Fiction Page:
The Ghost Killer
By Carrillee Collins Burke
My wife, Sally, and I inherited a big roomy house full of creepy noises. We heard sounds in the walls and the ceiling.
After a frustrating day at work, I usually went straight to the kitchen for a cool one. This particular evening was no different. I pulled a chair out to sit on and faced a mousetrap on the table. Now where did that come from?
Then I noticed dirty footprints on the table from Purrcilla, our bobcat-size Siamese cat. Before I could rationalize the situation, Purrcilla came on the run and leaped on the table. She starred at me with her blue, quarter-size, all-knowing eyes. Assuming she played with the mousetrap, I placed it under the sink and closed the door. Purrcilla watched me, then she sulked into my office and crawled under the desk.
Purrcilla had a habit of running through the house crying like a baby and starring at the walls with her hair and tail standing straight up. Did she see things, we didn’t?
I’d heard the house was haunted. Another tale was that a stranger stayed in the attic for years before he was discovered. Well, maybe he was back. Sally was a nervous wreck. So we had a house alarm installed.
The system was so delicate, a dropped key could set it off. Purrcilla racing up and down the bare wood steps at night, set it off. The alarm speaker attached to the outside of the house had a piercing siren. The one inside the living room heat duct screamed a warning: Get out! You have invaded my space! The police are on the way!
However, the entire thing was only a scare tactic. There was a control panel downstairs and one in the upstairs hall to alert us to the entry target. We continually felt something scary would happen.
One night before we went to bed, we discussed the tale we’d heard about the stranger who stayed in the attic. We decided if one stayed there now we would give him a safer way to leave than the way he obviously came in. I pulled the attic ladder down to the floor. If it was a ghost, maybe it would also get the message to leave. I knew I would not invade his space.
Finally, the scare we’d been waiting for happened.
Two o’clock that morning the voice downstairs screamed. Then the outside alarm wailed for several seconds before I could get out of bed to turn the system off. Sally hid under the bedcovers and Purrcilla cried as only a Siamese cat can. Sally whispered that it was probably just another malfunction. But the panel said the target was a kitchen window.
Sally gave me advice: “Before you go down there—put on a robe and comb your hair. You don’t want the police or the newspaper to take an ugly picture of you.”
My mind went into a complete tailspin. Common sense did not prevail for the next few hours. A glimpse of myself in the hall mirror verified Sally’s advice. My hair was standing straight up. I combed it with my fingers and jerked my robe from a hook on the bathroom door and shoved my arms into the sleeves.
I went to the closet where my 22-caliber pistol laid on the top shelf. I checked the chamber to make sure it was loaded. Then, because of Sally’s pleading to not leave her, I sat on the top step in the dark with my finger on the trigger and aimed down the stairwell.
At first hint of dawn, I crept down the steps and into the kitchen. In the semidarkness everything appeared fine. Then I heard Purrcilla’s contented purring. I flipped on the overhead light and there she was on the table.
Her big blue eyes glared at me like two fluorescent headlights and all around her were dead mice. I swear she was smiling.
“Okay, Purrcilla, I get it,” I said, and patted her head. She tried to tell me that we had mice. And with the attic open for her to explore, she was able to rid us of the little varmints.
Creepy sounds are now gone and so is that worthless alarm that cost us $1200. Why did we need it? Purrcilla, the super detective, cost us only a can of salmon once a day.
Now when we hear noises in the attic, we pull the ladder down for Purrcilla. Of course, I guess we should also call the police. I mean, who knows what else lives in our attic?
