MicroHorror

“Come in. You look cold.” Mr. Freeman greeted his visitor with a concerned smile.

“Oh, my boots are muddy,” the woman said, her black plastic mackintosh glinting raindrops.

“Mud is fine.” Mr. Freeman stood aside, bowing slightly.

The woman glanced over her shoulder before entering the Tudor mansion. “Oh my!” she let out a soft exclamation as her eyes fell upon tapestries that adorned all four of the foyer’s walls.

Mr. Freeman smiled. “Lovely, aren’t they?” She nodded but her expression seemed to disagree with the owner’s open admiration for the depictions of dead animals, battles and executions. “Would you like a drink to warm you up?” She smiled, said she’d love to but had many more houses to call upon. “So what can I do for you?” Mr. Freeman asked.

“I’m collecting for the Kingly Donkey Sanctuary,” came the reply and, as if remembering her manners, said, “I’m Miss Spears, founder of the charity.” She held out a soft plump hand which was ignored. Then she took out from a plastic carrier bag one of many envelopes with grazing donkeys stamped on the front. “You can donate anything you want,” she said.

Mr. Freeman gazed at the proffered envelope for a long moment. “I don’t like donkeys.” He broke the silence with that quiet reply.

“Oh dear, I’m sorry to have bothered you,” Miss Spears said, “but we’re really desperate. Time is running out.”

“You’ve not bothered me, Miss Spears.” He smiled. “Your arrival here is timely.” He paused and a grandfather clock ticked somewhere, its tick like a heavy tread.

“Yes, well,” Miss Spears uttered, her eyes coming to rest on what appeared to be a modern death scene depicted on a tapestry nearest to her.

“Ah! You’ve spotted it!” Mr. Freeman sounded pleased. “That’s the last scene, but I’ve been unable to complete it up until now.’

Miss Spears looked back at him. “It looks finished to me,” she said. Then peered closer. “That man thrusting a sword into a woman’s chest looks like you.” Her comment was barely a whisper.

“Can you see a donkey behind her?” He pointed at a braying beast. “And that man running towards the house?”

“It looks like your house,” Miss Spears said. “The man looks like…” She stopped, fear invading her expression.

“These tapestries, Miss Spears, depict all that I’ve achieved throughout many centuries.”

Miss Spears gasped when Mr. Freeman picked up an ornamental sword from an ancient oak chest. “What are you doing?”

“The obvious, Miss Spears,” he replied, taking fluid steps towards her.

“No, please.” She fled to the door and, as her hand fumbled for the latch, she pleaded, her genteel accent slipping, “I promise I’ll give the money back to them that we’ve conned.”

“There’s no need, my dear,” Mr. Freeman told her. “You can pay for your deeds here and now, in full, at this very moment. Your partner will be dealt with later.”

Outside, the sound of heavy rain drowned out the woman’s last earthly scream. Beyond wrought iron gates, Miss Spears’ accomplice waited in an unmarked black transit van watching out for his wife’s return. Then as time passed, he became worried. Getting out from the van, he ran through those open wrought iron gates, heading straight for Mr. Freeman’s front door.