Last Inspection

If a cold hand signaled a warm heart, the talons gripping the bungalow's roof must hold a very warm hearth. Stalactites as thick as Ray's arm groped their way earthward from the roof, glistening with rainbow sparkles in the waning sunlight. The snow pack pressed its way up the peaked roof towards the brick chimney blowing woodsy smoke rings into the chill evening sky.

Ray shook his head to toss the fanciful image off as he fumbled for his clipboard. This was his final home inspection, not just for the day, but for his term. He'd taken the early retirement option offered by the city, with full pension and benefits, so he could travel to a warm place in January and leaving behind the thankless job amid weeks of sunless snow packed days and irate homeowners. He was only thinking of their safety when he wrote them up for overloaded circuits and illegal coal burners which should have been discarded with the advent of convection furnaces. Some residents, like old Mr. Bean here, sought not to maintain an old world lifestyle, but merely to save some of their hard-earned money. He felt some sympathy for Mr. Bean, who was old enough to maybe be the original owner, but Ray didn't want to leave behind unfinished business for the depleted cadre of inspectors. He pulled his coat tight across his chest to ward off the biting cold, grabbed his clipboard with the felt-tip pen attached, and marched up the carefully shoveled walkway to the front door. He flinched and put his arm over his head, reflexively shielding it against the threatening stalactites as he rang the doorbell once, then again. He didn't want to knock for fear the noise or vibration would bring one of the icicles crashing down where he stood.

He didn't have to wait long, as Mr. Bean peered through the leaded glass in the door, then opened the door, beckoning him enter. A breath of warm air rushed past Ray as the door closed, redolent of a coal fire, not woodsmoke. There must be an old exposed furnace or burner. He told Mr. Bean that several neighbors had complained of the soot from his chimney blending with the snow on their cars and in their clothing, leaving a pungent odor. Ray said he would just check the fireplace for creosote buildup and ventilation for Mr. Bean's and the neighbors' safety and be on his way.

Mr. Bean gripped a cane from the umbrella stand by the front door and turned towards the living room, gripping tightly the dragon's head at the top of the cane. He stopped by the fireplace and nodded towards the empty wood grate. Ray leaned up and checked the cold, closed flue. He placed an 'x' by the box for fireplace. If this wasn't the source of the smoke, then where was it coming from?

Mr. Bean appeared to sense his question before he had a chance to ask, tapping with his cane as he shuffled along the hardwood floor towards the back of the house. He stopped at a door in the kitchen and spoke for the first time.

“You want to see how I keep my home warm these cold nights?”

“I just want to make sure that you and your neighbors are safe; that there aren't any gas leaks that might cause an explosion.”

“You want to see, then come this way. Perhaps you'll join me in some supper after your inspection. I'm preparing some stew,” Mr. Bean said, pointing the dragon-head of his cane towards the bubbling pot on the gas stove.

“Thank you, but I'm heading off to warmer climes once I leave here and turn in my final report.”

Mr. Bean nodded towards the open doorway and Ray took first one step, then another, down the stairs, the full moon shining through the kitchen window providing enough light to not only see the stairs, but what lay beyond. Mouth agape, Ray turned back towards the kitchen. His eyes followed the path of the cane as the dragon handle met his forehead and he tumbled, unaware of the number of steps to the basement floor, not feeling his leg break as it caught on the bottom rung. At least not until he woke, tied to a metal chair across from the source of the heat.

It was an old coal stove, and hungry orange flames quickly wrapped themselves around the coal Mr. Bean served through the opening with a bent coal shovel.

“You said you wanted to go someplace warm, well you can stay here, with us,” Mr. Bean nodded towards the couple watching him work. “My brother and sister enjoy a little company,” he continued.

Brother and sister, they looked about a hundred years old, so wrinkled and bent and with such vacant eyes; eyes that watched him not with questioning intelligence, but rapacious hunger.

“Look, call for help, no, just let me go, I'll crawl up the stairs, broken leg and all, and look, I'm marking your inspection final, and passed.” Ray made the notation and signed with the red felt-tip pen.

Mr. Bean took the clipboard and grinned, appearing now as hungry as the other two, who shuffled towards Ray. “We passed the inspection, that's good, but you've failed your test. We gave you a choice and you chose to leave, so leave you shall. You know, we don't just eat brains.”

Ray screamed, once, as the coal shovel smashed across his broken leg, exposing bone and marrow through the shredded flesh of his calf. Maybe he just dreamed his last sight, of Mr. Bean pulling the bone from his leg and sucking the marrow as the flesh of his calf was tossed into the raging oven.

The warm hearth blew smoke rings skyward as icy talons gripped the eaves, icicles crackling liquid red in the waxing moonlight.


Wordcount 991