The Uninvited Night Visitor to Willoughby Hall

By: P. S. Gifford

Jeremy Watson sat contentedly in his well worn leather chair in the study of his family home, Willoughby Hall, beautifully situated on several of the greenest acres in all of Yorkshire. If you were so inclined to have examined him, you would have clearly noticed that he looked all of his sixty-seven years, his face weathered and beaten, and surely you would have detected subtle evidence of the wicked life he had led. Perhaps in his crooked smile or maybe from the smug expression which seemed permanently etched on his dismal, drab features; his drawn out eyes, his sunken cheeks, his ill-proportioned thin nose which came almost to a point, and the distinctly grey tone to his flabby skin. He was bald except for small tufts of white hair above each ear and he was dressed in a long, dark dressing gown.

The flickering of the roaring log fire, contained in the generously proportioned fireplace, was the only illumination for the room on that chilling October evening. Jeremy drank a liberal measure of the fine single malt scotch from a crystal goblet and allowed his mind the luxury of dwelling on the events of the last few weeks.

I cannot believe it has been three weeks already. I have certainly got away with it... yet again, he considered as he gazed into the fire.

Suddenly, his idle contemplations were harshly interrupted as the door of the study swung open. Jeremy's eyes had difficulty focusing on the curious figure that proceeded to enter the study. There was not sufficient light to determine who this unexpected visitor was, and all Jeremy could see was that the figure was tall, slender, and dressed in a long black cloak.

"Who the hell are you and how on earth did you get into my house?" Jeremy vociferously cried as he fumbled for his oversized walking stick which was propped against his chair.

"Your eyes may adjust to the darkness, but they will surely regret it if they do," the stranger replied in a voice that Jeremy somehow recognized, but failed to place.

There was an exaggerated pause before the stranger continued as if the visitor was delighting in the apparent and unmistakable unnerving of Jeremy.

"We have unfinished business. Surely you did not forget," the stranger added with a sturdy and self-assured tone. Then, he laughed - a deep, barreling sinister laugh which made the hairs on the back of Jeremy's neck stand up even further.

"B-b-b-but," Jeremy stammered. "Who are you?"

He attempted to pull himself from the chair, but maybe it was that he had consumed too much scotch or because his injured leg was playing up, or possibly something far more sinister that held him back as he found he was unable to pull his body up. Now, utterly terrified, he desperately tried once more to focus on the stranger's face as he slumped back into the chair. With fake bravado, he again brandished his walking stick in front of him with as much menace as he could muster.

"Leave me alone!" he bellowed. "Whoever you are, you surely have no business here."

Again, the stranger laughed. "But how wrong you surely are, sir. Oh, what a fuss the press made, didn't they," the tall, dark figure said thoughtfully. "When they found yet another bludgeoned body, I mean! That was undoubtedly the biggest news story we have had here in this quiet part of the world in years! Fancy - a serial killer right here in the heart of Yorkshire. I can remember clearly what they said and wrote about the condition of the mutilated body parts... how could I ever forget, eh?" The figure chuckled again.