The doorbell rang softly and somehow off-rhythm, even though it was just two notes. It was Mr. Reynolds again. We knew because his scowling green face was pressed right up against the door. I asked Shoes to get it, as I was busy making poison potions for the wolf traps.
Shoes welcomed Mr. Reynolds in. Mr. Reynolds said a curt "How do you do." He wore a porkpie hat. I wondered what he wanted this time. "So... Mr. Reynolds, what do you want this time?"
"Oh, well..." he replied. "Say, do you have any toast?" He reminded me of that creepy snake from The Jungle Book. And he had this small singular fang coming out the top of his mouth, which caused the end of his question to sound British.
"I think we can scare that up for you," I replied. "Hey Shoes, get a toaster up and running for Mr. Reynolds here." It was some amount of trouble to go to, and it would use up our spare pistons, but I felt we had to be nice to Mr. Reynolds. After all, he was nothing but polite to us, almost too polite, bringing (admittedly cheap) gifts up the hill to our estate every week, and practically smothering Shoes with good-night kisses until the boy's breath is down to half.
"Yesss, let the boy do it," said Mr. Reynolds. He always called Shoes "the boy". While Shoes was rummaging around for slimeballs (for the pistons and jam) I asked Mr. Reynolds about his house. "Oh, it's, it's keeping up there with the times, it's going places, as they say," he replied. He loved talking about his house. "The garden is in and everything. There's a porch, and a roof, and a bed that I sleep in every night, just like you and the boy. Yup, house is doing just fine."
I've never actually seen the house. Apparently it's just down the hill, half a kilometer away, but I haven't been able to find it.
"You should show me the place one of these days," I offered.
He stood silent for 180 ticks, then turned to look out the window and just said, "storm brewing." Which was his mechanical way of changing the subject whenever I tried to reach out to him. I knew it didn't mean anything. His success rate in predicting storms was more or less equal to the rate of actual brewing storms. I felt sorry for him. He obviously was hiding some kind of insecurity.
Shoes came up the stairs wondering if Mr. Reynolds wanted apple jelly. "It's just that, to make the jelly I need another piston, which I'll have to hunt for the materials for it," explained Shoes. Mr. Reynolds turned and looked at the boy, walked right up to him, and said, "Jelly sounds good, my boy." And then he went back to looking out the window, in earnest.
There was a ding. My potions were done. Voxel-matter frothed at the lip of each flask before I corked them one by one and slipped them into my hip holster. "Want to come help set wolf traps with me?" I asked.
"A splendid endeavor with which to end the day," he seethed, and there was a bit of frothy stuff coming from his mouth as well.
We walked out to the pasture, Mr. Reynolds following close behind me, unnervingly close. There was a trap by each gate along the fenced perimeter of the flock, each with a single red sheep as bait. I showed Mr. Reynolds how to load the dispensers with the poison potions, gave him half of my potions, and we set to work. As we worked along opposite sides of the flock in silence, I listened to the bats below, and Mr. Reynolds kept looking up at me, his face peering over the bustling sheepskins, as if to say, "Am I doing this right?"
When we were done it had grown dark, and the moon was already quarter-past. The grounds of the entire estate were well-lit, as required by bylaw #323, and we found ourselves strolling through previously unwandered parts of it, until a call came from the manor: "Mr. Reynolds! Toast's ready, mister!"
I turned to suggest to Mr. Reynolds a shortcut back to the house, but found that I was alone. He had silently slipped away into the night during our walk, as was his usual standard operating procedure. I could only assume he went back to his house to sleep in his bed he was so proud of. On my way back to the manor, I experienced the usual attack of hallucinations, Mr. Reynolds' face peering over statues and lampposts for just an instant, between blinks. And subtle sounds of foam dripping on walkways, though it may have just been the inaugural drizzle of a storm just brewing.
As I neared the house, I heard the familiar sound of a poisoned entity. The staccato sound of repeated damage being done was much more eurhythmic than the stupid doorbell had been earlier, and I reveled in it, not believing my luck. To think a stupid wolf had already fallen for one of my traps!
Mr. Reynolds is the creeper, I was hoping "his scowling green face was pressed right up against the door" would get that across. The whole creepiness of the story is probably a little too subtle. The narrator has no idea anything is wrong and doesn't tell the story in a creepy way. Just think of the creeper as "getting close" to the other characters without them realizing in an effort to "blow them up". Thanks for the feedback.
Mr. Reynolds is the creeper, I was hoping "his scowling green face was pressed right up against the door" would get that across. The whole creepiness of the story is probably a little too subtle. The narrator has no idea anything is wrong and doesn't tell the story in a creepy way. Just think of the creeper as "getting close" to the other characters without them realizing in an effort to "blow them up". Thanks for the feedback.
Oh i get it.
We are supposed to infer that the nice creeper is actually evil.
(I actually thought it was about the nice creeper dying but whatever...)
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Shoes welcomed Mr. Reynolds in. Mr. Reynolds said a curt "How do you do." He wore a porkpie hat. I wondered what he wanted this time. "So... Mr. Reynolds, what do you want this time?"
"Oh, well..." he replied. "Say, do you have any toast?" He reminded me of that creepy snake from The Jungle Book. And he had this small singular fang coming out the top of his mouth, which caused the end of his question to sound British.
"I think we can scare that up for you," I replied. "Hey Shoes, get a toaster up and running for Mr. Reynolds here." It was some amount of trouble to go to, and it would use up our spare pistons, but I felt we had to be nice to Mr. Reynolds. After all, he was nothing but polite to us, almost too polite, bringing (admittedly cheap) gifts up the hill to our estate every week, and practically smothering Shoes with good-night kisses until the boy's breath is down to half.
"Yesss, let the boy do it," said Mr. Reynolds. He always called Shoes "the boy". While Shoes was rummaging around for slimeballs (for the pistons and jam) I asked Mr. Reynolds about his house. "Oh, it's, it's keeping up there with the times, it's going places, as they say," he replied. He loved talking about his house. "The garden is in and everything. There's a porch, and a roof, and a bed that I sleep in every night, just like you and the boy. Yup, house is doing just fine."
I've never actually seen the house. Apparently it's just down the hill, half a kilometer away, but I haven't been able to find it.
"You should show me the place one of these days," I offered.
He stood silent for 180 ticks, then turned to look out the window and just said, "storm brewing." Which was his mechanical way of changing the subject whenever I tried to reach out to him. I knew it didn't mean anything. His success rate in predicting storms was more or less equal to the rate of actual brewing storms. I felt sorry for him. He obviously was hiding some kind of insecurity.
Shoes came up the stairs wondering if Mr. Reynolds wanted apple jelly. "It's just that, to make the jelly I need another piston, which I'll have to hunt for the materials for it," explained Shoes. Mr. Reynolds turned and looked at the boy, walked right up to him, and said, "Jelly sounds good, my boy." And then he went back to looking out the window, in earnest.
There was a ding. My potions were done. Voxel-matter frothed at the lip of each flask before I corked them one by one and slipped them into my hip holster. "Want to come help set wolf traps with me?" I asked.
"A splendid endeavor with which to end the day," he seethed, and there was a bit of frothy stuff coming from his mouth as well.
We walked out to the pasture, Mr. Reynolds following close behind me, unnervingly close. There was a trap by each gate along the fenced perimeter of the flock, each with a single red sheep as bait. I showed Mr. Reynolds how to load the dispensers with the poison potions, gave him half of my potions, and we set to work. As we worked along opposite sides of the flock in silence, I listened to the bats below, and Mr. Reynolds kept looking up at me, his face peering over the bustling sheepskins, as if to say, "Am I doing this right?"
When we were done it had grown dark, and the moon was already quarter-past. The grounds of the entire estate were well-lit, as required by bylaw #323, and we found ourselves strolling through previously unwandered parts of it, until a call came from the manor: "Mr. Reynolds! Toast's ready, mister!"
I turned to suggest to Mr. Reynolds a shortcut back to the house, but found that I was alone. He had silently slipped away into the night during our walk, as was his usual standard operating procedure. I could only assume he went back to his house to sleep in his bed he was so proud of. On my way back to the manor, I experienced the usual attack of hallucinations, Mr. Reynolds' face peering over statues and lampposts for just an instant, between blinks. And subtle sounds of foam dripping on walkways, though it may have just been the inaugural drizzle of a storm just brewing.
As I neared the house, I heard the familiar sound of a poisoned entity. The staccato sound of repeated damage being done was much more eurhythmic than the stupid doorbell had been earlier, and I reveled in it, not believing my luck. To think a stupid wolf had already fallen for one of my traps!
And is there a creeper? I didnt see a creeper.
Yes, I lied on the servay. No, I do not feel bad. Check out my blog at [email protected]!
Oh i get it.
We are supposed to infer that the nice creeper is actually evil.
(I actually thought it was about the nice creeper dying but whatever...)