The Sheriff's Tale: A Short Story

Perhaps it was the nearly reticent creak of the walls that drew a cautious breath from his body, and made him tense as he sat covered by a thick blanket in his desk chair. He had become accustomed to a nervous habit of tensing and shuddering. For years he heard the house speak to him through creaks and groans, and he had at first passed it off as rotting wood and strong winds being the cause. But ever so little was it the sun came out from hiding behind the darkened clouds that blocked it did he still hear it, when the wind was little to none. Anyone he may have told would’ve called him a fool, but only once in a great while would he have company. The sheriff seemed to come by quite often with his mouth turned down and eyes darting about his

But the old man reveled in the stench. It grew on his withering heart like a tree in the middle of the darkened woods reaches tall for that one glimpse of sunlight. But no, the sheriff did not tolerate the stench for long. His visits were short, and for that the man was glad. He was joyful at the everlasting peace he had in his house, or once had until a few months ago when the creaking and groaning began. An old fool he was, cowering in his chair that was filled with dust that spread throughout the room with one pat of a finger. He had become accustomed to it, for his whole house seemed to have the antiquated, untouched quality of the chair that he sat in at the very moment. He had wished that the maid would have kept coming, for cleaning this entire house at the age of sixty-eight was quite an effort, and it made his bones crack and his body wither as he attempted to do so. But he quit a few months back, fearing that spending too much energy would kill him although he had felt that he would die quite soon

His breathing was heavy, and his heart rate had increased tremendously. He tried to calm down, but he couldn’t seem to settle. He quickly walked to his bedroom and grabbed the bottle of whiskey to calm his nerves. He still didn’t relax even as he took quite a few large gulps before he put it away. He sat at the bed and stared at the wall. His breathing relaxed as did his heart rate. He noticed that the wall began taking a new color. It had started to blacken, a deep despairing black that seemed to grow and creep steadily along the wall. In some parts, it began to crack. The cracks seemed to stem from the areas in which he had repaired it a few months back. He’d have to redo it eventually. Or maybe, he would die before the wall fell. He had soon hoped that he would. The exciting days of youth had left him as he became stiff from a tumble down the stairs. Walking was a struggle for him, and it bothered him to walk upstairs to his bedroom so for the most part he slept in his desk chair. He doubted that he would have the strength to fix the wall at all, and with Miss Julia gone there was no sense in even