Laurels Literary Magazine Spring 2014 | Page 58

away from the oak as he could stand, avoiding the pools of dead rainwater as he shone the beam. The first thing he saw illuminated were the same pair of mud-soaked sneakers. And then the legs. The same hands and dark blue jacket the corpse had worn. And finally, the face. Only now the eyes were far from dead, though his flesh was still blue and cold, those eyes were alive with rage and fire. "It was you! It was you!"John could not scream. He was aware of his neighbors. He was afraid of the police returning. But not as afraid as he was of that tree. Of that corpse and the horrible bough from which it swung like some hideous pendulum. As he stepped back into his house the gurgled sound of laughter emanating from a broken neck followed John, like the blubbering of water pipes behind thin walls. John had difficulty falling asleep. He played old records that used to belong to his mother. He played them, not because he particularly enjoyed the music but because they drowned out the creaking sound he seemed to hear in silence. The creaking of the oak's bough from which the man hung. It seemed louder every moment, until it was as if the linoleum was cracking in the bathroom and the walls would suddenly split open with great force. Finally the sounds subsided and John drifted away into a state of cold and emptiness which for some men may pass as sleep. John would not remember the strange dreams that passed through him during that brief rest. He was in an unfamiliar city, surrounded by crumbling walls and abandoned buildings. He wandered through empty streets and called out in vain. There were cars parked at stoplights, which still blinked though traffic had ceased. Each car was empty and inside there was evidence of former passengers. There were cigarettes in the ashtrays, there were discarded bags of food under the seats, there was even a child's toy in the street just outside the open door of a small white van. On that dream street in that vast dream city, just as he awoke, there was the sound of pattered footsteps behind John and the sensation of being touched on the shoulder. The next morning the hung man was gone. The puddles in the yard had mostly dried and the sun shone brightly in an unclouded sky. John stayed out in the yard for the rest of the day. He sat on a lawn chair smoking his cigarettes and staring at the old oak tree. Was it a belt the man had used? Or was it rope? He had a feeling it was rope, but the details were beginning to blur. And the face, its features somewhat obfuscated by death, began to disappear from his memory altogether. A breeze blew through the yard and a symphony of groans erupted from the swaying branches of the tree, as if it were heaving out a great sigh. John sat below the tree and smoked cigarettes. Even when it began to get colder and colder he did not return to the house to put on a coat. Even when it began to rain. And finally, it was dark and it was cold and there was no porch light and he was alone. 58