WWE Trollstar

Smart Hole

Guys. I had fallen in a hole for a few month and escape it. Now i'm back in it. Help me.

The hole is something like this story

There are certain things in this world that are constant, unchanging with no regards to the passage of time. No matter the era, there is war, there is money, there is greed. Each generation has its share of hatred and unjust death. There will always be crime and tragedy. These constants are things that are known and, to some extent, understood.

But there is something else that I know to be true, something perfectly cemented in time and space that the world seems to have overlooked:

Mrs. Baker owns the house at the end of Willow Street.

I know that this must seem a little strange to you. Please, give me just a few minutes to explain.

You see, Mrs. Baker wasn’t just any old woman in my old neighborhood. In fact, many of us didn’t think of her as a woman at all. She was more of a landmark, someone who had been there even before our parents, and would continue to exist long after all us little birdies had flown the nest. And, for as long as she’d been alive, she had owned a shabby little shack with peeling paint and squeaky shutters at the tail end of Willow Street.

For most of us still alive in the neighborhood, she had existed for all of eternity. She wasn’t born, and she wouldn’t die. She just… was.

Of course, logic tells us that even Mrs. Baker came from somewhere. I was told that she immigrated to our little town from France. Her first name was Camille, although nobody could ever pronounce it right. Her husband, an American whose first name has long been forgotten, brought her over after a whirlwind romance in Paris. He had died early, leaving her alone, childless.

All by herself, in the house on Willow Street.

By all accounts, Mrs. Baker was unremarkable. She was kind and friendly, in as much as social protocol demanded. She liked to sit on her front porch, surveying the unkempt grass as she embroidered yellowing hand towels. She had a cat that very well may have been as old as herself – he had gray fur and all the neighborhood kids called him Fluffy, as we were fairly unoriginal children. The only thing that set Mrs. Baker apart from the other residents was her apparent immunity to life and death – in all the time I lived there, I never saw her age, I never saw her change.

But that’s not why I remember Mrs. Baker now.

Mrs. Baker didn’t talk to the kids in our neighborhood very much. I always had the feeling that she disliked children. I had spoken with her a few times because my mom had dragged me to her house – my mom had a fascination with embroidery and spent a few afternoons sitting in Mrs. Baker’s musty old living room, taking lessons from the old crone. I didn’t mind Mrs. Baker, because she always gave me chocolate chip cookies and let me play with Fluffy. Since she never really talked to me, however, I assumed that she wasn’t very fond of me.

That assumption was challenged one foggy morning in early April.

School was out for some kind of break, so I had naturally risen before the crack of dawn to get the most out of my few free days. I’d driven my mom insane in a matter of minutes and she’d sent me to play outside before she was forced to slaughter me where I stood (her words, not mine).

I was playing with some action figures when I saw Mrs. Baker standing outside her house, watching me.

Of course, she lived all the way at the end of the street, a good four houses away from me, so I couldn’t really tell if she was looking at me or not. Except that I could feel her eyes on me. Like she was trying to call out to me with something other than her voice. And she succeeded, because I was so intrigued that I found myself standing up from the damp grass and taking a tentative step down the street.