Writers Block .... by: (The Late) Frankenstein and Smooth Criminal

-Please take the time to read this post fully. You will not regret it.-

INTRODUCTION: Some time ago, being a huge fan of all of Frankenstein's written works, I messaged him and proposed him with an idea I had for a story. He whole-heartedly agreed. The following was a joint story that Frank and I had been writing for some time. We started writing it just before he exited from UnsolvedMysteries. We wrote pieces of it and then e-mailed each other, then compiled it into a large story. Unfortunately, as time worn on, Frank's health started to deteriorate and the e-mails became less and less frequent. And now, upon the tragic news of Frank's death, it may never be finished. But I think I owe it to him, and owe it to all of you, to share what is possibly one of Frankenstein's last written works.

The first portion was written by me, then it alternates back to Frank, then to me, and so on and so forth. Every time there is a line break, it switches perspectives. Not surprisingly, he assumed the writing position of an eccentric older man who was still infectiously interesting.

Coming in at seven and a half pages in 8.5 sized Verdana, I present Writers Block. It's lengthy, but well worth the read as all of Fraknenstein's works were.

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Charcoal colored clouds invaded the sky, like an unstoppable army marching over an empty battlefield, or in this case, the defenseless sky. Thunder rumbled noisily in the distance sending a swift reminder that to all those who wished to remain dry from the soaking rains that were approaching should seek shelter immediately. And there I was, watching the clouds roll in as I stepped off the moving truck and onto the sidewalk, carrying another cardboard box into my newly purchased home.

I’d moved to Arizona for a multitude of reasons. One of which was the weather. They say it never rains in Arizona. They say it’s desert, it’s hot, and it doesn’t snow ever. But how ironic it was that the day I’d chosen to move there, the downpours were quickly approaching.

Walking up the steps leading to my front porch, I took another second to glance around the small neighborhood while I less-than gracefully attempted to open the door without dropping my box full of plates or falling down the steps and breaking my neck.

It was a small little neighborhood; I lived in the residential part of it. There were four houses on my street; I sat on the corner of the main road and a side street, sitting on the left side if you were turn onto my street from the main road. One house was a pale yellow monstrosity sitting across from my newly purchased house. Garbage was thrown in random places throughout the yard, some of the windows consisted of duct-taped plastic, and there was a rusty field-beater pick-up sitting in the driveway. I’m normally not a person to think I’m above people but I don’t think I’d be inviting them over for dinner anytime soon, or taking any of their dinner invitations if they ever offered. I’m sure their menu would consist of baked squirrel and homemade gin with a side of cornbread. Yeehaw! Not my idea of a good time.

The house next door to ‘hillbilly heaven’ was much nicer. It was a white house, single floor, with maroon shutters. Whoever lived in that house had a heck of a green thumb I noticed, as their garden bloomed with all the colors of the rainbow. Hopefully the coming rains wouldn’t drown the poor things, they’d be a pleasure to look at when I was enjoying my morning coffee from my new dining room. I made a note that I would surely be meeting those people in the future.

And my next-door neighbor, assuming the house was occupied at all, lived in a simple house. It was very small, probably about six rooms, and the white paint was chipping from it. A small Volkswagen Beetle, a car I’d always made a point to make fun of for their odd looks and extremely compacted size, green, sat out in front underneath a moveable carport. The house wasn’t as tidy as my neighbor’s in the white house, or as torn apart as my hillbilly neighbors, but it wasn’t in what I would call the greatest condition.

Another rumble of thunder from afar brought me back and told me that I had half a truck of boxes to unpack and get in the house before the rain got there and soaked me to the bone. So I got back to work, dropping the box labeled ‘plates’ off in the kitchen and then back out to the moving truck. I’d make a point to meet my neighbors tomorrow if the weather was nice. Well, with the exception of the McCoys -- or were they the Andersons? -- who lived in the hillbilly junkyard.

The next day, I woke up in the middle of the kitchen floor in a large mass of fabric which I could only assume was my blanket. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and sat up and examined my surroundings fairly thoroughly and broke out into a deep panic. Where was I? WHERE? Ah, right, the new house in Arizona. That was an adjustment that would take some time to get used to, but amazingly panic attacks were a really awakening experience and I found myself ready for the day without the need for a cup or two of coffee. That was good, since the coffee maker hadn’t been unpacked yet.

I stood up, gathering my blanket and folding it messily and looked around. From the looks of it, most of the cardboard boxes with my belongings had dried pretty thoroughly. The rains had come a little quicker than expected and I was left to run back and forth to the moving truck, trying to remain dry as best I could. Ultimately, I failed but I was left with the curious thought of why I hadn’t been on the track team in high school with as fast as I had been running.

The rain had since cleared and the clouds had parted like Moses had a hand in it, leaving the sun to shine brightly and boy do I mean brightly down to the earth. I glanced down at my watch; apparently I’d fallen asleep fully clothed, without even taking my shoes off, and saw that is only 8:30 in the morning. Arizona time was another thing I’d have to get used to. But I decided that since it was nice, like I’d promised myself the day before, I was going to meet my neighbors. Well, around noon. Waking people up to say ‘hi’ doesn’t always leave the best impression.

So I pooh-poohed the day away until noon by unpacking a couple of things, washing up for the first time via the sink basin in my new bathroom, going into town for breakfast at a little coffee shop and then back home. I parked my car in the driveway, figuring I’d walk to the neighbor’s house. First stop: The white house with the maroon shudders, with the green-thumbed occupants.

My visit to the house was pleasant, yet uneventful. It turns out that a senior citizen couple lived in the house. The woman, a small round woman who could make cookies like my mother could (which is a very good thing) named Inga claimed responsibility for the beautiful display of gardening in front of their house.

She’d been married to her husband, Abner, for sixty years. Their anniversary had been the month before I moved in. Abner didn’t have a very appealing personality. He didn’t speak to me until the end of my visit when I was getting ready to visit my other neighbor when he spoke to me about how I should get myself checked for prostate cancer as I got older. Thanks Abner, I’ll sleep better having been told that.

Inga had been dressed in a Sunday dress, a white dress with eccentrically colored sunflowers on them; they were all sorts of colors and a true conglomerate of ROY G. BIV. Abner was busy sitting in a large leather reclining chair watching some golf program and he was dressed like he was about to leave the house, get in his car and drive to the competition. A pair of loafers, knee-high socks, a pair of tope colored shorts and a knit vest over a white t-shirt and yes, the goofy beret-type hat.

Finding it appropriate to dine in the kitchen, Inga kept the cookies and coffee coming while she told me her life story. How she was born and raised in the church, was the daughter of a pastor, and how she belonged and was a very active member to one of the churches in the town. It turns out church was a really big thing in this Podunk Arizona town. She told me how she’d met Abner in high school when she was a cheerleader and he was the quarterback on the football team and how they’d been high-school sweethearts, married early. How they had raised children who were both doing very successfully with their particular careers. How her and Abner had retired, how they went to Florida to a pricey timeshare once a year, and anything else you could ever want to know and even some things you wouldn’t. But she was a good storyteller. I’ll admit, my attention span isn’t always the best but she sure did know how to make things interesting.

She was a very nice lady. I left wondering why she’d married Abner, whom appeared to be quite a crotchety old man. But I also left with an extended invitation from Inga that I could come over any time if there was anything I’d ever needed, she’d stressed that very much so. And two hours after I’d stepped into their house through the front door, I was stepping out having met one wonderful lady with a green thumb, charm, a fantastic storytelling ability, a wonderful cook and a wise old woman… and her husband named Abner who liked golf and had an awareness for prostate cancer.

Continuing my campaign to introduce myself to my neighbors, I crossed the street to my next-door neighbors house. The house was in worse shape then I’d originally examined. There was a screen door going onto the front porch but the screen was torn and tattered which really defeated it’s purpose. And the front porch seemed to serve as a hodge-podge storage area. I almost turned around as I walked up the cracked sidewalk with the weeds growing through but decided against it because I’d already decided to not meet my hillbilly neighbors. And not meeting two out of three neighbors is just a bad idea in my book. So I opened the screen porch door, which opened with a long, high-pitched creak and walked through the porch to a door with a small window. Inside, I could see this person’s kitchen. There was no doorbell, so I balled my fist, knocked, and waited. There was a ruckus from inside, I saw a small old man appear from around the corner and glance out the window and with a groan, he lurched forward towards the door muttering to himself. I heard the lock slide away and he opened the portal.

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When he showed up at my door, I was more than a bit perturbed. What business did he have bothering me like that? I saw it as an intrusion into my solitude and nothing more. What did this naive-looking kid with the cookie crumbs on the front of his shirt want from me? What was he selling? I was quite gruff with him at first but he seemed alright after he had explained simply that he was my new neighbor. Although I never associate with anyone, it's nice to know who's living next to you. There's just a need to have an idea of what sort of people they are. He seemed like a decent enough guy and I ended up inviting him in. If you know me, you know that, that's a very odd thing for me to do. I associate with no one.

I had been fighting the most miserable case of writer's block and was engaged in a battle with the typewriter when he came knocking at my door. I was hesitant at first but I decided that some conversation might help to snap me out of it. I think I was cordial enough but I never offered him a beer although I sat there and sipped on mine all throughout his visit. Let him buy his own. For that matter, I didn't even know that he was old enough to drink and the last thing I needed was any trouble with the law. An author has to have experiences to draw from so I suppose it's somewhat ironic that I ended turning into such a recluse. Well, I experienced much all throughout my many years in the world and I finally decided that I had had enough. There were more than enough memories to last me for the rest of my life. The success of my novels served to prove that point. Still, I thought it might be interesting to talk with this young man for a few minutes.

Of course, he droned on and on about how his parents were horrible and he was unsure of his future. I already had heard all of the stories about cheating girlfriends, abusive siblings, rivals and the anguish and inconvenience of moving far too many times already in my time but I pretended to listen attentively. I'd experienced much of it myself, and even had written about some of them. It was obvious that he needed to get it out and I let him. I can't say that it wasn't monotonous, though. I felt as though I was doing a good deed for once. I'll be honest here and tell you that he was the first person I had really looked at or talked to in at least six months. He seemed a little bit nervous for some reason. I don't know if he didn't like my housekeeping or what but he kept looking around as he talked. It didn't matter to me.

After he was done spouting off about all of his problems, we started to really talk. I didn't open up much at all but I did ask him some leading questions and the answers I got were most interesting. I was impressed with his candor. When he was five years old, his paternal grandparents took him to Myrtle Beach. He was wading in the ankle-deep water looking for seashells when the tide unexpectedly dragged him in and under. His grandfather went in after him. He threw him to shore and then, he was gone. The Coast Guard recovered his body two days later. It was obvious that the boy was still traumatized by that. His eyes nearly shed tears as he looked at the wall behind me and told the tale. I understood. I've never cared for beaches or water but I have my own reasons. His are better than mine, though. I'll give him that.

I don't really know how much time had lapsed by the time that kid left but he had given me much to ponder. I thought that, with any luck, I'd find some inspiration to somehow get back to writing. I had made a good living and I wasn't about to stop. I no longer needed the money but it's just something that those who are like me need to do. The money is the icing on the cake. You get paid for doing something that you love to do. Imagine someone walking in and being handed a bag of chocolate simply because you'd been sitting there playing video games, watching movies or reading a good book. It's a plus but it isn't really why you do it. You have things that you need to get out of you system and there is a spout through which they can escape. When it becomes clogged for whatever reason, you suffer. I think that's a good definition of writer's block. I needed a release.

I have to wonder now if he was uncomfortable because of the way that I sat there and stared at him all throughout his visit. I suspect that to be the case. Maybe that's why he kept looking all around and staring at the wall as he talked. Nonetheless, I think he sort of sensed something in me that intrigued him. I invited him to come back again and I was certain that he would take me up on the offer. Maybe next time, I'd tell him some stories. But I needed to rest.

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I ventured home pondering the days events, glad that I’d gone through and met my neighbors who’d turned out to be nice people, Inga especially. The old man in the rundown house, which was still not as beat up as the hillbilly’s abode across the street, had been somewhat friendly. He lacked an element of hospitality, but was good listener. I wish he’d have talked more, I felt rather selfish spouting off about my problems.

He had watched me intently the entire duration of my visit. At first, I didn’t know whether to be alarmed or not. It made me feel uncomfortable. It was almost as if the man was studying me or trying to burn a hole through my chest using solely his eyes. But as he continued to let me ‘have the floor’ in his house, the feeling of discomfort simply wore off. Thinking back on it, he really was a great listener.

His house looked no better off than mine. It was cluttered with miscellaneous things, many of which I couldn’t quite place an explanation as to why they’d be in his residence. Probably most abundant were bottles and cans. Judging by the cans strewn around his house, he seemed to be a heavy caffeine addict but it didn’t hurt him to indulge himself with a six-pack once in a while.

There were no pictures hung up on his walls or placed on his dusty mantle. Did he have any family? My curiosity was really urging me to ask but what if he didn’t? I didn’t want to tread on such a potentially sensitive subject just mere minutes after having met the man. His age was apparent. The hair that hadn’t fallen off his head was mostly gray but a few hopeful strands stayed black. His face was wrinkled and just seemed war-torn. It was very possible he was once married and lost his love somehow.

The dominating element in his house had been paper. And pens. And erasers. There were random placements of whiteout, sticky notes and tape. The empty rings of spiral notebooks holding on nothing but the back and front covers sat in a sloppily stacked pile in the far corner of his living room. There was a desk pushed against the back wall of his living room which, just guessing, was probably the most used object in his house. Not a speck of dust sat on it and it appeared well kept. There were about five separate stacks of paper on the oaken desktop. A small coffee mug sat overflowing with highlighters and other writing utensils. And an old Sears typewriter that looked similar to the one my grandmother had owned. It was an antique! Drawers had neat little labels taped onto them but I couldn’t make them out. He was a writer, I knew it, and I could sense it. Whether it was for a hobby, a pastime, or a professional career, I didn’t know. But he was definitely a writer.

My stomach growled viciously as I began walking up my driveway and I suddenly realized how hungry I was, despite the feast of cookies and coffee I’d so willfully accepted earlier. It was dinnertime and my stomach was letting me know. I pulled the keys out of my pocket and instead of going into the house; I just jumped in my car to go the diner downtown. What did I have in the house to eat, and what would I cook it with? The answer to both questions was simple, nothing.

But hey, maybe I could go to Inga’s and eat dinner with her. No, that would be rude. And what about ‘The Writer’? What did he eat and did he ever get lonely eating it alone at that small dinner table with the single folding chair pushed beneath it that I’d seen while crossing through his kitchen? More questions that I hadn’t asked, afraid they’d touch too close to home for such a newly born friendship.

I couldn’t help but feel bad for the guy. No apparent family and no apparent friends. Maybe I was being judgmental, but I felt sorry for him. I would have to stop by again later. Yes, I would do that. Tomorrow?

As I pulled out of the driveway and turned onto the street, I couldn’t find a reason not to go see him.

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Somewhat to my dismay, the new boy came back here today and I reluctantly let him in. After we starting talking, I was sort of glad that he had once again decided to pay me a visit. Like I said before, conversation can easily lead to some good stories and I've been suffering from a wicked case of writer's block. I must explain something here and now. My wife died almost five years ago and I couldn't help it. I just couldn't take her abuse anymore. Since that time, I've been lonely and haven't really associated with anyone at all. When Barbara died, that's when I started my collection. She was the first. Everyone needs a family and I had none but I did have a wife. I still do. I told the police that she left me and that was the end of that. No questions were asked. She had plenty of life insurance and I never got a penny of it but I didn't care. I wasn't in it for the money. I just needed some peace and quiet. I sat her in a chair and she's still there. Well, I've treated them all the same way. I like to think that I'm kind to my little family.

The boy sat there on the sofa and droned on and on about everything from computers and girls to parental problems and video games. I was starting to sort of like the kid. I finally realized that he needed to be a part of the family. I'll just have to wait until the opportunity comes up. I think it's funny and somewhat prophetic that he was wearing a blue shirt today and the lawn chair that I set out for him is blue. I hope he likes the rest of my family. They don't talk too much at all but they're nice. I think they'll all get along very well.

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Okay, so maybe you shouldn’t judge a book by it’s cover. Sure, some people think that first impressions are everything but I didn’t regret visiting my neighbor. His outermost layer was starting to chip off and I was starting to see his nice, old, and harmless true self. Today he had a blue lawn chair set out in his living room. Most of the dust had been brushed off so I was grateful. After I took my seat, he brought in an ice-cold glass of tap water in a poor cracked glass. The tap water in Arizona is horrible but I drank it, still gracious for the newfound hospitality. While he wasn’t comparable to Inga in any way, he was taking strides in the right direction.

Our idle chatter echoed off his walls that were covered in wooden paneling, with me doing all the talking and the man conducting his usual regiment of studying me. I still felt uncomfortable as he watched me but it didn’t last as long as it had originally.

Halfway through our visit as I rounded the topic of my divorce, I got a headache. For no apparent reason, completely out of the blue. It began as a small pain in the back of my head that steadily grew to consume my entire skull and throb with an unexplainable, unstoppable hell. I tried to ignore it for as long as I could, I contemplated going home but the old man kept insisting I go on with my conversation but as when the tears began forming in my eyes, I had to do something. Struggling for words, I asked for some Advil.

Continuing with his hospitality, the old man got up and took my now empty water glass to the kitchen. I sat back in the lawn chair and closed my eyes, wishing this agony away. He refilled the glass and reached up into a cabinet for the medicine I’d requested, my eyes had been open just enough to see.

A quiet series of containers hitting the counter followed by some not-so-quiet cursing is what made me open my eyes all the way. The old man was frantically replacing the small containers in the cabinet, nearly spilling my water in the first place. There had been at least two dozen of these small, orange cylindrical containers sitting in front of him. All empty. I squinted. Prescription bottles. Two dozen empty prescription bottles.

Once they were all nestled safely back in the cupboard, he brought down a small packet of something from the cupboard. He tore it open and threw the pills into my new supply of water. They foamed up for the better part of a minute before he brought it over, explained he was out of Advil but this was the medicine he took for headaches. I drank it down, it tasted horrible.

Luckily, the medicine kicked in relatively quickly and the headache disappeared. But it was replaced with a deadly drowsiness. The room began to blur and it was like a scene from a movie you would witness in a cinema, lines slurring together and everyone speaking in slow motion. I rose, half stumbled, to my feet and went for the door, explaining that I suddenly had to leave. The old man begged me to stay and rest, that there was so much more he wanted to talk about.

I couldn’t stay! I left and barely got home, offering little to no explanation to the old man. I barged into the kitchen just in time to collapse onto the linoleum floor.

Twenty-seven hours later. I woke up with barely a memory of what happened.

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I can't believe it! I just can't believe it! I had all of those empty bottles and not even enough to do any more than make him groggy. It's pathetic! Well, he seems to have taken a liking to me so I'm sure that he'll be back soon. In the meantime, I'll have to replenish my supplies. I suffered for many years before I learned that a simple chemical or a combination of them could do some magical things. Have you ever seen a person die? I have and I'll probably do so again. I'm only laughing now because that kid seems to think that I actually like him for some reason. He's divorced. So what? I couldn't care less. We all have our trials and tribulations. I don't know about him but I was happy to be rid of my wife. Her incessant droning was enough to drive a person crazy. I'm not crazy, though. I stopped her real good before she ever had a chance to push me that far. Some people seem to think that I'm crazy, though. HAH! You can call me eccentric but I'm certainly NOT crazy. I know what I need to do. I need to call the pharmacy and order a refill for my doxepin hydrochloride. Enough of that stuff would knock an elephant out. Take two and you'll get a very good night's sleep. Three will keep you in bed for two days. More than that is fatal. My prescription is for sixty since I'm supposed to take two every night. That's more than adequate for my purposes. I bet he'll show up here again tomorrow or the next day. Who knows? Maybe, he'll have a headache again. We'll see.

I think I'm going to be prepared this time for him. Maybe I'll make a Bundt cake or some cookies or something. My wife is long since dead but it still smells like an old woman in here. I'm losing my mind! Make it go away! Make it all go away! She's pushing me now and I can't handle it! Oh.... my dear...Lord! Make it all stop! PLEASE! Yeah, I think he'll be back tomorrow and I'll be ready for him. Hell, what do kids know? We'll talk and have a bit to eat. We'll share some stories and who knows? Maybe I'll show him my archives. It's early yet but we'll just have to see how it goes, I guess. I do have quite a collection, though. I usually don't ever let anyone see it until they are about to become a part of it. I won't change that rule.

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When I finally came to, it was dark again. The kitchen door was still hanging wide open; I’d never had a chance to close it before I passed out. My brain was clouded and I felt lightheaded, especially when I got to my feet and nearly ended up on the floor once more. I was disoriented, still feeling the after effects of the… The what? What had made this all happen?

Even though I still felt somewhat out of it, my twenty-seven hours of unconsciousness left me restless and I could just feel that there was no hope for sleep that night. So I sat on my couch, picked up a newspaper I’d purchased within the first couple days of when I moved and read through.

My eyes skimmed the text, reading it but not soaking the information in. Too busy concentrating on solving all those question marks that were suddenly coming out of the woodwork and presenting themselves. What if, why, when, how and on and on they went. There were no solid answers but the suspicions began forming immediately.

That headache I got… I didn’t get it until after the old man had me drink down some of that nasty water. So naturally, if he’d placed some medication in it, he would know that I would get a headache… he would know I would need something to ease the pain… He would know that he was out of Advil and he would give me the… the… The what? Another question. Unfortunately, I couldn’t even begin to think what he had put in the drink.

Or had he put anything in the drink at all?

No, no, I was just being paranoid. I had been under a lot of stress lately with the divorce, the move, and then trying to establish myself in a new community. It was so easy to blame the old man simply because I had not yet developed trust for him. All he had ever done was made an authentic effort to be nice and ultimately be my friend. That was it and nothing more.

With that, my paranoia was replaced with guilt. I felt shame for thinking such thoughts on such a nice man. But even with the newly developed guilt, I would not be going back there quickly. I decided to exercise my privilege and visit Inga’s the next day, drop in for lunch. She would have something nice prepared undoubtedly. And she wouldn’t cost anything, which was an obvious improvement from the downtown diner.

Around noon the next day, I stood on Inga’s doorstep and rapped on her front door three times. She looked through their large living room windows, saw me, smiled and let me in. The aroma of something wonderful invaded my nose immediately… it was heavenly. She immediately invited me into the kitchen where she told me that she couldn’t make anything especially fancy for lunch because she had a turkey in the oven… we settled for ham sandwiches. But they somehow tasted better simply because Inga had made him. I could never understand how she did.

Abner was at the golf course that afternoon. And I was still wired from the prolonged ‘sleep’ that I’d gotten so Inga and I talked for hours. Eventually, as if it was etched in destiny, the subject came around to the old man across the street from Inga.

She’d seen me walk over to his house. She asked how things were. I replied in saying that things were fine and that he wasn’t the most hospitable person in the world but he was trying and I was very gracious. The entire headache incident was kept under wraps. When I asked Inga how she felt about him, she backed off completely. Her normally cheery voice became low and she spoke in what was nearly a whisper, I had to strain to hear her.

Turns out that Abner and the old man had once been good friends. She confirmed my suspicions that he was indeed a writer but hadn’t written anything solid in a large chunk of years. She was unsure whether or not he’d given up or just lacked material. The man rarely left his house apparently, only to get groceries or check out another large amount of books from the local library. Abner had once told her that the old man got all the books to look for material and such. Supposedly, it still did not help the old man with his writer’s block.

The old man had been very involved with his writing, even at a very young age. He wrote two books, both which turned out to be nothing more than moderate successes but both Abner and Inga had both read them. Inga said that they were solid books but just lacked exposure. Ever since then, not a single work had ever come from behind that old screened in porch. Since the beginning of his writer’s block, where he found it impossible to write anything more than a handful of pages without tossing it to the wayside, he had grown increasingly eccentric. Not only eccentric in his methods of achieving ideas, but eccentric all around. Writing had been his life and without it, he was lost. It drove him crazy very slowly and very painfully.

Abner, Inga’s husband, had once shared interest with the old man, as Abner had acquired an English major in college and would often edit the man’s books for him. The system had worked very well for the first two books but as the old man sent bits and pieces of aspiring works to Abner for editing and reviews for a potential third book, the partnership abruptly crumbled. They were not as good as his original works. The subjects of the novels were often overly grotesque. They were so grotesque, in fact, that there was often argument if books with such content could be sold. But, unlike old times, the old man didn’t respond well to the constructive criticism. He would grow increasingly irritated, rude, and eventually violent. When the old man came out swinging at Abner, the two neighbors parted ways. Ever since the incident, which Inga recalled was more than two years ago, they had not spoken. And there were no plans to change that arrangement.

A violent temper was something the old man had always had. As he grew more eccentric, his anger only intensified but he always held it in until something finally pushed him off the edge. Inga was sure he hadn’t changed. In the end, she didn’t want me to feel threatened with all the information, she just wanted to be careful and was looking out for me.

I was stuffed with ham sandwiches and although I thoroughly enjoyed Inga’s company, I desperately needed to go home and unpack some more of my belongings which were held captive by the walls of the cardboard boxes I had packed them in. So I bid Inga farewell, offered many thanks and left. Before I went inside, I stopped to look at the old man’s house. It seemed deserted but I knew he was home.

And I had to ask myself… Would I be going back?

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IN THE END: This is where the e-mails ended and the story stopped. May he forever be burned into our memories as the wonderful person that he really was, and not the monster he pretended to be. - Smooth Criminal . Joey

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