The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Burning Down the House…
by Rie Sheridan Rose

…okay…maybe not that drastic a reaction, but it was my first thought. When the lawyer stopped me with a hand on my arm on my way out of the meeting to read Mother’s will, I was taken aback by his temerity. Seriously? I didn’t know this man from Adam, and he had the effrontery to touch me like we were friends.

“Excuse me?” I asked, looking down at his hand.

At least he had the sense to move it away and mumble an apology. “I’m sorry, Miss Carstairs. It’s just…there’s one more thing.”

“What is it? I’ve got a dinner engagement in an hour.” Of course, that was a lie, but he didn’t know that.

“Your mother asked me to give you something after all the others had gone. She was most adamant about that.” He moved away to scurry behind his desk and pick up something off the floor.

I have to admit, I was intrigued. I’m not sure my mother and I had exchanged more than a half dozen words since she became ill. And then she died, leaving me the house while splitting what turned out to be not inconsiderable assets between my siblings. It was just like her. Leaving me a decrepit ruin while making my two brothers and sister millionaires.

Mr. Forsythe came back to me with a large wooden crate in his arms. “She was most desperate that you receive these, and that no one else know.” He handed me the box.

I glanced down and saw dozens—maybe hundreds—of old photographs. I couldn’t make out many details. A spot of 60s Polaroid, the edge of a tintype, some formal portraits, others candid snapshots. “What am I supposed to do with this garbage?”

“That’s entirely up to you. They are your property now. Personally, I would go through them carefully. There is a lot of history in this box.” He dusted his hands together, and I got the message loud and clear.

I took the box to my car and set it in the passenger seat. Despite myself, I was curious. I picked up a handful of the photos and sorted through them. Each image had a neat caption on the back in Mother’s meticulous hand. Aunt Ethel and Uncle Charlie; The Reynolds Family; Christmas, 1958; Carstairs Family Reunion, 1984. Many time and place rather than who was in the photo. Still, a bit interesting.

And then I saw it—peeking out of a stack. A face I would recognize anywhere, any when. My cousin Paul. It was a good thing I was sitting down. It felt like a physical blow to the chest—seeing his face again.

My mind raced back to that night. Home alone. A knock at the door. My favorite cousin, bringing a bottle of wine and a wink.

“Everyone’s gone for the night, aren’t they, Lizzy? I didn’t want you to get lonely all alone in this big house. Thought I would come keep you company.”

He was right. The family had gone away for the weekend, but I couldn’t get time off work. I’d just started, and the boss was a stickler for the rules. Mother and Dad had agreed to let me stay home alone if I promised not to have anyone over. But surely Paul didn’t count.

“Come in.” I grinned up at him. I’d had a crush on him my entire life.

My life was never the same.

The wine was strong and went straight to my head. It might even have been drugged, though I have no way to prove it. I know I got giggly, and lost all sense of reality…and then—

—No. I can’t talk about it. Not even to myself.

My next clear memory is Paul crumpled at the foot of the basement stairs. And a sense of triumph. I spent the rest of the weekend digging in the basement and then covering everything up. No one was ever the wiser. Or so I thought.

With a trembling hand, I turned over the photo. Paul Reynolds 1978-1997 — Rest in Peace now, Lizzy. Your secret is safe.

Maybe I will burn down the house after all.

.

Fiction © Copyright Rie Sheridan Rose
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

More from Author Rie Sheridan Rose:

Overheard in Hell:
Dark Poetry

Poems exploring hell and damnation. Tales of sorrow, vengeance, betrayal, and redemption. Ghosts, ghouls, and demons stalk these pages. Don’t read in a lonely house…in a darkened room by a single candle…

…unless you like the touch of an icy finger up your spine.

Available on Amazon!