Mirror, Mirror

     Their relationship began with a simple act of kindness the previous winter. Movement of a curtain caught a young man's eye as he passed the old Victorian house. Several rolled up newspapers gathered at the curb on the sidewalk leading up to the house. The young man delivered them to the front door and rang the bell. Another quick movement in the curtains signaled the presence of someone inside, but no one answered the door. He left the papers and went on his way.
     The woman stood at an angle so she could observe the young man leave without being seen. When he didn't turn back after a few minutes she decided it was safe to retrieve the newspapers. This she did so quickly any observer wasn't sure the door had even been ajar.

Heir Unapparent

     Mr. Schneidermann studies each person entering the room with an intensity most of them found uncomfortable. This is a reading of the last will and testament of Otto Stjärna, not some criminal judicial case. He is an attorney, after all, an expert at reading faces so his manner is understandable. After everyone is seated, he begins his remarks.
     'Thank you all for coming here today for the unsealing of Otto Stjarna's will. I also want to express my gratitude for your willingness to submit the DNA samples for testing Mr. Stjarna stipulated for your attendance here today. Mr. Stjarna wanted to make sure his work to upraise humanity continues. As you are aware, he never discussed his work with anyone. He kept his successes private, but his generosity with people in need endeared him to many while he amassed a sizable fortune; a fortune he intends to fund whoever takes his place.'
     Glances are exchanged by those gathered, but not a word is spoken. 'As some of you may surmise, Mr. Stjarna wanted to be certain of the linage of the person inheriting his entire estate.' More glances exchanged. Smiles transformed into consternation.
     Mr. Schneidermann picks up a stack of manilla A4 envelopes. 'I hold in my hands your DNA results.' A few of the men lean forward in anticipation. Stjarna's estate is enough to provide each person in attendance a sustainable income for life. 'Only one of you is a complete match to Otto Starna. Lars Dagdrömmare, I have some papers for you to sign. The rest of you may go. Thank you for your time.
     'Wait a minute, Schneiderman. Not so fast. Is there nothing in the will for any of the rest of us?'
     'I'm afraid not. Sorry. None of you were a familial match to Mr. Stjarna.'
     'That cannot be true. I am his brother.'
     'And I am one if his sons. This woman is my sister. How can we not be a fam- whatever kind of match you said? Your tests have to be wrong. The lab made a grave mistake.'
     'Did you not submit a sample of your hair and a fingernail clipping in addition to the swab of your mouth?'
     The men and the woman nodded.
     'Each sample was sent to a separate lab as a cross-check of the results. None of them showed anyone but Mr. Dadrommare to be a suitable match. Again, I am sorry.'
     Otto's brother continued to protest. 'Dadrommare is not even blood relation. At best he is a family acquaintance. Your tests are wrong.'
     'The three top-rated laboratories in the country evaluated the samples. They are not mistaken.'
     The young woman stepped forward with tear-filled eyes. 'How on earth can this be?'
     'That's a good question. Unfortunately, the only man capable of an answer it is no longer among us. You see, Mr. Stjarna's DNA is unlike any of the accepted models. You might say possessed no verifiable DNA. Mr. Dagdrommare is the same.'
     'How on earth is this possible?'
     'I agree. How on earth?'

Abandoned Child

     Once again Sam Goode missed the last bus. Sam submerges himself in his work and misses the bus to the commuter train platform more often than not. He thinks about work even as he walks the several blocks of dark streets.
     On this particular night, Sam's attention is drawn to a house which escaped him until this moment. Well, not the house per se, but to a dim light that reveals the front door standing open. He halts his trek to the train to study the situation. Whoever lives here may be in need of help. He pulls his cellphone from his pocket as he walks up the few steps to the house, but he doesn't make a call. From the stoop, he turns to look back to the street and to either side of the house. No one to be seen. Not a sound. He returns his attention to the open door. He knocks and shouts, 'Hello? Anybody home?' and steps inside.
     The light emanates from a single bulb hanging from the ceiling at the far end of a hallway. Nothing seems to be disturbed, though an outsider can never tell with certainty about a stranger's housekeeping. In this case, none of the sparse furniture is overturned. No drawers pulled out or emptied by ransacking. No one has answered his call. No one is home. Sam decides the resident left in a hurry and failed to latch the door. He is about to leave when someone sobs. 'Hello? Is someone here?' he calls out a second time. Again there is no reply, only continued crying. Sam's palms begin to moisten. He shouldn't be in someone else's house. He is beginning to suspect a crime of the sort he needs to avoid. He decides to leave.
     The crying gets louder. Sam realizes a child is crying. He can't leave now. Who would leave a child alone in his darkened house? The sobbing and cries now advanced to wailing. A door creaks open revealing stairs to the pitch-black basement. Sam switches on the flashlight app on his phone and proceeds step-by-step on high alert down into the darkness. Halfway, he pauses and scans the chamber with his flashlight. In the far corner sits a little boy. He stops crying when the light shines on him. A lot of questions need asking, but he doesn't want to overwhelm the boy.
     'What's your name?'
     'Sammy.'
     Sam squats to look the boy in the face as he talks with him.  'Sam is my name, too. What are you doing down here all by yourself.'
     'Waiting. I want to go outside and play. Will you play with me, Sam?'
     'Too late to play outside. Who left you here?'
     'Will you give me a hug, Sam. I'm a little cold.'
     'Sure, I will, kid.' Sam wraps his arms around the child and holds him close to his chest. 'You didn't answer me. Who left you here?
     'I feel warmer now.'
     'Sammy, you're avoiding my question. You're only a little kid. I want to know who left you here?'
     'You did.'
     'I did? That's not possible, Sammy. We've never met. You're mistaken.'
     'Sam, you left me here when you started working and you never came back. Hold me closer, will you? I'm shivering.'
     Sam tightened his embrace to warm the child all the while wondering what he should do with Sammy. Minutes passed. Sam stroked Sammy's hair and the child says, 'I love you, Sam. Please take me with you' as he began to fade away. Fade isn't accurate to describe what happened next. Sam's body absorbed the boy leaving him sitting alone in the dark basement hugging himself. Tears began to roll down Sam's cheeks. The upper door hinges creak again and begins to close.

      

Between Floors

     Work made for a long, tiring day. Bridget focused on getting into her third-floor apartment, kicking off her Diane Von Furstenberg heels and collapsing into her plush club chair with a glass of wine. For once she opted to take the elevator than climb the flights of stairs. After today she didn't need any further exercise. She pushed the button and the elevator doors opened. She stepped inside and pushed the button for home, glad to be alone and not obligated to chat.
     As the doors closed and the elevator began to ascend, the lights went out. 'Damn. At least this is a short ride,' she said out loud to no one.
     'Touch me.' A man's voice. 'Go ahead. I know you want to. Touch me.'
     She was certain the car was empty when she entered. She panicked. Without any light the buttons all felt the same so she punched them all.
     'Touch me.'
     Panic turned to near hysteria. Again, she punched all the buttons wanting one of the to stop the elevator and open the doors. The elevator halted and the doors opened at the rear. Bridget assumed she was disoriented in the darkness and exited.
      Moments later, the elevator doors opened to the third floor. The lights were on and another resident entered. He spotted a woman's handbag on the floor. He picked it up and looked inside. The wallet contained a driver's license belonging to Bridget Houlihan which he pocketed.
     The man exited when the doors opened onto the lobby. He handed the bag to the doorman.
     'This was on the floor of the elevator. There's no I.D. but the wallets has some cash in it. Someone's bound to miss it.'
     'Very kind of you, sir. Thank you.'
     'Good night.'
     'Good night, sir.'
 

The Watcher, Part Two

     His bladder is pressing for relief. Sandman hesitates to get off the bed because of a mysterious red eye staring from across the room. With caution he swings his legs over the edge of the bed slides his feet into waiting slippers. He walks into the bathroom without turning on the light. The white commode is effervescent in the moonlight. He sits. After his bladder is satisfied, he flushes the toilet with an elbow, turns on the tap, rinses his hands, dries them on the hand towel provided and returns to bed.
     The eye maintains its surveillance. Sandman turns his back to the eye and covers his head with one of the pillows.He can still sense the continuous stare. In the pre-dawn light he strains to determine an outline of the man or beast with the eye. He cannot. On his back now, he tucks his hands underneath his head and stares back at the eye. He is so focused on the eye the night clerk using a special glass pressed against the peephole allowing him full view of his naked body stretched out on top of the bed goes undetected. A sudden noise raises an alert; a kind of hissing-sucking salacious sound. His attention goes to the door. 'Who's there?' he calls out. 'Is someone there?' He waits for a reply. None comes. Still the hissing-sucking continues. He decides to pull back the bedspread from one side and cover himself. Better to get a bedbug bite or two than some pervert getting his jollies.
     More hissing. More sucking. The rooms fills with the aroma of fresh brewed coffee. Of course, the machine sits on the small refrigerator next to the desk. He forgot since he didn't plan to make coffee. The maid or someone probably set a times before he checked in. Sleepy now, he relaxed into the bedcovers. He told himself 'fifteen more minutes' as he closed his eyes.
     The coffeemaker disguised the sound of hundreds if not thousands of tiny feet marching across the room. In a matter of seconds they will reach their prey. A skeletal arm and hand extend out from under the bed and tries to beat a warning against the floor. Hollow bones on carpet aren't loud enough, nor quick enough.
     When the maid arrives later in the morning, the mans' bags and clothes remain as he left them. She changes the towels and vacuums a path from the door to the bed. She leaves without discovering or disturbing the guests under the bed.

The Watcher, Part One

    Harold Sandman hates motel rooms. Work forces him to stay in a lot of them. Motels make being a travelling salesman possible. Nothing recommends this one in the New Mexican desert over any of the other rooms this week. He settles his sample case on the floor below the window and hangs his two-suiter on the rod serving as a closet. He pushes a wide strap off his the shoulder bag.causing the bag containing changes of underwear and socks, a pair of jeans, a couple of polo shirts, a pull-over sweater, and his toiletries to land near his feet. Sandman doesn't open either of the bags of clothing to unpack and put away. Bugs. He doesn't want to risk bugs getting into his clothes, spreading plague and waiting to bite him. Instead, Harold strips off his travel clothes and fold them neatly into a cotton laundry bag he always carries with him which he places in an outside zippered compartment on the shoulder bag and takes a shower.
     Afterwards, he removes a pair of jeans and one of the shirts to dress for his search for a decent meal. He is meticulous in closing and re-locking the bag. He picks up his room key from the little desk common to every motel room and heads for the requisite coffee shop frequented by road-weary travelers.
     After his meal, he returns to his room to review his appointment schedule for the next day. He takes off his clothes with the same care he put them on, folds them and seals them back in the shoulder bag. He props himself against the headboard bolted to the wall, reviews his paperwork, returns the papers to the briefcase and the briefcase to the little writing desk no full grown adult can sit at and use. Again, he makes himself comfortable on the bed and channel surfs the television until he can't keep his eyes open. He turns out the light and fall asleep on top of the covers where he presumes no bedbugs can survive the air conditioning.
     Sometime during the pre-dawn hours Harold Sandman is startled awake with the awareness someone is watching him sleep

The White Van

     Grey morning rain and sleet coated the streets. The chilled air is a great motivator to walk quickly. The timer on the signal light showed twenty-three seconds remaining to cross the four lanes of the boulevard. I knew I could make it, but a voice said 'Wait.' Twenty seconds remaining. I could still make it. Again, the voice said, 'Wait.' I decided I would cross the side street instead of the boulevard when the light changed and cross the boulevard at the next block. And then it happened.
     A white van sped up the hill from the river far too fast. The driver slid into a left turn, coming to a stop inches from a man who was standing on the corner. The driver of the van was only second away from pinning the man against a light pole. Ten seconds remained on the clock.
     While I stood watching the seconds click away, the van didn't move, nor did the man who stood on the corner. All activity suspended for those remaining seconds before the signal light changed.
     Ten seconds from not making it to work yesterday. Nine. Eight. Seven. Whoever spoke to me saved me.