Everyone hated Grady. All these decades later, I can still clearly recall when he moved to our quiet little town early one year and into a large house down the road from my own modest home. His parents had left him an enormous inheritance, and he took great pleasure in flaunting his wealth at every opportunity. But we didn't despise Grady because he was well-off—we hated him because he was a pestilence that wreaked havoc throughout our once-peaceful community, and there was nothing we could do about it.
Grady believed his money meant he could do whatever he wanted without consequence, and he was right. He was a pampered and inept man, far too lazy to do anything for himself and nowhere near clever, yet highly proficient at ensuring the right people were paid off. When an elderly schoolteacher berated Grady for speeding past the playground and nearly running over a small boy, her house mysteriously burnt down. When a waitress at the local diner rebuked Grady's advances, her father was attacked by two masked men during his regular evening jog and suffered a brain injury. Even the police were in Grady's pocket; on the rare occasion when someone tried to report him, the case always managed to somehow get swept under the rug.
Simply avoiding Grady wasn't enough. Sometimes he appeared to select his targets at random. Even innocuous, mundane actions could incur his terrible wrath. By the time hurricane season rolled around, the threat of dangerous weather wasn't the only thing the townsfolk were living in fear of.
Then one night he drunkenly ran over my dog, and I really began to hate him.
When news of an impending storm reached us, many opted to evacuate. I chose to stay behind, and so did Grady. I'm not sure why he didn't leave or make any sort of preparations beyond purchasing a portable generator—I suppose his ego made him feel invincible. The wind whipped through the trees, rain poured down, and the power predictably went out.
After it was all over, I drove around to survey the damage. I returned to see Grady, lost without his creature comforts, attempting to set up his new generator. With almost everyone gone or preoccupied with the storm's fallout, it seemed Grady finally had to get his own hands dirty. He obviously had no clue what he was doing.
An idea occurred to me. I made my way to his house.
Days passed. Eventually the police knocked down Grady's door and discovered him dead in his bed, eyes closed in eternal sleep. In the next room sat his generator. The explanation was a tragic accident that happens every hurricane season: carbon monoxide poisoning.
As I watched them carry the body bag out of Grady's house, I thought back to our last conversation.
“I'd be happy to help you set that up, Grady. But if you run it outside, someone's gonna steal it. The safest place to keep it is inside the house."
Written by CertainShadows
Content is available under CC BY-SA