Galston's Gift

Galston's Gift

The day Carl Galston moved in, my life changed forever.  He was an odd man—strange enough to send apprehensive quivers down my spine whenever he was around.  I’d often stand on the other side of the rickety wooden fence that separated our yards, and peer over the top with morbid fascination as he weeded the garden or puttered around in the flower bed.

At thirty-four, he was too young to mingle among the elderly folks that lined our street, too single for the married couples, and too old for us kids to play with.  Billy Myers said the guy still lived at home with his mom, but I’d never seen her.  Just thinking about it made my nose wrinkle, and I prayed I was never that unfortunate.  I couldn’t imagine being over the hill, like Carl, and still having to listen to my mom yell at me to pick up my dirty clothes or brush my teeth.  Twelve years of it was already too much.

Carl didn’t view the world through rose-colored glasses, like my mom, but through thick Coke bottle lenses that made him look like a frightened owl.  Even still, he squinted a lot, like he couldn’t see.  He always dressed in funny plaid shirts and khaki pants—never jeans or tee-shirts.  His thin, mousy brown hair was slicked off to the side, but most of it popped out of place by midafternoon.  He reminded me of my old science teacher, Mr. Liller, but even he wasn’t as weird as Carl.

The other kids in the neighborhood always made fun of Mr. Galston.  Today was no different.  Jimmy Phillips, my best friend, giggled as he settled beside me on the back porch steps, his head indicating toward the stick in his hand.

“Watch this.”

Before I could protest, it rocketed through the yard and over the fence, hitting Carl in the middle of his back.  He sprang to his feet like a cat with a trampled tail, his face the color of a plum.  Dark eyes glittered like black diamonds, magnified by his glasses as he pumped his fist.

“Damn you kids!”

Jimmy burst into laughter.  He held his sides and doubled over, snorting for breath.  “Oh my God!  That was priceless. What a loser!”

I wanted to laugh too, but couldn’t.  I kinda felt sorry for the guy.  He stood there watching us, his body as immobile as the leaves in the dead summer heat, his expression blank.

The screen door creaked open behind us and I jumped, feeling my face flush with guilt as my mother stared down at Jimmy and I.  The look in her eyes said she knew what we had done and she wasn’t amused.

“Jimmy, I think it’s time for you to go home.”  Her tone warned against argument, as did the balled fists planted against her hips.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

He was off the porch and running down the gravel alley behind our house faster than I could blink.  A knot of dread wedged in my throat.  My shoulders curled inwards and I held my breath, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling of my mother’s eyes boring into my back.

“And you, Tommy Jessup, I suggest you march your butt next door and apologize to Mr.Galston.”

“But Mooooommm!”  The exaggerated whine earned me a glare capable of scaring the devil out of Satan.

“Right now, Mister, or I will tell your father what happened and he can deal with it.”

The threat of Dad’s belt prodded me to my feet.  Hanging my head, I crept down the steps inched my way to the edge of the fence.

“Come in, Tommy.”  Carl unlocked the gate and swung it open.

I tried to squeeze my way past him with as little contact as possible.  Noxious waves of fear made my stomach sour and churn.  Carl smiled down at me, his teeth crooked and yellow between the fleshy folds of his lips.  I cringed while he patted my shoulder the way my father did when we were fishing or camping.  Unlike my dad’s hands, there was nothing comforting or proud about Carl’s touch.  I felt gross, like the time I swam in the mucky pond behind Jimmy’s house.

This was all his fault.

“Would you like some sweet tea or a cold glass of lemonade?”

I glanced over my shoulder, hoping my mother would say no.  Instead, she nodded her consent and returned inside.  Carl steered me into his house, where the musty odor immediately struck me.  It smelled like mildew and dirt, though the kitchen looked clean.  Countertops gleamed and the sink was empty, not full like ours usually was.  Confused, I sat at the breakfast nook and waited while he poured a glass of lemonade.

“I’ve been watching you for a while now, Tommy, and I think you are just what I need.”

“Wh—what do you mean, sir?”

He donned a crooked leer and set the drink in front of me.  “You’re so innocent, Tommy, so pure.  The spirits like that.”

“Spirits?”  This guy was more crazed than a rabid raccoon caught in a bear trap.

“Yes.  Do you want to play a game, Tommy?  I’ll teach you how to play and once you learn, the spirits will come out and give you great power.”

I didn’t want to, but I was afraid of upsetting him and having him tell my mom.  We played on a strange wooden board for hours, asking questions.  Later, he taught me how to draw neat symbols with chalk. 

I visited Carl every day after that for the rest of the summer, and you know what?  He was right.  The spirits did give me power.  Just last week, I set Jimmy’s treehouse on fire without striking a match.  Yesterday, it was a dog.  Tomorrow we are going to try it on Billy Myers.  He really shouldn’t have tee-peed Mr.Galston’s yard . . .

Carl might be strange, but he’s my best friend.


WC~995

Written for:"The Writer's Cramp" 

Prompt: A visit from a new neighbor entangles you in a world of corruption.