Page 111 - TheRedSon_PrintInterior_430pp_5.5x8.5_9-22-2019_v1

could’ve been nothing but an embellishment for art’s sake—
the many and varied followers of Miss Patience were known
to be a creative lot.
Despite the lackluster features of the location, I was still
thrilled to be in such a historic place, not to mention one
step closer to my inevitable meeting with the renowned
cannibal. But the sun was almost up, and I hated the idea of
ruining the somber atmosphere of the house with daylight,
so I retired to a corner of the basement and slept the day
away. My dreams were hollow, filled only with the drone of
common silence—nothing of the stolen dreams that had so
often haunted my sleep.
I awoke to a dissonance of raised voices from without,
like some rowdy crowd slipped from hell. The night was
fresh, likely no more than a few moments old, and the noise
almost masked the sound of something prowling the upper
portions of the house. The excitement was excruciating. My
sisters could barely contain themselves as they tried, again
and again, to leap into my hands. I looked to the opposite
side of the cellar, where a miniature window peeked above
the rim of the unkempt side yard. I could clearly make out
shadows pressed hard against the dirty glass, as they were
nearly pinned by an obnoxiously bright light. I carefully
made my way across the room to the window, ever mindful
of the prowling creature, now silent, that lurked somewhere
above me.
The tiny view revealed a mob of townspeople. They were
all gathered around my latest work, screaming and waving
their arms. How they had managed to transport it from the
edge of the wood, I couldn’t imagine. From the top of what
looked to be a water tower, a powerful spotlight illuminated
my creation. I was so absorbed by the exquisite vision of my
art being exalted—or cursed, I wasn’t sure which—I almost
forgot about the silence of the thing upstairs. And how the
cellar steps did not creak when walked upon.

114 | Mark Anzalone