(The following story is fiction based on truth. The objective was to include in the telling, those words which are underlined.)
It was an early 1900's three-story
building that was built to be a firehouse. The first floor had since
been converted to offices; the second, a warehouse; and the third, which
had been the attic, had been remodeled into a house. There were even
shingles on the exterior of the wall that divided the living area from
the rest of the attic space.
Two friends and I rented the
apartment which included bedrooms for each of us, a living room and
dining room, a huge kitchen (although we rarely used it) and a laundry
room nearly as large.
I think there were stairs. Yes,
there were stairs, but I don't recall much about them. There was a
warehouse on the second floor, so the building had a freight elevator,
and this is what we used to get to the apartment.
It was an ideal place for parties. There
were no neighbors who would be irritated by loud music. The living area
doubled in size when we included the "yard," an area outside the
apartment that our landlord had left unfinished. Here we had a patio
table, chairs and, for no logical reason, a sun umbrella. As in many
ancient structures, the floors creaked and the apartment had an old wood
smell. And being attic space, it was morosely dark.
Our landlord was a salesman whose
office was on the first floor. His goods were stored in the
second-floor warehouse. He sold caskets. The building was the perfect
location for a Halloween get-together.
We invited a lot of people to our party.
Friends knew that just the three of us were in the building at night and
that we rode a freight elevator equipped with a single low-watt bulb to
get to our apartment. They also knew about the warehouse. That's why a
lot of them came to the party. They hoped to visit the second floor.
We obliged.
Most of the caskets were stacked in their
shipping crates. But some were unboxed and sat on display platforms.
As guests arrived that night, either Janie or I would lead a group from
the third floor down the poorly lighted stairs to the warehouse. We
encouraged them to walk quietly, and they did, whispering and on tiptoe.
They were easy to guide, mostly because of what they were about to
see, but also because we weren't supposed to be there.
Usually someone in each group asked to see
the inside of a casket. If no one did, either Janie or I would suggest
raising a lid. And as we slowly lifted the top, inside ... inside was
Karen who "rose from the dead" and screamed! As did the visitors.
It was a memorable evening. I recall that
we took at least four groups down. Each time Karen performed superbly.
Unfortunately, on the last tour, the casket tipped over when Karen sat
up. Somehow, when it fell, her neck was broken and she died.
Yesterday the rich warmth of the
cherrywood casket stood in stark contrast to the broken plaster and
stiff wooden pews of the small country church. It was less than a week ago that the casket laid empty in the warehouse. Now it was Karen's.
