Bloody Skeleton Series #1 The Monster in the neighborhood

5-Old Man Jones

Old man Jones up Nord Street was just in his fifties, but you'd never have guessed it from how his back was arched and how he spent his days seated on his porch cursing at the world.

He called small, robust children walking past with their mothers the bane of the modern world.

'You think the pyramids of Giza were built by Mommy's boys like you?!' he liked to shout. 'If you'd been born in my time, they'd have you booted up to your teeth and out to war by now.'

Most people didn't mind him. Some of the things he said were downright ridiculous and made for the best jokes when families and friends got together for dinner.

'Did you hear what Jones said last week?' somebody could bring up to make sure an awkward silence didn't settle over everybody. 'I was walking by with Crystal and Bill on the other side of the street. She's holding his leash because she likes it, and I'm just trying to make sure they don't get on the road, and Jones from nowhere just goes "Wait a few more generations girlie, the dog will be walking you!"' The table would erupt in laughter and guffaws because who would say something so outlandish in that serious loud voice Old Man Jones had. 'I mean, what?'

The town grump was what he was. Beloved for his admirable grumpiness.

Always, he was in a shirt that might have been white when he was much younger, though it was still just as ill-fitting, and an assortment of sombre coloured pants that fit very well with his daily mood.

The only people that got to see him smile were Miss Cornberry who was his niece in the next town that visited every other weekend, and Sugar who wasn't so much a person that she was the neighbourhood stray cat that liked his small, old house the best.

In fact, the only reason she wasn't in a shelter was because Old Man Jones claimed she was his cat even though there was no collar around her neck. Many had tried, and failed terribly, to get him to put a collar on her.

Although, he had registered her.

This afternoon, neither the cat nor the niece was with him, so Jones was grumpy as usual. His frown was deepened only by the heat. It was a summer Wednesday. Those that could have already sent their kids to some relative's house for their vacations, animal walkers were taking a break because the sun was being absolutely brutal. The air was too warm and humid. The cicadas in the growing grass, noisy.

A fly buzzed around him, and he swiped at it with the aged newspaper he was using as a fan even though his small rickety standing fan clanked unhappily beside him.

The old Toyota pickup truck hobbled past again, and Jones watched it with irritated eyes. It was driving down the road, past his house.

That ought to have been the sixth time that week Jones had watched it drive by.

His house was the very last one on Nord Street, by a few inches. Mrs Katy's pink cottage that sat opposite his across the street was slightly more compact. Past his house, there was nothing out there but that forest and the creek. Two different paths led there. The right one went all the way through trees and bushes and cut just a mile from the creek. It was very popular for fishing trips.

The other path was much less used. There was a very old warehouse there, used back in the 80s for equipment when the forest had been a park and people used to drive there from the towns around for a good old romp with nature. Now, the place was budding with nothing, but ghost memories and time gone.

Once in a while kids would ride past Jones' house down that path on their bikes. He'd scream at them that they'd get lost like a pack pf fools, but they always rode back.

Once in a while, not three times in one week.

'Whatever you're looking for there, you'll find it!' he grumbled at the truck, his voice weakened by the heat. He didn't shout, the strength for it was dried away by the pressing heat.