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Stupid cretinous Pig. Who did he think he was, giving me a ticket? How dare he lecture me! Speeding to my own death indeed. Cletus Fowler fumed to himself, flashing a glance over at the speeding ticket now gracing his console while he carefully inched the low slung Maserati along the poorly maintained country road. I can't believe I missed it. I specialize in those types of legal traps. Before Larabee became legal owner of the Folly he had to take physical custody of the house. So now I have to re-file my bill before I can be paid. Friday night and I could be schmoozing at the Governor's party. Instead I'm out in the back of nowhere trying to find this stupid estate. I never dreamed Mary Travis would be in such a damn hurry to poke around out there. Oh well, it's to my own benefit. . At least Larabee will be there and have taken legal custody. I get him to sign a few papers and I get my nice juicy retainer.
"Wow!" Fowler breathed, pulling his car to halt at the main gate to Petrie's Folly. "I never dreamed it looked like this." he said aloud. The house seemed aglow in the gathering gloom, windows brightly lit as if in invitation to the passing stranger. Larabee doesn't really want the place. I need to put out some feelers. I know Rasputin was looking for something like this. Do I really want to deal with the Russian mob though? Of course the Arabs are always interested in properties. This would be close to the skiing. If I could broker a deal, I stand to earn a cool twenty percent of the selling price. Fowler mused to himself.
Larabee won't want to do any more business with me. I should have investigated things more thoroughly before I went after Mary Travis. Ate his family indeed. Now Ghost Hunters. Fowler snickered aloud. Hmmm, if I were to scare them off, Larabee would be more amenable to dealing with me in order to sell quickly. A few strange noises, rattle a few door knobs. Why yes, I do believe I hear my commission calling.
Fowler backed the Maserati carefully out of the drive. Turning the car's lights off, he crept down the road looking for a back entrance to the estate.
Silently, the wrought iron gates swung closed and locked themselves in place. The elegantly worked metal now framed each section of the blossoming peach branch worked into the stained glass window of the house.
Less than five minutes later, he was pulling the car into the seldom used drive, and it was soon swallowed up by the encroaching woods. Convinced that it was out of sight from the casual observer, Fowler locked his pride and joy before heading to the estate's back gate. The benefits of a misspent youth Fowler chuckled as the lock popped open. Carefully he wiped all traces of his touch off with his handkerchief. Pushing the gate back with his forearm, he slipped onto the grounds. The gate swung back into place, almost crushing the lawyer in the process, but only managing to hold on to a bit of material from his suit pants. A rip could be heard as Fowler gave a yank to pull the material free from the tightly closed gate. A three thousand dollar suit ruined. Mr. Larabee will be paying for it. Fowler stomped down the overgrown trail heading for the house. The wrought iron gates glowed for a moment in the moonlight, revealing the branch of peach blossoms intricately worked within its metal bars.
An hour later, the exhausted, completely furious Fowler stumbled into a beautiful little clearing. His once meticulous suit hung in tatters around him. His face and exposed skin covered in scratches and blotches. It seemed as if the very plants themselves were determined to pull him down. To top it all off, he had moved parallel to the house and seemed no closer to his goal than ever.
A small rotund man jumped up squealing in terror. A camera was clinched in his white knuckled hands. His clothing torn and filthy. Cuts and scratches covered the little man. His skin was blotched with an oozing rash. Fowler tackled the stranger before he could escape into the underbrush.
"Hold still, dammit. Who are you, and what in hell are you doing here?" Fowler demanded.
"Oh, you're real," the little man sat up and straightened his clothing. "My name is Jock Steele and I work for Inquiring Minds, a paper dedicated to seeking out the truth no matter where it is hidden or how much the government wishes to suppress it," Steele held out his hand.
"I know what the Inquiring Mind is. It doesn't explain why you're trespassing," Fowler reminded.
"One might ask the same of you Mister . . . ?" Steele responded.
"I'm Cletus Fowler, Mr. Larabee's attorney. I was on my way up to the house." Fowler snarled.
"Hello, Mr. Fowler," Jock smiled sheepishly.
Fowler stood up and glared down. "Why are you out here? I would have thought you would have snuck into the Folly, not be trudging through the gardens."
"When I heard cars turn in, I slipped into the garden for just a moment and now I can't get back out," Jock blinked up and smiled. "Do you think this is poison Ivy?" he held out his red splotched hands.
"How should I know?" Fowler snapped. Now what? Since this little nuisance has seen me, I'll have to change my plans.No scare tactics. I suppose I had better go back to the car and find a motel. I'll come back in the morning. Who knows, by then they'll probably have scared themselves and will be ready to give the place away.
"It looks like the garden got you too," Steele studied the lawyer's tatters.
"Forget you saw me. I'm going back to my car. I'll be back in the morning, and you will be gone when I get here," Fowler ordered. Spinning around, he stormed off in what he hoped was the general direction of the back gate.
Steele stared in opened mouthed horror when with a ghastly snarl the ground seemed to open in front of Fowler, revealing a noisome stinking pool. Initially the 'newsman' pressed himself into a ball trying to disappear, but soon instinctively he began snapping pictures. Fowler was knocked from his feet by the earth's sudden movement. A tendril of vine appeared to 'reach out' and wrap around his right ankle followed by several more. Fowler attempted to kick his way loose, but was rapidly being pulled towards the gash in the earth. More tendrils snaked their way around his ankles. Fowler's terrified screams filled the air as he was being towed inexorably towards the gaping opening. He disappeared with a final scream and a gurgle into the pulsating, noxious pool. Jock stood shakily, still snapping pictures when a hand broke the surface only to disappear once more.
"Oh, Pooh!" Jock blurted and held his nose, while hurriedly backing away from the ruptured septic tank. The reporter watched in amazement as the ground sealed and the grass knit itself back together. Jock Steele stood in shock, the cool night breeze caressing his face, attempting to rationalize all he had seen when one final blast of rank gas shot from the earth as if commenting upon its acquisition.
"Mark the spot and call the police. Mark the spot and call the police," Jock muttered to himself as he gingerly tossed his ruined jacket in the general vicinity of the recent tragedy. "Fiddlesticks!" He growled in a flustered tone. His cell phone now lay on the grass where it had fallen out of his jacket pocket. "Oh no you don't. I know you're just waiting for me to walk out there and get that phone. Then you'll eat me too. Well you can just keep it. Call the police . . . I'm trespassing . . . Doesn't matter. Call the police. It's not as if I were stealing or anything," Steele rationalized as he continued talking to himself. "Which way is a phone?" he wondered. "House . . . the lights are on in the house, surely I can find my way now," Jock gathered his courage, stood tall and marched off towards the house. "Call the police." He nodded to himself. "But I'm trespassing. Doesn't matter. It's the right thing to do. Call the police," the little man's voice trailed off as he left the clearing behind.
In the now empty glade, a ripple started on one side and moved across the clearing combing and straightening the grass, while removing the jacket, cell phone, and all traces of what had transpired moments before.