dontravis.com blog post #540
Image courtesy of Dreamstime.com:
This week let's start another three-part story that’s a little different from my usual fare. Let me know how you like it.
****
THE UPPER FLOOR
I’d bought the Dowd House
despite its reputation. The place was a pleasing two story, red brick Tudor
with plenty of yard, both front and back, and I was a modern man unincumbered
by belief in witches and goblins and the like. The closing took a month, after
which I moved in on the first day of June. Moving is not a pleasant experience
even though I had plenty of help from friends and coworkers. Jackson Marple is
my name, and developing conceptual designs for an architect is my game. And no,
I’m not related in any way, shape, or imagination to Agatha Christie’s intrepid
sleuth.
I became interested in the
Dowd House while Julie and I were still engaged and planning on a wedding
somewhere down the road. Julie was gone now, the victim of a drunken driver who
plowed into her and an office mate as they crossed the street on their way to
lunch. That was six months ago, and I still suffered from the tragedy today.
Relived it in my mind repeatedly.
Even so, the house we’d
planned to buy remained foremost on my mind. Friends counseled against it, cautioning
that because the purchase was something we planned together, living there might
be too painful despite the fact I claimed to be an emancipated man free of
shades, even one from my recent past.
Which leads me to the Dowd
House reputation I mentioned. The house had been built by a man named Elmer
Dowd some fifty years ago. Apparently, he was an accomplished architect because
I could find no flaw in its layout or in its construction. I planned on some
minor remodeling, mostly installing more outlets to support the electronics,
particularly my CAD, which I used constantly to do some of my work at home, as
well as some freelance jobs that occasionally came my way.
But I digress. I don’t know
the entire story, but it comes down to the fact that someone was murdered in
the upstairs master bedroom. Shot to death, I understood. That had been over
twenty years ago. I’d been a toddler at the time and have no recollection of
the events. I’d heard of the Dowd House and how it was haunted all the time I
was growing up, but wasn’t motivated to learn anything about the event sparking
the wild tales. I’d been more interested
in admiring the house from afar since my teens, intrigued by its distinctive
brick and masonry style with its half-timbered upper floor, its curvilinear
gables. Corbels carved into small gargoyles alone set the house apart from its
neighbors.
And not long after Julie’s
death, the house belonged to me. The June first moving day had turned into a
party. Slave labor eased by free-flowing beer and snacks. Even after everything
was in its place, the gang remained behind, soothing sore muscles and scraped
shins with liberal doses of alcohol. I’m certain the neighbors feared that
would be the norm after a young bachelor moved into the immediate vicinity, but
that wasn’t the case. That moving party was a singular blip on my rather
mundane daily living radar.
Don’t get me wrong. I have
plenty of friends, both male and female, and I socialize… to a point. Guys advised
me to glom onto a new girlfriend, while gals—at least some of them—let it be
known they’d like to try out that role. But it was too soon for me. I needed
healing time.
I’d set up the downstairs
master bedroom as my home office, complete with desk, worktable, a small
conference area, and a Murphy bed for when I worked too late and simply wanted
to lay my head upon a pillow. The rest of the downstairs was dedicated to a
kitchen, dining room, breakfast nook, a living room, and a couple of bathrooms.
Upstairs held the large master bedroom with bath, and two smaller bedrooms
across the hallway with a bath between them. More house than a bachelor needs,
but someday, I’d get back into the dating groove and end up marrying some nice
woman. Then we’d quickly fill up the other rooms with children. At least, that
was the hazy dream floating around in the back of my head.
For a week or so, I was
totally captivated by my acquisition. I was tired from the move, distracted by
rearranging this or that, all while working at my regular job and handling two
private tasks. I went to bed exhausted and slept the sleep of the innocent.
But the second week, things
began to happen. Things my rational mind couldn’t explain.
*****
I worked late on a private job
in my office downstairs one Friday night and was late going to bed. Because of
the hour, I was tempted to pull down the Murphy bed, but instead trudged
upstairs and took a shower. After drying off, I plopped down on my mattress and
covered up. I was nearly asleep when I suddenly jerked awake. What had
happened? Something had touched my genitals.
I scrambled out of bed and
flipped on the light. No bugs or scorpions on my jocks, and no spiders in the
bed. Had it been my imagination? Probably, but it had seemed so real. Breathing
a sigh of relief, I turned off the lamp and crawled back in bed, pausing when I
heard a rustling noise in the corner. Light on again, I took a careful look
around, fearful that a rat or a mouse was loose on the room and had been intent
on feeding on my gonads when I woke up.
No. Nothing. Grabbing the
flashlight I keep in the drawer of the bedside table, I got on all fours and
carefully searched under the bed. Still nothing. Not nearly as sleepy as I had
been, I settled in bed again. Sleep was slow to come because I kept waiting for
something to happen, but it hadn’t by the time I finally dropped off, somewhere
around three a.m., I’d guess.
Fortunately, the next day was
Saturday because my tail was dragging. Funny how I could party all night and
function the next day, but let something unexpected interrupt my sleep, and I
was whacked.
Has
Jackson Marple (no relation) bought a house infected with bedbugs… or something
worse? Remember, he’s a no nonsense modern man who doesn’t believe in things
that cannot be rationally explained. Wonder what next week will bring.
Until then.
Stay safe and stay strong.
Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!
A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:
https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0
My personal links:
Email: don.travis@aol.com.
Facebook:
www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982
Twitter:
@dontravis3
See you next Thursday.
Don
New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.
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