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What's on the Telephone Pole?
He just got home from the office at night with tiredness. Putting down his keys in a glassware, the keys clanged and broke the silence in the living room. He took off his shiny dark-brown leather shoes and black socks, put them neatly at the door edge. Then he put his bare feet into slippers, dragged slowly towards his bedroom.
The sound was coming from the closest. He stopped and listened.
It was a child’s sob. It was from his son’s bedroom. When his hand was approaching to the doorknob, the wooden door opened itself with a creaking sound. The room looked like a dark hole. Through the light from the crack of the door, he saw a boy was sitting on the bed with his arms holding the knees, and the tear stains on the boy’s face.
“What’s wrong? Why don’t you sleep?” he tapped the boy’s head, asked him accusingly.
“I saw some creepy things, dad.” boy’s shaking voice was tearful, then turned into a muffled, broken cry. “There are two dead men hang on the telephone pole, they are on my way to school!” The boy’s eyes were full of tears, his pupils filled with fear. He looked like a poor puppy stumbled into his arms and crying out loud.
“Nonsense.” he murmured. But he knew his son never told a lie. He was a honest and timid boy, and he always was. “I’ll go and check this out. Go to sleep right now.” He left the room, whistled briskly, and started the engine of his car.
It was midnight. Only a few yellow lights of the cars passed by making rushing sounds. He could hear the roaring sound of the engine clearly. The street light were dim and flickering, seemed that wind could extinguish the light at any time. Blowing by the wind, the leaves were robbing each other, making rustling, miserable wail.
It was really a windy night. The shadows of the trees, looked like ghosts surrounding him, screaming to his ears. His hands were cold, seemed that he was grasping the ice cube not the steering wheel. Meanwhile, the sweat beads covered over his forehead. Turning on the air conditioner, he felt his blood running cold from his brain all the way down to the tiptoes.
Pulling over the car near the telephone pole, he opened the storage in front of the seat, found a faded gray box. Breathing deeply, he grabbed one cigarette and lit it. He was definitely not a chain-smoker, he only smoked when he was upset or nervous. Feeling dizzy, he was overwhelmed by the white smoke came from his mouth.
The fear was like a invisible net and his heart was enveloped by it. He affirmed he heard the gloating voice of the ghosts. He felt he saw the two dead men kept knocking his car window through the haze. He was suffocated by the fear.
His cellphone rang harshly.
He almost shouted out. For him it was like a call from Death.
He fished out his phone from the pocket unhandily. It was a message from his son.
“Happy April Fool’s Day. Why he said that?” he frowned.
He thought he figured out something. Then he turned on the headlight to see what was on the pole.
His son didn’t tell a lie, like always. The two short men were hang on the pole were in black. He couldn’t see their torturous expressions. But the stiff, screwy body could tell that they struggled to have the last breath.
He was tricked by son. There were two men in the picture of bright yellow pedestrian crossing sign hang on the telephone pole. And they were in the gestures of walking on the zebra crossing. “Boys’ silly joke.” He burst into laughter, with bitter.