Preface
It was no particular night when Mr. Seymore stood silently by the window, looking past the trees into the forest. Tendrils of wind shook the branches with such violence as the chimney howled with the draft brought on by the incoming storm.
Nothing in particular was amiss, except for a rusty old can lying in the front of the yard near the hedge bushes. “Fancy how that got there” Mr. Seymore thought to himself. He dismissed it and believed it to be an old can of the widow Mrs. Droomsdry whom often a night became drunk from all the cooking sherry she kept hidden in the cupboard under the sink.
He took a closer look at the can; it looked to be the type that was reused to hold extra coins and knick-knacks. Surely it couldn’t be a liquor can, just based on its shape and proportions. “No” he decided, “definitely not a liquor can. But to who did it belong?”
Of course, the yard of Mr. Seymore was always kept in top condition, and for a can to be present in the yard was just preposterous. It marred the yard, was even a disgrace for the aristocratic lifestyle of Mr. Seymore. It had to be removed; it didn’t matter if it happened to be day or night. This issue could possibly ruin his prominence and reputation.
Immediately, Mr. Seymore snatched his raincoat and slid on his galoshes. He didn’t bother putting on his bowler hat, he was in too much of a hurry. Opening the door produced a creak and a sheet of rain to the face.
“Honestly, this weather!” he thought, “Makes it seem darker than it really is out there.” He stepped out of the house with a shudder and chills running down his spine. He heard a squelch and looked down to see that his foot landed in a pool of water. Shaking his foot, he continued on.
Since it was almost pitch dark, Mr. Seymore had trouble finding the location of the hedge brush, let alone the can. In the distance he thought he saw a shadow move between the trees of the forest. He took a double take, then soon decided to overlook it as a deer grazing on the long strands of grass and the brambles of raspberries that grew in the woods.
He continued on, feeling around as he went, until he stumbled upon the can. It gave a crackle as his foot made contact. “Aha. Here it is, the little bastard!”
As soon as he kneeled down to pick the darned thing up, he heard an indistinct rattling coming from the woods, which had then developed a murky fog that flowed slowly from behind the trees.
“Oh, it’s nothing, really, it isn’t. Nothing could be out at this time of night” his nervous thoughts clouded his mind and slowed his thinking. It happened again. The same rattling. However, this time it seemed much louder and much closer. It seemed to move back and forth from between the trees. Mr. Seymore then decided to move as far from the trees as possible and to go into the house and grab his shotgun.
Suddenly, to his surprise, the rattling stopped abruptly. Still, he hurried back to his gloomy yet safe house as soon as possible. Now that he thought of it, he did recall hearing rumors when he first moved into the house that there had been various murders in the area some years before. In fact, there had been a murder in his very house, about 50 years ago. Of course, being lonely and stubborn in his beliefs, he disregarded the murder stories and moved into the Victorian house anyhow. But, at this moment, the more cowardly side of his mind began to take hold of his thoughts and he began to break out in a sweat. He began to move just a bit faster, almost at a jog.
Beads of sweat rolled viciously into his eyes, as if in an attempt to slow him from arriving at his destination. He finally reached the front door, and started to fiddle in his pocket in search for his keys. Various other objects in his pocket prevented him from grasping the key ring of which he was was in search.
Finally, he managed to grab hold of the giant key ring, but a new trouble arose. He needed to find his house key out of the hundreds of keys that also occupied the ring. Sweat began to pool in his hands as he became increasingly frantic.
At last he found the right key and began to jam it into the keyhole, but in his frenzy it kept slipping. “****!” he screamed out of frustration. He soon realized his mistake. Whatever was out there had heard him and let out a high pitched shriek along with more rattling.
Mr. Seymore still had trouble opening the door, it being over 70 years old. As fast as the rattling and screaming started, it stopped. The air chilled. Suddenly, Mr. Seymore felt a light touch on his left shoulder. He slowly turned in horror and saw pale face of a circus clown; the red makeup was smeared in the eye area as if it had been crying. Mr. Seymore was lost for words. Creeping across the clown’s face was a malignant smile. Yellow teeth shown past its cracked lips; its eyes were bloodshot and were completely black. Slowly, its hands raised to reveal a string of rust-covered cans, similar to the one Mr. Seymore had in his very hands.
The creature let out its hand and wiggled its fingers, still smiling. It seemed to Mr. Seymore that it wanted its missing can.
In pure terror, Mr. Seymore handed over the cursed piece of metal. The eyes of the clown flashed in delight as he was reunited with his long-lost treasure.
It lifted up the cans and rattled them. “Thzanksssss for zee pressssenttt…” it whispered, shaking them the whole while. Mr. Seymore was speechless, lost for words. He couldn’t even scream when the thing pulled out a Lancaster pistol.
The thing continued to smile and again whispered, “And thzankssss for zee feasssstttt. Eet veel be enjoyeddd..”
The thing cocked the pistol and fired.
It was no particular night when Mr. Seymore stood silently by the window, looking past the trees into the forest. Tendrils of wind shook the branches with such violence as the chimney howled with the draft brought on by the incoming storm.
Nothing in particular was amiss, except for a rusty old can lying in the front of the yard near the hedge bushes. “Fancy how that got there” Mr. Seymore thought to himself. He dismissed it and believed it to be an old can of the widow Mrs. Droomsdry whom often a night became drunk from all the cooking sherry she kept hidden in the cupboard under the sink.
He took a closer look at the can; it looked to be the type that was reused to hold extra coins and knick-knacks. Surely it couldn’t be a liquor can, just based on its shape and proportions. “No” he decided, “definitely not a liquor can. But to who did it belong?”
Of course, the yard of Mr. Seymore was always kept in top condition, and for a can to be present in the yard was just preposterous. It marred the yard, was even a disgrace for the aristocratic lifestyle of Mr. Seymore. It had to be removed; it didn’t matter if it happened to be day or night. This issue could possibly ruin his prominence and reputation.
Immediately, Mr. Seymore snatched his raincoat and slid on his galoshes. He didn’t bother putting on his bowler hat, he was in too much of a hurry. Opening the door produced a creak and a sheet of rain to the face.
“Honestly, this weather!” he thought, “Makes it seem darker than it really is out there.” He stepped out of the house with a shudder and chills running down his spine. He heard a squelch and looked down to see that his foot landed in a pool of water. Shaking his foot, he continued on.
Since it was almost pitch dark, Mr. Seymore had trouble finding the location of the hedge brush, let alone the can. In the distance he thought he saw a shadow move between the trees of the forest. He took a double take, then soon decided to overlook it as a deer grazing on the long strands of grass and the brambles of raspberries that grew in the woods.
He continued on, feeling around as he went, until he stumbled upon the can. It gave a crackle as his foot made contact. “Aha. Here it is, the little bastard!”
As soon as he kneeled down to pick the darned thing up, he heard an indistinct rattling coming from the woods, which had then developed a murky fog that flowed slowly from behind the trees.
“Oh, it’s nothing, really, it isn’t. Nothing could be out at this time of night” his nervous thoughts clouded his mind and slowed his thinking. It happened again. The same rattling. However, this time it seemed much louder and much closer. It seemed to move back and forth from between the trees. Mr. Seymore then decided to move as far from the trees as possible and to go into the house and grab his shotgun.
Suddenly, to his surprise, the rattling stopped abruptly. Still, he hurried back to his gloomy yet safe house as soon as possible. Now that he thought of it, he did recall hearing rumors when he first moved into the house that there had been various murders in the area some years before. In fact, there had been a murder in his very house, about 50 years ago. Of course, being lonely and stubborn in his beliefs, he disregarded the murder stories and moved into the Victorian house anyhow. But, at this moment, the more cowardly side of his mind began to take hold of his thoughts and he began to break out in a sweat. He began to move just a bit faster, almost at a jog.
Beads of sweat rolled viciously into his eyes, as if in an attempt to slow him from arriving at his destination. He finally reached the front door, and started to fiddle in his pocket in search for his keys. Various other objects in his pocket prevented him from grasping the key ring of which he was was in search.
Finally, he managed to grab hold of the giant key ring, but a new trouble arose. He needed to find his house key out of the hundreds of keys that also occupied the ring. Sweat began to pool in his hands as he became increasingly frantic.
At last he found the right key and began to jam it into the keyhole, but in his frenzy it kept slipping. “****!” he screamed out of frustration. He soon realized his mistake. Whatever was out there had heard him and let out a high pitched shriek along with more rattling.
Mr. Seymore still had trouble opening the door, it being over 70 years old. As fast as the rattling and screaming started, it stopped. The air chilled. Suddenly, Mr. Seymore felt a light touch on his left shoulder. He slowly turned in horror and saw pale face of a circus clown; the red makeup was smeared in the eye area as if it had been crying. Mr. Seymore was lost for words. Creeping across the clown’s face was a malignant smile. Yellow teeth shown past its cracked lips; its eyes were bloodshot and were completely black. Slowly, its hands raised to reveal a string of rust-covered cans, similar to the one Mr. Seymore had in his very hands.
The creature let out its hand and wiggled its fingers, still smiling. It seemed to Mr. Seymore that it wanted its missing can.
In pure terror, Mr. Seymore handed over the cursed piece of metal. The eyes of the clown flashed in delight as he was reunited with his long-lost treasure.
It lifted up the cans and rattled them. “Thzanksssss for zee pressssenttt…” it whispered, shaking them the whole while. Mr. Seymore was speechless, lost for words. He couldn’t even scream when the thing pulled out a Lancaster pistol.
The thing continued to smile and again whispered, “And thzankssss for zee feasssstttt. Eet veel be enjoyeddd..”
The thing cocked the pistol and fired.