The blessing bowl and the fear XII

Door San Daniel gepubliceerd in Verhalen en Poëzie



The chain saw growled all day long and then the tree was cut to pieces and the side branches were lying on a pile outside my fence waiting for the municipal garbage disposal service to remove that kind of garden waste. When I walked to my garden gate for the umpteenth time with my arms full of smaller branches, I thought I had seen something from the corner of my eye as I passed the garbage cans. "Would I turn around," I thought, "and see if I was imagining things?" I heard a scraping sound and turned around in no time. For a moment I thought I saw a blue light above the garbage bin that was struck a short while later by a medium-sized branch that had come loose from between the shingles.

"Had I seen the bright blue light or not," I didn't know for sure, and then your memory starts to fill in what you may or may not have seen. At the same time as the branch that had been dumped on the garbage can, I had seen a blue glow or had it been a strange ray of sunshine that was troubling me. Had there been a vague outline, a shape vaguely visible as if it were about to break through. "I'm getting obsessed," I realized, "why did I hide what I might or might not have seen?"


Why didn't I just allow my inner voice to simply say, "I probably saw that unholy bowl?" I knew why I didn't allow that, somewhere in my head there was a warning, "if you name the bowl, then it becomes part of your reality with everything that goes with it and all the consequences that follow."

Did I allow myself to be influenced by my dreams and that bowl, which only exhaled negativity? I had followed an exact training in the past, I would not be guided by something that I conjured up myself, but ... but I did call the unpleasantness up myself or was the bowl only the medium, the tool of something even more devilish, an anchorage of the bad. Had the bad become connected to the bowl? "Fear feeds fear," I knew from my past, and you should not allow that, but ... but what if the fear was real, did that rule still apply?

So deep in thought I arrived at the fence. "How are you," a voice sounded and I looked up. It was the racist neighbor. "Good, thank you and how are you," I replied. "Great," he replied, "but it seems to me that my day has been more pleasant than yours." "Boy," I said, "tell me about it." "I have been working all day to clean up that tree." "Yes," I heard it, "he said," those trees have grown out of strength and a little wind is all it takes for them to fall over. "

"It was a big boy indeed," I laughed, my campfire can burn at least for a year. "You were lucky," grumbled my neighbor who had threatened Indians with guns only a few days beforehand. "I've seen people been carried away from your garden. You were lucky that the tree went during the night and not while you were in your garden, it was not for nothing that your house had been on sale for a few years." "Oh, that's new to me," I began, "the broker told me ..." but he interrupted, "brokers are like politicians or second-hand car sellers, they just want you to believe what they say." I nodded, I could picture that.

"Three owners have died in your house or nearby it," he laughed scornfully, "and I don't mean from old age. "Explain," I said more emphatically than I intended.

"The first one fell into the coal chute drunk as a skunk and when he tried to get out, the hatch that had been open fell shut. That chute was of course no longer used but the hatch had been open, why I do not know, but it must have been like that. He was a lonely man who wasn't missed and yes the gardens are big and deep. " I listened attentively and without me wanting to, I leaned over to the speaker not to miss a word.

"We had heard a dull pounding for days," my neighbor continued, "that must have been the poor bugger that was below the baseline in the chute and tried to attract attention. Look, that chute is about 4 meters deep, so you never get out of that funnel. After a while the banging ceased and only when the meter reader came to read the meter he smelled the stench of the decomposing corpse. "




"It must have been terrible for that poor fellow," he concluded. "Phew," I said, "what a nasty story." "Yup," my neighbor said, "sure thing." "You get that from alcohol," my neighbor continued, "for a couple of months no meaningful word had come from that man, he uttered all sorts of nonsense about evil forces and drank more every day."

A long stretched shiver had slid down my spine. "Worthless," I said for something to say and for no other reason.

"Yeah," the neighbor continued, "the next owner was also a weird guy. He thought he heard murmuring voices, yes yes, you have all sorts of people in this village. " "Murmuring," I asked in shock, "where did he hear it." "Oh, everywhere behind the house," the neighbor grinned, showing little compassion for neighbors who had died. "A few meters from your house was a storage shed, where the concrete slab is now," and he pointed to what I had seen as an ordinary terrace.

"He had paint in it and a small workshop and fuel, some jerry cans with gas or something." "Yes," I said, "pounding again and such." "No, he had a strange obsession," laughed the man who started to scare me, "he thought there was a wandering light in his shed. "Sometimes with marshland you sometimes have false lights," my neighbor explained, "you know that, don't you?" I didn't know, but I nodded and decided to have a go at Google when I was back in ..

"I told you," the neighbor went on, "you have all sorts of folk around here, so he wanted to catch it or something and he became stranger everyday  and one afternoon when it was getting a little like dusk he walked into the shed smoking, he will have thought that the stray light was lit again and then it happened. " What exactly happened, "I wanted to know.

'I was mowing my lawn and I just happened to be doing a lane towards my fence and then I saw him walking into the shed smoking. I remember it exactly, I still see it as if it were yesterday that it happened. " "What happened," I said emphatically. "A flash of fire and an explosion that blew the side window out of the shed," said the neighbor who had watched, 'that is what you get when you walk into a fuel storage smoking.'


I immediately ran into the garden, but it seemed as if the door was jammed or locked from the inside. The paint cans were now exploding and I heard a whimpering scream coming out of the shed. Then I saw my neighbor burning like a torch trying to get out of the window and then he collapsed and I could do nothing. My neighbor looked into the distant past and was silent for a moment, "he was completely charred, you know."

"The last one, the one who bought the house before you bought it, heard voices in the garden and in the trees and out of anthills." "Good grace," I was able to say, "what a going on and, was that man burned too?" "He was crazy, my neighbor continued undisturbed," he claimed ants murmured. " "Eaten by ants," I tried to let my fear go away by making a stupid joke.

"No, a tree branch hit him on his head when he once again lay on his stomach and listened to ants." "Right," I said, "they've all had bad luck." "Yes," my neighbor said, "isn't that something hey?" "Boy," I said, "absolutely, what color are those false lights anyway?" "Blue of course," my neighbor laughed, "at least here in Saskatchewan, depends on the type of gas." "Thank you," I said, "my wife is waiting for me, I should go." "You do well to do so," my neighbor said, and as I approached the bins I made sure I did not step on the slab.

San Daniel.

also read part 13

14/12/2019 04:23

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