Free The Lost Door by Marc Buhmann Page B

experience a longing for home. It was an intense feeling, one he couldn’t shake. The days leading up to David driving into town revealed little more than hints. Dreams or visions, truth or fiction, he felt a yearning as if some great wrong would soon be set right.
    David stood outside 462 Baker Street, the home he’d owned with Lilly. Before coming here he’d gone back to the cabin where things had changed. For one the roadway had been cleared of the fallen tree. When he’d crested the hill he saw the house taped off with yellow police tape, a squad car parked in front. A crime scene? He saw no one outside and backed away. Last thing he wanted to do was be questioned by the cops. With the cabin temporarily off limits he’d decided to go to his old home and search for the necklace Lilly had shown him.
    It used to be a pristine white one-story box with a picket fence, but now both were rundown, paint peeling. It hurt seeing the home he’d shared with his wife for forty years decaying like this. This place was a trove of memories, but now it looked like death had crept in.
    He wondered who owned it now, if it was the same family whom he sold it to twenty years back, or if it was someone new? He knew looks could be deceiving, but it seemed the place had been all but abandoned. That’d be a shame. They’d always taken such good care of the property, making sure it had a fresh painting every few years.
    The picket fence door sat askew, the latch uneven and unable to stay shut. It groaned when David pushed it open, the bottom wood scraping on the concrete. He noted the window shades were drawn as he walked along the concrete path between overgrown sections of grass. Stepping onto the porch he knocked.
    And waited.
    No one answered. He tried again, and after a full minute decided that no one was home. The door handle felt familiar, but the door wouldn’t open. It was too much to hope for, he supposed, to have it unlocked.
    “Mr. Rottingham?”
    He turned to the aged yet sweet voice. His old neighbor, Cynthia McCormick, stood on her porch, mail in hand.
    “Is that you?” she asked.
    “Indeed it is,” he said stepping off the porch with a smile. “I didn’t expect to see you.”
    The shock on her face was obvious. “I can say the same. What are you doing here?” She met him at the fence.
    “Good will tour.”
    She laughed politely and slapped his arm with the mail. “Would you like to come in and have a cup of coffee?”
    “Thank you, no. I have somewhere to be in a little while. Had time to kill so I figured I’d check out the old homestead.”
    Her warmth darkened a bit. “Shame what’s happened to the place. You and Lilly always kept it up so nice. You were the envy of the neighborhood.”
    He chuckled. “I doubt that. What happened though?”
    “The Reeds—they’re the ones you sold it to. Frank ended up losing his job, and when that happened they fell into foreclosure. They ended up moving, and the place has been vacant ever since. Twelve, thirteen years. Something like that.”
    “Thirteen, huh?”
    “Baker’s dozen.”
    “So the bank owns it now?”
    “Yeah. We’ve been trying to get them to have someone come out and do some work on it, spruce it up a bit, but so far they’ve balked. I don’t know how they expect to sell it if it looks the way it does.”
    He couldn’t hide the acid in his voice. “If they’re going to let it go they should just tear the place down and be done with it.”
    Cynthia pursed her lips. “When did you get back?”
    "Couple days ago. Staying at the inn.” He looked back to the house. “Out of curiosity, let’s say you saw a frail old man breaking into that abandoned house. You wouldn’t call the cops, would you?”
    “If such a man did break in then I didn’t see it,” she said. “I’m sure I was busy doing laundry.”
    He gave her smile. “It was nice talking to you again.”
    “You too. I don’t know how long you’ll be in town, but if you want a