Thum-Thump, Thum-Thump, Thum-Thump

 

We all fear things that go bump in the night.

Shortly after we moved into our big old Victorian home, my husband had to be away overnight. We don’t live in a particularly large city. Crime is evident here but not something I worry much about other than taking normal precautions. I am a college-educated woman with a variety of life experiences that make me more than capable of taking care of myself.

Nighttime, though, changes everything. As soon as it got dark, I scampered upstairs with several books and a pot of hot tea and barricaded myself in the bedroom. Yep, barricaded. The house was built in such a way that sections of it could be closed off with locked doors. The alarm system was set. I was perfectly safe.

Not long afterwards, the floors started creaking. I knew it was just the house settling. Of course that’s all it was. What else could it be? Then I heard footsteps. Heavy footsteps. My heart pounded and my palms were sweating even as I was convincing myself that no one could possibly get in the house. Then the cat, not very light of foot, appeared at the foot of the bed. Relief really does feel as if it washes over you. Minutes later, though, the cat began staring at the other bedroom door- the locked one leading to the hallway. The door leading to the top of the stairs that leads to the front door that I KNEW I had locked. Didn’t I? The cat settled about 30 minutes later. I never did. I slept with the lights on and waited for daylight.

Willie Loomis was hearing things too. (Heartbeats.) He kept staring at the portrait of a member of the Collins family. (Heartbeats.) Willie wanted the jewels the man was wearing. (Heartbeats.) They had to be worth a fortune. Rumor had it some members were buried with their riches. (Heartbeats.) Willie was greedy. Who would miss jewels stolen from a grave in the dark of night? (Heartbeats.) No one else could hear those beats. Not Jason McGuire. Not the caretaker at the cemetery. Just Willie. Call me a baby, but I would have given up grandiose thoughts of ill-gotten gains and raced like a jackrabbit away from the cemetery, the town, the state, maybe even the country. Willie wasn’t a baby. Willie was a dope.

He opened the chained (yep, chained) coffin

in the mausoleum

at the cemetery

at night.

He was ecstatic, surprised, then horrified in a split second.

Enter: Barnabas Collins.