“Okay, go on.”
“Well, his mother, Agatha, died two weeks ago, and he put it on the market with me. I wasn't close to her, she was always a bit of a recluse, so I've never met her, but I've known John for years, he's our local dentist and—”
“Okay. Now, please tell about this...Janie was it?
“Yeah, Janie. So, I called Janie Parson, like I always do. She gives the house a good cleaning and, you know, just makes it look nice.”
“I see.”
“She's great about letting me know if anything needs repair or a coat of paint, that sort of thing. She was supposed to be there last Tuesday. I never heard anything back from her, so I assumed everything was in ship shape order and called up Deidre and Mark Peters, and—”
“And they are who, now?”
“Oh. Um...they have been renting from me for a while over at Grover's Corner and have another kid on the way. They’re looking for a house to own, so I thought of them right off.”
“Okay.”
Mr. Simon paused. “Carlsen, Deidre is the sweetest lady I've ever known. No, really. Polite, soft-spoken, great with kids, and Mark is as calm and rational as they come. Cool as a cucumber, if you get what I mean.”
Henry just nodded.
“On their way back from seeing the house they began screaming and hollering at each other like they were on the verge of a divorce or something. Ripping clothes, pulling hair, and throwing fists.” He shook his head. “Did it all parked in front of the First Lutheran Church, just as the Bartas were going through the rice line after their wedding. Absolutely horrible scene. He kicked her out of the car, sped off going sixty in a thirty zone, and nearly ran over poor widow Hotchkins and her poodle, Miss Sweetums. Ditched the car on the roadside out by Euclid Avenue, and then wandered into Bill Bentley's yard, screaming and hollering until the police got there. They calmed him down, but apparently it was bad.”
“Were they arguing when you showed them the house?”
“Oh, I wasn't there.”
“You weren't?”
“No. Um...I've haven't actually been to the house yet.”
“Why is that?”
“I haven't had a chance. I had Janie leave the spare front door key in the frog thing outside in the flower bed.”
“Frog thing?”
“You know, one of those things that're supposed to look like a cute little garden ornament but really opens up to hold a spare key.”
“Sure. Okay.”
“Well, I trust them, like I do all my other clients, so I told them to just let themselves in and have a good look around.”
“And that's all they did?”
“From what they said at the police station, yeah.”
“And what about the Allstone couple?”
“Pillars of the community. More great folks. He owns a chain of grocery stores in the Tri-Counties. Allstone's Family Foods. They're big shots around here. You passed one of their stores off the highway when you came into town, I bet. They have their own fried chicken recipe and baked goods brand they sell in their stores. Their products are very—”
“And...” Henry sighed, getting a word in edge-wise was proving to be a challenge. And he hated having to do that. “What happened to them?”
“Oh, well, what I'm saying is that they aren't people prone to, well, to outrageous behavior and all. Very public image conscious, if you know what I mean?”
Henry allowed himself to blink and just nod.
“You see, they were looking for something for her son, Jasper, their eldest, and his family who are moving back to town from Colorado where he was working as a forest ranger and—”
“And did he and his wife have a big blow up or something?”
Mr. Simon's face went slack, and he gulped hard. “She stabbed him with her fork at dinner. Just reached across and skewered the back of his hand. You see, apparently they had been arguing before then.”
“Over what?”
“I don't really know.”
“Okay, go on.”
Mr. Simon nodded solemnly. “They went to see the house, got the key from the frog thing, went in, came back out, put the key back, drove to Porky's Pork Chop House, ordered the number three special, and—”
“And?”
“Something happened and it, um, got out of hand.”
“How much out of hand?”
“She said she was finished, he offered to take her last piece, she agreed, and when he went to take it off her plate, she screamed and stabbed his hand with her fork! Stuck him right to the table! This is all according to Stacy Mather, who was their waitress, said they were all snarky when they got there. Totally out of character. Anyway, Mrs. Allstone starts calling him the Devil, rips off her blouse, and then jumps into the salad bar. She's still on that seventy-two hour hold.”
“What about Janie?”
“Oh God.”
“You said she is dead.”
Mr. Simon nodded, unable to speak.
“Go on, Mr. Simon.”
“I—I called her the next day. I had another house for her to get ready.” He sucked in a deep gulp of air. “There was no answer. She also worked as a barista at the coffee shop on 3rd Street here in town. They told me she hadn't shown up for work that morning. I was worried, so I went to her apartment in the old Markham Hotel to check on her. She'd been so alone after her folks died, poor thing.” His eyes watered, and he blew long and heard into his handkerchief again.
“She killed herself, didn't she?”
“H-how did you know?”
“It makes sense, fits a pattern. I've seen this sort of thing before.”
“Oh.”
“Continue.”
“The manager, Joey Roscoe, let us in. We—we found her dangling, just hanging there, from the ceiling fan.”
“Did the police have any question if it was suicide?”
Mr. Simon resolutely shook his head. “No, there was a note. We didn't find that, though, the police did, tucked away in her cleaning kit. Said everything was just hopeless. Just plain hopeless. It was pretty clear. She climbed to the fan, strung herself up there, and kicked the ladder down.”
Henry nodded and clicked his tongue. “I think I have an idea what's going on here.”
“You do?”
“I think so, yes. I'm going to need to see the house for myself, though.”
“Sure. You can follow me in your car. It's not far from here, maybe half a mile or so.”
Mr. Simon parked his car in the driveway. Henry pulled up behind him and hurried out first. They walked up the path to the front door. Henry stopped a generous ten feet from the door and looked around, his eyes focused on the steps and the ground.
The house looked as foreboding as its reputation that preceded the two men. The shrubbery was overgrown, and it was badly in need of some brightening up. Paint notwithstanding.
“Not fond of company, was she?”
“That's what I heard. Agatha Davis was an odd one. Grew up in the mountains of Appalachia, didn't take too well to most in town.”
“Appalachia?”
“Yeah. Hillbilly drawl and everything. Kinda backwards and all. Loved her family, though. Probably the only thing that kept her here.”
Henry now had his hands on his hips. Mr. Simon could clearly see the investigator's gears working. “There's a back door to this place, right?”
Mr. Simon stood behind him, puzzled. “Should be.”
“Let's go around and get in that way. There's something I need to check out and make sure first.”
They walked around the house and entered through a sliding glass door that connected to the patio. Henry methodically started at the back of the home and looked in every room until he entered a bedroom converted into a sewing room. He looked around, noting the sewing machine, knitting basket, weaving loom, and then opened the closet. Everything was orderly with balls of yarn and bolts of fabric neatly organized by color on the shelves. On the top shelf was a row of
enormous, antique-looking books. Henry pulled up the chair from the sewing machine and stood on it. He did not remove the books. Instead, he pulled out his purple handkerchief and ran it slowly along the shelf in front of the books and then inspected it.
Mr. Simon couldn't help himself and began to sway back and forth in anticipation.
Henry grimaced and nodded. “Yup, I think I've got it.”
“Got what?”
Henry got down, carefully put away his handkerchief, and then put the sewing chair back before answering. “If I'm right, you should have no problem selling this house in a few weeks.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Um...what's going on?”
“You're pretty sure all of the people that entered the house before came in the front door?”
Mr. Simon looked puzzled, “Well, that's where the key is. In the frog thing.”
“Uh huh. Follow me.”
“Okay.”
Henry strode to the entryway and opened the front door. He motioned Mr. Simon to stay behind him, and Mr. Simon wisely complied.
“Say, what do you—?”
Henry put his finger to his lips to shush Mr. Simon and opened the front door. He looked down at the bright green and yellow embroidered welcome mat sitting out front, clicked his tongue twice, and nodded. He then closed the door.
“That's the same green and yellow material as in the closet. I'm assuming she made it.”
“Sure. She was making stuff all the time, I hear. So what?”
“Well, according to those books she had in the sewing room, I would venture a safe guess this isn't your run of the mill everyday welcome mat.”
“Huh. What do you mean?”
“Let's head out back the way we came and go back to my car.”
Mr. Simon blinked. “Uhhh...okay.”
Soon Henry was lugging a large traveling case out of the trunk and opening it on the hood of his car.
Henry reached in and drew out a pair of purple latex gloves. He then pulled out a large burlap bag and unfolded it. Mr. Simon could also see all sorts of odd devices inside the case, including what he thought were saws, knives, and other menacing-looking tools. He also couldn't comprehend how the traveling case, as large as it was, could hold so many things. The sledgehammer he'd seen alone must have been four feet long.
“Wha...?”
“C'mon, let's get this over with.”
“Okay.”
Henry marched to the steps muttering something sing-song like under his breath, something Mr. Simon had never heard before, nor would ever again.
“What are you—?”
Once again Henry motioned him to be silent and stood over the mat. He snapped on the purple latex gloves and motioned to Mr. Simon to step back.
“You may not want to see this.”
“Why?”
“Because sometimes the psychic residue sticks around afterward and it also stinks like crazy.”
“Oh.”
Henry mentally gave himself a three count, made a lunge, and ripped off the mat. A small, writhing mass of maggots greeted them. And, true to Henry's word, they now gave off an incredible stench.
“Oh, God!” And, at that, Mr. Simon wretched on the lawn.
“Good,” Henry stated. “Not nearly as bad as it could have been. All of this should dissipate on its own in an hour or two. Those things cannot exist exposed like this on the Earthly plane for long. They'll just turn into dust and that will be that. No more danger here, from what I can tell.”
“Uhrk!”
Henry then deftly rolled up the mat and dropped it into the bag. He then carefully snapped off the purple latex gloves, and dropped them inside as well. He tightly tied the bag off with a leather cord and dropped it at his feet.
“And that's it?” Mr. Simon asked, wiping his mouth with his handkerchief and taking a few noisy spits on the ground. “Are you sure it's safe and all now? What the hell was that thing and why was it there anyway?”
“Well, spells and magic aren't exactly a science, you know. Sometimes these simple enchanted objects take on a life of their own, especially if there's no one around to control and maintain them anymore.”
Mr. Simon stared at him, blinking and dumbfounded.
“Think of it as a home security system gone wrong.”
“What?”
Henry shrugged as he started getting his carrying case in order. “That's the simplest way I can explain all of it.”
“But—”
“I could go into further details on the whys and wherefores but hours would seem like days and I really cannot give you a crash course on the metaphysics and all involved.”
“But—”
“Call me if anything else happens, but I think you will find this house easier to sell now, but to be on the safe side, I'd wait about a week or so for anything else that may be in place to wear off.”
“But—”
“I'll mail you my bill. Please pay it as soon as you get it, my accountant would appreciate that. Good day, Mr. Simon.”
Henry carefully put the carrying case and burlap sack into his trunk, got in his car, backed out of the driveway, and drove off.
That, my friend, is a classic British cotton duvet. They call them comforters in North America and you’ll never find another made with such quality as this one. It’s a thing of beauty, is it not? And it looks comfortable. Just imagine wrapping yourself in its fibres and drifting off to sleepland.
Scientist and author Catrin Sian Rutland sent this over from Derby. More of her wares can be found at catrinrutland.weebly.com.
BOOK OF DREAMS
Catrin Sian Rutland
I’D SEEN Death and she was beautiful, but that didn't mean that I wanted to join her. My earliest childhood memory was of her, she looked more willowy, stunning and kind than anyone that I had ever seen. She first appeared in my dreams when I was just four or five years old, I don't know exactly when or why. In those early years she would stand in front of me, beckoning me ever closer, her dark red lips contrasting with her porcelain white skin and shimmering black hair. Of course I didn't know who she was back then, it took me years to find out. All I knew was that she entered my dreams and as I awoke with a gasp, she would fade away and back into the darkness of night.
I never feared Death. She was welcoming and compassionate; she became as much a part of my life as the patchwork quilt that I snuggled down into each evening. I looked forward to seeing her as much as I loved my exhilarating bedtime fairy tales and gentle nursery rhymes. Sometimes in my early years I would ask my parents if they saw her, but they could not place her at all. At times they would wonder whether she was a school teacher or someone from the local shops or library, a lingering memory. Maybe I had seen her whilst waiting for a train with my parents or a character from the movies? I was quite sure that I had never seen her whilst awake though. I couldn't explain why or how I knew, but I was positive that nothing that exquisite had ever walked on the Earth. She was straight from heaven, probably an angel.
As I got older, I began to look forward to seeing my porcelain angel. I would lie down on my bed and try to doze off into my sweet and wonderful dreams. I never saw her if I slept on the sofa, in the car or on the frequent airplane fights with my parents. No, lying safe upon my bed was the best way to see my Angel of Death. She never rejected me, always had time for me, she was always pleased to see me. No matter how exhausted I was outside my dreams, I increasingly got closer and closer to her as she floated through the green meadows. I always followed her; I just knew that it was the right thing to do. The sun would always shine in my sleepland, the flowers somehow looked happy and glowing. The gentle brooks babbled alongside me and sometimes I even went into the tiny rivers and let the cool soothing water wash over my feet.
I was always blessed; I had two pairs of loving grandparents as I grew up. I loved going to their homes to stay for the weekend or even for a week during the holidays. Of course my brother
and I were taken out to the beach, on fabulous days out and on picnics. Despite all of the wonderful activities, I think my happiest memories were being tucked into bed each night. After action packed days I was always tired and I think the hot milky cocoa helped with feeling drowsy. My grandparents were born in a different era. Each night I was safely tightly tucked into a sheet, blanket and a thin duvet.
There was no fear of monsters grabbing your feet or falling onto the wooden floorboards as once I tucked in, nothing was getting into or out of the neatly made bed. It was always warm. I could smell the coal fire burning gently away in the living room and hear my grandparents chattering away happily and preparing the feast that would be served for breakfast. Never did cheese omelets taste as good as when my Grandma made them, or Welsh cakes smell so sweet as when Gran cooked them on the hot plate at night whilst I fell into my sleepland. At home I had duvets and my parents would always make sure that I loved the pattern on the cotton covers. Growing up, I had everything from pink ponies, rainbows and golden-haired princesses to the 'more sensible' patterns that I chose during my teenage years.
My love of duvet covers and blankets did not diminish as I prepared to leave home for university. Going to bed and nestling down into the duvet was always my little haven from the hustle and bustle of the day. Whether I had had a pleasant day walking the mountains, a tough day doing exams or a manic day trying to blend work and socializing, my bedroom lay waiting for me. My parents had given me a traditional Welsh blanket but the duvet still won most nights. It was funny too that without those covers, I seemed to not dream. Sounds crazy right? I first noticed when travelling through Europe with my parents one summer. It was too warm for even a thin sheet, those six weeks were dreamless. By the end of that vacation, I yearned for my dreams and to see my angel again. My synthetic sleeping bag, or my cocoon as I affectionately called it, was also no good for proper dreams. It was cozy enough and I kept huddled within it during camping trips and sleepovers, but never did I dream. I concluded that only my sheets, blankets and duvets were good enough for a truly restful sleep. These must have been what helped those lush meadows appear and enabled my sleepland to unlock its doors. I reasoned that my brain was completely contented under my familiar and inviting bedding. As an adult, I started taking my duvet on such outdoor trips, along with a little pillow. Nothing felt as good as the smooth cotton cover and the light covering of the bedclothes.
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