Sunday 31 March 2013

Twice Dead?

Real or Dream?

Was I asking for trouble? I bought an old house that needed renovations in every room.

Wanting to do many of the jobs myself, then having local workers in the area to do the reconstructions of what I could not handle. This was a small town and the gossip at the cafe was the house was haunted. I was not one to believe in their lore and just laughed and smiled as the storytellers enjoyed their tales.

When I heard about the previous owner Mr. Greyer, he sounded like a typical ruthless, ornery old man with an angry disposition on life, treating his relatives with disdain when asked for money they had worked for in his employ. He was the richest man in the area and many relatives wanted him to die and leave them in his will. That didn’t happen. It all went to a charity far away in another country.

The story went that all the relatives got together and each taking a knife to his body, stabbed him twenty times. His housekeeper found him in his bed one morning. They all had alibis for each other so no one was ever charged.

My large new bedroom had a high ceiling, heavy drapes covered tall narrow windows, and the bed was at least one hundred years old. It had been old Mr. Greyer’s, so I bought a new mattress.

Drifting off after a grueling day, I thought I was all alone until the heavy breathing started within the walls. As it grew louder and louder it got closer to where I was laying, now with the covers over my head with only a slit to peek out I scanned the room. I could see no one.

Then a tapping began, it sounded like Morse code, I was not even sure what that sounded like, but the tapping kept up, growing with urgency, it seemed like someone was trying to communicate with me. Were the stories true? Was the house haunted? Now I started to wonder. Was this why the workers would only stay a few days, then leave with an excuse, some saying they heard voices when they had torn down the walls in my bedroom to expand it.

The women I had hired to cook and clean, came running in, telling me someone had stolen all the knifes from the kitchen and left the kitchen door open with a trail of blood leading out to the garden. She was afraid to go look outside. The tapping had stopped. I went down stairs with her, heading out to the garden with trepidation.

Old Mr. Greyer was lying in my flowerbed. Twenty kitchen knives protruding out of his body.

The police came, no fingerprints on any of the knives. The blood was from an animal.

 Was someone making portentous statement? 

Mr. Greyer or the relatives?

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