1/8/2025 | -Under the Rug-

The grandfather clock in the living room struck noon, but it was barely audible over the whir of gears - barely felt through the oscillating floor

Today was print day for the Leslean, and in the basement, yards of newsprint were being run through an industrial printer - a holdover from the twenties, Buddy thought laconically, when the news was printed in-house. The piece-of-work was a fire hazard, but it had serviced Buddy for years, and had so served his predecessor, A.W. Leslie. Ironic, Buddy mused, before getting back to work on next week's paper.

Typing out stories, Buddy noticed just how old he'd gotten. This laptop had once felt ginormous, back when he was starting as A.W. Leslie's junior writer. Now he was the editor, and the laptop seemed miniscule under his palms. Every couple hours, the very joints in his fingers got sore. His mind was much the same, easily fogged. But with age also came experience; an eye for good stories.

Rubbing his knuckles, Buddy reread the curly-edged Post-It hanging from his desk for the hundredth time. I ought to find a junior writer, myself.

He meant to give his old hands a rest, read from A.W. Leslie's journal - he'd always found inspiration in those scarlet pages - but, just then, something moved in his study. Not enough to still be moving by time his eyes caught up. Then something moved again: a bald man of maybe thirty tapping on his window. Buddy laughed, patted his desk, and went to open his front door to the man.

"Pete!"

"Bud," Charley smiled. "Tried the doorbell," he continued, listening: "Print day?" Buddy nodded. "The kids insisted on making brownies to sell around town."

"Well, I would love to buy one," Buddy replied, finding his wallet. Holding out a ten-dollar bill to the younger child: "How many will this get me?"

"Three!" the kid exclaimed, after a second.

"Then here; I'll take one, and those other two are for you and your sister."

"What do we say, kids?" Charley beckoned, and they droned out a thank you in unison.

"And how's Cheryl? I don't see her out here."

"Busy. Almost done with college applications, but then says she'll find a job for the summer."

"Darndest thing; I was just thinking about how I need a junior writer. Tell her my door's open."

"I'll let her know," Charley said. "We should get going. You know kids." He shrugged towards his set, lumbering around near the porch steps.

"How long have you all been out? Let me at least make some tea."

"Not long, actually; these brownies took all morning to make." Charley started backwards. Then: "Thanks, Bud." And the family was gone up the street.

Buddy closed the door as they left, chewing the brownie. It was good. I hope they'll have some left over.

||

He decided to take a short break - eat lunch and let his fingers rest. When he walked by the door of his study, he thought he heard a scuffling inside, even over the rumbling printer below; but, inside, there was nothing.

Cheryl's reply came later that day, after the printer was done printing. "She'd love to," Charley had said. "Can she meet with you tomorrow morning?" When Buddy hung up, he wasn't near the office, but he was sure he heard the scuffling again. It died down before he made it there, but - this time he was sure - there had to have been something. Toppled over on the ground was a lamp. Shattered. But the room was, again, still.

The next morning, Buddy prepared for the new writer by cleaning the shards from the lamp. Cheap thing, he mourned, before there was a scuffling, and a loose wire on his desk fell, pulling A.W. Leslie's journal to the ground.

If the lamp wasn't already in pieces, he would've smashed it himself. Before he could replace the journal on the desk, the doorbell rang, and Buddy nearly punched a hole in the wall opening his front door.

"You think that was funny?"

Cheryl was there, aback by his vigor. "What was funny?"

"Don't do it again." Buddy adjusted his spectacles and stepped aside. "Come in."

She did so, if with a little apprehension, while Buddy put on a kettle. "How long have you been alone here? At the paper," Cheryl asked, taking in the bohemian decoration.

"Since I replaced A.W. Leslie as editor. After she died." Buddy replied, sitting down. He saw the curiosity in Cheryl's eyes, and didn't wait for the next question. He wasn't an interviewee. "Before your time. Self-immolation. She was a nut. Most journalists are, though."

"Warm welcome," Cheryl commented, which lightened the mood some.

Buddy explained the position, went to pour the tea - earl grey, as always - and returned to explain her responsibilities. "Starting next week," he'd said.

She refused the tea. "But it smells nice."

||

A couple days later, sitting down to write, Buddy saw a new email in his inbox - from Cheryl. I know you said not to write a story this week, it said, buuuut…

The attached story was good. Really good. Really good for a first-timer. About insurance fraud at Maple Hospital. Previously unknown insurance fraud. She broke the case.

He shot back: This is good. I can put it on the second page. On the other side of his desk, the charger pulled A.W. Leslie's journal down - again. I can see you going places, he finished off before finding the journal on the ground.

The grandfather clock tolled and he still couldn't think up a first pager. Even consulting the journal didn't help. His night was over, and no words had been written. They'll come tomorrow. And get printed the morning after.

||

The morning after, though, his house was smaller. He had to duck under doorways and kneel at his desk. He had his first pager, but - what was it again? Started typing words, but nothing appeared on the screen. As the clock tolled, all the books in his study flew off their shelves. Buddy took to righting them, aligning them, and felt a stab at his heel when the last one was replaced. He bled, and the rug, like a paper towel, absorbed it - turning crimson all throughout. The broken lamp was still broken there on the ground, he noticed - and it was on. Shining red, the same hue as the carpet, the same hue as the other, still intact lamp. There was a fire burning inside the bulb, which had fused back together - the air surrounding was red hot. He grabbed it, held the bulb to his eye, squeezed it between his fingers. That was him. That was his story.

There was a nib at the other heel. Buddy saw the biter - no bigger than a baseball, a hint of fur that trapped light just the same as dust - retreat under a hole in the rug. He stomped at it, stomped at the dashing bulbous thing, and it escaped. Escaped every time, sped up just enough to escape each time. He pulled out books, throwing them at the thing as it ran around and around the room and kept finding moments to bite at his feet and the rug got redder. He threw the other lamp in the room, but the thing escaped. Again.

It ran into the living room, still under that shag carpeting. Buddy chased it. He threw a chair over his head, but the thing weaved again and was gone - gone towards the basement. It didn't come out, still dashing underneath, from under the shag carpet to under the concrete. It pushed up the stone like rubber, tracing each step exactly.

Buddy fell towards the bottom, but caught himself. The thing under the ground was shimmying towards the industrial printer - into the printer, the surface of his printer. He kicked at it, and when that didn't get it, he turned the printer on. As newsprint wound through the intricate system, Buddy smashed against the sides, willing the thing out - wherever it was. Smoke started to bellow out the vents, its dull bitterness clogging the air. Flames erupted from the top and poured down the sides, like some awful waterful. But, before they enveloped the basement, one paper was printed, Buddy's portrait on the front page:

LEASLEAN EDITOR FOUND DEAD IN HOUSE FIRE.

And, on the second:

MAPLE STREET FRAUD.