Touched by Mr. Bingley

The girls are at each other’s throats, so I get them outside for a walk, to the new development. The clouds are burning off, so we keep going down the dead end so I can show them a bog and we can look for frogs and salamanders.

I point out the sign that says Critical Area, with pictures of wildlife, and I read the sign and explain what it means, all the small living things here that would be displaced by the development.

There’s a gate with a lock and an overgrown, dirt road leading back into the woods, some wire fencing denoting the adjacent lot. We walk around the gate, toward the sunbreaks through the trees and stand there, the three of us, with our eyes closed listening to the birds and the bugs.

The promise was the playground though, so we wander back up to the development: Lily keeps confusing the developments and the houses, thinks we’re near her friend Grace’s house, or Olivia’s, but I explain they all look similar, so it’s easy to get confused.

The playground is small, just one set to climb on and some wood chips. I sit on the bench with my notepad and the wind kicks up, the leaves rattle like wind chimes, dry and brittle. Some neighbors emerge from their driveways, oblivious to the dark presence that’s growing in their playground, just outside their alarm clocks and drapes.

I don’t know where he or the name comes from, or why his head looks like a brown stump, how he can breathe beneath a mask of thickened clay, on top a ten foot statue with a black suit and arms out of scale to his body, waving in the wind like tentacles, like spindly weed arms spreading spores in the wind. He strokes your shirt and leaves a smell of death, of rotten fish, puce-stained stink. His mouth is a drain, a hole, and his eyes are pits. A broken septic somewhere let him out through your window and into your dreams, last night.

I do word association to investigate Mr. Bingley: Soul Death, Depression, Stagnation, Possession, Distraction, Great Deceiver…

October is coming on before you know it. It’s time to head back now, kids.

800px-William_Blake_007

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
This entry was posted in death and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Touched by Mr. Bingley

  1. lpearse2013 says:

    Hmmm. I seem to recall that dream! You’ve described him perfectly. That’s a bit scary.

    Sent from my iPad

    Like

Please share your thoughts!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s