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THE CLOSET 

Short Story/ Suspense Fiction: general/7139 words

            “Hi, Dad!” was all he said as he looked me in the eye. 

            There was this strange man standing on the porch, looking at me.  He was probably late twenties, tall, blond and good-looking.  Fairly normal-looking, compared to many of the young people today.  He wasn’t obese.  In fact, he was quite clean-cut, shaven, no earrings,  piercings or tattoos, no extra-large jeans or pants hanging off underpants which might be seen bulging out on all sides, no evidence of substance abuse like needle marks or blotched skin betraying severe alcoholism, no dilated eyes or air-headed feel.  No, this was the guy next door with a frank, level-headed gaze, his blue eyes shooting right through me.

    “I’m sorry?” was all I could manage to respond. 

    “Sorry for what?  You are Michael A. Thomas, aren’t you?” he countered, very impertinently for someone standing on the porch of a house that wasn’t his.

   “And your name, Sir?”  I answered back.  “What is your business and what is your name?” I said very formally, trying to throw my weight around in an I live here; who are you? way.  With that he produced an Ontario’s driver’s license with a Toronto address.

“Ring any bells?” he asked.  Since I didn’t answer right away, he said,

“May I come in, Dad?”

Dad!?  Dad?!  Why do you call me ‘Dad’?”

   “Because you are my Dad” he answered back, his gaze always direct, blue, square, looking me right in the eye.  I looked at him hard for a long time.  Then I stepped aside.

“Please come in, Mr. ‘Charles’?”

 

 

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