Tell Tale Heart

“yes, I understand, thank you”. Reggie said in to her phone. “you have a good day too. Sir”. She hung up on the caller from the CBC, flicked her phone away to the side, and ran her hand through her hair, exhaling loudly in frustration. Being the senior producer of the CBC was a load to carry. It had been a rather stressful week for Reggie, an interminable string of phone calls, papers, and sign. Out of her impatience, Reggie wished that there was someone that she could place the blame on, but of course there was on one to Blame except for herself for being unable to keep up with her tough position. At times, when Reggie wasn’t vigorously working on any projects, she still thought about Burl Crow, the imaginative and determined boy that had posed as Nathaniel Orlando Gow’s son in order to gain the rights to Gow’s cabin up in Ghost Lake. Reggie couldn’t explain the mixture of emotions she had felt that day when Burl had waited for and chased her up the stairs, begging her to speak about Gow. Normally, Reggie didn’t allow people into her home, but when the boy had mentioned Nog, she couldn’t send him away. Reggie sat down unceremoniously on the couch, propping her feet up on top of the coffee table in front of her. Her eyes scanned the several newspapers strewn across the surface, each one with bold titles related to Gow’s death. Whenever Reggie even glanced at the articles, a great wave of melancholy swept over her and she felt tears stinging at the corners of her eyes. Many had comforted her once the news of Gow’s death had reached international headlines gift baskets filled with fruit; several deserts and consolation cards. But, no matter how many hugs and benevolent presents she had gotten, or the amount of words of sympathy that had been said at Gow’s funeral, nothing could ever manage to erase her sadness. Reggie sighed and closed her eyes as all of these thoughts swirled in her head. She truly did miss Noggy; his mirthful way of speaking, his reassuring loudness, even his terrible taste in music. Nothing had ever—and would ever—be the same without Nathaniel Orlando Gow’s existence. Right at that moment, Reggie’s phone blasted its ringtone once again. She slowly opened her eyes and turned her head to the side, reading the caller ID. It was Mark, the executive producer of the CBC. Skeptical about his untimely call, Reggie frowned and picked up her phone. “Hello?” she said. Mark’s deep voice replied, “Oh, Reggie, you’re there. I called to tell you that we’ve almost finished sorting things out here in the office. it seems like we’ll be able to finish the broadcast smoothly within two hours.” Reggie let out her breath in relief, feeling a part of her stress dissipate. “Thank God,” she said. She sat up straighter in her seat. “Thank you for informing me, Mark.” “No worries,” Mark assured her. After a moment’s pause, he asked hesitantly, “Are you doing all right, Reggie You don’t seem like your usual self nowadays.” She wasn’t sure what the answer to that question was herself. Was she all right? Was she depressed? Was she plain emotionless? She glanced at the newspapers once again, and felt her throat close up, her vision blurred with waiting tears. “I’m fine,” Reggie lied, doing her best to keep her voice steady. “Everything’s fine.” Even as she said the fib, she felt tears travelling down her face. “If you say so,” Mark said, sounding dubious. Reggie didn’t blame him; she was a terrible liar. “All right, well, take care, Reggie. I’ll call you once everything’s been cleared up.” “Thank you; take care of yourself too, Mark.” Mark hung up, but Reggie kept her phone up to her ear, lost in thought. Her eyes were fixated on the black TV screen, on her reflection. She looked disastrous; her hair pulled up hastily into a bun, her cheeks flushed and shiny with recent tears. There was no glow on her face, no personality. She was just a blank human. Reggie never recalled looking this hopeless and filled with despair. She was used to being regarded as tough, the person who always took initiative in difficult situations. It had been a good four months since Nog’s death, so why did Reggie still feel so broken and dire? What had overtaken her?...... (One Year Later) Burl Crow waited beside the CPR track in Presqueville, carrying only a small bag with the supplies he would need; some food, water, and several garbage bags. In his other hand, he held a large shovel. Behind him stood Natalie and David Agnew, both waiting anxiously alongside Burl for the train leading to Ghost Lake to arrive. The past year had been a relatively calm one. Burl had decided to stay with the Agnews for the time being; he still visited his father, Cal, once in a while, but conversations with him continued to always take an angry turn. Cal hadn’t fully recovered from the accident that had occurred about a year ago. His leg had regained some of its original composure, but he still needed a cane to assist him in walking. Still, even with his handicap, Cal was the same spitfire and aggressive self he’d been before. It’d also been a year since the death of the Maestro, Nathaniel Orlando Gow. Burl could still vividly remember the Maestro’s various identities; the famous German conductor and Arctic wise-guy Baron von Liederhosen, the eminent British musicologist and rocketeer Sir Chauncey Cakebread, and finally, the eccentric and lively Nathaniel Orlando Gow—the Maestro. It was half-pain and half-joy to reminisce about the Maestro. He had truly been a different folk, a child at heart, really. He was timid, but still managed to be flamboyant. However, the one definite trait about the Maestro was his superior genius. Even after a year, Burl could still imagine his fingers playing the chords of the part of the Book of Revelation that the Maestro had taught him. Those chords were the only tangible things that Burl had left of the Maestro. Burl finally heard the unmistakable blaring noise of the CPR train horn, the train itself chugging its way down the tracks. “It’s finally here,” David said. Natalie nodded. She put an arm around Burl, and he still received a jolt whenever Natalie did such a thing; it had been too long since Burl had ever felt a motherly gesture like that. “Are you sure you don’t want us to come along?” Natalie asked. “We could help you clean up faster, and—”“I’ll be fine,” Burl assured her earnestly. “It’s partially my fault for destroying the cabin; I’m the only one who should be going to clean up.” Natalie still looked concerned as she opened her mouth to protest, but David placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder coaxingly. “He’ll do perfectly fine, Natalie,” he told her. He then looked at Burl, a hint of a smile on his face. “He’ll do just fine.” The CPR train stopped in front of them, the doors opening, awaiting Burl. He embraced the Agnews. “Thank you,” he said to them. “I’ll be back soon.” “Be safe, kid,” David said. Burl nodded, and turned back around to face the train. He took a deep breath, and stepped inside, the familiar sent of smoke entering his nostrils. Before the doors shut, Burl looked at the Agnews once more; Natalie had tears on her face, but managed to smile through them, while David was nodding at him encouragingly, a look of pride in his eyes. The doors of the train closed, and the conductor pulled the whistle. And he is gone far away. A few days later, Natalie received letter (telegram) from someone. Regrettable he is dead .in an accident. Natalie was fall in despair.