Almost Lost My Groceries

It’s not what you’re thinking. I wasn’t bilious. I had to get away from the nuthouse.

I entered my blog, letting the heavy security door slam behind me. I had come here because I just wanted to get away from it all. I glanced over my shoulder. The door hadn’t shut all the way. I walked back and tugged it to. Safe and secure, away from the crazy crunchiness of the common herd. Just me, alone.

“What brings you here?” It was my Phantom, Moriarty, the Phantom of My Blog, peering at me around the corner from the kitchen. His face looked an odd ashen gray as he spoke.

“You sound like the aides in my doctor’s office when I arrive for my prescribed visit,” I said to him: What brings you here today? Oh, nothing better to do; just thought I’d drop by….

I heard a scrambling and sliding of a lot of feet on the slippery kitchen floor. Dickens, his black, fluffy dog, had stood up and raced around the corner to greet me, all wiggly and bff-bff-bffing. He must have been otherwise focused on the food and didn’t hear me enter.

“Oh, I didn’t think you’d be here,” I said to Moriarty, scratching Dickens behind his ears and bending down for his slobbery kisses. “I thought you’d be at your zither lesson.

“What’s that burning? I smell something burning. It’s smoky in here.”

“It’s the cheese,” Moriarty said. “I just got back. I’m baking macaroni and cheese from that recipe Thomas Jefferson brought us from France. But I’ve burned it. Just like he did last time he was here.”

He was downcast. “Well, you’re not Thomas Jefferson,” I said.

“I thought I could make up for it,” he said. The gray clouds gathered more on his face.

I had stepped in it. I attempted to edit my remark: “I mean it’s not like you’ve penned The Declaration of Independence or done anything notable like that.”

I had hurt his feelings. Sometimes I amaze myself at the thought that goes into my speech.

“Look, I don’t have to be here,” he said. “How many blogs or Substack posts do you read where a phantom physically engages in the backstage work or emerges from around the corner in the kitchen to actually comment to the author after reading her work? Or to tell a captivating story, himself. If you ask me, that’s accomplishing something notable. And I’m a good cook; well, except for this cheese bit. Anyway, where is this story going?”

We moseyed into the kitchen. I opened the fridge. “Aach!! Who put the red Zin in the fridge?!” I exclaimed.

“Must’ve been Poe’s friend,” said Moriarty.

“Poe’s friend?”

“Yeah, Fortunato. Poe was here. They were here earlier today. He brought his friend Fortunato. Guy who’s in the market for a quality cask of Amontillado. Doesn’t know not to refrigerate red wines, apparently.”

Dickens barked softly. Twice. And then again.

“What’s that thumping noise?” I asked.

“What thumping noise?”

Dickens barked again.

“Listen. Under the floorboards,” said Moriarty.

“It’s coming from the cellar,” said I.

We listened. Moriarty opened the door that led down the dusky stairwell out of the kitchen.

Thump. Thump-thump. Dickens barked, this time loudly.

“Someone’s down there,” said Moriarty.

Thump. Thump-thump-thump. Thump. Thump. That tell-tale sound.

Moriarty headed down the steps. Dickens backed up into the kitchen. “I’m not headin’ down there,” I thought I heard him say.

“Don’t you want a flashlight?” I asked Moriarty.

“No, I’m all right,” he said. “I can see.”

Oh, right. He’s a phantom. I guess he can see in the dark. I headed down the first few steps and then stopped, just far enough to view the cellar in the dimness.

Thump! Thump!-Thump!-Thump! Louder. It was a muffled banging.

I turned and looked up at Dickens. He lay at the top of the steps, panting and sniffing.

I noticed that I was shivering. It’s not cold, I thought.

Moriarty went over to a tall, wooden storage cabinet that stood against the far wall. The cabinet held a couple of garden rakes, a straight straw and a flathead broom, a mop and bucket, and two snow shovels. That I knew, though I never went down there. That was one of Moriarty’s jobs that was so notable. He reached up and released the bolt near the top and then lifted the latch midway down the door.

There was a moaning and a, almost a howling, “Whoa. Ow. Wow.”

I turned to go back up the steps. Clearly, Dickens would need some company. I shivered. I nearly stepped on his paws and I knocked over a bag of groceries I had brought with me and had left sitting on the counter.

“Fortunato! What are you doing here?!” I heard Moriarty say. “I thought you left with Poe.”

“Oh, phew! Thank you. I thought I was going to die in there,” said Fortunato. “Thank you. I went in there to hide. Poe was going to make me dust. The blog is so dusty. Poe hates dust. I don’t mind it. I didn’t want to dust. I was just looking for a cask of good Amontillado.” His words sluiced out all in a rush. “Poe, if you ask me, is a bit OCD. He saw the bolt was loose and slid it shut. And there I was.”

I shivered again. And it was so dark.

I looked at the clock on my phone. It was 3 a.m. I had been dreaming. The room had chilled. I pulled up the blankets.

“Isn’t that a great story?!” exclaimed Moriarty. “See? I can also write. How many phantoms can write stories? That’s something notable to ponder.”

I laid down the manuscript, smiling undemonstratively — didn’t want to let on how much I liked it — and went into the kitchen and put away the groceries I had brought to the blog.

~Samantha, with Moriarty

Buy me a red Zinfandel