Have your dreams ever got out of hand?
Eric is a photographer, writer, and the nice face for a news publishing company named Trevor News. His job carries different assignments for him daily. But none can compete the oddness of a strange case he was...
17 minutes to the street address he was given, he wasn't surprised to see that it was left alone. He parked his bike off to the side and whipped out his computer. He reread the information he had on it and looked up at the rusty Street sign.
Vermont and 34th. It was nothing but weed, high grass and trees with hanging vines. He looked around until he spotted a big two story white House covered in vines. It's black gate sat lone as the weeds grabbed ahold of it from the bottom, making its way up to the top.
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Erik approached the house, camera in hand, and touched the black gate. Its coldness shot through his gloved hands. He pushed the gate open, letting it creak its way to the finishing end. He took a step forward and analyzed the place.
The front yard was left untended and loose. Plants shriveled up in its resting place and the trees stood high, nearly close to the House's roof. He trailed his eyes from the tree's branch to the top left window in time to catch a dark figure pass by the window and out of sight. Erik inhaled briefly and took carefully steps up the steps.
He was always thrown into situations like these. Little information; in which he had to conduct his own investigation. But that's a part of the surprise. Isn't it?
Erik approached the door and held up his fist. He hesitated at knocking but brought himself to do it and knocked three times.
He breathed in and looked carefully at the door. He could hear nothing but the wind behind him carrying withered dried leaves on the pavement. Erik clenched his jaw. This was probably a set up from the guys. He picked up his phone and turned his back on the door. He waited until he heard a voice.
"Hey. There doesn't seem to be any activity, James. You sure this is the place?" Erik asked, resting a hand on his hip. After he got an answer he nodded. "Fine. I'll wait." He hung up and turned around only to jump at the sight of someone pointing a gun at him. He slowly held up his hands, breathing heavily. He didn't hear him come out unless he was hiding outside in plain sight the whole time.
"Get outta here before I bust your balls like an orange, boy." The owner of the gun gruffed, shaking the gun a tiny bit more to shake Erik up. He's an old man, probably in his sixties, has a beard, and a scar over his left brow running across the bridge of his nose. His lip rose into a visible snarl, flashing a gold tooth at Erik.
Erik eyes the gun and made sure he kept a wide distance between himself and the gun. "I-I mean no harm, sir." Erik began, then the man cut in harshly. You can smell the heavy alcohol in his breath.
"I know ya won't 'cuz I know ya can't. Y'all paperboys come here to dig up some information fer yer fancy bosses, but lemme tell ya one thing," The man then pressed the tip of his gun against Erik's chest. "They all end up running back home with their tail between their God damn legs cuz my story ain't worth the risk to tell." He cocked the gun. "Get out."
Erik didn't feel like pressing the conversation any more further. He felt like turning around, hopping on his vehicle and leaving...but something told him not to. And as crazy as that sounded, he listened to that side and risked it all.
"No." Erik responded and put his hands down. Once those words escaped his mouth, he saw amazement and surprise in the old man's eyes. As if this was the first time this has ever happened. Too bad it was the last thing he was ever going to see. Because the old man's face shifted from surprise to anger and stroke Erik's head with the butt of his gun before he could respond.
A flash of blood red bled into his vision. Erik fell hard to the ground on the spot cold, and drifted off into the darkness.
