He sits down in the high-backed leather chair opposite you, and isn't what you were expecting. You'd heard that he was spry for his age, despite pushing 70. Maybe it's the way he carries himself, with his scotch and his cigar and a level of confidence rarely found in men 30 years his junior, or maybe it's the underwear-clad, 20-something brunette draped over him. Regardless, he is far from the doddering old fool you thought you'd be meeting when his silent butler ushered you in. The glean in his eye competes with the shine of a massive emerald on his finger, though from malice or mirth, you can't begin to tell.
"I always said that there was something wrong, something very strange with Ronnie Long." He begins in that steady Midwestern tone, accented with a tinge of a Southern lilt long time country music fans pick up. "He never laughed, never smiled, talked alone..."
(Art @ Krisztian Gacsi)
******
All the green things died when Ronnie moved to that place. Under any other circumstances, it would have set off alarm bells in the community, but it had already been an exceptionally hot and dry summer by July, and no one's yard looked healthy. Other than a caretaker checking on the property monthly, upkeep had been sporadic. Still, in hindsight, had anyone paid attention, the shriveling and browning of the plants was a slow but noticeable process.
Local news programs had steadily focused upon ongoing racially-charged rioting and most of the adults in the neighborhood were too glued to their television screens to see the recent arrival lugging several suitcases from a rusted out '50s model station wagon. Like all changes in the day to day tedium, the kids were the first to see him. John (never Johnny, not since he had become a teen) was in the vanguard of these children, playing football in his yard that day. Turning to see his new neighbor, he missed the ball as it sailed past him, onto the sidewalk. Ronnie set his bags down on the grass and picked the ball up, turning it in his hands like an alien artifact discovered on some long-abandoned world, uncomprehending of its purpose.
"Could you please throw the ball back, sir." Timmy, John's unfailingly polite younger brother, asked.
Ronnie raised his head from the football to stare at the boys. Rather than acquiesce to the request, he walked towards John with his arm outstretched. As he drew closer, John took in every detail of him, from his far below average height, to the disheveled nature of his clothing. Nothing compared to his ruined visage, however. Scars ran from the corner of his mouth the length of his jawline, setting a perpetual grimace across his features.
"Geez, mister, did you fight in the war?" John inquired as he took the offered football.
"Don't you dare ask why I'm cursed to wear this face," Ronnie snarled in reply, snatching his hand back. Despite being shorter than John by a couple of inches, he loomed large and imposing, before he quickly turned his back on the boys and returned to his suitcases. Stunned at the vehemence in his voice, neither boy felt much like playing anymore. Instead, they went back inside, to pull their parents away from the TV.
*****
"I've lost my way!" John heard the screams through his open window a week later. Stumbling from his bed, he looked out to see lights blazing in every vsible window of the neighbor's house. "All things wash away!" They continued. He could see motion in the uppermost of them, shadows obscured by thick cloth hangings that could only be called curtains by the very generous.
It had been a rough week for the entire neighborhood. His parents, and most of the adults on the block, had been excited when they were informed that the empty house had been filled. The excitement soon soured into disappointment when Ronnie made infrequent appearances to answer the knocks of curious people coming to introduce themselves. The quiet unobtrusiveness of a shut-in was preferable to the screaming, which was causing dogs to howl, and as John looked, lights were turning on all over the street. Angry people in pajamas and bathrobes were marching out of their front doors when the screaming stopped, and all of the lights in Ronnie's house simultaneously flickered off. Confused, a murmuring crowd stood in the middle of the street, conversing among themselves for a few minutes before breaking away and returning home.
The next morning, John listened to his mother gossip on the phone about the neighbor, referring to him as "Mister Long," though the kids had taken to calling him the unimaginative "Ronnie Frown" based upon his appearance and demeanor. He took every opportunity to glare at them when they played in their yards or rode their bikes, as if he hated them for their youth and enjoyment of life, and many of them had taken to staying indoors more and more. Out of all the kids in the neighborhood, John was the only one that had spoken to him and he retold the tale of that meeting multiple times. His natural athleticism and friendly nature had made him popular, but with The Story, he always had other kids that wanted him to come over to their house now.
******
The end of July approached rapidly, and the neighborhood, which should have been teeming with children at the apex of their summer shenanigans, was like a ghost town. A general malaise had swept over the area, with even the adults limiting their time outside of their houses. Working parents drove directly to their places of employment and came straight home. Yard work, when it was done, was dealt with as quickly as possible. No one could place exactly what was causing the unease, but without fail, all were quick to place blame elsewhere. First, it was married couples blaming one another for imagined slights, then it was parents pointing the fingers at their children for always being indoors.
Ultimately, following phone calls and bar meetings, the neighborhood laid responsibility at the feet of Ronnie Frown, as even the grown ups called him. Through conversations John wasn't privy to, the men and women of the block made mention of the late-night screaming, which had reached a fever pitch. One neighbor pointed out, finally, the decaying nature of his yard and tree. Another relayed the fears of her sons, who said that they had been chased from his property with a club. Still another brought up his talking to thin air. Their frayed nerves forced them to huddle closer and talk in hushed tones about what could be done.
John knew none of this at the time, of course. He was far too busy doing typical teen boy things, mostly thinking about girls, despite everything else. Unlike the other neighborhood children, Ronnie didn't really frighten him. If he were asked, the only emotion he felt was anger at the disruption to the normally placid life of summer break. He didn't go out of the way to shout names at Ronnie though, like several on the block did during the rare occasion he was out of his house, nor did he throw rocks or sticks at said house, as he had witnessed his brother do more than once. He just wanted to go about his life and do the things that made him happy without concern for what the neighborhood hermit did.
The unmistakable sound of shattering glass grabbed John's attention, and he could hear kids cheering. Going outside, a small group of five, led by Timmy, was hitting Ronnie's car with various items, including the baseball bat with which his brother broke one of the old wagon's windows. Glancing around the street, John could see adults standing on their porches or looking out of their windows, not making any attempt to stop Timmy and his friends.
John was not the only one alerted by the sound, as Ronnie threw open his front door and charged out, yelling, "you goddamned kids, leave me alone!"
"Ronnie Frown, Ronnie Frown!" was their only response as Timmy, and one other, continued to beat the car.
With a sneer, Ronnie picked up several large rocks and began hurling them in the direction of the kids. Several cracked against the street, flinging flakes of shale in several directions at once. The adults began to join in the chanting without conscious thought, as if they were all pulled by herd mentality.
With a metallic thump and then a cry of pain, a projectiles bounced off of the hood of the car, and hit Timmy just above the collarbone. A jagged piece of the stone embedded itself in his flesh, as another piece sliced a massive gash through his shirt and shoulder. John, and several of the grown ups ran out into the street at that. One of them grabbed his brother, as the rest, including him, starting throwing things at Ronnie and his house. The wave of rage was palpable, so much so that everyone ignored that it was Timmy and his friends that started things in the first place.
The shouts and insults, the missiles being flung and the din of the crowd, all combined to a roar that made the first gunshot almost imperceptible. It wasn't until the second one, and the resulting woman's blood-freezing wailing that anyone realized Ronnie had fired. Everyone panicked and tried to run away as he pulled that gun from his pocket. The shots weren't aimed and, in fact, it barely seemed as if Ronnie was looking at anyone in particular as he backed slowly towards his door. But a bullet doesn't care if it has a target or not, and before his six shots were spent, three people were down on the road. The rest frantically attempted to get inside, to call for police assistance. Their fear and their rage combined with the smell of blood and gunpowder to make the air oppressive in John's lungs.
Like the day that Ronnie showed up on the street, John was the first to see him leave. With just his suitcases, he rushed to the station wagon, cranking it over with a metallic shriek like a demon from hell, as flames became visible in the darkened house. Those souls powered more by anger than fear still outside threw bottles at the car as it drove through yards and sped away. John, unharmed, felt emotionally drained as Ronnie's taillights vanished in the distance. He worried about his brother, and the people on the ground, but he no longer felt the same degree of rage, and looking around as the fire engulfed Ronnie's house, he could see the confusion and shock registering other people's faces, moreso when kids and grownups walked back outside, waiting for the emergency response teams that were surely on their way.
******
"No one ever saw Ronnie Frown again after that. The police lumped everything in with the race riots that happened that year, and everyone eventually moved on with their lives. Not me, but you knew that already." He waits for you to nod before continuing. "I've spent decades searching for any sign of him. I've hired private investigators and bounty hunters, hell even psychics and mediums. Every lead has added pieces to the puzzle. Until now, I've never been able to see the whole." He pauses again, the forgotten brunette pulls away and leaves the room as he leans in closer, locking eyes with you. "You've heard my story. You have a good idea what I want and I'm willing to bet an even better idea of how much I'm ready to pay. So, are you in?"
