Followers

Ring at the Door

''Well,'' said the robber, grasping Oliver's wrist, and putting the barrel so close to his temple that they touched;
at which moment the boy could not repress a start; '
'if you speak a word when you're out o' doors with me, except when I speak to you,
that loading will be in your head without notice.''
Oliver Twist, Charles Dickens

''And Pilgrim's Progress?'' she curled her nose with a sigh. ''C'mon Pappy! Why do you have to be so old fashioned?''
''Old books are the best ones.''
''Yeah right,'' she growled. Rolling her eyes she put Gulliver back on the shelf. Dickens, Twain, Zola, Poe, etc. Why couldn't he be interesting and watch TV? Every summer it seemed the same. No television, no video games, and no phone. Just books, nature walks, and crafts. Gwin was too old for crafts. Since her parents split up she felt like a constant ball being juggled. A week at her Mom's place with her boyfriend then back to her Dad's. There was no middle ground anywhere. Her grandpa was the worst. He was old fashioned. Extremely old fashioned. Really, really old fashioned... He smoked a pipe instead of vaping, he didn't have a car so he usually walked, and all his pleasure came from hobbies and books. There couldn't be anything worse. Gwin never knew how it would've been if she had had a grandma because the old lady died before she was born. Heart attack. Her other grandma, on her father's side, was something of a witch so they never got along.
''What do you young 'uns read nowadays anyway?'' her grandfather asked suddenly and stood up. His ancient recliner shuddered under his shaking hand. He
tipped the contents of his pipe into the ashtray that resided somewhat on the coffee table. He strode toward the book shelf where she stood.
''My girlfriends and I read the Twilight series,'' she shrugged. ''That was last summer.''
''Twilight? What's that?''
''It's a teen series of books about vampires and romance.''
''Vampires? Did Stoker write it?''
Gwin rolled her eyes for a second time.
''Just cause it has vampires in it that doesn't mean it's written by one your old school...''
''The classics aren't old fashioned,'' her grandpa interrupted. ''If it weren't for them all of our modern literature would be hollow shells.''
He ran a wrinkly finger down the third row of hardcovers, seeming to reminisce.
''You know, when I was your age I didn't like them either. Dickens or Melville or Tolstoi. It was because of all those damn essays the school had me write. I was
nearly pushed away from them then. I think it was a combination of your grandmother and great grandfather that really showed me the proper appreciation of literature.''
Gwin sighed heavily. Here we go with the lectures, she thought.
''You know, all these books came from your grandmother's collection. She usually went after hardcovers. Rare was the day I saw her with a paperback. She was something of a purist. An old school purist.''
An old coot would be more like it. Her grandfather stood back and crossed his arms. His gaze scampered over the titles, scanning with admiration. Suddenly his
eyes fixed on his granddaughter.
''How many of these have you read dear?''
''What?'' she replied, taken aback by his question.
''How many? One, two, maybe three? One at least, or I pray you have.''
Grunting, Gwin scanned the titles.
''I... I think I've read Alice in Wonderland.''
''Ah, good. What else?''
She looked at the names. Chesterton, Austen, Stevenson, Bronte, Bronte, Bronte, and Eliot. No particular order. No names she recognized.
''I don't see anymore.''
''None?'' her grandpa asked incredulously.
''Nope.''
''Hmm,'' he mused and teetered on his heels. ''I suppose we'll have to fix that, shall we? From now on you'll be reading a book at bed time instead of calling your friends on that Iphone thingummy of yours.''
'What?! You can't do this!''
''Sure can! Perfectly desirable as well. I don't know how such a generation as yours can find joy in lining up virtual candies into a row. I feet it as my duty to right this cultural injustice!''
Gwin felt her mouth drooping.
''What shall we start with, hmm? Something simple, I should think. The fairy tales of Andersen or Kingsley's Water Babies? What do you think dear? Kingsley or... err... Andersen?''
''Neither!'' Gwin yelped.
''What did you say?'' her grandfather asked,very much surprised.
''I'm not reading any of your stupid books! If you want someone to read them, read 'em yourself!''
She swiveled on her sneaker heel and started walking, very flustered.
''And where exactly are you going, young lady?'' he called, slightly irritated.
''I'm going to do what I want!''
''Which is?''
''None of your business!''

She ran from the living room, through the kitchen, and into a vacant back room. The back door opened and slammed with a whip like crack. Everything was plunged into silence. Grandpa's eyes stared at the spinning second hand of the clock on the mantelpiece. His hands, heavy with possible future volumes of interest, drooped by his sides. Regret stared back at him through the mirror hanging on the wall. He shouldn't have forced it. That's what all the schools did. They ruined the best books ever written through curriculum. Slowly he eased Andersen and Kingsley back into their respective slots. His shoulders sagged when he saw the smiling face of his deceased wife staring at him from a picture frame on the fourth shelf.
''What am I doing wrong, Jes?'' he asked quietly.
His wife, thirty years younger and with a baby girl in her arms, didn't reply. Maybe she didn't know. Maybe she knew but didn't care to tell. Maybe he had to find out for himself the hard way.

The doorbell rang. With a sigh, Grandpa removed his finger from the picture's glass and started toward the duty at hand. He came out of the living room and into the hallway, passed the kitchen on his left, then headed straight for the front door. Whoever was out there became blurred in the multi-faceted window. He flipped the lock and pushed down the caramel colored handle. Just Gwin locked out again, he thought harmlessly. The door opened and a man stood on the doorstep. No Gwin in sight. The man's finger was breaths away from ringing the door bell again. He hastily pulled it back. Grandpa was surprised. The man looked familiar, why couldn't he place that face? The grizzled chin, black hair, and dashing eyes. His apparel was also worth noting. An old jacket, jeans with patchwork knees, and mud caked boots. There was a final minute detail. The white creature near his leg, with a fearsome overbite showing its teeth, that sat comfortably on the doormat. The bulldog scrutinized Grandpa, growled deeply, and yelped a bark. The old man in the house tripped back in surprise.

''Bulls-eye!'' the visitor scolded in a rasping voice and kicked the animal. ''Shut yerblasted yapper!''
The dog, christened Bulls-Eye apparently, whimpered and retired a few paces away to mope alone over its injuries.
''Can I help you?'' Grandpa asked suddenly, eyes flashing from man to dog and back again.
''Ah, to that you can sir.''
Without ceremony he reached out an open hand in greeting. Grandpa shook it reluctantly. He noticed that as the man brought up his other hand for a more intimate gesture it had been recently bandaged. The cut looked nasty. Quickly,the stranger hid it back into a pocket.
''I understand you keep a little girl,'' the man said.
Grandpa's guard immediately went up.
''I have a granddaughter that often stays with me in the summer,'' he replied. ''Why do you ask?''
''A granddaughter? Marvelous! Then I can deliver my message directly.''
''Your message?''
''Indeed sir. A very grand and modest proposal from my employers. You see, this errand isn't on my behalf. I was 'ired to bring my message and return with a favorable answer.''
He reached into an inner pocket of his jacket with the good hand and pulled out a snow-white slip of paper. It was bound together by a black wax seal, the emblem swallowed up in its darkness. Invisible to the old man without his spectacles. The messenger held out the message, which Grandpa took and unfolded hastily. The man growled, not so unlike his dog, as he watched the secret letter being unveiled by the old intruder. Grandpa had to squint without his glasses and even then he barely made out what it said.

Dear Miss Dowenger, It has come to our attention that your grades have been quite accomplished at the Georgetown Middle School since last year. We are in the very favorable position to offer you an enrollment at our select school in London, England. We are aware that summer has only begun in America and we
feel abased to bring up the proposal over summer break. Our methods are, thankfully, stationary to our policy. You may accept our proposal, a free enrollment
in our school with all expenses paid, and receive from our part free holiday in any English village of your choice. Of course, more information can be acquired from inquiry to our hired 'messenger'. Arrangements can be made within the week of your decision and by the weekend you may be in Devon enjoying the beaches. We so look forward to your reply, to meeting you, and the family member you choose to bring along. Yours cordially, Mr. Cephar, President of the L.C.S.

Grandpa looked up from the letter. The ''messenger'' smiled a twisted grin...
''My granddaughter declines,'' the old man snapped and crumpled up the paper. He threw it at the man's muddy boots, but it simply bounced off. The smile turned to a frown.
''Come now, I think the girl should have some say in this. Don't you think gramps?''
''I think that you and your dog need to leave before I call the police!''
''The coppers! Why, that's no way to treat a guest, now is it?''
''I know who you work for,'' Grandpa replied darkly,'' and Gwin will never fall into your hands. Never!''
He took hold of the door handle and prepared to slam a firm slab of wood between himself and the intruder. He didn't like the man outside on the step and he
definitely didn't like the letter. And most of all he didn't like how Gwin was out of his sight. The man on the doorstep didn't like it either. With one fluid motion he flung the door open and pulled something from his jacket. Paling, Grandpa stared down the barrel of an antique pistol. It was that tiny clue that kicked his aged mind into putting two and two together. He recognized the man now. Oh, he knew him well...
''You're...you're...'' he stuttered and shrunk back.
''Born William,'' the stranger said and stepped inside. He lifted the pistol and brought it down violently on the old man's head. Grandpa twisted, fell onto the carpet, and began to bleed out. The man kicked Grandpa's head, to make sure he was out, then reached back for the door.
''But in the slums,'' he chuckled and took hold of the gun's trigger. ''In the slums I'm Bill Sikes.''
The door clapped shut...

Gwin didn't look back. She was too mad for that. How dare her grandpa suggest such an idea! Forcing her... her!... to read outdated books. She usually didn't like to read as it was. Sometimes she'd romance teen novels, like Twilight, with her school friends. She wasn't even sure if she had read Alice. Not that it mattered. Alice was outdated, children’s, and wholly last year. What would her friends think if they found out she read stuff like that? It'd probably land her a free ''get lost'' ticket for babies. Something slammed behind her. Pausing, she looked back at the house. It was quiet, about a hundred meters behind her. In her angry musings she had come a long way. She had jumped the fence, walked out into the field, and was presently heading for the forest at the top of the hill. Her grandfather's house was built in a secluded forest thirty kilometers from the nearest paved road. She lived in Georgetown, at least with her mother, which was another sixty kilometers downthe paved road. In the city she could get angry, run out of the house, and walk in the park without further trouble. Sometimes she liked walking just to see the different kind of people. She often kept a notebook with her to sketch portraits with graphite and charcoal. Gwin was a good artist. When she had models. Glancing around the field in which she stood she couldn't even make out a single blessed cow! Her grandpa's place awfully dull, terribly
dull! She liked visiting the country, but her idea of country was different from this homestead. The only reason she was here was thanks to the stupid councilors at Summer Camp. They had mixed her name up with some other girl's. Honest mistake. Punishable offence when she was sent here. There was no way for her to squeeze in last minute, when all the other cabins had been filled. Thanks to stupidity she was out here. With no other human being in sight. Gwin made a bee line for the forest. Maybe she'd get lucky and stumble onto a bear that'd eat her without question. Then maybe she'd rid herself of the misery of having to be a nomad in her own family. If only that could happen...

She entered the forest as silently as a wraith. At first she didn't even recognize the conversion of the soil. How the small blades of grass morphed into colossal oaks with strong boughs. Last year's autumn leaves crunched underfoot and the silence was occasionally altered by shedding acorns. She liked the quiet and serenity that came with a forest. But, again, her idea of a forest was a city park.Where you could walk only a half hour into quiet and pop out again amongst the
hustling pedestrians and their cars. The forest she was in now was totally wild. A corvid croaked overhead, dashing by on black wings. An angry squirrel hurled
curses at her below, then scampered away on branches above. Ferns and woodland flowers gleamed in what sunlight pierced the forest floor. It was serene. She felt comfortable. For a moment she regretted wishing for a bear.
''Oh, come on!''

Gwin froze. Someone had just spoken and it hadn't been her. She scanned the scope of her vision. Small growing bushes with thorns spread out before her in no particular order. None could reach her on the game trail she stood, continuing to gaze worriedly. Did homeless people live here? Some of them could be dangerous! Often than naught they were on drugs. One of the larger, and seemingly thornless, bushes about three paces down the trail shifted. Someone was waiting. Probably wanting to mug her. Gwin took a few shaky steps backward. The thing in the bush spoke again.
''Git your foot offa me Huck! Your breakin' something real good down there!''
''Move yer own foot!'' another older voice snapped back. ''It ain't my fault yer standin' there.''
''Move! I can't see what it is!''
''Move yerself, Tom Sawyer!''
Somebody shoved somebody else and suddenly the thing in the bush wasn't a thing anymore. A boy, Gwin's age of fourteen or thereabouts, stumbled out of the
bush. He wore some cotton pants, rolled up to his knees, and a white shirt with suspenders. His chestnut hair stuck out at odd angles under his straw hat. For a
moment he stared at the bush with a contempt in his eye, then his gaze splashed down the trail. He stared at Gwin's jeans, sneakers, and t-shirt with the fox on it. She noted that he looked at tad bit disappointed.
''Come on out, Huck,'' he called and put his hands in his pockets. ''It's jus' a gurl.''
The bush cracked and spit out a second something. Another boy, older than both of them, wearing a pair of overalls too big forhimself. His chest was bare under them and his hair was pitch black. Some of it had grown so long it hung down into his eyes. The new boy stood a good two or three inches over his companion. Both of them stared at her.
''Whatcha doin' out here in the woods?'' the first boy asked with narrowed eyes.
''I could ask you the same thing,'' Gwin replied.
''Bush rats...''
''We're on look out!''
He twiddled his toes as if that would explain everything. Only then did Gwin notice that neither boys wore shoes no socks. Barefoot all the way.
''Well, I'm just out for a walk,'' she said indignantly.
''Ain't the city be where you'd walk?''
Gwin felt her cheeks fluster.
''I like the forest just as much as the park,'' she snapped back. ''I'm just used to there being more people, that's all.''
The first boy chuckled.
''I figured you was a city gurl. Didn't you see it Huck? Right when I set eyes on her I...''
The older boy flipped the other's straw hat clear off his head and said: ''Leave 'er alone, Tom. She ain't even started on you. Lor', both of us could use showers.''
Grumbling, the younger boy plucked his hat back off the dusty ground and brushed it. He put it on quickly before anything else could happen to it.
''Go on,'' the older boy nudged, ''introduce us to 'er. I ain't no good talkin' to ladies. You've talked with Becky afore.''
The younger boy stared angrily at his companion until he buckled under the pressure of the other's returned gesture.
''Name's Tom,'' the younger boy said. ''And this is my best friend, Huck.''
''Huck?'' Gwin echoed the word with awed confusion.
''Huckleberry Finn.''
Gwin couldn't believe what she was hearing.
''The Huckleberry Finn?'' she asked.
''Who else?'' Huck replied and pulled a corn cob pipe from his overalls. He struck a rather soggy looking match and lit the tobacco. Gwin gaped.
''He ain't the only one to smoke,'' Tom added when he saw her awestruck face.
''I've smoked with him afore. And that Mr. Holmes smokes a special tobacker, but I can't remember the name.''
Huck puffed and smiled. He didn't cough, like an amateur would, but rather like an experienced professional.
''So, what's your name?'' he asked sheepishly.
Gwin reddened when she recognized he was smiling only at her and she felt a little embarrassed for not introducing herself sooner.
''Gwin,'' she replied quietly. ''Gwin Dowenger.''
''A pleasure to make yer acquaintance ma'am,'' Huck said and bowed slightly, nearly loosing his pipe.
''You said you were on look out...'' Gwin hastily changed the subject before she could blush any further.
''S'right, Mr. Locksley has got us on patrol,'' Tom said and puffed up his chest.
''Mr. Locksley?''
''He's our boss,'' Huck replied, ''we're tracin' a dangerous murderer through these woods. He killed his girlfriend and about three other people in cold blood. Travels with a devil for a dog.''
''You don't think he's around here do you?'' Gwin asked, suddenly feeling the serenity of the forest fade.
''Hard to tell,'' Tom said. ''We lost him at the end of the paved road. He's smarter than we figured, cause he gave the best tracker in the States the slip. Our Mr.
Holmes thinks he was coming down here to deliver a letter.''
''A letter?'' Gwin started with surprise. ''But there's only four houses on this road and two of them are uninhabited.''
''That leaves the other two I suppose,'' Huck shrugged indifferently.
''But, what if he's...'' She broke off and stared back down the path toward the homestead. What if this murderer was knocking on their front door right now? Didn't she hear something slamming earlier?
''Why didn't you call the police?'' she turned around with fearful indignation. ''Why didn't your Mr. Locker, or whatever his name is, why didn't he let them handle it?''
''Because. Ain't no copper be able to take down Sikes, he's nearly indestructible,'' Huck replied and puffed again.
''Then why in the world are you two out here? You're only kids!''
Tom shared a mischievous sidelong grin with Huck.
''Kids,'' the older boy nodded, ''but we ain't no ordinary kids.''

What is that supposed to mean? Gwin thought. She was about to get Huck to explain himself when a sharp snap came from behind her. She turned around just enough to see what it was. A few yards down the path a white bulldog jerked to a halt. It sniffed the air and scrutinized the three with a very firm, nearly satanic, stare. Gwin felt someone clamp down on her arm. Turning around she found Huck's face rising through the smoke, his hand grasping for something in an overall pocket. Tom already had his dagger drawn.
''It's time for us to be off,'' Huck mumbled through the smoke. Gwin didn't want to go with them, but she
found herself following anyway. She didn't like that stout dog behind, forever staring at them through evil eyes. Suddenly fitful yapping cut the air. Tom and Huck started walking faster. Bulls-eye didn't follow. He sat himself down and cackled like a banshee. Calling in his master to the kill. His master, the man coming up the hill at that exact moment with blood on his shoes...