Mr. Hammond's House

Drama, Fiction, Suspense

Mr. Hammond's House

Follow me, if you will, to what will seem like the ends of the universe. To a place where darkness and shadows reign. Where only the bravest of souls would dare to venture. It's a place unlike any you have ever known, where the light beckons from beyond, but fails to penetrate the blackness surrounding your present environment. It is, above all things, depressing and dismal, prompting you to escape into the sunshine, which, from your vantage point, doesn't exist.

This is his house. The house where he lives a solitary existence in gloom and shadow. They know his name is Mr. Hammond. No first name was ever known, or sought after for that matter. He and his house had been there forever it seemed and nobody could actually recall when he had moved to the outskirts of their small Louisiana town. The house had been empty for years before he became the occupant and he and his being there were deemed an enigma. There were stories, of course, of his origins and past, but they were merely stories with no base whatsoever in any sort of veracity. He must have been known at sometime, by someone, but over the years the tales had taken on a life of their own until the truth was encased beneath them and remained shrouded in mystery. If the truth ever was known it was lost among the many fanciful tales that abounded like mosquitoes on a summer's night. 

Come inside now, will you, and meet Mr. Hammond. Old and lonely, tragically dejected, he is merely a shell of a man. He exists mainly on memories and half forgotten dreams and his television is his only companion and the only one he truly trusts. He rarely ventures outside of the dingy walls that surround him and his door and windows remain closed and shuttered. Subsisting on supplies brought and left on his porch by delivery services, he cannot even imagine what he would say if he accidentally encountered another human creature. He retrieves that which is left for him in the darker hours of the night when he has the shadows to conceal him from prying eyes. Mr. Hammond wasn't always like this, but life has a way of altering our inner souls by the circumstances and events it throws at us as we are trying to stay sane in a seemingly demented world.

Mr. Hammond keeps his house perfectly spotless and you can tell by looking at all its nooks and crannies that it has not always been so dismal. There are remnants of happier times and even gaiety locked within its shadowy corners which, like the sunshine, he refuses to allow to permeate the darkness. Living as he does, he is, not happy, but comfortable. The gloominess has become familiar and reassuring in a strange sort of way, one that not even Mr. Hammond himself endeavors to understand.

His memories sustain him as much as the food he consumes. He will sit in front of the television set and watch others engage in normal daily lives and their performances light a dim spark in him that evokes a memory which he has never really forgotten, but rather suppressed. He has convinced himself that assigning these memories to a rarely accessed area of his mind is for the best, yet he does welcome them when they are unintentionally released. 

Meet now, another troubled soul. The widow Harris. Mrs. Emeline Harris to be exact. Sometimes known as the town gossip, Mrs. Harris lives up to the expectations of that designation. She is a talkative and inquisitive lady who thrives on human contact and conversation and is unable to understand why the townsfolk avoid her. She spends much time baking and delivering her goods to her neighbors as a hopeful prelude to human interaction. She may get the opportunity to relate some gossip but rarely does she hear anything to add to her cache of stories. Though this tactic seldom works to her satisfaction, she continues the practice with an ever hopeful heart. 

It is in Mrs. Harris's nature to be interested in the house at the edge of town and its mysterious occupant. Yes, she has heard all the rumors and stories but she remains unsatisfied. She does spread gossip, yes, but is a stickler for the truth and having all the facts before she tells the tale to anyone. She has never engaged in any conversation where she has spoken of Mr. Hammond. She listens, yes, but knows the stories are mere speculation and does not carry them any further. It is this habit, more than anything else that encourages the rest of the population to avoid any social relationship with her. She may be a gossip, but what you hear from her is invariably the truth. No one minds hearing the truth about their neighbors but it is a completely different thing when the conversation turns to the truth about themselves.

It was inevitable that Mrs. Harris's curiosity would eventually lead her to Mr. Hammond's doorstep. She had brought along a peach pie lovingly made just that morning and a basket of fresh biscuits. Some of the people would have actually been afraid to approach this house, but Mrs. Harris was not like some of the people. In fact, she was quite a unique personality, the likes of which her neighbors had never known before and didn't realistically desire or expect to know again.

She opened the screen door which she noticed needed oiling. She mentally made a note to bring along some oil on her next visit. The thought that there might not be a next visit never crossed her mind. Such was Emeline Harris. She knocked lightly on the door. She could hear the television playing inside, so she knocked a little louder. When she received no response she knocked even louder and called out to him that she had brought him a pie. Surprised when that didn't bring him to the door she went along the side of the house and tried to get a peek inside through the shutters. Unable to see anything she immediately thought of the back door. 

The window on the back door afforded her a slight glimpse through a gap in the curtains of a large neatly kept kitchen. She could see the table set for one and a clock on the wall above the table proclaiming that it was eleven o'clock. She automatically checked her wristwatch and found the clock to be correct. She knocked on the glass of the door and sensed a stirring within the house. But she was not able to catch sight of Mr. Hammond from her present position.

“Please let me in.” she called in a loud voice. “I just want to see how you're doing and share some fresh baked peach pie and biscuits with you.” The stirring inside continued and she noted that the television could no longer be heard. But, alas, no one came to answer her neighborly call. Unwilling to give up she took a pencil from her pocket and wrote on the box that the pie was in.

Mr. Hammond, I have been by to visit you. Since you are obviously not available I will leave the baked goods I brought as a neighborly gesture. I'll return for the basket tomorrow. Cordially, Mrs. Emeline Harris. 

Gossip or not, Mrs. Harris did not speak of this episode to anyone in town, and, since her social encounters were mostly initiated by her she found it easy to reach her small house without speaking to anyone about anything. She merely went home alone without a word to a soul about her adventure and set about baking for the next day. 

Early the next morning she packed up the baked nut roll and headed in the direction of the house on the edge of town. It did not cross her mind that she might be walking into a somewhat dangerous situation, or that perhaps she might not be welcome. She simply plodded ahead. This time she went directly to the back door. The empty basket was there with a note inside. She went to it, half expecting the note to say “Get out” .  Mrs. Harris was somewhat of a realist, and knew that her chances of ever getting to meet Mr. Hammond were negligible. She hurried eagerly to the basket. There on the paper were two simple words. She took a deep breath. The note said in what she considered to be very good handwriting for a man who kept himself locked away: “Thank you”. 

Mrs. Harris quietly turned the paper over and wrote:

Mr. Hammond, You are very welcome. I've left some nut roll in the basket for you. I'll be back tomorrow. I'd really like to share tomorrow's baked goods with you, if you don't mind. Cordially, Mrs. Emeline Harris. Ps I'd really like to know your first name. 

This time she didn't bother knocking but went directly home avoiding any human contact on the way. She sat at the kitchen table pondering what to do next to unlock the mystery of Mr. Hammond. What a story she'd have to tell after meeting and speaking with him. Her excitement was such that if anyone had been with her they would have immediately questioned her as to the cause. Despite assigning her to the category of “gossip” the people in the town did, on some level, like to hear her stories. It was just that they didn't enjoy hearing her relate their stories to anyone who would listen. 

That night she made donuts with frosting and stood back to admire her work. Yes, this was the exact offering to bring when she met the mysterious Mr. Hammond. Early the next day she hurriedly dressed and put the donuts into a large bag. There were a little over a dozen. Enough to keep them occupied for quite a while, she reasoned. Going to the back door she once again found the basket empty except for a note. This time it read:

Dear Emeline, Thank you once again for the delicious baked goods. You are very kind. Yours, Eustace Hammond

She was visibly shaking as she knocked on the door and waited hopefully for a response from inside. When none came Mrs. Harris, not one to forsake the opportunity for an adventure, wrote him a quick note saying that she would be back the next day. Her expectations of tomorrow's visit, however, were not to be realized as much the same thing happened on that visit.

This went on for about a week when one sunny Wednesday morning her tentative knocks were rewarded by a figure appearing through the curtains and the door being opened. Her surprise was evident as she picked up the basket and entered the house. She noticed that he was not quite as elderly as the townsfolk made him out to be. He was also not anyone's idea of a recluse. He was neatly dressed and freshly shaven. He led her to the table where place settings were waiting complete with teacups. To both of their surprise they actually enjoyed the visit and Mrs. Harris made the decision that Eustace Hammond was far too dignified and well mannered a person to be gossiped about.

They met this way for several months and gradually learned everything about each other. Secrets were shared and memories, both good and bad, were brought to the surface. Mr. Hammond grew more positive and came to grips with the memories that tormented him. Mrs. Harris, for her part, found herself less inclined to gossip as there were many other subjects to talk about that were much more interesting than the silly exploits of the inhabitants of a little town in Louisiana. They continued like this until they both were completely accustomed to each other. She didn't have to knock anymore but sashayed directly in and put on the tea, feeling comfortable and relaxed. To her, theirs was a close and friendly relationship and she thought she knew everything about her companion. That is why it was such a shock to her when one day things didn't go as planned. Mr. Hammond wasn't quite as transparent as Emeline had imagined. One day he had a huge surprise for her. 

A year has passed and I invite you to come with me again, to what just might be the happiest place on earth. It is located on the edge of a small Louisiana town. The house, his house, has been transformed into a most welcoming location. Windows have been opened and flowered curtains are allowed to wave in the breeze, visitors come often to sit on the porch and chat. And, most importantly, light illuminates every room. Both the light from the sun that warms the earth and the light that comes from inside a happy heart. Mr. and Mrs. Eustace and Emeline Hammond are the most gracious of hosts and the house is now filled with sunlight, laughter, and the radiance of good feelings, previously suppressed but now encouraged to live, prosper, and grow.