That Old House

“Andy, get up here,” I heard my cousin and partner scream from the third floor where he was exploring.  I ran quickly up the winding back staircase and reached the story not as winded as I expected.  He was standing outside a bedroom, covered in cobwebs and years of dust.  His normally tanned face was white, his eyes wide.  He couldn’t speak: He just pointed.

I walked carefully into the ancient and neglected room.  I noticed where Nate had stepped and followed his footprints to a closed closet.  I turned around and saw him flick his head forward, telling me that’s where I needed to go.  I reached for the doorknob and turned it slowly.  The door opened silently, as if it had just been oiled.  I tried to look inside, but it was too dark.  I took a few steps forward, my right arm ahead.  In the darkness, I felt around, finding a few coats and suits: A man’s bedroom I thought to myself.

“Boo,” he screamed from the bedroom. 

I was angry.  “You son of a,” I started but wasn’t able to finish.  The house had been abandoned for more than 50 years, and with that neglect, the wood flooring had become rotten.  I fell through the closet and down to the next floor.

“Are you okay?” Nate asked.  I could see him in shadow, looking down at me. 

“Yes,” I answered.  I searched around with my hands to tell where I had landed.  I was in another closet: I felt clothing hanging and under me.  “I’m in another closet.”

“I’ll be right down,” he said before leaving.  I reached into my pocket and pulled out my cell pone.  I pressed it on and pressed the flashlight app my son had me get for instances like this: When I found myself in a dark place without a flashlight. 

I moved the phone around and found that I was indeed in a closet, a woman’s.  I stood and swept the tiny confinement again, one last time before leaving.  I found nothing out of the ordinary, just old style dresses and shoes.  I was about to head out when the light saw something white, and not an article of clothing.

“Oh my God,” I whispered as I bent for a closer look.  I was correct in my original assessment.

“What?” Nate asked opening the door.

I moved the app light the length of the leg bone silently.

“Oh God,” he whispered.


It took us several hours of explanation before the local sheriff allowed us to leave.  He left us with a stern warning: Never to enter his county again without first notifying him or we would be jailed and forgotten about.  I wasn’t too please with him, but it was understandable.  I was more angry at the client than the lawman as we sat in the cafe.

“Andy, what if she didn’t know?” Nate said, trying to calm me.  “After all, she hired us to look for a piece of jewelry, not a body.”

“But she had to have known.  She told us that she was in the house before and found nothing.”

He looked at me and shook his head.  “Remember, we were covered in dust when we looked around the upper floors,” he reminded me.  “That means no one had been there for a long while.”  I hated to admit it, but he was right.  I just looked out the window and waited for her to come out to meet us.

“I thought she’d be here by now,” I said to my cousin.  “She’s usually early if anything.”

“I know,” he added, his uneasiness apparent.  He finished his coffee and stood to toss the cup into the garbage when a well-dressed approached. 

“Misters Charron and Wright?” he asked, his proper articulation of my surname telling us that he was well-read, or had researched its pronunciation.  We nodded, Nate returned to his chair.  “I come to give you both these.”  He placed his briefcase on the table and retrieved two large envelopes.  “I thank you, sirs.”  He bowed slightly and turned before either of us could ask any questioned.

“Which one do we open first?” I asked.

“The thicker one,” Nate answered with an evil grin.  “I think we both know what’s in it.”  Three familiar, thick rectangular shapes tried to push their ways out.  He grabbed it and ripped it open, tipping it so the cash could fall out.  We both stared blankly as six neatly wrapped bundles of $100 bills landed.  He quickly gathered them and put them on his lap.

“Open the other,” he finally whispered after a long, silent moment of confusion.  I carefully broke the seal and pulled out several typed pages.

“Looks like a letter,” I whispered.  I read a few sentences before realizing my error.  “Crap, umm, Nate, we need to go back to the office.


“Andy, how close to you think we came to becoming her latest victims?” Nate finally asked.  We read the letter, Valerie Stevens confession of sorts, written 60 years earlier after she had savagely beat and dismembered her grandmother.

“Not very,” I answered.  After calling the sheriff and being told that Ms. Stevens’ attorney had already been to his office with her full confession, we did some research on her whereabouts from her leaving the family.  She had traveled, mostly to California and Nevada.  And during that time, there were several unsolved murders, mostly of men who local authorities called “Mature, womanizing, and violent.”  The murders were described as grizzly, dismemberments, with several organs missing and most likely kept as trophies. 

“Does make me wonder what she kept in the necklace she kept clutching whenever we spoke to her,” I told him.

“Too small for a heart,” Nate said.

“Not small for an eye or tongue,” I said under my breath.  He looked at me and just shook his head.

“Well, at least she paid us,” Nate quipped.