The Stranger in the Attic Read online

  The Stranger in the Attic

  Chapter 1. Intro

  After a long and dreary day in which nothing of importance had happened, Alfred and Henrietta Jones sat by the fireplace, dully staring into the dying embers.

  The day had been mercilessly cold. A frigid winter front had brought plenty of snow, and Henrietta thought sadly about all the errands that she should have run before the weather deteriorated. But it was too late to worry about that. They would have to make do with what they had, and that would be that.

  The Jones’ three-story rambling house sat—the fourth in a row of identical buildings—in what had once been a respectable neighborhood, but since the downturn of the economy a few years back, the town had fallen on hard times, and their once-lovely neighborhood had slowly begun to decay, overlooked by progress, forgotten by the city officials. Anymore, drunks, homeless people and drug-addicts shared the doorways of the cozier buildings, especially on cold nights like this, when the benches in the parks froze over, and the wind whistled among the trees, cruel and unforgiving, chasing away those poor creatures who had nowhere else to sleep. And so, life went on.

  Even though the structure was old, and now in such a sordid neighborhood, the Joneses kept their three-story house as sparkling clean and impeccable as the day they had bought it proudly, when it had been brand new. That is, Mrs. Jones kept the house, and Mr. Jones happily lived in it, oblivious to the effect the hard work had on the feeble body of his aging wife.

  Had you looked into their living room, you would have thought it a cozy scene of a happily married couple enjoying their retirement, but you would have soon noticed that while Mr. Jones’s leather armchair was plush and newish, and comfortable, Mrs. Jones sat on an uncomfortable straight-backed chair, looking overworked, grumpy, pale, and exhausted.

  Still, the room had retained the remnants of a forgotten elegance. The furniture was good, solid, albeit old-fashioned. The damask window curtains had cost a fortune thirty years earlier and were still lovely, and effective at keeping the grime of reality at bay. The rug too, had been carefully chosen to complement the stylish room, and was still as handsome as it had once been, although somewhat threadbare now, but still Mrs. Jones’s pride and joy.

  But the sad reality was that Mr. and Mrs. Jones—like so many old people—had fallen on hard times. They had tried to sell the leather armchair and some of the antiques in the house, but buyers—suspecting how desperately they needed the money—offered too little, and therefore Mr. and Mrs. Jones had decided, at least temporarily, to hold on to their belongings.

  It was about all this that Mrs. Jones was thinking sadly as she sat resentfully on her hard-backed chair. Alfred seemed oblivious to the fact that they had become so poor that there was little heating in the house during the winter, and meat and fruits had become a luxury. Nothing flustered Alfred, who insisted on being happy despite the circumstances, which really annoyed her.

  Because, even though Mrs. Jones was very frugal and had learned to cook with less money and run the house on almost nothing, poverty was catching up to them. Many nights they had sat like this at a cold hearth—the fireplace often remaining unlit to economize—as Henrietta Jones had stared into its void with despair. Not speaking, because there was nothing to say.

  Chapter 2. The First Murder

  Ember Street is long. It seems to go on forever. Like a snake, it twists and bends along the small meandering river that gurgles happily along, dividing the town in two. On both sides, river walks built in its glory days grace the shore, providing a country park atmosphere dotted with benches and playgrounds always full of pedestrians, children, and pets. It’s the route Mrs. Jones always takes when she—more and more infrequently—goes out to shop.

  Once, a very long time ago, Mr. Jones had enjoyed walking his wife to the shops and having a beer with acquaintances while he waited for her to be done. But with the passing of the years, Mrs. Jones acquired an unpleasant air of silent suffering, and Mr. Jones couldn’t take that. There was nothing he could do to improve their fate in life, and—being a cheerful man at heart—he hated to watch that bitter look on his wife’s face.

  But Mrs. Jones soon discovered that she rather enjoyed going to the shops alone. In fact, her husband would have been shocked to see the relief in her eyes when she stepped away from him.

  So, Mrs. Jones took her time shopping and strolling, and it was late afternoon by the time she got back home. She struggled up the icy steps feeling the weight of her grocery bags which she put on the floor while she rummaged in her purse for the keys.

  Once inside, she said hello to her husband, who was sitting reading in his plush, comfortable armchair and headed straight for the kitchen. Alfred—her husband—forgot again to offer his help with the grocery bags, but Henrietta didn’t say anything this time. She was tired of reminding him to be more helpful because she rarely accomplished anything with complaining.

  She was just putting the groceries on the kitchen counter when she heard a piercing cry followed by muffled sounds of rushing footsteps and loud, shrill shouting coming from outside the living-room window.

  She hurried to the window and pulled the damask curtain aside to see what was going on, and Mr. Jones jumped up from his leather armchair and joined her. They stared outside into the gathering dusk looking for the commotion and saw the newspaper boy running down the street yelling something very important while agitating a newspaper above his head.

  “Murder,” he yelled. “Murder.” As Mr. and Mrs. Jones watched, a crowd of pedestrians gathered around the newspaper vendor and, within seconds, every copy of the newspapers had been sold. Just like that. It was hard to believe. Mrs. Jones couldn’t remember the last time she had heard a cry of “murder” and she anxiously continued staring out of the window wondering what else was going to happen next.

  “I must go and find out what’s going on,” Mr. Jones told his wife in a voice shaking with anticipation.

  “But look, the boy doesn’t have any more newspapers.”

  “No matter. One of the neighbors will tell me. Someone ought to know what's happened.”

  Chapter 3. Oscar Knows Something

  Alfred Jones walked with an urgent step to the front door and fumbled with his coat and his boots as fast as he could work his arthritic fingers. Oscar—his good friend and neighbor—would know about the murder. Oscar knew everything. He was the ears and the eyes of the neighborhood. Not hampered by a nagging wife, he got to roam bars and parks and other gathering places and find out what nobody else could.

  He closed the front door behind him and looked around. The cold winter air hit him in the face like a slap, and he shivered. Barren Cornus florida trees, also known as the common flowering dogwood, lined the length of Ember Street, their dead branches showing no signs of impending spring.

  With the fast-approaching dusk, the street lights came on, and so did the head and tail lights of cars, trucks and city buses, turning the street into a long, twinkling, sparkling winter scenery that was reflected in the recently fallen snow, and the patches of frozen ice on stairs and walkways.

  He climbed down the steps carefully, grabbing on to the wrought-iron strip of rail, avoiding the frozen spots where melting snow had iced over a couple of days earlier. And yet, he could hardly wait to be on the street, in the midst of things, something new, something unexpected in his life, something to help him forget the monotony of his daily existence.

  Despite the cold weather and the ever-whistling wind, the park across the street was always bustling with activity, what with the bus stop being right there on the corner. And it was no different on this late afternoon. The air was crackling with excitement as if the news of the murder had awakened his
neighbors and had given them a renewed lease on life.

  He quickly crossed the busy street, risking the wrath of impatient drivers, and he joined the throng of gossiping bystanders, huddled over their newspapers, chattering with dread and exhilaration. Even dogs and small children had been forgotten and left to their means as the adults pored over the gory details of the murder.

  “It’s the first-ever homicide on Ember Street,” a deep booming voice said right next to him. He turned around to find that Oscar had approached him, and he hadn’t even heard. Proved that his hearing was getting worse.

  “Is that right?” Alfred Jones asked, opening his eyes wide.

  “At least as long as I have lived here, anyway,” chuckled Oscar.

  “What happened? Do you know?”

  “Not officially. The newspaper doesn’t have any details except that a few streets over, a dead body was found with the face bashed in. The police didn’t disclose if they had found any identification papers on the body or not.”

  “Probably holding on to that information, just in case.”

  “My dear Jones,” laughed Oscar, “are you an expert in murders?”

  “Well no, but I did work at the Police Station for a while.”

  “As an accountant, was it?”

  “Um, yes. But I still heard things and learned things. You know how that goes.”

  “Yes, my friend. I know.” Oscar cheerfully slapped Alfred on the back and told him that he had confidential information.

  “Seriously? What do you know, Oscar?”

  “I’m not supposed to say.” Oscar winked and patted Alfred’s back again. “But what are secrets among friends, right?”

  “Just tell me already. What did you find out?”

  Oscar approached his friend’s ear and with a conspiratorial whisper, he started telling the story.

  “They say that Miss Potts was walking her little frou-frou dog in the park, you know, the little white one, when the little dog took off running into the shrubbery. And Miss Potts took off after it. Can you imagine old and fat Miss Potts chasing that dog?” Oscar grabbed his stomach and laughed, and Alfred turned toward him petulantly.

  “Come on, man, just tell the story.”

  “Okay, okay, Alfred. No need to be so impatient. So, When Miss Potts finally caught up with the frou-frou, she noticed that its maw was all bloody-like and she screamed and screamed for someone to call 911.”

  “Dear Lord,” said Alfred, exclaiming horrified. “Bloody maw? Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Alfred shuddered with gory thrill.

  “Yup. Seems like the dog either lapped up some of the victim’s blood or gave the body a nibble.” Oscar chuckled again. “Go figure. Who would think that a cute little frou-frou like that would lick up a dead man’s blood?”

  “So, it was a man, then?” Alfred needed to know. This was not like reading a story in one of his books. This was real. This was a murder. He wanted to know all the gruesome details, but he also realized that this was one story he wouldn’t be sharing with the wife. It could prove to be too much for her.

  “Actually, no. I was about to tell you. It was a young woman. Nicely dressed. Must have been pretty before her face was bashed in.”

  “No way!” Alfred was out of words. His horror knew no bounds. “To think that someone around here should be capable of murder.”

  Did he know anyone capable of committing such a horrible deed in his own neighborhood? He decided to give that some serious thought.

  Chapter 4. A Murder From The Past

  Alfred walked home pensively as the thought of murder always struck a disturbing note in him, and once in the living room, he went straight to the curtained window where his wife was still staring out curiously.

  The evening bustle of the crowds driving home after work or rushing to catch the buses by the park was a sad reminder that once he, too, had important things to do in life. He put his elbows on the windowsill and remained quiet.

  “What did he say?” Henrietta asked.

  “Who?”

  “Oscar, of course. Wasn’t it him you were just talking to?”

  “Yes, yes. It was Oscar.”

  “So, for Heaven’s sake, Alfie, just tell me what happened.”

  “Oh, nothing,” he answered evasively. “Just a murder, as we already knew.”

  “Is that all Oscar told you? You said he would have details.”

  “Later, woman. He’ll have details later, and he’ll let us know.”

  “But it’s terrible, Alfie,” she moaned. “I can’t believe someone has been killed, just like that, and on our street.”

  “I know.”

  “I remember a murder,” the wife said. “It was a very long time ago. I was still young. An old lady my mother knew was killed by her servant-maid. I still remember so vividly mother coming home and crying for her dead friend.”

  “Did they catch the killer?”

  “Yes. She got caught trying to get on the train. When they opened her luggage, they found the old woman’s money and jewelry. She protested her innocence, saying that it was all hers, but the police knew that such a thing was impossible, so they arrested her.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “Who?”

  “The maid?”

  “They hung her, Alfie, as they used to do back then, a long time ago.”

  “Did they know for sure that she was guilty?”

  “Who else could it have been? They were a good family, not the kind of people who murder each other.”

  “Not even for greed?”

  “I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter anymore. They're all dead now.” Mrs. Jones let the curtain go and walked away.

  Chapter 5. Notes

  Henrietta hurried to her kitchen. In the excitement, she had forgotten all about cooking dinner. With practiced moves she began chopping the onions, wiping her stinging eyes from time to time.

  This talk about murders had brought up all sorts of bad memories. Her husband must have forgotten that a few years back there had been a string of gruesome killings—all women, all young—on the other side of the river, on the upscale side of town. Same town, same type of murder?

  Henrietta thought about that while starting on the red peppers. Something lurked at the back of her memory. What was it about those killings? Oh, yes. She remembered. All those young women had had long red hair. Her heart went out to the mothers and fathers of the victims. Poor things, to have to mourn a child. They had never caught the murderer although God knew the police had tried. The investigation had dragged on for years with no result.

  Could it be the same murderer? It depended. Was the new victim a redhead?

  Henrietta reminisced, forgetting the onions sautéing in the oil. The first murder had aroused no special interest. After all, it was just a murder, one of many. The other side of the river was notorious for its many crimes. Nobody batted an eyelash. Not even the newspapers had written much about it. Not even the second murder—barely a handful of days after the first one—ruffled the feathers of the media or the inhabitants of a town where murders were a dime a dozen. It got no more space in the newspaper than quite a small paragraph.

  Henrietta wiped her burning tears away and finally stirred the onions before they burned to a crisp and threw in the chopped red peppers. Then had come the third murder, and it came with a novel twist that raised the inhabitants to a whole new level of excitement. This time, pinned to the dress of the victim—a well-dressed drunken woman—the police had found a dirty scrap of paper, on which was written, in red ink, and in childishly printed characters, the words, “SHE DESERVED IT.”

  It had finally dawned on everyone, not only those people who were involved in the investigation, but also the local men and women whose business was to take an interest in such sinister mysteries, that one same criminal might have been responsible for all three dead bodies. They quickly revised the photographs on the older murders and noticed that dirty scraps of paper had been photogr
aphed, unnoticed and undocumented, and now discarded. Whether they had had any writing on them, it was too late to tell. They pointed a sure finger to a serial killer from day one, but the police had been negligent, and an important clue had been ignored.

  And then, even while the killings were the talk of the town, and the police desperately searched for the killer, another murder shook the town, and this time it shook them to the bone. “THEY ALL DESERVED TO DIE.”

  Suddenly, it had become personal. What sins had these four women committed that deserved such final punishment? Who else among them deserved to die? Who would be next?

  With bated breath, the town waited for the next murder, but it never came. Whether nobody else had deserved to die, or something had happened to the killer, it was impossible to tell. And then the years went by, and the killer vanished into the mist.

  Chapter 6. Hunger

  Alfred stirred the weak fire in the hearth. It was another cold, dreary morning, another morning without sun. Snow beat restlessly against the windowpanes in the kitchen. He shivered as he watched the wife set the table for breakfast. Her pale, apathetic face, her look of weary, mournful self-suffering, sent a wave of irritation through him. More and more, his wife always seemed depressed. And he just wanted to shake it out of her, to get back the young, fun, sparkling conversationalist that he had married.

  They’d been married too long, Alfred told himself. That was the problem. They had nothing new to share with each other. Henrietta never had children of her own and wasn’t too fond of his own daughter Celia. Alfred sighed. Poverty hadn’t helped either. Though he had kept his cheerful attitude as he had aged, Henrietta had become a bitter old woman. No sense of humor, no desire to talk, to share her thoughts with him.

  He watched her from across the room as she brought the food to the table. He had always been a talker, but now he talked no more. Neither did Mrs. Jones. Occasionally, he had enjoyed it when Henrietta took a pause in the chitchat and he got a chance to hear his own thoughts. Back then, when she never stopped talking, a moment of silence was a relief. But he didn’t like that silence anymore.