No one could tell you what he was working on. I know I couldn’t have, not back then, anyway, but it was always something. One step inside the house told you that. You didn’t have to talk to him to know it was something, maybe even something big, but not that he ever gave anything away even if you did talk to him. No, he was never that clear, never that straightforward. Not him. Too secretive for that kind of conversation, even with those he knew. Or maybe he was just selective, so selective that he’d just decided it was easier not to say anything to anyone. I could never decide. Whatever it was, talking to him was as confusing as making sense of the cryptic notes stuck to the walls of every room.
Hundreds of them at least, maybe thousands, covering just about everything that didn’t move or wasn’t planning on moving. I never sat still long in there, afraid he’d start sticking them to me. Walls, cabinet doors, and windows, the refrigerator, the stove, the side of the toaster, notes even bulged out from walls where they’d long ago buried some lost picture or family photo. The television, if that’s what it was, was thick with notes, the cord still plugged into the wall - through yet another note. They were as thick as air in that house, in the corner of your eye wherever you turned. They brushed against your arms when you slid through the narrow doorways and against the backs of your legs when you sat down on the toilet. Notes where you’d expect and notes where nothing belonged, and not one of them, not a single damn one of them as far as I could tell, ever making any sense. Blips of thought pinned and taped to everything, as if his brain simply exploded, blowing apart bit by bit and sticking to everything as notes, now just waiting for someone to come along and put it all back together. Maybe that was it. Maybe that’s even what he’d started working on when he’d stumbled upon the other thing, the thing he’d called me over for, mailing me a postcard, nothing written on it except the words Come over. Our secret. in his tight, nearly illegible printing. Not so much a postcard, actually, but one of his note cards plucked down from the wall with a stamp stuck to it. My thumb brushed against the rough edge of a pinhole, wondering where this note had been and how long it’d hung there, waiting. Why hadn’t I seen it? How many times had my eyes crossed over this very note and just passed on by?
Note: Originally posted on brandnewmonster.com