Intruder by Judy Colella (an ebook reader .txt) 📖

sure to ask him about it next time he materialized.

       Anyhow, it looked like he’d been accurate about the rest. The descriptions of the murders matched his, and sure enough, he’d been caught and killed in what was now my house. In one of the bedrooms, in fact. But which one? From the black-and-white photograph, it was impossible to tell. No identifying details had been captured in the snapshot, like a closet door (the one in the Master Bedroom had a deep scratch that looked like it had been there a long time) or a window (one of the arched frames in another of the six bedrooms was missing a bit of the gingerbread-like carving holding the top pane).

        Temperature! I was sure one of those bedrooms would be colder than the rest. But if that was the case, why hadn’t I noticed it when I first went to look at the house? Or… ah, right – the heat hadn’t been turned back on yet, so the whole place had been freezing. Apparently, the previous owners had left after a mere two weeks, but during that time had gotten a new heating system installed. When they moved out it had been shut off, of course. Since it had been late winter when I met the dastardly real-estate agent there, I was unable to detect anything unusual about the levels of coldness in all the various parts of the house.

        Come to think of it, no electricity had been turned on whatsoever, which I did think a bit odd at the time. Other vacant houses I’d looked at had at least been supplied with temporary lighting and heat. Not this place. We’d met there early in the day, so there had been enough sunshine pouring through the massive windows to see by. I should have listened to my instincts and asked about it.

        On the other hand, I doubt I would have refused to purchase the place had I known about the haunting. I mean, at such a low price it was darned near impossible to turn down! Besides, I could always get rid of whatever was haunting it.

        I returned home, determined to discover in which room the bastard had met his fate. It didn’t matter for my own purposes, but if I ever started having guests, it wouldn’t do to give them a room where some lunatic criminal had been killed. And even with the baddie banished from the house, it wouldn’t be very nice to give that room to someone, would it? Then again, that might be exactly where I’d invite someone like my cousin Mike to spend the night – before I kicked MTC out.

        “Back again, are you?”

        “No. You’re hallucinating.” I went into the kitchen and opened the windows. It was a lovely spring day and the house could only benefit from some of those fragrant breezes blowing past.

        “Where did you go?”

        “None of your business, but I went to the library. What happened to the eighteenth victim? They only found seventeen bodies.” I took out a canister of coffee and scooped some into the filter of my lovely new coffee maker.

        “Oh, my. Poor young Vanessa. I was a bit careless, I’m afraid. She tumbled down a ravine trying to get away from me – we were having a picnic, you see.”

        That sounded weird. “Why would she have gone on a picnic with you? Weren’t you just the handyman?”

        “A very handsome handyman, I’ll have you know. She was defying her parents. Stupid sow.”

        I refused to address the slur, instead pointing out that he hadn’t, after all, killed that one.

        “Not directly, but I did cause her death. Same thing.”

        “No it isn’t. She could have survived. Have you found another place to live yet?”

        “Have you?”

        “Does it look like it? You may leave now. I’m busy.” I went into the dining room to consider what color to paint the walls. In the daytime, a subdued shade of green might be nice, but at night it could look depressing. I’d been contemplating this for the past two days and still hadn’t come up with a satisfactory choice. French blue. Hmm. Cream? Or pale yellow with creamy white paint on the thick moldings?

        “What are you doing?”

        I didn’t answer. I couldn’t blast him with cold air, but I could certainly give him the cold shoulder.

        “I can hurt you, you know.”

        I left the room, grabbed my purse from where I’d slung it over the back of a kitchen chair, and pulled out my Bible. Back in the dining room, I placed it on one of the deep window sills and continued my contemplation.

        “Ectoplasm can cause things to move. I could toss more than paper plates at you. Decapitate you, even. Or drag you up onto the ceiling!”

        I smiled. “I know you aren’t really Malcolm Cavell.”

        Silence.

        I shoved my hands into my front jeans pockets, eyes narrowed. “You’re the Thing that influenced him, though. You convinced him to be what he was, playing on the weak places in his mind and emotions. You’re a fraud. An evil fraud, and I know it. I also know I have the authority to throw your windy ass out of my house.” I picked up the Bible.

        “Oh?” The Thing’s voice was ever so slightly higher. “How’s that?”

        “I think you know exactly how. Want me to use it?”

        To my intense satisfaction, both the spirit and the fake severed head began to fade. “You – I’ll – one of these days – I’ll – ”  

    "You’re sputtering. Like a dying flame. Why don’t you go out altogether and spare us both the embarrassment of your impotence, eh?” I raised the Bible and began to open it.

        “It’s not fair! This was my habitation!”

        “Tough. We’re done.” I opened the book at the center, the location of Psalms.

        A final blast of cold, a loud “whoosh!” and my unwanted resident Elvis-ed. Left the building. Vanished. Vacated. Gone. Poof.

        I chuckled and took out the piece of vellum folded neatly between the pages, opened it and nodded.

        “This Certifies Your Completion Of Our Exclusive On-Line Exorcist Program. Use It Wisely.”

        I knew the spirit hadn’t been afraid of this silly piece of paper. The words of the book itself had been the source of its fear, but the person who had left the Certificate there in the hotel room may have believed it was genuine, even if I knew better. Still, I’d been prepared to brandish it in case my confidence had wavered. I wondered what would happen if the original owner ever ran into something like the being in my house – or maybe he already had, and realized he’d been ripped off by the company giving the on-line class.

        I closed the cover, traced a finger over the gold words, “Placed by the Gideons,” considered using it on Mike if he ever showed up again, and grinned.

Imprint

Text: Judy Colella
Publication Date: 09-04-2013

All Rights Reserved

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