The Parlor

Her last request was to be laid out in the mansion for her viewing. She said it would give out-of-town family time to come pay their final respects. I didn’t see anything wrong with that, since over the years three other family members had made this, my front parlor, their final stop in the world. Before I bought it, she did own the Big House, as we called it, so it was the least I could do. Two days down, one more to go before the mortician would return to retrieve her coffin, and lay her in the cemetery, her journey complete.
I didn’t turn on the grand foyer light when I came in, since I knew this house like the back of my hand, and could walk all ninety eight hundred square feet of it in the dark, or mostly dark. The street lights shining into the massive triple front window, as well as the light on the side portico, gave me plenty of ambient light to get around. At just the right time, as the sun sets and the lights come on, some pretty interesting shadows get cast across the floor and walls. They move with the setting sun, and it looks like today I got home at just the right time. But a few seem to be moving a little faster, or maybe it’s just the trees outside swaying in the breeze.
As I walk across the foyer the old oak floors creak under my weight, as they always do. Another reason I love old houses. But something’s off, different, can’t put my finger on it, and as I get to the lamp on the table just inside the parlor, I stop. The room is awash with an overwhelming smell of Great Aunt Ethel’s rosewater perfume. And then it hit me, the floors were creaking, not under my steps, but behind me.