Short-Story.Me!

Hooded figures stood in a circle, their voices unified in ancient song. But for a ring of candles burning on the floor before a high altar, the room was black as night. Darkness hung like fog, profound as the words they sung, pressing in upon the hooded figures as they made their incantation.

Their leader held a book in his hands, bound in leather with leather straps and a silver buckle, the pages yellowed and cracked with age. As he read, the illuminations came to life in answer to his call. Centaurs and satyrs galloped across the page. Ivy reached out with curling tendrils, leaves quickening in the wind.

It was summertime,1947, and a warm breeze swirled through the neighborhoods caressing old brick homes with white painted porches and radios blasting out tunes by the Harmonicats. Those were the days when milk was still brought to your door in cold sweating glass bottles which the doorman delivered clinking to your doorstep and sleek black cars cruised by on white wall tires blaring horns that really let you have what for.

My father had come back from the war three years before, gaunt and etched, a ghost of the man he’d been -- returned back to us from across some raging ocean surrounded by killing fields, entire countries become crypts.

Overpopulation can be a terrible burden for the living.  Crowded living conditions usually mean trouble.  Higher crime rates.  Increased agitation.  Such a difficult situation can often lead to violence.

Maybe even murder.

Vernon checked his watch.  Half past six o’clock on a Thursday evening.  If only it were Friday.  Friday at this time he would be home.  And he would see no people all weekend.  This was the way he preferred it.  His job as manager of the department store only spelled interactions with people.  People and people and more people.  Rude people and stupid people and people with little to no hygiene.  Disgusting people.