SOZZEL THE JONGLEUR
Haunted Halloween Tales
A weird and eclectic collection of short stories and poetry
by
Ken Lehnig
SMASHWORDS EDITION
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Ken Lehnig on Smashwords
Sozzel The Jongleur
Haunted Halloween Tales
Copyright © 2011.Ken Lehnig
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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Table of Contents:
Short Stories:
2.The East End Case In West(By God)Virginia
4.On Things That Go Bump In The Night
Poetry:
9.What Is This Thing Halloween
I picked proper strings
and let the rim shot fire
against the cracked plaster’s
calloused ear
so many loud drunken tales and stories told
some haunt,
lingering still,
in smoky shadows
Bereft of kindness
this shelter offers little
but a tune and spirit
down some sad memory
whatever dark webs I deem to spin and ply
really only lies about other uneasy worlds
so sozzel the jongleur
The old sot winks
and his filthy cohort dance
a jiggle of old bones
and graceless promenades
rough hewed, true to the gravel tones I entrain
no eminence grise
no gift
could I yet endue
But through parlance
it behooves me to find comfort
where my tongue’s
lilt has gained some merit
My kin,
the rag tag and bobtail
fuddle and frolic
let go this day’s nettle and lift your saddened heart
and sozzel the jongleur
So for the mood
I’ll change the cadence and intone
a somber, but still witty air
‘bout fools and finer folk
whose willful and wily ways did bring them ruin
what trickled down
alas and all
only the familiar penury
This Halloween night no final call,
too real this song to let it rest
we’ll share a strain
I’ll acquaint the frightening tales
of foolishness and happenstance in a lunatic world
belly up,
gratuit the sommelier
fie to this misspent day
and sozzel the jongleur
So, I will tip the glass of soothing libation and then present my first offering, a tale of the supernatural, one of skin crawling fear, overdue vengeance and love, of a sort.
I stood the tall dark and mysterious stranger at the edge of the driveway, looking at the unfamiliar house my father had recently purchased. It was a beautiful place, as much as I could see in the dark, '…over the rim with potential,’ no doubt the real estate agent's plug, artfully laid upon my father. My Father was a man of discernment, not easily conned. This domicile a typical New England design, three stories of stone, tall windows, dark tile roof with gables, covered porches front and back, great shinning multi- paned windows in front. When I looked out on the moonlit grounds my spine shivered, what came to mind was the old saying ‘…as if someone had walked over my grave’. The house had the overall look and feel of something vaguely alive. It was if I could feel a palpable 'attention' moving whenever I moved. I felt no ill will, in fact quite the opposite. October's full moon shown down, casting a magical silvery shimmer to everything. A gentle night wind blew my hair with a feel of guarded welcome. I consider myself a realist and took the feeling to come from a natural reaction from the eerie beauty all around me. There was a yellow light shining in knifelike sharpness upon the snow, shinning in colors, in an autumn colored world, from two great windows on the side of the house. I was so much my Pop. He was a cacophony - loud, blunt, and wildly charming, his personality a swirling mass of color - some you have never seen. My Dad had a thousand acquaintances, but friends were all counted on one hand – some of those wearied of the world's selfish needs and passed on to a hopeful rest. That’s how he is you see. He is such a grand man that you end up bouncing off him always injured in some small un-intended way. You will never find the wound, nor be able to prove it to another. But I love him and didn't I end up being just like him?
Ole Dad must be in the library, waiting anxiously for his now divorced and prodigally handy son to show up. That was the deal, you see, he offered me half the equity, if I came and lived with him and helped him renovate this very house.
We lived in Warwick when I was a kid. It was like I was coming going home.
I know he will have a script for the way we will be together. Everything is a script to Dad. I can remember him coming over to take my little brother and me to a ballgame. After a tiny, and reasonably short war we were off. As we were going through line to the turnstile, my Dad saw a man with a long gray beard and short hair. He was creepy. Dad turned around, and without a word, drove to a fancy hotel and checked us into a suite. He pulled out his laptop and started another book. Now, as for us, we had it fine, room service, the bellhop got us games to play, and new clothes showed up in ribbon-tied boxes, all on Dad's bill. Dad kept us for over a week. Mom located us and telephoned the room. We could hear her screaming; we could hear every unfair word. She claimed to know Dad, but she enjoyed making herself look better by telling whoppers about my Pop. And eventually, after a long-winded and vicious tirade, allowing no rebuttal and the truth of the accusations in no way important, we would end up going home with a self-satisfied and cheerful Mom.
"That's it boys your Mom says the jigs up. Did you guys have fun? "
Mom waiting for us in the lobby, we would exhale and nod. The bellboy took our stuff down. Dad tipped the young man a twenty and smiled, thanking him at the same time. We got a face full of kisses and as we walked away we wished him luck on the book. It turned out to be a success, a novel about an old hippy that claimed to be Jesus. It must have helped quite a bit with his alimony payments.
Now that I was here in this ‘now’ and this ‘where’ - I grinned, feeling pleased beyond reason, I loved my dad no matter how big a pain in the ass he is. I picked up my suitcase, and walked happily up to the front door. I knocked several times, with no response. Maybe he just couldn't hear me? I tried the doorbell. Still no response, I knew he was home. I walked down the front steps, and as I turned toward the lighted window, a female voice said quite distinctly from behind me.
"No, don't go."
I turned sharply expecting a woman to be standing right behind me – there wasn’t. "What are you up to Pop?" I said with a smile. I pulled out my cell and started to dial." Why would I leave - I just got here? 'Pop' where are you?" I noted a bench built around an old happy cherry tree. If he had gone to town, he was never prepared; waiting there, in the cool night would be pleasant. We’ll talk about his neat little trick when he gets back.
The front door suddenly opened and there stood my Dad, with a huge grin and his hands out.
"Who's the girl?" I asked giving the old man a hug. "You just dumped wife number four - give it a break."
"Nice to see you too, son? There is no girl here just me and now… you." Hugging me again. He grinned." I understand from Phil that your breakup with my strange daughter-in-law had its exciting moments."
"Phil talks to much – it’s done and that it. I heard a woman's voice as clear as a bell." I said to Dad’s back as he carried my bags in.
“No woman here – I think at my age I have finally learned my lesson. How about a drink?” He left me in the foyer.
I couldn't help but look right and left, it's in my blood to size a house up, and Dad has been known to play a gag. I heard a woman singing. I recognized Pop’s favorite country singer Emmy Lou Harris. Something in my mind relaxed just as a cold chill ran up my spine. It thought that it had to be the record – I just misheard – a trick of acoustics. I put it out of my mind.
“You got beer?” I hollered after Dad and followed him into what I assumed was the kitchen. I passed the record player I had bought him so many years ago.
"…All the Federales say - could have had him anyway. What is that 'Luxury Liner'? I think your crush on her may be the ruin you. You still have that record and the player still works? When are you gonna buy a CD player? Then you could play all your tunes - sound files - on your laptop."
He answered with a dismissive shrug. "Yep. She's my gal." Pop smiled. "She will never leave me. She plays real - vinyl – it don't get better. It's more like being there. I don't care about downloaded music – damn CWs. I can hear the difference. Sampling a pure sine wave seems like a capricious creature randomly biting willy-nilly, eating up a great performance and telling us the result is music. Anyway you gave me the stereo and the record for my forty fifth birthday.”
“On the occasion of your second divorce – you were pretty bluesy.”
He dropped his eyes. “It saved me – this stereo and Emmy Lou. Thanks for coming and taking the deal. We haven't spent much time together – I was hoping you could – and beside it will get your mind off of things."
"What’s CW?" I smiled reading the liner on the album cover.
"Conventional wisdom, computerized wimpery, carminative whiz-banging, carpological wickedry …do you need more?"
I chuckled, and he nodded.
"Waiting to give me that one, weren't you? My, My, What would Irene think?"
"Well, lucky for both of us," he dodged my taunt, " …and a solidly composed pre-nup, we have this place, and the funds to work on it. Sorry your Irene treated you so crappy."
"Yeah! Well that’s life - I'm beat Pop. I need a beer and some TV." I walked into the parlor. The house was wonderful. A quick perusal led me to believe that a little elbow work - spit and polishin', shippin' and shapin'- would turn this already great house into a palace. "Pop, it looks like you did good."
"Thanks, she is a beauty you'll see. I am so glad to have you here. You hungry? I have some beef stew on and good coffee brewed. Oh, you wanted a beer." He snatched my bag away, and with the other hand in the middle of my back, lightly pushed me into a recliner - there were two. "Sit down - how was the train ride? We are a bit out in the toolies. Wait till you see the lawn and garden. On the other side of the street, passed the trees a bit, starts a swamp, and beyond that is a pond. You used to play on it, and fish in it when you were a kid."
His voice filtered away to a hum, as he left the room. I sat down on what I was sure was my recliner. The remote was already on the table next to the other chair. I leaned back and smiled, we will be 43 and 63 years old tomorrow - Halloween. We were born on that dark meaningful day, under the same star. Birthdays meant a lot to my Dad, I suppose he accepted his bad luck because of the day and made to placate any spirits that are invisibly tormenting him. We have had shaky times, he and me, but we always got through it. Time does heal the wounds - not the scars. Certain events, and subjects, will still cause silly eruptions between us.
At his last wedding I got drunk and tried to leave, but his lovely, same age as me, hateful, witch of a woman, caught me and asked for a dance. I was drunk, and she used it to drive a wedge between Dad and I. She feigned inebriation and danced with me as close, and as lewdly as she could. It was a devious plan. Once the display was played out, she begged everyone's forgiveness, took Dad aside, acknowledging her attraction to me and implying a weak moment, but everlasting love for him. Well, if Dads choices were me, or her incredible body lying on him every night? Yep, I was banished…for being a cad. I had done nothing – she even evilly implied there had been an illicit relationship, for my Dad such an act would be too much to forgive. She claimed it happened, like it was a joke, every punch line tearing at my Dad. No matter how much I denied it, there was always a doubt between us. I left - to some, confirming my lasciviousness. Born on Halloween does mean something.
For my part, drunk or not, the thoughts of my lusty heart and certain other bodily misbehaving - left me to take my banishment as a wise and appropriate move. I had written a poem. Verses written in therapy, in a journal like manner. I was a committed and dutiful patient.
Life goes on, time will tell,
If blame for transgressions soften
It all comes around, isn't living hell
For the hurt is never ever forgotten
And now I am back. Dad came back in with two bowls of stew, and the beers. He sat down heavily. He was a big man, my Dad, 250 and six-foot and 3. I was a little trimmer, and a little taller, but the kid in me will always see him as the big guy. We have always had a great relationship, except when we married. Apparently, Pop and I are not good people, and occasionally a woman sees one of us, and insists on marrying us. After a short, and cunningly deceptive, honeymoon they would go about the tedious, and unrewarding task, of making us better human beings, that an overwhelming undertaking, with no guaranties, except for what can be reaped from divorce. Ironically the task of our improvement, when failed, delivers the gold. You would think the judge, a woman perhaps, would look sternly upon the women and say, and “You have failed to make him a better man, step out of the way, and let another woman give it a try. Here is a fair portion of gold for your efforts - now be on your way. God's speed!” To us men the judge would say, “You, you contemptible - uncivilized hooligan, have one year to find another woman to continue the work that this one has started.” So, as life would have it, we two incorrigibles are here, together, fixing to get fixing, not on ourselves, but upon this very house. Not withstanding the need for women in our lives, here was a reprieve.
Thank you Lord, thank you Judge, and pass me another beer.
The rest of the night we watched ESPN, drank, and talked. I made my acquaintance with the house, and I felt as if the house had sized me up. We both slept in the wonderful chairs.
***
Dad was cooking breakfast. I poured myself a coffee and sat down, watching my father do what he did so very well. I always believed Dad should have a cooking show and restaurants.
"Happy Birthday and Happy Halloween - Huevos rancheros-beans-and bacon. Say nothing my boy, you will love it."
He sat down the plates, wonderful odors rose to my nose, and my stomach gave me a playful shrug. Pop went to the 'fridge door, pulling out a bowl of quartered oranges, and small wild strawberries. He sat it all down on the table, spun to the oven, and added a warm plate of tortillas. He sat smiled at me and dug in to his creation. We ate in silence, other than the mmmmm sounds that filled the room.
"You gonna think about opening a restaurant?" I asked through a full mouth.
"It depends how well you and I do with this place. I kind of have a plan for us…"
"Pop let's not do this - we haven't even started here."
"What? You asked. I just thought we might go into business together. I open a restaurant, or three, and you keep buying and fixing up houses. I'll run my part of the biz, and you run yorn. We share fifty -fifty?"
"Given my situation – still don’t know how the divorce is going to work out… look - let’s just get on with this house and see how it goes"
"Great! I'm talking us out to an early dinner to celebrate our birthdays. I want to be back for the kids."
I smiled at the thought of little ones dressed up in scary costumes. I was also pleased at the first edition H. G. Wells I had in my suitcase. Dad will love it.
We cleaned up, and went upstairs. I walked the rooms, and shook my head. The walls were wood, Mahogany, probably, painted a hundred times, and wallpapered just as often. Stripping, or re-wall papering was out - that would be too much work. I had Dad load 1/4 inch drywall throughout the rooms upstairs. It was basically starting over - finishing like new walls and ceiling. The sheets were light enough, and even though Dad wasn't familiar with the craft, it didn't take him long to get into a nice tempo. We had all the walls, and ceilings in the three bedrooms by three. It already looked better. I dropped my bags, slapped my dads shoulder, for the good work. Something caught my eye in the shadowy hallway - it was a woman, with long blond hair, dressed in a white nightgown. Dad walked behind me, wondering why I had stopped. He ran into me, our feet got tangled up, and we were both in the air, and heading down the stairs. We tumbled, we two, one bounce, with me on the bottom, the next, with Dad acting as a human cushion. We slid across the foray floor to an abrupt stop against the front door. Once we determined that we were not broken, or bleeding, we unwrapped and stood, doing further checking.
"Man that hurt. You OK?" Pop rubbed his hand through his long gray hair. How did we manage to do that?
"Didn't you see her?" I ran back upstairs, looking through every room and closet. There was no woman.
"No one told me about her - the way she lied…" Dad had walked, singing, into the bathroom. “ First dibs on the shower. No one told me about her."
"Dad - I saw a women upstairs as plain as day. If you’ve got a girlfriend here, it is fine with me. If it's a joke it ain't, no way, funny. We damn near broke our necks."
"No woman here. I hope you brought a suit. We should dress a bit for dinner. I am taking you to one of those red leather and dark mahogany places - this one has a piano.
"Dad! The Woman?"
You need a toke, or something …you are so tense. There is only us - that's all. We just tripped - no harm, no foul. You saw something in the dark, and it gave you a start. This is a grand old house it will make the imagination go off like a blender, with crushed ice and tequila. Man, that sounds good to me let's have some for dinner."
I calmed down; maybe he was right. I dropped it, but still wondered about what I had seen.
***
The dinner was wonderful. Dad managed to get to the piano and entertain every patron with re-arranged, to sound like old standards, rock tunes of the 70s - Sinatra singing "Teacher, teacher leave those kids alone." - if you get the picture. We got back in time for the onslaught of costumed children. Dad was as happy as I have ever seen him.
***
I woke up in the dark feeling the weight leave me. My nose caught a slight lilac scent. I shifted in my chair. The bare skin on my butt caused a familiar sound. My eyes sprang full open - my pants were not on me. An intimate female odor wafted up to my nose. Images of ruckus lovemaking flashed in my head, and then were gone. I fondled myself. I was dry, and all odors disappeared further with every passing second. Where were my pants? Perhaps I took them off. I haven't been with a woman for months, it didn’t seem right. Before Dad called me to remodeling, I was about to sign up for seminary, and be God's man. I hadn’t told Dad of my plans. He used to be religious, but had inexplicatively become a devout agnostic after the third divorce. He would never understand.
Shaking my head, I deemed it must have been a nightmare - of a sort. I found my pants hanging, in the dark, on one of the entryway's coat rack hooks, and threw them over my shoulder, walked to the living room, where we had set up our unused cots. I lit my lighter and stood in silence.
Dad was snoring from his chair, with his back to me. The cot closest to me seemed to have a small person lying, covered in a large quilted spread. In the little light, from the lighter, the smaller bundle moved sinuously. I was terrified. Blood rushed from my head, and I fainted.
I awoke on the floor, with Dad staring at me.
"Have a good night? Where the hell are your pants? Do you need some shorts?"
My cot was empty - I was laying on Pops – the afore-mentioned quilt now nowhere in sight and my pants were nowhere in sight.
"There was a woman here."
"No, she was a ghost - a very affectionate ghost." My dad frowned. "She only allows it once."
I sat on the edge of the cot with a blanket across my lap.
"You know about this? Why did you buy the place?”
"I didn't know until I bought it and then…well, I’m kinda hard to scare off, with money involved, and given that she is a very friendly ghost, you know?"
"Damn dad."
"What, you didn't enjoy it? She was a dream come true. I have never had a woman so enthusiastic."
"Don't you think there is, I don’t know, some responsibility? I mean it's weird."
"Well", Dad said, "I don't remember being asked. It reminded me of the that scene in that Ghost Busters movie where the nerdy guy is laying in bed and his pants begin to...”
“Dad?”
‘What? You can't live with it?"
"I guess so – I’ll have to. It's still weird. What is she an incubus? I had heard stories, but I didn’t believe it. I always figured some guy had a wet dream and made up some tale."
“Not unless you’re gay. Succubus, this one – maybe - I don’t know. I did a lot of research before you came. These beings have been repotted for centuries.- Still don’t know – doesn’t fit somehow. I started another book, because of it. You never know when and how the muse will strike.”
“Succubus.”
"Let's put it aside for now and get back to work. We need more materials." Dad headed for the front door.
***
That night nothing happened.
I was up most of the night. I don't know if I was disappointed, or relieved. Being molested by a ghost was, after all, pretty interesting.
The sun rose and created a crazy splash of color on the fluffy summer clouds. It was the most beautiful sunrise I had ever seen. It was perfect. Even the coffee I sipped was more than delicious.
Dad came out, with a dish of cheddar cheese omelets, sausage, fresh fruit and toast. It was great, but then any food my dad prepares is going to be wonderful. We both sat on the porch and enjoyed the morning vibe, forgetting about ghosts for a while. Even the house seemed in a good mood.
The whole day went incredibly well. We finished two rooms, ready to paint. Thank God for quick mud. For dinner Dad prepared a pork loin, new potatoes, cinnamon apples, and a Greek salad. I was going to get fat – a fat Preacher. Thank God we were working hard. A Celtics playoff Game topped the evening.
That night we slept well.
At 2:00 am I awoke, not unusual for me. I usually rise every three or four hours to pee. I went to the bathroom and screamed in pain, just as I walked through the bathroom door. I gasped and fell to the floor, with my hand on my lower back. Dad awoke and rushed to me. He lifted my shirt and gasped.
I yelled, "What?'
"You gotta see this. You must be a terrible lover." Pop went into the bathroom to get a mirror.
I position the mirror where Dad told me, and couldn't believe my eyes. It was a handprint. A small, unseen hand had raised a fiery red welt. A large scratch crossed the center of the welt, oozing blood.
"Damn, what the hell. I’ve seen this shit on TV - she’s angry. Christ what did I do?"
"I'm the wrong person to ask that. Here let me get some antiseptic." Dad responded.
It felt better after being tended. We went back in the dinning room, sat on the cots, and thought about the events of the last few days.
"I guess she didn't want you to pee."
"Pop. Doesn't this bother you? Man, I'm shaking' like a leaf."
"I should be, but I'm not. How can you be mad at a ghost? What good would it do?"
"Ok very funny. But what makes her want to hurt. And who’s gonna buy a haunted house? Did the Realtor tell you the house had pissed off, scratching, ghosts?"
"No. Just that the place had been empty for ten years. Just one ghost I think."
"I don't get it. Why do what she did to us, then hurt me?"
"A fine line between love and hate?" Dad mugged.
"You may be right." I said, ignoring him. "The love thing was for attention the…"
"What…frustrated when she was alive?"
"Dad, Look. She wants help. Slapping me was to get my immediate attention. Come on!"
I ran back to the bathroom, and started checking the walls and floor. I moved to the door and jamb.
I noticed that the header trim over the bathroom door was a lot wider than the rest of the house.
"What's this Dad?"
"Yeah I noticed that. Let's pull it off. Where's the bucket of hand tools?"
"Upstairs in the first bedroom."
A loud moan, coming from everywhere, made us both flinch.
“That was disturbing!” I looked at Dad.
Dad shook his head, turned, ran upstairs, and down in a flurry.
"Here's a crowbar." He said handing it to me.
I pulled the trim off, revealing a six -inch gap above the jamb header. Sitting in the gap there was a tin box.
Dad pulled it down, and opened it. I asked him what was in the box. He pulled out the papers and gasped.
"My God, these are barer bonds, good company." He went quiet as he counted, "400,000 dollars!"
"Those are yours now. But, Dad, why would she show us? Unless…"
"What?" Dad was counting the bonds, mesmerized. He looked at me. “There ours now. You’re listed on the deed.” He grinned. “I forged your signature.”
"Fine. Look…she wouldn't have showed us unless she had a reason. What do you know about the person who lived here before you?"
"Nothing. Just that the place had been empty for ten years. It was well kept and clean.
That's one of the reasons I bought the house." he looked at the bonds again, "These were issued 11 years ago - yikes they could be worth more. Who ever owned them lived here then."
"Let's not put these in the bank, it would start a rumor mill. We own the house and everything in it. We don't want shit-heads making fraudulent claims, and wrapping us up in court. Then there's the more sinister aspect - Who hid them?"
"Was our ghost living here then and who was she hiding it from?"
We chatted up the rest of the night. Planning what to immediately do with the money and wondering at the mystery we had fallen into.
***
The next morning Dad woke early, leaving me in bed. He wanted to make his famous French toast. I turned over, in irritation, at the noise coming from the kitchen. Finally, annoyed, I got up wondering why Dad was making all the ruckus. I walked into chaos, eggs were thrown against the windows, syrup was dripping from the ceiling, and flour was everywhere. My father, looking like a ghoul, had a fine white coat of flour all over him.
"What happened here?” I asked." Did your recipe not go well?”
"Funny man. I should have left you at the hospital, but your mother insisted we take you home."
"That explains a lot."
"Coffee? It's the only thing untouched."
With a little shake, the coffee pot lifted from its cradle, and floated in the air. It moved toward me. A coffee cup flew from the shelf. I caught it and turned it over, just in time for the coffee to pour in, without a drop spilled. The pot returned to the Mr. Coffee and settled in the cradle.
"Wow cool special affects. I'm all goosepimply. It appears to like me!" I whispered.
"...Guilt for slapping you." Pop offered. A loud moan coming from the stairwell made me jump. "It doesn’t seem like being called 'it'."
"I did see a woman. Are you a she?" I asked the air around me.
The room instantly smelled of lilacs.
"There's you're answer." Pop grinned, looking grotesquely clownish.
After we had cleaned up most of the mess I told Dad I was going into town and see if I couldn't find out about this mystery woman. He nodded and said he'd clean up the rest. He told me he would be saying that he was sorry the whole time he was cleaning up.
***
I drove the back way on the old coach road that circled from the swamp to Aponougue Pond. I suddenly had the urge to go fishing there. I heard that pickerel abound, getting huge back into the swamp. As a boy some friends and I built a raft and poled back to the black pool that was the pond's source. There were huge lily pads and hanging vines cascading down from great old trees, circling a huge artesian well. It was a strange place. It looked as if it was southern Georgia, not New England. I longed to see it again.
I decided, before I went to the library, to get a chocolate egg crème from the bait store and fountain that sat on the city side of the pond. I drove up remembering the hard penny candies sold by old man Petermyer. Cavities aside, it was a good memory. I walked into the chime of a bell. Not much had changed. Even the jars of candy were the same. As I sat down at the counter, two kids came in exchanging their dimes and nickels for root beer this, and caramel that. The man behind the counter even looked like old man Petermyer.
"I'm his son." he responded when I asked.
The son made me a chocolate egg cream. It was the best chocolate egg crème I had ever tasted.
"Yep, I improved on my Dad's. Say, aren't you one of the two fellows remodeling the Burnam house?"
It didn't surprise me that he knew of Dad and me. Even larger towns had a way of being small when strangers show up. Warwick had gotten famous, because of a TV show ‘The Ghost Hunters', but it still had the feel of a small town. I wondered about the priests at St. Charles. Particularly - I wondered about the old guy that beat me with a cane for questioning the Trilogy. I was never confirmed and remained unconvinced until I was an adult. That priest was personally responsible for making me a Methodist. All it required was an honest and lucid explanation not a trip to the hospital.
"I used to live here when I was a kid."
"I know, I went to school with you. I kicked your ass by the hardware store."
"Gene!" I barked. "No shit. Would you like to try me now, without your gang of punks?" I said half joking, still remembering the humiliation.
He grinned and shook his head. "I outgrew that, but if I did, I’d still want a bunch of guys with me - the way you filled out."
I was a little disappointed. It felt good to just sit and remember. "Say Gene, What do you know about the place we bought?"
"Not much, 'cept that Sharon Burnam was killed in the house. Shot in the head. It’s been empty, till you guys bought it…pretty place. It's going to be nice."
"Anything else?"
"Well there was some talk about Frank, her beau. Sheriff swore he did it, but there wasn't enough evidence. In the end it was assumed some thief was after her jewelry. She was said to have a rich aunt…left her the house and a ton of money and jewels. Anyway Frank…"
"Frank who?" I asked, my interest heightened.
"Why, Frank Stevens. He owns Crownpoint Realty here in town. He bought the building he’s in from the estate not long after the murder – he made an offer on the house, and then let it go. It made a lot of tongues to wag. Don't know where he got the money. He's a nice enough fellow now, church going, and family man. After a while people sorta forgave and forgot. If he did it then God can sort it out. That is as long as he keeps his nose clean.
I had what I wanted. Frank Stevens killed Sharon, our ghost, and she was pissed.
***
I went to the library to verify the story. I checked in with the Sheriff who was a bit guarded, but helpful, and glad we were working on the house. He said it would put the sorry affair to rest. Then I went back to tell Dad what I had discovered. It was late afternoon before I got back.
"I'll be damned." Pop reacted. "Should we call Ghost Hunters? He responded with a grin.
"I don't think so. We know we are haunted and we know why."
"That was it.' Dad added. "The killer had an idea about the bonds but couldn't find them – but he got her cash and jewels. The Police didn't know about the bonds. There is the motive. Look, will you go back to town for a few things?"
I didn't want to. It was hard to be interested in the remodel work. But I got the list and went back to town anyway.
***
When I got back to the house. I expected to smell something cooking. I didn't and it disturbed me.
"God. How could I have left Dad alone?" I said to myself expecting to find him lying on the kitchen floor clutching his heart.
When I walked in the front door. I found Dad in a worse spot than I could have imagined. Dad was gagged and tied up to a chair.
"Come on in and try nothing. I have a gun." I walked in and sat down as Frank's gun waved me to a chair. "It belongs to your Dad. I have my own, but I like this one. I came over to see how the work was going. I noticed a tin box, an empty tin box. I knew that box. I made it in a class I took in tinwork. Sharon told me it was lost. Well, seeing it again made me think. She must have put the bonds…Oh, I can see by your face you knew about the bonds. So you have them. Where are they?"
He came over to me. He had more rope in the other hand. He tied me up. Then slapped my face, twice.
"I don't want to kill you two. All I want is what is mine. You see the way I look at it…if I had married Sharon I would have benefited by the money. You see…she accused me of cheating. Ironically, I was, and I eventually married the other woman. It got heated. Sharon could be real pigheaded and very unforgiving. I think I told her the other woman was better in bed. She started screaming, and came after me with a kitchen knife. I hit her, to defend myself. She stabbed me in the back…I hit here a lot harder than I intended. To bad, she was a nice gal. I shot her. I didn't have to. She was just being so damn unreasonable. I found the jewels - I took some and spread the rest about. I had a friend from California pawn them in Providence…got a lot less than they were worth, and I had the cash she kept in the safe...that’s in the basement. You would have found that eventually. The police never made the connection.”
"You are not going to get away with this," I bluffed, "I told the Sheriff about you."
"I shot the Sheriff, but I did not shoot the deputy." He sang, "I don't believe you. You are going to tell me where the bonds are. Then I am going to disappear and just maybe I won't kill you."
Dad and I remained quiet.
"No?" Frank smiled, turned, and ran out of the room. The next hour he tore the house apart, coming up with nothing. The sun had gone down and the house was dimly lit. The light came on in the dinning room where dad and I were tied.
"Damn you two. Look, I'm not leaving until I have the bonds. I planned to be out of the country by sunup. Now, where are the bonds, or so help me I will kill the old man?" He lifted the gun aiming at Dad. Then stopped.
"Your Pop's quite a cook isn't he?" He pointed the gun down and walked into the kitchen. A large guffaw resonated from the kitchen. Dad started struggling against the ropes.
Frank came back counting the bonds. "The broiler…are you nuts old man? That could have been a disaster.”
A loud moan emanated from the upstairs. Frank was suddenly thrown to the ground by an unseen force. The paper bonds scattered everywhere. He was lifted upside down, in mid air, screaming at the sound of slaps. Welts appeared on his face. He fired the gun wildly screaming in fear. The gun dropped to the floor and he was thrown violently into the wall sliding broken, and unconscious, to the floor.
A stray bullet cut my bonds and painfully winged my arm. I pulled off the ropes and went to help Dad.
"Son of a bitch surprised me." Dad explained.
"It's Okay. I think our Sharon took care of him."
We picked up the bonds, put them in a plastic bag, and deposited them into Dad's truck, tended our sores, tied up the unconscious Frank, and called the sheriff.
***
We didn't mention the bonds when the Sheriff showed up. After a round of questions we were again left alone in the house, staring at each other.
It turned out that the gun Larry brought to the party was the one with which he killed Sharon. Frank never regained consciousness but remained in a coma. The Sheriff bought our story that Frank had broke in, tied us up, and that I had gotten lose, and pushed him down the stairs, in a struggle for the gun. The evidence I supposed did not validate our story, but it did prove that Frank killed Sharon and there were no charges filed against me.
Dad and I were now rich, but not greedy. We anonymously sent 50,000 to Frank's widow. She would never know Franks plans to abandon her and his family that he was a murderer and thief was humiliation enough. She had come over to apologize for her husband’s actions, and any harm, he had done. With that visit she brought us a pineapple cake that was so amazing my dad asked for the recipe.
We finished the house. We didn't sell it. We had done too good a job, so we moved in permanently. We did go into business together. Dad opened a restaurant in Warwick, down the street from the Ghost Hunters office. We decided to keep our ghost story private. After all a gentleman does not tell. We bought another fixer upper, after I was sure that the house was not otherwise paranormally occupied. I set aside my plans to go to seminary.
Frank never regained consciousness and passed away, not from the injuries, but from a brain tumor that had ruptured during the tussle with Sharon's Ghost. His wife later married the local Methodist Minister, a good man that had become a friend to me, and a better and persistent friend to my agnostic father. I did find that ironic.
A year has gone by and there was no further trace of our resident ghost.
I came home last night - Halloween, with bags of candy for the kids. Dad was half watching the new wide screen LCD TV I bought him for his birthday. He had a small digital recorder in his lap.