down on the criminal. It took one peck on his cheek with the sound of carpet tearing. The punk tripped over himself, crashing to the ground. With the man on his back now, the bird attacked again, the camera shaking violently. This time, a fake bird pecked at his face dozens of times until the man’s cheeks were serrated to skin and bone. Then the bird flew back into the sky, the tops of trees soon thinning out and leading into a small town.
Andy had fallen asleep by then, but the film kept playing on until the end.
Chapter Three
1
Ned Ryerson finished his third round of Jack Daniels and Coke. He sat alone on a barstool in Hank’s Sports Pub. He stared up at the television to view the local ten o’clock news report, but after a few minutes, he didn’t listen anymore. His tipsiness wasn’t enjoyable tonight. He was glad to escape the house, but for how long, he wondered. Andy wouldn’t live there. He read it on the young man’s face that he didn’t want to take on such a project. The house had been on the market for almost nine months. The property could be up for purchase for years and no one would bite.
He wanted to be rid of it now.
No time was soon enough.
It didn’t help that his brother, James, lived and breathed in that house. Even after Ned finished burning the remains of the late magician’s items—without the police knowing—James’s memory lived on in that property. He could feel him. Ned would be watching television in the living room, and he’d hear footsteps pound back and forth upstairs in his brother’s old room, as if his ghost was pacing. He had invited Andy to stay in the house to consider living in it, but also to confirm if he really was hearing things.
Two weeks was plenty of time for Andy to figure that out.
The scuff of a barstool warned of Chuck Anthony’s approach. Chuck was an old co-worker at the same textile factory Ned retired from. The man’s upbeat voice matched the level of his inebriation. “I haven’t seen you here for a while, old pal. How’s retirement treating you? Aren’t you practicing your golf swing with the five-iron you got as a retirement gift? I’d spend hours on the green if I was in your position. I’m jealous of you.”
“I haven’t had the time,” Ned complained. “My brother’s legacy has kept me screwing with that infernal house. It has a hold over me.”
“The one in Anderson Mills?” Chuck’s pallor glowed neon, being near the Pabst Blue Ribbon sign. “What a heap of junk. I’m surprised the place hasn’t caved in on itself. Your brother didn’t take very good care of it. Why don’t you tear the damn place down if it’s keeping you from enjoying retirement?”
“Ah, I could still get a decent buck from it,” he lied. “I’ve put enough worry into it. I should get some form of compensation.”
The truth was he wanted to talk to his brother again if his spirit was alive. There were so many things left unanswered at his death. Why did he want his stage items burned? What caused his body to go poof in a cloud of black ash that night in the fire? The police didn’t see it for reasons he didn’t understand, and no one believed his explanation. He had to know the truth. Was he crazy, or was his brother’s spirit alive in that house?
He suddenly had an idea. There was a psychic reader down on 13th Street, but he wasn’t sure if it was hoopla-babble or a person who could actually reach the spirits. James told him Houdini spent a good portion of his life trying to find a legitimate medium to contact his deceased mother and always failed. The mediums’ lies were obvious. None of them spoke in his mother’s German tongue when speaking on her behalf.
“I’m sorry about what happened with your brother,” Chuck said. “You caught the brunt of his actions. The police interrogated you for weeks about it. Jesus, they’re crazy for thinking you had anything to do with it. I never believed it for a second.
Andy had fallen asleep by then, but the film kept playing on until the end.
Chapter Three
1
Ned Ryerson finished his third round of Jack Daniels and Coke. He sat alone on a barstool in Hank’s Sports Pub. He stared up at the television to view the local ten o’clock news report, but after a few minutes, he didn’t listen anymore. His tipsiness wasn’t enjoyable tonight. He was glad to escape the house, but for how long, he wondered. Andy wouldn’t live there. He read it on the young man’s face that he didn’t want to take on such a project. The house had been on the market for almost nine months. The property could be up for purchase for years and no one would bite.
He wanted to be rid of it now.
No time was soon enough.
It didn’t help that his brother, James, lived and breathed in that house. Even after Ned finished burning the remains of the late magician’s items—without the police knowing—James’s memory lived on in that property. He could feel him. Ned would be watching television in the living room, and he’d hear footsteps pound back and forth upstairs in his brother’s old room, as if his ghost was pacing. He had invited Andy to stay in the house to consider living in it, but also to confirm if he really was hearing things.
Two weeks was plenty of time for Andy to figure that out.
The scuff of a barstool warned of Chuck Anthony’s approach. Chuck was an old co-worker at the same textile factory Ned retired from. The man’s upbeat voice matched the level of his inebriation. “I haven’t seen you here for a while, old pal. How’s retirement treating you? Aren’t you practicing your golf swing with the five-iron you got as a retirement gift? I’d spend hours on the green if I was in your position. I’m jealous of you.”
“I haven’t had the time,” Ned complained. “My brother’s legacy has kept me screwing with that infernal house. It has a hold over me.”
“The one in Anderson Mills?” Chuck’s pallor glowed neon, being near the Pabst Blue Ribbon sign. “What a heap of junk. I’m surprised the place hasn’t caved in on itself. Your brother didn’t take very good care of it. Why don’t you tear the damn place down if it’s keeping you from enjoying retirement?”
“Ah, I could still get a decent buck from it,” he lied. “I’ve put enough worry into it. I should get some form of compensation.”
The truth was he wanted to talk to his brother again if his spirit was alive. There were so many things left unanswered at his death. Why did he want his stage items burned? What caused his body to go poof in a cloud of black ash that night in the fire? The police didn’t see it for reasons he didn’t understand, and no one believed his explanation. He had to know the truth. Was he crazy, or was his brother’s spirit alive in that house?
He suddenly had an idea. There was a psychic reader down on 13th Street, but he wasn’t sure if it was hoopla-babble or a person who could actually reach the spirits. James told him Houdini spent a good portion of his life trying to find a legitimate medium to contact his deceased mother and always failed. The mediums’ lies were obvious. None of them spoke in his mother’s German tongue when speaking on her behalf.
“I’m sorry about what happened with your brother,” Chuck said. “You caught the brunt of his actions. The police interrogated you for weeks about it. Jesus, they’re crazy for thinking you had anything to do with it. I never believed it for a second.
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