3:33 PM

By: Robert W. Putnick

All was silent, while the opaque sky breathed-forth a wind which wisped a bone-chilling spell through the town. The inhabitants knew that soon, it would be time. Thirty-three minutes after the 3 o'clock hour of every afternoon; the time when a certain insanity was known to prevail over a particular residence. As the minute hand of every clock waved their salutations, the process began - exactly 33 minutes after 3 PM. Many winced at the recurrence, as they listened to the screams, the desperate cries, the agony of loss, and the thrashing of guilt, emanating from 333 Elm Street. The process was enacted with precision, at exactly the same time, and in the exact same place.

The residence on Elm Street was particularly large for a rural town, with red brick construction and a black-shingled roof. The polished copper gutters and drain pipes remained spotless after nearly a century had passed, while the lawn was trimmed and garnished to the perfection of a burlap mat. The porch was as white as snow while a crimson-colored car gleamed in the freshly-repaved driveway. The cast-iron black fencing that encircled the property stood unmarred by time, while the windows acted as mirrors of their cleanliness, for one only needed to stare directly at them from the sidewalk and could see a reflected image of themselves. Similarly, the resident within was an equally perfect middle-aged specimen, with fair-skin, a clean crew-cut and mustache. All referred to him as Mr. Jameson, but no one saw fit to inquire of his first name. Stooping to pass beneath the front doorway, he was over 6 feet tall, with a stout build yet timid voice. As he ventured out of his home each day from 7 in the morning until 2 in the afternoon, he was always seen wearing a 3-piece black suit and tie, and carrying a briefcase. Rarely speaking a word to anyone, Mr. Jameson would simply smile, and walk on.

It was 3:33pm, and the town stood silent, as the seconds marched on to usher in the doleful woes of death from 333 Elm Street, followed by shrieks, the banging of doors, and lastly tears. This routine lasted for 10 minutes as usual, and then it fainted into the silence of the afternoon, which would soon be conquered by activity. As the town returned to its typical pace, vehicles sped down the streets while pedestrians appeared to be going about their business. For now, the insanity had passed.

As this occurrence continued to repeat itself for years on end for no apparent reason, the neighbors were horrified at the sight of 333 Elm Street, and detoured themselves from ever acquainting with its owner; righteously, in their eyes shunning a lunatic. Mr. Jameson remained unknown to the public, and in turn, secluded his emotions and presence. Yet, after 30 years of never having encountered a visitor, the door of 333 Elm Street was loudly rapped upon on a cold winter’s afternoon; a sound not audible since that fateful day. Mr. Jameson at first doubted the noise, writing it off as merely a misinterpreted sound, but then was startled by the same 3 knocks of Admittance. As his hands trembled to curve tightly around the bronze door handle, Mr. Jameson precariously opened the door, and was immediately face-to-face with the visitor

“Hello!” The stranger greeted. “I’m a neighbor of yours, living right down the street, who has lived in this town for many years. I’ve traveled to many places and happen to know everyone here except for you. So, I decided to visit you, to merely shake your hand and ask, is all well?”

“Uh, well, good afternoon then, sir,” Mr. Jameson hesitantly replied as he just barely managed to voluntarily control his pale hand to clutch that of the stranger’s, in polite greeting. “Please, pl-ease do come in.” As the stranger entered 333 Elm Street, he marveled at the splendor of the golden interior-trim along the edges of the ceiling, polished hard-wood floors, satin drapes, and velvet furniture, as well as the inexplicable silence which contrasted the rumors he’d heard of terror arising from this residence. Then, Mr. Jameson cleared his throat and rubbed his hands together to preserve warmth, after a gush of cold air stampeded down from the second story.

“Won’t you please make yourself at home in the dining room, sir, and I can grab us each a cup of coffee.” Mr. Jameson kindly gestured, retaining an air of suspicion for the stranger.

“Much obliged,” the stranger replied, as Mr. Jameson already walked off into the kitchen, perceiving that the stranger’s voice was very similar to his own, timid in tone yet not in Eastern US accent. Quivering from the realization, he then quickly recalled that the stranger seated at his dining room table was dressed in a 3-piece black suit and tie, and entered his residence carrying a briefcase. As the spoon which formerly had been employed to scoop the grounds into the coffee maker filter, slipped from Mr. Jameson’s hands and clanged onto the floor, the clock struck 3:00pm.

The melody of percolation soon revitalized the humidity of guilt fogging the rooms of 333 Elm Street, causing Mr. Jameson to inquire of the stranger, “If I may, what is your occupation?”

“I am a magistrate and have settled many cases in that the defendant has always admitted the truth of the case and accepted the consequences of reality. Oftentimes, the defendant was not the one who was at fault, but was merely blinded in fear by the plaintiff’s stance. Those who disobeyed the law were found guilty, while those who were not, were absolved from their accusations and freed from the bondage of apprehension to declare the verdict.”

While Mr. Jameson’s ears withstood the stranger’s declaration in full by stumbling on the word “reality,” he swiftly transformed the subject by offering- “Would you mind if I gave you a tour of my home?”

With a smile that pierced the eyes of denial, the stranger replied: “Sure, sir, I would be honored,” and together, the pair toured 333 Elm Street. After conducting the stranger through the kitchen and returning to the living room, Mr. Jameson began to feel warmth arising from within himself, upon observing the gratitude of his visitor. At that moment, the clock stated that it was 3:10pm. Soon, they steadily climbed the winding stairway, in order to arrive on the second floor.

Mr. Jameson then broke the curious silence, by smirking- “Ah, yes, here are the trophies I won for my school’s running competitions, beginning when I was only 8 years old.” The stranger did not speak a word, and shortly afterward, the pair walked on beyond the relics of positivity, to the large bedroom at the end of the hallway. The stranger followed Mr. Jameson within, and quickly glanced at every corner of the room.

Mr. Jameson began once more- “This was my Mother and Father’s room, we 3 children, my sister, myself, and my twin brother…..,” at this he fell silent for a moment, “would run in here to be safe from thunderstorms during the summer, or just for comfort when we heard a peculiar noise.” The clock indicated it was 3:20pm. Mr. Jameson then expounded more and more of his childhood to the stranger, who was no longer visible, but remained a listening ear to his subject’s discourse. Not aware, however, that his guest had departed, Mr. Jameson kept speaking; for with every syllable, his heart continued to beat faster while his mind was suspended in anxiety, as he arrived closer and closer to the object of his denial.

The pair continued in their expedition, as the hidden stranger followed Mr. Jameson from one room to the next. They both fully explored his sister’s room, who had moved-out of 333 Elm Street long ago, leaving behind the memories that fate bestowed upon the Jameson family. By then, it was 3:30pm. With each step forward, the blood rushed cold in Mr. Jameson’s veins, while his face was flushed in red horror. Trembling, his hands wrinkled in fear as sorrow, guilt, and anger welled up in his spirit and devilishly clutched the pit of his stomach. The floor echoed cries of despair which once engulfed the hallway, while Mr. Jameson approached a banished doorway. Painstakingly removing the locks, and turning the handle with extreme caution, the bedroom door was opened.

“And this was the room of my twin brother, Frank Jameson.” Mr. Jameson declared. The clock struck 3:33pm and then upon turning on his heels, he discovered that the stranger had fled. Yet, without concern nor fear, Mr. Jameson peered into the dark room, which was illuminated by the hands of Admittance. For there, hanging from the ceiling, in the center of the room was a noose which lifelessly bore the word “S-U-I-C-I-D-E”. His twin brother, Frank Jameson, had cut his life short. Because of Admittance, it was then that the shackles of guilt which bound Mr. Jameson’s spirit were released. No longer was he a slave to the personal yet false verdict which had accused him of being responsible for his twin brother’s dreadful decision, and never again did insanity prevail over the residence of 333 Elm Street.