Sunny

 It was a sunny and clear day.

I know that’s a shite way to start a story, believe me. I’m seventy-something years old. I’ve read my fair share of shite books. And usually, they begin with that bastarding line. 

Sunny and Clear. 

Bright and Warm. 

Whatever, take your pick. I’ve even read one that described the color of the sunset for the first two pages. As if I give a fuck.

But hear me out. Listen to me, like. 

It was sunny and clear. Middle of June. Every day was Sunny and Clear. And that’s my point. When I woke up that morning, everything should’ve been the same. 

I did my usual routine. Shite, shower, shave, usually in that order, sometimes not. Hit the kettle, and opened the curtains in the kitchen. I filled Bruno’s bowl with food. Bruno’s my dog. Well, was my dog. And I just so happened to find, that this day was about as normal a’ day as you could ask for. What’s the word— mundane, is it? Mundane.

 Quiet. Soft breeze. Soft blue sky. Baby blue. It’s important to tell you this because everything seemed to be in order. In fact, the only thing that was even slightly out of routine was that Highland Radio actually answered my telephone call and played my request through the old Alamy. Brad Paisley sang of fishin’ and spendin’ days on the lake. 

This next one is for Jack from Burndennett, the host choked through the static. Never heard of the place, have you, Gary? Well, Jack, I hope this brightens up your mornin’ coffee!

And so it did. The coffee tasted great. Now, I can barely remember what I made for dinner yesterday, but I remember that coffee. 

So I watched Bruno skip and gallop around the back garden. Big clumsy dog, he was. And I sipped on my coffee and I hummed along to Paisley’s lake-shore antics.

My house was a detached wee bungalow. Cramped affair, it was, but enough for an old man living by himself. There were five other houses in Burndennett, all attached in a single row, shoulder-to-shoulder, looking out over the fields and hills and farms. Four of them were occupied. But the middle one wasn’t. Not until that morning. 

There was a young boy about ten years old in Number One that was convinced that particular house was haunted. I remember his Mammy, Laura you call her, showing me his Santa Letter the year before. He wanted a Real Ghostbusters Kit. I couldn’t help but laugh. It did look like a house from Enfield, with its curtainless windows and dark, empty rooms. I’m pretty sure that’s where Laura’s little lad got the idea from, that bloody Enfield shambles that was all over the news.

Anyway, Sunny and Clear. Yes. Very much so. Not a beat out of tune. Jolly good. But when Paisley sang his last note and I swallowed my last gulp of coffee, there should’ve been a few moments of morning silence. I mean, I’ve never been one for meditation or any of that shite. I’ve never sat in a room and crossed my legs and closed my eyes and went ommmm. But I do enjoy five minutes of silence after my cup of coffee. Just to breathe. To listen. 

And so I did. I pushed my coffee aside, turned down the radio, and sat on the back doorstep. Nothing seemed wrong that day. It was so normal. Until it wasn’t. 

At first, the pickup truck could have been a low-flying plane. Faint. Humming. But in a lazy place like Burndennett, where not much moved and even less made noise, it was loud. And getting louder. 

It came up the narrow dirt road, throwing up dirt behind it. A red pickup truck. Its paint was faded and blistering, and in a strange way, I remember thinking it looked sunburnt. It torched past my house at some pace. Those Five Peaceful Minutes in the Morning were cut short. I got up off the step and walked ‘round the side of the house. The dust was still settling from the wheels when I made it to the driveway.

It pulled to a stop outside of that house I was talking about. The empty one is in the middle of the row. The haunted one, according to Laura’s wee boy. I could see four of them pile out of the truck. They weren’t speaking to each other. The father pulled keys out of his jean pocket and unlocked the door of the house, entered, and the rest of them followed in silence.

Not to sound cliche, but that day changed everything. And us poor old folk didn’t even know it yet. And what’s strange to me is… the one thing that sticks out to me like a sore thumb… Is just how fucking Sunny and Clear that morning was. Like nothing had happened. Like nothing would ever happen. But it had. We had a new neighbor.

The devil arrived on that beautiful morning.