THUMP

All of the days start seeping into each other after the first few weeks. Wednesday or Saturday, summer or autumn, it makes no difference. Calendars hold no meaning aside from beautifully preserved images and random numbered boxes. But the clock, that’s quite different. The clock is the measurement tool of all importance, with every little tick, seconds like our breaths, counting down to the last. It is the difference between light and dark, good, and evil, sight or none.

    Laurence Welch is my name, but most call me Larry or Mr. Welch. I am sixty-eight years old, according to the calendar. I taught at the Fort Branch Middle School in Indiana for many of those years, mostly eighth grade English and Science. I retired a few years back but continue to work here at the Public Library to stay active and make a little extra money. The pension I receive is good, but more is always better. The job is fairly easy with no great strain besides working night shift. I come in at about 10 P.M. and start with the book returns. Then I do a bit of light housekeeping such as dusting, running the sweeper, emptying the trash, things like that. I’m usually done by 6 A.M. Sometimes I finish early, sometimes it takes me longer. As long as I am done by opening time, 8 A.M., nothing is said.

    I know why you are here. You want to know what happened. Patience my dear, we will get to it. But this, as with all great stories, must be told in time. Time, such a fickle and unstable thing, don’t you agree? I think it is even more so in the blanket and stillness of night. Take the clock that hangs over the staircase in the west, ticking the day away. But at night, it takes on a life of its own. Hours drudge on with only the passing of a few minutes, or minutes swiftly turn to hours unaware when we are wrapped up, all according to the ticking hands. My first week or so, I mentioned the clock to administration and one of the morning librarians. I inquired about when the batteries were last changed and about how it seemed to be running a little slow. It was blown off as not important and I said nothing more in fear of being labeled a crazy old man.

    A while after that, maybe a few weeks, I was returning books over in the nonfiction section. I heard a thump and turned to see a book had fallen off the shelf at the other end. Now, I am not one to frighten easily. I simply picked the book up and returned it to the shelf without much thought. I did, however, catch a glimpse of the cover and it made me giggle. It was called “THUMP”. Irony is such an underrated form of comedy.

   A few nights later, I was returning in the biography section, and the same thing happened. My first though was that someone, most likely out of habit and disregard for others had placed the unwanted book on the edge of the shelf instead of stowing it away properly. Upon closer inspection, I see the title, “THUMP”. This time, I took a closer look. The book itself was older, with leather bounds and thin, fragile, pages. It reminded me of the older religious books such as the Bible or the Quran. That is how the inside was laid out too. There was no author page, and it was full of what appeared to be verses and quotes. I took it to the tables and sat thumbing through it.

    About mid-way through the book, a picture caught my attention. It was a picture of a house that strongly resembled my home that I shared with my wife and son. That house was burned to the ground in 1984, taking the lives of my sweet Candace and Frankie, my son, with it. I was gone on an overnight hunting trip with my brothers when it happened. They said it was something to do with an electrical wiring malfunction and that there would have been nothing that I could have done to prevent it. But still, I carry that guilt and wish I could go back. Frankie was seven at the time, didn’t even get to experience life. Candace, so full of life and love, was taken way too soon.

    Seeing that picture brought me back there, back before the tragedy. Memories fade with time but I can close my eyes and I am right there. I am at that kitchen table, smelling the mixture of cinnamon, fresh coffee, and light perfume. I can hear Frankie running up the steps, morning news on the T.V. in the living room, and Candance shuffling to remove her apron and change her shoes. Her beautiful hazel eyes and her soft lips on mine….

    I was lost in this thought, with my fingers running along the picture. And when I opened my eyes, I was there, standing on the porch with a cigarette in my hand. I know, it sounds crazy, but I swear it’s true. Then Candace comes storming out of the door. What a vision! I missed her so much. Everyday, holding her memory so tight, afraid I might forget. I grabbed her in my arms and held her close, her laughter, the smell of her hair. I remember the long nights, ticking of the clock, trying to imagine her in my arms again. Now here she was, just as I had always prayed. She excepts my affections but not without nagging about the smell of the cigarette and how I will be held accountable for our tardiness.

    Everything was the same. I had been sent back in time, given a second chance. At night, right before I slept, I prayed that I would wake up still there, with her beside me in the bed. Every morning, I was thankful to see that it was so. We carried on as we had before ,with work and school through the day, family dinner at night, and occasional visits to relatives on the weekend. I savored every moment.

     My brothers and I would go hunting, but never overnight. One night while we were out, Vic, my oldest brother had decided it would be a great idea to set up camp and start hunting early the next morning. This is when the deer are most active, he explained. No matter how much I objected, the plan was set. I tried to tell myself it was okay. They will be fine. Plus I didn’t really have much of a choice, since town was a good 20 miles away and everyone was already well into their fourth or fifth beer. After a few minutes of tossing and turning , I decided 20 miles was not that far. I began walking and Vic caught up with me. I explained why I needed to go home to the best of my ability without bringing up any of the magical things, wouldn’t want him thinking I was crazy.

    He agreed to give me a ride back and I was very appreciative. It’d took me all night just to get into town. But with him driving, it was more like 20 minutes. When we got in the driveway, I could see the smoke, then the flames. They consumed the house and my heart leapt. This time, I would save them. I jumped out of the car and raced to the front door. The knob was too hot to twist, so I began kicking it down. As soon as I successfully knocked it down, a strong gust of smoke and fire knocked me out cold.

    When I woke, I was back here at the table, but the book was gone. I searched everywhere for it. My nightly routine revolved around finding it. I searched all returns, shelves, and even the bathrooms. Administration called me to the office the other day before I left. They explained that they thought I could use a little time off and I agreed. My vacation time would start on the seventeenth through to the thirty-first, which meant I had two more nights to find the book. That’s 57,600 ticks of the clock to find the doorway back to my love.

    I searched high and low, and I was about to give up. I had even considered the thought that perhaps I was going a little crazy. But then on my last night, I found it, or I found him. I found the troll that had the book.  Let me explain. I was down on my knees, checking the back of the bottom shelves where the books sometimes slid. I heard something behind me and when I turned to look, there was this little creature, with pointy ears and a turned-up nose, standing there, holding the book. I asked if I could have it and he turned away and ran. I found him sitting on the bottom of the stairs. He was pulling the pages out and sticking them in his mouth, chewing and gnawing. I begged him to stop. He didn’t know what he was doing. He grinned showing me his rotted teeth then he spat a huge wad of slimy paper at my feet. I had to stop him. That was the only way to get back to her, to try again to save her. I had to save the book to save her, you see. I grabbed the fire extinguisher off the wall. First, I sprayed the little hideous demon right in the eyes with it so he couldn’t see. Then I bashed him over the head with it over and over, until the moving and screaming stopped.

    The pictures you showed me of the young boy, the one you said I killed, whose blood is now on my hands, was some sort of trickster or magician. He resembles my little Frankie before the fire. With the twinkling eyes and messy hair, that was my boy. Such a tragedy, to lose a life so young. And my sweet Candance, gone to live with the angels.

    The book? No, I never found it. I looked all around, seemed to just vanish. It’s probably for the best though. I never would have saved her and I’m so tired of living in the memory.  Now, you will take me somewhere nice, won’t you? Some place with a nice bed for me to rest in and medication to help me forget. Maybe a room with a nice clock on the wall to help me count the breaths.

    Candace Ivey, a 34 year old single mother, works at the Fort Branch Public Library as a librarian and tutor. To make extra money for the holidays, Ms. Ivey picked up a few shifts at the library after closing hours. She started with the returns, then did a bit of cleaning. She’d usually be done in a few hours, give or take a few minutes. One night while replacing board game pieces in the play area, she heard a thump from the far end of the shelf. She picked up the book and just before placing it back on the shelf, she took notice of the title, “THUMP”.  Irony is so underrated, she thought to herself.