One Word Prompts

Angular - The Man

It was a crooked building, all angles and corners. It had four walls, as any good building should, but the western side leaned inward, the eastern leaned out, so the entire thing looked as if it was leaning east.

The roof was a slanted sheet of tile, bowing inward in the center, jutting upward along the edges. It had been replaced countless times, each time making the peculiar shape all the more pronounced.

A good number of windows were spaced over the leaning walls. Most were soot covered panes, the frames warped and the curtains within faded to an unidentifiable beige. But to those looking at the house, it seemed they'd been placed at random for they did not lie along the same horizontal axis. Rather, they varied in height from eye level by the door to a foot off the floor to an inch from the ceiling, with no apparent pattern or reason.

The door too was perplexing. There were a good pair of sturdy doors, but the handles had been put on backwards, so that the lock's nobs were outside and (presumably) the part the key went in was inside. This was only assumed, though, as none could say they had ever seen the inside of the door.

In fact, despite the house having stood on that corner as long as anyone could remember, none could say they had ever seen the resident leave. Or any guest enter.

Which wasn't to say no one had ever seen the man who lived there. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Few could say they had never seen him through the grime covered windows. Few could claim he hadn't ever stared at them as they walked past. But none could claim, that when they spotted him, that he hadn't been staring back at them.

Any could tell you he was an old man. Even reports of him from ten or twenty years had him as old. He'd always been old, as long as the collective neighborhood could remember. He had a sharp jaw and a long narrow nose. The nose appeared to have been broken once, it bent half way down the bridge, although which direction it was turned varied from account to account. They said he had thin lips, perpetually scowling. At least none claimed he'd ever been smiling when they'd seen him. His eyes were deep set, beneath heavy eyebrows. Some claimed they were ice blue, others said they were steel grey, all agreed there was something malicious about them, though few would pin down what made them say that.

By all accounts he was a tall man, time putting only the most moderate of hunches in his back, just so he didn't quite stand straight, but not so much as to diminish his considerable height. Like a spider, his limbs were all long, his body narrow, like he'd slip right through the cracks of the pavement if he were ever to step outside. His fingers in particular were long and nimble, like a pianist or a puppet master's. He often rubbed them together, like one looking for warmth, or one washing their hands, or rejoicing over newly counted wealth.

Why he did this, in particular, why he did this while staring at those who looked into his home, none knew. None of his actions made any sense to his neighbors. Not his tendency to stroke his chin in slow motions. Not how he narrowed his eyes as he made eye contact with strangers. Not how he would wave people closer, just to walk away himself.

He, and his home, were a mystery to the neighborhood, shrouded in uncertainty and raising countless questions. But most kept their distance. Mother's warned their children to give the house wide birth. The postman never stopped at his door, even when junk mail requested his address. Solicitors skipped it on instinct. Robbers did not even consider it among their targets. Even religious and cultist converters gave it a pass.

Everyone had the power to unlock his door. Anyone could unlock it and stroll in, could walk up and ask him any one of the many questions his existence raised.

Not a soul ever did.

So, the house had stood since time immemorial. So, the man existed, since the house had come to be. So, it remained, and would remain, until time ran out and no souls remained.