Thursday photo prompt: Knock #writephoto

You have quite a pair of knockers,” he said, eyeing my chest.

It was early October and this guy’s superstore t-shirt, low-end jeans, and franchise salon haircut screamed, “poor college student from up north.” 

I held the slender stem of a Mai Tai glass and presented him with a light smile.  


“Thank you,” I said. “They’re the best that money can buy.”

He laughed.  “I know the fake from real.  I’m a plastic surgeon.”

“Then you’re not a very good one,” I chuckled.

He frowned for a moment, then bounced back with a smile.  “If you want a second opinion, I’ll examine them for free.”

Ah…a challenge.  

Dave, our neighborhood bartender, wandered over to my position. “Everything all right?”

I nodded yes.

“Let’s go to my place,” I said, taking his hand to lead him out the door.  “I live around the corner.”

Dave shrugged his shoulders, moving on to his next customer.

Wind swept loose papers down an alley, and yet there was no breeze anywhere else.  

We passed another alley that formed a crossroad dividing businesses from homes over 100 years old.  A waning sun hung over the tattered remains of a once vibrant community as we wandered up the stone steps of a 2-story hovel in need of a paint job.  I rubbed a finger over the blue, horned devil sprouting a knocker from his nose.

“You…live…here?”  My suitor stuttered.

“Why not?”  I asked.  “The rent is cheap.”

The door creaked open to reveal a room with pine paneling, a couch, chair and coffee table on one side, a 60-year-old kitchen on the other. Through the open door, a double bed with immaculate covers lay in wait.

“Gladys,” a weary voice echoed from the walls.

“I thought your name was Serena,”  my suitor said.

“It is, but Horace died over 50 years ago and thinks I’m his wife.” 

The house began to shimmy just a little.  I pretended not to notice.

“Wh…what’s that?”  

“Horace is a jealous lover,”  I chuckled.  

My suitor spied a bra hanging over a drying rack, his lust for the bust overcoming his fear.  He touched it, wanting to explore the container prior to the contents it protected.  Inside the breast-like double D padding was space for a size 34 AA.

“I make them myself,” I said.  “I use gel pads to mimic the real thing.”

The voice of Horace filtered out of the walls. “He is indeed a worthy sacrifice.  One more victim and I will leave Satan’s realm to be with you in this world.”  

“How…how…uh, did Gladys die?”  My suitor asked.

From the top floor, a chain saw started up. Doors began to open and close, slamming home the point.

“Horace was a logger.”

The house shook harder, blood began to pour from the walls and fire shot out of the old kitchen stove, throwing cast iron burners into the air.  

My suitor ran through the door screaming, “God help me!”

“Thanks for getting rid of another one, Dave,” I said.  “This year’s haunted house should be a real hit at Halloween.”


© Joelle LeGendre 2017