A hidden room; The Return of Amanda Fairchild

A hidden room? 

Oh yeah. I have one of those. 

And if a hidden room isn’t scary enough for you, ours is in the basement.

We used to have some serious Halloween parties for our kids-all the way up through high school. When we lived in a Platt, I always fixed the garage up and the kids had to go through the “haunted house” to get candy. (Well, except for the really little ones who wouldn’t come up, muhahaaaa!). Over the years, we had amassed quite a collection of Halloween props, both bought and made.

The following story was originally written for a Halloween party we were going to host. Both of my sons were in the high school band and we were expecting quite a turn out for this party.  It was part of a dream of my wife’s that supplied the name and character. The story was written to introduce a game we had devised. To get things started, we had everybody gather in the basement recreation room.

I then announced that while we were cleaning up for the party we found a hidden room in the house. In the hidden room we found a note from the former owner. We have had Halloween parties before and most of the kids knew to expect something interesting, but when I announced we were all going to go into the hidden room and read the note, I could see some eyes get big and I could sense a little bit of anxiety cross the room.

The hidden room is at the furthest end of the house and opens up from the last bedroom.  Access is by a door that blends in with the paneling. The room has a thick concrete shelf on three sides. The shelves were decorated with a coffin, candle sconces and various other items such as rubber rats, mice and bats. We crammed about 20 or 30 kids into the room and stood squished together. I told them to make sure the door didn't close because it locks from the outside.

Which of course, I let them know was quite true. In my scariest voice I read this story:

The Return of Miranda Fairchild
from the diary of her late husband

I have decided to start this diary today in the hopes of easing my tortured soul. Perhaps by confessing my sins in writing I will somehow find forgiveness and relieve myself of this heavy burden of guilt. For if I don't, I shall surely go mad.

It may be that it is already too late and the madness has already set in. Perhaps I should have announced my deeds years ago when I first committed them.   Now I fear my first entry will also be my last, for you see, Miranda has returned. Again.
    

Yes, Miranda Fairchild,  the love of my life.  For so many years we lived in a blissful world of love and happiness, surrounded by the tall, peaceful trees on our estate. Then suddenly it ended. It was as if my heart had been cut from my breast. And now I know she has returned to taunt me.

I first saw her yesterday in the hallway, then later, in the garden.  I have since seen her all through the house and amid the still stately trees that surround the house.  It is a rather unsettling matter as she does not appear altogether as beautiful as she once was.  

In fact she does not appear all together at all. I may see only her face peering through the feathery branches of an evergreen tree.  Her graceful hand may suddenly appear, stroking a lovely flower, or resting lightly on the mahogany credenza in the hall.
    

You may ask; How do I know it is her hand if that is all I can see? It is simple, you see,  because of the telltale red heart she wears. The red heart I gave her.  The blood red heart. Her blood. Her heart.
    

It was an accident of course.  The argument about her lover escalated and the knife, too close by, slipped. I tried to stop the blood but there was too much. She died quickly, cursing me and denying the allegations with her last dying gasp. I panicked; no one must know, no one must ever suspect. But, what to do?
    

I sat there, my head spinning as the blood flowed around me. Once I had decided, the task went quickly. Her body, petite though it was, would be too large to hide in a single place.  I needed smaller pieces if they were to be hidden effectively.  The knife still lay close by, so I began the grisly task of cutting her into smaller pieces.  When that was completed I then began to think of clever hiding places, places no one would ever find.  No one must ever know.
    

But even then, in my guilt and anguish, I needed to keep her close by, and to let her know that I still loved her. I decided to hide her remains on the immediate property.  She would not be left to strangers, and to be sure that her heart would always remain mine, I removed it from her breast. To prove that I still loved her, I used the blood from her heart to draw small hearts on each part of her body as I hid them.  Our love was sealed and hidden forever.  And remained hidden.  Over these long years, no one has ever found a single remnant of my love for Miranda.    
 

But now, Miranda has returned. 

And she keeps appearing in the most distracting places in a most distracting manner.  A head here, and arm there, here a hand, there a leg; parts and pieces everywhere; sometimes right out in the open.  These are not simply ghostly manifestations mind you, but actual, physical items that must be dealt with. They ripen quickly upon exposure and become a nasal nuisance in a days time.  They do not go away- I have to do something with them.
  
Last night she appeared in a dream, as real as any waking hour, and claimed she would return this way every year on the day of her death, until she was complete in body and soul.
 

I have spent the last three days discovering unpleasant surprises in various stages of deterioration.  I quickly hide them but, as before, I cannot possibly put them all in the same place.  Am I to suffer this every October 31?

I feel the madness upon me again. I see another red heart forming... 

We had Halloween scenes set up all through the house and back yard. Some scenes had bits and pieces of “Miranda” clearly marked with a red heart. The kids were divided into groups and the first one to locate and list each of Miranda's "parts" was declared the winner.

Gruesome? 

yeah. 

Fun? 

Oh YEAH! 

This story was originally written in 1998, or so, and this is the first time it's made it into a public forum. 

You can blame the Facebook Blogging For Fun group!