Part 5 - Final Resting Place

Part 1 can be found here

There's very little left now. Of the house. Small amounts of evidence: the shadows on the hill, demarcating the walls; the well-worn path leading from the spot that was once the back door; the wood pile over to the left. The grass in this area is thick. The sheep stay away. Everyone stays away now.

There are no others that I can take, infect. No Ellens, no Maureens.

There's very little left, but you can discern where it stood, once majestic - now dubbed a house of horrors. Media representation skewed. Schism; some residents in the town didn't want to believe, others could not refute the evidence mounting up. Responsibility was sought. Only twenty or so years had passed. Could people be traced that far back? Press conferences, questions. Constant. Like the rain. There were never any answers. Soon other news took over, became more important. Missing dogs, burglaries. Local school threatened with closure.

There were no complaints when the bulldozers droned into town. It happened so quickly. Even with the rain, it was a speedy demolition. In the morning there was a house, by evening this space. Back to as it had been twenty-three years ago; bare and naked. Lorries piled high with the bones of the house, the red brick skeleton broken into pieces. Over a week they toiled. Then, there was very little left. It had taken that long to remove my body, too.

Things have been laid to rest. Not forgotten. That can't happen now. This story will remain, this evidence of what occurred. There's very little left now. Tiny traces of confirmation, substantiation. The wood pile, rotting. The shadows, defining where walls once stood. A single pink rose, placed in the middle of those shadows. The final resting place.

I have that now.

The rain starts to thin. The clouds separate, disconnect. The sun licks at the open wound of blue sky. I am at peace.

My ghost, quiet. I accept.

The End