Saddle Up the Gray

A truck pulled into the dirt driveway, creating a puff of dust that billowed through the broken front window. Miles could no longer contain his sneeze, and letting go of his nose, let out a loud kerchoo. The reporter looked right at the hidey-hole, as Miles scampered across the floor, diving for the old leather rocking chair. “Hmm,” the reporter said.

Lenny stood on the porch, which drooped like an umbrella. The front door was open, and Lenny shouted, “Hello, anyone home.”

“Hey, Lenny,” the reporter said.

“Desiree, what are you doing here,” Lenny said.

“Got a ghost report,” Desiree said. “Kids up here partying, broke in, saw some ghost poem on the table made out of rat poop, and claimed a head knocked one of them over. Lost their iPhone when they ran out.”

Lenny laughed. “It looks ghastly, and rather ghostly inside and out, for sure. They were probably stoned.”

“So, what are you doing here, Lenny?”

“I’m setting up high speed Internet for Harold Siga, an old friend. We went to Sandpoint High School together, had the same English teacher, Marianne Love.”

“And where is this Harold,” Desiree said.

“He texted me, says he coming home in a couple of weeks. Kind of strange. Used to play in that band, Panhandle Bank, and hooked up with a money hungry woman, Lilith Ekans, who told him his lyrics needed to rime. They got married; Harold quit the band, sold his house on the lake, and moved to Mexico or Hawaii. Something like that.”

Harold started yelling, “My lovely Lilith is not money hungry. She’s beautiful. She’s perfect. She’s the light in my sky. And poetry does need to rime.”

Miles, crouched beneath the leather rocking chair, fondled some of the leather coming apart like strips of jerky. Hmm, he thought, Harold used to play in a band?

Desiree said, “Well, it seems odd. I mean, this place is a wreck, and the kids were really frightened. Where’s this Lilith character?”

“Didn’t sound like she’s with Harold anymore,” Lenny said. “Rumor has it that she ran off with some drummer slash chainsaw artist.”

“Chainsaw artist?” Desiree said.

“Ya, you know, carved moose and bears into trees and chunks of wood with a chainsaw,” Lenny said. “He wasn’t much of a drummer, and his chainsaw art wasn’t much to brag about, either.”

Harold’s face turned 50 shades of red, and Miles squeaked, “Harold, hold on to your head.”

Fortunately, Harold grasped both sides of his head, taking a deep breath before exhaling a ghostly moan.

“Getting windy,” Lenny said. “I better get to work. Good seeing you again, Desiree.”

“Tell Nancy I said hello,” Desiree said. “I’m going back home to saddle up the gray.”