The Nefarious Wraith

I had, in my earlier years, been of a kind and caring nature. There was not a day when my acquaintances would not come to me with their toils and heartache; for them, I was the encourager, the optimist, and with my assistance they believed they could endure anything. In the earlier years of this phenomena, I believed it to be a blessing - I had the ability to help others with their trials. I believed it to be a true gift, a quality given by God as an aid to others less, strong, if you will, as I.
Alas, how very wrong I was! Looking back, I credit this accursed attribute as being the fatal flaw to my character; how blind, how naïve I was to the indisputable truth! It was this, I believe, that led to the events of late. These words I have yet to write reveal a course of events for which I should be flooded with guilt.
But no - no guilt shall be found. Regret overwhelms, but not regret for my actions. No! Regret that the truth of my supposed "care" and what it had done to me had not come to my attention sooner. I should have noticed what these supposed "acquaintances" we're doing; I should have seen the malice in their soft words, the cunning behind those sad, pained eyes, the deception and trickery in their sorrowful stories of heartache and despair. Why had I been so late in discovering their purpose? What, I implore, disguised their devious intent, that it be so hidden from my sight? They placed the burden of their pain on my shoulders. They made me feel their pain - the sounds of the screeching terror of those beasts of the dark resonate in my mind. I did what had to be done to make it cease, to end the banshee cries of their torture, to end it once and for all so I may feel peace once again. No! NO! No guilt for these measures will EVER arise!
The torture of this realization came with great force. People came to me in ever increasing numbers, begging for my assistance with their toils. There was, in particular, one acquaintance, a young man with sunken, sad eyes and a pitiful limp. There were many a day that this young man came to me with his troubles, seeking me out in public as well as in the privacy of my home to pour the pain of his life on my shoulders. At the start of this, I was happy to assist: he merely needed one to listen, I believed. As the visits became more regular, however, it became apparent to me what his goals and the goals of those before him were. He was aiming to impair my life - his pain which he poured out was set as an anvil on my shoulders. With each passing visit, the weight of the anvil became greater, and when he was through with this daily torment, his uneven footsteps would echo in the halls and in my mind as he left.
I came to dislike, even despise those uneven, echoing footsteps. I loathed the hushed sadness of his voice more and more with each passing moment; I hated the sight of his sunken, mournful eyes. I avoided him as much as possible, but the sound of his uneven footsteps continued to haunt my thoughts. I was restless - the usual tranquility in the silence of night gave me no release. I still felt the torment of those dark, sunken, ever-watchful eyes upon me as I lay to rest each black night, penetrating to the deepest abyss of my soul with each resounding tick of the grandfather clock in the hall.
This torment continued for days, which then blurred to weeks. The soft banshee cry of his voice reverberated in my skull with such intensity I feared my head would be blown to fragments. The echo of his uneven footsteps followed me as a shadow - there would be no escape from this fiend who had so cleverly disguised himself as a somber young gentleman! I reasoned that the best course would be to do the devilish man in. Then I could at last be freed from the haunting sound of those loudly echoing footsteps!
The young man came again to me with his sorrows, as I knew he would. This time, I did not run. No! I welcomed those uneven footsteps which had been the device of my torment! I felt a confidence, a peace of mind, even, perverse as it was, in the young fiend's presence, for I knew what I must do. A wicked glee flowed over me. I would finally be rid of that sickening and, yes, maddening presence which gave me such distress!
When the young man arrived at the door to my home, I welcomed him cordially; I even smiled at the demon! I led him down the great open hall to my personal study and invited him in. He stepped inside with a weak smile on his hideous, sunken face, a smile of gratitude for which I had to bite my tongue to suppress fits of maniacal laughter. How naïve! How trusting! He did not fear me, and no longer did I fear him. I no longer had reason to fear - this fiend of a man would not be a burden of mine much longer.
I invited him to sit, and he sat with a heavy and mournful sigh that would have instilled dread even in the souls of the beasts of the dark. But not I. No longer could he make me fear him! No longer could he force me to suffer in his place! No! The stare of those dark, sunken eyes met my own, but I did not flinch as I would have before. No. I did not even writhe, as I would have, in agony from those soft banshee cries! I spoke to him kindly, even empathetically, and the young man seemed to relax. He inquired about my avoiding him, but I simply denied any evasion whatsoever. Time seemed to move at a crawl - his time was coming to a close. The thought of this forced me to make a conscious effort to refrain from smiling at my own cleverness.
The day before, I had carefully sharpened a small letter-opener and fastened it to the underside of the desk where I now sat. All I had to do was slip the tiny instrument into the sleeve of my coat and finish the fiend as he left. It was an ingenious plan! All that was required was for him to stand and leave. When the young man stood, I would be free to remove this heavy anvil from my shoulders!
I waited in patient anticipation for the moment to come. What joy, I thought, what relief this fiend's demise would bring! As he stood to leave, I rose and rounded the desk to accompany him. At last, the moment for my release had come! The young man turned to thank me, and when he did this, I plunged the letter-opener into his stomach; through flesh and muscle it penetrated so deeply! A look of surprise and terror entered his sunken eyes; he opened that accursed mouth as if to cry out, but no sound came. Relief flooded over me as he fell, but this was quickly replaced by anger. He had fallen, but why did he not die? Infuriated, I plunged the letter-opener into flesh again and again until the light left those sunken sockets. The fiend was dead.
But, the gaze of those lifeless eyes continued to penetrate to my innermost being. I cringed at the sight of this, suddenly filled with a fiery rage which led me to remove the letter-opener from his stomach and plunge it into those empty, dark sockets. That gaze would offend me no more! A smile pulled at the corners of my mouth; I was free.
Now, the only obstacle that remained was the placement of the corpse. I could not move it from the room, for the threat of another discovering this present course was great. I searched about the study for a place to deposit the corpse and stumbled upon a loose panel in the wall behind the bookcase. I opened this panel to discover a large vault that had been covered for quite some time. It was a deep rectangular vault that had been constructed for shelves, built into the wall, but had been closed when the purpose of the room itself changed. I resolved to deposit the corpse there. There would be no grounds for suspect; my ingenious design would remove all traces of cynicism.
As I turned to the corpse, however, I discerned what seemed a distant, echoing noise. At first, I presumed it was a beat, the thump of my own heart, possibly, but as the noise grew louder, it became quite clear to me that it was the sound of uneven, clacking footsteps, resonating deep in my very soul. It was the sound of the horrid fiend's footsteps, resounding so loudly I believed it could have been heard by a passerby out on the street. Once I regained my previous disposition, I resorted to removing the offending appendages. With the letter-opener, I amputated the corpse's pitiful limping leg with the precision of a surgeon. The resounding each of the footsteps ceased, and I was once again at ease. I then lifted the corpse and it's detached limb into the vault I had prepared and went to close it. However, I thought otherwise when I looked upon the scene.
The scene of the fiend's demise was a single spattering of crimson gore. I had not planned for the messy smear which I now faced. But no matter. I had a bountiful supply of scrap-cloth with which I could sop up the mess. The gore upon the carpet blended with its deep crimson coloration; I was not concerned. It would take a highly keen eye to take note of the blot that remained on the carpet. Satisfied, I collected the bloody scraps of cloth and shoved them into the vault with the corpse. Now, I thought, I could close it up and be on my way.
I was about to do this when another though entered my mind, causing me to frown in dismay. All that had been placed in the vault would undoubtedly be noticed; the stench alone would get me caught. The cloth could stay, but something else had to be done about the corpse. Using the cloth, I lifted the corpse from the vault and placed it into the fire. I would burn it. Nothing could be found from the ash! I sat by that blaze for an hour or two, watching as that ugly fiend's body turned slowly to ash. It was a marvelous sight!
I woke the next morning revived. The action I had taken had removed the restlessness from my mind, and I slept soundly, even dreamed. Yes, I was free from this burden. The overwhelming joy of my present situation was far greater than I had even imagined it would be. How relieved, how free I felt! The object of my despair was no more. I knew, in my mind, I should feel guilt, but no. No! This was peace, this was tranquility; no guilt could ever be found!
A day, two days, three days passed since the fall of that limping fiend. A search for the "gentleman" had begun, and with it, interrogation, but I was not concerned. My plan was flawless; not even the most learned detective could see through it. I had confidence in my cleverness, and the prospect of interrogation did not shake that confidence. Even on the fourth day past, when the police came to my doorstep, I did not lose that confidence. I had nothing to hide - they would find no evidence against me. I invited them in genially and gave them a tour of my home.
They searched all throughout the house for some evidence proving my guilt. Guilt! What a strange word! They spared no single nook or cranny in their search; but, of course, none would be found. None could be found. I was quite calm inviting them into the study for the fourth or fifth time. Here, as before, they would find no evidence. I felt no apprehension in their search.
Not until I discerned a faint moaning, the soft banshee cry.
I stopped, mortified. Had his cries not ceased at his demise? Why? WHY? The cries grew in number as well as volume until I was certain my interrogators could hear them as well. It resonated with such alarming violence I felt I had to clutch my head to keep it from reverberating in my skull. This, however, did not stop the soft banshee cries, which were emanating from the ash in the fireplace. The cries were only amplified, reaching so great a volume I could not withstand it's torture.
Why did his cries still torture me so? Why? WHY? I staggered in horror to the side of the fireplace, casting aside the chairs standing in my path. I clutched my head with such a strong hand I feared my hair would be ripped out in tufts. No, no, no, no, NO! The soft banshee cries continued coming up from the ash; I could see no possibility that my interrogators could not hear their sound now. I clawed at the ash with shaking hands, scattering it and kicking up clouds out of which, to my horror, rose the screaming, haunting face of the young fiend.
I rushed to the bookcase and pushed it violently from the wall, upsetting it and everything set upon it.
With a clawing motion as a demonic hawk, I stripped away the paneling concealing the mounds of scrap-cloth, soaked in blood which cried out in agony to my interrogators. There, in that hideous lump of gore, sat the fiend's ghastly spirit, his cries still resonating in my skull.
"There! There is the horrid fiend! There! I conceal it no more! There the horrid banshee cry of his voice! Villainous demons! I admit the deed! I admit!"