It annoyed me. At least, that’s how it started. Then it grew into something much, much worse…a foul act of treachery, revenge, and cold-blooded murder. And let me tell you, it hurt. A lot. I don’t think that my actual death hurt as much as the result of his efforts to hide me – which I will, of course, tell you later. But I feel that it is necessary to let you know a bit about me, for starters. The victim. My name is – well, I guess it WAS, now – Mr. Bigglesworth. I was quite wealthy, back when I was alive. I had a nice, large house, a pleasant family, and staff who got paid superbly – but not well enough, as I found out. This story that I am about to share with you, by the way, is true, and perfectly accurate. Since I’m dead, I am forced to go back in time, to witness my demise repeatedly, and it is that demise which I relate to you now…
It was a day like any other, at least for me. I was lounging around the pool, sipping margaritas, completely unaware of the danger around me. My carpenter, who had recently been fired, was returning to the house that day to pick up his supplies…at least, those supplies that hadn’t been thrown after him as he ran from the house. Inside his head, evil thoughts – far more evil than I ever thought possible to exist – evolved, died, and renewed themselves as he gathered the tools. Occasionally, when picking up a screwdriver or an awl, he would stare at it, balance it in his hand, and then look at me, weighing the factors. He did this repeatedly, but I never noticed. I suppose I was too drunk.
He finally had gathered all his supplies, and slowly made for the gate. Too slowly, I realize, looking back on it now. Perhaps I should have thrown another one of his hammers at him. I could not see the crazed look in his eyes, nor feel his cold glare on my back as he walked behind me on the lawn. He was actually pacing around me, and yet I did not move! What was I thinking? Around and around he went, glaring at me, in my drunken state. I could not remember any of this, probably because I had passed out by that time. Those were powerful margaritas.
Suddenly, without making a sound, he stopped directly in front of me. He carefully placed the toolbox on the ground, and pulled a screwdriver out of his pocket. He then looked at the device for a moment, then nodded in satisfaction and then produced a package of screws. Never taking his eyes off me, he drew one of the screws from the package, and poked my hand gently with it. I awoke with a start. But before I could regain my senses, he had started screwing into my hand, digging through the flesh and bone with that horrible, twisting piece of metal.
I screamed in pain, but he yanked a roll of duct tape out of his pocket, and wound it around my head repeatedly. I could neither see nor hear, and could barely breathe. I could make no sound, but I could feel the cold steel tightening my grip on the arm of the chair in which I was sitting. He started on the other hand next, binding it down with great satisfaction, not caring an ounce about the pain he was causing. Satisfied that I was immobile, he wiped the blood from his hands and tools with a rag, and grimly replaced the screwdriver and the screws into his pockets. He then got into his truck and drove off, headed for where, I did not know. I could do nothing but wait.
After what seemed like an eternity, he returned, his truck bouncing merrily up the driveway. Weak from loss of blood and hunger, my head didn’t even rise to acknowledge the presence of the fiend. He went immediately to the garage, rummaging around and eventually finding what he was looking for – a tarp. Then he went back to my chair, and slipped a cart underneath it. He wheeled me to what I assumed at the time to be my final destination – but it turned out I was nowhere close. Slowly the duct tape was unwound; pulling at my skin and ripping it open in some places. I would have screamed, but he stopped halfway through, leaving my mouth sealed. I blinked, vainly trying to adjust my eyes so I could see what was going on. The last thing I remember seeing was the large, green head of a 40-pound sledge coming towards my face. After that, all was dark.
To see what happened to me next is, to say the least, hideous. The sound of my skull collapsing and cracking must have given him some sick delight, for a grim smile replaced his formerly emotionless features. He proceeded to take the rest of the duct tape off – and inevitably some of my face with it. He then unscrewed my hands, and tilted the chair so that my dead, limp body fell, crumpled, to the tarp he had laid upon the ground. He then proceeded to back his truck out of the driveway, and unload the steamroller that had been attached to it.
It started up with a roar, and belched its putrid black smoke into the light blue sky. Then it lurched forward, slowly crawling towards my limp, still bleeding remnants. I wasn’t quite dead yet – although by all rights I should have been – and I could still vaguely feel the vibrations as the machine rolled across the ground towards me. Because of how he hit me, my mouth was still functional – and I screamed when it hit me. Oh, did I scream. The pain was so intense, and yet I hardly felt it. Slowly the machine crawled over my useless body, grinding it flat into the ground, spurting fluids whenever it hit a major organ. I stopped screaming after the first 30 seconds, dead from fright and pain. But it still continued for a full ten minutes, grinding me into the tarp.
When he was sure that I was flat enough, he stopped the roller and scraped my remains into a large bucket. He then cheerfully walked over to the side wall of my house, and began to seal the cracks with my body. He then painted over me, the human Spackle, and cheerfully walked away from the scene of the crime.
Two days later, the police discovered that I had disappeared. The carpenter had been sloppy, and had left blood all over the deck, the chair, and the steamroller, which had been abandoned in the driveway. As they interviewed all my employees, both past and present, a suspicion rested upon the carpenter. When they got to him, however, he commented that the butler did it, that he had been annoyed with waiting on me hand and foot for 30 years. The too often used cliché fell into place, just as the carpenter had planned – Niles was sentenced to death.
It is indeed unfortunate that ghosts can’t testify at murder, because so many more innocent lives would be saved. Today the carpenter still roams free, content with keeping his horrible secret. My butler, like me, is dead. And, like me, he continues to witness his death over and over – the curse placed upon those of us killed in cold blood. And so my story escapes into the public – and perhaps, now that the world knows, I may rest in peace. I can only hope that the carpenter will be forced to watch his horrible demise over and over – a fitting end to his perfect crime.