Intruder - Judy Colella (fb2 epub reader txt) 📗

have been the perfect accompaniment, but I’d chosen to wait until he was done.

        I’m not into psychology, so all of his lamenting about a rotten childhood, a selfish mother, and an absentee father had only been of marginal interest. “After leaving home at fourteen,” I said, “you found jobs working as a handyman at various houses in the area, right? And most of the people who hired you were women, but they started to remind you of your horrible mother, so one day, when one of them told you that you hadn’t fixed her stairs properly, you snapped and stabbed her to death with a screwdriver. Nice. You got away with it by arranging her body so it looked like she’d fallen down the stairs, landed on your toolbox, and impaled herself. Then you contacted the police and they believed you because you’d never been in trouble before, and because there was no logical reason why anyone would kill someone he hardly knew and who was a major source of income.”

        “Exactly.”

        “You say it actually felt good and – hold it. How come you didn’t have blood all over your clothes and stuff? You didn’t explain that.”

        “Ah, well before getting the constable, which is what we called a policeman back then, I went upstairs, washed, put on some of her husband’s casual clothes, and then went out into the yard and buried my own under the porch. I rubbed some dirt on the man’s shirt and pants to make them look like I’d been working in them, and ripped a few spots here and there so they’d look old.”

        “Clever devil, aren’t you.”

        “What? W-why would you call me that?!”

       Hmm. “No reason. All right, so since you literally got away with murder, you eventually had an opportunity to do it again, but this time you, er, it was a younger woman and you – as you put it – forced her to be nice to you before killing her. I have to say, that’s pretty disgusting.”

        “Why? I was entitled to some enjoyment. Besides, it wasn’t like she was going to be able to tell anyone after.”

        “Yeah. Disgusting. Anyway, you moved around, never really a suspect in any of the deaths until the last one, who you didn’t actually kill. The woman who lived here – you managed to wound her badly but didn’t get a chance to finish her off before you were caught and shot by her husband and the police officer who was with him.”

        His expression went sour. “Indeed. Why did the husband have to have a gun, too?”

        I shrugged. “You say the police and various citizens in the area were getting suspicious because in every instance, the murder victim had employed you at one point or another, yes? Didn’t you realize they would figure that out? I mean, wow – how idiotic of you! Or were you just delusional?”

        He glared. “You have no idea how fortunate you are that I’m dead.”

        A few seconds of thought about that one, and I burst out laughing. “That’s the most irrational statement I think I’ve ever heard!”

        “How?” He sounded deeply offended. “I mean, if I were alive – ”

        “You’d be over a hundred years old, assuming you weren’t an infant when you committed those murders!” I laughed harder.

        Through the tears, I could see he was working it out. “Fine. I’ll grant you that much. But what makes you think I still couldn’t harm you?”

        “At a hundred-something years old? What could you do? Gum me to death? Poke me with your cane? Bump into me with your walker?” I almost choked, and rolled onto my back, laughing too hard to continue.

        The air in the room suddenly got colder, and a loud whoosh knocked several items from my new dresser.

        He was gone.

      I got myself under control, grabbed my Bible, and went downstairs for breakfast. I had a new set of dishes, glassware and silver, a whole set of pots and pans, a well-stocked pantry, and my refrigerator was full for the first time in years. Despite the unexpected housemate, life was starting to get good.

        I probably shouldn’t have spent so much time talking to the spirit-thing-murderer-guy-whatever, and it might have been unwise to anger it like that, I told myself over a hearty meal. On the other hand, I wasn’t about to let it intimidate me, and at some point, I was going to get it to leave. Yes?

        Maybe, but not quite yet.

        “You don’t take me seriously enough, child.”

        “I’m thirty-two. And what do you want now?” At least I’d been able to finish eating by the time this next visitation occurred.

        “You may not appreciate how dangerous I am, but I assure you, she did!” He had been holding one hand behind his back, and now drew it forth and raised it to chest-level.

        Dangling from where he gripped it by a mop of tangled, curly hair, was a severed head.

        “Ew.” Like him, it wasn’t entirely solid, and despite the gross-out factor, I relaxed. “Friend of yours?”

      “Looks like you were right,” said the female head, swiveling her eyes to look back and up at him. “She doesn’t frighten easily.”

        “Is this supposed to be one of your victims?” I closed the dishwasher and returned to the table to sit. This was beginning to get tedious.

        “Number twelve, I believe.”

        “Awesome.” I raised my brows at the head. “Why did you agree to be part of this? Don’t tell me you’ve been living here, too!”

        “No, of course not! No, we’re just fr- hey!”

        “She’s a little confused because of the way she died.” He had thumped the head against the edge of the table, his scowl almost scary.

        I looked at them for nearly a full minute before saying, “So you’re friends. Probably from way back, too. Great. Ghost hustlers.” I sighed. “That does it.”

        “What are you saying, madam?”

        “Don’t ‘madam’ me!” I have no idea why I said that. Probably imitating my own mother who had always used that expression to sound authoritative, even when its use was uncalled-for and irrelevant. I got up and went to the other side of the kitchen where I retrieved my Bible.

        “Oh, great,” the head groaned.

        “Get out of my house,” I said, my voice quiet. No point in yelling, right?

        “What are you going to do with that?”

        “With what?”

        “That – that thing in your hand, is what!”

        I stared at the Bible. “Oh. Gee, I don’t know – any suggestions?”

        “Quite a few, actually, and all of them are painful.”

        “Now who’s being rude?”

        Before he could respond, someone started to knock at the kitchen door.

        “Oh, you so dodged that bullet!” I hissed, heading away to answer it. “Get lost – I’ll finish dealing with you later!”

        The now-familiar blast of cold air ruffled the pretty lace curtains over the sink as my “housemate” vanished. “Be right there!” I groused in a semi-shout as whoever was outside knocked again.

        “There you are!”

        I stared. My cousin Mike. The one who had made sure I knew what an airhead he believed me to be for blowing my inheritance on what he called a white elephant (referring to my house).

        “Well, are you going to invite me in?”

        “Why? I thought you held this place in the highest contempt – or is it just me you feel that way about?” And what had he meant by “there you are”? He knew exactly where I was… on the other hand, I’d been ignoring all my calls over the past few days.

        “Aw, come on, cricket-face, you know I was only looking out for your best interests!”

        No, you were angry because you weren’t named in the Will. “Don’t ever call me that again, Mike.”

        He grinned. “Sorry. I promise. Now may I come in?”

      Stepping aside, I waved him in, unhappy. I knew he was hoping to find me living in dusty squalor, no furniture, no television, nothing but a big, empty Victorian mini-mansion devoid of anything nice. Why? So he could rush off and gossip to the rest of the family, making sure they acknowledged that he’d been right about this being a huge mistake on my part.

        Ha.

        Not that the truth was much of an alternative. Now he’d get to see that the place was getting both fixed and furnished, and would demand to know how. I was beginning to think the M.T. Cavell presence was better than having Mike here.

        “Huh!” This grunt of surprise followed his opening my cabinets and seeing how well-supplied I was. Nosy creep. “Where’d all this come from? Neighbors feeling sorry for you?”

        “Do you mind? I don’t recall ever going to your house and poking through your closets!”

        He didn’t reply, but moved on to the drawers. “Did these come with the house? They’re really nice.” He was clearly referring to my silverware.

        “No, they came with a price-tag from Macy’s.”

        He turned to face me, leaning back against the counter without closing the drawer. “Oh, hon, no! You spent the last of your cash on knives and forks? That’s so… that’s so… so sad!”

        I was sure he really wanted to say “pathetic.” I crossed my arms over my chest, thrusting out my chin, “Spoons, too.”

        Mike did the tongue-clucking thing as he shook his head. “You know, the family would have been more than happy to donate kitchen stuff. You didn’t have to spend money you don’t have for things like that. I mean, how will you pay the electric bill? Or the mortgage? And what if you get sick?”

        “Get out of my house.”

        “What? I’m trying to be a good – ”

        “No, Mike, you’re being perfectly horrible, and you know it. You came here to gloat and I’m so not in the mood for that today. Or any day, come to think of it, so take your pity and leave.” It seemed that throwing others out of my house was my new job in life.

        He straightened, slapped the drawer shut without looking at it, and stalked off to the door. I fully expected him to raise an arm, index finger pointed upward as he vowed vengeance. He didn’t, though, but did cast a furious glare at me as he went out.

        I sighed, shut the door gently, took a bottle of water from the fridge and went to the living room. Through the huge front windows, I watched Mike’s car disappear down the winding driveway. I unscrewed the bottle, and before taking a sip, had a good giggle.

        That, I told myself, had felt great.

 

3

The library’s archives were fairly complete. After only fifteen minutes of searching through their microfilm of newspapers past, I began to find articles about serial-killer Malcolm Thomas Cavell. For some reason, only seventeen murders had been attributed to him, making me wonder if maybe the eighteenth’s body had never been discovered.

        Yuk.

        If I hadn’t succeeded in chasing the miscreant out of my house earlier – and I was about positive that I hadn’t – I’d be