Misgivings: Day 7

Word Count: 42,120

Summary of Events:

Greyson went to Grande Prairie to buy groceries and run other errands; while having lunch at a restaurant, he spied a classified ad selling cats which he decided to look into. He was informed that the seller had only one cat left to sell, and since it was female, Greyson elected to buy it. At home again he put away what he'd bought, except the vacuum cleaner, which he used to clean the place, before making supper and pondering what to name his cat. He eventually decided to name her Sonic after the video game hedgehog when he woke up the following morning and saw her balled up, asleep, in the bed he'd bought her. Greyson texted his boss to find out when he might have work again, and was informed, to his disappointment, that his boss didn't know for sure, which left him with nothing to do…

Excerpt of the Day:

Greyson sighed and went into the master bedroom. He didn’t really know what to do, and he wasn’t really inclined to unpack any more than he had to, as he didn’t want to get too comfy.

Seeing the rental agreement he’d typed up sitting atop one of the boxes in the closet, however, Greyson took it up. He’d not actually read through it since Mr. Fransbergen had filled it out to see what exactly Mr. Fransbergen had filled in.

None of what Greyson saw really surprised him, it was all consistent with what Mr. Fransbergen had said in response to his questions when he’d first arrived. The only thing that caused Greyson any surprise or interest was the fact that instead of putting his name in the blank where it was required, Mr. Fransbergen had put down the farm name.

Shady Acres Chicken Farm. As far as Greyson had observed, the only shady acres were the ones on which the trees grew flanking the spring runoff route, as well as the planted trees that indicated the residential yards from each other and the rest of the place.

There were other trees in sight around, but few of them were terribly close, and as a result, Greyson wasn’t sure if they belonged to Mr. Fransbergen or not. Shady seemed more apropos if it was defined as sketchy, dubious, dishonest, or illegal, but maybe there had been more trees on the place before, and in order to rent out more land acres to others — as renting out cropland could be a lucrative business — or maybe even to have once upon a time farmed such acres for themselves the Fransbergens had taken down the trees.

Greyson was able to tell that Mr. Fransbergen hadn’t used the farm name in his signature, although the initials were C and F. The F had enough after it — including long loops both up and down — to indicate it was Fransbergen, meaning Greyson had presumed his name correctly, while the C was followed immediately by what might’ve been an L, and the only other upward loop was a crossed T at the end, plus there were no dots for lowercase Is throughout the signature.

He wasn’t entirely sure what the first name would be, but he at least knew the name of the place he was living on, and he also knew that he had correctly deduced the first man he’d met to be Mr. Fransbergen, Sr.

Misgivings: Day 6

Word Count: 36,100

Summary of Events:

The plumber informed Greyson that the water had a lot of iron in it because none of the faucets had been used in a long time, so he advised Greyson to get his water tested and boil it before drinking until he got the results. The following morning, Greyson woke up at his usual time of six in the morning and went out for a run down the country road, resisting the temptation to snoop around the farm buildings before he left, although upon returning, the stocky man accosted him and demanded to know what he was doing, not believing him when he said that he'd gone on a run…

Excerpt of the Day:

“Is the sweat of a four-mile run not enough proof?” Greyson asked, pointing at the modest damp spot on his t-shirt, which was mostly modest because of the material, he was sure there was much more sweat glistening on his forehead, and even his forearms, that proved he had just physically exerted himself.

“You just grabbed some water from the creek,” the stocky man scoffed. “You had to do something to hide what you were really up to.”

“There’s no water in that creek,” Greyson replied. “But even if there was, water never smells like sweat, so take a whiff.”
The stocky man stepped forward, putting his nose close to Greyson’s chest and sniffing loudly. His face twisted in what Greyson was sure wasn’t so much a grimace at the odour he was drawing into his nostrils so much as it was a surge of rage that Greyson was, in fact, telling the truth.

“What were you doing before you went out on your run?” the stocky man demanded irritably.

“Sleeping,” Greyson replied. “As well as dressing and relieving myself.”
This elicited the same profane scoff of disbelief from the stocky man as before.

“Look, Mr. Fransbergen told me that he, and everyone in his house, was going to stay out of my business if I stayed out of theirs,” Greyson swore. “Since I don’t want him, or you, or anyone else, sticking their noses into my business, I don’t mean to stick my nose into yours. What you’re doing right now, however, is getting into my business, and if you don’t stop then I will start getting into your business, so shove off.”

The stocky man crossed his arms over his broad chest and glared at Greyson with his hazel eyes.

“I don’t like you,” he said, almost childishly.

“That doesn’t matter,” Greyson replied. “I have a signed agreement that I can live in the trailer as long as I need. Besides, for the record, I don’t like you either, but you almost never get to choose your neighbours.”

The stocky man opened his mouth to speak, but without his mouth moving a voice that sounded further away, hoarser, rougher, and harsher shouted: “Andy!”

Greyson saw Mr. Fransbergen standing at the veranda rail, the front door ajar behind him. The stocky man snapped his mouth shut and turned to look at Mr. Fransbergen.

“What did I tell you two days ago about Ehrhardt?” Mr. Fransbergen demanded.

Looking rather sulky, the stocky man said nothing.

“I told you to leave, him, alone!” Mr. Fransbergen shouted. “Now do it!”

The stocky man — Andy, apparently — hunched his shoulders and stalked back toward the house. He mumbled profanities in not all that quiet of a voice and gestured rudely at Greyson.

Once Andy was no longer looking, Greyson made the same gesture back at Andy with a glare before looking up at Mr. Fransbergen who was staring at him with suspicion, but not hostility. He nodded to Mr. Fransbergen, as he was sure he would never have won an argument with Andy — he didn’t seem the sort who could effectively be argued with — before turning to finish walking back to the trailer.

Misgivings: Day 5

Word Count: 30,101

Summary of Events:

Tired after having moved all of his things into the mobile home, Greyson decided to go to bed early, which caused him to discover that the mattress had a hole exposing a sharp point nearly at the middle, forcing him to sleep closer to the edge. In the morning Greyson had a simple breakfast of eggs and a banana before going to wash his dishes. The water that came out of the faucet looked like cloudy wine for a long time before clearing, so he decided to call a plumber to find out what it meant. While he waited for the plumber, Greyson unpacked some of his clothes, as well as deciding to wash all the countertops, tabletops, and windows, during which he saw Ayers and the stocky man who'd accosted him walking across the yard…

Excerpt of the Day:

Ayers had a completely different shape to his face from the stocky man, with the stocky man’s face being fairly rounded, while Ayers’ face was more elliptical, rather like Mr. Fransbergen’s, which made Greyson wonder if he was Mr. Fransbergen’s son despite their differences, most notably in eye colour.

The two men opened the sliding door into the long, low building they reached first, coming from the house, only wide enough for them to get in. They left the door ajar, but if there were any lights within, they certainly weren’t high-powered LEDs, as the interior looked pitch-black.

Greyson wanted to keep watching, but he forced himself to move on to cleaning the main bathroom with the all-surface cleaner first before going back to the master bathroom to switch cleaner bottles, as well as hanging the cloth he’d used onto a larger towel bar that hung on the bathroom wall with a fresh cloth, as well as the little hand squeegee that he used for cleaning the windows.

He started by cleaning the bedroom windows, of which there was one looking out onto the back yard, and one looking to the front, through which he saw Ayers emerge from the building, heading in the direction of the quonset.

Greyson then moved to the kitchen where there was a window over the sink and a window just beside the front entry area where there was probably enough space for it to officially be considered a breakfast nook instead of an empty area of linoleumed floor.

Through that front-facing window Greyson saw the stocky man heading for the quonset, or maybe the house.

Greyson next cleaned the sliding doors in the dining area that would’ve led out onto a back deck if the back deck hadn’t been burned and hacked off the place. Now they led to an at least metre-high drop.

Then came the big picture window looking out front again, through which he saw Ayers heading back to the long, low building with some small stuff in his one hand. He saw Ayers look toward him suspiciously. He wondered if that was simply because Ayers didn’t like him, or if it was because Ayers specifically disliked the fact that he was cleaning the windows.

Greyson nevertheless continued cleaning. The big picture window took quite a long time to clean, as it was probably at least a metre and a quarter tall, maybe even a metre and a half, and definitely two metres wide. It was the largest single pane of glass Greyson had ever seen. If it got shattered, Greyson doubted he’d be able to replace it without buying a whole new window, and he didn’t know if windows were even made big enough to fit such a vast opening.

As a result, he was still cleaning the big window when Mr. Fransbergen — the bull terrier faithfully at his heels, even if his gait laboured, as well as hobbling a bit like his master’s — walked over to the ajar door and into the long, low building.

Misgivings: Day 4

Word Count: 24,033

Summary of Events:

Going to the mobile home, Greyson figured out which key worked on the door he'd been shown in through by guessing — especially upon realising that both doors exited out the same side of the building, making their 'front' and 'back' designations perplexing — and went around testing light switches not so much to ensure the power was on as to determine which switch controlled which light fixture, and whether he would need to add lightbulbs to the shopping list he was making. He found, as he went around, quite a few left-behind possessions of the previous occupant, including toothpaste, pills, clothes, and garbage that included a newspaper from March four years prior which included an article on a house fire Greyson remembered having responded to…

Excerpt of the Day;

The fire had been in a new home that had only just been completed, but not been moved into, and had been caused by a failure in the electrical panel box owing to improper connection of something by the electrician, who, if Greyson recalled, might’ve been forced out of business by the error.

Nevertheless, the most important thing about the newspaper was the fact that it was dated to just four years ago. Mr. Fransbergen had said the last person to live in the place had been his own son — whom Greyson wasn’t sure he would’ve met, as neither Ayers nor the stocky man bore a resemblance to Mr. Fransbergen, especially when it came to their eyes, as neither man had blue eyes like Mr. Fransbergen — and his ex-wife over ten years ago.

If this place had been empty for that long, then how was the newspaper explained? It would be odd of someone to walk into an unused house just to throw a newspaper and its related flyers into the garbage.

Additionally, Mr. Fransbergen had said that his son had moved back into the house with him, and moving, to Greyson, involved taking all of one’s possessions along. Even if he’d just moved across the yard, why wouldn’t Mr. Fransbergen’s son have taken all of his clothes with him? Greyson doubted he would’ve come out of the divorce with a windfall, nor did he see why a chicken farmer would randomly go out and buy a new wardrobe of clothes after a divorce, but wouldn’t leave his food behind.

Uneasily, Greyson wondered if there hadn’t been someone else whom Mr. Fransbergen had simply neglected to mention — as even if Mr. Fransbergen was visibly old with his grey hair and wrinkles, Greyson had seen in his eyes that the mind within the aged body was as sharp as a freshly-sharpened knife. He wouldn’t have forgotten about a more recent resident. He would simply have withheld that information.

But why? That was the part that made Greyson feel uneasy. Mr. Fransbergen was a shifty enough character that Greyson wouldn’t necessarily be inclined to put the idea of murder past him.

In all of his inspecting of the place, however, there had been no signs of bloodstains or even the wiping up of bloodstains, nor were there any odours, nor were there really any places he hadn’t looked in, around, or under that a human body in whole or in part would fit in.

Of course, that didn’t mean that the man hadn’t been murdered elsewhere, which would fit with why his clothes were left behind, but the food had been claimed by Mr. Fransbergen and the men of his household, while any documents that revealed the name of the man who’d last lived in the place were also missing, undoubtedly having been destroyed to protect themselves.

Thus, Greyson wasn’t really walking around a crime scene, but there was the possibility that he was destroying evidence, and there was also the possibility that he was simply being suspicious and paranoid.

Misgivings: Day 3

Word Count: 18,192

Summary of Events:

Greyson packed up his things that had been unscathed by the minor flood, as well as — once cleaned — the things that had gotten wet, but hadn't been ruined over the next week, as well as making a claim on his renter's insurance for the rather minor loss he'd incurred before bidding farewell to Aron and his small family and setting out for the Fransbergen farm, where Greyson's arrival was received hostilely by a short, stocky man who stood in front of Greyson's SUV and wouldn't let him move until Mr. Fransbergen ordered him to do so, allowing a big truck with a meat company's name on its side to leave that had been blocked by the minor standoff. Greyson asked Mr. Fransbergen to fill out the form he'd made which, after reading, Mr. Fransbergen meant to do, except neither of them had a pen, so he called for a man by the name of Ayers…

Excerpt of the Day:

“What do you want?” the man — Greyson presumed his name was Ayers — asked irritably.

“Get me a pen,” Mr. Fransbergen snapped back.

Ayers turned and thumped back into the house without closing the door, not returning until more minutes had elapsed than Greyson had expected, but he produced a pen for Mr. Fransbergen, who took it without a word, testing it on a corner of the page before starting to write.

Greyson glanced up at Ayers, who gave him a suspicious glare as he returned into the house, closing the front door somewhat heavily. Greyson looked back at Mr. Fransbergen, who was still filling out the form.

Eventually Mr. Fransbergen finished and handed Greyson the pen to fill in the few remaining blanks before he signed his name on the indicated line and handed Mr. Fransbergen the pen back.

“Thank you,” Greyson said, taking up the form.

Mr. Fransbergen, looking to be finishing off the last of his cigarette, nodded.

Greyson rose to his feet and headed toward the stairs to get in his SUV and drive it over to the trailer that, notwithstanding its dubious state, was his home, at least until something better came up.

“Wait,” Mr. Fransbergen said.

Stopping on the stair, Greyson turned and watched Mr. Fransbergen — whom he’d heard had risen and started following him — turn toward the door, opening it and reaching inside, producing the ring with the two keys on it that Greyson recognised from his first visit.

“This is the back door key,” Mr. Fransbergen said, holding the one key while the other dangled at the bottom of the ring, before switching the keys’ positions. “And this is the front door key.”

They looked virtually identical to Greyson, but he nodded and snatched the keys and ring out of the air as Mr. Fransbergen tossed them to him.

Mr. Fransbergen then turned back to the house, but a sudden question popped into Greyson’s head.

“Uh, by the way, do you raise livestock?” Greyson asked.

Straightening, Mr. Fransbergen went still and Greyson felt uneasy. Mr. Fransbergen turned and looked at Greyson with a suspicious, critical, examining gaze. “Chicken.”

“For meat or eggs?” Greyson asked.

“Meat,” Mr. Fransbergen replied.

Greyson nodded. That made sense. He’d never heard of a chicken auction; in fact, the very idea of it almost made him want to laugh. Chickens didn’t live long enough for that sort of thing, not even if they were allowed to live out their days. Chickens died of old age at two and three years old. Pigs and cattle could at least hit double-digit years before they started to slow down.

Misgivings: Day 2

Word Count: 12,514

Summary of Events:

Greyson had work for a couple days driving the truck hauling crop spray solutions to the fields in order for the crops to be sprayed according to their needs. Returning home one day, Greyson was dismayed to find the street flooded from a water main break that put some 30cm of water over the floor of his basement suite, which, although not a level high enough to damage Greyson's valuables, was going to require a decent amount of repair to the suite that might take some time. For the time being, Greyson's very friendly and accommodating landlord, Aron, offered Greyson his spare bedroom to stay in until he could make new arrangements…

Excerpt of the Day:

He looked at the document beside him, which was very professional looking as Aron wasn’t just a real estate agent, but he was the son of one of Grande Prairie’s most prominent lawyers, whom Greyson was sure had given free consultation on how the document should be worded, at the very least.

Greyson typed out the first few words before determining that the default font didn’t look official, seeing as it was a font without serifs. The document he’d signed had been written up in a serifed font, and it looked more serious and official as a result, so Greyson changed to a serifed font on his document before continuing to copy the words from the document he’d signed five years ago to create a new document of his own with a few subtle changes to the information put into the document based on his recollections.

Even though there hadn’t been an overwhelming quantity of damage to the structure from what Greyson could tell, he was sure that the insurance assessors would be more qualified to determine the extent of the damage and even what level of repair would need to be done to ensure no concerns in the future, but he was sure that they would require the basement to be gutted in order to ensure no mould concerns in the future.

As a result it would at least be months, but could well be longer that Greyson would have to be living in Aron and Jill’s spare bedroom if he meant to return to living in their basement, but considering he wanted to be closer to the Norgaard farm by harvest time in order to not have such a long commute, it seemed to him that his hand had been forced.

At least until a more suitable rental place opened up in Rycroft or Spirit River — the two nearest communities where Greyson had found some unfortunately occupied rental properties — he was going to have to move into the sketchy mobile home on the Fransbergen property, whether he liked it or not.

Thus, he was copying the rental agreement he’d signed with Aron in order to provide an agreement for Mr. Fransbergen to sign with him in order to have a written agreement that would leave him assured that he wasn’t going to get screwed by Mr. Fransbergen, as he wouldn’t be inclined to put that sort of thing past Mr. Fransbergen.

Since it’d been nearly a week since he’d visited the Fransbergen farm — although Greyson had no reason to believe it was actually a functioning farm, nothing on the place had indicated that it was capable of functioning even if it wanted to — Greyson was hoping that he was recalling what Mr. Fransbergen had said correctly.

Greyson really didn’t want to have to live on the Fransbergen farm, considering how messy it’d been, and how unsettled he’d felt while there, but it was literally the only option he had, even if he weren’t obstinately inclined to not move to Sexsmith.

Misgivings: Day 1

Word Count: 6,054

Summary of Events:

Reaching the property he'd been told the prospective house was on, Greyson had to make his way down a long, rutted driveway before he reached the yard, where there was a poorly maintained house. After being welcomed to leave by an aggressive old bull terrier who was made to stand down by his elderly master, Greyson was taken to tour a mobile home that looked in even worse shape than the house, having not been redecorated since it'd been built, and not been lived in for over a decade…

Excerpt of the Day:

“I don’t anticipate that I would have a lot of competition for this place,” Greyson said. “So you probably wouldn’t be in a hurry for me to get back to you on whether I’m taking it or not.”

Mr. Fransbergen’s iron-grey eyebrows furrowed and a look of perplexed surprise came over his weathered face. “I thought you were taking it.”

“No, I only said I was looking at it,” Greyson replied. “Even if it is the only option I have.”

Nodding, Mr. Fransbergen’s prevailingly suspicious look returned to his features.

Greyson reached into his pocket and fetched out his cell phone. “Do you mind if I take down your number to let you know my final decision?”
“There’s no need,” Mr. Fransbergen replied. “If you’re taking the place, you’ll come back, if not, I don’t care to hear from you.”

“Oh,” Greyson said, pressing the button to shut off his phone’s screen and returning it to his pocket. “Well, then I guess I’ll be going.”
Mr. Fransbergen nodded, turning toward the trees and heading for the house without any farewell, not that Greyson really cared. He followed Mr. Fransbergen only to get to his vehicle, into which he climbed, sighing once he was in place.

Even though his coworkers had told him that Mr. Fransbergen was a shifty character and that his place was kind of messy and unkempt, Greyson hadn’t expected things to be this bad, or unsettling. Mr. Fransbergen hadn’t even officially disclosed his name to Greyson, who was functioning on presumption that his name was, in fact, Mr. Fransbergen.

Furthermore, he didn’t like that Mr. Fransbergen didn’t really want a written agreement, and he suspected that Mr. Fransbergen also didn’t want Greyson to have his phone number, thus why he’d said what he’d said. He wasn’t opposed to Greyson seeing something of him and his property, but he evidently wasn’t interested in being friendly, even if he hadn’t quite greeted Greyson with a shotgun in hand — although there had been a measure of jocularity to that comment when it’d been made.

Reaching up, Greyson grabbed the buckle of his seatbelt and drew it across himself, locking it into the receptacle by his hip before inserting the key into the ignition and turning it to start the engine, as he doubted Mr. Fransbergen would appreciate his lingering, nor could he say he really wanted to linger around this place.

If only one of the actual rental properties in the area were available. Unfortunately, every one Greyson had heard about was occupied with a renter who wasn’t likely to leave all that soon, and even the ones that might weren’t going to be leaving by the time harvest started, and that was when he wanted to be into a place closer to Joe’s farm.

The fact that he couldn’t remember portions of his drive home from Joe’s during the seeding season — which wasn’t quite so hard-pushing a season as harvest — was unsettling enough, he didn’t want to wake up in a hospital with the last thing he remembered being driving home from a long day of harvesting.

Pronunciation:

Fransbergen: frahnzbehrgehn