Michael Devaney - The Elisha Pool

“Touché,” Andria said, giving him a wink. “I’m a business before pleasure gal myself.”

After a considerable climb, they reached the steps of the mausoleum. The masonry was at least one-hundred years old and although, weather worn with tinged, green streaks running down its corners, was in generally good shape. The name, JACOBS, was etched in the stone above the columns that protected the door. After catching their breath, they split up, Andria took the North side of the building and Finn took the South, to scour the outside of the building for clues.

They met back up at the front of the mausoleum ten minutes later.

“You find anything?” Finn asked.

“Nothing,” Andria replied. “You?”

“No.”

Finn looked at his watch to check the time. “It’s getting close to daybreak,” he said. “We should probably head back to the car. We can return after the gatekeeper leaves and hopefully have more luck in the daylight.”

Still using their flashlights for guidance, they followed the same path back to the opening in the fence and skirted along the wall toward the car when Andria noticed streaks of disrupted dirt that looked like drag marks headed toward the road and the neighborhood across the street.

“Finn look,” she said, motioning toward the disturbance. “Were those marks there when we passed by earlier?”

Finn turned his light beam to overlap hers. “Hmm, that’s interesting,” he said. “I don’t know. It was so dark and we were in such a hurry it’s hard to say.”

He dug into his pants pocket and pulled out a set of keys.

“Here,” he said. Get back to the car and pull it across to the street while I investigate. I’ll contact you there.”

It was just breaking dawn when Andria pulled up to the curb in front of Stephenson’s house. From the road, the inside of the house appeared to be completely dark.

She put the car in PARK and sat anxiously monitoring her surroundings waiting to hear from Finn.

The quiet stillness of the neighborhood made minutes seem like an eternity.

Abruptly her cell phone rang, scaring the bejesus out of her and causing her to jump. When her heart slowed to a NASCAR’s pace she looked at the phone’s screen. It was Finn.

“Finn, where are you?” she asked, answering the call.

“Just down the street, heading in your direction. You won’t believe it but the mud streaks are headed for Stephenson’s house.”

“What? You’re kidding, right?”

“No. I wish I were. Meet me in front of the driveway in five minutes and I’ll show you.”

Andria wasted no time exiting the car. She quickly clicked the car door shut behind her and speed walked to Stephenson’s mailbox. Within three minutes Finn appeared. He was breathing heavily.

“Follow me,” he said, waving her on.

Halfway down the driveway they branched off onto a narrow, stone walkway. When they reached the front stoop they discovered a single pair of dried, muddy footprints ascending the three steps leading up to the front door. Instinctively, their heads turned on a swivel to follow the approaching direction of the footprints. More footprints backtracked across the dew-covered lawn toward the cemetery.

Finn gave Andria a quick glance, then topped the stairs where he noticed the door standing open a few inches. He paused and held up a hand to halt their progress.

“The front door is open,” he whispered. “Stay here.” He crept closer and craned his neck toward the narrow slit. A peek inside revealed a dark, empty foyer.

“Hello?” he inquired.

Silence.

He tried again. “Is anyone home?”

When no one answered, Finn waved Andria forward then drew his service pistol — a .40 caliber Smith & Wesson — thumbed off the safety and eased open the door. The door creaked in rebellion as it slid backward.

With all eyes trained ahead, Finn took a couple of baby steps forward then stopped to listen. The house remained silent. He ran his hand along the wall searching for a light switch. Once found, he flicked it upward to dispel the darkness. More footprints were visible. Again, he called out to make their presence known. “This is the police. Is anyone home?”

No one answered.

Finn nodded at Andria, then turned and motioned for them to continue their search. A few more steps brought them to a short hallway leading to what looked like an open area up ahead. Following the footprints, they advanced down the hall to the next light switch. Finn pushed up on the light switch and flooded the large den with light.

“Oh my heavens!” Andria cried out from behind him. “Is that blood?”

Finn jerked his head to the side. A starburst of red, like something left behind by an exploded paint ball, was splattered on the opposite wall.

Within a few feet of the starburst was Mr. Stephenson’s lifeless body lying limp in a blood-soaked recliner. There was a gaping hole in the side of his head just above the top of the ear. Lying on the floor at his feet was a revolver, most likely the one used to create the gory wall art, and a deteriorated, half mummified skeleton dressed in tattered woman’s clothes. The top half of the mummy’s head was missing. The outer rim of the skull was jagged and uneven as though it had received a massive blow of force.

Finn holstered his Smith & Wesson and moved closer to the bodies. “Unless I’m entirely wrong about the identity of the man in the recliner, it looks as if our infamous Mr. Stephenson died a young man after all.”

Most of the blood had either congealed or already dried, but it seemed evident that whatever happened had occurred within the last couple of days. Finn scanned the rest of the area before turning his interest to the end table beside Mr. Stephenson’s recliner where the same Fed Ex box and handwritten letter he’d found earlier still resided. But now, on top of the letter, was a brown, shriveled up animal claw— The other Monkey’s Paw . Being careful not to disturb the rest of the potential crime scene, Finn leaned over and gently retrieved the paw, then stuck it in his pocket for safe keeping.

Without a word, he looked again at Mr. Stephenson then shifted his eyes down to the decayed woman’s body.

“I can’t believe this,” he said.

“What? What can’t you believe?” Andria pleaded.

“It’s just like in the original Monkey’s Paw story,” Finn said.

“What is?” Andria pleaded again.

“In the original story someone was unnaturally “wished” back to life from the grave. And now, it looks as though the same thing has happened again.”

Andria’s eyes darted quickly from Stephenson’s crumpled body to the woman’s skeleton. “Oh, my heavens. I think you’re right.”

Finn continued, pointing toward the skeleton, “Based on the aged style of that dress, my bet is that decayed woman was Mr. Stephenson’s wife. When his plans related to the Elisha Pool went sour, he must have used one of his remaining wishes to call her back from the dead; only he wasn’t expecting her to be a Zombie. When she showed up here as an undead corpse, instead of his sweet, living and breathing wife, the shock must have been more than he could bear. After seeing her in such a badly deteriorated state, one can only imagine the thoughts that went through his head. He must have been horrified at bringing her back and, realizing the error of his way, did the only thing left at his disposal to make things right — he put her out of misery and sent her back to where she belonged. Then, grief stricken I’m sure, I imagine he turned the gun on himself.”

There was lengthy silence while the two of them looked around letting the impact of the moment sink in.

Finally, Andria spoke. “Dear Lord,” she said, her voice trembling as she covered her mouth. “What a horrible twist of fate. It’s a truly awful example of life mimicking art.”