of dead bodies and as such, he knew well the stench of decomposition.
The candles surrounding the tub started to flicker as if a breeze had suddenly blown across them. Within a few seconds, the image of a man gradually took shape in the undulating glass surface and Washburn knew the time he had anticipated with dread had finally arrived.
From inside the liquefied glass, the visage of a man slowly emerged. He was dressed in the type of clothing an early twentieth century gentleman of wealth would have worn. His form was translucent and his movements appeared jerky and irregular as if he was but the projection of a man. The creature moved with the same spastic motion one would see if watching an old silent movie, filmed with an obsolete and possibly damaged camera, using substandard film. However, Washburn knew the likeness, which had visited him many times before was not an illusion but was actually the spirit of his long-dead grandfather Dwight Charles Livingston, somehow made manifest. The ghost was tall and thin, perhaps gaunt would be a better description and appeared to be in his early thirties with dark brown hair and stylish mustache. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and carried a cane or walking stick with what appeared to be an ivory handle fashioned in the shape of an animalâs head, a wolf. Washburn had seen a similar cane in a large portrait of Dwight and Marie Livingston, which he had professionally restored and which currently hung in the living room of the main farmhouse.
One site he could never fail to notice, but always wished he did not have to endure, was the long gash sliced across the specter's throat. It was like a giant gaping toothless mouth of tattered flesh hanging in a flap across the wretched creature's neck. Several times Washburn thought he had seen some sort of insects, perhaps worms or maggots crawling about inside the cavernous slash.
Over the past year, Washburn had been haunted and tormented relentlessly by the specter, ever since the start of the restoration. In fact, he had first seen the image shortly after discovering the straight razor, which now lay on the floor next to the tub. Since then he had been forced against his ever-weakening will to do whatever the spirit commanded. In fact, the reason Washburn had been in that very room, soaking in the tub that very night was because he was carrying out a set of specific instructions the tormenting specter had ordered him to complete.
Many months earlier, he had manage to resist the spirit's commandments, but after countless hours of relentless torment, sleep deprivation, weight loss and declining health, he found he had to either bend to the will of his long-dead grandfather or be driven mad by the ghost's taunting. Now, since what he hoped would be the creature's final demand had been met, Washburn prayed the spirit would be satisfied, would return to whatever corner of Hell it had arisen from and would leave him at peace.
Washburn often wondered why he simply hadn't just cut his losses and run away early on in the conflict, rather than staying and continuing to fight a losing battle against the specter at the sacrifice of his fortune and his health. But such was not his way. Anyone who knew Emerson Washburn understood the man would never give up a fight until he or his adversary were either unconscious or dead. Like the legendary John Henry battling against modern mechanization, Washburn never gave in to an enemy. Â
But there was more to his remaining on the property than simple stubbornness and willpower. Â Unknown to Washburn, there was force controlling his destiny, which was keeping him in the game, and making him believe it was all his own idea. He was being controlled and manipulated at a point far below the flesh, far below even the cellular level. His very soul was lost and was being controlled not just by the ghost of his grandfather but by another spirit in the house; that of his grandmother, Marie. They had set into
Suzanne Brockmann, Melanie Brockmann