Ron Klosterman

Sounds in the Crypt The ghost scuttled across the floor, her bare feet leaving sweaty impressions that faded with the passage of time. But, even if you had been looking, which for society's sake and your own, you had not--you would have let it go as a peculiar eccentricity of the lady. She was, after all, the madam of the manor and, as such, was held to the highest of esteem. Every autumn, her lavish balls were held--a holdover of the late mother and not of any particular fancy of the present mistress. A few would enter, and a few would be late, and talk would be loud and raucous. And when the time came, the door was always there-a way out of the room, away from the party. She would creep like a mouse, her only sound being that of worms in a crypt and then, of course, the stairway. The steps were long and winding-often a sign of aristocracy though it was never always for the rich-as she passed butlers and scullery maids, their eyes downcast and their movements always to the side while pausing for their mistress. She would scurry past, and then onto the landing and towards her room. There downy covers capped a large canvas and a billowy cloud topped the four-poster. It was a prison of sorts, not the type debtors and thieves absconded too when caught, but the type the fearful go. Years would pass and things would go on like usual, yet, behind those curtains, days grew longer, and the staff began to notice fewer and fewer footprints that they were never supposed to notice. Then one autumn, no parties were announced and a new country madam commenced her own while the only sounds coming from the house where the madam of the manor lay was that of the worms in the crypt.

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