That night, he slept on the couch. In the morning, he went into the bedroom. Emily was still, white and cold. “I’ve killed her,” Ron whispered to himself. He scratched his head. “That’s not really what I had in mind.” How would he get out of this dilemma? He needed to make it look like a suicide with a proper suicide note. He took out paper and pen. Next he looked for something Emily had written: grocery lists, to-do lists, Christmas lists. Carefully copying her hand-writing, he fashioned a note. When he had finished. he read it out loud, ”I am unhappy and cannot go on. Sorry, good bye, Emily.”
Ron then called 911 and tried to sound agitated. The ambulance attendants confirmed her death and took her away for autopsy at the hospital.
Five years later
A knock on the door startled Ron out of his half-sleep. He opened one eye. Who would knock at this hour? It could be a trick of the weather. The wind was certainly strong enough to bump the loose board around on top the door. The noise started to annoy him. He heaved himself out of his chair, went downstairs, grabbed his toolbox from the workbench and walked back up the creaky steps.
Ron opened the front door and braced himself, expecting to be pushed back by a blast of wind. Nothing. It was deadly still outside. Ron didn’t feel the slightest touch of air on his face. Puzzled, he blinked into the darkness. Something wasn’t normal. He had heard the howling of the wind before. On top of the door, the board hung on its side. With a big nail in one hand and gripping the hammer with the other, Ron fastened the piece of wood and added another nail on the bottom, just for good measure. The atmosphere around him felt eerie. Each sound of the hammer echoed as if he was standing in a tunnel. Weird! Ron shook his head and went back into the house.
No sooner was he sitting in his favourite chair when he heard the wind again. It whistled down the chimney, rattled the windows and added a strange note to its customary howl. Almost like someone singing, Ron thought, like a woman’s voice.
He went back to the door, turned the handle and opened the door a crack. No sound, no wind. This he had to investigate. He put on his shoes, took a flashlight off the shelf and stepped outside.
The sickle of the waning moon showed through the tree branches. Its faint silvery light was barely enough to illuminate Ron’s path. Carefully he made his way forward. Ahead of him the old oak tree stretched its bare, gnarled branches over a wooden fence to the upstairs windows. Strange, Ron thought, I never saw it before, but it looks as if the tree is trying to get into the house. He hadn’t quite finished the thought when he felt a slight breeze. In just a second or two it rose to a blast that rode on the singing tone Ron had heard before. At the same time he was being lifted. Frantically he tried to grab onto anything in his way to keep his feet on the ground – in vain. He was caught in a maelstrom of air that spun and twisted him around and around. The noise was deafening.
