which I havenât lost the taste. I just wanted a reminder of how things were, even if it hurts. Sometimes I think the memory is worth the loss; other times Iâm not so sure.
Maybe Iâm not seeing things in perspective. Whatever happened to Starla is a tragedy; I wonât ever marginalize that. I just donât know if it should have such a lasting impact on me. Iâve let it shape so much of who I amâ¦
I button up my coat and take a glance around the restaurant. I feel sluggish, like the deep fried aroma of this place has saturated me. The speckled countertop, the tattered menus, everything is so simplisticâ¦I feel like I donât belong here anymore.
A few bills find their way from my pocket to the counter. I turn towards the door. My legs are sapped and reluctant to comply, but manage to stagger their way outside. Iâm really not feeling wellâ¦head is light and airyâ¦a little warm. A ripple of nausea in my middleâ¦then Iâm falling.
Homecoming
February 23rd, 1999
Sheriff Hildersham returns to the Mendelssohn farm
Staring at a brass door knob, Iâm on the front step of the Mendelssohn farm. My right hand rests on my service revolver while my head is full of indecision. Am I was wasting my time? Am I looking for trouble where there isnât any?
This is ground zero for me. I keep asking myself what I expect to find inside, but I canât say. Allâs I know is I never did my due diligence the first time around.
The porch is like I left itâleaning and rickety. More of the paint wore off since â87, but thatâs to be expected. None of Mendelssohnâs family, if he had any, kept after the place.
I thumb the key in my pocket. The gal who works at the real estate officeâit turns out I went to high school with her daddy. That on top of being Sheriff guaranteed I didnât have to answer questions. She took my word this was official business and gave me the key without any trouble.
The lock sticks, but with a bit of jiggling it gives. My heart ramps up as I step over the threshold. I half expect to see that phantom boy again and chuckle to myself for being so jumpy. Thereâs nothing inside but my imagination.
My first whiff of the place makes me cough; the dust is thicker than I thought it would be. On the wall, the holes are still there, filled with cobwebs. And thereâs the far cornerâ¦
The surprise I felt comes rushing back, the shock of seeing the boy. Any second I expect him to materialize, but he never does. The corner remains empty. It wasnât real, was it? It was so long ago, I donât think I can trust my memory.
I move past the front room and into the hallway. Daylight is a faint glow at the end. It leads me to the rear of the house where thereâs the dining room, and beyond that, the kitchen. Off to the right is a back room.
The dining room is straightforward with its simple wooden table and chairs. Thereâs a ratty woven rug underneath. No wall hangings. A quick look and Iâm sure thereâs nothing to dig for here.
In the kitchen thereâre drawers and cabinets to inspectâold white ones with metal handles. I donât find much other than the norm. Chipped plates and bowls arenât telling.
The back room is musty. The ceiling shows signs of leakage; the water stains creep in above the window. Aside from a beat-up couch and a wooden chair, itâs another bare room. Mendelssohn led the simple life.
The second floor is next. I make my way along the hardwood to the front of the house, and then I climb the groaning stairs. The bathroom is at the top with a bedroom on either side. Around the corner from the steps is another doorâprobably the attic.
I start with the first bedroom. The paisley wallpaper is peeling, and what I assume was Mendelssohnâs bed is made up nice and neat with a dull brown comforter. A nightstand sits next to it. I rummage through its drawer: a
Maybe Iâm not seeing things in perspective. Whatever happened to Starla is a tragedy; I wonât ever marginalize that. I just donât know if it should have such a lasting impact on me. Iâve let it shape so much of who I amâ¦
I button up my coat and take a glance around the restaurant. I feel sluggish, like the deep fried aroma of this place has saturated me. The speckled countertop, the tattered menus, everything is so simplisticâ¦I feel like I donât belong here anymore.
A few bills find their way from my pocket to the counter. I turn towards the door. My legs are sapped and reluctant to comply, but manage to stagger their way outside. Iâm really not feeling wellâ¦head is light and airyâ¦a little warm. A ripple of nausea in my middleâ¦then Iâm falling.
Homecoming
February 23rd, 1999
Sheriff Hildersham returns to the Mendelssohn farm
Staring at a brass door knob, Iâm on the front step of the Mendelssohn farm. My right hand rests on my service revolver while my head is full of indecision. Am I was wasting my time? Am I looking for trouble where there isnât any?
This is ground zero for me. I keep asking myself what I expect to find inside, but I canât say. Allâs I know is I never did my due diligence the first time around.
The porch is like I left itâleaning and rickety. More of the paint wore off since â87, but thatâs to be expected. None of Mendelssohnâs family, if he had any, kept after the place.
I thumb the key in my pocket. The gal who works at the real estate officeâit turns out I went to high school with her daddy. That on top of being Sheriff guaranteed I didnât have to answer questions. She took my word this was official business and gave me the key without any trouble.
The lock sticks, but with a bit of jiggling it gives. My heart ramps up as I step over the threshold. I half expect to see that phantom boy again and chuckle to myself for being so jumpy. Thereâs nothing inside but my imagination.
My first whiff of the place makes me cough; the dust is thicker than I thought it would be. On the wall, the holes are still there, filled with cobwebs. And thereâs the far cornerâ¦
The surprise I felt comes rushing back, the shock of seeing the boy. Any second I expect him to materialize, but he never does. The corner remains empty. It wasnât real, was it? It was so long ago, I donât think I can trust my memory.
I move past the front room and into the hallway. Daylight is a faint glow at the end. It leads me to the rear of the house where thereâs the dining room, and beyond that, the kitchen. Off to the right is a back room.
The dining room is straightforward with its simple wooden table and chairs. Thereâs a ratty woven rug underneath. No wall hangings. A quick look and Iâm sure thereâs nothing to dig for here.
In the kitchen thereâre drawers and cabinets to inspectâold white ones with metal handles. I donât find much other than the norm. Chipped plates and bowls arenât telling.
The back room is musty. The ceiling shows signs of leakage; the water stains creep in above the window. Aside from a beat-up couch and a wooden chair, itâs another bare room. Mendelssohn led the simple life.
The second floor is next. I make my way along the hardwood to the front of the house, and then I climb the groaning stairs. The bathroom is at the top with a bedroom on either side. Around the corner from the steps is another doorâprobably the attic.
I start with the first bedroom. The paisley wallpaper is peeling, and what I assume was Mendelssohnâs bed is made up nice and neat with a dull brown comforter. A nightstand sits next to it. I rummage through its drawer: a
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