Cleaning Service
By Bob Liddil
"Mr.
Taminy, cleaning service."Melody had been standing on the doorstep of #38 Morning Glory Drive for 10 minutes in a sun-shower drizzle, with no umbrella. She had rung the doorbell 12 times - patiently counted each and every one, and now, with a show of attitude, she banged assertively on the door, assuming that the electronic announcement was either malfunctioning, or the old geezer inside was too deaf to hear.
The door swung open with an eerie creak.
"Hullo," Melody called. She stepped inside the open door gingerly, and looked discreetly around for any sign of the recalcitrant Mr. Taminy.
It was musty and dusty inside the living room. The curtains were partially drawn, allowing sunbeams to stream through in visible bands. All of the furniture was draped with white coverings on which hung a layer of dust and settled airborne debris. An antique-style fan hung motionless from the ceiling, also dusty on both the blades and the housing.
"Honestly," Melody muttered to no one in particular, "you would have thought someone would warn me about no one being home." Straightaway, she set about her work.
Two hours later the place had changed dramatically. Tidy and clean and dust free in the living room, completely washed and put away dishes in the kitchen, wiped counters, vacuumed carpets throughout; Melody was very pleased at the depth of excellence she brought to this dank place, now transformed like a new penny, freshly shined. All the upstairs bedrooms were freshly done and the sheets were all changed. The only remaining task was the master bedroom at the top of the 3rd floor stairs.
It was a long, steep staircase. Melody shook her head, reminded herself to ask the boss for a bonus whenever she did three story houses. Resigned to a long climb, she gripped the vacuum cleaner resolutely and started upward. About halfway up, she stopped, sighed, took a deep breath and shook her head. The staircase seemed infinitely tall. Finally, she reached the top and tapped on the door.
"Mr. Taminy?" She queried. "Cleaning service."
Getting no response, she twisted the knob, opened the door and stepped through.
The interior of this bedroom was uniquely Victorian in style. The bed was 4-posted and huge. Curtains obscured the actual bed, in the style, Melody had read about in Mr. Dickens' "A Christmas Carol." The room was a little bit creepy, with it's tiny attic style windows and the sharply angled ceiling. No matter though, Melody was not here to judge, but rather to clean.
Melody vacuumed the carpet, dusted the tables and dresser and chest of drawers, wiped down the wardrobe on the outside, and then opened the twin doors to air out the contents. When everything else was completed, she turned her attention to the bed. Rewinding the cord on the vacuum cleaner, she set it aside the door, and then went over to the bed. In a single, sweeping motion, she drew aside the curtain, hesitated in shock for half a second and then screamed at the very top of her lungs.
In the center of the bed stood an arachnid the size of a dinner table. Indeed, at second glance, not that Melody was taking the time to lock in details, the bed seemed to actually be a dinner table for the giant creature now glowering intently in her direction, exactly as though it believed she was destined to be spider chow.
Melody wasted not a single second. She bolted for the door and the stairwell beyond, descended so quickly that to an observer, had there been one, she would have appeared teen aged with stellar agility, rather than middle aged and so shot full of adrenaline that her feet barely touched the steps. Down she ran and then down again to the first floor of the house. Out she ran into the street, screaming in such terror as to arouse the attention of the neighbors, which she did not because on Morning Glory Drive, everybody discreetly minded their own business no matter what.
Breathing heavily from the exertion, Melody sat down on the curb opposite the slammed-shut door from which she had just exited in a flurry of panic. She had grabbed her purse on the fly on the way out the front door, and then slammed it hard enough to fuse the jam, she hoped. From her purse, she fished out her cell phone, shakily dialed the boss's number and waited patiently as it rang, all the while warily keeping watch on that door.
"Hallo," came the boss's voice in Melody's ear.
"You bloody wanker!" Melody shouted into the phone. "Are you trying to get me killed... and eaten and massacred?" She was near hysteria and mad as hell both at at the same time.
The boss said, "Melody? Is that you? Where are you? Mr. Taminy's been calling. Where have you been?"
Melody sputtered and replied, "Been? Where have I been? I'll tell you where I've been. I've been cleaning # 38 Morning Glory bloody Drive is where I've been, and almost got eaten by a spider and nearly broke me neck on the stairs and..."
There came a long silence on the phone, followed by a sigh, as though the boss were gathering patience after having had it tried severely. He said, "You've got it wrong, dear. It's # 83 Morning Glory Drive that you've been assigned today. Go along now. You are expected."
The cell phone clicked dismissively.
Melody gathered herself up from the curb, eyed # 38's front door warily, and then set off up the street. Several moments later, she saw the number 83 on the mailbox under which appeared the name, Taminy in block letters. Wearily, she trudged up the sidewalk to the slightly oddly shaped door and rang the bell.
"Cleaning service," Melody called out.
Faintly, indistinctly, from somewhere deep inside the house, she thought she heard a wolf howl in reply.