The Man Before Time

I descended the stairs to see my father in the kitchen boiling six different pots of various colored liquids. There had been an incessant knocking at the door, but I guess he didn’t notice. Mr. Brocker’s aging face appeared in the tiny window that some doors are fitted with, though their purpose escapes me. My feet are careful not to betray me as they take on each stair with caution but I’m in no hurry; I don’t much care for Mr. Brocker.

“Dad!” I startle him, “he’s here again.” The old man’s appearance was becoming a daily occurrence for our family and it was anything but pleasant. We simply couldn’t exist correctly. The smells from my father’s kitchen concoctions would offend him from across the street or, God forbid we stoke the fire and a puff of smoke escapes the chimney only to waft directly through his open window. It’s December in Vermont. People should shut their damn windows.

I reach the copper coated handle and coax open the worn door. “Yes?” I ask impatiently.

“I must speak with your father, girl.” I cringed. The combination of his offensive breath (that would put month old salmon to shame) and his unobscured misogynistic choice of words forced me to back away. He seized the opportunity to shuffle inside and head for the kitchen.

“Ah, George, so nice to see you.” My father- master of pleasantries.

The old man grunted and attempted to force his deeply crusted face into what appeared to be a smile. I watched from a safe distance, but the left side of his mouth distinctively twitched upwards. “I’ve been an unforgiveable grouch this winter, I know. Won’t you and your family join me for dinner this evening?”

My jaw raced my stomach to the floor. Surprised, horrified and knowing full well my father’s acceptation of such an offer was imminent; I stumbled backwards into the banister.

“We would be delighted!” No, we wouldn’t. But I didn’t dare speak a word until Mr. Brocker had scuffled his way out of our home.

“Delighted? Delighted?” My voice rose with each repetition of the word as if struggling to understand its meaning.

“Oh come now Peanut, it’s the neighborly thing to do.” I kept the support of the banister before slumping down in front of it. There was no arguing with hospitable people and their dedication to neighborly duties.

A few hours later I was back by my banister, accompanied by my older brother and waiting on my mother.

“I bet I could sneak out before dessert,” my brother mentioned, “those old houses are riddled with secret passageways.” Mr. Broker lived across the street in a house that was built before time. Its gothic attributes and poorly maintained appearance, gave it the feel of a real haunted house, which was perfect for Mr. Brocker because he was older than dirt and creepier than the things you find buried in it.

Once my mother joined us, we made the journey across the road. My father knocked on a faded door knocker that was once maybe a brilliant lion, but not for some years. The lion was conquered, doomed to spend eternity on this decrepit house with no need for a knocker. A pointless creation giving way to a futile existence.

Mr. Brocker opened the door and twitched the same twitch I had seen earlier. My feet disobeyed my orders to remain on the threshold and led me after my brother. We silently followed the old man up an unsteady staircase, but once my brother reached the fifth stair and I had placed my foot on the second, he went flying back down to the front door. Mr. Broker looked back to grimace, but offered no explanation for the spring loaded platform. He just kept climbing the staircase.

I offered my hand but my brother waved me off in an overly manly fashion. So I shrugged and soon found myself on the second level of the haunted house. There was nothing in the first room, just a room with tacky wood paneled walls that met a broken wooden floor. After an oversized entranceway there was an uneven table with six mismatched chairs that sat in front of two great windows. I pondered my escape, whether or not I could survive a fall should I throw myself through those two massive frames, but I pulled out a chair next to my father and kept my silence.

Words were exchanged, something about roast turkey, before a little girl in a pink frilly dress leapt into the seat next to Mr. Brocker.

“This is my daughter, Violet.” A man who tested the limits of time with his existence should not have a daughter so young but again, I chose quietness over confrontation.

After a wilted salad, the girl disappeared.

“Dad, that girl…where did she go?” My nerves tightened.

He pointed to the closet next to one of the mirrors, “she went in that closet and came out somewhere over there,” then waved his hand in no particular direction.

My heart raced with impossible notions and once I stopped considering the unimaginable, I noticed my brother was missing too.

“Where is he?” I muttered, letting fear consume me. “Where is he?” I screamed now, banging my hands on this makeshift dinner table. Terror had coursed through my body like the powerful drug it was and there was no stopping it.

“Excuse me,” the old man left the table, accompanied by my panicking screams.

“You come back here you son of a bitch! Where is he? Where is my brother!” My parents remained unalarmed, which only furthered my horror.

One jolt and the table began to move down a predetermined path, taking the chairs with it. We swerved through empty rooms, down staircases and up an invisible track. With my parents on either side of me, I shouted over the manmade wind, “don’t you dare let go of my hands!” White fingers appeared from the rushing darkness to wrap around my grasps. Chilling, wet and abnormally small, I shook them off as my screams echoed in the shadows.

There was a knock. Then it came again. Now it was a pounding on the worn door downstairs. My feet carried me to the top of the staircase and I leaned over the banister to see my father busy at work in the kitchen. The incessant rapping kept in tune with my racing heart as I descended a few steps. Just a few. Just enough to see Mr. Brocker’s craggy face through the useless little window.