The Frogs

Approximately 3400 words

The Frogs
by
Max Griffin

                                             The collective character of the world is, on the contrary, to all eternity—chaos.
                                                 --Die fröhliche Wissenschaft
                                                   Fredierich Neitzsche
   
                                             What is heavy?...is it this:
                                             wading into dirty water when it is the water of truth, and not shrinking away from cold frogs and hot toads?
                                                 --Also Sprach Zarathustra
                                                   Fredierich Neitzsche



Zeb pulled his BMW to a stop in front of 666 Zeno Lane and snuffed out the cigarette that had been dangling from his lips. He squinted in the late afternoon sun, scowled, and double checked the address against the car's GPS. This was the place, all right. The century-old gothic revival mansion was in even worse shape than he’d feared. Dozens of gaps showed in the roof tiles, and the high peak on the right wing sagged in the middle. The yard looked like it hadn’t been mowed since the Clinton administration, and most of the windows were boarded up. He snorted, and a humorless grimace bent his lips. At least there was no sign of the ghosts that the crazy owners, the Cleavers, had warned him about. Well, no sign except for the early trick-or-treaters prowling the streets on this All Hallows Eve.

         He had to admit that the place had potential. It was just the sort of thing asshole yuppies with too much money and too little taste fell for. Whether he could profit from their bloated checking accounts depended on how much work it needed before he could flip it. That roof wasn’t promising, but the red brick looked to be in decent shape, and the wrap-around porch didn’t sag anywhere. The towering round turret on the left side of the house gave it the air of a sturdy medieval castle, and the faded gingerbread trim still showed hints of the original olive paint.

         Zeb stepped out of his car, and a gust of Oklahoma wind whipped at his Armani suit. He fumbled in his shirt pocket where he’d stuck the crumpled pack of Camels he’d found in the glove compartment, winced, and snatched his hand away. If he really meant to quit, he probably should have just thrown the fucking thing away, along with the Zippo lighter that now rested in his pants pocket. Whatever. He eyed the stairs leading to the entry and decided to walk the perimeter of the dump before going inside.

         What little that remained of the original landscaping had decayed into a bramble of thorns and weeds. As far as he could see, the limestone foundation didn’t show any cracks or gaps—a good sign. It was just possible the place was structurally sound. He dictated a note on his iPhone to have his partner and structural engineer, Hester, check the foundation. She’d need to look at that sagging roof, too. He snapped a few photos and moved on through the thicket.

         When he got to the back of the house, a faint rotten egg smell put him on alert. Sure enough, some idiot had installed a propane tank next to the foundation, and now it hid behind overgrown mulberry bushes and prickly thistles. Rust streaked down the seams in the tank and around the fittings. From the smell, there must be a slow leak.  Another thing for Hester to attend to.

         He took more photos, but then he thought he saw movement inside the house.  A phantom shape seemed to loom behind a dingy window above the tank, hiding in the shadows and staring at him. He scowled and stepped closer.  Whatever it was vanished. He checked the photos he'd just taken, and they only showed a grimy window, dark and empty.  It must have been just a trick of the light, then.  He shrugged, and continued his inspection.

         The backyard was even more overgrown than the front, with weeping willows and burr oak trees overhead and sumac and buckthorn clogging the ground. Crickets chittered, and the squishy soil and croaking of frogs told him there must be standing water someplace. Sure enough, the remains of a round brick fountain hid behind a wall of red-tinged sumac. Oily green and yellow muck floated on the surface of the water and leaked from cracks in the bricks. They’d have to rip it out, or just pave it over.

         He sighed and turned back toward the house. A slimy frog hopped in his path, and his foot slipped in the muck, but he managed to stay upright by clutching at a random scrub oak. He ignored the sudden pain that blossomed deep in his skull, traipsed to the front of the house, and climbed the limestone stairs to the entrance. Stained glass windows bordered the solid oak door, but a weathered plank nailed diagonally across the opening barred his way. He gave it a tug, and the rotted wood yielded. The door was locked, but the ancient skeleton key the owners had given him granted entrance.

         The door creaked open, and he stepped into the shadowy interior. The place reeked of decades of dust, cigarettes, and mold. He blinked at the dim interior and waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom after the bright sunlight outside. The stained glass windows around the door sent orange and red tints dancing on the otherwise dismal gray and brown walls.

         Cheap linoleum covered the entry hall, too filthy to tell the original color. Dust congealed in the corners, and rodent droppings littered the floor. A massive chestnut staircase led to the dark recesses of the second floor. On his right, a cramped cloakroom opened through an arched doorway, while on his left, another arch revealed a tiny parlor, no more than ten feet on a side. One corner included the first floor of the turret, almost as an afterthought.

         When he stepped into the parlor, shadows danced on the back wall where a narrow doorway led to another room. His mouth tightened. Like all Victorian homes, this one was a rabbit-warren of tiny, claustrophobic rooms. The market demanded open plans, so to flip it they’d need to hollow it out. Hester would bitch about load-bearing walls, but she'd just have to figure out work-arounds. He took more pictures and dictated more notes.

         A faint, high-pitched keening sound made him look up. It was probably just the wind, except it sounded like it came from the next room, where shadows lurked. He pushed past cobwebs and peered into the darkness. The only illumination came from the boarded-up parlor windows behind him, and he couldn’t even make out the opposite wall. The keening was certainly louder, though, accompanied by the sound of frogs croaking. Great. That probably meant water standing someplace inside the house, which meant rotten floorboards at a minimum.

         Something creaked and the shadowed interior squirmed, as if someone were pacing at the back of the room. Probably some kids looking for quick thrill on Halloween, or maybe a bum squatting inside the abandoned property. He used his best who the fuck are you tone and called out, “Who’s there?”

         Silence closed about him like a shroud over a corpse. A chill prickled the back of his neck and sent a shiver down his spine. He clenched his iPhone and thought about the Glock in the glove box of his car. If all else failed, he could just blow the fuckers away. “Speak up or I’ll call the cops. Fair warning.”

         No answer.

         Zeb took a tentative step deeper into the darkness. A glimmer of light danced in the gloom, and then a faint, scratchy orchestra began to play. A nasal, woman’s voice started singing, “Let’s play a game called supposing…”

         This was too much. He stepped into the room to investigate and bumped into what felt like heavy drapes. Dusty, mold-encrusted drapes. He tried to suppress a sneeze and failed. Shuffled footsteps confirmed this wasn't his imagination. “Show yourself, dammit.”

         The scratchy voice continued to warble, “Let’s make believe for a while…”

         Anger heated his face as he fumbled with the heavy fabric. He inhaled dust and fuck knew what else, but the heavy veil finally parted and he could see into the next room. A red-haired man stood there in a halo of pearly light, hovering over a brass-and-wood contraption with a rotating cylinder and an enormous, horn-shaped diaphragm. He wore baggy tweed trousers, suspenders, scuffed cowboy boots, and a loose-fitting cream-colored shirt. A ridiculous mustache that extended across his cheeks to his sideburns hid the middle of his face.

         The woman droned on, “I’ll hold your hand while I tell you a story...” Except there was no woman. It was the cylinder thing making the sound, an ancient phonograph. Probably an antique, and worth a pretty penny if you found the right rube to pitch it to. The man reached out and lifted an arm on the gizmo, and the music stopped. He gave a grave nod to Zeb and said, “Welcome to my home.”

         “It’s not your home. It belongs to Ward and June Cleaver. You’re trespassing.”

         A smile twisted the man's features. More of a grimace than a smile, really. “I admit ownership can be an elusive thing. Let’s make believe it’s mine, shall we? Just for a while. Let me be your guide to the secrets of this place. I know them all. I’ve been here a long time.”

         Zeb frowned. The dude looked harmless enough, and maybe he knew nooks and crannies that would be hard to find. Still, property rights were property rights. “You can’t stay here.”

         That got him an enigmatic smile. “I tend to come and go. If you wait a bit, I’ll be gone again. I promise.”

         “Just so you understand. You've got to go.” Zeb hesitated for a beat, then asked, “What’s your name? Let me see some ID.”

         “My name? Call me Ishmael. It’s as good a name as any.”

         “Okay, Ishmael. Let me see your driver’s license.”

         “My what? My dear sir, I have no idea what you are seeking.”

         No ID then, so he must be a vagrant. Or just an asshole wasting his time. Still, if he’d been squatting here for any amount of time, he might know something useful. “All right, Ishmael, since you’ve got no ID, at least tell me what you know about this place.”

         “Surely I can do that. But, good sir, you haven’t yet shared your name.”

         “You don’t need to know my fucking name. You’re the one trespassing.”

         “Am I?” The guy quirked an eyebrow and tipped his head to one side.

         It couldn’t really hurt to tell him. “Call me Zeb.”

         “I see you, Zebulon." His voice turned soft, solicitous, almost soothing. "Why don’t you have a cigarette? It might quiet your soul.”

         What the fuck? He sees me? What does that even mean? “I don’t want no fucking cigarette.”

         “Really? You’ve reached for that pack in your shirt pocket thrice in the short time since we’ve met. Your fingers are stained yellow, and I can smell smoke on you even from here. I told you. I see you.”

         What an asshole. “Who the fuck do you think you are? The smoker police? Gimme a fucking break. I’m trying to quit.”

         “Ah, that’s the problem, then. You’re either a smoker, or you’re not. Decide which you are, and be that.” He gave Zeb a beatific smile, as if he’d pronounced some Great Truth, then said, “Shall we decamp to the garden? We can be more comfortable there, and the walk will give you time to decide who you are.” Without waiting for Zeb to answer, he turned and strode away.

         At least the asshole was vacating the house. Zeb clenched his jaws and followed.

         Ishmael, or whatever the guy’s name really was, led him deeper into the house. Judging from the oak table, chairs, and ornate sideboard, the next room was for formal dining. Sunlight from bay windows on one wall flooded the maroon-tinted walls. A glittering crystal chandelier hung from a plaster medallion sculpted into the ceiling. A swinging door led into a kitchen with what looked like a wood-burning stove, a sink with a pump handle instead of faucets, and well-scrubbed wooden cabinets and counters. It was going to cost a fortune to make this kitchen marketable. At least someone had cleaned these two rooms.

         Ishmael continued without comment and led him into the back yard, but not the weed-choked jungle that he’d just examined. This back yard was a manicured garden, with a rainbow of flowers and sculpted shrubs. Crystal-clear water gurgled in the brick fountain. The chitter of crickets and the croaking of frogs were the only things that remained from his earlier visit.

         A wrought-iron table with heavy, filigreed trim sat on flagstones near the fountain, along with two matching chairs. Two etched pub glasses and a matching pitcher containing brown liquid rested on the table. Ishmael sat on of the chairs and filled the two glasses with the brown liquid. He slid one of them in Zeb's direction and nodded. From the foam, it must be beer.

         Zeb had to admit, a beer sounded good. He picked up the glass and took a sip. The stuff was warm, and strong. Stronger than any beer he’d ever had. His mouth squirmed and he resisted the urge to spit it out. “Where’d you get this piss? Australia? It’s enough to fucking burn a hole your guts.”

         “Where’s Australia?” Ishmael shrugged. “It’s Blatz, a fine German lager. Maybe you prefer something tamer, perhaps one of Herr Busch's Lone Stars?”

         Zeb took another sip. Maybe his taste buds were numb, but this second taste wasn’t as ghastly as the first one. Almost tolerable, in fact. “Don't need another beer. This will do.” He sat at the table and waved his hand at the garden. “What’s going on? Where did you take me? This isn’t the garden I just looked at.”

         “This is the garden I know. Perhaps you should ask the frogs. They might be able to answer your questions. They’ve been here longer than I have and are wiser than mere mortals.”

         Like fucking frogs could tell him anything. “How long have you been here? In the house, I mean.”

         “I’ve always been here.”

         “Horsepucky.”

         "I assure you I speak truth."

         Maybe the Cleavers’ ravings about ghosts weren't crazy after all. Maybe they saw this wierdo. "Were you here last week?"

         "Last week? I told you I've always been here. Always includes last week, and next week, too, for that matter." Ishmael simpered. “You seem to think time is sequential, that it flows in one direction. How quaint.”

         "“How else could time flow?” As soon as the words came out, he regretted asking.

         Sure enough, Ishmael uttered more nonsense. “Maybe it doesn't flow at all. Time, like matter, is an emergent phenomenon. Its speed, its direction, even its passing are all matters of perspective. Time, at least the way you’re speaking of it, is an illusion. A social construct.”

         Social construct sounded almost familiar, like some hippy-dippy idea that a libtard professor would come up with. Whatever it was, it defied common sense. Better to get things grounded again, to get him talking about something useful. “Tell me what you know about the house. We’re going to flip it, so are there structural things I need to know?”

         “If you’re not careful, the house might flip you. Take care where you journey. It might lead somewhere you don't expect.”

         That was pretty vague, but it did sound like he knew something. Or was just being a pompous asshole. "Be specific, dammit. Is the foundation weak? Is there dry rot, or termites, or black mold? How the fuck can a house flip me? That’s what I need to know.”

          “The foundation is solid. At least, as solid as these things get. No dry rot or whatever those other things are. It’s not how the house might flip you. It’s where. Or when.”

         More nonsense. He tossed his head and rolled his eyes. “Enough, already. Stop the jibber jabber and answer my questions.”

         “Ask questions that make sense, and I’ll give you sensible answers.”

         Zeb scowled and then decided to throw the asshole’s answer back at him. “You said it’s where or when the house might flip me. Explain what that means.”

         “It means what it says, of course. The house exists in infinitely many locations, all at once. In the house, all things are possible. In the house, there is no space or time, but instead all spaces and all times. Anything is possible.”

         Anything is possible. The phrase reverberated in his soul, opened a frigid hollow in his gut, and sent an electric chill jittering down his spine. But then a hot toad squirmed in his brain, and fury swelled up to set his heart afire. Just who did this asshole think he was? He sounded like a fucking communist. None of them fuckers believed in anything. “If anything is possible, then nothing is possible.”

         Ishmael beamed at him. “You do understand after all. Everything that seems real is illusion, just an incomplete form that you imagined. Space, time, motion, none of them are real. What the house reveals, that's reality.”

         Zeb sneered, “You dumb fuck. If there’s no space or time, there is no reality.” That settled it. The asshole had gone fucking loony toons.

         Inexplicably, Ishmael's face glowed and his words tumbled out. “Exactly. It only seems you've been living in reality, but you’ve actually been living in a cave, seeing naught but shadow and illusion. The material fallacy constrains you, limits you. You can’t even decide whether or not you’re a smoker. But now you’ve left the cave, and the blinders have fallen from your eyes. You have seen the light. You have the power. Use it.” He stood and suddenly seemed taller, more powerful. Inhuman. “It’s time to go back to your cave, but with new eyes. Eyes that have been opened. With the power to be who you really are, the power to be truly seen.”

         Ishmael spread his arms and storm clouds swirled in the sky. Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled. The sun disappeared and darkness enveloped Zeb. He stood alone and forlorn in a featureless, silent void. This formless reality, relentless, overpowering, indifferent, swallowed his soul. Blackness closed in and, for a moment, for an eternity, Zeb disappeared.

         He woke face down, in the mud of the decayed garden. Sensation came first, the slimy wetness of the red clay soil, the weight of his body, the ache of his muscles. His head throbbed and his breath rasped in his throat. Next came sound. Crickets sang their death song. Cold frogs croaked their wisdom primeval. Next, dimly, vision returned. Not the clarity of the immaculate garden Ishmael had shown him, but the shadowy ruin of the garden he’d seen when he’d arrived. Finally, smells penetrated his his nose. This was the garden with brackish water. The one with rotting vegetation. The one with the rotten egg smell. The one he’d thought was reality.

         No. The one that was reality.

         He dug into the mud with his fingers. He sat up and pressed his hands against his aching head. He remembered slipping. He must have fallen then, and knocked himself out. What he remembered happening couldn’t have happened. Ishmael and all the rest must have been hallucination, probably inspired by the Cleavers’ insane ravings about the house being haunted.

         This, right now, this had to be reality, the only reality. Hallucination must explain what he thought he remembered. Anything, even this, was better than a wild, impossible nightmare where nothing was real and anything was possible.

         Any other explanation was just crazy.

         He stood and wrinkled his nose. The stench of putrefied vegetation mixed with the rotten egg smell, and the odor roiled his stomach. The rusted propane tank loomed nearby. Fucking lucky a spark hadn’t blown the entire dump to Hell and gone.

         The whole experience was too heavy a burden to bear. He reached with trembling fingers into his shirt, pulled out a cigarette, and put it in his mouth. Ishmael was wrong. Nicotine and the tobacco companies made him a smoker. He didn’t have any fucking choice. He pulled his Zippo from his pants pocket and lit up.


         
                                                 
Notes.

The song Zeb hears is "Make Believe," by Theodore Morse. It was released in a 1908 recording by Victor (later RCA Victor) featuring Ada Jones as the vocalist.

The street Zeb visits is named for Zeno, a Greek philosopher and proponent of monism who appears in Plato’s dialogue Parmenides. Aristotle called him "the inventor of dialectic."  In the modern era, he is best known for creating mathematical paradoxes that challenge the existence of space, time, and motion.

June Cleaver was a fictional stay-at-home Mom of 1950's USA television, famous for doing housework while wearing pearls.

In Biblical tradition, Ishmael was Abraham's first-born son by Hagar, his wife Sarah's handmaiden. When Ishmael was thirteen, Sarah gave birth to Isaac, with whom Yahweh established his covenant. Ishmael and Hagar were subsequently banished to the desert and never again mentioned in scripture. Ishmael was also the name Melville gave to the iconic unreliable narrator appearing in Moby Dick.

Also in Biblical tradition, Zebulon was one of Joseph's two older brothers who sold him into slavery in Egypt.

Propane is a colorless, odorless gas sometimes used for heating in the US. Distributors lace the gas with mercaptan to give it a characteristic smell. Propane is generally safe, although explosions have happened when tanks or fittings are not properly maintained.

Except for possibly for the last item, Zeb is blissfully unaware of any of these things.