The November 2009 Selected Story 2 is by B.A. Sans

Feel free to email B.A. at: basans@live.com

ON ONE CONDITION

By B.A. Sans

Hanley Hall was a large old house, one in which the locals claimed grave dangers lurked, and that it was a place where the ghosts of past misfortunes dwelled with a dire need to impose their agony upon the living.  It was considered to be a quiet hell on earth with menacing eyes of despair fixed on those who dared to visit.

George Milling had no thoughts of such superstitions as he drove his car up the elongated driveway to the mansion. Hanley Hall was his uncle’s house, nothing more…until now. Now it was his. 

Being the only living heir to an eccentric, rich old man had been strange. When his uncle had been alive, George never had to visit. George never had to call.  He had to do nothing except wait for that wealthy codger to face the grim reaper, and it all became his. He had known it for years, and now the time had come. All he had to do was sign a few papers to make it official and then it was the life of luxury that he had dreamed about.

George glided through the abundant foliage that lined the grounds of his new estate. The shrubbery, though slightly neglected, still gave off a hue of womanly touch. Maybe his uncle’s gardener had an appreciation of flora with a feminine touch, because to George’s knowledge, there had never been a woman at Hanley Hall.

As George entered through the elegant threshold into the vestibule of his new fortune, a slick smile perked around the corners of his mouth. It was his. All of it! The thought was soaking into his mind.

“You must be Mr. Milling. I was expecting you,” said a voice, distracting George from his daydream of riches.

“Mr. Treeny?” asked George.  Mr. Treeny was the lawyer for Hanley Hall estate and all of George’s uncle’s fortune. There was a darkness about the man that unnerved George. Or maybe it was just that Treeny had surprised him by suddenly appearing in front of him.

“Yes sir,” Treeny responded.  “I hope you had a pleasant journey.”

Treeny reached out to George, who gleefully accepted the hand shake of the man who was about to make him excessively rich.  Feeling impatient, George wanted to get on with this. Now that he was actually standing in the walls of his newly procured castle, all he wanted to do was get the paperwork over with.

“Mr. Treeny, I’m really tired after my trip. I was wondering if we could just take care of all of the legalities now,” he said, trying to disguise his real reasons for the rush.

“Of course Mr. Milling,” Treeny answered. He led George down a hallway into a study.  Sitting on a desk were pages upon pages of paperwork. George was overwhelmed when he saw the mountain of documents.

Frustrated, George asked, “About how long do you think all of this is going to take?  I told you that I’m very tired.”

“Actually, Mr. Milling, this will not take long at all. All of Mr. Hanley’s estate will be yours after you sign just a few pages, but it comes to you on one condition.”

“A condition?” George was annoyed.  “What are you talking about?”

Treeny remained business-like. “I was instructed to give you this letter and see to it that you have signed the documents claiming that you will follow the request in the letter precisely.”

Angrily George snatched the letter from the attorney’s hand and violently ripped open the envelope. As he looked at the contents written upon the page of the letter, his anger mounted.

“Are you telling that my uncle’s body is in this house right now?” he asked, feeling incredulous.

“Yes sir, it is in the parlor. It was in his will that he asked for it to remain in his home for you,” Treeny answered.

“Is this for real?  This is some really sick stuff,” George shouted. “How am I supposed to…ah….?”

“Sir,” Treeny interrupted, “Your uncle asked only that you follow the instructions exactly as written. If you are willing to do so, then all you need to do is sign this affidavit and a few other pages. Then Hanley Hall and the remainder of your uncle’s estate will be yours.”

George thought about it for a moment, and then made his decision. Who cares what that old, dead fool of an uncle wanted?  Once Treeny left, he wouldn't even know if George did what the letter asked him to do. No one would know.

Calming down, George said, “I have no problem with any of this.”

For the next ten minutes or so, Treeny led George through a multitude of documents and explained what the purpose of each was. George didn’t care.  In a few minutes, he would be rich. He would be rich beyond all of his wildest dreams. As soon as he signed the last paper, Treeny congratulated him on his new found wealth.

“And don’t forget that you must follow the instructions of that letter precisely,” Treeny warned.

“I said I would, didn't I?” George said, feeling annoyance creep back in.  “You have no need to worry.”

George escorted Treeny to the front door, said his goodbyes and his obligatory thank you, and then watched as the lawyer left.  His first order of business after he disencumbered himself from the watchful eye of his uncle’s minion was to get rid of the rotting corpse of that geezer who still lay in the house. He would need to find a shovel to bury the old coot in the garden. He’d burn the letter if he had to. It was stupid anyway.

George explored the grounds until he found a small gardener’s shack behind the mansion. Within the shack he found the shovel he needed. All George had to do was dig the hole, get his uncle, drop him in, and cover him up. Then it was on to the good life.

As George reentered the house, his mind revisited the thought of the letter that his uncle had left for him. 

“The man was insane,” he thought, dismissing any guilt he had started to feel. “No one in his right mind would want a body lying around to stink up a house. Insanity prevents my uncle's letter from being legally binding.” 

George walked into the parlor. There, lying on a hospital gurney, was the peaceful remains of his once affluent uncle. Still and motionless, the old man looked as though he was taking an afternoon nap to regain what little strength his body could still generate.

“How easy is this?” George thought. “The old man is already strapped on a gurney for travel.”

That’s when he noticed it. The book mentioned in the letter was there.  That abomination mentioned in the “one condition” was just sitting there mocking George. He read the book's cover, which said: Ritus ab Victus Nex.

Latin, George thought. He wished he had studied the language. He thought the words meant something about ritual and death. Or was it ritual and life?

He ran his hands upon the leather bound encasing of the dusty book. Large ridges of tightened animal flesh covered the parchment held within. The book was old, very old. Other than the weird title, the cover of book had no special designs or uniqueness about it.

George flipped through the pages examining the strange markings and hideous sketches held upon delicate paper which almost felt like papyrus. He slowly poured over the contents of the ancient text and studied it, looking for clues in order to have some comprehension of what the title meant. Frustrated that he couldn't read the words, he determined from the drawings and the diagrams that it was some sort of instructions for internment of the dead.

Suddenly a scratching sound came from the second story of the mansion, pulling him out of his thoughts. It was slight, but it was there. Old places meant strange sounds. He didn't know this house yet, and old houses tended to settle in their foundations. Or did his uncle live with mice in the house?

To hell with the book. To hell with his uncle's letter. To hell with mice. It was time to bury the body.

George grabbed the end of the gurney where his uncle’s feet were placed and began pulling. He didn’t want to look at the old man’s face. He didn’t really know his uncle all that well beyond the occasional visit as a child, so he did not feel any loving emotions. Still, George didn't want to look into the old man's face as he moved his uncle, feeling like the dead man would somehow show disapproval. 

Then he scoffed at himself. It wasn't like the crazy old geezer would suddenly return from the dead and take everything away. The old man was dead, period. Now it was George’s time to live.

So he pushed the gurney through a back door in the house. Dusk was settling in. The sweet buzz of the evening’s insects echoed on the waves of the gentle breeze. The leaves of nearby trees rustled in a softhearted wave of salutations.

“What a perfect time,” George thought. “There’s never a better time to bury a body than in the beauty of the setting sun.” He laughed out loud, which startled himself. He was jumpier than he figured he'd be.

George pulled his uncle’s corpse to the spot in the garden that he had deemed as a perfect final resting place for the old man. He then retrieved the shovel from the gardener’s shack and got to work digging. The shovel pierced the earth with absolute ease, and George contemplated the facile task he had accepted rather than the arduous one his uncle had asked him to perform.

“What did you think, old man; that your body would go on forever?” George thought to himself as he dug the soil from the garden bed. “Did you really expect me to let you stink up my house? Because yeah, it's my house now, old man, and you don't belong there any more.” 

The corpse said nothing in response.

George continued to dig. The soil was rich and loose; good garden loam. The sun was now fully set, and darkness enveloped the sky. The crickets were beginning to sing, and from somewhere, an owl hooted. But it was the sounds of the dirt piling next to the hole that bothered him.

He piled another shovelful of dirt aside the growing hole.  He looked around nervously. A thick fog clung around the edge of the trees to the south of the property. George stopped digging for a moment as he thought he saw a smoky face emerge, watching him from the brume. He shook his head violently and looked again. Nothing but swirling mist remained. Shaking it off as nerves, he began plunging the shovel back into the earth. 

Now it was time to move the body.

George loosened the straps holding his uncle’s dead body to the stretcher.  He then gave a quick shove to the corpse, and it flopped lifelessly into the hole.  Just then George noticed something move out of the corner of his eye.

He quickly looked up in the direction of the movement. The curtains in an upstairs window fluttered. 

What was that?

“Probably nothing more than a draft in an old house,” he thought. “That’s all it was.” 

He was trying to comfort his own nerves. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched. Why hadn't he explored the entire house before he decided to bury his uncle?

“Nobody home,” he said out loud, then jumped at the sound of his own voice.

George once again picked up the shovel and began dumping the earth back into the hole. George heaved the dirt into the air as it scattered and disappeared around the edges of the corpse. Soon only his uncle’s face remained uncovered, cresting as though it still had something to say. George shook his head. A shower of soil rained down and ended any chance of his uncle’s last colloquy.

George continued to scoop shovelful after shovelful of earth in an effort to finish burying his uncle. After all of the dirt was replaced and the hole was filled, he packed the ground with the back of the shovel and then spit on the grave just for spite.

“Good riddance to you,” he said aloud to the old man who wouldn't be able to hear him. 

George turned back towards the house, and as he was walking, he glanced up at the window in which he had seen movement earlier. Though he could see nothing now, he shivered with the feeling again that he was being watched. Why hadn't he checked all the rooms when he had first arrived?

“Stupid nerves playing tricks on me,” he said to himself. He figured that burying a body, even one that deserved to be buried, would lead to feelings of melancholy and paranoia for anyone.

He shook the feeling off and placed the shovel on top of the gurney where his uncle had once laid. He pushed the gurney back to the gardener’s shack where he had found the shovel, wheeled it in, and left, closing the door behind him.  The evidence of his uncle’s internment would have to wait to be dealt with tomorrow. George hadn’t lied to Treeny when he had said he was tired, and now he was exhausted.  But as he turned back to face the house, that was when he saw it again.

Something dark fluttered by the window of an upstairs room.

Then it dawned on him. “It’s that Mr. Treeny!” George thought. “That damned attorney has come back to check up on me. He must have seen me bury the body. Who else would have the key to the front door? Damn!”

George decided that something needed to be done, and it needed to be done fast. He wasn’t going to have his inheritance taken away over the technicalities of some stupid condition placed on him by a crazy old man. All lawyers were the same, anyway. Treeny would listen to reason, especially if reason was accompanied by a fat sum of money.

Deciding, George raced back into the house and headed for the stairs. He flew up the steps almost as if his back were graced with the presence of wings.

“Which room was it?” he wondered, because all the doors were shut. He didn’t want to go in the wrong room, allowing Mr. Treeny to quietly pass by and down the stairs unnoticed. 

George stopped at the entrance to the upstairs hallway and thought about his position outside and the vicinity of the window.  It must be the room at the end of the hall.

It figured that it was the room which had been specified in the letter. That was the room in which his uncle wanted his dead body to be placed and never disturbed.

George crept toward the door. He reached his hand out slowly and turned the knob.  With ease it twisted and with a slight push the door creaked open.  George stood in the doorway for a moment scoping out the room. He saw nothing. It was just his uncle’s vacant bedroom.

“Treeny must be hiding. He doesn't want me to know he's been spying on me,” he thought. George entered the room.

“All right Mr. Treeny,” he spoke in a demanding voice, “I know you’re in here, and we both know what I just did. How much is it going to cost to make all of this go away?”

With a quick surge of breeze, the door slammed shut behind him. George jumped around in panic, feeling his heart thump inside his chest. But then he realized that old houses have drafts. Maybe Treeny wasn't even here at all.  Maybe the drafts in the aging house had not only closed the door but also moved the curtains when he was outside.

Funny how he hadn’t felt even the slightest inkling of a breeze though, and crazy thoughts began to race through his mind. He stood there transfixed by the size of the room and the swirling breath of air that seemed to be touching everything in the room except him. 

George felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He wanted to run, but his feet would not cooperate. He could only stare at the enormous four poster canopy bed, its slightly transparent drapery frolicking with the streams of wind that seemed to flow through the room. 

Then he saw the shape. He knew someone was there, behind the material of the bed’s canopy. He knew someone was sitting on the bed.

“Mr. Treeny!” George screamed as he ripped open the drapery.

And then he felt his blood freeze in his veins.

There, sitting upright on the bed, was the mummified body of a woman.  Her flesh was tightened and leathered. Her face, slightly wrapped with cloth and hideous, held dark, sunken eyes. 

The air rushed out of him, and he began to feel lightheaded. And then the figure reached out its arms for him.

Screaming in terror, George raced for the door. He latched onto the knob and yanked with all his might, but it wouldn't open. The door that has so easily unlatched upon his entrance was as equally fastened now. He turned to look at the thing on the bed.

George tumbled to his knees. “Oh my god, don't hurt me, don't hurt me!  I'm sorry! I'll dig him back up! I'll do anything, please don't hurt me!”

The cadaver rose to her feet. The remains of what was once a woman stared at him with her dark eyes. Her skin sagged in places as gravity pulled at her flesh while other areas of her body remained abnormally rigid. A light breeze that George could not feel seemed to encircle the creature. Her light blue nightgown fluttered revealing more wretchedly stretched and sagging flesh underneath. 

And then she opened her mouth as to speak as she slowly crept towards George.

“I was Victor Hanley’s mistress. I died in his arms years ago. As I felt the life pulled from me, my savior, my lover breathed new life into me with the promise that we would stay together forever. Now you have stolen that from me! You have stolen my life once again.”

“I can make it right,” George screamed, still on his knees in submission.  “I can dig him out of the garden and do what he asked me to do in his letter!”

“It’s too late,” the ghoul told him. “His body has been amalgamated with the earth. He is dead for eternity, but you, you are still living. You are still attainable!”

George turned and gripped the doorknob with his hands once more and ferociously pulled, but it was over for him. He felt her hands on his shoulders.  He felt her pulling his life away. He felt her, and he was hers. 

He should have done what the letter had told him to do. It had been the one condition. And now the condition would be met, but it would be his dead body lying forever, rotting in this bedroom.

B.A. Sans

B. A. Sans lives in North Las Vegas with his wife and eight year old son. An elementary school teacher by day and writer by eve, he writes stories for both children and adults. Some of his short stories have appeared in magazines, and he has also written two unpublished middle grade novels and one adult thriller.

The stories of B. A. Sans are an eclectic mix of horror, young adult, and children's genres. His stories have appeared in many publications such as Boston Literary Magazine, Stories for Children Magazine, Necrotic Tissue, and Sonar4.