Mrs Brooks. I think you should sit down.'
Mrs Brooks sits.
Dr Brown opens his mouth, then shuts it again. Then opens, then shuts.
The problem, you see, is that nobody knows exactly if Mr Brooks is dead, or
not. Except Mr Brooks himself (if in fact he is alive). But there is no way
of contacting the said Mr Brooks because he is quite lost. Yes. Lost. So you
must understand Dr Brown's predicament. He isn't sure how to explain to the
neat woman with a blue cardigan and large, moist brown eyes looking up at
him, that the hospital has lost her husband.
But even if he could tell her what happened, it's doubtful that the good Mrs
Brooks would believe him. Because Mr Brooks has had what can only be called
an 'Extraordinary Day'. It went something like this.
At 7:30 Mr and Mrs Brooks got
out of bed. It was Saturday, and the morning, as usual, had been set aside
for some gardening. So, armed with shovels and trowels, stiff green
gardening gloves and floppy white broad brimmed hats, they set about their
tasks. Mrs Brooks started planting the jasmine vine, while Mr Brooks
trundled down to the garden shed to get the lawn mower.
The garden shed was the shame of the garden. In summer, it was conveniently
forgotten about because as the almond tree grew its leaves, it hid the shed
from view. It was an old wooden structure, slumped half-heartedly against
the fence near the back of the garden. From the outside, it just looked old.
From the inside, it was almost repugnant. Cobwebs lined the air that was
thick with mustiness. Stacks of flower pots collapsed on broken clay pots,
which were dumped behind boxes, above which were shelves of dirty jars. Mr
Brooks shook his head as he pulled out the lawn mower from the corner, where
it had been collecting a thick layer of dust.
Behind him, his wife screamed. Mr Brooks jumped, and turned to see her
pointing at the ground, her eyes so round they seemed to explode from their
sockets.
'There was a spider,' she whispered fervently, as if terrified that the
spider might hear.
Mr Brooks sighed.
'We really must clean up this place. It's turning into a nightmare.'
'I couldn't agree with you more.'
'I'll start this afternoon.'
But here is where the strangeness started. Though Mr Brooks was usually of
such sure and purposeful step, as he exited his own garden shed, for no
reason in particular, he stumbled, fell, and broke his leg.
That Saturday night, as Mr Brooks lay in his hospital bed with a bandaged
leg and on the edge of sleep, he heard a little sneeze
His eyelids opened wearily. At first, he thought the figure bending over him
was a doctor. But as his vision cleared, he saw that it was not human at
all, and he quickly shut his eyes again. He counted to three, and opened his
eyes again.
It was still there. An elf-like creature, dressed in white with its hood
pulled back to reveal a long, pointed face constructed of angles and planes.
The sharp face drew nearer to Mr Brooks until its long, sharp nose was
almost touching his.
'Dust!' the hallucination exclaimed suddenly in a voice as clipped and sharp
as its features. 'Dust! I have no love for it myself. We are similar in that
way, Mr Brooks. But wait, I am getting ahead of myself. I am Brein, Elf
Guardian. And these,' the Elf stepped aside to reveal a dozen little
creatures hanging around the room, 'are Dust Pixies.'
Mr Brooks wondered exactly what was in his sleeping tablets.
The elf paused, waiting for Mr Brooks to respond, while the Dust Pixies
littered the silence with sneezes. But the unfortunate Mr Brooks was quite
beyond any response, so he lay there with his mouth open like a codfish.
Disappointed, the Elf continued.
'Very well then. The situation stands thus. These Dust Pixies, over whom I
have the misfortune to have Guardianship, are the proud inhabitants of your
garden shed.'
'I beg your pardon!' rasped Mr Brooks, having finally regained his voice. 'I
don't have any pixies in my garden shed.'
'Ah. But I'm afraid you do, Mr Brooks.'
One of the pixies alighted herself on Mr Brook's stomach, and flashed him a
wicked grin.
'Sorry we tripped you this morning,' she said in a very unapologetic tone.
'Defending our habitat, y'know. We're an endangered species, us Dust Pixies'
'But it's my garden!' protested Mr Brooks.
'Well it's our garden shed!' retorted the pixie with a scowl. 'Always has
been. Always will be.' Behind her, the rest of the pixie cheered in
agreement. 'And if you don't agree to leave us alone, Brein will turn you
into a big fat spider, and - A choo!' The little Dust pixie let off a sneeze
of such force that it propelled her backwards a good inch.
'Bless you,' murmured Mr Brooks.
'Thank you,' replied the pixie.
'What we are trying so say is that you must agree to three conditions. One,
never clean your shed. Two, make sure that nobody else does, either. Three,
tell nobody what has just happened. If you refuse, I will have to take
some..... ' the Elf paused from dramatic effect and arched one eyebrow
suggestively,' ......drastic measures.'
'You're a hallucination! You can't take any drastic measures!'
The pixies tittered.
'Wrong. I have power of metamorphosing something into something else. And
you will not like being a spider. Now, do you agree to our conditions?'
Mr Brooks did not have a vast life experience. But if there was one
principle left for him to cling onto in this crazy world, it was the
importance of being clean.
Mr Brooks looked Brein straight in his green, piercing eye.
'No.'
Mrs Brooks leaves the hospital in a rush of gulped down tears. Lost?! Her
husband, lost?! She honks her horn and yells at the driver in front of her,
and is picked up by a policeman for speeding. By the time she arrives home,
she is visibly shaken, her normally neat auburn hair frizzing in sympathy.
Now you must understand that Mrs Brooks is not a woman used to being
frazzled or shaken. So she reacts to this new emotion in the only way she
knows. She cleans.
She begins with the kitchen, works her way around the lounge, the bedroom,
the bathroom, the guestroom, the laundry. It is twilight by the time she
finishes the house, and she is exhausted. Then, she notices the garden shed.
Oh, that shed. Her lip curls upwards in what can only be described as a
snarl, and races down to the garden shed, with her broom tucked under her
arm.
Inside, as her keen eye scans the dark, musty shed, looking for the first
place to start, she notices a movement out of the corner of her eye. A
scuttling movement. The movement of a spider scuttling out from the shadows
and into her full view.
Mrs Brooks screams. And with a reaction so swift that even if she knew the
true form of the spider in front of her, she could scarcely stop herself,
she stomps right down on the disgusting little insect with a heeled boot.
The unfortunate Mr Brooks is never seen again.
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