THIRTEEN FOR DINNER

CHAPTER  ONE         

            The grey moss sways with the cool evening breeze, tickling the top of my head, as I make my way up the cobblestone walkway. Shuddering, I pick up my pace, focusing straight ahead, daring not to look to the massive trees surrounding me. The last thing I want to see is the ghost of Lunar Wilson.  They hung him, right here on this very property. A hundred and fifty years ago his lifeless body dangled, swinging in the breeze right along with the Spanish moss, while a distraught Emily Faulkner watched from the cupola. Later that same night, the petite southern belle wrapped a thick rope around her delicate neck and joined her lover in the afterlife. Legend says all hell broke loose after that. Unaware that their only daughter was hanging dead up in the cupola, Emily’s parents continued on with their festivities, gorging themselves on prime rib, and guzzling expensive wine. They were pretty drunk by the time Lunar’s brothers burst inside the house slinging their hatchets, vindicating their brother’s murder. They decapitated James Faulkner, his socialite wife Elizabeth and dismembered all eleven dinner guest. The massacre was the bloodiest ever recorded in these parts.

             Up until this afternoon I have never set foot on this property. Unlike my friends, I don’t particularly like spooking myself. Whenever a car load of my peers, decide to drive here in the dead of night to see if they can catch a glimpse of Emily Faulkner’s body hanging in the cupola, I always have a good reason why I can’t join them. Tonight is different; I have every reason for coming, although I have dreaded it ever since I agreed. I am here because I desperately need the money, and Mike, my best friend in the entire world, knows it. Mike’s mother, or the MILF, as all the guys refer to, is Steffi Booker and she owns Cherry Tree Catering.  On occasion, when the parties are big and extra servers are needed, she has Mike round up some of the gang to help out. It’s a good way to earn quick cash. Steffi usually pays at the end of the night. She gives us ten bucks an hour too, so most everyone always jumps at the chance to help out. I figure most of the guys would do it for free just to be near Steffi. She smells like sugary, sweet, cotton candy and her smile lights up a room.

            As much as I adore Steffi, I have other reasons for taking the work. The rent is due in the morning and I am short fifty bucks. My momma didn’t send anything this month, and I refuse to ask her about it. She has enough on her shoulders. She left for Florida two months ago to take care of my grandmother on my dad’s side.  She loves my Grandma Flitcraft like she was her own mother. I know it’s charitable of her to go down there and help, but I wish she wouldn’t have. I feel guilty for my feelings but I need her here with me because I don’t have anybody else. My dad left us both for another woman seven years ago. I was ten. He never sends any money and I know he could care less about me. He doesn’t care about anyone but his own damn self.  I doubt he even knows his poor old mother had a stroke.

              I’ve kept momma’s little hair salon going for the summer. Her clients trust me, and I am pretty good with hair even though I haven’t had any formal training. Momma says I am somewhat of a natural; she says I have talent and hopes we’ll work together someday but I have bigger aspirations than that. But for now, it’s our only source of income so I am working there.  State Board never gets down our way so I get away with not being officially licensed. 

             I’m finally passed the gargantuan trees; thinking about other things takes my mind off where I am. The bus driver thought I was crazy for asking to be dropped off here and the look on his face didn’t ease my nerves any. I shudder as I make my way up the steps and onto the broad wooden porch. 

            The wooden planks groan as I trespass across the shaded porch and I couldn’t agree more with its remorseful protest. The foyer is bigger than my entire apartment. I shudder again. It’s nice if you like antiques but I don’t. I think they’re creepy as hell. The renovator tried to capture the authenticity of the time era in which the mansion was constructed so the wood is dark, intricately carved and the furniture is intimidating.  A chill traces its way up my spine and I shiver. Momma always says when you have a chill it means an opossum is running over your grave. I hate when she says that, not only does it sound hick as hell, but it makes me have another shiver and then she goes and says it again.