Monday, July 22, 2013


Sometimes as I lay in bed at night enwrapped in darkness and quiet, I pick up faint but distinctive sounds. Skittering, scratching noises. Creaking floorboards. Suserrations that seem to echo across the ceiling. Some might just attribute all of this to comfortable dismissals such as, the house is just settling, just a trick of the wind, or a squirrel scampering across the roof tiles on its way home. But did you ever ponder, even for a moment, a much more plausible scenario? ... MURDER!

Why should your house be the exception to the crime scene culture that is on every network primetime program? Folks just like you are being offed every half hour in the most creative manners imaginable. Night after night. Struck down with trophies, stabbed with fine kitchen cutlery, bludgeoned with fireplace pokers, smothered with plump and soft pillows. You might look at me and say, phooey or blah! But I would ask this question, can you recall the last time there was a murder in your own domicile? Likely you would tell me that it has never happened. I would then counter with the sound and rational rebuttal, well statistically you are due.

As for me, I have suspicions about my own home due to some recent discoveries. As workers were installing a new ceiling fan in my bathroom, they found a corroded box cutter concealed up in the rafters. This space was not accessible except through the opening made for the fan. As if this find wasn't sobering enough, out in my porch, deftly hidden up in the lintel above one of the doors, I discovered a rusted pair of heavy-duty scissors. I can only tell you that I fear for my life.