It's Not About What Happend

by WhatsInside

Mr. Robson was always kind of different, I mean look at the way he lives his life. I was 14 years old the first time I met him, my parents had recently split and here I was, 2 months after the divorce, moving in with my mother in New Orleans.

It was always difficult trying to adjust in a new town. I mean, I had to find new friends and more importantly, help my mother adjust to our new life. It wasn't too bad until the night that I will never forget happened.

It was just past midnight on a Saturday night in the fall, when the sounds of emergency vehicle sirens screamed through the night sky. Police cars blazed by our house making a screeching turn into the driveway of the house at the end of our street. My mother and I both worried about what may have occurred during such a calm evening.

The police remained at the house most of the night. Several new vehicles arrived as the night progressed, the coroner as well as emergency paramedics. It was clear an investigation was underway. We had received no news about what had happened as the night progressed. The thoughts of what could have caused such a huge and creepy felling scene in my new neighborhood kept me awake much of that night.

The next day at school there was talk and rumors about what had happened. "Did you hear what happened at the McGregor's house last night" said one kid hanging out in the school cafeteria. "I heard that the police found the bodies of the McGregor's brutally mutilated" said Trent. There were lots of stories about what had happened last night floating around the school that day, but one thing was for certain, whatever happened was bad.

Shortly after starting high school, halfway through the 9th grade, I was fortunate enough to meet some interesting people. Things started to get better for me. I was meeting new people, learning about all the great places to hang out, where to score some sweet deals at the arcade and where to bring a girl on the first date.

The people I was meeting were great and life was finally starting to get good. Until I met him. I can't really find the words to describe him, but what I can say is that he appeared to be in his late 50's, white hair, ghostly colored mustache and goatee and spectacles that looked like they were from the 80's.

Everyday when I would arrive home from school, or after coming home from seeing an amazing flick with some good people, I would see Mr. Robson peaking from behind a curtain in his rugged detached town home. I was never too sure what he was always doing up during these late hours, but one thing was for sure, it was creepy.

Remain Unfinished

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