After Death by D. B. Douglas Page B

Frank noted that there were no sounds of receding footsteps either. Burt was obviously just behind the door, waiting…
    “I’d be willing to pay you for your time” he ventured.
    There was still no response. What did this guy want? Looking at the house, it had to be money. Frank took a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and slipped it under the door. Less than three seconds later, Burt responded.
    “Another twenty’ll buy ya ten.” He called back through the thin door.
    Frank added another twenty and Burt swung the door once again. He stared at Frank, face impassive and grave.
    “Ten minutes.” He said and turned aside for Frank to enter.

    ***

    Burt led the way into his house, weaving through leaning ceiling-high stacks of old newspapers, half-dissected appliances, broken pieces of furniture…He spoke over his shoulder in a gravelly baritone…
    “The forked tree don’t fall far from the apple, do it?”
    He giggled at his own joke, indicated one of the towering stacks of newspapers.
    “I git the news, ya know!”
    He glanced back at Frank with a raised wild-haired eyebrow, turned sideways and forced his way through a gap between a dismantled refrigerator and a tall pile of broken toys.
    “Everyone should pay fer my time — my time is valuble!” He chortled.
    He paused as if the thought of money might have been a mirage and pulled the two crumpled twenties out of his pocket. He held them close to his face and examined them minutely then deeply inhaled the scent from the bills.
    “Right as rain!” He blurted out and chortled again with glee.
    He stuffed the bills deep in his pocket and reached back and pulled Frank through more debris, whistling merrily as he did. It was the same odd tune that Frank often whistled himself but he had no time to question the coincidence — he was hurriedly pushed into a niche surrounded by more stacks of old newspapers and wedged in by Burt, who sidled in so close Frank winced at the thick smell of bourbon on his breath.
    “Well? Burt said. “Time’s a wastin’.”
    Frank was uncomfortable — almost panicked. This wild odd guy was right in his face, there was no way to get past him if something went wrong, and he hadn’t told his wife or anyone else where he was going. And from the indecipherable things Burt had been saying and his loopy manner, Frank couldn’t tell if he was drunk or crazy as a loon or both. Was it really worth his safety to ask questions about an old dead guy that apparently had trouble telling the truth? He should really just get the hell outta there — it’d be the smart thing to do.
    “I’m trying to find out details on Eli’s past.” He said instead. “His background…?”
    Burt stared at him with his head cocked to one side on its short, bulgy neck. He seemed to be measuring him, checking his expression for signs that he might be joking. He finally broke into a toothy smile, most of his front teeth at odd angles or missing.
    “Fine by me. You wanna look backwards from outside — fine by me. Which stories you want; skin crawlers or hair raisers?”
    He put out a pudgy hairy hand, palm upwards, and tapped it.
    “Long as you grease the way, I’m willin’ to play along. Another twenty right there.”
    Frank winced again at Burt’s breath, turned away to dodge the noxious cloud. Definitely drunk and who knows what else , he thought. He shook his head.
    “Let’s see what forty’s bought me first.”
    Burt seemed to like the challenge and puffed up with pride.
    “Saw a lotta things growin’ up. Specially as Eli was my step-daddy — but I ‘spect you know that.” He gave Frank a wink and continued. “What say I tell ya a liddle grisly tale jest to whet yer appetite.”
    He paused and licked his lips. He truly seemed to love, even crave , this rare attention.
    “’Fore I begin, I got a rule. You needs to close yer eyeballs an’ piture what I say in yer head. I tell a good story — it’ll be like a movie rollin’ across yer