The Old Man

He waited. The old man sat in his chair and waited. He glanced at the clock.

“Thirty more minutes.” he wheezed, and returned his attention to the embers hissing in the fireplace. The old man had an appointment, and even though he doubted his son would be late, he kept checking the time.

As the old man waited, he heard a noise from the front door. Three knocks, then silence reigned. The old man checked his watch, a glorious old thing that still beat more regularly than its owner's ticker, and rose to his feet. It was eleven thirty-two. The old man's son had only enhanced his reputation of punctuality since they had last met. Even as a child, his son would always arrive at the agreed upon time; never late, never early.

The old man entertained a brief fantasy on his way to the door, imagining his son standing there, anticipation overriding decades of habit. But even to the old man, this was just a fantasy. He still hoped, though he doubted he would be able to recognize his own son, whose identity would be hidden by the old man's failing eyes and memory.

The old man reached the entrance way, bellowing an intimidating “Who is it?”, his hand trembling on the lock. Momentary surprise froze the old man's mind when a voice from behind the door answered immediately, with no hint of awkwardness or identity.

“Hello, Mr. Smith. Do you remember me? I would like to come in.” The old man was perplexed, for his name was not Mr. Smith.

“I was told that you were interested in selling one of your properties in town, specifically the one across from the old church. I have some money with me, and would like to discuss its purchase.”

The old man grew frustrated as this irritant continued his little spiel, but perked ears at the mention of “money”, “with me”, and “purchase”.

“Of course! That old place.” The old man opened the door, and ushered the dark shape inside. Inside, the old man was delighted. His silver tongue and sharp wit had earned him a significant portion of his total wealth over the years, and his son wouldn't mind receiving a small fortune on the night of their reunion.

“Come, sit, sit.” The old man hurried into the living room, and returned to his seat. The old man's hands gripped each other in anticipation as he examined his prospect. The shape sat down across from him, and dark cloth seemingly swarmed every inch of his body, except for the gentleman's hat and boots, of course. If the old man stared long enough, he felt that he could see the cloth crawl up the shape's chest, reminiscent of flames in their movements. But there was no such thing as heat in the room now, and even embers lost what little they had left.

“Mr. Smith, I have my wife, as well as my sons and daughters, waiting inside the church, so I'm afraid I need to keep this short.” The shape trembled as it breathed out a sigh.

“Don't worry, my good fellow, this won't take long.” The old man rejoiced. A rushed man never gets the best price.

The shape sighed again. “However, my meager savings are slightly less than the price I heard you have been asking for. Without the amount I'd need to sustain my family and myself, I'm afraid I can only offer half.”

The old man chuckled. “My friend, I will gladly let you buy the home for half of that! Sadly, I have lost the only key to the home, so you must find a way in yourself. Just give me what you can tonight, and we can finalize this tomorrow.”

The shape quivered for a few seconds before speaking. “Thank you, kind sir! I must admit, I did not in my wildest dreams expect to meet such a magnanimous spirit in all my life!” He stood, and swiped a covered hand across a nearby drawer, where a stack of coins appeared in neat columns.

The old man kept his emotions contained, only letting a smile show as he escorted the shape back outside. He locked the door, and checked his watch again. Eleven fifty-six. Instead of returning to the chair, the old man began to pace.

Twelve paces later, he checked again. Eleven fifty-seven. He had turned to resume, when three knocks echoed through the house.

“Who is it?” The old man bellowed.

“Sir! It is I, who just bought a home from you! I believe I have made a mistake!”

“Get off my property!” His son would surely leave him forever if he arrived during this spectacle.

“Sir, you are not Mr. Smith! I mistook your home for his, and- … Well... I need my money back.”

“I don't know what you're talking about. Leave me alone.”

“Have you no compassion, sir? My fam---”

“Leave me alone!”

“But---”

“GOD DAMN YOU SIR. LEAVE ME ALONE, OR SO HELP ME, I WILL DO WHAT I SHOULD HAVE DONE BEFORE!”

“Da---”

“LEAVE ME ALONE! I NEVER WISH TO SPEAK TO YOU AGAIN, SO LONG AS MY SPIRIT EXISTS!

The voice on the other side of the door quieted after a brief “Alright.”

The old man waited, listening as the voice's steps trailed away from the house. When he could no longer hear them, he checked his watch for one last time. It read twelve oh-two.

The old man, realizing he had made the greatest mistake of his life, returned one last time to his seat, across from which, sat the shape.

“Sorry about that, 'friend'.” The shape chuckled, “I couldn't resist.”

“What right do you have to torture an old man so?” The old man moaned through his hands, which covered his mouth, as if to keep him from saying anything else that could compound his mistake.

“What right do you have to swindle a poor man and his family of their assets?” The shape shrugged contemptuously. “We could do this all night, but it's time, and you know it.”

The old man, swallowed in the regret and sadness he had held at bay for decades, gasped in pain. “Can't you do it?”

Shaking with excitement, the shape held out a hand, within lay a small pistol. “I could, but I won't. You can, and will. You have lost your last reason to live, but don't worry, I'll check up on you every once in a while.” It chuckled. “But who can say? I'm always busy.”

“Will it hurt?”

“Would you trust me if I told you?”

The old man held out a hand, and the gun dropped into his palm.