MicroHorror

My name is Katie Findley and this is a true story. It was told to me by my grandmother who lived for decades on the Cornish coast. Her name was Florence and for some years she was a housekeeper for a Mr. Marsten.

One midday grandmother had answered the door and received a delivery. Marsten, as she referred to him when talking to family and friends, never missed a thing, so it wasn’t long before he rang.

“Who was it at the door, Florence?” he asked grandmother.

“It was a delivery, Mr. Marsten. A single rose. I have it here.”

“A rose?” he said. “Hmm, how odd. I hope it isn’t Dorothy’s rose.”

“Dorothy’s rose? Why should her rose come here?” Grandmother asked.

“Stranger things have happened, Florence. Could you find out?”

“Of course. I shall ring this minute.”

Grandmother had said more than once that Marsten had heard that the American baseball great, DiMaggio, had had a single rose sent regularly to the California grave of his deceased wife, the famous actress Marilyn Monroe. Marsten had quite liked the idea and, since he could certainly afford it and had his own deceased wife, Dorothy, had decided to imitate DiMaggio. The village florist, Carusso, stopped by the graveyard himself on a weekly basis and left Dorothy her fresh rose.

When grandmother returned to Mr. Marsten’s study, he could see she was not herself.

“What did you find out, Florence?”

“The florist didn’t deliver Dorothy’s rose this morning, Mr. Marsten. He said you rang up a few days ago and asked for the next rose to be sent here.”

“That’s a lie! I never rang him up!”

“I mentioned it was a strange request,” Grandmother said, “but he said he distinctly recognized your voice.”

Marsten wasn’t himself either the rest of the day. That night, after sunset, he answered the telephone himself. It was a stranger.

“Did you receive your rose?” the strange voice asked.

“Who is this?” Marsten demanded. “What do you want?”

“I want you to have the rose,” the stranger said. “The rose for memory’s sake.”

“Memory? Who are you and what kind of a joke is this?”

“Tomorrow you will be a memory, Mr. Marsten. Before sunup. Goodbye now.”

Of course, Grandmother said she didn’t think Marsten slept well that night. But she never got the chance to ask him about it. He did, indeed, pass away. The coroner said it was his heart. That it had just worn out. Grandmother never agreed with that. To her dying day she didn’t.