The Talking Key (Editing)

.1- The Ghost and The Little Boy

The Ghost and The Little Boy

 It was a calm night, with the lonely moon hovering at the clear autumn sky. The notorious streets of the village became a painting adorned by tall shaded houses and thick trees. A lone leaf felt its end when it was gently torn from the branch, dancing in rhythm until landing on to the muddy floor and being stepped on by hurrying feet. The burglar had weary eyes, only visible feature from his face covered in rags and dirt. He arrived in the village rushed, and he was rushed to leave, but not empty-handed. The calm in his fast moves demonstrated his astuteness and experience. His hand, previously hidden in the pocket of his baggy dark pants now held a unique glow to that night, the reflection of the moon in a golden key.

"What shall be my destination?" sounded his voice, smooth and quiet. "Which of these homes appear to be the wealthiest one?"

"None of them, idiot!" answered the voice only he could hear. "You came to a poor village, what you expect to steal here, dirt and bird feces?"

"Be quiet, will you? You know how hard it is to steal from the rich. They pay people to beat you if you try."

"Oh, he's a little girl. A little girl afraid of getting beaten. I did not know you were a little girl, little girl."

"Quiet!"

 A distant light shone on to the burglar's sight, a peasant left his home still in his nightgown with a candle in hands. He had narrowed and suspicious eyes while examining the surroundings, stirred by voices. The burglar lay down to the ground, with hands and feet drenched in cold mud while the resident progressed on his search.

"You put me in the mud, you put me in the mud!" complained the voice. "Take me away you will get me rusty!"

"Be quiet!"

 The old resident didn't leave the porch of his house; he simply yawned and went back in, not before cleaning the mud from the sole of his feet in the carpet. The burglar was once again standing with dauntless eyes, fierce in his quest.

"Now, I will get to one of these houses." he stated, aware of the surroundings. "But, which one?"

"Go on that old man's house. Go there and steal his gown."

"Silence, I've made my choice. The house at my right seems to have valuable belongings."

 The house was small, built by white stones and few bricks, framed by softwood. The roof was incomplete and, if the rain showed its grace, great would be the disgrace. The front door was of reinforced wood, seeming to have already been knocked down before, and it had the back of a chair leaning against it. The burglar gently removed the chair, and placed the golden key in the door lock. A simple movement and he was inside the house, faced with a dimly lit and nearly empty room.

"I warned you." taunted the voice as the burglar remained unstable at the sight. "To steal from someone in this village first you must steal FOR them."

 The burglar refused to accept he had just wasted his time, he believed in the existence of something even slightly valuable in that house that he could put his hands into. Continuing his quest he came across the small room where a couple and their young son slept, and the kitchen, where the shelf of provisions only gathered dust and spider web. The voice giggled at the burglar's incompetence, and advised him to leave, but he wouldn't.

"I shall not leave with empty hands." he declared, in low tone.

"Sure, so here's a hint. If you're as poor as mice, and you have in mind that absolutely anyone could get into your house and take the little you have, what would you do?"