Out of the Mist Read Free

nothing.
    “ Let’s leave the chair
there, and move on to the main bedroom,” says Edith. “If we don’t
play their game, they will get bored and move along.”
    Fine plan! In the lavishly decorated
bedroom, I snap dozens of pictures, and secretly wish my bedroom
looked like this.
    “ Is this where Mr. Fisher
committed suicide?” I ask Edith.
    “ Yes, from this window
over here,” she says, as she leads me to the far wall. “When
questioned, Evelyn stated that Mr. Fisher was drinking wine all
evening, becoming increasingly loud and destructive, breaking
pieces of art and furniture. Three empty wine bottles were found in
this room the next morning. He was an odd sort of fellow, some
said. Many were convinced Chatham had a serial killer, and that it
was Mr. Fisher.”
    An entire family dead
within 18 months…. I peer down from the
window. His body would have landed in the middle of the driveway,
for all to see.
    “ Were the authorities sure
it was suicide? I mean, he wasn’t pushed?”
    “ After the death of the
children and his wife, Mr. Fisher retreated into isolation. He
spent days in the dark, writing and muttering to himself. He left a
letter on his bed before jumping. I have copies if you wish to see
them. After his death, no other children died. Many thought that
was proof enough of his guilt.”
    The dragging sound is back, but this time we
ignore it. It stops close by, probably at the entrance of the short
hall to the master bedroom. I snap a few pictures of the window and
of the view. It is quiet in the hall.
    “ What about Mrs. Fisher?
How did she die?”
    “ It happened right over
there,” she says as she points at the entrance to the nursery. “She
hanged herself in the doorway. She jumped off a chair.”
    I feel a warm and tingly feeling throughout
my body. I’m about to reply when I hear a sudden bang, as if
something fell. We leave the master bedroom, to find the chair
lying on its side at the entrance to the short hall.
    “ Which chair did Mrs.
Fisher use?” I ask.
    Edith stares at the fallen
chair, and colour drains from her face. “I… I believe it was that
one,” she says, her voice trembling. “The chair… was lying on its
side. Evelyn Brylar found her as well. She described it in a letter
to her sister. The chair was on the floor, just like it is
now.”
    My mind races for a rational
explanation.
    “ It must be a
coincidence,” I assure her. “There are only three other chairs to
choose from, after all.”
    I can see Edith is struggling to explain the
incident. She clears her throat and regains some of her
composure.
    “ Would you like to see the
outer buildings? There is also the old oak tree at the back of the
property.”
    “ I think I’ve seen
everything I needed, Edith. Thank you for the offer, but my paper
will focus mainly on the inside of the mansion,” I say,
deliberately ignoring the chair.
    We part ways at the entrance. I glance one
last time at the stunning, intriguing mansion, and thank Edith
profusely.
    “ You’ll find copies of the
suicide letters and some news clippings from the time in here,” she
states, handing me a thick envelope. “I’m sure they will be of
interest to you.”
    Outside, it is raining heavily. I tug my
jacket higher to cover my head, and run to my yellow Volkswagen
Beetle, clutching my bag stuffed with the documents Edith gave me
close, hoping to keep them dry.
    At home, I’m alone in my house, and all is
quiet. I settle at my writing desk with a cup of peppermint tea. I
sip the warm liquid, as I read the first letter. A lone tear slides
down my cheek and lands on the page.
    Mrs. Fisher’s letter
speaks of a broken heart and a desire to be with her children.
Nothing in this life seemed worth living without her babies. She
was prepared to go and hoped that she would be reunited with her
four children.
    Mr. Fisher’s letter was different. He too
suffered terribly from the death of his children, but what pushed
him over the edge was