Narragansett Pier After Midnight by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Conditions Precedent

Karl and Ernst Whitel’s recent adventure at the Fuhray house is not really the beginning of this story. Taking one step back, this would not have happened unless Alistair Fuhray was found dead at the foot of the main staircase with a knife wound in his chest, which Eva Fuhray, his wife of a few decades, said was the case.

Since tiny Narragansett Pier was virtually crime free and was not the same entity as large, crime riddled Narragansett Town, it did not have its own police force.

Please note that this will be expanded upon later in the story, in its own chapter, as it is another step back from this step back. Be patient.

As a consequence Narragansett Town grudgingly assigned their crack Detective Dick Barney to the investigation. Barney was not a blaze of light. In fact he wasn’t even a pen light with a faulty battery. He had managed to maintain his police job in a time of calls for police de-funding and wrongful arrest charges/dismissals whenever the cop didn’t have a video of the perpetrator pointing a loaded gun at an infant. His dearth of arrests, whether by design or DEI induced ineptitude, served the local chief well, as his laxity moved the departmental

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statistics in the direction the libtards-in-charge wanted, including keeping the skyrocketing crime statistics down. No one charged, no crime committed.

Dick Barney was also the proud recipient of one of Narragansett Town’s most prestigious awards; a Washington State Gun Safety Certificate, redeemable at any state McDonalds. This DEI Cop was giving a talk to high school kids on gun safety when he shot himself in the leg. Then he tried to show the kids another gun and they all got scared and told him to put it down as they ran from the school room. This is effective deterrence.

After a week of study Barney ostensibly did somewhere other than the Fuhray house, he concluded that the official cause of death was that Alistair Fuhray stabbed himself in the chest while standing near the stairs. He then proceeded to fall down those same stairs, which caused all the bruising. It was a suicide.

“He was alone in the house and had previously showed signs of depression.”

Feeling sad, hopeless, or empty; or being unduly happy.

Losing interest in activities that you used to enjoy, or doing them in despair.

Changes in appetite, weight loss, or weight gain.

Difficulty sleeping or sleeping too much.

Feeling tired and lacking energy, or being overly enthused about garbage.

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Difficulty concentrating, making decisions, or remembering things, or remembering things from early life.

Feeling irritable or restless, or overly tranquil.

Thoughts of death or suicide, or the repression of same.

Alistair Fuhray was found dead by his wife Eva in his Narragansett Pier home one night. Dick Barney, after questioning only Béla Ferenc Dezső Blaskó, the butler, declared the death a suicide despite strenuous objection from Fuhray's neighbor and close friend, James Hansel, a de facto local dignitary.

A year later, the Narragansett Pier residents, Karl and Ernst Whitel witnessed strange lights within the now supposedly empty Fuhray mansion before investigating to find the new tenants to be two vampiric figures of a man in a beaver felt top hat with long hair and sharp teeth, and a silent pale woman wearing long robes, but you know that already.

This prompted Hansel, to have Dick Barney called in once again.

He wasn’t exactly asking for Barney, but the depth of his political connections in Narragansett Town got him the DEI role model, who this time “discovered” that the others there; Fuhray's daughter, Lucille, his butler Béla Ferenc Dezső Blaskó, and Fuhray's nephew, Arthur Hibbs had been the only other persons in the Fuhray home when Alistair died. After noticing the new lease to the Fuhray mansion bore the exact same

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signature as the deceased Alistair Fuhray's, Barney remained skeptical about foul play as well as the the existence of the undead. Hey, why should the narrator be required to be reliable when the characters are not? ..... Just tell me that.

Didn’t think you could. So, with the assistance of local grave robber, disguised as an “expert, credentialed” archeologist, one R.E.M Renfield, one of the two hundred million recognized experts, who hold themselves out as mavens on something, domiciled in the three hundred fifty million populated US, James Hansel exhumed Alistair Fuhray's tomb to find it empty. After a series of grisly events; from the maid Miss Smithson's eccentric recollection of encountering the Man in the Beaver Hat manifesting in a bedroom, to the vampire girl flying down like a bat from the ceiling of the Fuhray mansion, and witnessing the living corpse of Alistair Fuhray, Barney revealed to Lucille that he believeed, contrary to his primary interest of keeping his job, that the first death report was tainted by contrarily juxtaposed political considerations, and that he now believed that her father did not commit suicide at all; but had been the victim of a fear induced accident. He had seen swooping vampires and bats, or thought that he did, inducing a fall from a high place, during which his personal knife found its way to his throat, before being carried off by an overly zealous bat.

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Precautions were taken to protect Lucille's new bedroom from bats and vampires, including the installation of The Solution.

Meet the Indoor Ultrasonic Bat Repeller.

A tiny device called the Ultrasonic Bat Repeller comes in handy.

You plug it in around your house, and it quickly and permanently solves your bat problem.

Here is how it works. The Ultrasonic Bat Repeller emits high-frequency sound waves that are inaudible to humans but extremely irritating to bats. These high pitched sounds hurt them and cause them to flee. Bats will simply leave on their own. There is no need for harsh chemicals or poisons. They're gone for good once they're gone. Bats will never return to your home as long as you have the Ultrasonic Bat Repeller protecting it.

How the device is used:

1) Each device has a coverage area of up to 800 square feet. If your home is 3,000 square feet, for example, it is recommended to purchase four of these devices. 3,000 divided by 800 equals four, more or less.

2) Obviously, the more devices you have, the better, but even one Ultrasonic Bat Repeller should suffice in a small house or apartment.

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3) When you receive your order, simply plug it into a standard electrical outlet. Closer to the floor is better, but keep them at least 1 foot above the floor, as you don’t want to disturb the cockroaches under it, as it will cause them to be invigorated, scurry and celebrate.

4) Within 1-2 days, you should notice a significant reduction in the number of bats, and all bats should be gone after a week

..... or two, more or less.

How much does it cost?

This device is normally priced at $80, but they are currently running a promotion in which you can get it for only $39.99.

The girl is taken to the Fuhray mansion. As James is instructed to venture to the mansion, he encounters the Man in the Beaver Hat, revealed to be Barney, and is hypnotized into thinking it is five years earlier. Within the mansion, the events leading up to Fuhray's death are recreated and re-enacted and all secretly watch as James kills Alistair and fakes his suicide so as to ultimately marry Fuhray's daughter Lucille, against the deceased's will. Once apprehended, Barney lifts the trance and identifies James as the killer, though insists that he not be quoted on it.

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It was a form of retribution by the questioned DEI cop Barney for having to retrace his erroneous steps just because of a complaint from unpolitically prominent James Hansel. Barney said that he was certain Hansel did it, but would not bring charges as he had no evidence which a court of law would accept.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Alistair Fuhray was a painter. His hands were skilled, his vision unparalleled, and his dedication to his craft was as unwavering as the ancient cobblestones that lined the streets of his beloved city.

Alistair’s studio was a small attic room, barely enough for his easel and the cascade of canvases that were the testament to his silent toil. Day after day, he poured his soul onto these canvases, creating vibrant landscapes, haunting portraits, and still lifes so real they seemed to breathe.

Yet, despite his talent, Alistair’s paintings remained stacked against the walls of his studio, unseen by the world. He had tried, countless times, to showcase his work in galleries, at fairs, and to passersby on the bustling streets. But the world, it seemed, had no eyes for his art.

The painter’s heart grew heavy, not for the lack of coin, but for the lack of eyes that truly saw the stories he told through

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his brushstrokes. He painted not for fame or fortune but to share the beauty he saw in the mundane, the magic hidden in plain sight.

Alistair Fuhray never became a wealthy man, as he was one already. His paintings, once hidden away, were displayed to his family and best friend and neighbor, James Hansel, a local huge muckety muck on occasion. And as for Alistair, he found joy not in the coins that clinked in his pocket but in the knowledge that his art had touched the hearts of those who had taken a moment to truly see.

This, according to DEI Barney, does not seem consistent with suicide.

That is also what she thought. Clad in a somber black dress that seems to absorb the light around her, the widow Fuhray stood alone, her posture a delicate balance between defeat and resilience. Her eyes, once bright with shared dreams, now reflected a depth of sorrow that words can scarcely touch. The world moved around her in a blur of normalcy that felt alien, each laugh and distant chatter a stark reminder of the silence that now filled her home.

In her mind, she grappled with the cruel permanence of loss.

Thoughts swirled like leaves caught in an unending gust of wind:

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“How do I move forward when every step takes me further from the life we built? The future is a canvas washed in grayscale, the colors of our memories fading into the background. Yet, I feel your presence in the quiet moments, in the stillness of dawn, and I cling to the hope that love, even when lost, leaves a trace that endures.”

She holds onto the love that remains, a testament to the bond that not even death can sever.

As the days meld into weeks, the widow found herself in a world where time has lost its rhythm. The once comforting routines now echo with absence, each task a reminder of the shared duties that once filled her days with purpose.

She sought solace in the sanctuary of memories, each one a precious relic of a life that was. In the quiet corners of her mind, she replayed the moments that defined their love; a first dance, a shared secret, a promise made under the stars. These memories were bittersweet, for they brought both joy and an acute awareness of her solitude.

In the delicate pages of her husband’s old journals, the widow discovers a tapestry of thoughts and dreams she had never known.

Between the lines of hurried handwriting, she finds:

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Poems he had written in her honor, filled with adoration and affection, which he had been too shy to share.

Plans for the future, ideas for trips they would take, and dreams of adventures they yearned to experience together.

Reflections on love and life, philosophical musings that reveal a depth to her husband she had only glimpsed.

Letters to her, never sent, where he poured out his heart during times when words failed him in person.

Each entry is a window into the soul of the man she loved, a man who continues to surprise her even in his absence. The journals become a source of comfort, a means of continuing the conversation with her beloved, and a reminder that love can transcend even the finality of death.

She decided that she can no longer live in that house as everything reminded her of Alistair. She contracted with Béla Ferenc Dezső Blaskó, Alistair’s trusted butler to take care of the place, not wanting it to become a target for squatters and thieves who prey on obviously unoccupied homes. She moved to coastal Oregon, which has the same general climate, but none of the memories, excepting those conjoined “recyclables” brought in with the waves wrapping around the dead fish.

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The ocean waves, like disgruntled giants, hurl themselves against the rugged Oregon coast. Their fury knows no bounds, and they crash upon the shore with a resounding roar. But here’s the twist; these waves aren’t merely angry; they’re downright mischievous.

Picture it; murky water churned by centuries of secrets, industrial runoff, asphyxiated fish, and discarded dreams. The waves, like rebellious teenagers, defy gravity, rising higher than they should, as if daring the laws of physics to a duel.

They foam at the mouth, spitting out plastic debris, forgotten shipwrecks, and the occasional rubber duck. Yes, a rubber duck; because even the ocean has a sense of irony.

As the waves collide with the obligatory jagged rocks, which have actually been smoothed out by a millennium of power washing, they fling salty spray into the air. It’s as if Poseidon himself decided to host a chaotic water balloon fight.

The seagulls, unimpressed by this aquatic drama, squawk disapprovingly from their perches. They’ve seen it all before; the tempests, the oil spills, the existential crises of algae blooms.

And the shore? Well, it’s stoic, weathered, and slightly bemused. The sand, once golden, now wears a grayish hue; a

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testament to its resilience. It’s seen tourists build sandcastles, lovers carve initials, and the occasional crab scuttle sideways in protest. But these waves? They’re the real troublemakers.

“Why so serious?” some unknowing straight man, ostensibly as invisible as Ed McMahon asked. I imagine the shore whispering to the waves. “Is this your grand rebellion? A splashy tantrum?”

And the waves, cresting and crashing, respond with a salty wink.

They’re in on the joke, you see. They know that beneath their tumult lies a fragile ecosystem, gasping for breath. But they’re too busy playing catch with seaweed to care. ....... Either that or they just get a kick out of soaking retarded hominid “earth”

supporters. You know, the ones who say that cows are destroying the climate by eating greens and farting, apparently unaware that they are describing vegans.

So, dear reader, next time you visit the Oregon shore, take a moment to watch those waves ..... preferably from a safe distance, that in turn dependent on your level of ability to ride them. They’re not just water; they’re storytellers. They’ve carried tales of shipwrecks, whispered secrets, dead fish, the occasional lost sock, and a volume of discarded rubbers. And as they retreat, leaving frothy footprints, they seem to say,

“Life’s a beach, my friend. Might as well ride the waves,” as

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like a soft spoken darkie “reverend,” they demonstrate their clear understanding of the inevitable and patiently wait to drown you.

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