He turns to Frances and throws her on the bed. He beats and punches her and, as she begs for him to stop and struggles to get away, Hugh drags her across the floor. He picks her up, turns her to him and headbutts her. Her nose cracks and breaks. She drops to the floor and holds up a hand for him to stop.
“Screw you!” he yells, then kicks her in the stomach. Frances bellows and curls into a ball, cradling her bosom. Hugh then stands over her and grips her neck in his hands. She fights back, but his massive arms grip tighter as her lungs begin to collapse, her feet shake and bang on the floor beneath them, and her body begins to stiffen. Hugh squeezes as hard as he can until he can feel the bones in Frances’ neck cave and bend and he hears a releasing pop.
Frances becomes limp beneath him, like a gazelle dead in a lion’s mouth. Hugh stares down onto Frances and looks over at Paul. His eyes begin to fill with tears, as he howls to the ceiling in emotional pain. His tears drop onto her face, but then he calms as he tries to listen to what he believes is Frances breathing. He watches her, practically glares at her, as though he wants to beat her again. Frances then opens her eyes and takes a gasp for life, but Hugh quickly removes the gun from his waist and plants a bullet in her forehead.
~
Hugh orchestrated the scene to look like a murder-suicide. Paul, the murderer, Frances and victim, and Hugh, as he told the investigators, the friend Paul was jealous of. He stated that Paul lusted after Frances, but when Frances fell pregnant with Hugh’s children, Paul became depressed and jealous. Hugh handed the investigators a note which read, “If I can’t have her, neither can you. -Paul.”
The investigators accepted Hugh’s evidence as part of their investigations, until weeks later when many of Hugh’s claims were deemed false. Frances’ doctor made a statement on the news that he had himself told Hugh that the children were not his and that he had found something odd about the “mugging” and the bruises. The doctor later informed investigators that, while he has not said anything to Hugh, Frances has shown the doctor marks and bruises which she assigned to Hugh’s hand. The investigators were then forced to look deeper into that night. What they couldn’t understand was the struggle that supposedly happened between Paul and Frances, not to mention Hugh’s whereabouts while the murder-suicide played out. The hand print and marks on Frances neck did not fit Paul’s, in fact, the investigators could not find evidence of Paul anywhere at the scene or on Frances, and therefore concluded that Paul had not touched her that night. After Hugh became a suspect and the investigation continued, evidence was collected proving that Hugh was involved in the crime. Hugh was later found guilty on two counts of murder in the first degree and was sentenced to life in prison.
Hugh fell into the deepest trenches and recesses of his mind. He spent years in his cell, thinking about that night, thinking about his wife and how things had been before, and thinking about Paul. But these thoughts weren’t thoughts of sympathy or asking for forgiveness. These thoughts were of a much more darker nature because, despite what he did, Hugh was still angry. It wasn’t long before his outbursts started with others and rubbed off onto himself, for Hugh slit his throat one morning with an old, rusty nail he pulled from the heel of one of his prison boots.
Discovering Home
24nd June, 2014
Edison, New Jersey, USA
10:48 AM
There’s a white chrysanthemum in our rose garden. I don’t remember planting such seeds, so it must have been George. He knows it’s my favourite flower. I will not pick it, though. They say that if you love something as beautiful as a flower, you water it so it can grow instead of pulling it by the roots.
Having the opportunity to work from home has allowed me much free time to tend to the interior and exterior decorating. I’ve been wanting a new house, though, for quite some time and since we haven’t been able to find the perfect house, I figured we can revamp our present one to our expectations.
“Eva,” George calls as I hear the front door slam.
“In the garden, come around.”
George rounds the back corner of our house and rests his briefcase on the grass. I lay the gardening tools next to the patches I was tending, stand up, and dust the dirt from my gloves and knees. George pulls me into his arms and presses his lips against mine. He then holds me out in front of him, as a smile spreads from ear to ear.
“Well, someone looks happy today.”
“Remember when I told you about that opportunity as a managing consultant in London?”
As he speaks, his throaty voice is jubilant, and his bright beryl eyes shine into dusk sunset.
“Yes? You met with the people today?”
“I did. I received a call from Matt Lewis who is working out there now. He told me that his assistant was in town and, after looking over my portfolio, he wanted to interview me. So, on my lunch break, I sat with him outside my office and, at the conclusion he just flat out told me, ‘George. You are going places and I can see you as a great fit with our business. If you’d like the position, it is yours.’ And so, I accepted.”
“That is great news, George! I’m so proud of you! Um, so, w-when are they expecting you in London?”
“Well, because of their faith in me, they gave me an advance so, the decision is up to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“How soon can you pick our new house?”
“Well,” I gawk and can’t refrain from smiling. “I guess we should start looking!”
We spent two weeks in London before we found our dream home. George received a great advance and, though we could have found a decent home, we wanted something more than exceptional so we dug into our savings and put the two together.
Our new house rests atop a cliff which overlooks the horizon. It has five bedrooms, three bathrooms, a welcoming fountain at the front entrance, a large dining room, and a kitchen that could accommodate a vast number of line cooks.
“I love it!” I tell him. “There’s more than enough of everything. Do we really need this place?”
“I thought you said you loved it?” George asks with a laugh in his voice.
“I do!”
“Good, because since we’ve already paid for it, we have no choice but to turn this house into our home.”
I was proud to find a garden on the side of our house, much larger than the one we had back in the States. I’ve practically developed a schedule for myself already. I would get up each morning at eight am, do my freelance work, finishing the writing projects before eleven am, have lunch, do some unpacking until around two pm, then tend to the garden until George would walk in the door at five.
I served him a steak, mashed potatoes, and mixed vegetables for dinner with white wine. Sitting at our new dining table enjoying a great meal seemed like a great way to start our life in the new house.
“So, do you love it?” he asks.
“I do,” I say after taking another sip from my glass. “It’s beautiful here.”
“Indeed it is,” he says cutting into his steak. “So, tomorrow I get to work. Will you be alright here by yourself?”
“Well, of course, I mean it won’t be much different than how it was before.”
“But it is,” George says as he points with his fork. “The difference is, we’re in London, my dear.”
“I have a great feeling that everything will be just fine, George.”
~
These past few weeks have been, well, okay, I guess. As George works during the day, I do the unpacking. It isn’t much trouble, though. The problem is, since we’ve moved in, I’ve realized I haven’t been sleeping well. Our bedroom is comfortable, to the eye at least, but I’ve been waking in the middle of the night unable to fall back asleep. Following the schedule has been troublesome due to exhaustion, and because George is at work, I’ve been moving about the house like a slug, unpacking everything.
“How was work today?” I ask him as he walks in the door.
“It was fine.”
“What’s the matter, George?”
“Nothing. I just—I just need to lie down for a bit.”
Without another word or even a kiss, he heads upstairs to our bedroom. He’s been doing that often; coming into the house, barely saying a word besides, ‘I need to lie down.’ Ever since he started this new job, at least since his second day, he seems troubled. And in the morning he seems irritable. He’s giving me the impression that he doesn’t want to be here and I had reason to believe that each day he’d come home proud.
I’ve spent another hour unboxing things and begin to wrap everything up to continue tomorrow. As I close a box, I hear footsteps coming from the kitchen.
“George?” I call. No response. Still not into talking I guess. “Well,” I say. “I’ll be starting dinner soon. Lasagne. Does that sound good?” No response again. I rise out of my chair and head for the kitchen.
“George, I sai—“
All the kitchen drawers, cabinets, oven, and the refrigerator are open, but George isn’t there. I hear footsteps again, only they are heading up the stairs. I leave the kitchen and stop at the bottom of the stairs.
“George?” I call up. No response. I hadn’t even heard him come down. When I get to the bedroom, George is sound asleep in bed as if he hasn’t moved. I climb into the bed beside him and he curls the covers up to his neck.
“George?” I whisper. “George?”
“Hmm?” he replies in a sleepy, throaty voice.
“What were you looking for in the kitchen?”
“What’s that, dear?”
“What were you looking for in the kitchen? You left all the drawers and cabinets and the fridge open just now.”
“What are you talking, Eva? I’ve been in bed since I came home.”
“Well, I didn’t do it.”
“Maybe you did.”
“But I didn’t.”
He opens his eyes and rolls onto his back. “Come here.”
I smile and rest my head on his hairy chest. He puts his arms around me and caresses his hand through my hair.
“You know, since we’ve moved in we haven’t exactly broke everything in.”
“What do you mean?” I ask him. He lifts my head by the chin with his index finger and presses his lips against mine. As our lips fold and dance, before I knew it, George was making love to me.
In the Arms of Hysteria
“What’s the verdict?” George asks as I step out of the bathroom.
I shake my head and exhale. “No…Not pregnant.”
George stands to his feet and wraps his arms around me. “I’m sorry, dear.”
“We’ve been trying to have a baby since well before we moved to London and it’s just the same thing each time.”
“Shh,” he says as he coddles me. “Don’t say that.”
“I think something is wrong with me…Maybe I can’t have children.”
“No, no, no,” he says as he holds me out in front of him. “Two good people, great people, such as ourselves will never have such bad luck as that. Look, how about we see a doctor and maybe he can give us some kind of—advice or something.”
“What advice is there to give about making love, George? I’m pretty sure we’re doing it right.”
“I’m not saying that at all, Eva. I’m just saying maybe the doctor can see something that we don’t or can’t.”
I think to myself for a moment and then nod. “Well, alright. I guess. It wouldn’t hurt.”
George was able to take this day off. He assured his boss that it was an emergency. To his job, maybe it wouldn’t be, but to us, it is, so is that lying? After checking ourselves in at a clinic, we sat in the waiting room for a while. It smelled of latex and peppermints. I shuffle through the magazines to find something worth reading. Baby Blog. Being A Mother. Mothering. What To Do When You’re Expecting. The First Year. Buy Buy Baby. Nothing seems worth a read. At least not now. Everything is about what to do when you’re expecting and when the baby is actually here. But nothing here is about trying to have a baby. My chances for advice seem rather slim, but hopefully when we leave this place, I am able to hold my head high with hope.
“Mr. and Mrs. Greene?” a doctor calls as he steps out of a side door of the waiting room.
We rise to our feet.
“Right this way, please,” he smiles, ushering us with his clipboard.
We ran a variety of tests after sharing our concerns. The doctor seemed very adamant about helping us and is quite empathetic. He shared that he and his wife had a similar issue in the past and feels he knows exactly what could help us.
“What are these?” George asks as the doctor hands him a small medicine bottle with my name on it.
“They will help balance your wife’s hormones which should allow her body to be apt to conceive.”
“How long do I have to take them for?”
“Well,” he says adjusting himself in his chair. “Every woman is different, but you have enough to last you three months. Take two per day, typically with a meal, and if the pills do not work by the third month, then we may have to consider other options.”
“Other options like what exactly?” George asks.
“Maybe a surrogate.”
“No,” I shake my head. “No, the idea for me having a baby is to past on my genes, MY genes. Not get them from a donor.”
The doctor holds his hands up in defence. “Mrs. Greene, I understand that completely, again, we’re still on our initial suggestion which are the pills, and if they work, a surrogate would be out of the question of course.”
“And if they don’t, a surrogate will still be out of the question,” I assure him.
“Well, I wish you two the best of luck, okay?”
He rises from his chair as George takes my hand into his.
We tried again that very night. I took my pills after leaving the doctor’s office earlier this morning and George spent the rest of the day with me at home, helping me unpack the remainder of our things. While we were at the doctor’s I had not thought to tell him about my sleeping problems.
A wailing cry pulls me out of a snooze. It sounded like a baby.
“George?” I whisper, shaking him in bed. “George, are you asleep?”
Heavy breaths escape his lips as he turns on his side. The moonlight shines through our bedroom window, leaving a blueish aura around our room, and until the sun was shining bright, it felt as though I hadn’t fallen back to sleep.
“See you later, dear,” George says as he kisses me goodbye before leaving for work.
“Have a great day, Honey.”
I watch him as he walks to the car, throws his briefcase into the passenger seat, and the car’s engine roars to life. As he pulls out of the driveway, I notice my neighbour watering her plants on her front lawn.
“Good morning!” I wave to her.
She looks over and waves her hand. “Good morning, neighbour, how are you?”
“I’m doing well, yourself?”
“Good, good. Just doing some watering.”
“How old is your baby?”
“What’s that, dear?” she calls back.
“I asked how old is your baby?”
“Baby? Dear, my children are probably as old as you now. I won’t be having any more at my age,” she laughs. I force myself to smile.
“Have a great day!” I tell her before shutting my door. I press my back against it and slide to a seated position. I hold my head in my hands and try to relax. Maybe I didn’t hear anything last night, and if I did, maybe it wasn’t a child after all. Must be some baby fever I’m having. Since our unpacking is practically done, I guess that leaves some time for me to get more work done.
I head into the dining room to grab my laptop. Perhaps
I can do my writing outside. It seems like a nice day and I can use the fresh air. When I get to the dining room table, I don’t see my laptop. After digging into my laptop bag, all I find is a couple of USB ports. My charger, however, is still connected to the extension cord, and the end of the cord, which I would plug into my laptop is resting on the table as if my laptop was there, but was moved.
I check the bedroom. I check the kitchen. Not there. I check our bedroom again. Not there. I check my bag again, knowing it’s not there. Where is my laptop, I ask. I’ve searched the entire house and cannot find it. Perhaps George moved it. I send George a text message asking, ‘have you seen or moved my laptop?’ After waiting for a reply, a half hour later he responds, ‘Yes. It was plugged in on the dining room table before I left this morning.’ Then, where the hell could it be.
After giving up my search, which perhaps I’ll just continue later, I decide to do the one thing that makes me happy besides writing, gardening. How I wish to have that Chrysanthemum that’s back at home right now, to lift my spirits. With all the different crop plots in our yard, I guess the vast variety will make me happy enough.
I plant roses as a start and tap the topsoil in well enough so it’s compact. After giving them a bit of water, hoping to see the sun, I see billows of rainclouds coming in. I then drop my tools and gasp at the movement of our bedroom blinds as if someone had been there.
I rush up the steps of the house and enter through the kitchen door. The drawers are open with the utensils scattered on the floor. The cabinets are open and the boxes and cans of food are all over the kitchen island. The refrigerator is open and, on there’s mould on the inside of the fridge and flies everywhere. Before I can scream, I hear someone running upstairs.
“George?!” I call. “George, are you up there?!”
I then hear a door slam and silence befalls the house. Making my way around the mess, careful not to step on anything, I walk through the hallway towards the steps, but when I pass the dining room, the portraits and pictures of George and I that were on the walls and fireplace are gone, our table and chairs are gone, and the two couches we had are gone.
Haunted House Tales Page 7