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Brick by brick

By P.S. Gifford

Ed paused from his task and took another long, steady swig from his bottle.

“Boy, did I need that,” he said wiping spittle from his chin with the back of his hand, “another forty bricks or so should do it I reckon.”

He returned the bottle safely to the ground adjacent to the clutter of bricks. “This is taking longer than I thought it was going to.”

With that, and with dexterity evident of experience, he positioned the next brick perfectly into place. This was followed by the next brick- and so on. With each brick the task at hand became emotionally easier. In fact, as he worked, he felt absolutely no pangs of guilt. But then really why should he with all that she had done to him over the years. The countless cruel tricks and the endless heartless pranks and all those many times she had embarrassed, teased and humiliated him. Yes, she was the evil one- not him- anyone who had ever set eyes on them together could testify that she had it coming. What he was doing was revenge- pure and simple.

Soon the top of her perfect jet black hair began to be obscured. Hair that he once loved, he remembered the first time he had run his fingers through it – but at that very moment the very thought of it made him squirm. Fighting back exhaustion he continued relentlessly on with the brick setting-without slowing his rhythmic pace- he was getting close now, just a few more. Yes, soon it would be all over. He almost giggled out loud as he placed the very last brick into place, and she was hidden forever- or at least until she was uncovered. How he hoped and prayed that that was a day a very long time in the future indeed.

Then, satisfied at a job well done, he collapsed onto the floor and drowned the last of his bottle. Ed understood that he was going to have to clean up his mess- that he desperately needed to get rid of any clues that he had been there. He further understood that he was going to be the first one that anyone would suspect, and that he was going to have to devise a plan. After all he had not meant any of this to happen when he had woken up that morning- the idea had just come to him- in a moment of madness. Yes, Ed knew all of this, but before he realized what was happening he had succumbed to a deep restful sleep, exhausted from the arduous labor, directly there on the floor immediately in front of his handiwork.

It was the screaming that awakened him. It was loud, terrified, ear-piercing screaming. The sort of screaming that real annoying nine year old spoilt rotten older sisters make when they are incredibly angry at their six year old equally annoying brothers.

Edgar abruptly sat upright instantly wide awake and blinking furiously. The empty chocolate milk bottle rolled off his lap and into his black cat, Poe, who had been slumbering peacefully by his feet. Poe, who had been jubilantly chasing a wounded raven through a mausoleum in a favorite dream of his, awoke with a start and scurried out of the children’s playroom.

“Edgar! Edgar! What have you done to my doll house? You have super- glued Lego bricks in its cellar? And I cannot find my favorite doll Eleonora anywhere? Oh Edgar…I know precisely what you have done! You have buried her alive in the cellar! You are a wretched brother…absolutely wretched.

As she sped towards her doll house, with leaden tears forming in her pea green eyes, and frantically attempted to rescue her favorite doll young Edgar watched on with a wicked smile as another idea for revenge formulated in his young, warped mind.

The end.

P.S. Gifford

P.S. Gifford is a published horror author of great talent. He started submitting stories around 2005. His short stories are by far some of the best and most entertaining that I have read. Around that time he was invited to write columns which are titled "Paperback Writer."

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