Mr. Bradshaw

Mr. Bradshaw is a rather odd man.

He is short and has long arms, and his teeth are all either missing or rotting. His slimy yellow eyes are always bloodshot—glossy with some oozing liquid that forms a film across his irises and pupils. His back is hunched, and his body is oddly shaped and disproportionate.

He has been your neighbor for as long as you have lived in this house. You see him every morning when you get your newspaper, in the afternoon when you check your mail, and occasionally in the evening if you go for a nightly stroll. Always, he sits rocking back and forth in a creaking chair on his dilapidated front porch, littered with cobwebs.

Despite his strange appearance, you have never known him to be anything but a sweet old man. After all, you two do have a brief exchange on each of your ventures outside.

“Good morning, Mr. Bradshaw!”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Bradshaw”

“Good evening, Mr. Bradshaw.”

“Hello, there!” he always replies.

Always.

There have been times when Mr. Bradshaw has been known to wander. Heck, he almost got hit by a car just the other night while walking in the street, alone. He is supposed to be under twenty-four hour care by a live-in nurse, but the whole neighborhood knows the caretaker could not care less about the old man. And so, Mr. Bradshaw would wander.

You are in your driveway one night, just outside of your open garage door. The moonlight provided just the slightest bit of light; though, toward the road, the world goes dark, and all you can see is the faint orange glow of a streetlight across the way.

It has just rained. The air is thick and humid, and the pavement is blanketed by a thin sheet of water. The black clouds above make for an even darker night, though whips of lightning still crack across the sky every so often, illuminating the void for the split second that it flashes.

You are video chatting with your friend. You have just gotten home from seeing them today, but you enjoy their company, and so have continued your conversation through call. You talk for a few minutes and begin to run out of things to discuss. The silences between sentences grow longer, and soon, there is only wind. You still hold your phone in your hand, though your friend has begun to pay less attention to the call—as have you.

You get a chill, a rippling sensation that slithers its way up your spine and sends you into a forced shiver.

You feel it.

Eyes.

Watching you.

You forget your friend, and peer around at your surroundings. Even the wind has grown quiet. Your breaths are growing shaky, the feeling of a staring gaze piercing into you. A sound strikes your ears, a hoot, and a barn owl dives from the branches of a tree in your backyard. It swoops and flies over the fence in front of you that separates your yard from Mr. Bradshaw’s.

You take a sigh of relief. It was only a bird. You start to chuckle slightly at your childish fear, and you begin to raise your phone to see your friend and tell them what transpired.

But then it happens.

A bolt of lightning brightens the sky, and you see them. A pair of bloodshot, yellow, glossy eyes reflecting through the cracks in the fence. You’re startled so greatly you nearly gag, though you calm yourself and catch your breath.

After all, Mr. Bradshaw is a rather odd man.

“Good evening, Mr. Bradshaw!” you call out.

Nothing.

He must not have heard you.

“Good evening, Mr. Bradshaw!” you say louder, and in your peripheral, you see your friend look up at their phone.

Though dark again, you can still see the faintest shadow of the figure behind the fence, and the wind once again begins to blow.

Ever so slowly, you see a hand raise above the top of the boards, and in a disturbing manner, the hand wiggles its fingers in a wave.

You feel sick to your stomach, but you collect your thoughts. Just the idea of having to see this any longer sounds entirely unbearable. Disturbed, you turn your back to the fence.

“What’s going on?” your friend asks.

They must have seen the look on your face.

“It’s nothing,” you whisper into your phone. “It’s just my neighbor.”

Hesitantly, you look over your shoulder, and are rushed with relief.

He is gone.

You take a heavy breath. Crisis averted.

You let out a chuckle through your nose at how tense you were in the moment.

You are happy you are safe, you think to yourself as you turn back. Though, while turning, something catches your eye. Something that floods you with such a panic that you choke. Silhouetted against the streetlight, a figure stands at the end of your driveway. A hunchbacked figure with long arms.

You can sense the danger in your very being. You know something is off—something grim. To make it even more unnerving, the figure was motionless, a statue surrounded by a world dancing with wind. But still, you remind yourself.

Mr. Bradshaw is a rather odd man.

“Mr. Bradshaw, is everything all right?” you shout.

Nothing.

You take one step toward the end of your driveway, and as you do so, the figure takes one step toward you.

You stop.

They stop.

You take some deep breaths and raise your phone to your lips.

“Be ready to call 911,” you whisper to your friend.

Your friend goes distraught, though you turn down the call volume, and stare at the shadow by the edge of the road.

You take four more steps toward the end of your driveway.

The figure takes four more steps toward you.

You both stop.

Slowly, you reach into your pocket and grab your keys. The door to your house is in your garage, but you would have to unlock it to get inside. You take one step back, and the figure takes one step toward you.

Your primal instincts kick in. You turn and run for your garage as fast as you can, the water in the driveway splashing beneath your feet as you sprint toward your house. As if stepping onto ice, my foot slips out from under me in one of the puddles. You land on your face with a splashing thud, a distinct snapping noise cracking into the air as your nose hits the concrete. You look over your shoulder, and the figure is barreling up the driveway; you waste no time in standing to your feet. As soon as you are in the garage, you press the button for it to close, and it slowly begins to creak shut. Weeping with pure terror, you fumble over your keys, mortified to see your hands covered in blood from your broken nose. Your adrenaline sends your hands into a violent shake, hindering you from finding the key of saving grace that will let you into your home.

Now full fledged sobbing, you look to see that the garage door is almost closed. With just enough space left, a man comes diving under the door and into the garage as the door closes behind him. He leaps to his feet, a twisted grin on his face as he slowly pulls a knife from behind his back. Before you can react, he charges.

Your body—an island in a sea of blood—lies motionless on the ground.

Mr. Bradshaw hears something in your pocket: a voice crying out in fear.

You had failed to completely silence your friend.

He reaches into your pocket and stares into the camera. His face is covered with blood, and the oozing puss of his eyes mixes with the crimson to create drops of yellow redness that trickle down from his tear ducts.

He looks at your friend, and with a near toothless mouth, grins and whispers, “Hello, there.”

The whole neighborhood is out the next morning. Police cars fill the street, and an ambulance pulls away with you as a still bloody Mr. Bradshaw is escorted to a squad car.

An officer pulls a woman aside, and he asks her, “Is there anything you can tell us about the suspect.”

She thinks for a moment, and begins to speak.

“For starters, Mr. Bradshaw is a rather odd man.”