CHAPTER 7 THE DIARY “When will this freak show finally end?” All the dubious events which have unveiled themselves in this house, torture me to my breaking point! How many times have I been so frustrated, so whacked out of my mind…? I would lock myself in a closet and beat myself numb, screaming till my throat blistered raw! It feels surreal like an eon stacked on eons ago, but I’ve only been here for a few weeks. As it stands right now, I feel that I have invested too much time and energy in this sick project to walk away. After all, I’m only the biographer for Pete’s sake. I owe Bob nothing. In retrospect, as I recall, Bob never mentioned having to dig up, clean up, dress up, and worse, entertain these three desecrated people; never mind having to tolerate their fragile boned-out emotions. I feel that Bob has totally lost it, if in fact he ever laid claim to any success at all. Late last night Bob approached me, half whispering in a raspy tone, I didn’t ask, didn’t care. He was wondering if I wanted to keep myself busy with another suspect project? One which required little or no brain power to hammer out. “Yeah, sure.” I perceive lately that I nerve him more times than not, and he believes this venue will keep me out of his hair for a while. “I’ll tell you now, I rue him. If I ever get the chance… if I’m alone with him…I might lose control and pray evil down, perchance it rifts our souls… I may!” This time I’m on the road, literally. He has me raking and shoveling the gravel from the berm of route 973- east into a… well it looks like a… small ramp. I would have to say, just from an engineering standpoint; the average comp size has it figured at just about ten feet long, with a peak height of two plus feet and a ten percent grade line on a transit-variant scale of six-eight. Bob claims that vehicles traveling too fast spray the loose berm-gravel down-against the side of the old farmhouse, peppering the white lap-siding, and in some cases, shattering a couple of window sashes. The house has always set below the 973- east berm, even during horse and buggy days; plus, there is a slight curve in the road which only magnifies the problem. I see it is just as he said, cause while I was raking, I was almost struck by a toking driver traveling way too fast… also, I do believe they were texting. I jumped to my feet shouting obscenities and pointed my rake in a savage manner, chancing that the driver didn’t notice. Anyway, I finished my project, but I don’t know how the ramp is going to solve the problem? To save my sanity, I knew full well that I had to make a life change. I found that being around an out of touch, neurotic, washed-up, uninspired writer is no life for me. So, I composed a short notice, informing Bob that I would no longer be his biographer, and I would be moving out of the farmhouse for good. I mentioned also that I would never confess to single soul about any of the strange events, which I reluctantly conspired in. “All your dark secrets are safe inside me… till death.” Signed, Art Dun. I packed–up my belongings quietly, then equal to a one-hundred eighty-pound church mouse, maneuvered my way down the creaky winding steps, stumbling for a split second… ere I crossed the living room hardwood and entered the kitchen… a thought occurred to me, I don’t own a car or a bike for that matter, so I will have to walk or hitchhike west along route 973 towards the nearest town. But meanwhile, upstairs everything was escalating to a boiling point. Everything hinged on how Arlene was feeling and evolving with this acute change.