I found old man Hendricks’s house fascinating. The sunken in roof. The broken rickety fence. The brown mass of grass. There were never any lights on except for the upstairs, and I don’t remember the last time I saw old man Hendricks. I wondered if he was even alive, but then a shadow moved against the window.
Four kids hurried over to his property. They reached into their plastic pumpkins, dishing out apples, and without hesitation, they launched them at the windows. Most smashed against the outside. One was a home run, and glass shattered. The kids bolted, turned the corner, but my attention remained on the house. Its owner never emerged.
I felt bad. I shouldn’t be spying on my neighbors, and I usually don’t. I don’t pay any attention to those around me except old man Hendricks. I don’t know what it is. I just stared out my bedroom window at his house, and I have not stopped. I could not stop; those kids with their apples ignited a fire within me. I thought somebody should throw an apple at them, but instead, I stormed outside to clean up their mess.
“What are you doing?” a voice hissed through the broken window. “Get away from here.”
“I’m sorry.” I tried to pierce through the darkness but failed. “I was just trying to help.” I threw a smashed apple to the ground. “I’m sorry.” I stepped away, but as I stepped away, the front door slowly slid open. “Hello?” I approached with caution. “Hello, old man…Mr. Hendricks?”
The house was dark. The floor creaked around my weight. Something rustled nearby, and I hoped that it was not a rat. I could see the outlines of trash and newspapers. I didn’t take him as a hoarder, but if the lights were on, I would have seen proof. Why were the lights not on? Was he hiding dead bodies here? I laughed that thought off.
A moment of darkness passed. I smelled something. Then, I realized that there was a light on in the kitchen, and he was cooking. Whatever he was cooking made me salivate. I gently pushed open the door, half expecting him to grab a broom and sweep me out of the house. Instead, I found him hovering over the oven, checking on what was inside.
“Come on. Come in. Don’t be a stranger, son.”
“I know it’s late,” I began.
“It’s never late. Sit. Sit.” He gestured toward a rickety kitchen chair. “Be my guest tonight. Sit. Sit.” I sat where he gestured, and his cold, knobby hands gripped my shoulders for one brief, chilling moment. “Almost ready.” He returned to the oven.
“But, sir, you don’t even know who I am.”
“You’re the one that stares at my house every night.” I stared at my feet now. “Nothing to be ashamed about. You just knew.”
“Knew? Knew what?”
“Here we are. Sweet as ever.” He lifted something small out of the oven, and instantly, I wanted it. I would’ve have torn it from his hands just for a piece, but I couldn’t be rude. I had to control myself. “I know what you are thinking,” he said as if reading these thoughts. “A piece you shall have.”
“Thank you?” It was more of a question, one that I forgot quickly as I dove into the sweet brown dessert. “This is so good!”
“Those four brats.” He sat before me now, watching my every inhale. “They should not have been running so blindly.” I paused with the fork held between my lips. “They never saw the car coming. Well…” He slapped the table, making me jump. “At least one will live.”
“What are you talking about?” My mouth was full, and so was my stomach. I wanted more, but as I ate, I began to grow cold. The house was very warm, so why was I shaking? “Those kids weren’t hit by a car.”
“Of course, they were,” he said with a straight face. “It was what I needed. Three more souls.”
“Excuse me?”
“The pie’s good, isn’t it?” I slowly nodded. “Nothing as delicious as the dead.” I almost choked on the remains of pie in my mouth. “And you were wrong before.”
“Excuse me?” I almost choked.
“I don’t hide the bodies here.”
I pushed the pie away from me, but as I did, I noticed that my hands were as brown as its surface. My toes tingled. My tongue was numb. My stomach rumbled and howled for more pie, and I was reaching for another slice. I had to fight with myself to stop, and I almost didn’t. I forced myself to look at him, and that’s when I noticed those small, gray eyes. “What did you do to me?”
“You know why you couldn’t stop yourself from staring over here?” I shook so violently, rattling my head back and forth. “It’s because you knew.”
“Knew,” I wheezed.
“Knew that it was time to die.” I could feel the last of my color drain from my face. “It’s okay. With your help,” he finally moved away from the table, “I can make more pies.” Now, he was holding a razor sharp kitchen knife in his young hands.
I tried to move. I had become a human marshmallow, brown and sticky. My feet were stumps. My hands were engulfed in pie, becoming one. I opened my mouth to scream, but I could not feel my lips or my tongue. All that came out was a puff of air.
“You see, there is going to be a nasty chemical spill through here, so one way or another, this neighborhood is doomed. May as well spare those that would suffer badly, unless they deserve to suffer badly.” He kicked the chair out from beneath me, and with a splat, I landed on the floor. “I love making pies.” He anchored the knife over my chest and aimed for the heart. “Who ever said that Death was a cold-hearted bastard?”
His knife slipped gently into me. “Mmmmmm.” He licked his index finger a moment later. “Custard.”
Melissa R. Mendelson has been working for the State of New York for the last five years. She is also a published short story author and poet. Her poetry has been included in Names in a Jar: A Collection of Poetry by 100 American Poets (Amazon, 2007). Her short story, Whispers in the Night, has been included in Espresso Fiction: A Collection of Flash Fiction for the Average Joe (Amazon, 2012).
