Mr. Turner’s old home looks decrepit as I pull into the remains of the gravel drive, stopping well short of the carport that appears to support more of that old structure than ever before, lest my car become trapped beneath the rubble the moment the carport decides its burden is no longer worth the effort. I remind myself that Mr. Turner’s house was always in a ruinous condition. The difference now is that the home sits empty, currently no more than a husk, though there was a time those walls held a collection of books no less impressive than that my father gathered in Addieville’s library.
No trespassing signs are posted upon all of the home’s exterior walls, but they fail to give me much caution as I circle the home, letting my memory slide back to the few days I shared with Mr. Turner, days that shaped me more than I could imagine three decades ago. I look over my shoulder, but I have no sense that anyone is peeking at me through curtained windows. I doubt those in town care enough to keep an eye out for trouble anymore on the properties of their neighbors. I’m more concerned with whatever might be hiding inside of Mr. Turner’s empty home. I try not to imagine the addicts who might’ve pushed their way through those plywood boards still blocking Mr. Turner’s windows to find a little solace for their chemical pleasures. I try not to imagine fighting for my life against some man or woman who jumps out of that home to rage against my trespass, to shriek against the disturbance I deliver to their stupor. If Addieville’s populace truly turned undead just like Mr. Turner promised thirty years ago, I can’t think of a better home in which those zombies might hide.
Fortunately, my business doesn’t wait for me in that home’s hallow rooms. My arms carried Mr. Turner’s cherished books out from his house long ago. I’ve not forgotten where we assembled that pyre, and no monster leaps upon me as I pass the final window before arriving in the backyard where Mr. Turner started his burn.