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Fiction Friday: The Man in the Cupboard, Pt. 3

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We’re back to Fiction Friday here at the blog, and today is part three of the Man in the Cupboard serial fiction.  To start at the beginning, click here.  To see the last installment, click here.

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Over the last few weeks Kimberly found all sorts of things that tiny Mike had fixed. The squeaky ceiling fan in the family room now behaved properly instead of squeaking and swaying like an airplane propeller lodged in in her roof.  The chair at the kitchen table with the stunted leg had lost it’s wobble, and she couldn’t remember the last time the faulty light switch had shocked her when she didn’t flip it correctly.

Instead of a nuisance, Mike’s unannounced appearances in the kitchen had become a welcome surprise.  She enjoyed having someone to talk to and share her life with.  Although he wouldn’t say it, she thought Mike enjoyed it as well.

Today, she didn’t feel like doing the obligatory housework.  The dishes in the sink could stay there for a few more hours, no one would care.   Sun shone through the east windows making liquid puddles on the floor making it a perfect day to sink into the couch with a Coke and read one of those cheap harlequin romances she kept stuffed under the bed.

Just as she got snuggled into her favorite spot, the big armchair in the corner, a terrible screech and clatter bounced from the broom closet.  She jumped to her feet and opened the door to see what had happened.  There on the floor, completely tangled in what looked like spider’s web and dust lay Mike, looking a bit dazed.

“Blasted spiders won’t get the best of me,” he muttered under his breath as he struggled to sit upright.  The webs held him down.  The poor man looked as if he had had an unfortunate run in with a crazed knitter.  Tight bands of web circled his chest and another strand pulled across his face, flattening his nose to one side.  His legs were stuck bent, ankles hog tied behind him.  His arms looked no better, one was only free from the elbow down, the other stuck at an awkward angle against his chest.

Kimberly started the painstaking task of untangling Mike from the mess of string, being careful not to tie him into a worse knot.  “Are you alright, have you hurt yourself?”

“I’m fine, don’t you be troubled ’bout me.” He brushed her hands away. “No need for that, get my cane free and I’ll take care of the rest.”

She pulled the cane free of the sticky web and put it in his free hand.  He twisted it, and began tapping at the strands which loosened and fell free. Once he had dusted himself off, straightened his shirt and vest, and located his hat, he finally looked up at Kimberly.

“After an ordeal like that a man deserves a drink, don’t you think?”

“That depends. What happened?”

He sighed and leaned on one of the shoes that had fallen from the closet. “Been going on a couple o’ weeks.  ‘Dem spiders don’t forget anything, or forgive for that matter.  I shoulda never tried to move their egg sack in the first place.”

Kimberly sat on the nearby stair. “Why would you want to move an egg sack?”

“Thought it’d be funny.  Guess they don’t have that kind of sense of humor.  They’ve been after me ever since.”  He kicked at the loose pile of web.  “Today they finally got me.  Tied me up good they did, even made it so I couldn’t get my cane.  That’s how I ended up tripping in the closet, I was trying to grab it and lost my balance.”

“They weren’t planning on eating you, were they?”

“Naw, spiders don’t eat tinkers.  I suppose we don’t taste that good anyway.  They were just messing around.  We’re even now.  At least until I get the itch for mischief again.”

Kimberly rose and went to the kitchen and pulled out an amber colored bottle from a high cupboard.  “I suppose you can have a little something for your ordeal.”

Mike’s eyes went wide. “That’s not what I think it is, is it?”

“Only because you have proven your worth around the house. I expect this bottle to last you a very long time.”

He breathed in deep and a dopey smile crossed his face as if he had already imagined the joy he would find in drinking it. “Cross my heart, m’lady.”

Later that evening, after the kids were in bed and the house was quiet again, Kimberly swore she could hear Mike singing a bawdy ballad up in the rafters. She smiled and tipped an imaginary glass his way, “Cheers.”

 

For the next part, click here.

Fiction Friday: Fireworks

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Image by Đắc Ninh Bùi from Pixabay

Alex had been gone on tour for over a year.  In their last phone call he told her that they’d finalized the plans for sending his troop home, next week.  Ever since he left last year on the 4th of July weekend she had imagined the celebration they would have when he returned for the next 4th of July.  Now he would miss it and the thought brought tears to her eyes.  Here in the park celebrating the holiday with her family felt empty without him.

For the past few months she had felt anxious about his homecoming. Absence was supposed to make the heart grow fonder, and when he first left it did.  She yearned for him, cried in her pillow at night for him, and found every waking thought returning to him. As the time of his absence stretched longer the memory of his touch began to fade as she found new ways to keep her mind occupied.  She threw herself into her work, got promoted and then threw herself into her new position.

Now, with his return so close she worried if she still had the same feelings for him.  Would his touch feel the same to her as before, or would a year of soldiering in the desert have changed it? Would she seen the same to him after all that time, or would she seem pale and ordinary compared to the people he had come to know and trust?  

Still, here on the soft grass out under the warm night sky surrounded by family she wanted him back.  Holidays were meant for couples, having someone to hold hands with and lean on.  She watched as her sisters giggled with their spouses and wrangled their kids.  She couldn’t help but smile, one day that would be her as well.  She tried to hide how watching them made her heart hurt by laughing and smiling along, but she knew they knew.  Sisters always knew.  They had ways of finding out about secret pains and joys and things hidden under the bed.  They were there in the middle of the night with a kind word when the tears came.

Just as they always knew what was going on with her, she had a way of knowing what was going on with them as well.  And tonight they were hiding something.  She hoped that they hadn’t done anything foolish. Earlier that year, when the pain of his leaving was still too fresh, they had hired a stripper for her birthday party.  She still hadn’t fully forgiven them, but looking back it seemed much funnier now than it did then.

She prayed for something simple like a cake or a song.

As the dark fell and the first of the fireworks blossomed in the sky she felt a strange chill, like warm electricity coursing through her.  The hair on her arms stood straight up.  Then she smelled a familiar scent on the breeze, aftershave, his aftershave, mixed with his indescribable scent.  Her heart pounded in her chest, she didn’t dare turn around for fear that it might be someone else.

He didn’t say a word, but placed a hand on her shoulder.  She felt as if she couldn’t breathe, tears threatened to choke her.  He pulled her into his arms, and it was as if the world had stopped turning and they were at the center of the world.  All her worries disappeared, and in her heart there were fireworks big enough to drown out the cheers of the crowd.

He was home.

Fiction Friday: The Man in the Cupboard pt. 2

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To start at part one, click here!

Two weeks had passed since Kimberly had first encountered that tiny man in her cupboard, since then she had seen no trace of him.  Maybe she was right in thinking that  he was only a figment of her imagination.  Even so, the last time she put the peanuts away she made sure that the lid wasn’t too tight.

The radio blared in the kitchen, bouncing the best hits of the 80’s and 90’s off the walls and throughout the house.  Kimberly sang along to the music as she tackled the dishes and cups overflowing from the sink.  Over the last week with the coming of better weather and no sighting of the tiny Mike Finnegan, she had found a cheerfulness that she hadn’t found in what felt like years.

During a particularly loud rendition of “All the Single Ladies” she heard a loud rap and then the music died.  There on top of the radio sat Mike, swinging his cane.

“What in tarnation is the meaning of all this racket?” he asked, clutching his head. “In my day, people caught singin’ like that were put in the stocks.”

Kimberly couldn’t help but stare.  Seeing him again meant one of two things, either he was indeed real, or she needed her head examined.  “So…,” she rubbed her temples, “you’re real then.”

“As real as the smelly pile of laundry in yer closet.”

“What?!?” She slapped the counter.  The thought of a strange little man in her kitchen was one thing, knowing he was raiding her closet was a more serious offence.

Mike blushed and shuffled his feet, “Erm, forget I said that.”

“Don’t think I can.” Kimberly planted her hands on her hips. “What am I going to do with you?”

Mike jumped down from the radio and began pacing across the countertop. “Well Missy, most tend to ignore me but I can be quite handy.”

“Like how?”

“Well, I’m a tinker, right?”

“I thought you were a leprechaun, is there a difference?”

Mike banged his cane against the counter with a snap. “Now you understand this, no one calls Mike Finnegan a leprechaun.  Little gold obsessed good fer nothin’ mites, they are.” He spat, emphasizing his point.

“Hey, none of that!” She tossed him a cloth from the sink. “Clean it up.”

He grumbled as he wiped up the spot, something about how gingers had a temper.  She couldn’t make out most of it, and was glad for it.

“A tinker, miss, fixes things.  It’s what we live for.  That squeak in the garage door, the one that mysteriously disappeared, that was me.”  He tossed the cloth back, which to him seemed more like a blanket.  “A tinker is happiest when there are things to mend, that’s why we love these old houses.  Always something that needs a fix.”

Kimberly nodded, tapping her chin. Someone who sould fix things around the house would be nice. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch, you lets me borrow things from here and there, a pinch of food, and what not.  A touch of whiskey is always a nice gesture.  Do that, and I’m more than happy staying here doin’ what I do.” He said with a flourish.

“Alrighty Mr. Mike, you can stay.  Just promise me not to riffle through my personal items.  None of the drawers in the bedroom.”

“And the whiskey. . .?” He asked, a hopeful gleam in his eye.

“We’ll see in time.  When I can see things working out well between us then yes, I’ll get you some.”

He danced a little jig, swinging his tiny cane in time to his steps.

“Oh miss? There is one more thing.”

“And what’s that?”

“Promise me never to get a cat.”

Kimberly giggled at the image in her head of tiny Mike being chased by a cat.  “Ok, I promise.”

“Good doing business with ya.” He tipped his hat and with a flash, vanished.

 

To read the next in the series, click here.

Friday Fiction: The Man in the Cupboard

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Welcome back to Fiction Friday where every other week I experiment with different genres.  Today’s story might become a serial depending on how it’s received.  Enjoy!

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After the whirlwind of breakfast and getting the kids off to school, the kitchen was a disaster and thankfully quiet.  Kimberly had set about the task of shoving dirty dishes into the already full dishwasher when she heard a pinging sound coming from the pantry.  She ignored it at first, but when the sound didn’t just go away she felt she had to investigate.

As she came closer to the pantry door the sound became clearer, the same sound as when metal hits glass, a kind of metallic ping.  Ping, ping, ping.  What on earth could make that noise?  She opened the door a crack and the ping stopped.  She opened it wider.  There to her surprise was a tiny man standing next to her jar of peanuts wielding a cane. He stood no taller than her hand and wore a dingy yellow shirt and green vest over a pair of worn grey slacks.

“Fer heaven’s sake, why’d ya change your brand?” he asked and gave the lid on the bottle another whack with the cane. “This lid’s all but impossible to get off.”

Kimberly slammed the door shut with a shriek and reached for a knife from the block.  There was a tiny man in her pantry raiding her peanuts.  She racked her brain trying to remember if there was anything about strange occurrences reported by previous owners in the real estate paperwork.  There were disclosures about lead, asbestos, and rats; why not tiny men?

When she had worked up enough nerve to open the pantry again she found the little man leaning against the box of Cheerios sitting with his legs dangling off the shelf. He held one toasted O, which to him was the size of a donut.

“Oh, hi again. Sorry about before, didn’t mean to give you a fright. No one told me a ginger girl had moved in.”  He said with a smile, pointing at Kimberly’s red curls.

“Who are you, and why are you in my pantry?” Kimberly asked, fighting down the tremble that threatened to leak into her voice. She adjusted her grip on the knife, keeping it out of sight.

“Well, I would have been in the liquor cupboard, but it seems all the whiskey is gone.  You wouldn’t know anything about that would you?” He waved his cane at her as if accusing her for it’s absence. “Can’t have a shindig without a bit of whiskey now can we?”

“Whiskey? . . . Shindig?” Kimberly sputtered. ” I don’t know what you are talking about.  You didn’t answer my question.  Who are you, and why are you here?”

“My apologies Miss, where are my manners?” He stood, brushing the crumbs from his pants as he did and held out his tiny hand. “Mike Finnegan, at your service.”

Kimberly took his hand between two fingers and gave it a shake, unsure whether she was dreaming or had hit her head.

Mike cleared his throat. “And who might you be Miss?”

“Kimberly Pike,” she answered.  Dozens of questions filled her mind and she struggled to catch a hold of one that didn’t make her sound insane.  It was harder than she thought.

Using his cane, Mike lowered himself to the lower shelf and began inspecting the goods there. “Ye must have a speck of the old Irish in ye.  Old lady who lived here before couldn’t see me, one before that couldn’t neither. They both had the decency of always having a flask of whiskey on hand, so it worked out just fine.  You however are different.  Irish blood in ye, and nothing for a poor fella to drink.”

“If I get you your whiskey will you go away?”

“No, why would I? I live here, have a right nice home up in the attic.”

Kimberly shook her head and set the small knife down on the counter. “What about the others, can they see you?”

He climbed on top of a bag of rice and sat down again. “Doubt it, not a ginger in the lot.”

“Listen, Mike is it? This is all a little bit much for me right now.  Tell you what.  I’m going to close this door and leave for a while and when I come back all of this will be back to normal.  I think I’m just under a lot of stress right now.  I mean listen to me, I’m talking to a little man in my pantry.  Okay?”

He tipped his hat at her. “Whatever makes you happy Miss.”

Kimberly shut the door, got a soda from the fridge, and a candy bar from her secret stash.   She hoped a few hours running errands away from the house would be enough to calm her nerves, but as she pulled the car into the street she had the sinking feeling that this was far from over.

 

To read part 2, click here!