Home
�Hello,� Francis said with an awkward smile. The woman raised her eyebrow at him, and then walked haughtily on. Francis laughed exasperatedly to himself after the woman passed. Nice going, he thought. That�s probably the reason why you�re still single. He walked on a little further (as long as I know I�m not window-shopping, then all is well), then hailed a cab at the next corner.
Chapter 2
Francis owned his own house- a small, one-floor fixer-upper in a semi-rural neighborhood outside the city. He had lived there for about three years. It was quiet, which was good. Like most people, Francis certainly enjoyed his privacy. And the house�s somewhat dilapidated appearance was understandable. Apparently, it was about 200 years old, and had quite a history. Francis had heard rumors regarding a young couple that lived in the house when it was first built, back when what is now California was Spanish territory. According to the story, the man who had lived in the house became very ill. His wife went to get help, and when she returned, he was gone. She was told that he had passed away. She fell into a deep depression, unable to accept it. Supposedly, she wandered the town nightly calling out to her husband as though hoping to find him, until one night, she simply vanished. She was never heard from again, and her body was never found. It was sort of a legend in the neighborhood. No one knew if it really happened, or if these people even existed.
Not being a superstitious person, Francis was not concerned that the woman�s spirit was roaming the house. Besides, the house had undergone so many repairs and renovations since being built that the only thing original about it was the layout and the basic design. People, mainly Francis, just said it was 200 years old to excuse its shabby appearance.
The cab pulled up to the house. Francis paid the driver and stepped out. He watched the cab as it speeded away. He yawned, feeling a little hungry. He walked to the front door, unlocked it, and opened it.
�I�ve got to clean this place up this weekend,� Francis muttered as he entered the house and closed the door behind him. The house was a mess- there was plenty of dust and dirty dishes (and the dishes weren�t only in the sink). Francis rarely had guests, so he had developed a nasty habit of letting his house turn into a common pigsty. He had also developed an equally nasty habit of talking to himself.
�I think I�ll have a sandwich,� Francis said aloud, �Sandwich, sandwich, sandwich�� he said it over and over again until the words developed a conga beat. He was always eating sandwiches- grilled cheese, ham and cheese, bologna and cheese, fried egg and cheese, and the like. Todo con queso, everything with cheese. Today it was turkey and cheese.
�Queso, queso, queso!� Francis began to sing as he put the third slice of cheese onto his sandwich. He didn�t even know Spanish; he just liked the sound of the word �queso� (and the sound of his own voice).
�Salsa con queso!� Francis said in a loud, exaggerated Spanish accent as he flopped down on his dusty sofa with his sandwich. He turned on the television and flipped through the channels.
�Boring, boring, lame, seen it, seen it, boring, pointless- ooh, movie!� he said through a mouthful of cheese. He watched it for a few seconds before saying,
�Lame,� and continuing to flip through the channels.
Francis was on his third trip through the channels when he began to slip into a stupor. He needed to find something, and fast. There was a baseball pre-game show on, so he stopped on that, even though he didn�t care about either team that would be playing. A reporter was interviewing the home team�s starting pitcher. Francis was listening, but not hearing words- just the drone of the voices chattering back and forth. Yak yak yak, Francis thought. Just get to the game already. He started to yawn again, but stopped halfway, his mouth hanging open. He had heard a strange sound. It sounded like crying.
�Who�s crying?� Francis said. It sounded like a woman. �Hello? Anyone there?� he said, fully aware that he was alone in the house. He stood up and walked to the door. He opened it and looked out. The crying was softer outside, but he could definitely hear something. Francis went back inside and shut the door. The woman was sobbing harder now.
�Okay, this is getting creepy,� Francis said. He went over and turned down the volume on the TV. The sobbing came through clearer. The woman seemed to be saying something, but he couldn�t make it out.
�Hello?� Francis almost yelled, �Can I help you?� Then he shook his head. �What am I doing? Whoever she is, she�s outside, and I can�t help her. It�s not that bad, lady,� he said, somewhat bitterly. He sat back down and turned the volume on the TV back up.
��going, going, and that ball is gone! Home run!� the announcer was shouting. Francis jumped up and whooped- not because he was happy, but because he was, in fact, a little nervous. He sat back down. The woman was still sobbing. Francis had a terrible thought- the handbag lady. I insulted her, and she followed me home to kill me. He had a mental image of himself being beaten to death with that ugly little handbag. The thought actually made him laugh, a nervous laugh that quickly got out of control. Francis laughed and laughed for what seemed like ten minutes until he managed to stop, wiping tears from his eyes. He listened for the crying. He heard nothing.
�Wow,� he said, in what may have been mock disbelief. �I really am going insane.� He sat and watched the game for about an hour, and then went to bed.
The first time Francis woke up, it was about one in the morning. He was thirsty.
�Thirsty, thirsty, thirsty�� There was that conga beat again. He walked sleepily to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. Francis stood in the kitchen and drank it. The house was a little eerie at night, especially after that crying�Francis shuddered at the thought of it, and then pretended he hadn�t.
