by S. A. Glenn
Samuel’s face turned white as a ghost, the horror of the story having him retch up to the back of his throat, swallowing the sour taste back down. Samuel saw Ruff uncover a small object, but his attention was drawn back up to Fréderic as the killer spoke once more; Samuel hoping and praying there wasn’t more doom to be told.
“Now, there is Katherine Simms,” he said her name with sarcasm. “She was a childish little harlot. She was to give birth to Monsieur Pierre’s child.”
“How dare you speak of my wife that way… she would never—!”
“Oh, you did not know her as well as you think you did, Monsieur Simms,” he said, playful with his power of knowledge. “She and he had a physical union, to put it nicely. She would get drunk, take drugs, then she let my master have his way with her. But you were not told about that, were you? What a fabulous day this has turned out to be for me. I get bonuses. I get to expose the truth about your devilish wife, and break your sad heart.”
“What did you do to her, you son of a bitch?!”
“Tsk tsk tsk, watch your temper now, Monsieur Simms,” he warned, waving his finger at him. “That is, if you wish to hear what happened.”
Samuel grew silent and sore, waiting for the hellish words to pass Fréderic’s lips.
“Now… I rode out to your place, expecting to strike a deal with your wife. I let her know that if she allowed Monsieur Pierre to father the baby that I would keep quiet about the affair she was engaged in. But she became furious with me. She demanded that I leave since she was going to immediately meet with you in the field and tell you everything—but that was not how my plans were to go, you see?”
“I’m the father!” Samuel exclaimed, confused in his belief. “And how did you think she was going to give away our child, and have me not suspect foul play?”
“That was not my concern. That was something she would have to deal with. But, anyway, let me continue. Now, where was I?” he asked, falling into deep thought, his finger to his lips—then he pointed to Samuel, “Oui, I remember now. I continued with my arrangements, but with plan-B. Knowing you were not to be around, I held her at gun point, directing her into the kitchen. She went for her gun in the kitchen drawer, but I smacked her on the back of her neck, knocking her down. She was quite resilient, I must say. She got up, faced me and peered at me with angry eyes. I then ordered her down the steps, into where you are standing right now,” he said with a courteous smile, showing the cellar with his hands. “You see, Monsieur Simms, I know you are terrified with this place—people love to gossip, tell all kinds of stories about each other. That is why I learned long ago not to trust anyone! Especially women! They will be your demise! I have done my homework, Monsieur Simms. I knew you would not set foot down here—the perfect place to hide things.
“Now, back to your wife. I commanded her to beg for her life since I found how much joy that brought me when I saw her mother do that, but Katherine was nothing like her mother… she only stood there, glaring at me. That upset me, ruined my fun, so I smacked her face with my pistol, and she fell to her knees. I reached into my pocket, pulled out a piano wire, stood behind her and wrapped it around her neck and jerked it tight. After a few moments of pleasure, I pulled as snugly as I could till it cut deep into her throat. Her eyes bulged, filled with blood. Her tongue stuck out and turned blue; and that was the most satisfaction I have ever felt. I held the wire secure until she quit fighting. Her arms went limp at her sides. She had a tear in her eye. Maybe she was thinking about you, Monsieur Simms” he stated in a sweet voice.
Samuel wept. “You’re not going to get away with this!” he cried out.
“But I already have, Monsieur Simms. I cannot allow her to do to her child what was done to me. You must understand.”
“I understand that you are insane!”
“Hmmm. Maybe so, but I like it that way. I had to protect Monsieur Pierre from atrocious women. He has a reputation to uphold. He is a good man! And oh, I almost forgot… Did you ever find the handkerchief of Monsieur Pierre’s I planted inside your wife’s coat?”
Samuel glared at him, ready to unload his gun.
“I see you must have found it. It was a little mind game of mine to play with you, to show you how traitorous women can be. Was it not fun?”
“Enough! Where is my wife?”
“Why do you not ask your mutt?”
Samuel gazed down at Ruff and saw him unearth a dingy piece of white cloth. Dropping to his knees, Samuel and Ruff worked hard to uncover what lay beneath; Samuel, in denial of what he guessed to be horribly real.
Ascertaining how devoted Samuel was to the severe experience, Fréderic slowly backed away, escaping undetected. He hurried to the cabriolet to take hold of a hidden derringer pistol. Grasping the gun from under the driver’s seat, he lumbered back toward the cellar.
Samuel and Ruff uncovered the mass, revealing the lacy white dress Samuel last saw Katherine wearing, a partially visible skeleton with dead and decaying flesh inside it. “Noooooo!” screamed Samuel, the impact of truth answering the mystery of his wife’s whereabouts. His heart skipped beats as the traumatic stress forced him into a deep wailing. He positioned his hand under her head, her long, black hair falling out in clumps. Gently laying her head down, he reached into his pocket and placed her ring back onto her finger. Tear after tear rolled down his checks, dripping off onto Katherine’s corpse.
Just as Fréderic got to the back door, three men on horseback rode up, jumped off their horses and headed for him. Fréderic stashed his gun inside his overcoat, then came up with a plan of wizardry. “Marshal!” Fréderic waved, “Come quick.”
The marshal and the others hustled and stopped in front of Fréderic. “Mr. Ampere, Louis Pierre’s butler, right? What are you doing here?” asked the marshal.
“I was brought against my will!” he stated, acting very upset. “Monsieur Simms is deranged! He confessed to the murder of Madam Emily Cromwell, Madam Sara Jones, and his wife! I told him he was crazy, so he brought me here at gun point, dug up his wife’s remains to prove himself to me. He went mad with guilt, allowing me to flee. He is in the cellar, armed!”
The three men pulled out their guns, carefully making their way down the dark steps, Fréderic staying behind them. The group of lawmen entered the cellar; weapons cocked and pointed at Samuel.
“Mr. Simms,” said the marshal. “I found out who you are. You’re wanted for the murder of Arthur Malory. And I’m sure you remember who these two gentlemen are?” he explained, pointing his thumb back at them, keeping a watchful eye on the accused.
“Mr. Simms,” said Vince and Terrance Auden together, tipping their hats.
Samuel looked up at them, tears clouding his sight, torment filling his soul, speechless at his loss as he sat at Katherine’s side.
“Looks like you have a trail of hurting lots of people. We’re here to put a stop to you, to keep it safe in Wrangler,” said the marshal. “Now, do me a favor and put down the gun. We don’t want anyone else getting hurt,” he exerted with a soft voice.
Samuel was in another world, a world that was turned upside down, exposing all the hate and despair that dwelled deep within mankind’s heart. Katherine and the baby were gone. All the love he had with his wife—gone. What was left? The truth? The truth did not matter. Did it? Would anyone listen to his sadness; how a sick and crazed man took away his one and only truelove; that he was not responsible for Arthur Malory’s death, or any other death, for that matter—he would never hurt a fly. I love . . . loved Katherine, he painfully corrected himself within his tormented heart. With a tearful smile Samuel told them with the highest degree of sincerity, “She was the best thing that ever happened to me.” Lacking mindful attention he raised his arms with his gun still in his hand, searching for comfort.
“Bam, bam, bam, bam, bam!” Sounded the guns.
Smoke filled the cellar, giving no sign of the outcome. As the cloud of ignited gunpowder cleared out, Samuel came into view. He was lying next to Katherine, holding her hand, five bullet holes in his chest. Ruff lay next to them, his head resting on Samuel’s stomach, gazing up at the men, blinking twice with his big, brown eyes.
Fréderic cackled to himself with a smile.
The next day, the newspaper read: “KILLER CAUGHT, SHOT TO DEATH.”
THE EPILOGUE
THREE YEARS LATER
AUGUST 1875
A couple in their early twenties moved into the Simms’s home. Mr. Kenneth Miller and his new bride, Nancy, had bought the land and the house that sat on it for five hundred dollars. They paid the marshal the money and he had donated it to the church. The house had been cleaned, but all the furniture remained. The Millers were told that there was a death in the home some years back and that no one had lived there since the unfortunate event had taken place. But no details were given about what happened, and the Millers didn’t feel they needed to know. The house was well built, and it was a beautiful piece of architecture. The view of the countryside was breathtaking with its prairies extending all the way to the deep blue horizon. The air was crisp and refreshing unlike that of Chicago where Kenneth and Nancy were from. And all of this only cost Mr. Miller two years’ savings. Everything the couple had ever dreamed of was here, so whatever had taken place in this house a few years back seemed quite trivial to them.
Kenneth Miller was a carpenter, but since he was ten he had yearned to farm the dirt like his grandfather Gerald Miller, who had a nice place with twenty acres of land near Leota, Kansas. Kenneth married Nancy on March 13, 1875, at a large church in downtown Chicago. It was a wonderful wedding with hundreds of family members. The feast had lobster, steak, and a five-tier cake detailed with peonies, vines, and lovebirds in a palette of blue, crimson, gold, and green. When the white doves were released into the clear, blue sky it got to Nancy’s heart, being the most memorable day of her life.
Mr. Miller brought his wife and himself down south to start a family in the open space of the mid-west. Everything was perfect for the couple when they moved into their new home in late March of 1875. They had very little to their name, so all the furnishings helped out a lot. There were even dishes and silverware still in the kitchen cabinets and drawers. Kenneth tended to the crops while Nancy baked bread. And on Fridays she made éclairs filled with custard. (She had been born in France and had been taught by her mother how to prepare the pastries.) Some-times, when Nancy was in the kitchen, she smelled strawberries. She just dismissed the sweet, enticing scent, be-lieving it was only in her head.
It was the middle of summer and Kenneth and Nancy had just finished breakfast, sitting at the table Samuel had constructed. Kenneth slid his chair back, picked up his wife’s dirty dishes and took them over to the sink. He stared out the window and viewed the sawmill over the roof of the saloon. He got an odd feeling about the place, not quite sure what it was. But it seemed like it was connected to his home. Of course, he thought to himself, that’s where all the lumber came from to build this house, he smiled. Then his nose detected an aroma, not quite able to place it. “Do you smell that, hon?” he asked Nancy, turning around to her, his nose twitching.
She took a whiff, stood and faced him. “I do,” she admitted. “I’ve been smelling that off and on for about a month. But it’s much stronger this morning—it’s strawberries.”
He snapped his fingers. “That’s what it is. There’s some growing outside on the east side of the house. It must be coming from there.”
“So, my Dear, what’s on your agenda for the day?” Nancy asked with a raised brow and a warm grin.
He walked out of the living room and stood at the back of the couch that still sat where it had always been. “I’ve got to irrigate the crops like the good farmer I am.”
Nancy, in the light blue day suit she had found in the bedroom closet that fit her perfectly, went to her husband and kissed his check. “Yes, you are, my wonderful, hard-working cultivator.” Her hair was long and blond, and she was quite a sight of beauty.
Kenneth, at six foot five, bent down and kissed her nose. “I love you, Nancy.”
A ghostly sound of chimes echoed out on the porch. A far off train whistle called out at six o’clock. A warm breeze entered the house, bringing an aroma of golden wheat with it. Birds caroled a happy tune.
Nancy looked down at the edge of the couch and saw a small rip. She poked her finger into it. She heard a sigh, but she was not sure if it was in her head or next to her ear. (It was definitely a woman’s voice.)
“I’ll return at dusk,” Kenneth told her as he grabbed his jug of well-water. He headed for the door, opened it, turned to his wife and blew her a kiss.
She caught it and smiled with magic dancing in her eyes. “I love you more,” she assured him.
“I love you most,” he replied.
They giggled at their silly lover’s game.
He walked out onto the porch and took in a deep breath of his new life. As he hiked down the steps he noticed there were no chimes hanging from the soffit, that they were on the ground behind the bushes, covered with at least a year’s debris. He thought he must be losing his mind because he swore he had heard them clanging in the warm breeze just a minute ago.
Nancy whistled a happy tune as she strolled over to the bookcase next to the fireplace. While she pulled one of the books from the shelf (Mac Beth, by William Shakespeare) she got a chill down her spine, feeling like someone was watching her. Nancy jerked around toward the couch. She saw a shadow standing behind it. The shadow appeared to be a young woman with long, straight hair, wearing a glowing, white suit with a fine, floral print. Nancy was startled, but not afraid of what she saw. The woman’s face was expressionless as she turned to the kitchen, moving toward it as though she had wheels on her feet—then the image vanished like a fallen star. Nancy wasn’t sure if she was losing her mind or if she had seen a ghost. She set down the book on top of the shelf and curiously walked into the kitchen. Not seeing anything, she dismissed the vision as a glitch in her mind, or maybe it was something in her eye. She’d had trouble with her vision, lately: sometimes things were blurry when she first woke up. That must be it, she imagined as she began to bake bread.
Nancy pulled out the last of her baguette’s from the oven, they smelled-oh-so delicious. A noise from the living room caught her attention. It was a cheerful tune coming from the piano. Kenneth must’ve come home for lunch, but she’d never known him to play the piano. “What’re you doing home, dear?” she called out with a smile, missing him already. She wiped her hands onto a towel to remove the oil and flour. She walked toward the sound, and poked her head around the wall—but he wasn’t there, and the music had ceased. Her face grew a look of confused concern, wondering how her husband had disappeared so fast. “Kenneth? Are you hiding from me?” She peered around to the other side of the piano, but he was nowhere in sight. She became faint, believing she was going mad. She took a seat on the couch for a spell, hoping to bring herself back to sanity. She thought about the piano and the music she had heard, still hearing the gay melody in her mind. “It must be the heat of the day that’s got me hearing things,” she said out loud. “Maybe I was humming to myself and I thought it was the piano.” She didn’t really believe that, but it calmed her a bit to think it. “And now you’re talking to yourself, Katherine Marie Simms.” She covered her mouth, shocked that she had called herself that name, not knowing why she had done it, or who that name belonged to. “Oh, dear; oh, dear,” she mumbled. A rush of blood to her head caused her to break out into an icy sweat over her top lip.
Then the pendulum on the antique grandfather clock stopped dead. But not in the center of its swing like gravity should hold it, but to the left, suspended in its case. (This was the exact time Katherine’s heart had beat its last thu
mp-thump: 12:28.)
Nancy stood then walked with weak knees, gazing over at the black, baby grand piano as she made her way to the kitchen. Her hands trembled a bit as she grabbed the water pitcher and poured herself a glass of water She put the glass to her lips and took a sip, hoping this would calm her nerves. She set the glass down onto the counter, feeling better. She stared down into the glass of water, saw the particles of dirt dangling within the cool liquid—then a black mass the size of a kitten scurried over her feet, heading down the cellar’s stairs. She thought she felt it rub against her bare ankles with its rough fur. “Aaahhh!” she cried out, now thinking it was a rat. She jumped back, nearly tripping over her feet. Her heart was racing as she gathered her thoughts. Needing to know what it was, but not particularly happy with her curiosity, she grasped the lantern kept on the counter to the right side of the stairs. She took a wooden match and struck it on the side of the lantern, hearing the soft whick of the match. She nervously ignited the wick and turned up the flame. She trekked down the first set of stairs, peeked around to the left with the lantern extended in front of her. There was nothing on the stairs or at the cellar door. She took a deep breath and proceeded down the second set of stairs. The air was cool and damp, smelling mossy. As she made her way down into the darkness, shadows of her body lined the walls: they were long, thin and eerie dark spots with human form, one arm extended out like Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein”. As she got closer to the solid oak door, she heard a digging sound, like that of a shovel scraping the soil, then dumping a heavy collection of it into a pile: screce fromp, screce fromp, it sounded like. It came from within, within the dark chamber that lay behind the solid oak door.