The building loomed above, the heavy rain obscuring the top floor from his sight. A solid knock boomed out on Eloise Huff’s thick sickly green door, which contrasted badly with the off cream of the walls.

“Go away.”

Another knock, even harder this time.

“What do you want?”

Another knock that pierced a layer of his skin resounded.

“Who is it?”

“Open the door. Now.”


There was no reply, 

“Fine. Get the door Luge.”

“Yes, Miss Eloise.” responded her manservant.

He walked in, soaking wet, his back hunched, veins popping out of his forehead. His black umbrella sprayed water all around. He had obviously come to talk. He was obviously serious. His archaic behaviour added a polite aura around him, but anyone could see he was hiding something deeper. 

“Tea. Please,” he said.

Outside the weather poured its hatred down on the shadowed figures, revealed only by bursts of lightning fracturing the sky. He was too tall to fit under the door without further hunching his back, his lean figure towering over the short woman whose house he had invaded. After a too impersonal handshake, she noticed his horrible clammy hands. He sat himself down abruptly, and stared. 

He did very little for ten or so minutes, appearing to be looking at a painting of Miss Eloise’s grandfather. The painting was in a state of disrepair, the nail causing cracks in the walls as it moved under the weight of the chipped wooden frame.

“Respect your old man, fix that frame.” Ordered the man.

“Who are you?” responded Miss Eloise.

“Who am I indeed?” he echoed “A representative for the council? A thief? A bandit?”

“Answer my questions, you are, of course, in my house.”

“Ah, now that’s what I am here about. This is not your house.”

“It was my father’s and it was left to me.”

“But it was not left to you. It was left to his eldest child.”

“She died. I inherited it instead.”

“That is interesting you say that, because they never found a body, proof that someone had died or even a single trace of her. It seems rather suspicious that you, who was her loving little sister,” he sneered, “should benefit so much from her ‘death’. A rather lucky coincidence that her body was never found too.”

“What are you saying? Because if you have something to say, say it now before I remove you from my property!” anger was building.

“No” resounded back.

“Luge, come here!”

The misshaped manservant hobbled in with a shotgun and a stick. He made a clear point that should have hammered a message home in any sane person would take rather seriously, but what did she know about the new generation? She had hardly ever seen it, or indeed left her mansion in over ten years. People were always suspicious at the start and this tactic worked. Why should it not now? He just sat there and stroked his patchy, off-coloured beard, unnerved by the 28 bore shotgun pointed at his body. It would certainly hit the target.

“Put that awful shotgun away before you hurt yourself,” he ordered. Luge laughed at his seemingly unbridled arrogance. He was violently escorted out, at gunpoint, and hit his head on the door frame causing blood to pour out from his popping veins. He looked like he was crying blood.

The town grew suspicious and asked incessantly about the events that had taken place. Their guesses were surprisingly close, considering the information they had. The man returned the next week with a warrant to search the house. Eloise Huff had cleared out by the time they arrived with the warrant, but when they had searched the house they found, left lying in her bed, Abigail Huff, upright and looking rather well, considering her current position. She still looked much prettier than her sister despite having been embalmed.

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