The Tree Goddess Page 23

  Suddenly, a voice could be heard from behind the good-looking, young man. “Good morning! Jack Swieley! I have an order to list your house for sale?”

  What was this? A large, old man appeared with stinky cigar smoke! Taken back, Mrs. Rudi wasn't about to let the obese, sloppy man interrupt the game of the good-looking, younger man. Mrs. Rudi wasn't interested in Jack Swieley as she informed the broker-owner, “Look, all I know is that this young fellow put his real estate sign in my lawn, first! You're going to have to get in line. I'm talking to him, first!”

  It took a few minutes of explaining before Mrs. Rudi's fantasy deflated back to reality. And by now, you are full aware of Jack Swieley's “comedy of errors technique” of obtaining exclusive rights to market. But the interesting thing about Mrs. Rudi: She never quite understood that placing the sign on her front lawn was only an accident. To this day, she believes it was the real estate broker's charming way of suggesting that she should use their services. It kind of makes you wonder if elderly people have difficulty understanding, or if they simply know the truth.

  * * *

  Sure enough, the buyers who saw Mrs. Rudi's house in an advertisement wanted to see it. And so Craig drove to Mrs. Rudi's house and took notice that her front door was shut and locked. It was 30 minutes before the potential buyers were to arrive. He knocked first and then used the key to enter. Mrs. Rudi was out doing busy Mrs. Rudi things. And just as Mr. Swieley had always done, Craig prepared the house for showing by opening curtains and windows, turning on closet lights and making mental notes of the outstanding features to mention. Then he sat down in the front room and waited.

  A small, marble box that sat on the side table caught Craig's attention. Little, decorative knick-knacks often intrigued him. This one looked to be an interesting souvenir purchased at a gift shop while on vacation, perhaps during a cave tour. Craig lifted the box for an examination, but unfortunately did so at the lid which soon pulled out of the box in midair, causing the other 5 sides to fall back down.

  Ashes and small chips of bones scattered on the table. It was then that Craig took notice of the candles surrounding the box along with photographs of the late Mr. Rudi. Apparently the intriguing, marble box was used as an urn, and Craig had violated a sacred altar of memory.

  He frantically swept up the ashes while his skin crawled at the texture of a dead man's ashes and bones. While doing this, Craig took sight of the potential buyers who had exited the car and were now walking up to the house. In all the frantic sweeping, the ashes had somehow gotten in the air and found their way into Craig's nostrils. While gagging and choking, doing his best to restore the altar, the doorbell sounded. With the taste of Mr. Rudi at the back of his throat, it was necessary to force a pleasant greeting and engage in a moment of conversation.

  Grittiness remained on Craig's teeth along with a maddening desire to down a bottle of water. If the buyers finished up, a trip to the gas station would have been near in the future. But they took their time, inspecting every room and closet while planning this room or that room to be one child's or another's.

  “We'd like to make an offer!”

  An offer? No, no; anything but an offer!

  Mr. Rudi was truly with Craig in more than spirit. He called out, “You'll sell this house, today, for my wife!”

  And the offer needed to be written up on the kitchen table as there was no room for clients back at the small, rundown office.

  Chapter 30

  Although curiosity has been known to kill a cat, some might claim that satisfaction brings it back! As far as Craig could determine, there was something in Debbie's sump pump access box, something other than a latent defect. And despite the strong words of advice, Mr. Swieley was unaware of that Sunday evening of mixed drinks and fantastic sex between his assistant, Craig, and seller, Mrs. Cordsmullen. Mr. Swieley was unaware of the panic-stricken Mrs. Cordsmullen who nearly had a nervous breakdown at the sound of the sump pump.

  Now a Sunday afternoon and Debbie's 2nd open house, she had left for a few hours so her Realtor could handle business. It was an unusually hot day as Craig remained isolated in the air conditioned house. Considered the dog days of summer, the real estate market slowed down which resulted in an uneventful open house.

  45 minutes passed, an hour, an additional 15 minutes; Craig sat in the chair as he fought the temptation to sneak into the basement and defeat the locked panel door. It used one of those cheap, hinged locks that mounted to the door with the use of screws. Craig simply needed to find a screw driver, remove the 6 Phillip screws and separate the hinge from the panel door.

  Another 10 minutes passed and the bored Realtor finally rose from his seat, entered the garage for a screwdriver and descended the stairs into the basement. Carefully…Carefully…Each screw needed to be removed in such a way that his seller would never find out. At this point it would be worth mentioning that the makeshift panel door had the hinges on the outside. Under most circumstances, hinges are attached on the inside so that a person such as Craig cannot unscrew them and access what is protected inside. But the 4' x 4' enclosure with hinged panel was constructed by an amateur. And besides that, the initial construction never considered that one day a lock would be installed. As the potential buyer had mentioned only a couple weeks ago, “Who locks up a sump pump?” Yes; in recent events, Debbie found it necessary to install a lock!

  The 3 foot door now dangled from the locking mechanism as Craig popped his head inside the enclosure. Nothing out of the ordinary was noticed. Simply a hole with sump pump and large PVC mounted to the wall, the discovery was just as anyone would expect. Then he observed the mortar that had been chiseled around one of the bricks and appeared removable, as if something was shrouded behind. With the use of his fingernails he wedged and pulled until enough of the brick could be grasped by his fingertips. The sound of grinding stone against the exterior wall produced the peculiar feeling of guilt that one might experience when accidentally walking over another's grave. The stench suggested something deathly. The moment was very similar to discovering ashes that lay on a side table and figuring out that they belonged to an urn which had been carelessly disturbed. It wasn't until the tiny bones of an infant surrounded in remaining carrion were noticed that the morbid reality struck Craig in the face.

  It held a rusty, dismantled coat hanger in its skeletal hand. And then it moved, attempted to sit up in the crypt with restricted space while screaming a most terrifying cry; the same cry heard the afternoon Craig had signed the right-to-market agreement with Debbie.

  Impossible! How could such a phenomenon exist? Words cannot describe the fear-driven speed in which the Realtor exited the enclosure. And his crouched body which bounced and flew out collided with the unexpected presence of the seller who now joined the screaming baby in a duet tears.

  Debbie ran upstairs in the duet's refrain of “No” and “Oh my gosh!”

  Craig followed, truly sorry for what he had done, wishing to have taken Mr. Swieley's advice. His broker was right. Pandora's Box should not have been opened!

  Once upstairs, the basement door was closed which softened the shrilling cry of the skeletal infant. Craig did the only thing he could do at the moment and apologized for his ill-mannered snooping. “I'm so sorry Debbie! I'm so sorry!”

  Debbie sat at the kitchen table with an emotionally distraught face, appearing to worry of the consequences.

  “Debbie, I don't know where to begin. How in the world…Why in the world is this happening?”

  It was in this moment that Craig finally learned the full truth from Debbie. She spoke of the child birth at home and the surprise visit of her suspicious husband. The infant-child had been murdered in a matter of seconds and temporarily thrown in the sump pump enclosure. But it came back to life many months later as Debbie carried out its removal. And as further punishment for her wicked deeds, the thing would only crawl back home, miles from its forest burial to scream for Mommy near the bedroom window.

 
“And somehow it figures out how to take that damn coat hanger off from around its neck!” It was necessary for Craig to step aside as Debbie had nearly run into him while darting for the door. Once reaching the bottom of the stairs, it wasn't long before the cries of the decomposed phenomenon silenced.

  Slowly ascending the stairs, Debbie sat at the top step in complete, emotional drain. She gazed up at her Realtor for pity, “This has been going on for many months. You have to help me get rid of it.”

  Apparently, opening Pandora's Box meant that Craig now shared the torment of a woman who was not only unfaithful to her soldier overseas, but had committed a savage crime which resulted in terrible consequence. But Craig would not have it! He sharply replied, “That's not in the contract! I don't have to help you get rid of anything!”

  He was sadly mistaken! The now ugly Mrs. Cordsmullen cracked the most devious and unsettling smile. “And neither was having sex with me. Maybe I should call your broker and report how you inappropriately touched me.”

  Funny thing: The impossible sight of a skeletal baby, which had come back to life, could not compare to the anxiety that Craig felt, now! He stormed out of the house an hour before the scheduled Sunday open was to end, and drove right to the Mapleview Police Station.

  The very confused Officer Ralph took the delirious report and concluded that a possible murder of a child had taken place in the Circle Point subdivision. As luck would have it, the lead detective of the Mapleview Police was in his office, wrapping up the paperwork of a Sunday afternoon car crash which appeared to be a homicide.

  How should Officer Ralph have relayed the information? “Detective Tom, I think you should check this guy out. He says some decomposed baby was coming back to life in his seller's sump pump.”

  “Well is he hopped up on goofballs? Come on Ralph! I've been going all day long and don't want to deal with stuff like that. Send him to the local bad trip center.”

  But Officer Ralph persisted, “No, he just looks like he's shook up from what he saw. You think there might be a dead baby in someone's sump pump?”

  Just as-if on cue, Detective Larry walked in on his partner's sigh that was immediately interpreted as a longing to go home for the day. “What's going on?”

  Officer Ralph briefed Detective Larry of the strange report.

  Then the tired and weary pair of detectives entered the report room to meet the very disturbed Craig who sipped a cup of water as-if it was a good, stiff drink. As usual, Detective Tom began with his dry and annoyed humor. “Alright Sir, what's this all about? I hear a dead baby is in your sump pump and trying to get you?”

  “No! I am an agent from Jack Swieley Realty. My seller has a dead, decomposing baby in her sump pump enclosure and it keeps coming back to life. She wants me to help her get rid of it and I just can't!”

  Realizing the impossibility of what the hysterical man was claiming; Detective Larry attempted to draw some shred of reality. “Now wait a minute. Do you mean to say that your seller is neglecting her child and keeping it in a sump pump closet?”

  Why was the delirious man growing impatient? “No! It's dead, but it's moving around and crying. I can see its bones and stuff.”

  “Okay, so she's starving her baby and keeping it in her sump pump closet?”

  Accepting the detective's suggestion was the only way to get the police to Mrs. Cordsmullen's house. “Yes, it looks starved and severely abused. It's just horrible, simply horrible.”

  * * *

  The following morning, Craig nervously reported to the office where, as usual, the broker/owner sat at his desk as-if eagerly waiting for Craig. Mr. Swieley was now out of the hospital and back in the saddle, eager to hear of yesterday's open house.

  “So how did the open house go yesterday?”

  Craig simply replied, “It was dead.”

  Mr. Swieley made a snorting laugh through his nose. “That's what I hear. It was dead! Last night I had my old buddy, Detective Tom Morehausen, stop at my house. We go back some and we went to high school together.

  Anyway, he wanted to know if I knew anything about our seller, Mrs. Cordsmullen, who might have a dead baby in her sump pump. I told him I didn't know anything. But apparently you ran into the station having a freak out session, insisting that she had a dead baby coming back to life in her sump pump. But when he and his partner arrived at her house, they found nothing in the sump pump. Imagine that!

  The only thing Detective Tom Morehausen has to go on is a delirious witness who swears a dead baby was coming back to life. Oh, he has his theories, but that's all.”

  Craig was at a loss of words and only looked at the floor, realizing he had disappointed the great Jack Swieley. In the broker/owner's decades of wisdom and intuitive insights, surely he must have been aware of Craig's inappropriate client relations.

  But it appeared to Mr. Swieley that his assistant had been through enough. “Well, I think you learned your lesson. If the seller is trying to hide something, let it be the seller's problem, not yours.” Then he stood up from the chair and walked towards the door. “Come-on, we got an appointment with a new seller.”

  Halfway to the door, Mr. Swieley stopped and looked at Craig. “I bet you want to know what Mrs. Cordsmullen did with that dead baby, don't you?”

  Of course Craig did! How did Mrs. Cordsmullen cover the evidence from the police? What about the chiseled mortar around the brick? Did she use toothpaste to cover the cracks?

  But Mr. Swieley had no information, only another piece of wisdom. “Well that's none of your business, right? Oh, and one other thing…” Mr. Swieley gave the young agent a good, hard kick to the seat of his pants. “That's what you get for getting close to a client!”

  Chapter 31

  On a brisk, Saturday morning in October, Sara walked a lonely nature path in the heavily wooded area of Sillmac. It just so happened to be the same path that she and Brian once shared. Just over two years since the tragic ending of a beautiful love, poor Sara experienced more than heartache. In those two years following the tragedy, Sara lived her life and operated the business both on automatic copilot as she struggled to cope with the loss of her fiancé. She had gotten much better. Through counseling, gradual healing and a will to live on, the Mapleview Coffeehouse continued to thrive. And once unimaginable, Sara began dating; more of a casual relationship.

  She certainly hadn't forgotten Brian, she never would! And Sara would always love him. Many who have been touched by a special person remain altered for years and decades beyond a departing; whether it is a sad breakup, or in Sara's case, a tragic death.

  Just then, Sara's cell phone rang. It was an unrecognizable number. “Hello?”

  No one replied, but there was a static in the background accompanied by buzzing and a few pulses. Concluding it to be a misdial or crossed connection, the “End” button was pressed and the nature walk resumed.

  Just as every year, autumn typically arrives around September 21st. But for all practical purposes, it still feels like the edge of summer in many places. The region that Mapleview and Sillmac belong to, however, feel autumn air somewhere around early September. Fall had already placed its grip in these woods as brilliant, October, colored leaves scattered throughout the nature path and forest. And the contrast of temperatures was most peculiar; cold, crisp air mixed with the hot sun that beat down in the clear, morning sky. The weather forecast predicted temperatures to reach nearly 60 degrees on the day of that Saturday morning walk. But the overnight temperatures were cold.

  Halloween was soon to arrive. Considering herself to be an adult, the holiday, in Sara's mind, was meant for kids. But to be festive, her coffeehouse brewed the pumpkin spice blend throughout October and November. Mark, her new boyfriend, often stopped by and nearly expected a fresh chamber to be made for him.

  The path made a curve as it hugged the small pond. The walk was, once again, interrupted with another unrecognized caller on her cell.

  She answered, “Hello?”

&n
bsp; Just as before, all Sara could hear was static in the background. But the pulsed buzzes gave hint to possible speech, maybe someone saying her name, perhaps someone asking, “Can you hear me?”

  Unsure as to why, the second call was a bit eerie for Sara which resulted in a phone call to her mother. It was difficult for Sara not to obsess over a possible attempt to reach her. Was it important? Was there an emergency?

  “Hi Mom, were you just trying to call me…? I got a couple calls from a number I didn't recognize and all I could hear was static… I don't know; whoever it was tried calling twice, but I couldn't hear… Just wanted to make sure you weren't trying to reach me… Yeah, I was going to try that next. I'm going to let you go and give him a call… Okay, bye.”

  Everyone has received a call on a cell phone from an unrecognizable number. Sometimes that person hangs up upon realizing the wrong number was reached. And sometimes all that can be heard in the background is dead silence or maybe some choppy words buried in noise before losing the call. It's a combination of a wrong number and bad reception. Often this phenomenon takes place at 2:00 in the morning as we explain that someone was looking for drugs or other illegal activity and dialed the wrong number. Only 7:30 on a Saturday morning, these explanations could certainly hold true. But Sara wasn't going to give in to those explanations. There was a near urgency in solving the mystery caller, and it was necessary to ensure that none of her loved ones were attempting contact.

  Sara called her boyfriend, “Mark? Hey, were you trying to call me…? I don't know; someone tried calling a couple of times and there was just static… No, I didn't recognize the number… What? No!”

  Mark playfully accused Sara of handing out her number to other men at the bars. He played this game many times and although annoying, Sara speculated it was his way of showing he cared. He often asked, “Who are you texting, your other boyfriend?” Or sometimes he would comment, “Going on Facebook to find some old boyfriends from high school?” Although cute and funny, once or twice, Sara was growing rather tired of it.