Those who knew Henley Peck in life had despised him, and those who were unfortunate enough to have met him in death, despised him far more. Now perhaps you may think that statement strange, and yes, it may be, but only to those who do not know about death and its loopholes. Understand that Mr. Peck had led a terribly spoiled life, one in which he did not wish to depart from and with very good reason. Henley Peck was a gambling man, and a successful one at that.

His plan seemed simple enough, but Death had always been a great adversary and one not to be cheated. Knowing he was not long for this world and shortly before the end of his life, Mr. Peck began to scheme. There was his mansion of course; a vast army of exotic cars stashed within the temperature controlled carports, antiquities all valued quite high as well as his stables, containing a team of winning thoroughbred horses. However, with no wife or children to bequeath all of his wealth to, Henley grew quite disturbed. That prospect haunted him night and day, for what could he do? The topic made for constant conversation with his most trusted attorney, Mr. Wilder.

"And so, all of this, all that I have toiled for my entire life goes to whom I ask you? Who will acquire my vast estate upon my death?" He would ask Mr. Wilder repeatedly.

Mr. Wilder would always respond the same. "It will go to the state Mr. Peck, or to a charity of your choosing if you like, a home for wayward teens perhaps?" he would counter. "An orphanage would do nicely here or maybe another wealthy aristocrat will purchase it. Remember Mr. Peck" he always insisted "You cannot take it with you."

This fact troubled Henley far too much, for the mere thought of his estate crawling with dirty children enraged him. The notion of another man living in his home, dining in his hall, bathing in his tub, sitting in front of his hearth, enraged him even more. The words of Mr. Wilder followed Henley like a gray ghost. By day, his thinking became afflicted, for Wilders statements somehow soiled every thought. By night, like a haunting lilt, the words echoed harshly in his dreams. No, some drastic measure had to be taken, something to ensure he would retain his keep. He immediately fired all of his staff with the exception of one, his trusted attorney Mr. Wilder. Every last employee left within the week. In no way would they would pilfer his estate. Henley recalled his fathers statement before his untimely demise and much like Wilders ideas, his father shared the same belief. You couldn't take it with you. Well, Wilder knew nothing and his father had been wrong before - his death had certainly not afforded him any foresight on ethereal matters whatsoever, for he was no expert on the subject by dying only once.

But how could one actually cheat death? Mr. Peck was a gambling man and his entire fortune was based upon his uncanny skill for winning. He knew quite well that in this game, Death held a formidable hand. Perhaps he should try dying a few times? No, that would be impossible. But then a not so impossible idea began to sprout within his wrinkled brain, one that might actually work. With any luck he could elude Death when it came to call, somehow evading his eventual one-way trip. He knew definitively that many others had accomplished that task before. Old Mr. Peck was a thinking man, not a God fearing one, so you see, he firmly believed in the existence of ghosts.

So it came to pass one dreary Sunday morning in February, that Mr. Peck reached from his bed for his favorite attorney who rested comfortably near his side, and laid one pallid hand to rest within his. A weakened squeeze and then a release and Mr. Peck had passed. It seemed like countless moments had elapsed before the spirit of Henley Peck rose from that corpse cooling upon the poster bed. No increment of time could have properly described it, but it seemed far too long, unnaturally delayed. This prompted a new worry. Why had the Reaper not come to him? Where was this tunnel of light everyone spoke of? It had been noticeably absent.

Just then Mr. Wilder arose from his chair startling Henley and suddenly derailing his thoughts. From this new hovering viewpoint, Henley watched with immeasurable dread as his trusted attorney began rifling through the dressers and nightstands. The man flung open every drawer, opened every box they contained and even padded down the pajama pockets on Henley’s dead body. He was robbing him blind! Mr. Wilder was stuffing his pockets with expensive bobbles, watches, rings and other trinkets and had even grown so bold as to slip the loose change off of his dresser! He could not stop this? He was helpless to the crime? Henley grew furious. He spat and he cursed quite unnoticed.

Mr. Wilder left the room hurriedly, obviously in the pursuit of more valuables. Henley was about to follow when he stopped in his tracks. A terrible dark shadow had begun to grow within the master bedroom, swallowing everything in its ominous pass. He turned and watched with amazement as this ghastly thing bloomed, painting the room with cold black. Deaths shadow spread and Henley suddenly filled with trepidation. He had been so distracted by Wilders rude actions that he had all but forgotten his wits. Death settled in like a smothering fog and perched itself upon the still chest of the disposed remains. The body seemed to flatten beneath the inky swell, molding itself to the bed.

Come with me…

But no, Henley knew by going with him, he would surely never return. His house would be picked skeletal. Those vultures would have it all! Henley needed to protect it, the house, the cars. Crossing his ghostly arms in defiance, he bade the wicked thing farewell. Something crashed sharply in the hallway outside of his room, no doubt Mr. Wilder rummaging through more of Henley’s precious things. Suddenly he panicked…The Monet! Wilder was standing upon the antique table in the hall trying to reach its position. Henley's spirit sank. Once again, his dark guest insisted, this time, more impatiently.

Come with me!

Death spread into a thick stain upon the body of the former Mr. Peck, dripping off the quilts like spoiled mire. A cold filled the room accompanied by a slight stench. But still Henley shook his head in protest. Death began to form into unhurried puddles upon the floor around the bed. It beckoned sternly and gave warning.

Come with me Henley Peck, for I am the only path to Heaven.

And yet Henley denied him, growing more impatient with his ethereal caller, that by now, had begun to minus itself in shades, growing more gray in color than the pitch black it had once been. The slinking vapor undulated weakly near the bed.

Quickly - or there will be nothingness and despair to follow you in all your days to come!

Finally Henley grew confident enough to respond, as now the wraith had become nothing more than a shrinking stain withering upon the floor. He put on his best poker face and calmly spoke.

"I am a gambling man my dear Sir, and I know a good hand when I see one! I…I will take my chances here, leave this house and trouble me no more!"

And with those spoken words, Death abruptly puffed out.

Henley now turned his attention to the attorney in the hall and with a furious rush, exited his bedroom leaving his body unattended upon the bed. There, Mr. Wilder stood, quite off balance upon the wobbly Duncan Fife table in the hall at the top of the spiraling staircase. His fingers worked nimbly at the backside of the painting, upon the wire that had previously secured it to the wall, beads of sweat glistened on his forehead and a terribly peevish grin spread upon his face. The sight of this thieving, even just the notion that Wilder had stolen from him thrust Henley to the crux of madness. He hurtled himself with every ounce of fury at the man, connecting with Mr. Wilder in the most dangerous way. The attorney spun around all at once, for he had felt the chilling gale of something unseen breeze past him. He attempted and failed to break his fall, his feet losing their connection with the polished table. Wilder toppled clumsily, then smacked down every inch of the long spiral staircase. The attorney was welcomed by the white marble floor in the foyer below. A heavy stain spread upon the tiles.

Satisfied at a job well done and assured his thieving guest had expired, Henley traveled back to his room, back to his body that stiffened in the bed. He plopped down next to it, resting his head gently upon the cold chest. This was to be a great game Henley thought, for everyone who would come to visit, every single soul that tried to take up residence in the manor, he could either drive out or dispose of! The revelation made the ghost squeal with delight. It had been so easy to rid himself of the thieving attorney - so simple in fact, he almost wished to try it again in some different manner to another.

By midnight, the house and Henley’s corpse had both grown quite cold. The body now stiffened into the bed and a new worry started to blossom. Wilder had not had the chance to phone the appropriate authorities, for instead of summoning help, the man had chosen to loot. What a gruesome thing, to have not one, but two dead bodies rotting in the manor! The very thought sickened him. Henley began to leave the room to check upon the body of his former attorney when something stopped him. A stiff feeling was beginning to creep within his spectral being, not like a cramp, but something far worse. Every spot of him had become affected, tensed by it. The gnawing ache spread. He had noticed the sensation earlier as he rested upon his corpse, but foolishly dismissed it, thinking he had just fallen asleep at a strange angle. Of course he wasn't sleeping improperly, he was dead. How had he forgotten such a thing? Henley strained to float towards the mirror above the dressing table when he nearly shrieked. He could see this image, faint, but there, in the mirror staring back at him. This visage was taking on an ashy greenish pallor and the lips were shrinking back away from the gums thus freezing an unsettling grin upon his face. He slunk away from the dresser, wishing no more to see himself, but then screamed when he glimpsed another floating face accompanying his in the mirrors reflection. This second face was lighter in color, more white than ash, and its eyes were hallow, sinking and flat. The cadaverous grimace upon its face mirrored Henley’s with lips just as shrunken. The attorneys ghost blocked Henley just as he tried for an escape from the room.

"You bastard! You murdering depraved old man! Pushing me down the staircase like that…what gave you the right?" He shrieked.

Henley suddenly felt too stiff to reply. His arms knotted tightly, spreading the discomfort steadily down into his fingers. He looked at the ghost of Mr. Wilder who was by now, quite enraged.

"You were stealing from me!" He finally managed.

The attorneys’ spectral form hovered angrily, mere inches from Henley’s face. He fought hard to ignore the escalating pain that now invaded the back of his skull, as if his head was clamped tightly in a wine press. The attorney moved with swift agility around him, prodding Henley with a cold yet sturdy finger.

"How long have I been in your employ Mr. Peck? How many years did I toil and slave over your accounts and affairs? And not for a moment, not for a second, did you ever once consider me. I had been a faithful friend for seventeen years Henley. Never did I wrong you, not once did I turn away when you were in need of company." The angry specter gesticulated wildly at him and his voice grew suddenly prickly. "And how many nights of those do you estimate I had suffered in your boorish presence?"

Henley said nothing. He felt ashamed. It was true; he had made a grave mistake. Wilder had been a good friend, embarrassingly his only and still, he never considered leaving anything to him in his will. Of course the man knew this for he had been the very one to draw it up. Wilder was not poor by any means, but Henley could have done something for him, leaving him and his family very well off.

Apologies were formed quickly and lost just as fast upon Henley’s tongue. No words could be spoken to remedy this - no excuse could be given to explain away the terrible wrong he had done. Wilder turned his head just then, hearing something other than the Henley’s own shameful thoughts. His yellow eyes widened then without warning, he left the room. Henley saw the black shadow lurking outside the bedroom in the hallway, but had not heard himself its call. A sudden flash of light, and the only friend he ever had was permanently gone.

Henley sat down upon the chair next to the bed this time, away from his body. The sight of his own corpse putrefying on the sheets made him ill. The growing stiffness that escalated in his shadowy form caused him much concern. He leaned over and examined the corpse in the darkness. The fingers upon the hands in the bed, as well as the ones he now owned, curled in upon themselves like dead spiders. Worse, something with the consistency and flavor of raw spoiled eggs began a steady descent down the back of his throat. He got up instantly, an act which dislodged the creeping stream, suddenly spilling the putrid taste down his gullet. Henley gagged and shook his head. The insides of it felt liquefied and sloshed around as if it were filled with some thick fluid. Completely unnerved, he switched on the small Tiffany lamp on his dressing table nearest the bed to get a better look at his corpse. He moaned at the sight. How long had it been? Either the body there had disintegrated at an alarmingly quick pace, or he had been deceased for quite a long time.

The body was nearly in ruins. The lips of it now pulled back into an unsettling grimace, and in that inappropriate smile, a gape of badly pitted and blackened gums was revealed. The hair had fallen away into uncanny disintegrations that littered the soiled pillow, the chest had nearly collapsed in, and all of the digits, hands and feet alike, appeared black and crumbly, as charred wood would be.

It seemed like an eternity to get back to the dressing table mirror across the room, and once he did, he wished that he hadn’t. Now the face that peered back was worse, an awful sight, as horrible as the dead face that lie in the bed. Henley groaned while he witnessed one lone spider crawl from a deep hole in the side of his cheek, dart quickly across the landscape of his face and settle uncomfortably in the leaking corner of his bluish - filmed eye.

With much hesitation, Henley realized now what he needed to do. He stalked the hallways and bedrooms of his prized mansion calling loudly for Deaths return. He searched within the dust coated bathrooms and carriage houses, he waited for the phantom in the spoiling kitchen and the pantry and the dank of the wine cellar. Mr. Peck paced the floors night and day, he begged God to help him, and yes, the Devil as well. But no one came to call. By turning Death down, he realized that he had made a terrible mistake. In this game, he had vastly underestimated his adversary, for Death clearly owned the highest hand, all of the aces. All Henley Peck had done was drop the deck.

Eventually the bodies were discovered. A man who had been interested in local history and historic homes had wandered onto the property and found them. The horses in the stables alerted him, as they were as dried as husk. The police came and went, as did the festering remains and Mr. Pecks mansion was sealed up tight.

Henley now found himself in an odd predicament. When his corpse was removed, his ghostly self remained in his home for an immeasurable amount of time. It could have been a month - it could have been a second, this Henley did not know. But now he was here in a box, nestled deep within clay and crawling earth. The body that pressed rigidly beneath him reeked of chemical and decay, a ghostly mixture that burned Henley’s phantom lungs and stung eyes that had long since rotted out. He knew he was in his coffin, rotting in tempo with that awful thing, but he was sealed up tightly against anything that would try to invade. His money had bought him the best that there was he tried to convince himself as something wet slithered upon his back. The most luxurious casket, swaddling his remains forever in the finest silk bed he thought as something began wriggling around under his heels. Impervious to all! A sturdy box! The finest in all of England! He yelped as fleshy feet padded quickly up his legs, with their owners tiny claws poking into his stiffened flesh. He tried to believe these ideas that floated around in his head, tried to believe with all of his might, but the festering feeling that welled from deep within dampened his spirit. He knew full well the cause of that writhing in his gut.

"Ha! But soon I will be rendered into nothing more than a pile of bones!" Peck bellowed as every crawling thing scavenged his body. "And what could bones possibly feel?" He tried to assure himself.

Henley Peck tried hard to believe all those things he thought, he really truly did.

The End

Back to Twisted Tales