Finster

The story you are about to read was a writing assignment. I was given the first paragraph, and told to finish the story. For each paragraph, there was one fact that I had to expound on. Without further explanation, I give you Finster.



      

   I remember the walk home that night very well. It was late in October, near the end of the month, I think. It had been a cold day, and there were dark clouds piling up in the west. They had hidden the setting sun and were moving quickly over me, for there was a strong wind blowing. The dark and bare trees along the lonely road creaked and moaned as they were blown this way and that. Their branches seemed to reach and clutch at me like old and thin hands. As I hurried along, I noticed that the light of my friend's house had disappeared around the bend, and the few houses on the road were dark.



I hurried on. Like it or not, I had to pass the old Finster house. I tried not to look at it as I passed, but I just couldn't help it.



Finster had been a grumpy old man. He had warned the ice cream man never to set tire on his street. The truck made too much noise, he said. Thomas, who operated the truck, decided to ignore his warning. "No crotchety old man is gonna boss me around." After making his rounds on Finster's street, Thomas went home. Rumor had it, that an old man had followed Thomas with a loaded .45 pistol tucked into his coat. No one ever saw the ice cream man again.



Shivering, I tried to warm myself with the fact that the rumor had been started by the town gossip. Keeping my eyes on the house, with its tall black towers, I was not a bit comforted. That house seemed as forbidding as the owner himself had been. Somehow, I couldn't imagine anyone living in such a dreary dwelling. How in the world did Finster live there, with no connections in the outside world, I wondered. And what could you do in an empty house for 70 years? Count piles of gold, maybe. Speaking of gold, the little that was left of daylight would soon be gone. I would have to hurry to get home before it was too dark to see my path. 

However, before I could start running, a motion in the corner of my eye made me turn and stare at a dingy curtain hanging in one of the third story windows. There it was again. Just a slight movement, but unmistakable the second time. Someone, or something was in there. Again, and again the curtain moved. It couldn't be the wind, for the wind had died down a few minutes ago, and not a single breeze penetrated the chilly night air. Peering closer, I was able to barely make out a hand idly moving the curtains. By the wrinkled and bony appearance of the hand, and the fact that now a narrow, cruel face peeped through the window, my assumption was that this mysterious being was an old man. 

But who could this be? Finster had had no relatives, and he had died a year ago. The for sale sign was still out by the road, with an even lower price on it than yesterday. Why whould anyone want to be in such a creepy house? I broke into a run. I tried to explain to my mom that the reason I was puffing so hard was because I had been running home. She didn't fall for it. "If all you were doing was running, how come you are a white as a sheet?"