From the upcoming book, “Haunted Heirlooms: Four Antique Dealers Reveal Their Stories” (C) 2022 Anna Maria Manalo. To be released this spring by Beyond The Fray Publishing. Excerpts in this site may not be reprinted in any magazine or blog without written permission from the author.
Here’s your weekly installment of Sam and how he attempts to rid himself and his family of the cursed gift….
(Please see previous posts for last week’s episode.) ENJOY!
Chapter 4
I placed it in the inglenook, turned some lights on in the cold, drafty kitchen, alone with my thoughts. I had not slept since I buried it up here just to get rid of it since it wouldn’t tear. I almost forgot about it and then one night I thought – could’ve sworn it was lying on the floor of our bedroom.
What kind of paper won’t tear? What kind of print would walk back to our house from being buried an hour or more away? What kind of print would return to us, when I had it hung at the store?
I had to come out just to make sure it was deteriorating. Paper does that. I even took it out of the frame and all. I swear the print came back, like a cat that was tossed miles away and found its way home. I picked it up. Don’t look. I rolled it up. Stuck the print between two large logs, threw some leftover coal from the last family barbecue in Ogunquit into the mix and lit it. Up the fire went, with all three logs ablaze, reflecting the golden brass of the fireplace screen. Crack, crack, crack.
I sat back on the verdigris-stained Turkish carpet and gawked at my L.L. Bean duck shoes which in my haste I neglected to take off in the mudroom. Duck shoes are important. I don’t care. I’m tangential and it helps me relax. Get my mind off the dratted print. Then the grass on the shoes: Grass sticks to everything and the offensive, though practical shoes just made green striation marks on the wool. Mom would’ve been furious knowing how she felt about the carpet. I have to roll it up and sell that too though it’s not antique like the rest of the furniture in the house we all grew up in. The grass stains are also all over my sweater, which was undoubtedly from my efforts to dig out what I had buried weeks ago.
I just had to dig it up and make sure it had degraded. But degraded, it didn’t. What kind of paper was it on, I wondered again. The print was still as vivid as when I took it out of the frame. So I am wet, dirty and feeling like a grave digger on a Friday afternoon. Or someone who went clamming. Hmm… clams. Gotta get some of that. Focus.
I went to look out the window, then turned on the lamps and looked out again. In the gloaming, I could still see the Volvo which is blue, turn almost black in the menacing dark. My head hurts, pounding to the tune of some melody I’m drowning to grasp and recall fully. Stress does that. I went back to the fireplace and that’s when I saw what I could only describe as sinister: The print somehow flew out of the fireplace and is now lying on the carpet right where I had just sat a few minutes ago. Totally unblemished by the fire. Stretched out like I never rolled it. I approached it and prepared to pick it up by the edges, but I couldn’t get myself to look at it as it was face up.
What would I see this time?
Just then, someone was pounding on the door.
I took a few long strides, now high with what must be a lack of sleep. Or too much driving. I think it’s my parents’ neighbor from the farm.
A man, beard unkempt, tobacco breath, sounding hoarse.
Yup. The farmer next door.
“Hey.”
“Hi. Am I disturbing you?”
“Heck, no. I’m Bill. I live up the…”
“Uh, hi. Yeah. Bob.”
“No, Bill. Just checking as I saw a light and thought they were gone.”
“Yeah. I’m here cleaning up.”
His smile turned into a semblance of sadness. Like he thought they were still alive and was surprised.
“I’m… sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. It was quick.”
“Uh, for both of them?”
“Ummm… heart attacks.”
He nodded, looking around the framed door.
“Okay. Call me if you…”
“Thank you. Just getting something to eat…”
He waved like he was on a ship setting to sail. “Okay.”
“Have a good night.”
Now what was I doing? Oh, yeah.
The castle in the background, turrets and flags, as before, as it always was, even on the day my “friend” acquired it for the shop. Now, he won’t even drive over, let alone stay for dinner despite Alice’s great cooking and friendship with Mel. What sticks, sticks. It’s stuck with you and I don’t want any part of it. It really, truly, scared the crap out of Mel. Oh, thanks Dan. Some friend you proved to be. I told you his name, Mom and Dad, but don’t dare mention it as everyone knows him in the antique world. My world. Well, crap, after this, who knows what world I’ll be in.
It’s the foreground of the picture that bothers me. The one closest to the viewer. Closer. To. Me. I don’t recall seeing a couple there, standing like ramrod straight beings from a bad alien movie. They’re both looking right at the viewer: Me. No. This is not right. There’s something wrong with their eyes. No pupils. As if it was some old horror film I was forced to see with friends as a teenager. What was there before? They look dressed and look like Mom and Dad. No. I know I’m tired. Can’t be. I should have held onto the picture of “the picture” Dan gave me when he bought it at an auction somewhere in New York, he said. He won’t even look at it now. He saw something that really and truly got him running out the door and into his car. What truly frightened me is that he wouldn’t tell me what he saw or what Mel saw. He told me it’s value though. Finally, That got me running to sell it. So now what he was running from, I now have with me.
