ROOM NUMBER 13
Previously published: Innisfree © 1987 
      [Do not use without  permission] 
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Rating: General (Short suspense)

             ROOM NUMBER 13


I lit up a Virginia Slim cigarette and feigned 
nonchalance, glancing up in my rearview mirror. 
The beatup Impala was still two cars behind me 
on the interstate, swinging over to pass rapidly.
As it zoomed by, I felt a flash of irritation.



I had been noticing for the past fifty miles 
that the Impala had alternated back and forth, 
passing sometimes, then slowing and lingering 
behind my Mustang as though playing a game of 
cat-and-mouse. Frankly, it was disturbing!



I was not a seasoned traveler, and this trip 
from Atlanta -- my one and only childhood home 
-- to Jacksonville, Florida, was not an everyday 
occurrence. I had recently been transferred to a 
fast food chain restaurant as manager down in 
Jacksonville. Much to my parents' dismay, I'd 
jumped at the chance to move further south; being 
a lifelong resident of good old Atlanta was not 
advancing my career ambitions.



Unfortunately, I'd been stuck as an assistant 
manager for months and wasn't about to give up 
my chance at advancement. Someday, God willing, 
I wanted to be the owner of a nationwide chain; 
but that was much too premature now -- I couldn't 
expect to leap from junior college management 
graduate to nationwide entrepreneur overnight! And, 
at twenty-two, I had lots of time to grow.



I saw the Impala slowing up ahead and began to tense. 
Sure enough, it eased along at a snail's pace, 
forcing several cars ahead of me to pass. Soon, I 
was passing it too. I had already noticed the good-
looking hunk driving, but he didn't attract me. No, 
I was determined to be a career girl first, and wife 
last -- if ever! Anyway, I sped past and didn't even 
glance in his direction.



The afternoon wore on interminably; it was a long 
boring drive down Interstate 75 across the countryside
 of south Georgia. I had the CD player blasting 
out some Madonna, the air conditioner keeping me 
cool and my brain was busy contemplating the new 
position when I realized the Impala had pulled a 
disappearing act. It was nowhere in sight, and 
I was immensely relieved.



Later, I saw a sign that proclaimed the next 
reststop a few miles away. I was tiring but wanted 
to make Valdosta by dark. Traffic was light, 
as it was middle of the week and late August. 
Holidays were the real killers on interstates.



My stomach was beginning to growl and outdo 
Madonna; I was afraid I'd never make my goal 
without a quick snack. Leaving home shortly 
before noon, without lunch, hadn't been such 
a bright idea.



By five o'clock I was regretting I didn't 
make the last reststop my destination for a 
brief snack. Instead, I saw a sign announcing 
the exit for a town called Swansong. The name 
alone was intriguing, and I was partial to 
small southern towns; I found them quaint and 
nostalgic.


I whipped my Mustang onto the ramp and gazed 
at the rustic landscape; I was certainly off-
course by heading east on a winding country road, 
but the two-lane blacktop was picturesque with 
fenced cattle pastures, peanut, soybean and 
corn fields, an occasional white match-box house. 
I drove slowly, savoring the farmland and peaceful 
interlude. Entering Swansong I smiled with 
pleasure -- although I did find it oddly deserted.



I slowed and drove along the main drag, 
which consisted of typical places -- drugs 
stores, post office, department stores and a 
monstrous paper mill. The rancid scent seeped 
in through my air conditioner, and I was sorry 
this place contaminated the clean countryside.



The empty streets amazed me. Braking, I sat 
still, looking at the little town which seemed 
dead. But then I realized it was after five 
and many had closed shop for the day. 
Southerners were not known for the busy-bee 
lives; sleepy hamlets like this existed 
everywhere in the South.



My stomach growled angrily, and I glanced 
around, looking for a place to grab a snack. 
The only sign of activity was near a cafe in 
the middle of Main Street. I drove down the 
wide boulevard and parked in front. It was 
rather homey, with a canopy over the sidewalk, 
yellow-checked curtains in the windows, 
and a list of homecooked specialties. I 
decided to eat an early dinner and then 
just keep driving until I made Jacksonville, 
even it was midnight when I arrived.



Outside, I smoothed my wrinkled chambray 
pants and blouse. I figured my mussed 
short brown hair and faded cosmetics 
would have to suffice, and went into the dim, 
cozy cafe.



Inside, delicious scents wafted from the 
back; soon a robust lady came out and 
invited me to be seated at a table. I was 
the only customer! It was a fine meal, 
much like my own mom's homecooking. 
While eating, I felt a sharp stab of 
homesickness, but quickly cast it aside. 
I had to reach out and find success sooner 
or later!



Back in my Mustang, I felt a growing 
anxiety to be on my way. I couldn't 
believe it when my car wouldn't start! 
I pumped the gas pedal, listening 
carefully. But not even a murmur came 
from the motor; it seemed to have died 
while I was in the diner!



I looked around again and was struck by 
the forlorn emptiness. An old ratty jalopy 
crept up the street, a plum of black smoke 
trailing behind it. I was tempted to flag 
it down but knew that was an impulsive thing 
to do. Apparently the town wasn't even large 
enough to warrant a police station!



I saw the robust lady peering out her cafe 
window and then she walked to the door. Her 
eyebrows lifted archly and she called, 
"Having trouble honey?"



I stuck my head out the window. "Yeah, 
car won't start! Could I use your phone, 
maybe call a service station?"



She motioned with her flabby arm. 
"Come on back inside, we'll work out 
something."



I hurried back to the cafe and gushed, 
"I'm really in a jam! I wanted to get 
to Jacksonville by midnight."



"No need to get excited. Sam is just 
down the street, around the corner. 
His service station will be open till 
eight."



"That's great!"



She made a call and in no time a 
disgruntled guy showed up to check 
out my car. He peered under the hood 
and shook his head. "Fraid it'll be 
morning fore I can git 'er fixed." He 
was now fiddling with some loose wires 
and making grunts of discouragement.



I surveyed his slouchy, grimy coveralls 
and assumed he was on the level. Or even if 
dishonest, he seemed to be the only mechanic 
in town.



Finally he straightened and looked me 
dead in the eyes. "Miss, you'll have to 
wait overnight. Sorry, but it's the only 
way."



"Oh no! What's wrong?"



"Ain't sure, kinda strange, these 
loose wires and all..."



"I'm in a hurry! I can't stay here!"



"Say, don't get all bent out of shape. 
Place down the street just off the corner 
Vine Avenue. Old historic mansion turned 
into a hotel. You can stay there tonight, 
I'll do some checking into this...." He 
shook his head, holding snarled wiring in 
his hands, a puzzled frown on his face.



Then I saw him glance toward the robust 
lady, and they exchanged a furtive look, a 
tight grimace on both their faces. And there 
was a strange look in their eyes, almost a 
pained, sightless stare at something which 
seemed mutually acknowledged between them.



I groaned with aggravation but reluctantly 
said, "Well, if you're sure you can't fix it, 
I guess I'll go to the hotel."



"Yeah, Miss. Gotta see if'n these wires
...they's cut up bad. Ain't no quick way, 
need to sort it out." He spat a stream of 
tobacco juice, and I turned away, heading 
for my car trunk. I pulled out a small 
suitcase and told them I appreciated the 
help. Sam assured me he'd contact me 
first thing next morning.



I trudged up the sidewalk, heading for 
Vine Avenue. It was cooling down, and I 
walked slowly, studying outdated buildings. 
At the end of Main Street, I crossed to 
Vine Avenue. It was steady uphill walking, 
but finally I saw the hotel perched on a 
high knoll. Truly, it gave me the creeps! 
A vast, sprawling three-story mansion, it 
seemed to loom darkly on the horizon. 
Mighty oaks swept low in front of it, 
obscuring the main thrust of the massive 
structure.



I approached it warily but had to keep 
up a fast pace because twilight was 
deepening into dusky dark. I crossed 
the yard, fragrant flowering of magnolia 
trees staggering me with heady aroma.



Stopping at the wrought iron gate, I 
read a neatly lettered carved wood sign: 
HARBINGER HOUSE.



I walked to the wide porch and looked 
at awesome doric columns, sweeping 
verandas and other features of the grand 
antebellum architecture blended with 
elaborate Victorian touches. Only a 
dim glow shone in an arched doorway 
entrance.



I rang a bell beside the thick oaken door 
and heard footsteps approaching. An 
elderly lady with a friendly face greeted 
me with a welcoming smile. She ushered 
me inside the lavishly furnished interior, 
but I was already feeling ill-prepared for 
my overnight stay in this creepy place!



In the shadowy parlor, I glimpsed an 
elderly man, quite dignified in his 
wine-colored smoking jacket. He had 
gray hair and mustache, his lips clamped 
over a pipe, and rose from a golden velvet 
divan and came forward, smiling graciously. 
"Good evening my dear. Have you come for a 
room?"



I stammered, "Er, um, I guess so. My car 
broke down in town and I..."



The lady stepped forward, extending 
her hand. "Welcome to Harbinger House. 
I'm Peggy Winthrop and this is my husband, 
Eugene. We just moved here recently and are 
renovating this place, so don't mind the 
clutter."



She beamed an infectious smile, and I 
returned her warmth, shaking her hand 
politely.



"Thanks, I'm sure I won't mind the uh..." 
I cast my eyes down, unable to utter 
another syllable. I was seized with an 
uncanny sensation, a prickly finger of 
fear running up my spine. The awesome interior 
was overwhelming, but I saw no evidence 
of renovation.



"Because of our work, we only have one 
room available. Actually, it hasn't even 
been touched, just cleaned and ready for 
a guest. The original furniture is still 
in place," Eugene Winthrop told me.



Peggy Winthrop sighed and said, 
"We're trying desperately to get the 
second floor in shape for guests. I'm 
afraid most of this here downstairs 
is basically as we found it."



She made a wide gesture with her arms, 
indicating the downstairs, which 
consisted of several open rooms 
with high ceilings, ponderous antique 
furniture and dark, thick velvet 
drapery over the many long, narrow 
windows. It was oppressive, an atmosphere 
of decay and darkness, and I lowered 
my eyes to the faded, threadbare 
oriental rug, unable to reply.



She concluded, "Oh well, don't mind 
me. Now, what is your name? You 
certainly are a cute little thing!"



Oh no, I thought, here we go again! 
How many, many times had I heard that 
word -- cute? It was a curse, mainly 
because my petite, pert looks made me 
appear helpless and too fragile. 
Nevertheless, I forced a bright 
smile. "My name's Delena Carden, I'm 
from Atlanta. I was on my way to 
Jacksonville, where I'm to be the 
new manager of..."



"Manager!" Eugene erupted, chuckling. 
"My, my you don't look old enough to be 
a manager!"



I smiled politely again, feeling my 
false cheer about to evaporate. "Yes, 
well, I am. And, this trouble with my 
car will cause a delay!"



"Did Sam look at your car?" Eugene 
walked to a nearby table. "He's honest 
if rather slow and befuddled." He tapped 
his pipe ashes into an ashtray.



"Yes, said he'd have it ready 
tomorrow. Something to do with wiring."



"If you wish, you can call to your 
new location and explain about the 
delay." Peggy was moving slowly to 
what served as a register counter -- 
a rolltop desk of rich, glowing mahogany. 
She lifted the top and began digging 
through a stack of ledgers, finally 
putting one out and saying, "Here, 
if you'll sign, I can give you the key 
to Room 13."



"Room 13?" I questioned, puzzled 
and spooked by the symbolic unlucky 
number. "I thought you said the rooms 
weren't finished."



"No, they're not. But we've numbered 
them all and that's the one you can 
have for the night -- the one which 
remains as it always has been."



"Yes, my dear," Eugene added hastily, 
"it's quite comfortable and reasonably 
priced. Just ten dollars for the night."



I nodded, feeling silly. "That'll be fine."



"Have you had a meal yet?"



Peggy offered me a pen and the ledger. 
I signed in and told them I'd already 
eaten at the town cafe, so they gave me 
the key to Room 13.



"Now dear, if there's anything you 
need, don't hesitate to ask."



Eugene smiled placidly, and I 
accompanied him to the narrow, 
winding stairway leading to the 
second floor. He gazed at me a long 
moment, finally saying, "We've had 
the most peculiar time getting settled 
here. Peggy and I moved from Detroit 
down here hoping to spend our retirement 
running this splendid old mansion as a 
bed-and-breakfast establishment. Bring 
in a bit of cash income, enjoy the 
regional environment. However, it 
seems the realtor who sold us this place 
neglected to mention the reputation of 
our property."



"Reputation?" I asked, bewildered.
"Seems there was...hmm, how shall I put 
it? Ah, a most unsavory event here years 
ago and, well, it left a stigma that gave 
rise to tall tales..." he trailed off 
absently, gazing sightlessly up the stairway.



Clearing his throat at last, he said, 
"Never mind, dear. Local folklore, no 
doubt. Now you go on to the room and 
remember, if you need anything, anything 
at all, just let us know."



I climbed the steep polished wood 
stairs uneasily, feeling a quirky 
sixth sense of premonition. The odd look 
that passed between the robust lady 
and Sam flashed into my mind. Were 
they thinking about the unsavory 
events in Harbinger House when they 
sent me here?



What had I gotten myself into, 
stranded in this god-forsaken place?



Upstairs I had to let my eyes adjust 
to the dimly lit hallway. It was 
cluttered with construction tools, 
shreds of torn wallpaper, bits and 
pieces of plaster, a layer of sawdust 
over everything.



Gingerly, I walked along, looking at 
each broad, closed door lining the 
hallway. A number was tentatively 
lettered on makeshift signs of cardboard 
above every door. I passed a dozen 
doors and then saw it, ROOM 13. It 
was especially prominent because it 
was at the dead end of the hallway.



I slipped my key into the lock and 
pushed open the heavy door. The 
enormous wallpapered room was illuminated 
by grayish dusk filtering through sheer 
curtains at the floor-length balcony windows.



I went to the nearest lamp, a cumbersome 
antique thing with gold fringe trimming a 
white shade. Flipping the switch, mellow 
light flooded the room, and I gasped at 
the magnificent furniture, probably original 
antiques from an earlier century, although 
I was not knowledgeable about such things. 
A gleaming dark wood four-poster canopy bed 
dominated the area, with matching dresser, 
wardrobe, beside tables and a waist-high trunk.



I tossed my suitcase down on the hardwood 
floor and gratefully flopped onto the soft 
bed, needing some rest. Closing my eyes, I 
drifted lazily into a half-drowsy state, 
tired from the day's disappointments.



I came awake with a start, realizing 
I'd dosed off, unable to discern what 
had awakened me from my nap. Instantly 
my eyes fell on a gilt-framed portrait 
above the dresser. It was a woman who looked 
remarkably like myself!



I sat up, shaking my head, raking my 
hands through my short brown hair. The 
woman's portrait was striking; her deep 
brown eyes seemed to focus relentlessly 
upon mine. I shuddered at the uncanny 
feeling of being watched, and got up, 
grabbing my suitcase and searching for 
a gown inside it.



When I looked at my watch, I saw it was 
only nine o'clock, but decided to turn 
in for the night anyway. What choice did 
I have? Out of idle curiosity, I walked 
over to the balcony windows, pulling 
back the sheer curtains. I could see the 
balcony was not very wide, and I looked 
down below, into the sloping yard. I saw 
the thick-leafed magnolia trees, neat 
flower gardens and the narrow driveway 
snaking along the side of the mansion, 
a line of lamp-posts providing an eerie 
yellowish glow over the area.



I let my eyes wander along the driveway, 
over the grounds...then I gasped with 
shock! A battered Impala was parked off 
to the side of the driveway, half-hidden 
underneath the low-slung limbs of an oak 
tree!



At that instant, a booming thunder-roll 
bellowed out of the lightning-streaked 
sky. I jumped as if slapped, and began 
to shake with fright. What was that car 
doing here? Without doubt, it was the 
same beatup Impala that led the tag with 
me on the interstate earlier; I'd never 
forget that sickly shade of green, the 
battered dents on the hood, a peculiar 
bent, warped left front fender!



I was shaking badly now and slumped down 
at a small desk. A radio was on the desk, 
and I snapped it on, lowering the volume. 
Anything to divert my attention, to distract
my frantic thoughts of the Impala!



A long, lonesome country ballad was being 
whined in a nasal-twang by a singer, and it 
didn't help improve my shattered feelings. I 
wondered if perhaps I was mistaken? Could 
there be two Impalas with those same 
identifying scars?



I was trying to recall every feature of the 
Impala, trying to decide if both cars were 
exactly identical when an announcer cut into 
the song: "We interrupt this program to 
bring you an update on the earlier escape 
at Reidsville State Prison. The three 
prisoners who escaped are still at large 
and considered dangerous. If anyone should 
see these men, please do not, repeat DO NOT 
take action yourself. Call the authorities 
at once, dial 911, and wait for help. These 
men were all serving life sentences for murder. 
They are described as...."



I felt my pulse racing, couldn't bear to 
hear another word, and snapped off the radio. 
Dangerous convicts on the loose and me only 
fifty miles from the state prison! It was too 
much, the last straw, and I had to get out of 
the room, talk to the Winthrops.



I left the room, and the hallway seemed 
darker, more shadowy than before as I made 
my way to the stairs. I could faintly hear 
voices below and hurried down to the parlor.



When I stepped into the room, there 
was an immediate silence. And I saw 
why -- a broad-shouldered man had his 
back to me as he stood at the window, 
the Winthrops apparently having been 
silenced by my presence. I saw they were 
staring at me from where they sat on the 
divan, their faces set in stone.



"Excuse me," I said, "but I wanted to 
make that call now to..."



My words ceased as the man turned to 
face me squarely: he was the handsome 
hunk who'd passed me in the beatup Impala, 
no mistake! I was speechless, paralyzed 
with indecision.



Peggy placed a hand on Eugene's sleeve 
as he said, "My dear, this is...a long 
lost resident of Swansong. He's just 
back from California and needs a place 
to stay."



I stared at the young man who was 
incredibly good looking: he had wavy 
blond hair, sea-blue eyes and, as he 
smiled, a perfect set of white, even 
teeth. His imposing athletic build was
emphasized by the white shirt and 
trousers he wore; muscular, tall, 
but somehow menacing.



He crossed the parlor and took my 
hand. "I'm Frank Cole, and I used 
to live here. I mean, in Swansong. 
I guess you beat me to the only room."



I swallowed hard and continued to 
stare like an idiot. He obviously 
didn't remember our earlier encounter, 
or he was keeping cool if he did.
I withdrew my hand and said, "I'm 
Delena Carden, and I had to stay 
overnight because my car broke down.



"Oh really? Too bad." He turned and 
I thought he looked harshly at the 
Winthrops as he said, "I suppose I'll 
just have to find another place to stay."



They nodded eagerly, almost too eagerly, 
I thought. But then, maybe my imagination 
was working overtime!



He paced around the parlor, rubbing 
his forehead distractedly. Finally 
Frank said, "Maybe I could just use 
one of the upstairs rooms like it is. 
The mess won't bother me."



No one spoke.



"I mean, I've come a long ways, 
and I'm dead tired."



Peggy Winthrops clutched Eugene's 
sleeve nervously. I watched them and 
my unease grew with each second. I 
coughed and said, "If I could just 
use the phone now."



Eugene grimaced. "My dear, I'm 
afraid that isn't possible. The 
lightning must've damaged the lines, 
our phone isn't working."



"Oh." I dropped my eyes from 
Frank's steady gaze and turned 
toward the doorway. "Guess I'd 
better be turning in then. Thanks 
anyway."



I wanted to mention the escaped 
convicts, but that quirky sixth 
sense told me not to broach the 
subject in this tense atmosphere.



As I headed out the doorway, Frank 
called, "Have a good sleep and nice 
meeting you."



I didn't reply, mainly because I 
felt he was still playing that 
weird game of dodge-and-chase with me! 
I didn't know who he was or what he 
was up to, but certainly I was 
convinced he was the one who'd 
unnerved me on the interstate.



Back in my room, I locked the 
door and changed into my gown. Soon 
I was ensconced in bed, but low rumbling 
thunder kept me awake. When I heard 
the heavy footsteps ascending the 
stairway, I began to tremble. Sure 
enough, there was a light knocking 
at my door and then Frank's smooth 
voice, "Delena, could I talk to you a 
minute?"



"I'm already in bed," I yelled, 
hoping to get rid of him. Could 
he be trying to put the moves on 
me --- maybe having seen me 
somewhere before and wanting to 
date me? Or was he one of those 
psycho-stalkers who pursued women 
all over the country, despite being 
flatly rejected?



"Okay, sorry. I just, uh...well, 
never mind."



I heard his footsteps growing 
fainter as he went back down the 
hallway and descended the stairs. 
I curled up under the covers and 
tried to sleep. But troublesome 
thoughts kept me awake a long time, 
until at last exhaustion won out.



The reflection of a blue blaze of 
lightning streaked across polished 
hardwood floors as I awoke to the 
sound of a wildly vicious thunderstorm. 
Scraping tree limbs against the 
mansion and torrential rain brought 
me to my feet. I crept across the darkened 
room, trying to reach the lamp. But 
when I tired to turn it on, there 
was no light -- probably a power 
outage caused by the lightning.



Another clap of thunder jerked me 
across the floor to the balcony 
windows. Down below, the stormy 
onslaught twisted oak and magnolia 
limbs as though they were willow 
reeds.



I shuddered and started back to bed 
when I heard a shrill scream, followed 
by loud shouts and gruff voices 
raised in pitched battle. But the 
continuous booming of thunder drowned 
out what I thought to be a loud argument 
-- maybe the Winthrops were trying to 
get rid of that creep and he was giving 
them a hard time?



Yet when the thunder abruptly ended, 
the house was eerily silent, and I 
had a sudden uncanny premonition of 
impending danger, that cold chill that 
runs up your spine, tingles your scalp 
with a foreboding sixth sense.
I frantically looked around the 
room, seeking an escape, a way out of 
this enclosed space. I knew I couldn't 
get away through the balcony; it was a 
long drop to the ground.



My eyes fell on the cumbersome 
antique wardrobe, and I ran to it, 
thinking it would at least hide me 
should that fend come upstairs after 
me next! What on earth had he done to 
the Winthrops? As I crawled into the 
small space inside the wardrobe, I 
wondered if the guy had already left? 
Was my over-active imagination creating 
danger where none existed?



Just as I pulled the doors shut, 
concealing myself inside the wardrobe, 
I heard heavy footsteps advancing down 
the hallway, then loud pounding on the 
bedroom door as a harsh voice yelled, 
"Let me in! Do you hear me, MOTHER? I 
said open this door!"



I felt sick with fear and knew I'd been 
right, that creep was after me! There 
was a hacking, banging noise, then a 
splitting, splintering sound as the rap, 
rap, rapping continued unabated. The loud 
crash must have been the door giving way 
for I heard him scream in triumphant 
exultation: "I'm back MOTHER! Back, 
do you hear?"



The footsteps resounded in the high-
ceilinged bedroom, coming closer and 
closer to where I was hidden in the 
wardrobe, holding my breath and cringing 
with fear. If he opened the door...



"MOTHER, oh MOTHER dear! Here I am, 
your little boy returned, home again! 
Come out, come out...wherever you are!"



Muffled wicked snickers, and more of 
the little boy whine, "MOTHER, I came 
back just to see you. Just YOU! Don't 
you wanna see me too?"



The footsteps came even closer, 
he had to be standing right in front 
of the wardrobe! And then I felt the 
shaking begin, he had to be tilting 
the wardrobe off the floor, his 
struggling grunts punctuated by 
angry words: "I'll get you, I'll 
get you MOTHER!"



I wanted to scream, to do something
...but I knew if I made a sound, he 
would know for sure I was inside! It 
felt like he was still struggling with 
the wardrobe, but then suddenly it hit 
the floor, causing me to bang my head 
hard against the wooden back.



I heard another man's voice, a 
booming command: "Put it down, 
Frank! Put the ax down or I'll shoot!"



I was feeling woozy, my head 
spinning, and I felt like I 
might faint...



There was scuffling noises, a 
bang, crash and then the man/boy 
whined, "But my MOTHER is here! I
saw her today, on the interstate 
and then later, HERE! I've come back, 
back to finish what I started!"



More footsteps, men's voices 
mingling and one saying, "Where's 
the girl? Eugene said she was 
here right before he passed out."



Another male sternly ordered, 
"Hold still, damnit Frank! Hold still 
or you'll cause me to hurt you 
with these cuffs!"



Relieved that it sounded as if 
everything was under control, I 
slowly pushed open the door, weak 
with nervous exhaustion and as I 
got out, tried to stand, my head spun 
crazily and all I saw was the wide 
chest of a uniformed deputy sheriff 
just as everything went black.



Later, much later when I'd regained 
consciousness, the state troopers 
and deputy sheriff explained what 
had happened. Frank Cole had once 
lived in that mansion with his 
mentally unbalanced mother! He 
was searching for her, the mother 
whose portrait I'd seen on the 
wall and who bore a remarkable 
resemblance to myself. Frank had 
murdered his mother long ago, and 
was one of the escaped convicts 
from the prison break earlier that day.



Apparently, Frank had seen me on the 
interstate and followed me to the 
mansion. He was triggered into a 
flashback, and perhaps began to 
slowly return to that bleak past 
tragedy when we spoke in the parlor. 
Then he'd tumbled back into the 
maniacal rage caused by a childhood 
spent wretchedly alone and at the 
mercy of his mother's insanity. 



I don't think I could have 
comprehended the depth of his 
rage, his vengeful wrath if the 
deputy hadn't explained how badly 
Frank was abused by his mother, 
tortured and locked up in Room 
Number 13!



Fortunately, the Winthrops survived, 
though both had been beaten by Frank 
before he came after me. And luckily, 
the officers got there just in the nick 
of time to prevent another murder! 
This was due to the mechanic's call 
to the authorities when he heard of 
the prison escape, having been puzzled 
about why my car had been tampered with. 
Frank had done that while I was eating 
in the diner.



One thing for sure, I plan to stick 
to reststops and big cities in the 
future when I travel, stay away from 
sleepy little southern hamlets that 
may harbor haunted past histories!


...The End... 


Written 1983 -- Revised/Updated 1996



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