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

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
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