A crisp Autumn day in a park that could have been anywhere. A few leaves drifted down to mingle with those enjoying the scenery, or otherwise occupied. Two elderly men sat at a picnic table, cheerfully arguing over a chessboard in a French Creole so thick it was surprising they even understood each other. One of the men started in surprise as a hand placed a chess piece, a pawn, upon the table. The other man pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket, and without looking up from his next move, handed it to the man that stood beside the table. Likewise without a word of either acknowledgement or thanks, the man left the table, the park, and the old men to their game.

The cab ground to a stop in front of a suburban house, and Alan inside allowed himself a flicker of surprise. This was not the… usual type of location he was called to. Somewhere nearby thunder pealed and rain hammered the vehicle’s roof angrily. The driver of the cab, a waif thin Jamaican man, had grown steadily less at ease through the ride. As he was told the fare Alan watched with no small amusement the driver grasp a red velvet bag hanging from the rearview mirror, a tiny sword tied to the bag glinted feebly in the light of the overcast day. Fragrant spices drifted through the small space as Alan removed the amount with a generous tip from his wallet. Pushing the bills through the slot he grabbed the duffel from the seat beside him and stepped out into the rain.
The cab left him not with a squeal but a squelch, splashing the sidewalk as it departed. Alan looked at the house, and took it all in. A realtor’s sign declared it for sale but the house hadn’t been empty long. It wasn’t that the lawn was cut, the windows clean, the porch swept; it simply lacked the feel an abandoned house has. Empty or not, someone still called this place home. There were no curtains in either the first or second story windows, no furniture he could see through the picture window facing the road, no toys cluttered the three brick steps that divided the walkway and porch. It was empty, wasn’t it?

The thump of a car door closing behind him made him turn to see a woman in a pantsuit step out of a car across the street. The logo on the car door was the same as on the sign in the front yard. Shaking out an umbrella and clutching a small briefcase she strode over to where Alan stood. He watched her give him the once over as she approached, taking in the thick hair tied in a short braid, the ivory horse head of a hairpin, the leather duster that obscured most everything else. Nondescript features, brown eyes, perhaps a days worth of stubble on his chin. Switching the umbrella to the hand that held the briefcase she put out her hand as she neared him.
“I’m Ms. Thompson. You must be the… cleaning service.”
“Call me Alan.” He said, taking her hand in a gentle but firm grip. “You have the information I requested?”
“Right here.” She said with a small gesture of the briefcase.
“It’s a little wet out, shall we go inside?” Of all the reactions he expected the realtor’s look of abject horror told him more than enough. She had been inside, she knew. This wasn’t some guess, not a cold call that would turn up negative. This was it, what he lived for. He held up a placating hand. “The porch, then. So the papers don’t get wet.”
“All right.” The realtor had regained her composure remarkably. Her face was stark white but there was no tremor in her voice. They moved without a word to the shelter of the small porch and out of the downpour. Leaning her umbrella against the wall the realtor balanced her case on the porch rail and opened it. Taking out a plain manila folder and a key she closed the case and handed the folder to Alan.
“That’s all the basic information you requested. I included a few newspaper clippings, I wasn’t sure if they would help but I thought maybe…” Her voice trailed off as she unlocked and opened the door, and Alan saw the color drain from her face for the second time in as many minutes.
“They are always helpful.” He said, filling the silence. Stepping across the threshold he placed the folder and duffel on the floor. He turned back to the door where Ms. Thompson still stood ashen faced, her eyes darting back and forth across the short hallway. What had she seen? What could set someone so on edge? Excitement, impatience and anticipation rose within him as he forced himself to deal with the business at hand. Somewhere deep in the house behind him a door slammed, perhaps upstairs, perhaps the wind, but perhaps not. Alan watched the last bit of color drained from the woman’s face.
“You said that the house would be ready tomorrow?” Fear, hope and something else all in her voice. Alan suspected that if he shouted ‘boo’ the poor woman would run screaming into the rain.
“If everything goes well. These things seldom take longer than one night. There are exceptions to every rule in all businesses, as I’m sure you are well aware. I will leave a message at your office tomorrow morning and let you know one way or the other.”
“Well, there’s a small convenience store on the next street if you need anything. Would you like me to leave the umbrella? It’s supposed to rain all…” Her voice tapered into a choking croak as she looked at Alan’s duster. He had stood in the rain that still thundered on the sidewalk and ripped dying leaves from the trees. He had walked through it with her to reach the porch. But as he stood in the doorframe not a drop clung to his hair or rested upon the leather of his duster. He was, for lack of a better word, bone dry. Alan took the key from the realtor’s limp fingers and began to close the door.
“I won’t be needing anything, thank you, I bring everything I need.” He lowered his voice, but knew the woman heard him. “Exorcists always do.”
The door latched with a click.








Chapter one of a perhaps five page short story. Let me know what you think Critique welcomed.


*edit* Bear with me as it seems FA won't open it. Let me try again...
*edited edit* Okay, anyone have any suggestions why it looks like I was trying to type while being rectally violated by a drunken ape having an epileptic seizure? Except for my lousy storytelling, that I blame on Koko, he never calls... *sigh*