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Novelo Rectangle

I sat in the corner of the bar, sipping at my white wine and soaking in the rural atmosphere. It was nice to sit and relax. Work had been crazy as of late. The duties of a Paraormal Investigator seemed almost never-ending. "Hey, I know you," an old man with a long scraggly beard and red suspenders pointed at me from across the room. "Ain't you that Hadley Trivett from 'Ghosting'?" He slithered from his stool and began limping toward me. "Yes, sir," I winced. "I am. We just wrapped up our latest episode. I'm just passing through here on my way home. We'll be on hiatus until next season." I gulped down the remainder of my liquid refreshment. "Well, I'm Amos Wilcher." He stuck out a dirty, sweaty hand. I smiled weakly and shook it. A polite gesture. I tried to hide the disgust in my eyes and face. He pulled a chair away from my table and plopped himself down without invitation. "So, what was you workin' on?" "l am afraid I can't divulge that information, Mr. Wilcher. I am not allowed." I pushed my wooden chair backward causing a horrific screech. "You don't have to leave now, do ya? I was gonna give you an idea for a show, you know, a place to film?" "Our producers come up with the itinerary and schedule, sir. Please, feel free to contact the station." I slung my purse over my shoulder, ready to get back on the road. "Wait," Amos Wilcher stood, towering over me, "lt's not far from here." His thick fingers clamped down around my wrist. "There's an abandoned mansion right outside town. The address is 15269 Surrey Lane. It's the old Brunswick place." "I'm sorry, l can't." "Please, Hadley," he tightened his grip. "You won't regret it. l've seen it myself." The room somehow seemed smaller, more smoke-filled. I sighed. "Okay, tell me about it." So many people had so many stories. I supposed I could placate another fantasy. We both sat at the table once again. "There was a very well-off family, the Brunswicks, who had the mansion built back in 1926. Franklin and his wife Lillian were quite excited and reveled in deciding on the furniture, the chandeliers, and all the details, down to the tiny flowered wallpaper and the color of the rugs. However, their two young children, Gordon and Minnie Mae were not happy. They were only eight- and six-years old at the time, so they were paid no mind." A lengthy yawn escaped my lips. "Five months after moving into the exquisite mansion, each member of the Brunswick family was found. Dead. Fatally stabbed to death. Even Minnie Mae, the youngest. Petite little thing with spiral blonde curls and dimples along each side of her mouth. Such a shameful tragedy." Amos Wilcher shook his bald head and made a clucking noise with his tongue. "How do you know these things?" I asked as I thrummed my manicured nails on the table. "My grandmother used to live next door to the folks. She's long gone now and so is her house but the mansion's still there. Nobody dares touch it, that's for darn sure. Another family tried to live there about ten years later but they packed up and moved on lickety-split like. The city was gonna tear it down due to disrepair. It's a big eyesore. But two workmen were killed and one hurt real bad. It's just sitting and rotting." "So you believe the workers met their demise due to some sort of entity or entities within the home?" "Not just me, practically everyone in this town and beyond too." "Well Mr. Wilcher, I've never heard of the Brunswick mansion but I'll be sure to tell my producers about it. Perhaps we'll add it to our list one day." I stood once again and whisked myself out the doorway. As I entered my car, I immediately typed 15269 Surrey Lane into my GPS system. I was curious. l was sure the story was a bunch of bunk; an old wives' tale. But I had been on a trek to prove supernatural existence since I was a small child. What if ... what if l passed this up and it turned out to be true? 'Turn left, turn right, travel three point two miles, turn right. Your destination is on the left.' Buried under years of neglect, overgrown landscaping, and layers of dirt, I felt the abandoned Brunswick mansion just needed a simple renovation to return it to its former glory. A couple of coats of paint, a new front porch, and a gardener could do the trick. l had seen much worse. l felt no ominous vibes. None at all. As the door creaked open, the insides of the home told a diferent story. The spacious den area was cold. lcy cold. I placed my equipment onto the warped hardwood flooring and looked around. Cobwebs hung in tattered sheets. Faded curtains of indeterminate color blew in a nonexistent wind. And one side of the ornate stairway banister lay in splintered pieces on the carpeted steps. I shrugged. "A bit eerie" I said aloud. I watched my breath expel in a cloudy frost. "Nothing I can't handle though." I turned and began to set up my electromagnetic and motion detectors and my two-way radio. I pushed the Record button on my old cassette machine. A giggle. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stood up. So soon? I usually had to sit for hours before a sound or a movement occured. "Hello?" I belowed. "Is someone here?" An old oil lamp on a trunk behind me fell to the floor and shattered into shiny, twinkling shards. "Oh my." A large painting of three majestic horses above the stone fireplace mysteriously flew across the room barely missing my head. "Mr. Brunswick?" I called. "Mrs. Brunswick?" No response. Footsteps. I could hear them and nothing else. I watched, my stomach in knots, as a child's pair of bare foot prints waltzed across the expansive room. I closed my eyes and held my breath. Lord, l wished Nathaniel and the rest of the crew was here, I thought. Why had I come here alone? Another giggle. More high-pitched. More ... unbearable. "G-G-Gordon? Minie Mae? ls that you?" The scream told of the pain within, the agony, the confusion. It was the most raw communication, one soul reaching out to another for help. "Minnie Mae, help me to understand," I said to the mostly-dark room. "Tell me who murdered you and your family." To my left, the curtain fluttered open and with a groaning strain, the window rose. I slogged toward it. "The house next door is no longer there Minnie Mae. Did you know that?" Silence. "Are you telling me someone from that house killed you, your brother, and parents? Was it someone named Amos Wilcher or his grandmother perhaps?" More silence. "His grandfather?" In the far corner, a shadow began to move. Inside the dark shadow, a glowing orb materialized. I could see a face. A young face with a dimpled smile. An evil smile. Black eyes. Spiraled, blonde curls. She stepped forward. Closer and closer. She was wearing a long, white, flowing top. Pajamas? Red splotches dotted the garment. A long, wooden-handled, gleaming silver knife was in her chubby hand. She was slitting my throat. For the root of horror is in emotional indifference. Minnie Mae's parents showed each of their children an emotional indifference. Where you find such, l thought with my last breath, you will find disastrous evil. And, Amos Wilcher glared through the open window with rheumy eyes.

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Novelo Square

The Night Of Fear

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The Night Of Fear

Melissa

Melissa

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Melissa Andres

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