Jim had never been a big one for the idea of yard sales—ever. Maybeit was his parents’ disdain for them that had somehow trickled downto him as well—who knew? But he never really liked the idea ofdigging through somebody’s junk that they were trying to sell toyou. Something about that just seemed really weird, but apparently itwas very lucrative if you did it right. How many people cleared outtheir attics with yard sales ever now and then? Granted, Bram andLinda’s strategy was a little different, they were going to cleanout <I>everyone else’s</I> attics, and make a profit at it. <I>I really wish that I hadn’t promised to come back. </I>But he did. There was no escaping it; his word was his bond and allthat. Plus, he didn’t want Bram showing up at his front door witha…Hammer? …plate of goodies wondering why he hadn’t come back to visit anddemanded that he come for dinner that would be cooked by his darlingwife. Maybe they could watch a movie after and shoot the breezeawhile. He kind of felt like a jerk, showing up at their house for the solereason of keeping his word and keeping them away from his house, butit was what it was. He had said that he would stop by, and he haddecided to do just that a few days later, clad in usual walking garbhe started down the street in their direction. The cars had already generally dispersed, and the street was clear.He glanced down at his watch and saw that it was about lunch hour;most people were probably going to wait until after noon to hit thesale. The house was just as nice as when he had come to it before, the lawnwas immaculate; the sign in the yard was perfectly straight andbrightly printed. It was the just the thing you wanted to grabsomeone’s attention. Jim looked at the huge, white fence that was propped open, a FordF150 was parked off to the side, and the white surface was incrediblyreflective and clean. The windows were tinted to a deep, dark shade.He saw a small presidential campaign bumper sticker on the rearbumper of the Ford. Jim couldn’t help but smile, the candidatehadn’t won. </ol>
The driveway crackled under his feet, loose pebbles scurried awayfrom his Nikes—making a scraping, skittering sound that was variedonly by the size of the pebbles. He stuffed a hand in his pocket and felt at the small Gerberpocketknife that he always had on him, the cold metal felt reallygood in his sun-warmed palm. The knife was thin, but a fair length.The blade was freshly sharpened, even the partial serration, he hadmade sure. He walked past the Ford through the entrance into the backyard. Themounting truck and fence passing him on the side. <I>Good night</I>, he thought, <I>that fence must be eleven feethigh</I>. Not only was it tall, but also it was extremely thick, at least fouror five inches. There were two layers to it, and what looked to bechain-link in between the layers. It had to be for weather proofing,but even with that explanation the fence seemed a little extreme. <I>Well prepared. </I>The yard behind the fence was a lot larger than he thought it wouldhave been. It seemed to stretch for ages back out. The fence went allthe way back, and he saw the tall barrier towering in the distance,past a couple of nice looking trees, and a shed that looked a littleworse for wear. In the back yard were lines of tables that stretchedhalf the length of the yard. On the tables were different plasticcontainers, each one marked clearly with a computer-printed label.Not surprisingly, there was a lot of junk shoved into them. He glanced around and saw a carport cleared out, in the carport was asmall desk with a chair and a small laptop sitting on it. Thescreensaver was going, bubbles flowing around the picture, blurringthe live feed of the screen. The only thing missing was people. Jim wandered into the yard carefully; the sneaking thought that heshouldn’t be there crept into his mind. There was really no basisfor the thought, it was just there, if they didn’t want people showup they should put up a “lunch break, come back later” sign. </ol>
The plastic boxes stared at him, beckoning him to come closer. Have alook inside; it will only take a minute. He walked down one of the three aisles, the labels screaming at him:BOOKS. MOVIES. MUSIC. OTHER. Various forms ofmerchandise glared at him, the rainbow mixture of colors swirled inhis sweeping gaze. He stepped up the container on his closest right, filled to the brimwith paperback books, the spines facing out so they could easily beseen. A pile of hardcover books rested in the container to theimmediate left. He saw a line of pulp books sticking out, each one bearing differentpublishing labels, but all with the same basic cover art, somethingscary tucked on the spine with an eerie font used for the author nameand title. Depending on the author’s popularity, the name sizesvaried, sometimes bigger than the title, sometimes not. He glanced up at the sleeping rows and scanned for anyone nearby. Thefaint snore of distant cars on the main road was all that he heard. He picked a paperback out of the bunch, one that looked halfwayinteresting by an author he had never heard of and began to flipthrough it, trying to see if there were any flaws in the pages. Therewas that familiar smell of dust, and aging binding glue met hisnostrils as he flipped the pages. The smooth ruffle of the pages asthey scooted past the pads of his fingers was beautifully familiar.He hadn’t really noticed that feeling in a long time, and recalledhow good it felt. “Paperbacks are twenty-five cents.” A voice said behind him. Jim nearly dropped the book as he swiveled around to see who wasbehind him. Bram stood a few steps away, dressed in khakis and an Izod poloshirt. He was smiling from ear to ear, pointing at the book in Jim’shands. “Sorry, didn’t mean to sneak up on you or anything.” </ol>
“It’s fine.” Jim replied. “I just wasn’t paying attention.”He dropped his arm by his side, still holding the book. “Anyway, they’re only twenty-five per. Or five for a dollar ifyou want.” “Awful cheap.” Jim said, looking at the books. “You should have seen what we got them for.” He laughed. Jim nodded and stared to peek through the paperbacks another moment,and spotted a Lovecraft collection that he hadn’t seen before, hegrabbed it out of the box and looked at it a moment. “So, big reader?” “You could say that.” Bram moved a little closer, on the other side of the table, lookingdown the list of hardcover books, and stole a glance at theselections that Jim had made. Jim tried to ignore his stare. “Horror reader?” “Yeah. Sometimes. I don’t like to read a bunch of the pulpy stuffthat gets published, but every now and then there’s something Ilike. Not much, though.” Jim slid the Lovecraft collection underhis arm and started to glance around the hardcover bin. “Those are about seventy-five cents apiece. Or three for a dollar.”Jim nodded. “Okay.” Bram’s hands were resting on the edge of the plastic bin filledwith hardcover books. The veins that ran out of his arms and into hisknuckles, disappearing in his fingers bulged. The tanned skin lookedstretched and thin. Jim noticed that the hands were completelyhairless. </ol>
“So what do you do for a living anyway?” Bram asked. His fingersbegan to lightly drum on the plastic rim. “I’m a writer.” Jim answered. “Really?” His fingers paused from their drumming for a moment.Jim noticed that the fingernails were perfectly trimmed andmeticulously cared for. “What kind of stuff do you write?” “A bit of everything.” Jim selected a Steinbeck from the pile.“I’ve written thrillers, suspense, drama, a screenplay that Ihaven’t heard back on…” “You write horror?” Fingers drummed. Jim answered, “Not much.” He slid the book under his arm with therest. “I had a horror novella that made it into a collection thatwas published. Didn’t make it too far though.” “Just wondering, what with your choices, there.” Bram flexed hisfingers and removed his hands from the bin. “I thought about writing more of it at one time, but haven’t hadany real good ideas. That and it’s one of those genres that youhave to be careful with, otherwise you’ll just go and lose yourmind.” “Guess I can see what you mean there.” Bram had his handstogether; Jim could hear the sandy popping of his knuckles as thejoints were pulled on. He wondered if the back of his hands were justas hard and sandpaper-like as the palms of his hands were. Jim tried not to stare at those hands, he tried to focus on the booksin his hands, but it was getting harder and harder. He could hear someone coming down the walk and turned to see ayounger looking woman, about late twenties, early thirties, runningdown the walk. She was wearing a sleeveless white shirt and somerunning shorts. He saw a mane of brown hair, the color of stainedwood, tossed back into a ponytail. The white sweatband on her headwas maybe a little much, but Jim was caught instantly in a gaze ather face. Her nose was slight, and extremely well formed. Her lipswere full, but not to the point that they looked fake. What got hisattention were her eyes, deep almond color that spoke deeper than anywords. </ol>
“Hey,” she breathed, her breath was shallow, as if she had beenrunning full sprint for a while. Jim couldn’t help but think that she looked borderline perfect. Shewas something that stepped out of an enhanced picture in a magazinewhere they messed around with the picture to remove any of what theyconsidered flaws, only she was real. Bram spoke quickly, “Hey, Linda. This is that guy, Jim I wastelling you about.” She smiled. Perfect teeth as well. “Hello, Jim. See you finally gota chance to stop by our little business venture.” “Yeah,” Jim said, looking at the tables, “I think your sign isright, you sell…” “Anything.” “Anything.”“…anything.”They all said it in unison. Linda laughed, “That we do. I see youfound some books?” She pointed. He nodded, “I guess that’s about one twenty-five?” Bram counted. “Yep.” Jim set the books down on the table and reached into his back pocket,and pulled out his wallet, dishing out the cash quickly. “Here.”He handed it to Bram. Bram handed it to Linda who took it back to the computer and typed insomething and threw the money into a small metal box that had apadlock dangling from the small latch. “See anything else you want?” Bram asked, coming up behind him.His cologne smelled something like a cross between cinnamon andcayenne pepper. </ol>