The newspaper headline screamed with the latest news of the theater house tragedy:
Chandelier Crashes! Police Investigates
I read it and read again, each time bringing a new wash of dread over me. Funny how almost everything in news contained stories of sad experiences and never happy things. When I scanned through the sections, I only found dismal, gloomy, and heart-breaking tales of human lives erased by sudden deaths in the obituaries, of which I found Mr. Dalton’s name there.
It was scary to know someone mentioned in the death notice. I had only seen him a day before. Now I looked at him in two-dimensional form of paper, with his eyes firmly fixed on mine as I swallowed a guilty gulp. His black and white eyes were filled with accusation, shooting directly at me.
The garden was in full bloom. The red roses were at their peak of their loveliness, dotting the whole garden. They gave off a slight fragrance that was pleasing. But after spending the entire morning behind the mansion immersed in the flowers, I was starting to get sick of them, almost to the point of wanting to cut every stem down to the root.
The morning air cool and nice, a good change after a series of cloudy days. But apparently not even with the sun smiling was able to lift up my moods.
I was dwelling on some thoughts about yesterday, and how it had affected me. The paper had said that the tragedy was an accident, but to me, I didn’t really think so. Something was slightly off.
As I continued to read the story, it had become apparent that although the authorities checked out the scene, they could not find one single flaw that was associated with the death of Mr. Dalton, who was the only one found dead out of a hundred and thirteen people there. Sure, the chandelier had been one clue, but here was the strange part. The chandelier was new and was installed only two days before. So there couldn’t have been any malfunctions with it, and that lead to a cold case. In the end, the police claimed it was a freak accident and just happened, with no explanation as to why.
But being a realistic person, I knew there weren’t such things as freak accidents, especially one so big. There had to be a reason, and that lead me back to the shadow. All night long, without sleeping, the figure haunted my dreams, refusing me the right to rest. I needed to find out how the shadow was connected to the whole incident. But I had no idea where to start.
I rose and stretched my legs, breathing in the floral scent infused with the sharpness of oak. I wondered if there was something neurotically wrong about Henry. He had been elated the whole time the accident occurred and after. Maybe his unhealthy habits were catching up with his sanity.
At which point, I felt someone watching me. It was the kind of feeling a prey would get when a predator was stalking it, a sixth sense of seeing something not there. I looked up to one of the many windows of the family mansion, most of which were empty. But there was one window which had a ghostly face pressed against the glass.
Henry was staring at me.
His face was quietly serene, not a sign of anger or disgust. He simply watched me. Then he shut the curtains, cutting off our eye contact. That was the when the coldness trickled down my spine.
I folded the newspaper into my pocket and set off for someplace where no one could see me. The white gazebo was a prime choice.
As I moved toward my choice setting, I brushed up against some hedges, cringing as a thorn pierced through the fabric of my shirt. “Ouch,” I said, I pulled the sharp barb out with frown. Ugh, this garden, it could so vexing.
“Getting some fresh air, young master?”
I threw away the thorn and saw Requiem standing gracefully before me, holding a pair of shears. “Oh, hullo. I didn’t see you there. Trimming?”
YOU ARE READING
these sweet nightmares
HorreurFear the darkness. That's how 12-year-old Christopher Heights has always dealt with being so close to death. No matter how long the years have passed, the past calls to him with relentless vigor, reminding him that two graves are dug the moment hatr...