The Giving of Things Cold and Cursed



  The Giving of Things Cold and Cursed

  By Terry M. West

 

 

  Copyright © 2014 Terry M. West

  Published by Pleasant Storm Entertainment, Inc.

  Visit the author at: https://terrymwest.com/

  All rights reserved. No part of this story may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

 

  The black room was empty.

 

  Baker Johnson could see it clearly from his position at the doorstep of the apartment. He entered the dwelling and moved quickly. He swerved around his many trunks and boxes which sat roughly piled among the antiquated furnishings of his dead uncle’s home. Baker’s things had arrived a week before him and with no guidance to go by, the callous delivery men had congested the formal greeting room with his belongings.

 

  Dread crept into him when he came closer to the black room and saw the unpainted outline of a bolt on its opened door. The room had always been guarded with a lock. Antiques and other expensive items sat undisturbed in the formal room. The value of the items outside of the black room far exceeded the rather pedestrian keepsakes that the bastard space usually housed. Everywhere else seemed full and accounted for; purposefully occupied.

 

  But the black room was cleaned out. Pale outlines gave the position of absent display shelves on the filthy, brown walls. The cold room glowered with a low yellow light, though the space was situated in the center of the building with no windows or exterior walls neighboring it.

 

  Baker Johnson looked back to Sherman Drummond, the building super who stood with a master key set in his hand. The man twirled the metal key loop absently and whistled cheerfully in the hallway.

 

  “Mr. Drummond,” Baker called. “Could you join me for a moment?”

 

  Sherman Drummond gave as friendly a grimace as he could, and then he crossed the threshold. Baker could tell that the building supervisor did not like being called on to do more than he felt was required of him.

 

  Baker appraised Sherman as the man came closer. Baker’s expensive education had been in the study of psychology, and he had a keen interest in the behavior of others. He didn’t engage with people often. Not living ones, anyway. Baker was a people watcher. He studied them, as he himself felt coldly removed from the race. He was smarter, much smarter than most. But this gave him more patience than arrogance.

 

  Sherman Drummond was still fairly young; mid-thirties, Baker wagered. The building supervisor was also single, as the man’s ring finger declared, though Sherman’s uncombed hair and short but scruffy beard screamed this fact. No wife would have let her husband venture out looking such a muddle; and in a mismatched colorful broadcloth shirt and dull, wrinkled trousers, no less. It was obvious to Baker that Sherman’s passion for life lied elsewhere or was non-existent. The caretaker of the brick structure had the mannerisms and stride of a much older man.

 

  Baker, on the other hand, wore a gray double-breasted suit and he was immaculately groomed. His desire for order and cleanliness was strong. He realized it should have been kicking up now, as the old place hadn’t been cleaned in weeks. But he was too preoccupied with the black room to fret over the state of the apartment.

 

  “Yes, Mr. Johnson?” Sherman said, presenting himself reluctantly.

 

  The short venture had made him sweaty. Both men were quite hot. It was early September, but summer was still awake and active. Baker removed his jacket and unbuttoned his vest as he spoke to the man.

 

  “My uncle kept things in this room. Things he would have never parted with,” Baker explained. “Who removed them?”

 

  “Well, when your uncle fell ill and went to the institution, he sent strict and specific instructions on this room, through a message,” Sherman explained, digging a note from his back pocket. “I figured you might want to see it, so I brought it along.”

 

  Baker took the brief note and looked it over. It was definitely in his uncle’s writing. The penmanship was stressed, but accurate. He handed it back to Sherman.

 

  “So again I ask, because this is rather important, Mr. Drummond; where are the items?”

 

  “Hello?” a soft voice interrupted the men.

 

  Baker looked toward the entrance of the apartment. A heavyset and mature woman lingered at the threshold. She wore dark service work clothes and she clutched a purse to her chest.

 

  “Are you the nephew of Richard Johnson?” she inquired.

 

  Baker nodded. “Yes, I am.”

 

  The woman entered and joined the men. She smiled sadly at Baker. “I can see him on your face.”

 

  Baker curiously acknowledged the woman. He was working on her; forming a quick evaluation. It was a ritual that he couldn’t help.

 

  Her appearance told Baker that life had been mostly kind to her, as it had a tendency to be with those bright and pretty. Her beauty was still there, like a faded stamp, and she appealed to Baker in a way he couldn’t quite decide. He didn’t know if he was attracted to what she had been or what she currently was. The affection for a mother and the lust for a lover had a thin boundary between them at best. Baker had read this numerous times in text books that were too dry to be salacious.

 

  “This is Deidre Ahearn,” Sherman introduced the woman. “She worked for your uncle.”

 

  “I work for many a tenant in this old place. But yes, your uncle was among them. And he was a colorful one. He spoke of you, occasionally.”

 

  Baker smiled warmly at her. “It is a sincere pleasure. I hope my uncle’s opinion of me wasn’t too harsh.”

 

  Deidre snickered. “Well, Mr. Johnson, your uncle was not what you would call personable by any means. If he was indifferent to you, it was as close to fondness as he could get. He made you out to be quite similar to him. But I find you a friendlier version, if you don’t mind me being blunt, sir.”

 

  Baker shook his head. “No. I am sure you knew him better than I. I haven’t spoken to the man in twenty-five years.”

 

  Deidre nodded and then noticed that the door to the black room was opened. Her eyes trailed to it and lingered, trapped there by a quiet trepidation. “This room,” she said softly. “This little dingy, forgotten room always made my skin crawl. I wasn’t allowed to enter and give it a proper cleaning. Not that I minded.”

 

  “I was speaking to Mr. Drummond about the contents of this room,” Baker told her.

 

  “Given away, weren’t they?” Deidre said. “And right after he was put in the hospital bed. I went and saw him a few times. The doctors said he had dementia. And it pulled down his health quickly. I was the one who found him, you know; the one who contacted the authorities. It was a horrible sight, Mr. Johnson. Your uncle was wearing his own waste like war paint. It was sad and horrifying.”

 

  Deidre caught herself and looked apologetically to Baker. “I’m sorry, sir. You surely don�
�t deserve that image.”

 

  “It’s all right… Miss?” Baker guessed.

 

  “It was missus for some years. But Mr. Ahearn died early into our marriage. So, yes, miss is appropriate, Mr. Johnson. And you are married, I believe. Married with a daughter, if I recall correctly, though it may be a decade or more since your uncle mentioned this to me.”

 

  Deidre looked the apartment over. “Is your family here, Mr. Johnson? Or will they be joining you soon?”

 

  “My daughter was taken by a fever five years ago,” Baker revealed. He bore it stoically.

  “My wife followed my daughter shortly after. Her grief drove her hand to it.”

 

  Deidre gasped and covered her heart. “That is the saddest thing I have ever heard, you poor, poor man.”

 

  “My condolences as well, sir,” Sherman added, a little more civility showing.

 

  “I endure. That’s all I can do,” Baker explained. He returned the conversation to the black room. “My uncle instructed you to give these possessions away?”

 

  “When he felt the end dawning on him, he wrote that I put up signs on the front of the building,” Sherman said. “Your uncle paid me quite well to see to it. We opened the apartment up on a Saturday and the room was empty within an hour.”

 

  “And who took the belongings?” Baker queried. “Was it residents? Outsiders?”

 

  “Well, it was a bit chaotic, Mr. Johnson, with the giving away of free things and all. People were very pushy that day and I had to keep an eye on what sat outside this room, as your uncle wanted no other possessions taken from the apartment. I recognized a few residents. Most that attended were strangers. I couldn’t account for who took what.”

 

  Baker nodded slowly and then motioned to the black room.