Foundation of Murder

October 24, 2017
By SashaZweig SILVER, Exeter, New Hampshire
SashaZweig SILVER, Exeter, New Hampshire
5 articles 0 photos 0 comments

  I waited for my doors to be creaked open as they are every October 31st. For 364 days I sit in a decaying foundation and provide a comfortable resting place, but this evening I would wreak havoc. I had grown a custom to the pungent scent of mildew throughout my being. Now, the lovely stench has been sanitized. Tonight was my chance to eliminate the threat to my autonomy, but how?
  I could take a length of steel and pierce it through their chests. Unfortunately, this method proved to be an ineffective strategy last year.
  I could fill a room with gas and watch as they clutch their throats, falling to the floor, gasping for air.
  I could scare them into a state of shock from which there is no return-
  That’s it! It was...a simple and efficient way to be rid of them. See, Mr. and Mrs. Sutton work long hours and build their lives around the fear of superstitions. With an unexpected flicker of light I will hold them in a trap of terror.
  When looking for a place of residence, the Suttons’ failure to inquire about the inexpensive price or my lack of occupancy for the past decade seemed odd, but nobody should ever question a deal in their favor, or should they? The Suttons were desperate for a place to call home and ignored various concerning factors. They should have been more careful when making their investment.
  I felt a hesitant footstep on my front doormat. The Suttons had arrived home, late, as usual. Watching as they entered, I instantly became silent so as not to miss an ounce of conversation.
  Flustered, Mrs. Sutton yelled across my attic, “I don’t think I can take another Halloween of ghosts, goblins, and stories of the dead! Did you hear what happened to the boy across the street? What about the girl with the decapitated-”
  “Honey, we must not worry ourselves,” Mr. Sutton advised in a manner contradicting his own inner fears.
  It was then I moved the chair out from under Mr. Sutton. He became frantic as Mrs. Sutton began to weep. The furniture of deep cherry wood was overturned as the lights dimmed to an ominous tint of yellow. Windows were shattered and the curtains closed in my efforts to envelop the room in darkness and awaken the fright hiding behind Mr. Sutton’s consoling eyes.
  “I warned you something was going to happen!” Mrs. Sutton whimpered, “We should have abandoned this neighborhood ages ago.”
  “Let's get out of here!” shrieked Mr. Sutton.
  Without a thought on the matter they stumbled their way through me. Over toppled chairs, under tables and out the door they ran. When people are afraid, the mind has few limits. The Suttons were surrounded by the unknown of this horrific evening, yet had never been more relieved to escape the comfort of their home.
  They were oblivious to the blaze of oncoming headlights. The screeching of tires on pavement radiated into the night.
  The Suttons were no longer among the living.
  People don’t suspect an old house to be guilty of murder, even in the most remote corridors of their imagination, but then again, I’ve always treasured a surprise ending.

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