Deadheritance

19 Nov

(Note: I missed two meets in a row, so I decided to combine the two themes: writing from the perspective of the opposite sex and writing a ghost story for Halloween.)

I guess we should get this out of the way as quickly as possible – I’m dead.

While this is definitely one of my primary traits, it is not my defining one, though. I am also a woman and a distinguished one at that, especially since I am- was the Lady Yorkchester. Admittedly, my family did not rise to our status through entirely… orthodox methods, but I at least tried to be close to the moral barometer. That’s why I’m not enduring the most horrible torment imaginable along the 9 circles of hell. Yet.

For you see, despite my good and charitable act of leaving a healthy inheritance for my sons, they have taken to squabbling among themselves for it, as if the document was not clear enough. Well, to be fair, it isn’t… Not unintentionally, mind you, for you see, when a soul has unfinished business on Earth, they must return as a poltergeist and conclude whatever it is that’s keeping them here. Let it not be said that I am not a cunning woman.

And that is precisely why I am in eldest son’s room. As to why I’m here at midnight, I’ve found that a haunting is much more effective when conducted after nightfall and while everyone is asleep. And while I know I mustn’t dawdle in finishing my business on Earth, I might as well have a little fun.

Gerald always was the most spoilt of all my children. Being the eldest didn’t help, as he always thought that I was spoiling his younger brothers and neglecting him. And to tell you the truth, he was right, but it was not unwarranted – he was always a bit of a bastard. But now, for all his incessant nagging and complaining, I guess a little bit of bloody revenge is warranted. I decide, firstly crack open one of the windows and let the cool November air seep into the room, and then place a floating pair of scissors right outside his bedroom door. Gerald is a bit of a light sleeper so all I really have to do is to let out a little whisper in his ear, “Hello again, dearie,” and he’ll instantly jump out of bed. And indeed he does. So I decide to explode the windows and spread broken glass on the floor. As expected, he starts screaming bloody murder and runs out of his room, right into the pair of scissors I had waiting for him – happy to oblige, dear.

Naturally, the first to respond is Harry, my youngest, and as he comes running up the stairs towards Gerald’s room – quite the fast runner for a 40-year old bank manager. I take the shards of glass from the room and fling them towards him, but, sadly, my aim is not as good as it used to be, so I only manage to wound him. I wait for him to run and trip on Gerald’s corpse and indeed he does, with his head being the only part of him that is inside the room. Oh, how convenient, it does make my work a lot easier! As such, I decide to drop one of the wardrobes on his thick skull – he never would obey me, and he was quite the slow child.

All this squashing of heads, of course, attracted more unwanted attention in the form of Harry’s wife, Summer – a frail American little thing named after a season. If that weren’t enough, she single-handedly drove my poor son mad with her Yankee charms – to think of her living in my house! Therefore, as she’s coming up the flight of stairs, I pull the rug from under her feet, and thus she commences to fall and break her neck upon impact with the floor on the bottom room.

And here comes the middle child, Neville, always content with doing the bare minimum in life and riding on his parents’ wealth and good name. Well, although I appreciate the effort of getting your big fat arse out of bed, dearie, I must batter your big lugging body with this table. And this chair. And this vase. And this television. I would use the refrigerator as well, but I’m afraid you might rise again encouraged by the prospect of eating something from it.

I shall now rest.

As I await the arrival of Beelzebub to take me to the fiery pits, I at least take comfort in the fact that while I’m dead and unhappy, my worthless offspring are not enjoying themselves either. See you in hell, Gerald, Neville, and Harry.

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