Dreaming in Deep Purple: Tales for the Sleepless

By Eugen C. Flinn and Patricia E. Flinn

The stories in this collection are rich with eccentric, comical characters and unpredictable plots. In The Dancing Lady of Pleasant Valley, uptight neighbors in a wealthy suburb are shocked to find a beautiful woman clad only in a flimsy nightgown, dancing and singing under their windows after midnight. In Two Handfuls of Aardvark Dung, a hapless husband and wife are rescued from suicide by Noah who agrees to lessen their financial difficulties by giving them ancient droppings from the animals on his ark, which they can sell on eBay. Anyone who hates going to the dentist will relate to Giving Up the Ghost, which is about a haunted barber chair, and music lovers will no doubt be intrigued by the Mouse Who Liked Mozart. In The Cemetery Lady, The Bridge and Brandon McCarthy: Book Lover, the main characters struggle with loneliness, loss, and confusion. Most of these stories are told in the first person, drawing the reader into an intriguing intimacy with the narrators, making it easy to suspend ones disbelief and provide companionship for those long sleepless nights.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984533067

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Copyright © 2018 by Eugene C. and Patricia E. Flinn.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 06/06/2018

Xlibris

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For Gene

Your revels here have ended,

Still, your laughter continues.

Yesterday, today, tomorrow

I’m always in your corner.

Author’s Note

G ene Flinn passed away on May 13, 2016 from cancer. He enjoyed a long and successful writing career as a college professor, journalist, playwright, and fiction writer.

His output was inspiring: five novels, ten short story collections, two volumes of poetry, five full-length plays, including two musicals, and dozens of essays and stories published in literary journals across the country and in Canada.

He wrote his first story when he was six years old, and he continued to write until his death at 92.

Among his many talents were a remarkable intellect, a keen eye for the absurd, an Irish wit, and a delightful ear for blarney.

His stories, teeming with eccentric, comical characters and highly original, unpredictable plots were so funny people like to read them aloud at Christmas parties and neighborhood celebrations.

His imagination was colorful and rich, and he was never without a pad and pencil so he could jot down ideas as they danced in his head.

Although he was highly sensitive and acutely aware of life’s turmoil and tragedies, he preferred to write comedy. He believed, like one of his favorite authors, the Russian playwright, Anton Chekhov, that human existence is inherently comical, and in the interests of sanity, should not be taken too seriously.

His style was direct, flowing, and easily accessible since many of his stories are told in the first person by an engaging narrator who sets a tone of humor and intimacy.

In The Dancing Lady of Pleasant Valley, uptight neighbors in a wealthy suburb are shocked to find a beautiful woman, clad only in a flimsy nightgown, dancing and singing under their windows after midnight.

In Two Handfuls of Aardvark Dung, a hapless husband and wife, are rescued from a suicide attempt by Noah who agrees to lessen their financial difficulties by giving them ancient droppings from the animals on his Ark which they can sell on Ebay.

Anyone who hates going to the dentist will enjoy his story, Giving Up the Ghost about a haunted barber chair and the unsuspecting couple who purchases it at a local estate sale.

Music lovers will no doubt be intrigued by The Mouse Who Liked Mozart, while history buffs will laugh at the mischievous antics of a cat named Winston Churchill in The Prime Minister.

Several tales in this collection, however, reveal Flinn’s more sober and compassionate side.

In The Cemetery Lady, Brandon McCarthy: Book Lover, and The Bridge, he creates strong, believable characters struggling to overcome loneliness, grief, and confusion.

His empathy, gentleness, and understanding of people shone clearly in all his characters, and enabled him to tell a story without judgment or bias.

I was blessed to be married to this remarkable man for over four decades. In that time he encouraged me to write, and he taught me many things. My stories are also included here.

When we began publishing collections together, he always insisted, despite my protest, on putting my name first on the author’s page. He was totally unselfish, and unlike so many authors, lacked an inflated ego.

This time, however, his name will come first.

Il Miglior Fabbro

Table of Contents

Comic Encounters

Friends in High Places

Giving Up the Ghost

Two Handfuls of Aardvark Dung

The Groundhogs and the Squirrels

The Mouse Who Liked Mozart

A Good Omen

Doggy Tales

From Flaubert with Love

The Dog Who Barked at Geraniums: A Children’s Tale

Brandon McCarthy, Book-Lover

The People’s Choice of Windy Hills

Baudelaire, the Literary Doggie

Lou-Lou and the Magic Dirt

The Bridge

Butterscotch

Turnabout

Laura’s Legacy

The Cemetery Lady

Measure For Measure

The Woman Who Hated Dust

Stranger Than Fiction

Ruminations in the Snow

The Angel in the Nightie

Galatea of the Strawberries

Walter and the Virgin Mary

Burial at Sea

A Foggy Night in the Gaspe

The Woman Who Died and Didn’t Know It.

Kinzer’s Junction

The Voice of a Stranger, A Roomful of People

Black Lace and a Red Rose

Curious Characters

A Little Night Music

The Dancing Lady of Pleasant Valley

The Inn at the Top of the Hill

Midnight at a Village Church

Prime Minister

The Ring

Forever Was Never Till Now

Hard-Luck Louie

Ready When You Are

The Player Piano

Comic Encounters

Friends in High Places

R icky stared over the lottery machine at the people outside the Fast Exit Food Shoppe scurrying to get in from the rain. It was one of those sudden, unexpected summer showers. Only one of the store’s customers, a tall, pleasant-looking woman in her late twenties, had been prudent enough to carry an emergency umbrella in her car. She strolled casually towards the store behind a heavy-set woman in a flowered housedress and two teenage boys in torn dungs and black T-shirts with obscene messages printed in yellow.

Good afternoon, Ricky, the woman with the umbrella said as she closed her bumbershoot. Quite a downpour, eh?

Hi, Ms. Dean. Do you want your usual numbers?

Yes, please, Rick. She handed him three one-dollar bills.

Good luck, he said, as he gave her four small slips of pink paper.

Ms. Dean checked the numbers. You’ve got a good memory, Rick. And your fingers never hit the wrong numbers.

It doesn’t take much talent to operate this machine, he replied, forcing a smile.

Well, I suspect with an acute memory like yours, you can do a lot of things. Do you think you’ll go back to college this fall?

If I can scrape up enough money for the tuition. It’s lots higher than it was when I quit school.

Rita Dean sighed and slipped the lottery tickets into her pocketbook. They keep talking about good times, but the price of everything seems to be going up. Have you decided on what you want to major in?

Creative writing. I have plenty of time to think on this job and I have come to the conclusion that I’d like to be a writer.

Well then, you must write. And every day, if possible. As soon as you get home, you should write. Anything. But put something down.

You’re right, Ms. Dean. I finish at eight o’clock tonight. I have a few ideas. I’ll get something down before I hit the sack. It will make me feel that I have accomplished something.

When Rita Dean visited the Fast Exit Food Shoppe the next day she was told that Ricky had died of a heart attack the previous night, while sitting at his desk in his bedroom staring into his computer.

*     *     *

My God! she said to Mr. Springer, the manager. He was so young.

Twenty-three, Springer replied. He had been working here for four years. Right after he dropped out of college.

He couldn’t have been in college very long, Rita sighed.

Springer rang up a customer and looked around the store to see if anyone else was approaching his register. Death was a sad thing all right, he told himself, but it mustn’t interfere with the modus operandi of the Fast Exit Food Shoppe whose popularity sprung from its ability to get customers out of the store in a hurry. The thought crossed his mind that he had had to remind Ricky to keep his conversations with patrons brief.

He told us he quit after a few months in college. Was bored out of his mind listening to the profs talk about stuff he’d never use in a million years.

Rita told the manager what Ricky had said about Creative Writing. Springer whistled.

I’ll tell you that’s the last thing I would have expected Ricky to be: a writer. And you know why?

I couldn’t even hazard a guess. It did not seem inconceivable to me. He appeared to be an imaginative young man.

Springer saw he was digging himself into a hole. In the first place he ought not to be bad-mouthing an employee. And a dead one at that. In the second place he remembered now that this Dean woman had been rather fond of Ricky. The two of them had often chatted about what they would do if they won the million-dollar lottery.

Oh, Ricky was no dope, Ms. Dean. The reason I said I never thought he wanted to be a writer was because he seemed more interested in—I don’t know what you call it, but it has something to do with a person being in two places at the same time.

Do you mean out of body experiences?

Springer thought that expression had a ring to it.

Yeah, he said, something like that. He was a corker, all right

Rita purchased her lottery tickets. Springer hit the wrong number on one of them. She ordered another, but kept the one struck in error as well. It would be just her luck to reject the ticket and have it turn up a winner, but this would mean that Springer would have to be a catalyst to her good fortune. And though she hated to be mean, she could not in her mind’s eye associate Springer with anything as positive as picking a winning lottery ticket for her.

On the other hand, she had often thought that since Ricky had sent out so many good vibrations, one of these days she was going to get a winning lottery ticket.

Say, she exclaimed half-aloud, that’s an idea.

Did you say something, Ms. Dean?

Rita frowned. Oh, it was nothing at all, Mr. Springer. I was just talking to myself.

Springer shook his head and pulled down a pack of cigarettes for his next customer. He had always thought that Dean woman was a little flakey. Boy, when you’re manager of a Fast Exit Food Shoppe, you see a lot of weird women, he muttered under his breath. And they seem to be getting dippier by the day.

*     *     *

Rita had no trouble convincing her sister to go to Ricky’s wake with her. Although Virginia did not visit the Fast Exit Food Shoppe as frequently as Rita, she knew Ricky, and was saddened by his sudden death. But when Rita asked her to go to the wake a second night, Virginia expressed surprise.

We were there last night from the beginning of visiting hours until closing. Ricky was a nice young man and I feel sorry for his family, but don’t you think we already let them know how saddened we are by Ricky’s death?

Oh, I’m sure they know that. They thanked us several times for coming.

Then why in God’s name do you want to go back there again? I rank going to funeral homes with watching bowling tournaments on late night television.

Oh, I don’t want to sit in that funeral parlor any more than you do.

Virginia eyed her sister curiously. She wondered if Ricky’s sudden death had unhinged her. Ever since they returned from the funeral home Rita had been acting strange, staring into space and sometimes talking to herself.

You’re O.K., aren’t you, Rita? she asked.

Oh, Ricky’s sudden death came as a shock, but I am not upset. I am a firm believer in the old axiom that out of every bit of grief comes some goodness.

Hmmph. I never heard of that axiom, Rita.

No? Don’t laugh, it could work for us. At the minimum we could be richer by close to $3,000. by tomorrow night.

Virginia was well aware of her sister’s eccentric side, having lived with her for the past twenty-seven years. But there was nothing in Rita’s character to even suggest that she would ever use someone else’s misfortune to make money.

You’re not suggesting that you’re going to Ricky’s wake to raise $3,000.

Oh, Virginia, you know me better than that.

I know. I shouldn’t have said that. But why do you want to go the wake again?

For a sign.

"A what?

Ricky and I often talked about the lottery and now that he’s dead—

Rita Dean! You actually believe that Ricky is going to slip you the number that will win the million dollar lottery?

"No, Virginia. Not the big one. That probably wouldn’t be fair to glom all that money. But I’m sure he will tell me the Big Four winner. That’s usually about $3,000. Not bad for a fifty-cent ticket."

Supposing he doesn’t know, Virginia asked, tongue in cheek.

Oh, if he doesn’t, he has plenty of people to ask: St. Peter, the Blessed Virgin, St. Jude, Hope of the Hopeless, or even Uncle Joey.

Yeah, he was a holy guy. He’s probably up there with Ricky.

Virginia smiled at her sister’s enthusiasm. So you’ve got friends in high places, she said masking the sarcasm by smiling. O.K., what are we supposed to look for in the funeral home?

"I don’t know that. I don’t even know if it’s there in the funeral parlor. But if we have faith, we will find it. Remember that old axiom, If you have faith, a river of good fortune will flow up to your door?"

Virginia had never heard of that one either. She suspected that Rita made up her axioms as she went along.

*     *     *

Not finding a sign at the funeral home, Rita decided to count the floral wreaths around the casket.

What did you get? asked Virginia.

Twenty-one. I can’t use it.

Why not?

"I can see you never play the lottery, Virginia. I need four numbers for the Big Four."

Can’t you put two zeroes in front of the twenty-one and play 0-0-2-1?

Normally, I could, but I don’t think that’s the kind of sign Ricky would send me.

If you don’t know what the sign is, how can you tell if it is the kind that he would be sending?

I don’t know exactly how to explain it, Virginia, but when he sends me a sign I’ll know it.

Hmmmph.

I know it may seem strange to you, but I’m positive I’ll recognize Ricky’s sign when it comes along. It’s like—it’s like falling in love. When you fall in love, you know it. Bells ring, the music swells, and—

Wait a second! Have you ever been in love, Rita?

N-No.

Well, then, how can you compare it to—

I was almost in love once. Remember Albert Prongay? That was enough to tell me what it was like to be ga-ga for a little while.

Virginia shrugged. She was willing to tolerate a second night at the funeral home while Rita looked for a sign, but this was it. She made sure she made this clear to her sister.

And much as Rita searched every nook and corner of the funeral parlor, she could find nothing that even hinted at a group of four numbers. The sisters paid their final respects to Ricky’s family and headed for home, a 200-year-old rambling farmhouse.

Now that I have made two visits to the funeral home, Virginia began, perhaps you can do something for me.

Rita eyed her sister curiously. O.K. Name it.

We’ve been talking about cleaning up the back yard ever since mom and dad died. What do you say we take a day off and concentrate on the yard?

Sounds exciting, Rita said sarcastically.

It is not as bad as it looks. The biggest clutter comes from those thousands of pieces of broken brick strewn around in back of the horse barn.

You think we can put a few in with the garbage bags until we get rid of them?

Are you kidding? At that rate we would be slipping pieces of brick in with the regular garbage for the next fifty years. No, I have a better way. I just found out that the town has a Re-Cycling Center that takes old bricks.

How much?

Nine dollars a ton.

"Not bad. O.K. I’ll help you load the pickup and we’re go there tomorrow.

*     *     *

It was a relatively easy process. The Re-Cycling Center smelled bad, but Virginia and Rita got in and out quickly, thanks to the help of a couple of the workers who were pleasantly surprised to have their routine broken by the visit of two attractive young women in a red pickup truck.

That was almost fun, Rita said. I thought it was going to take them a long time to figure how many broken bricks we had. Weighing the truck before we unloaded and then after it was empty was a cool way to do it. Even I could handle the math. It was just a little less than two tons.

One more truckload should do it, Rita, her sister advised her.

The next day after their truck had been weighed for the second time Rita was about to put the receipt in the glove compartment, when she stopped short.

What’s the matter? Virginia asked. Did they overcharge us?

It was $17.27.

That’s about right, isn’t it? A little less than two tons. The same as yesterday.

"That’s just it, Virginia. It is the same as yesterday."

So?

$17.27 again.

A bit of a coincidence all right.

"Coincidence? Don’t you know what this means, Virginia?"

Means? It means we unloaded two truckloads of bricks for around thirty-four bucks.

Not thirty-four bucks: $17.27 for each load. What are the odds of all those little chunks of brick weighing exactly the same each time we came here with a load? Why didn’t we bring $17.69 worth of old bricks, for example? Or $18.12?

It’s curious all right, but let’s get home and start supper. Tossing these old bricks around has given me an appetite.

You’re missing the point, Virginia.

I am?

Don’t you see? Rick is talking to us.

I don’t hear anything.

It’s not a matter of hearing, dummy. It’s the number: 1727. He’s telling us to play that number. Rick is talking to us through our old bricks.

That’s far-fetched, Rita. Even if Rick is up in heaven somewhere and God or St. Peter lets him know what tomorrow’s Big Four is going to be, why would he talk to us through old bricks? Why wouldn’t he just direct a pile of cars with the same number on their license to go our way? It would seem more authentic that way.

Rita hesitated. Her sister had a point. There were a lot of simpler ways to send a number than through a scale in a junkyard. But there had to be a reason to tell us the winning number through bricks. Bricks. . .bricks! By God, that’s it.

That’s it, that’s it, that’s it! she cried aloud.

Virginia looked at her sister nervously. Was she cracking up, she wondered.

That’s what, Rita?

That’s why he chose bricks as a way to communicate with us. He wanted us to know his message was authentic.

I haven’t the faintest notion of what you’re talking about.

How simple it is. What’s his name, Virginia?

What’s Rick’s name? Why, Rick’s name is Rick,

Exactly! And what have we been doing these past few days?

Besides trying to track down eligible men?

Rita took her foot off the accelerator and steered the pickup to the curb.

"Be serious, Virginia. What we have been doing is getting rid of the mountain of old bricks in the backyard. We have been loading and unloading our pickup with brick after brick. Don’t you see, Virginia? Brick. . . Rick; Brick. . . Rick. He saw that we were going to the Re-Cycling Center and used our truckload of bricks to tell us that tonight’s winning Big Four number will be 1727.

As always, Virginia was dubious. You’re going to bet fifty cents on a number that you got from a junkyard receipt?"

Not fifty cents. I’m going to put five dollars on it. Listen, you don’t get a tip from the other side every day. When the number comes out, I’ll be winning close to $30,000. And half of it is yours.

Virginia hesitated. Even though she thought her sister had gone off the deep end, splitting the mythical jackpot struck her as a nice gesture.

Well, thanks, Rita. That’s very kind of you—especially since you know I don’t share your belief in Rick’s ability to find the winning number for us. When will you know the results?

"It will be in tomorrow’s paper. We’ll check the first thing in the morning, but I know the number will come out. Rick wouldn’t lie to us.

*     *     *

Rita was the first of the two women to awaken the following morning. She shook the sleep out of her eyes, threw on her bathrobe and raced down the stairs and down the driveway for the morning paper. Virginia heard the door slam and rolled out of bed. Now what is she up to, she mumbled to herself. Then she remembered. The lottery number!

When Virginia arrived in the kitchen, Rita was thumbing through the paper, looking for the section where the day’s winning lottery numbers were listed. Despite herself, she was vaguely curious. After all it was a matter of $30,000, she told herself by way of rationalizing.

Well, did we win it? she asked, struggling to keep the enthusiasm out of her voice.

Just a minute, Virginia. I’m still looking for the page. Oh, here it is.

Virginia stared at her sister who was finger-reading her way through the list of winning numbers in the various states that have lotteries.

Do you want me to look, Rita? she asked, moving closer to her sister.

But at that point Rita suddenly looked up.

How long have we been sisters, Virginia?

How long? You’re twenty-eight and I’m twenty-seven. Twenty- eight years. I mean twenty-seven.

"Well, we may have technically been sisters twenty-seven years, but twenty-seven years ago I was only one year old and you were just a month or so. At that point we probably didn’t even know we were sisters."

"For crying out loud, did we win the damned Big Four or didn’t we?"

Rita noticed that Virginia was beginning to perspire. I suspect I wasn’t really able to intellectualize the concept of sisterhood until I was eight, she said, ignoring Virginia question. Maybe even nine.

What the hell has this got to do with the lottery? Did 1727 come out?

Virginia, ever since I fully understood the concept of your being my sister, do you know what I have been wanting to say to you?

What, for God’s sake?

Rita folded up the newspaper.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. +++++

Giving Up the Ghost

I t was an old colonial, circa 1750-something, but unlike most other old pre-Revolutionary houses in Lamington, this one had not been meticulously cared for. Its canary yellow paint was peeling on the northern side and several of its pale blue shutters were hanging precariously from their hinges. The wraparound porch, which had been added to the house around the time of the Civil War, was still in fairly good condition, but the steps leading to it were badly bruised from many winters and did not inspire confidence. Still, a pale light drifting out to the porch from the central hall inside indicated that the house was occupied or had been recently. Unsure, Margie and Keith glanced at the sign that hung above the weather-beaten steps. It read:

Ghosts of Yesteryear:

Unusual Antiques

Margie looked at Keith. It looks spooky, doesn’t it? she said. Normally these country antique places have their shops painted white with colorful signs in the tradition of Thomas Hardy’s Victorian England. But the outside of this one looks more decrepit than some of the antiques we have seen on this vacation. Should we go in?

Why not, Margie? We’ve come this far. Besides, this beat-up appearance might just be a facade. I’ll bet as soon as we go in we’ll see sparkling pumpkin pine floors, chestnut-beamed ceilings and handsomely restored oak tables and chairs.

And the smell of scented candles in every room?

Probably.

The battered oak door squeaked like a sound effect in an old radio mystery. It opened to a huge room of dusty clutter—old photographs of men in bowlers and women in sweeping straw hats—a humongous Victrola, a fainting couch, two dry sinks, and a wooden washing machine.

Whew! Keith murmured. I’ll bet the last time this place was dusted was when women’s suffrage was added to the Constitution.

Or Teddy Roosevelt was organizing the Rough Riders.

Right. The stuff looks filthy, but with a little soap and water, who knows? Underneath all this dust there may be items here that are worth a small fortune.

But the more they wandered around the old shop, the more they began to feel that all they would get from this visit were allergies. There were some really old pieces of china, but most of them were chipped. Keith was tempted by a battered old Tantalus until he discovered the wood was split and the lock was missing. Margie was interested in the wooden washing machine that must have been well over a hundred years old, but she felt the asking price of $700 was too high even to make an offer on.

Do you know what’s weird about this place, Keith?

I can give you a short list.

I’m serious. We’ve been here for more than twenty minutes now and there is no sign of anyone in charge. Some of these things are junk and some are over-priced, but why would anyone leave all of these things unattended?

Maybe the owner is in the back somewhere. Well, what do you say, Margie—shall we go?

The two made their way towards the door. Suddenly Margie stopped short.

Look, Keith!

He followed his wife’s glance but failed to see what had attracted her.

I don’t—oh, is this what you mean?

He pointed to an object semi-hidden in the corner of the room.

Yes. Isn’t it strange? I wonder what it is—or what is was once.

Keith walked over to examine it more carefully. The nicest thing I can say about it is that it may have once been a high chair for a fat kid, but it reminds me more of the chair that they put prisoners in when they are saying sayonara to them.

That seems hardly possible, Keith. I don’t think they had electricity when this chair was made. Besides there is no wiring. But it definitely is a seat of some kind that was made a long time ago. I have a feeling I’ve sat in something like this, but I can’t put my finger on it.

Suddenly from over their heads came a voice:

Why not a dentist’s chair?

Keith and Margie turned around quickly and looked behind them in the direction of the voice. Standing on the first landing of a battered old stairs was a tall woman dressed in a long white gown. What struck Margie was her cheeks, as white as her gown and sunken into her face. She looked like someone who had gone around all day without wearing her false teeth. She seemed old. Very old, Margie mused.

I never thought of that, Keith said. It seems so small and—and uncomfortable.

People were smaller in those days, the woman in white replied, and getting your teeth worked on was much more uncomfortable than it is today. If the dentist thought a tooth was bad, he usually yanked it out. Do you see those two pads by the head set on that iron base? That was to anchor the patients’ heads while the dentist worked inside their mouths.

The images of the poor victims in the small chair made Margie’s stomach queasy.

I think we had better go, Keith.

If you are interested in owning a unique antique, I can give you a good price, the woman on the stairs said.

Keith hesitated. It certainly would be a conversation piece, Margie. How much are you asking for it?

Five hundred dollars.

I thought you were going to give us a good price, Keith protested.

I am. This dentist chair would bring in almost twice that amount at an antique show. It’s just that I am planning on bidding on an expensive Oriental rug and I need some capital.

Will you take $200?

The woman in white had gone through routines like this hundreds of times.

If you can pay in cash, I’ll let it go for $250. That’s the absolute best I can do.

What do you think, Margie?

Well, as the woman said, it would be a conversation piece.

If your car has a large trunk, my man can load it for you and tie it in, if he can’t close the trunk.

Keith reached for his wallet and started counting out twenties and tens. It’s appropriate for us, he said, For we live in a very old house. It was built before the Revolutionary War and probably before this dental chair was made.

The woman in white accepted the cash and stuck it in the bodice of her gown without counting it. Well this will fit in nicely in an old house like yours, she said. You might want to place it in the room where you entertain guests.

I wonder if you could tell us something about the history of this dental chair, Margie asked.

I’ve written it all down in this little notebook, which you may keep, since you are its new owner, the woman in white declared. Now let me get Bernard to put this in your car for you.

*     *     *

The dental chair fell in the category of well-intentioned projects that Keith and Margie promised themselves they would get to as soon as they had a little extra time. Keith spent four hours stripping it down, but realized that he needed two full days to put the chair in presentable condition. He carried it down to the cellar and told himself he would finish the job by the end of the week.

And so, like a forgotten toy in a nursery, it remained lost in a labyrinth of miscellany for months. As time passed, Keith and Margie completely forgot about their $250 investment in the basement.

One particularly freezing winter night as the couple lay abed, they heard a low plaintive wail, breaking the peaceful rhythms of the old house.

Margie was the first to wake up. She reached across and touched her husband gently on the cheek.

D-did you hear that?

Hear what?

I-I can’t—can’t really describe it. It sounded a little like a woman screaming. Listen. . .

Keith sat up in bed and Margie wrapped her arms around him. They tried to be still as possible, even attempting to breathe very softly.

The Gainsways rented an old house, and during the night they had often heard odd little noises, but they had attributed them to the creaking of ancient timbers or a mouse or two seeking shelter from a cold winter’s night.

I don’t hear anything, Margie.

Shh! There it goes again.

Keith strained his ears and after a second or two he heard a low moaning sound, followed abruptly by a piercing scream.

Oh my God! Someone must be downstairs, he said, reaching for his bathrobe and slippers.

Keith, don’t go down there!

I’ve got to. It sounds like someone is being murdered.

Margie jumped out of bed and grabbed her dressing gown. Wait, you’re not leaving me alone up here.

Keith opened the top dresser drawer and pulled out his emergency flashlight. As he stepped out into the hall, followed closely by Margie, he heard another piercing scream.

It sounded like it came from the kitchen. Let’s go, Margie.

Don’t turn on the flashlight, Keith. They’ll know where we are. We can see by the night light on the stairs.

As they made their way into the living room, they listened for the scream again or any sign of a struggle. The old house was quiet, except for a slight rustling of the oaks and maples outside the living room window. They walked on tiptoe into the kitchen.

I-I don’t see anything, Margie. I’m turning on the flashlight.

Before she could whisper a vehement No! Keith had flashed the light across the room, directing the beam to such unlikely places as the space behind the refrigerator and under the kitchen sink.

Nothing here, he said. That certainly is strange. It’s almost as if nothing happened, but we both know we heard something. Could it be that—?"

He was interrupted by what appeared to be a hammering sound, followed by a cry of anguish.

T-that time it sounded like a man, Keith said. It came from—

The cellar, Margie finished his thought. Keith, you lock the basement door and I’ll call the police.

Keith didn’t hesitate. He half expected someone to break down the cellar door as he applied the bolt to it.

The police told us to get out of the house and wait for them in the car, Margie said. "They said to be sure to take the house keys with us. She put down the phone and began walking rapidly to the garage door. Suddenly she stopped.

What’s the matter, Margie?

I just thought of something. Supposing they are in the garage?

Keith hesitated. No, they can’t be. The garage is in the other direction. The screams definitely came from downstairs. And the door is locked. By the time we get the car started and out of the garage, the police will be here.

A few minutes later, true to their word, two officers arrived in a patrol car.

Mr. and Mrs. Gainsway? one the officers asked. You say you think they are in the basement?

Yes. We locked the door.

Is there another exit?

No. There is no separate entrance to the cellar.

Good. Now give us the keys to the house and you stay here.

Margie pictured a shoot-out on her front lawn.

B-but officer, what if—?

We have two back-up cars on the way. If necessary, one of them will take you to a safe place.

The officers unlocked the front door and entered. The Gainsways waited anxiously, expecting to hear gunshots at any moment. Instead they heard the sirens of two more police cars. Four cops jumped out. One called to the Gainsways.

They’re inside?

Without waiting for an answer, the four officers charged through the open door. After ten long minutes all six policemen exited.

We searched the basement, and the first and second floor, one of them said. We looked in every conceivable place—in closets, under beds, under steps. There is no one in your house.

But what about the screams?

"The cops looked at one another without saying anything.

Look, folks, there is nobody in your house. But if you feel leery about going back in there, one of us will escort you to a hotel for the night.

Keith felt a little embarrassed, even though he knew he had reason to be frightened because he was convinced that what he had heard were genuine screams of anguish. And Margie had heard them too.

That’s all right, Officer. If the six of you have searched the house carefully, we can assume it is safe to go back in.

Margie was not as confident, but she followed her husband warily, accepting the keys the first officer handed her. Just as she entered, she heard it again. This time it was even shriller than the previous cries of pain. Keith heard it too and called to the policemen.

Officers, come quickly. They are at it again.

The cops rushed into the house and stood still in the living room, waiting to hear the screams the Gainsways had described.

But the old house remained as quiet and somber as a cemetery.

*     *     *

The Gainsways did not get much sleep that night, partly because they were convinced people were in their house, even though the police had searched it carefully, and partly because they kept thinking of the experience they had had with the six cops.

I guess they just didn’t believe us, Keith said. I mean, they might have in the beginning, but when we asked them to come back again and they couldn’t find anything, well—

I could see the way they looked when you asked them to take another check of the cellar. They had that `Let’s humor them; they’re taxpayers’ look all over their faces.

Keith sat up in bed.

Did you hear something? Margie asked.

No, he answered, but I just thought of something weird. The cops were close enough to the door to hear the same loud scream that we heard.

"That’s true, but—

They didn’t. At least they said they didn’t.

But, Keith, why would they lie about something like that?