Knock knock knock

  A young man in a faded t-shirt and black pants stood outside of the shack of a house that sat at the end of the road, waiting for an answer at the door. Soft creaks echoed through the door as the old man approached, and after a few bolts slammed open, a balding, goblin of a man greeted the youngster.

  "Back so soon?" The old man asked. A bushy eyebrow stood tall on his tanned, wrinkled face.

  "I was hoping I could hear the first story he ever wrote. That's the only one you never showed me." He ducked under the door frame as he made his way inside the entrance to what could only be described as under repair. The bookshelves in the living room stood at an angle, matching the tilt of the books they carried. The wooden chairs with several attempts of re-nailing broken legs, a staircase missing the first stair, and a kitchen that belonged in a museum.

  "Well, take a seat I guess. I think I put it riiiiiiight here." The old man's fingers pried the slim book from the last shelf against the wall.

  "The Oath Keepers..."

  "Right. It's a short read, but a classic for any late night story telling. Or to scare children into telling the truth." He snickered as he slumped back into the old rocking chair in the corner and opened the cover. "Come here Heylen, sit down next to me so you can see the pictures."

  Heylen sighed as he slumped back into the other rocking chair. He was careful not to lean back however, as the last time he did it broke. "Let's hear it old man."

  "In a small town named Tamberton, there lived a young boy. His name was Petr. Petr and his family were poor, but they were never unhappy. Having each other, even when it was hard to put food on the table, is what kept the small family happy."

  "A bit unrealistic, from my experience." Snarked Heylen.

  "Hush, boy." He said as he flipped the page. "One day, Petr thought of a way to help make some money to help out his parents. The day before, he had found a ring in between the cracks on the brick road. His plan was to go sell it to someone that wouldn't think he stole it, as he was wary that he would be accused and beaten for stealing. Luckily, a traveler was passing through for the day wearing lavish clothes. Petr brushed as much dirt off himself as he could, and shined the silver ring with his shirt until it glistened in the afternoon sun. He approached the traveler and asked for his name.

  'My name is Nint Emmender. What's your name kiddo?'

  'It's Petr, Mr. Emmender! I was hoping you could take a look at something that you might like, sir!'

  'My, what a pretty ring. I'm sure it would make a wonderful present. How much would you like for it?'

  'Because you are so nice, I have a special offer just for you Mr. Emmender! Only 20 bennies and you have yourself a deal!'

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  'A tempting offer, Petr. Tell you what: while I go fetch my wallet, can I show the ring to my companion to see if she likes it? I promise I'll bring back your money before the end of the hour.'

  'Hmm.' Petr furrowed his brow and pinched his chin in thought. 'Okay, but can you swear to me you will come back here?'

  'Of course! I swear I will get you your money after I fetch my wallet.'

  'Okay Mr. Emmender, here you go!' Petr stood on his toes and held the ring up to the traveler. 'I hope she likes it!'

  The man chuckled and walked away, waving goodbye. 'I’m sure she will! See you soon, Petr.'

  But no matter how long Petr waited, even until nightfall, the man did not return. Petr began to shiver as the cool, dusk breeze wafted through the town. Maybe he lost his way? Petr thought. After all, he was new to the town. So Petr waited, and waited."

  "What a prick, this Nint fellow." Heylen rested his cheek on his fist, getting bored of the story.

  The old man cleared his throat. "Petr convinced himself that maybe the traveler had just forgotten, and so decided to visit the town inn, where the man was spending the night. The downstairs bar, that usually bustled with drunken laughter and belching, was empty. The place was left as if a storm came through, with plates and cups scattered across tables and the floor, chairs knocked over and lanterns blown out."

  Heylen's eyes refocused, and he sat up to look at the faded drawings, recognizing the bar.

  "Petr, scared that something bad had happened, turn and ran out the door, heading for a nearby alley that led back to his house. As he turned the corner, he saw two figures in the alley: a tall shadowy figure towering over a bloody mess of a man. The man wailed in pain, shadows tearing at his body. As if in a trance, Petr approached the scene. He saw the broken body of the traveler, limbs ripped from his torso. A hand emerged from the shadows and tossed a small pouch to Petr's feet. The traveler's screams faded as he went unconscious from shock, and the shadows looked at Petr to reveal a scarred face of a middle-aged man. Petr, confused and scared could only muster a word: 'Why?'

  'The man replied: 'We are the chains that bind you; we keep your oaths, we remember your promises. And we never let a debt go unpaid.' But before the little boy could reply, the man was enveloped in smoke and disappeared into thin air, and the darkened alley was once again lit up by the moonlight. The boy scampered home with the small bag of change he had received, and told his parents what happened. They hugged him tightly, glad that he was okay, and put him to bed.

  As he tucked Petr in, his dad looked him in the eye with a grim look on his face and explained 'That is an Oath Keeper. And that is why you must always keep your promises.'" The old man then closed the book and yawned.

  "Wait, is that the end?" The young man crossed his arms in confusion.

  "Well it wasn't a long story to begin with, Heylen. They say the Oath Keepers don't exactly stick around long enough to tell much of a story." The old man rocked back into his chair, setting the thin book down on a nearby side table.

  "So who was the little boy? He was from this town right?" Heylen sat up from his own rocking chair to look at the book himself.

  "It was your father, Heylen. So I think it's fair to say none of this really happened."

  Speechless, Heylen dropped the book back on the table and got up, slowly pacing on the wooden floor of the tiny room. "Then why write the book?" Curious, frustrated, and disheartened, Heylen's eyes pleaded for an answer from the old man.

  "Why write any story, lad? Your father was a good story teller, but he was never an honest man. That's why I have all of his books, but not a penny to my name."

  "At least you have this, uh, 'house.'"

  The old man shook his head. "No, son. The house belongs to your father as well." He stared off at the wall. "Everything in here does. Except you." The old man gave Heylen an ominous look before slipping out of the chair. His face went sullen and disappeared into the kitchen accompanied by metal clanking and wooden drawers banging against their frames. "Now get out of here so I can drink my tea in peace!" He shouted from down the hall.

  Heylen took one last look at the bookshelf before leaving the dilapidated house. Confused by what the old man meant, he was tempted to barge back in and bombard him with questions, but instead just sighed and walked off. It wasn’t the first time he was being cryptic, but after all this time being read the stories his father wrote, something finally clicked: they were about himself. Not some fictional boy named Petr in some town named Tamberton, or Tinnel in Besselshun, or Yunel in Urgunshiv or whatever garbage he had come up with. They were all about his father, and the places he had been to. And although the old man thinks it’s all fake, Heylen knew that there must have been some truth to it. After all, the ones who took away his father in the first place, were the Oath Keepers.