"Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days." - Benjamin Franklin
I woke up under the floorboards. My nose was so close to the board above me that it was the only thing I could see. I couldn’t turn my head left or right, couldn’t move my arms or legs. What I could do was feel tiny feet (mice? rats?) scrambling across my body. Some of them nipped at my face and hands. Soon I realized bugs were crawling over me and eating out my eyes. Complete loss of my eyes took a while; it’s hard to say how long.
The last clear thing I remember before waking up under the floor was conjugating frantically with Sylvia Beltram, my business partner’s wife, on the kitchen table. It was just my bad luck to forget we always closed shop on election day afternoon. (I still don’t know if Lincoln won a second term.)
Suddenly I felt cold metal on my throat, sensed blood throbbing in my ears and flowing out of my mouth, and heard Sylvia say to Hiram (my business partner), “I want his buttons for my button bag. Nobody would be the wiser. But his shoes— someone might recognize them. Leave them on his feet. Leave the watch fob, too. I’ll get his wallet.”
At first, under the floor, I tried yelling to get their attention. They seemed not to hear. Especially when the milkman came by, or the grocer to collect his weekly payment, I screamed at the top of my lungs to let them know I was trapped. As I’ve explained, I couldn’t move my arms or legs, else I would have pounded and kicked in my narrow confine to launch an uproar.
Day in, day out, I heard the family in the kitchen. When I smelled burnt porridge, I could tell it was morning. All afternoon I smelled cabbage soup boiling, sometimes with the addition of a ham hock, though cabbage can be ready in about five minutes. (Sylvia is not a good cook.) Back when I conducted my business above the boards, the walls of the whole first floor oozed a strong cabbage aroma, day in, day out.
So here I was, stuck under the floor. The children chattered happily when they got home from Grandmother’s, until one of them, usually Beatrice, snapped at her brother and they tumbled around on the floor until Sylvia separated the two, whacked each of them, and sent them outdoors, where the dogs (Rottweilers) were tied to a post and commenced yapping unceasingly.
On one occasion, as I was lamenting a similar unceasing activity— the tickling caused by the merciless insects clambering in, out, and around my ears and nose, as well as other orifices— I detected the clomping of unfamiliar footsteps in the kitchen.
“When was the last time you saw Mr. Grover Templeton?” asked a voice.
“I’m here! I’m a prisoner under the floorboards!” I shouted to no avail.
“He was an unpredictable fellow,” said Hiram. “I will tell you this: one day this past July, Grover was at the till, and over $200.00 in it. Next day, Grover was nowhere to be found, and the $200.00 was missing from that till.”
It was just my bad luck that I’d stopped by the Beltrams’ establishment for some quick horizontal refreshment with Sylvia after I’d nicked the cash.
“There’s an offensive odor about this place, if you don’t mind my saying,” said the voice.
“It’s cabbage!” I roared.
“An odor? I don’t detect an odor.”
“I’ve been in the force long enough to know death when I smell it, especially in August.”
August! Two months under the floor!
“These floor boards look different from the ones by the sink. I’d like a look under…” the voice began, but a thud interrupted it, and I heard a body crash.
Soon afterward a pry bar was tearing up the boards above me. I couldn’t see what was happening, but I could hear, despite the insect nests in my ears.
“Hiram, that body really does stink. A second one will only make matters worse. And the police are going to investigate what’s happened to Patrolman O’Leary.”
“I could dig a couple of graves in the cellar or the back yard.”
You’d think he had to deal with two corpses.
“Let’s deal with Templeton first. Grab him by what’s left of his jacket and help me carry him downstairs.”
“Ew, Hiram, he’s slippery.”
“Well, there’s not much flesh left on bones after all this time because it liquifies. Pretty soon he’ll be just a skeleton.”
So they were disposing of O'Leary first. This was a strange way to talk about the dead patrolman. He’d only just been killed.
I could feel them grappling with me, partly by carrying, partly by dragging, across the broken planks. My attempt at writhing in their grasp proved pointless, as my body, weakened by two months of hunger and thirst, was no match for one burly man and one hefty woman. I tried again to shout, but the children must have been at Grandmother’s, and the dogs preoccupied.
As they maneuvered me past the stove, one of my shoes fell off and Hiram tripped over it, causing the stove, in turn, to tip over. It was just our bad luck that Sylvia (as ever) had been boiling cabbage, and the fire under the pot caught at her skirts. She screamed. That scream her husband heard, and he pulled her to the floor (apparently to extinguish the fire), thus dropping me.
This was my chance to flee! Alas, again, I found I could not move. My bones were brittle after two months without nourishment, and I could hear them break one after another, collapsing upon themselves in a heap.
I heard Hiram right the stove in its place.
“Here’s an idea!” he said. “Scrape that pile of skin and bones— yes, what’s left of his clothing, too— into that pot. Boil it all until it melts. Then we can toss the liquid into the yard. The dogs can lick up whatever doesn’t seep into the earth. And here’s what we’ll do with O’Leary…”
But I didn’t hear that plan because Sylvia was stirring me violently in the pot with her big wooden spoon.
The pot was heavy, Sylvia grumbled, so I imagine Hiram was the one to carry it outside and toss me on the cracked dirt yard. I heard gleeful yipping from the dogs as they galloped as far as they could from their post, and felt their dripping tongues lap up pools of my substance hither and yon about the ground. They gnawed my thicker blobs and bone bits in a frenzy, even tugged the rags of jacket, waistcoat, and trousers in a brutish contest of Rottweiler teeth. (My shirt and drawers had disappeared over my lengthy stay under the kitchen.) Soon all was swallowed. The most liquid parts of my form left over from Sylvia’s scalding trickled their way through the cracks in the dirt, just as Hiram had envisioned.
Upon return from Grandmother’s, the children, apparently smelling my marrow stew in the kitchen, so meaty and tastier than cabbage soup, ran out to their parents to beg a portion of the more aromatic mélange.
“You may have the scrapings from the pot if you are a good boy and girl,” said my former lover. They ran to get spoons and commenced gouging the burnt remnants. To be honest, I felt a delicious stimulation as I was churned about in their mouths and slid down their slick, moist throats.
I was now, in all sorts of ways, throughly scattered about the Beltram premises. My hopes that I might leave the house via the children’s stomachs next day were dashed when the offspring suffered an acute case of dysentery later that night and deposited me in the back yard outhouse, near the dogs.
So here I remain, temporarily, until I can devise a method to escape.
Just what happened to my shoes and watch fob I’d surely like to know, as I can use them whenever I get out of this place.
Jan. 2, 2018
I woke up under the floorboards. My nose was so close to the board above me that it was the only thing I could see. I couldn’t turn my head left or right, couldn’t move my arms or legs. What I could do was feel tiny feet (mice? rats?) scrambling across my body. Some of them nipped at my face and hands. Soon I realized bugs were crawling over me and eating out my eyes. Complete loss of my eyes took a while; it’s hard to say how long.
The last clear thing I remember before waking up under the floor was conjugating frantically with Sylvia Beltram, my business partner’s wife, on the kitchen table. It was just my bad luck to forget we always closed shop on election day afternoon. (I still don’t know if Lincoln won a second term.)
Suddenly I felt cold metal on my throat, sensed blood throbbing in my ears and flowing out of my mouth, and heard Sylvia say to Hiram (my business partner), “I want his buttons for my button bag. Nobody would be the wiser. But his shoes— someone might recognize them. Leave them on his feet. Leave the watch fob, too. I’ll get his wallet.”
At first, under the floor, I tried yelling to get their attention. They seemed not to hear. Especially when the milkman came by, or the grocer to collect his weekly payment, I screamed at the top of my lungs to let them know I was trapped. As I’ve explained, I couldn’t move my arms or legs, else I would have pounded and kicked in my narrow confine to launch an uproar.
Day in, day out, I heard the family in the kitchen. When I smelled burnt porridge, I could tell it was morning. All afternoon I smelled cabbage soup boiling, sometimes with the addition of a ham hock, though cabbage can be ready in about five minutes. (Sylvia is not a good cook.) Back when I conducted my business above the boards, the walls of the whole first floor oozed a strong cabbage aroma, day in, day out.
So here I was, stuck under the floor. The children chattered happily when they got home from Grandmother’s, until one of them, usually Beatrice, snapped at her brother and they tumbled around on the floor until Sylvia separated the two, whacked each of them, and sent them outdoors, where the dogs (Rottweilers) were tied to a post and commenced yapping unceasingly.
On one occasion, as I was lamenting a similar unceasing activity— the tickling caused by the merciless insects clambering in, out, and around my ears and nose, as well as other orifices— I detected the clomping of unfamiliar footsteps in the kitchen.
“When was the last time you saw Mr. Grover Templeton?” asked a voice.
“I’m here! I’m a prisoner under the floorboards!” I shouted to no avail.
“He was an unpredictable fellow,” said Hiram. “I will tell you this: one day this past July, Grover was at the till, and over $200.00 in it. Next day, Grover was nowhere to be found, and the $200.00 was missing from that till.”
It was just my bad luck that I’d stopped by the Beltrams’ establishment for some quick horizontal refreshment with Sylvia after I’d nicked the cash.
“There’s an offensive odor about this place, if you don’t mind my saying,” said the voice.
“It’s cabbage!” I roared.
“An odor? I don’t detect an odor.”
“I’ve been in the force long enough to know death when I smell it, especially in August.”
August! Two months under the floor!
“These floor boards look different from the ones by the sink. I’d like a look under…” the voice began, but a thud interrupted it, and I heard a body crash.
Soon afterward a pry bar was tearing up the boards above me. I couldn’t see what was happening, but I could hear, despite the insect nests in my ears.
“Hiram, that body really does stink. A second one will only make matters worse. And the police are going to investigate what’s happened to Patrolman O’Leary.”
“I could dig a couple of graves in the cellar or the back yard.”
You’d think he had to deal with two corpses.
“Let’s deal with Templeton first. Grab him by what’s left of his jacket and help me carry him downstairs.”
“Ew, Hiram, he’s slippery.”
“Well, there’s not much flesh left on bones after all this time because it liquifies. Pretty soon he’ll be just a skeleton.”
So they were disposing of O'Leary first. This was a strange way to talk about the dead patrolman. He’d only just been killed.
I could feel them grappling with me, partly by carrying, partly by dragging, across the broken planks. My attempt at writhing in their grasp proved pointless, as my body, weakened by two months of hunger and thirst, was no match for one burly man and one hefty woman. I tried again to shout, but the children must have been at Grandmother’s, and the dogs preoccupied.
As they maneuvered me past the stove, one of my shoes fell off and Hiram tripped over it, causing the stove, in turn, to tip over. It was just our bad luck that Sylvia (as ever) had been boiling cabbage, and the fire under the pot caught at her skirts. She screamed. That scream her husband heard, and he pulled her to the floor (apparently to extinguish the fire), thus dropping me.
This was my chance to flee! Alas, again, I found I could not move. My bones were brittle after two months without nourishment, and I could hear them break one after another, collapsing upon themselves in a heap.
I heard Hiram right the stove in its place.
“Here’s an idea!” he said. “Scrape that pile of skin and bones— yes, what’s left of his clothing, too— into that pot. Boil it all until it melts. Then we can toss the liquid into the yard. The dogs can lick up whatever doesn’t seep into the earth. And here’s what we’ll do with O’Leary…”
But I didn’t hear that plan because Sylvia was stirring me violently in the pot with her big wooden spoon.
The pot was heavy, Sylvia grumbled, so I imagine Hiram was the one to carry it outside and toss me on the cracked dirt yard. I heard gleeful yipping from the dogs as they galloped as far as they could from their post, and felt their dripping tongues lap up pools of my substance hither and yon about the ground. They gnawed my thicker blobs and bone bits in a frenzy, even tugged the rags of jacket, waistcoat, and trousers in a brutish contest of Rottweiler teeth. (My shirt and drawers had disappeared over my lengthy stay under the kitchen.) Soon all was swallowed. The most liquid parts of my form left over from Sylvia’s scalding trickled their way through the cracks in the dirt, just as Hiram had envisioned.
Upon return from Grandmother’s, the children, apparently smelling my marrow stew in the kitchen, so meaty and tastier than cabbage soup, ran out to their parents to beg a portion of the more aromatic mélange.
“You may have the scrapings from the pot if you are a good boy and girl,” said my former lover. They ran to get spoons and commenced gouging the burnt remnants. To be honest, I felt a delicious stimulation as I was churned about in their mouths and slid down their slick, moist throats.
I was now, in all sorts of ways, throughly scattered about the Beltram premises. My hopes that I might leave the house via the children’s stomachs next day were dashed when the offspring suffered an acute case of dysentery later that night and deposited me in the back yard outhouse, near the dogs.
So here I remain, temporarily, until I can devise a method to escape.
Just what happened to my shoes and watch fob I’d surely like to know, as I can use them whenever I get out of this place.
Jan. 2, 2018