Random Writing Prompt Wednesday

I don't always do these but when I can find time, I do.  Treasure Valley Wordsmiths put up a writing challenge where I had to write about a construction worker who has an imaginary friend.

Here is my attempt.  Enjoy.

The Things We Leave BehindBy Jeremy L. Jones
A house with nobody inside is a corpse, something that only serves a purpose if there's something living in it.  Otherwise its just a thing and a thing that grows rotten the longer it is left.  This house, from the way the rain pours in from the roof and the way it creeks when even the slightest breeze comes up, I figure it's been empty for more than ten years.

I sit on a chair left behind by the last owners.  A dark green fluffy recliner.  The color has faded to nearly nothing and small creatures off and on make their home inside the tattered upholstery but its still remarkably comfortable.  I wait listening to the water leaking in and the occasionally scurry of a rodent in and around the woodwork.  I wait until I see headlights shining in through the front window.
Allen lets himself in the front door.  He pauses to look just above the door frame and smiles, "It's still there."

He's referring to his name.  He wrote it on the door frame just after it was installed.  It would have been hidden behind some wainscoting when the house was lived in but that's long since fallen off.

"You're late." I say standing up.

Allen shrugs, "I had to say goodbye to my wife.  Well, shall we do this?"

We walk from the main room into the kitchen.  I point to a hole in the drywall. "Found a dollar there about a year back."

Allen nods,  "That would be Stevenson.  Had this thing about leaving a dollar in the walls.  Said it was good luck."

Stevenson.  The image of a gruff man with a thorough command of inappropriate jokes comes to mind and it makes me smile.  "What happened to him?"

"You know as well as I do.  He gave it up."

'Gave it up' is a code.  It means he was injured in an accident and couldn't work anymore.  If he'd found another line of work, he would have just said what it was.  But accidents, it's not something we talk about.  It's bad luck.

Allen pulls a flashlight from his jacket and turns it on.  We're in the kitchen.  There's a empty spot where a refrigerator would have gone and the cupboards have half-fallen off the wall.  Allen tries the sink but nothing comes out.  There's been no water or electricity here for quite some time.

"Old habit," he says "I always check the plumbing first.  Electricity is easy but if the plumbing is bad, you might as well tear the house down.  Ain't no good to anyone and it's just gonna cause more headaches in the long run."

We start to walk down the hallway and he laughs.  "I had this super once.  Back when I was pouring concrete.  He would throw a quarter into whatever we were doing.  Didn't matter what it was.  Sidewalk, curbing, planter, if he wasn't there or was going to be late he'd call me up and say, "Hey Allen!  Got any change?"

I laugh.  "I worked with this guy once.  He was Native American and, before every project, he would bless the ground.  We'd all be standing there, leaning on our shovels waiting for his go-ahead to do anything. Meanwhile he's sitting in the middle of the worksite singing some old song and burning sage or something or other.  He said it would keep spirits at bay."

Allen grunts.  "Could have used him."

We walk down the hallway and his flashlight hits a part of the wall where the wallpaper is peeling off.  Just above where the corner is hanging limp you can see the letters D,E and R painted in black.

"You would always leave notes behind wouldn't you?" said Allen looking at the message.

"I did.  Notes.  Poems.  Sometimes fortunes like you might find in a fortune cookie.  I always thought it would be fun if someone found those."

We keep walking.  Allen stops outside one of the rooms and shines his flashlight inside.  It might have been an office or a playroom or even a spare bedroom.  As it is, it's just an empty box.  His flashlight hits a spot on the wall.  If someone didn't know where to look, they would probably miss it.  But Allen knows where to look.  Behind the peeling cream-colored paint I can just make out the words "Killed And BURIED'.
Allen grunts, "Should have used darker paint."

"Realtors were always against it.  Said it made the room look small."

Allen shakes his head, "And having the wall say 'I was killed and buried here' is so much better."

Allen starts walking again and I follow. "I never understood," he says, "Why people get that urge."

"It's like leaving a piece of you behind," I say. "When you do it, you're thinking that maybe someone will find it.  Long after I'm dead maybe.  Someone will find something that I wrote and maybe he will think about me. And I will think about them.  But you should know, you did it to."

"Yes," he said stopping in front of a battered door, "But when I did it, it was practical."

Allen just stands in front of the basement door for a few minutes.  He reaches out to touch the handle but stops as if it were wired with electricity or something.

"We don't have to go down there.  We could just leave.  They are going to demolish the house tomorrow.  Nobody needs to know."

"You and I both know that's not true," says Allen, "And even if it were, they would only tear it down to the foundation.  The basement, there's no reason to touch that and we'd still be in the same place we are now.  Families driven away, the house sits empty and you bringing me back here every goddamned year."

He takes a deep breath and opens the door.

"I never understood why people have a hard time selling a murder house," I say as he shines his flashlight into the gloom.

"It's like what you boys would do.  Leaving money or notes behind.  But the opposite.  People assume that the ghost is here and will haunt them or something."

"You don't believe in ghosts," I say.

"I know," he says.  "But people do. And it makes them easy to scare."

He walks down the wooden stairs. I can feel the wood move with every step and I wonder how much longer they are going to hold up.  Allen's light moves right to left until he finds what he's come here to see.

"Wow, really outdone ourselves this time, haven't we?"

"I wanted to be clear." I say as his light travels across every painted word.
Across one entire wall there is a note in bright red paint, "My name is Allen Mitchell.  Fifteen years ago I killed Edmundo Lopez and buried him under the X."

"There's no 'X'" Allen says.

"I figured you would want to add it," I say.

"You were always the poetic one," he says.

"I thought you didn't believe in ghosts."

Allen walks to the center of the room shining his flashlight all around as if looking for something, "I have a theory on that actually," he pulls a gun from his jacket pocket and holds it in his hand, "You see, you can't be here.  Because you're down there." He points to the concrete floor with his gun. "So obviously, you aren't real.  Just guilt and regret rattling around my brain making me do crazy things."

I hold up my hands, "I feel real."

"Yes, you do, " he says, "Or maybe, you're the real one and your picturing me back when I was the terrible person who did that awful thing."

"I feel like you'd have more hair if that were the case," I say, "Plus, you have the gun."

Allen smiles, "Or maybe we're both real and you are just what I become so that my brain can deal with all of this."

"It's a puzzle," I say.

Allen's light falls on a open can of red paint with a paintbrush still sitting on the rim.  He takes it and walks back to the center of the room.

"It's not too late," I say, "You could just paint over it.  The demolition team will be here in a couple of hours.  Nobody will ever know."

"But you ain't going away. And I'm tired of waking up with paint on my hands and having to come here to see what you've done.  I hate getting phone calls from the people who live here asking who Edmundo is and why he's painting notes on the walls.  And I hate... I just hate."

Allen slumps against the wall underneath the confession and puts the gun to his head.

"We could go on just like before," I say.

"These places that we build.  We want to leave something of ourselves behind.  Something so people will remember us.  A message for the future."

"What do you want to say?"

"That I'm sorry."

I pull the trigger.