He didn't want to move, he never did, but he decided that it would be best all around if he
did. He was going to be alone this time, his wife had died a few months ago and his children
were grown-up and moved out. He sighed as he pulled out his old copy of Stephen King's "The
Shining." He was fascinated by King's style of writing, something he himself had tried but had
not succeeded. He reached for his reading glasses, a truly dismal pair, dismantled by years of
frequent use. He knew he no longer needed them, his eyes had long since passed the small
amount of magnification they offered, but he wore them more out of habit. Amos Erin Coy was
an elderly man, obsessed with his rituals and routines. He hardly ever visited his children, for he
was too occupied by his constant urge to read. He had this dream that one day, even at his old
age, he would become a writer. Of course, he could very well become a writer, but he wanted to
be the best writer. Until he could weave a book better than the king of horror himself, Amos
would keep his growing stack of manuscripts in his moldy basement. He settled back in his
reclining chair, marked by decades of use, and began to read. About three-quarters through it,
he sat up and set his glasses by the table. His telephone began to ring at the very same moment.
With a grunt, he slowly made his way to it. He never much cared for telephones, or any modern
day equipment for that matter. He only had the telephone because his neighbors bought it for
him so that they could call and complain about the chickens being too loud in the morning or
whatnot. A fresh, sweet voice greeted him from the other line, inquiring about some sort of
hearing appliance. Amos slammed the telephone back against the wall and leaned back on his
counter. He absentmindedly ran his rough fingers across the dented wood covering it. He would
miss this place, not because it was where his children grew up in, nor even because his wife had
died in it, but for the joy and contentment that had slowly crept over the house during his stay in
it. Yes, he would indeed miss this place.
YOU ARE READING
Amos Erin Coy
HorrorAmos's weary eyes gazed at the front door from under his bushy eyebrows that had been in need of extensive trimming since the day his wife passed. He released a sigh and pulled the handle of the creaking door which would bring him the most memorable...
