Thursday, May 22, 2025

BRAD'S ORACLES: Chapter Two

← Back to Chapter One

by

Al Bruno III


Spook Hill was one street away. The town of Lake Wales was comprised of anemic side streets that branched off of the state and county Routes, bending back around themselves in grids and cul-de-sacs. Spook Hill was a local landmark and legend; long ago, a powerful Indian chief fought a giant alligator to their mutual deaths. Supposedly, if you parked your car in the right spot on North Wales Drive and put it in neutral, you would find yourself rolling uphill. Depending on who you asked, this was either an optical illusion, an anomaly of science, or the ghostly remnants of the great alligator and the Indian chief harassing passers-by. Thelma's father had tried two or three times to make it work, but they had just stayed at the base of the hill waiting.

Thelma and Brad turned off the county highway and walked along North Wales Drive. To their left were modest homes, most no more than a single floor and a handful of rooms. To their right was the dark water of North Lake Wales. "How old are you?" she asked. 

"I'm not in high school." He paused and looked at the oval-shaped lake; the water was still, and it reflected the stars. The air was alive with the chirping of frogs and insects humming. Something pale and white fluttered past them; it might have been a very large moth or a very small bat. There hadn't been time to see. "When my Dad died, I became man of the house. I had to grow up fast." 

"Oh, I'm sorry." 

"It's all right," Brad started walking again, "he was sick, but he didn't suffer. That's all you can pray for." 

"That's-" Thelma had to run to catch up with him again; his easy gate seemed to cover ground very quickly, "-that's pretty bleak." 

"It's a pretty bleak world. That's why you've got to grab hold of the future and make it your own." They were halfway up North Wales Drive and optical illusion or not, Thelma felt an uneasy weight settle into her gut, like something was pulling her back. Who was this man? And what was she doing? Wasn't it crazy to go wandering off with him? How many lurid news stories and horror films had beginnings like this?  Brad turned back to look at her; his smile was dazzling, "Almost there." 

He pointed to a house on the corner of North Wales Drive and Kissimmee Avenue, a rare two-floor building. The lower level was dark, but the upstairs was brightly lit. The house was what Thelma's mom would have called 'a fixer-upper'. The front porch was a maze of cracked and broken boards, the gabled windows sagged ominously, and the roof was a checkerboard of tiles and exposed wood. 

It was hard to turn away from that smile, but Thelma remembered another scrap of local legend. "Wasn't that place condemned because some crazy old lady was living in filth there?" 

"That was my great aunt." 

"Oh God!” Thelma cringed, I'm so sorry." 

"Don't be. I never knew her. The whole family pretty much ignored her because of some stupid debate over religion that got out of control." 

"That sucks." When he started walking towards the house, Thelma found she was following him again. 

"I guess she got senile or something living by herself. She started throwing her garbage down in the basement instead of taking it out to the curb," Brad explained, "When the basement got too full, she started filling up the downstairs." 

"That's awful." Thelma had heard the story a few times already at school, but Brad's spin on things was fascinating. 

"A year or so later, when the smell and the vermin coming and going in packs got to be too much, the authorities got involved," the gravel driveway crunched underfoot, "they locked her in a sanitarium and cleared the place out. It wasn't until after she died under their care that I even knew she existed." 

"What did you do?" 

"I sued. I sued the city, the county, the department of mental health, anyone my lawyers could get in their crosshairs," he stood on the front steps of the old house, "I got the house, I got some very nice big checks, and I'll never have to work a day in my life." 

Thelma stayed in the driveway; she could hear music and voices from inside the house. "So you spend your time visiting high schools?" 

"I was out for a walk and I poked my head in. High school kids always sell their weed too cheap." 

"Ah."

Brad’s expression became sly again, ”Then I saw you, and I just had to meet you." 

"Look..." Thelma was torn; she wanted to follow him in there, but she'd already traveled farther than she should have at this hour of the night with a stranger.

He opened the door, "Come on in for a bit, and I'll drive you back home as soon as you ask. I promise."

She looked back to the road, to the oval mirror of North Lake Wales. Something disturbed its surface, and the ripples made the stars crash together and split apart.

What am I doing here? She wondered. What am I trying to prove? 

"Come on." He said. 

"Ok," She said, "but no funny business." 

He caught her in the doorway and leaned in for a kiss. It was brief and chaste, but it left Thelma trembling. "Nothing will happen here that you don't want to happen." 

The lower floor of the house was stripped bare; every click and shuffle of their footsteps echoed. The air was tinged with the aroma of mildew and something else- a thick, cloying odor that Thelma couldn't quite place. 

"Come on," He closed the door behind them, "I'll introduce you to everyone." 

"Everyone?" Thelma asked. 

Kerosene lanterns filled the second floor with white glaring light; two of them were at the top of the stairwell, and more were placed in each one of the upper floor's four doorways. The lanterns were all at their maximum settings. Thelma could hear them hiss and feel their heat as she walked past them. At the end of the hallway, six girls huddled around a radio, playing cards with a handmade deck. Each girl was barefoot and dressed in faded, oversized clothes. When they saw Brad approaching, they all started talking at once. 

"Your harem?" Thelma surveyed them with a worried scowl. None of the girls looked much older than her, but they all seemed haggard and sleepless. 

"They had nowhere else to go." Brad said, "Ladies, this is Thelma. Thelma, this is Annie, Sara, Maureen, Jackie, Laurie, and Bonita." 

"Nice to meet you all," Thelma waved, "I should be going." 

"What?" Brad spread his arms, "What's the matter?”

"This is just getting too weird." 

All the girls shared a conspiratorial giggle at that. Thelma shoved past Brad and headed back for the stairs. She no longer cared who these weirdos were or what they were all about. This is what I get for listening to something other than my brain. Let's hope I make it out of here alive... 

Then, something in the last room on the left caught her eye. The light from another lantern lit the room, but the radiance was pale and quivering. It reminded Thelma of a dying campfire. A mattress was shoved against the far wall, and three corpulent figures crouched around it. There was someone stretched out on the mattress, pale and pink. Thelma couldn't make out the body on the mattress, but the gasping cries and choking grunts she heard were distinctly female. 

...alive and unmolested. 

Brad's hand settled onto her shoulder; his breath was quickening. There was something guileless in his voice. "What is she doing without me?" 

"It started an hour ago." One of the other girls said, "Maybe it's a flashback or something?" 

Another girl chimed in, "We tried to make her comfortable but I think she's waiting for you." 

Slipping out of his jacket, Brad walked into the room; he murmured an apology to Thelma and begged her to stay. At the sound of his approach, the three hulking figures straightened and turned.

They were taller than Thelma had thought, at least as tall as her father, but their hunched postures made it hard to be sure. The sight of their faces set her running. 

She blundered down the steps, falling and catching herself. No one called after her or gave chase, but Thelma didn't dare look back until she was almost to the school. 

When she got there, she found the dance was wrapping up. Most of the larger groups had moved on to post-dance parties, but some couples remained, snuggling in quiet corners and doing their best to delay going home. The AV kids were breaking down the audio setup while the teachers supervised and commiserated. Thelma's bicycle was alone on the bike rack, but she begged a quarter from one of the teachers and called home. When her Dad answered, she told him a kind of truth: that it was too dark and she was too scared. He promised to be there in twenty minutes with ice cream sundaes for both of them. 

As Thelma waited for him to arrive, she found her gaze wandering across the night sky to Vega and its twinkling emerald light.


Next: Chapter Three →


Thursday, May 15, 2025

This is Channel Ab3 Episode Thirty-Six: Brad's Oracles Part One


Thelma French never expected her 1982 spring dance to lead to danger. Drawn to the enigmatic Brad Waterman, she uncovers dark secrets. As reality unravels and friends vanish, Thelma risks losing herself forever.

'Brad's Oracles' was written by Al Bruno III

It was produced and read by 
Molly Cundall

This episode's music was by Universfield

Our unpaid scientific advisor is Adam J Thaxton

The Channel Ab3 theme was written and performed by Rachel F Williams

Credits and recaps were read and produced by Sharvin aka Lucky Boy Charm

Channel Ab3 logo was designed by Antonio G 

Are you enjoying the show?

Become a recurring subscriber.

Or make a one-time donation!

Are you in the market to sell your home, find a new home, or just explore real estate investment opportunities? Don't hesitate to get in touch with me!

This is Channel Ab3 is distributed and licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial Sharealike 4.0 International License


Check out this episode!

BRAD'S ORACLES: Chapter One

by

Al Bruno III


Those green eyes were to blame. They caught Thelma French's gaze and held her fast; everyone else, the other students, teachers, and chaperones, seemed to fade away. 

The gymnasium had been made to look like a disco; dim lights and streamers of foil and paper decorated one side, while the other was cluttered with chairs and refreshment tables. 

A drooping banner proclaimed that this was the '1982 Spring Dance', but most students weren't dancing all that much; most just milled around in small groups. The A-V club geeks were working the sound system, arguing about treble settings, and taking requests from kids who ordinarily wouldn't even speak to them. The guys from the football team kept as close to the cheerleaders as they could without actually having to step out onto the dance floor. The theater club kids hovered near the exits, whispering conspiratorially and rolling their eyes with mock agony at each song. 

The boy who owned those green eyes didn't belong with any of those groups. He didn't even belong at this school at all. Thelma wondered if he might be some other girl's date or if he was just crashing the dance. In the pause between one song ending and another starting up, she found all she could hear was the pound of her heartbeat. 

She wondered if she dared to go over and talk to him. He must have noticed her staring by now. 

How could he not notice her? After all, she was the only student of Chinese descent in this small Florida high school and a gray-eyed tomboy at that. She suddenly felt self-conscious; a few hours ago, her jeans, suspenders, and black T-shirt had seemed like a cool statement. Now, she just felt ridiculous. 

Someone said something to the green-eyed boy, and he looked away. The spell broken, Thelma wandered over to the refreshments. 

"Hey." A red-haired boy walked up to her, "I didn't think you'd come." 

"Hey, Winston." It was her former boyfriend. He was named after a rich grandparent he had never known and hated it, "It's a free country, you know?" 

"Yeah, whatever. The whole thing's a joke anyway. The stupid principal won't let them play any metal." 

"Who wants to dance to Iron Maiden?" Thelma had been on three dates with Winston Smythe before she had broken it off. At first, she thought he was cute and funny, but he turned out to be just another dog in heat. He had grabbed her chest at the movies, her ass at the roller rink, and Thelma did her best not to think about what he had tried at Homecoming. 

The song Abracadabra ended, Funky Town started up, and the theater club kids started to howl with laughter. Robin Vance came running up to them. She was wearing a billowy, low-cut dress and a suicidal pair of heels. Every male in the room, be they a student or teacher, was watching her cleavage. She hugged Winston from behind, "Hey Eddie. I was getting lonely... Oh. Hi Thelma." 

They were both watching Thelma intently, wondering if she would get angry or upset. Thelma didn't feel much of anything except amazement that her ex-boyfriend had finally gotten someone to call him by his middle name. "Hi." Thelma said, "You two going out now?" 

Robin's mouth was smiling, but her eyes were pure venom, "Hot and heavy." 

"Great." Thelma said, "Good for you." 

"Who are you here with?" Robin asked. Winston was already looking bored. 

Thelma said, "I'm here alone.”

"Oh!" Robin snorted, "That's so sad." 

Winston took her by the hand, "Let's go out to my car. I gotta hear some Krokus before I go outta my mind." 

That's the line he used to get me out to his car during Homecoming. Thelma realized. I hope she's ready for him to whip it out during his air guitar solo. 

She probably is. 

Some fresh air was in order, so Thelma headed out to the school's side entrance. It was supposed to be locked, but none of the chaperones seemed to have realized that the lock never quite caught. She wasn't alone; five or six other students had found their way here—mostly nobodies and wannabees. They were talking and smoking, trying to sound jaded and world-weary. No one talked to her; no one offered her a cigarette or even a snide comment about her outfit. 

Typical. She thought. She wished that Peanut and Samantha were there. 

Thelma was adopted and shipped off to America by birth parents who were only interested in having a son. Sometimes Thelma wondered if her natural mother had ever held her, if she ever mourned her. Not that it mattered; the Frenches were good parents. They worked hard to take care of her; if anything, they sometimes worked too hard. 

The only thing she really had to be miserable about was they had moved down here. 

For the first decade of Thelma's life, she lived in the same city and attended the same school, The Blessed Heart Academy in Albany. The Blessed Heart Academy was a Catholic school that aimed to maintain a non-denominational atmosphere. The students attended the school from first grade through graduation. Thelma had been having lunch with the same four friends since the age of six, creating a close-knit group.

Unfortunately, work had dried up for her father, and he had been forced to take a job in Florida to keep his creditors at bay and his daughter in shoes. At first, Thelma had been thrilled at the idea; visions of amusement parks and beaches filled her mind. It was only later she found out they were moving to Lake Wales, a small town almost dead center in the state. In the two years since they'd gotten here, she'd been to the beach three times and Disney World twice. Her Dad's work just kept him too busy to be around more; he was always leaving early and coming home late. Sometimes Thelma didn't see him for days. Her Mom had found a job, too; at first, she just worked at the fabric store to help pay off the outstanding bills, but soon, she found she had a taste for it. In a matter of a few months she was practically running the store. 

The stars were bright tonight, as bright as they got in Florida anyway. Thelma had never appreciated it before, but there was something about the New York skies that made the stars seem a lot closer. Thelma picked out the constellations, an old game from childhood, a way her Dad had shown her she could occupy her mind on nights when sleep didn't come easily. All around her, the 

other kids were gossiping and laughing. Thelma would have loved to join in, but something held her back; maybe it was the suspicion that she was one of the things that was regularly gossiped about. 

It didn't help that she had come to realize she was seen by the boys as a prize bass that they all wanted to try their hand at landing. A year ago, she had overheard a bunch of them talking about Asian girls as though they were all a race of sexually submissive tigresses. 

Thelma found herself blushing half with anger and half with... well, she wasn't quite sure... 

Embarrassment? Anticipation? 

That was the reason she had tried to make her relationship with Winston move slowly, even though there were times when she had wanted to give in to him. 

What held her back was the thought that if she were a prize bass to be landed, what would a boy do once she was hooked? Would she still have a boyfriend, or would there be a catch and release so the next guy could try out her supposedly exotic charms? 

"Everyone notices Vega." A voice said beside her. 

Thelma froze. It was the green-eyed boy...he was talking to her! Close up she could see that he didn't look like a boy at all. Yes, his chin was smooth, but his bearing made him seem much older. 

"What?" She asked once she'd found her voice again.

"You're looking at Vega right?" He said, "The bright one.”

"Um, yes.”

He leaned in closer, putting his head beside hers and pointing up into the sky, "Right below Vega, there are two stars. See them?" 

"Yes," Thelma felt his hand settle into the curve of her hip. He smelled like sweat and dust; he wore the scent like cologne. 

"If you look closely, you can see that those two stars are actually two sets of binary stars." 

Thelma almost lied, ready to tell him she could see it all, but she stopped herself, "I'm sorry, I can't-" 

"Well, the streetlights don't help. Maybe some other night." He stepped back from her, "My name is Brad, Brad Waterman." 

"Hi, Brad." She took his hand, it was cool to the touch, "I'm Felma Thench... damn. I mean Thelma French." 

"Funny," He smiled at her, "you don't look like a Thelma." 

"I'm named after my late Aunt." She said, "My father's sister. She died before I was... born." 

His laugh sounded like a grunt, but the smile made up for it, "That's how I got my middle name. Hugo." 

"You have an Aunt Hugo?" They both laughed at that. 

Some students made their way back to the dance, while others dawdled, made out, or kept watch for chaperones. Thelma found her gaze wandering from Brad's green eyes to his square jaw, then to his broad shoulders and down over his chest, all the way to his... 

"You like the belt buckle?" 

"It was just, very... noticeable." 

"It's kinda my family crest. My old man never thought much of it. Thought of himself as an American first, you know? He didn't have any use for the old traditions. So he made the family crest into a belt buckle to piss off his old man." 

Thelma risked another glance. It didn't look like much of a crest to her, just a knot of silver and bronze. "And now you take it seriously to piss off your Dad?" 

Brad smiled, "Well, Grandpa's stories of the Old World sound a lot better than what we have now." 

The first carload of parents pulled up to the main entrance, and three of Thelma's classmates crowded into the back seat. Brad's words left her thinking of that awful day last year when the President had been shot. She remembered the Principal, Mr. Rosenberg, getting on the speakers and delivering the news in a shaky voice. The ordinary class schedule had been scrapped, and the students spent the last few hours of the day in whatever classroom they had happened to be in at the time of the announcement. A lot of students ended up talking with the teachers about what it all meant. Thelma had heard that the history teacher, Mr. Sheehan, had given a rousing and patriotic speech about how the nation was bigger than one man and that America would go on. 

Sadly, Thelma's teacher of the hour had been Mrs. Kushner, and she spent the rest of the day telling them that the actions of John Hinckley had been prophesied in the book of Revelations and that God was going to send all their parents to Hell because they watched Three's Company. 

The worst part for Thelma wasn't the impromptu sermon or the moment of pointless insanity that precipitated it. The worst part for Thelma was that she didn't care. Family, friends, and even the hot and cold running acquaintances of Lake Wales High School mattered, but the suffering of strangers, even important ones, meant nothing to her. 

Thelma often wondered if that made her a cold person. 

"What time are your parents picking you up?" Brad asked. 

You are not telling him you rode your bicycle here. Thelma thought, Don't you dare! 

"I don't have a curfew." She said, and that was technically true. She didn't have a curfew because she had never pushed her luck by staying out past midnight. "Do you want to go back to the dance?" 

"Not really. You want to go for a walk?”

"I'm not... I don’t..."

He had already started moving, “It’s just a little ways." 

"Where?" She found herself running to catch up with him. They walked quickly until they were clear of the school. Once they were on the county highway, they slowed their pace, "Where are we going?" 

"Just up to Spook Hill. My place." 

"That's not too far," she thought aloud, talking herself into it, "barely even a mile. Do you live with your parents?" 

"No. I have a place with my friends.”

"You're not in high school, are you?" She asked.

"Nope." He gave her a sly look, "It's not too late to turn back if that worries you."


Next: Chapter Two →


Thursday, May 1, 2025

This is Channel Ab3 Episode Thirty-Five: The Night Blogger - The Graveyard Game Part Five

Join The Night Blogger as he unravels the story behind 'The Graveyard Game' in a spine-tingling tale of possession and the supernatural.


'The Night Blogger - The Graveyard Game Part Four: Dies Irae' was written by Al Bruno III

It is Dedicated to the Memory of Vanessa Bruno

It was produced by Brain Mansi

The Night Blogger is Brain Mansi

The voice of Mike Whitehead is Melle P.

The voice of Sara Bishop is Vanessa Bruno

The voice of Detective Bradshaw is David Cummings

The Night Blogger theme was written and performed by Nicolas Gasparini

The credits were read by Daniel Johnson

Our unpaid scientific advisor is Adam J Thaxton

The Channel Ab3 theme was written and performed by Rachel F Williams

Channel Ab3 logo was designed by Antonio G 

Episode Artwork was by Mike Leonard

Are you enjoying the show?

Become a recurring subscriber.

Or make a one-time donation!

Are you in the market to sell your home, find a new home, or just explore real estate investment opportunities? Don't hesitate to get in touch with me!

This is Channel Ab3 is distributed and licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial Sharealike 4.0 International License


Check out this episode!

Tuesday, April 15, 2025

This is Channel Ab3 Episode Thirty-Four: The Night Blogger - The Graveyard Game Part Four

Join The Night Blogger as he unravels the story behind 'The Graveyard Game' in a spine-tingling tale of possession and the supernatural.

'The Night Blogger - The Graveyard Game Part Four: Waiting For The Mortician Of Someone Like Him' was written by Al Bruno III

It is Dedicated to the Memory of Vanessa Bruno

It was produced by Brain Mansi

The Night Blogger is Brain Mansi

The voice of Mike Whitehead is Melle P.

The voice of Sara Bishop is Vanessa Bruno

The voice of Detective Bradshaw is David Cummings

The Night Blogger theme was written and performed by Nicolas Gasparini

The credits were read by Daniel Johnson

Our unpaid scientific advisor is Adam J Thaxton

The Channel Ab3 theme was written and performed by Rachel F Williams

Channel Ab3 logo was designed by Antonio G 

Episode Artwork was by Mike Leonard

Are you enjoying the show?

Become a recurring subscriber.

Or make a one-time donation!

Are you in the market to sell your home, find a new home, or just explore real estate investment opportunities? Don't hesitate to get in touch with me!

This is Channel Ab3 is distributed and licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial Sharealike 4.0 International License


Check out this episode!

Tuesday, April 1, 2025

This is Channel Ab3 Episode Thirty-Three: The Night Blogger - The Graveyard Game Part Three


Join The Night Blogger as he unravels the story behind 'The Graveyard Game' in a spine-tingling tale of possession and the supernatural.


'The Night Blogger - The Graveyard Game Part Three: The House Of Gorgo, The Parliament Of Moloch, Under The Eye Of Luna' was written by Al Bruno III

It is Dedicated to the Memory of Vanessa Bruno

It was produced by Brain Mansi

The Night Blogger is Brain Mansi

The voice of Mike Whitehead is Melle P.

The voice of Sara Bishop is Vanessa Bruno

The voice of Detective Bradshaw is David Cummings

The Night Blogger theme was written and performed by Nicolas Gasparini

The credits were read by Daniel Johnson

Our unpaid scientific advisor is Adam J Thaxton

The Channel Ab3 theme was written and performed by Rachel F Williams

Channel Ab3 logo was designed by Antonio G 

Episode Artwork was by Mike Leonard

Are you enjoying the show?

Become a recurring subscriber.

Or make a one-time donation!

Are you in the market to sell your home, find a new home, or just explore real estate investment opportunities? Don't hesitate to get in touch with me!

This is Channel Ab3 is distributed and licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial Sharealike 4.0 International License


Check out this episode!

Wednesday, March 26, 2025

HIGH ADVENTURE AND LOW HUMOR: An Invitation To Disaster

by


Al Bruno III



Chester Bush sat on his front porch, waiting for the sunset and what the sunset would bring. It was a warm spring day, cloudy with a hint of rain. He had multiple windows open on his laptop; with each one, he checked for news in a city a time zone away.

Three days ago, at 7 a.m.o'clock, a tornado had come through the town of Drummond, Oregon, destroying everything in its path. Chester could read the incoming stories from his comfy chair and watch the video feeds from local and national news sources.

The body count kept rising. It seemed that for every miraculous survival, there were three lives cut short. The tornado had destroyed the firehouse but spared the police station. It had avoided the school but leveled an entire wing of the hospital.

There was booze in his free hand—expensive brandy in a cheap glass. His ex-wife Rosie would have said that was typical of him, and she would have been right. He had a lousy house full of expensive toys and a rusty car with a high-quality stereo system. That was just the way he liked it.

They used to sit on the porch of their home on Watkins Street—back when the house was theirs, not just hers. Back when their fights were still playful and their silences still comfortable. Rosie would stretch her legs across his lap, a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and narrate the lives of their neighbors, one lit window at a time.

"See that one?" She nodded toward a glowing square of light. "He lives alone, but his 'best friend' visits every day. What do you think that means, huh?" She shot him a knowing grin. "And over there? Their daughter sneaks out her bedroom window every Sunday. And across the street—the ones who blast their music every night? They're falling out of love. Mark my words."
 
"Jesus, Rosie," Chester had laughed. "Maybe they just like music."  

Now, years later, he sat alone on his own porch listening. One of the browser windows Chester had open was streaming the feed from Drummond, Oregon's AM radio station. The traffic reports and right-wing pundits had been replaced with constant updates. They took calls and tried their best to help people track down loved ones who had gone missing in the disaster.

Chester was two years away from sixty and was proud of how well he handled the technology at his fingertips. Too many of his friends shied away from it all, intimidated by learning something new, afraid of looking foolish when they made a mistake. Chester had no fear of mistakes.

His cell phone rang, and he dropped his drink in his fumbling to get it to his ear. He hung up almost immediately—another one of those damn idiots looking for the previous owner of his cell number.

There had been a time when he would have cursed the person on the other end of the line out until they hung up, then called them back and cursed at them some more. All through his life, his temper had been a problem—but not anymore. Had he finally mellowed, or was it just that, at the age of fifty-eight, he didn't have the energy for feuds and fights? How many times should a man have to repair punched walls and replace thrown glasses?

Once, Rosie had thrown a glass. Not at him, but near enough. It had shattered against the kitchen tile, the sharp scent of whiskey filling the air.

"Goddamn it, Rosie!" he'd yelled. She was angry this time, and it was totally his fault. Over the years, it had become easier to antagonize her than to make her laugh—easier than trying to fix what was breaking. Chester didn't know when, but at some point, he'd started enjoying it. "You really are crazy."

"All I want is a little consideration." Her voice was raw, "I'm your wife."

"Then stop acting like you're my goddamn mother." He paused, "No. Stop acting like your mother."

She'd gone quiet then, breathing hard, her hands curled into fists at her sides. Then she left, she left, and he didn't see her for days.

When she returned, the broken glass was still waiting there for her to clean up.

Chester blinked, his focus snapping back to the puddle of spilled brandy spreading across the bare wood floor. He frowned at it for a moment, then closed his laptop. There wasn't anything new it could tell him anyway.

He already knew that the house on Watkins Street, the house belonging to Rosalie Price, formerly Rosalie Bush, had been flattened by the tornado. Just like every other house on that unlucky street.

Chester retrieved a towel from the kitchen, then got down on his knees and dabbed at the spilled brandy. The house he had shared with Rosie for seven years was gone. It seemed almost hard to believe. The last time he had seen the place was after the signing of the divorce papers.

Their last conversation had been in the driveway, a manila folder on the hood of his brand-new truck between them. It was drizzling, and Chester had watched raindrops bead on the windshield of his car while she signed her name—once, twice, three times.  

She clicked the pen shut, looked at him, and for a second, he thought she might say something. He braced himself, ready to fire back at whatever last shot she had left.

But she only exhaled, long and slow, before sliding the folder across the hood into his fingers.

"There," she said. "That's that."

He made a show of peeling out of the driveway in his truck, tires screeching, leaving behind rubber and smoke. It embarrassed him to think about it now. But back then? Back then, he'd told himself, Boy, I sure showed her.

He hadn't watched her walk away. At the time, he'd thought that was some kind of victory.

He brought the wet cloth and glass back into the kitchen, gave them both a quick rinse, and set them out to dry. For a moment, he toyed with the idea of getting another drink, but he decided he'd rather be sober.

For now, anyway.

The sun had fully set, the sky a darkening purple.

Thirty years. That was a long time to be angry, but it kept his other feelings a safe distance away. Better to be angry than to look back. Better to be angry than realize, after two more failed marriages and resignation to a quiet bachelor's life, that he had been most of the problem.

Three days ago, everything had changed. News of the disaster sent him scrambling to reach out to old friends any way he could—phone, email, text. Within hours, he had confirmed that all his old buddies and the family he'd left behind were safe—shaken but otherwise untouched.
Then they told him about Rosie's house.

At first, Chester just shrugged off the news, but as the day wore on, it tugged at him until it became a sickening worry. It robbed him of his appetite and the ability to sleep. In the silence of his house, all he heard were old conversations. When he closed his eyes, they filled with decades old memories.

The next morning, he started making calls. He reached out to old friends and family again—in his growing desperation, he even contacted a few enemies. He called civil authorities, searching for answers. Finally, he phoned the local radio station, pleading for anyone who might have information.

That did the trick.

Headlights in the driveway pulled Chester from his thoughts. He hurried to the porch steps, squinting at the woman stepping out of the taxi. At first, he barely recognized her—her hair was short and graying—but even in the fading light, her eyes were unmistakable.

"Do you have any bags?" he asked.

"I don't have anything," Rosie said. She moved slowly, cautiously, her arm held in a sling.

"Come inside." Chester paid the cabbie and guided her through the door. "I'll get you something to eat."  

She hesitated, studying him. "You've been drinking."  

"Nerves, I guess," he replied.  

She paused in the doorway. "Why are you doing this? You didn't have to—" 
"Yes, I did." Chester smiled. "Besides, it's too quiet around here."  

As Rosie stepped inside, she murmured, "I bet that changes fast."  

"I bet you're right," Chester said, following her in.  

Behind them, the porch door swung shut.