The Hedges Grow Wild

The house across the street could be a bit rowdy at times, but they kept it inside and it never was a problem. They were part of the city’s rugby team and you know what rugby players are like: they prefer their meat raw and, if possible, still on the cow. Their drink of choice came in a keg, rolling into the house on a fairly regular basis.

Other than that, they seemed ok and the owner was a good guy. He kept the place up, at least on the outside, and was a good neighbor. A few other who hung out there never seemed to fit the profile of athletes. Chuggers, yes, and possibly more. But they kept it to themselves and bothered nobody.

Until the day when the driver of an 18-wheeler showed up with his cab (only). He seemed to hang around in the thing for some time, then we’d find just the cab and apparently he would be in the house. Strange guy, strange place to park the front part of your truck. Just a bit odd.

Then came the day that some weird resident of the cellar came out screaming and running around. The cops followed, then the ambulance. The owner, who had been taking pain pills for an injury, went over the edge on them. Or them and something else. It was all over for 201 North Franklin and its odd assortment of boarders and visitors.

The house is deserted and the owner, the deceased’s father, has done nothing. The hedges grow wild.