather—Lucky Leo—they called him, standing on the stone steps before the porch had been built. We look a lot alike, some even say I’m his twin, his re-incarnate, his spitting-image. I always used to wonder why he’d been called that, and now I would do anything to forget. These walls would never look the same to me; the blood stains…that carpet, the hand-forged plaster...

Oh dear god. What had I done? In this photo my grandfather looked so proud—his eyes dark, much darker than I remember, soulless even. His smile hid whatever unnerving secrets the photographer knew. His suspenders clamped over his faded wife-beater, a gray fedora hung down slightly to shade from the chilly sun; the ends of a smoldering back-alley cigarette between his two fingers. That picture was taken sixty years before I was born—not that long ago, a drop in the bucket of time and yet, the sheer brutality I would witness would haunt me long after I died.

Of course, at this point you might be a bit confused—as was I at first— but I promise all of this will make sense, I promise. I wracked my brains but couldn’t remember why I’d ever wanted to leave my life; it looked so simple—too good to be true, just a short, quick visit back in time, a place I thought would be better, simpler, quieter—but no one told me—getting out of the time-warp would be the problem, for now it seemed every day was the same—I woke up on a dust-covered couch, a thick quilt covering my tired frame. How would I get home if nothing was ever different?

It was only supposed to be for one night—I made one little, tiny mistake and see where it got me; cost me everything. My life, my house, my entire world as I knew it, all over one silly-lousy-no-good-selfish wish; but hey—that’s what I get for spilling my guts to the pretty bartender. Yes, that was it—it’s all coming back to me now—her coy little smile, painted-red lips—or was her smile not really a smile? My head was foggy from too much drink, I couldn’t be certain.

There were signs, bright-neon-yellow flashing lights; warning signs—but naturally, as with everything I ignored them and kept going. It was nice having attention for once—but I guess as they say—it’s better to have bad luck than no luck at all, am I right?

Either way, my wife had done nothing wrong, the problem was me, all me. A man tired of his job, tired of going un-noticed, un-recognized and un-appreciated. Oh what I wouldn't do...

The smell of smoke tickled my nostrils, burning my throat—it was happening again, they were back—to collect. To hold me up to my end of the deal—whatever that was.

“Bobby—wake up, the old man called, he said you need to get the house ready. You know what to do…don’t make it more complicated than it needs to be.”

These were the old-man’s guys—you know the type—short tempered, street dudes—not a bit patience or hesitation in their bodies. Greg Morino did most of the talking, behind him were brothers Luca and Liam Citrelli, cornerstones in the old-family ways. They not only ran the block but owned it—along with several others in our small city. If only they knew—if only they knew; it was hard for me to keep up this persona, tiring.

I’d come from a mostly Italian family, a good-strong, hard-working blue-collar family. There wasn’t a lick of mob-ties in our blood, or so I thought. I was proud of it, even went so far as to become a first-generation cop. If they knew I’d be better than dead. Funny thing was—their grandsons were friends of mine in my future life, I’d even married Liam’s grand-daughter Jane. If only they could see me now, funny how the tables turn.

I sat up, crusty eyed and agitated; one of the brothers threw a box-cutter at me—“get to work,”

“Yo, Bobby, Leo…” Liam snapped his fingers impatiently—“got your coffee ready…left you a bagel.”

No one ever called me Leo, just my mom. I looked over, sure enough—a piping hot cup of black coffee sat on the edge of the table; a warm bagel next to it.

“No time for cream, hurry, hurry…we don’t got all day,” Luca yelled from somewhere near the back door as he began chucking more mementos out of the house and into the roaring fire-pit out back.

“Leo? How’d you know…”

“What’d that girl from the bar hit you too hard or something…forget your name?”

“No, I just don’t go by Leo; it’s always been Bobby…”

“Well…now you’ll be Lucky if you get this done in time, Lucky Leo…”

"Yeah, that has a nice ring to it..." Liam whispered, chewing nervously on a toothpick--"we’ve got three more hours of this and then we gut her completely. Jimmy will be by later to collect the bodies. They’re ready for you to wrap.”

I looked over, that must’ve been what I smelled; the familiar scent of death.

“One-two-three, push the couch over and start cutting,” Greg ordered, “the house will be all yours once we get the old owners out. You see the penalty for not keeping up with the fines…do what you’re told and you’ll have a brand new house by morning, no problems…nothing…”

The neighbors might've notice the Santucci’s moving out, they'd even stopped by to get some furniture from the roadside, but Jimmy—the local trash collector surely didn't. He was paid extra to turn a blind eye and for good reason. Why I couldn't have his job I’d never know. What I did know is if the neighbors ever said one word about whatever had happened to the Santucci's, they'd be next.

I picked up the box-cutter, slicing through layers of frayed carpet—each slab about four feet by six feet—enough to wrap a few body parts. The whole time I felt myself hovering over me as I worked. Clearly I wasn't cut out for this sort of life—I’d only just awoken in this hell-hole the week before—the once glamorous life I now assumed was nothing short of torture, it was quite an adjustment—having gone to sleep Bobby Leonard Kane the Third, just a normal everyday Joe looking for excitement only to wake up a Hench-men, a hired-hit—left to take out the trash, to eliminate the problem, and it went against everything I knew, everything I'd ever believed.

I knew I shouldn't have had that extra shot; my head pounded as I thought back to the pretty lady at the head of the counter. She even smiled as she blew twenty-four karat pixie dust over the green and blue flames, my fifth roaming-apple of the night—“when you wake up, you will see what you have lost and others have gained, or is it the other way around…only you know the answer. Here's some clarity for your peace, for days on repeat but do take heed, once you have the whole story, only then will you be allowed to leave...”

What had she said? Her sexy, sultry voice beckoned the back of my mind as she gave a sly little wink; here I was, knee deep in blood-soaked carpet as I looked into the mirror over the Santucci’s fireplace. I could swear my grandfather was staring back at me, or was I staring back at him? Who was who— I wasn’t quite sure of that, either.

This whole thing was becoming a right old mess. I couldn’t tell heads from tales, up from down, in from out. One-by-one I chucked the tightly wrapped bundles of carpet over my shoulder like heavy sacks of potatoes as I stacked them neatly on the curb. Within days the house had been completely stripped of its former life—a key burning a hole in my hand. The very key I would make a copy of for my wife Jane over half-a-century later.

“Fancy a drink?” Liam nudged, I smiled—wondering what—if anything would happen if I turned it down, would history repeat itself, or would the nightmare continue into another day as though nothing different happened? Either way I smiled to myself—plumes of dust kicked up from under the floor-boards as concrete was raked over. The old man had hired a group of “other guys” to begin plastering the walls. I quit wondering what they had done to end up here, in my house. I wasn't even sure what my grand-father had done but alas, here he was, here I was and it was all the same.

“No bullets could penetrate these when we’re done,” Greg nudged his hammer hitting gingerly against the thick wall.

“I know…”

It had been an ongoing issue growing up and even with my wife—the arguments—couldn’t even hang a picture properly. I’d always joke—at least we know there are no bodies inside these walls—oh how true that’d been, I could say for certain—at least as far as I could tell—that no bodies had been dumped between the studs.

“Let’s get that drink,” Luca added, “maybe Lucky Leo will get lucky with the bartender…”

“Yes…” I paused, that was it…the bartender.

I'd have to hurry if I was to make it before she left.

It was only a few short blocks to the locals spot.

I couldn't understand it, the last thing I remember was my final drink, a salute—but for what?

A familiar voice cut over the fray—"he's not ready, he didn't finish—one more day, I promise you will see—take him back to the lake, the lake you visited as a child...there will lie your dowry in kind..."

The lake? What lake?

The smell of smoke tickled my nostrils, burning my throat—it was happening again, only this time we weren't in the Santucci's living room, my living room, and there was no coffee or bagels waiting for me. I was lying on something cold, damp, wet. The smell of bogged-peat and muddy grass was suffocating, or was this how it felt to die? If I hadn't known better I would think the Centrelli brothers had buried me alive.

"Wake up Bobby...wake-up, the old-man is dead..."

"What'd you do Bobby...what'd you do..."

All I knew is tonight, for one night history would not be repeating itself.