When Ben Harris’ sister passes away, her husband, Roger Keswick, is mysteriously absent from her funeral. It’s not until 6 months later that Ben is pulled back in to Roger’s life, only to find that he’s moved on. His new wife may be called Jessica, but she’s the spitting image of Ben’s sister. Things escalate when Roger claims there’s a factory under his house run by little people called the Katoy.
“What was the problem, Roger? Why are they here?” I asked, still trying to figure out what had happened to make him call the cops.
The officer shifted uncomfortably, staring at the ground but said nothing.
“Roger? Why are they here?” I asked, pulling him by the arm, turning him to face me.
“I heard voices under the house,” he said flatly. It was clear his mind was struggling with it.
“What?” I couldn’t believe my ears.
“I heard voices under the house,” he repeated, giving me a stern look.
The officer kicked at the ground as if waiting for me to give him permission to leave.
“Roger,” I began…
“They were talking about me. Three of them. I could hear them shushing each other. But, Ben… I heard them.” His voice held a level of desperation. His face twisted, his eyes begging me to believe him. “Benjamin. I swear to you… I heard them.” His voice, little more than a whisper, quivered.
Before I could react the harsh crackle of the officers walkie-talkie burst to life.
“Ten four,” he said into his shoulder. His eyes, clearly serious, shot to me.
“Thank you, Officer.” I barely got the words out of my mouth and he was marching toward the gate.
I turned to follow him but Roger made a beeline in the opposite direction.
“Benjamin, come over here. They’ve just begun working. Come on. I don’t know how long it will last. Hurry,” he called excitedly, running back and forth.
About The Author
I was raised pretty much the same as everyone else… devoted mother, strict father and all the imaginary friends I could conjure. Not that I wasn’t friendly, I just wasn’t “people orientated”. Maybe I lived in my head way more than I should have, maybe not. I liked machines more than people, at least I did until I met my wife.
The first thing I can remember writing was for her. For the life of me I can’t remember what it was about… something about dust bunnies under the bed and monsters in my closet. It must have been pretty good because she married me shortly after that. I spent a good number of years after inventing games and prototypes for a variety of ideas before I got back to writing.
It wasn’t a deliberate conscious thought it was more of a stepping stone. My wife and I had joined a dream interpret group and we were encouraged to write down our dreams as they occurred. “Be as detailed as you can,” we were told.
I was thrilled. If there is one thing I enjoy it’s making people believe me and I like to exaggerate. Not a big exaggeration or an outright lie mine you, just a little step out of sync, just enough so you couldn’t be sure if it were true or not. When I write, I always write with the effort of “it could happen” very much in mind and nothing, I guarantee you, nothing, makes me happier.
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