The Curse of 1977 (Book 2)

Mr. Mercer sat inside his car, right in front of 909 West 7th Blvd. The man's lips never parted as he stared longingly at the
disheveled, abandoned home that still looked like a crime scene even after so many months.Mercer's head was oozing sweat.
Even without an undershirt on the domineering heat of July bore down upon him like an ancient plague. His skin was sticking to
his shirt's fabric making simple movements feel squishy and cumbersome.
Outside on the sidewalk were three scruffy looking, young black men who looked as if they were in the midst of committing some
sort of heinous act. While clear on the other end of the sidewalk was an old, black man cutting his lawn.
The man's left hand was welded to the door's handle, all he had to do was pull down the latch and it would be wide open. But he
chose to remain inside the sweltering vehicle and just look on. He couldn't budge an inch; the house appeared as if it wanted to
crumble right there in front of his eyes.
Suddenly, the teenagers that were just milling about on the sidewalk began yelling out loud which in turn caused Mercer to
awaken from his suspended animation.
With about as much will power as he could possibly gather, the man opened the door, got out and gingerly made his way
towards the front door.All around him the sounds of rowdy teenagers, loud lawnmowers and simple insects became inaudible. It
was as if he had become the only person on the planet at that point. Even his own two legs felt like they weren't below him
anymore; he suddenly felt as though he were levitating rather than walking.
The very moment he reached the decrepit porch steps, almost immediately the very first board gave way. Mercer sidestepped
the flimsy wood and simply lifted high his large leg on his way up. He stood in front of the door and waited. Just what the man
was waiting for was lost somewhere between his logic and memories of the past. All Mercer could do was stand absolutely
motionless for ceaseless moments before taking his sweaty right hand and using it to twist the doorknob until it creaked open.
Immediately, the stench of must and body odor rushed into Mercer's face and out into the summer air. Mercer proceeded to
prance right inside, closing the door behind him. The entire living room was completely empty. The carpet was stripped bare
while the walls still had imprints of where furniture and frames once rested. He couldn't believe how smelly the house still was
after so long as he strolled about the humid living room and into the kitchen. The small stove and cabinets that he passed along
the way looked like something from out of the previous century.
Once Mercer approached the backdoor he gazed out the window at the tiny woodshed that was leaning to one side as if it could
fall to pieces at any second.

When he was through at the door, Mercer turned and began back in the opposite direction. He went from the kitchen to the
bedroom that was empty but alive with glorious sunlight that illuminated the room from just about every corner.
Right behind him was the hallway. All Mercer had to do was turn, but his body became strangely immobile once again. He
couldn't move a muscle, and deep down, he honestly didn't want to. There was a single window in the bedroom just several feet
from where he was standing; jumping out of it was an option for the man.
Mercer gradually turned and found himself inside the cavernous hallway. The man stepped one foot in front of the other until his
face came into contact with the one room in the house that could possibly take his mortal life.
In front of him was the bathroom. For some reason or another he expected to see at least a few spots or speckles of blood in
obscure corners of the room, but the entire space was pristine; in fact, it was possibly the cleanest room in the entire house,
save for the dead mouse on the floor next to the toilet.
However, behind Mercer, clear down at the other end of the hallway, stood a figure. And stand is all it did. It had no face, just the
form of a human body that stood patiently and without words or breath, unbeknownst to Mercer.
All Mercer could do was drop his heaving shoulders while staring down at the tile in a dreaded pout. Soon, his hands began to
tremble. At first, he expected it, but after a second or two the shaking became annoying considering he required complete
composure for his tour.
Mercer clasped his hands together right then before turning and looking back down at the other end of the hallway. The man
stood and gazed forever at the quiet corridor in which he figured he was all alone inside. But there was something seizing him at
that phase. He neither saw nor heard a single individual inside the house, and yet, he abruptly found himself surrounded.
With his hands still clutched tightly together, Mercer's eyes looked down the dim hallway for at least two whole minutes.
"Dear Lord in heaven...deliver me not into the hands of mine enemies." He whispered. "Be with me inside this dwelling, that I
may—
But before Mercer could finish, the sound of something crashing from another room broke right in between, causing the man to
break out into the most rapid and violent sweat.
"Be gone from here, Lucifer." He muttered with trembling jaws.
The man's legs somehow found the energy to move at that juncture. With one foot in front of the other he walked out of the
hallway and into the living room to find shattered glass on the floor.

Mercer looked all around the living room, attempting to recall if he noticed any sort of cup lying about as he came into the house.
But rather than try and rationalize any further, the man unclenched his heavy hands and stormed out the front door with such a
fury that he didn't even bother to shut the door behind him.
"Hey, old man, what the fuck are you doing up in that house?" One of the three young men from the sidewalk called out as he
and his two comrades came towards Mercer.
Mercer only ignored the boys as he carried on to his car while taking out his keys from his pocket.
"I asked you a question, motherfucker!"
Without looking in their direction, Mercer said, "I didn't come here for no trouble."
"That's our fuckin' house, stay your punk ass out of there!" Another one of the boys screamed.
Still not looking in their direction, Mercer unlocked the car door and proceeded to get in, only to have two of the boys grab a hold
of the door.
"Fuck that, you go into one of our houses, you gotta pay!"
"That's right; this is our set, nigga!"
Mercer stood at his own vehicle. The fear that he once was trapped inside of had all but diminished. Now, all he could see were
three boys who wanted to be men so badly.
"Get your hands off my car, please." Mercer firmly, yet patiently uttered.
"Fuck you, old man, pay up!"
If he required a trigger, all he had to do was look over at the house that the boys seemed so hell-bent on protecting for whatever
reason.
Mercer reached and grabbed one of the boys hands before squeezing as hard as he could, snapping nearly every bone inside
the boy's appendage.
"What the hell?" One of the other's yelled before attempting to attack Mercer.

But Mercer, as big as he was, was too fast as he simply slapped the boy to the ground before taking the third young man by the
neck and shaking the very life out of him.
Once he saw the boy's eyes bulge out of their sockets Mercer immediately released him before stepping back and hollering, "I
used to run these motherfuckin' streets long before you little niggas were even born!"
With their lives barely intact, all three boys got up and ran away. All that was left was Mercer and the old man across the street
who was only wearing a smile as he carried on in his mowing duties.
He thought he would have been shaking, but Mercer was completely composed about himself. He didn't even look to see where
the boys had run off to, he just climbed into his car, cut on the ignition and paused.
He wanted to drive away and in a hurry, but there was the house. He wanted it to do something, but much like himself, it sat still
and composed.