The Branch
by Ian Curtress
The old man
put another log on the fire and pulled his chair
closer.
Hated these wild nights.
It was fine living near the coast in the the
summer but the winds are bitter in the winter.
He poked the fire and tried not to worry about
that dream.
He knew in his heart he had been a pretty
despicable person the whole of his life.
Cheating and lying. Was always disliked. Had
prospered at the expense of the innocent and now
he was old it was too late to make amends. Not
that he wanted to.
It was just that dream that disturbed him. So
clear he saw every detail.
First the tapping on the window. On and off.
Persisting.
Turned sound up on the television but tapping on
the glass seemed to become louder.
It became a sort of rhythm which made his head
spin until the door burst open and standing there
was the family he had evicted from their home in
order to sell the property and make a handsome
profit.
They didn’t speak. Slowly they turned to
skeletons walking towards him.
At that point he had woken up in a pool of
perspiration and shaking.
He poured himself a whisky but still couldn’t
settle.
It wasn’t his fault they were homeless he
gave them a month to find somewhere else
Had he at last found a conscience. Had never
bothered him before. Started to find reasons for
his repulsive behaviour. There were none. He made
all his decisions of his own free will. Accepted
that his life had been an unhappy one.
Could things have been better if he had married?
No. He had no wish to share.
The logs were glowing and making amazing patterns
in the embers. He concentrated on them, trying to
overcome his anxiety.
Just after midnight the tapping on the window
started. He felt cold in spite of the log fire.
The wind had turned to gale force. The tapping
seemed to have a rhythm now and he was visibly
shivering.
Putting another log on the glowing embers caused
sudden flames, throwing shadows on the walls and
increasing his unease.
Then a huge gust blew his door open causing smoke
and fumes…….
A neighbour became aware of the damage around
seven in the morning and making his way past the
damaged door could see the old man in his chair
covered in what he thought was ash.
Yes there was ash, but not on his head. His hair
was white.
He was dead!
After reporting the situation he repaired and
secured the door and cut back branches of a gale
damaged tree in the front.
A small branch of which had been hitting the
window.
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