Post by doyoulove19 on Sept 21, 2020 20:52:36 GMT
Submission by prufrock21 - Chapter 1 - The Ghost of Stillwater Falls
"So many ghosts among us." -- D.H. Lawrence
1
Unlike The National Enquirer, the Stillwater Falls Tribune was not known to publish news with a sensationalist slant. Items were usually humdrum, of local interest: a holiday bazaar here, the annual fishing derby there, the Labor Day celebration. The news item which appeared on its front page thirteen years ago, however, was sensationalist in the extreme. The day the incident occurred had been Thanksgiving, the news extraordinary, especially for a small Midwestern town whose major claim to fame was the manufacturing of cheddar cheese.
Psychiatrist shoots wife and murders his two children before killing self
Dr. Eduard Muller, a practicing psychiatrist and leading social figure, shot and wounded his wife of eight years, Darlene Muller (nee Jensen), then murdered his children, fraternal seven-year-old twins, on Thursday, Thanksgiving Day.
The preliminary investigation reveals a single motive, one which, according to witnesses, was the source of many a confrontation between the couple. It was well known among Dr. Muller’s acquaintances his overriding (even pathological) jealousy of his wife. In her youth Darlene Jensen worked as a fashion model renowned for her trim figure and arresting good looks, so much so her beauty was often compared to that of Elizabeth Taylor’s.
Born and raised in Stillwater Falls, Ms. Jensen discovered her career choice early, and after graduating high school ventured to New York where she became a popular high fashion model much in demand. A decade later she returned to her place of birth. Here she met and fell in love with the psychiatrist. The couple wed: he dedicating himself to his blossoming practice and she to her role of housekeeper and much-loved socialite who pursued charitable causes.
After the children were born, Eduard, Jr. and Christine, the marital spats and confrontations increased in earnest. Dr. Muller’s jealousy fueled his rage. And the outcome of this unfortunate (and much lamented) confrontation was the murders and the subsequent suicide of Dr. Muller himself.
Darlene Muller, though seriously wounded, survived this tragedy.
But the tragedy did not stop there. Unable to cope with the loss of her children (bedridden, she was not present at their funeral), Darlene Muller became severely depressed and slowly wasted away, dying of acute inanition six months after the incident. Seven years had passed. The Muller house had since been boarded and put on sale. No one offered to buy it because people believed the house was haunted.
The ghost appeared on the first anniversary of the Muller murders, and on each consecutive year after that.
The Petersens were in the kitchen of their home preparing homemade pumpkin pies for the
Thanksgiving meal. Harold was tall and ruggedly handsome, having maintained an admirable physique into early middle age. Beatrice, though not as tall, and even after giving birth to their two children, was his equal physically, as she practiced Pilates with a fervor displayed only by a true believer.
As usual, the talk at some point centered not only on the roast turkey with stuffing but also on the ghost.
“Think the ghost will make an appearance again this year?” Beatrice asked, wiping her hands on a flower-printed apron.
Harold looked at her, smirked. “Is that a rhetorical question? The ghost has made an appearance come Thanksgiving every year for seven years now. I’d be surprised if it didn’t. Probably miss hearing about it if the damn thing doesn’t show.”
“You’re joking,” she said, a surprised look in her blue eyes.
Harold placed one of the finished pies inside a cardboard box. “No, I’m not. Today will make it eight years. I’m kinda getting used to it. Last year Wally Jacobson, the basketball coach, said he saw the ghost. Spotted it going inside the Muller place. Just went through the front door, he said, without it opening. Spooky.”
“Wally’s a practical joker. You believe him?”
“He was dead serious when he told me. Got all red in the face and sweaty too. Hell yeah I believe him. I believe him because Wally hasn’t been the only one. Every year after those awful murders come Thanksgiving someone always speaks about seeing the ghost. You know what they say."
Beatrice gave him a look. “Of course, I know what they say. They say Darlene Muller was the spitting image of Elizabeth Taylor. That she died heartbroken for her children. And that Darlene is the ghost.”
“Bingo,” Harold said, smiling his usual smile with lips spread.
“I don’t care what people say,” Beatrice responded. “I’m still a skeptic. I’ll believe it when I see the ghost myself, up close and personal. Not that I would ever want to.”
Harold placed another finished pie in the box. At this rate they would finish soon and head over to his folks for the noon meal. “I guess I must be more gullible than you, or impressionable. When I was a youngster, my dad let us stay up late so we could listen to his ghost stories. He was so convincing, scared the bejesus out of us kids.”
You’re silly,” she said. “I can’t picture a rugged man like you ever being afraid of a make-believe—"
Harold would have responded when the phone rang. “I’ll answer it,“ he said.
He went to the living room. A moment later, he trudged into the kitchen looking as if he had seen … a ghost.
“Harold, what’s the matter? You look pale as a sheet.” He remained silent, mouth open, so she said. “Please, say something. You’re scaring me half to death.”
“My dad called. He said he left the grandkids playing in the backyard, and now … they’re missing.”
********
"So many ghosts among us." -- D.H. Lawrence
1
Unlike The National Enquirer, the Stillwater Falls Tribune was not known to publish news with a sensationalist slant. Items were usually humdrum, of local interest: a holiday bazaar here, the annual fishing derby there, the Labor Day celebration. The news item which appeared on its front page thirteen years ago, however, was sensationalist in the extreme. The day the incident occurred had been Thanksgiving, the news extraordinary, especially for a small Midwestern town whose major claim to fame was the manufacturing of cheddar cheese.
Psychiatrist shoots wife and murders his two children before killing self
Dr. Eduard Muller, a practicing psychiatrist and leading social figure, shot and wounded his wife of eight years, Darlene Muller (nee Jensen), then murdered his children, fraternal seven-year-old twins, on Thursday, Thanksgiving Day.
The preliminary investigation reveals a single motive, one which, according to witnesses, was the source of many a confrontation between the couple. It was well known among Dr. Muller’s acquaintances his overriding (even pathological) jealousy of his wife. In her youth Darlene Jensen worked as a fashion model renowned for her trim figure and arresting good looks, so much so her beauty was often compared to that of Elizabeth Taylor’s.
Born and raised in Stillwater Falls, Ms. Jensen discovered her career choice early, and after graduating high school ventured to New York where she became a popular high fashion model much in demand. A decade later she returned to her place of birth. Here she met and fell in love with the psychiatrist. The couple wed: he dedicating himself to his blossoming practice and she to her role of housekeeper and much-loved socialite who pursued charitable causes.
After the children were born, Eduard, Jr. and Christine, the marital spats and confrontations increased in earnest. Dr. Muller’s jealousy fueled his rage. And the outcome of this unfortunate (and much lamented) confrontation was the murders and the subsequent suicide of Dr. Muller himself.
Darlene Muller, though seriously wounded, survived this tragedy.
But the tragedy did not stop there. Unable to cope with the loss of her children (bedridden, she was not present at their funeral), Darlene Muller became severely depressed and slowly wasted away, dying of acute inanition six months after the incident. Seven years had passed. The Muller house had since been boarded and put on sale. No one offered to buy it because people believed the house was haunted.
The ghost appeared on the first anniversary of the Muller murders, and on each consecutive year after that.
The Petersens were in the kitchen of their home preparing homemade pumpkin pies for the
Thanksgiving meal. Harold was tall and ruggedly handsome, having maintained an admirable physique into early middle age. Beatrice, though not as tall, and even after giving birth to their two children, was his equal physically, as she practiced Pilates with a fervor displayed only by a true believer.
As usual, the talk at some point centered not only on the roast turkey with stuffing but also on the ghost.
“Think the ghost will make an appearance again this year?” Beatrice asked, wiping her hands on a flower-printed apron.
Harold looked at her, smirked. “Is that a rhetorical question? The ghost has made an appearance come Thanksgiving every year for seven years now. I’d be surprised if it didn’t. Probably miss hearing about it if the damn thing doesn’t show.”
“You’re joking,” she said, a surprised look in her blue eyes.
Harold placed one of the finished pies inside a cardboard box. “No, I’m not. Today will make it eight years. I’m kinda getting used to it. Last year Wally Jacobson, the basketball coach, said he saw the ghost. Spotted it going inside the Muller place. Just went through the front door, he said, without it opening. Spooky.”
“Wally’s a practical joker. You believe him?”
“He was dead serious when he told me. Got all red in the face and sweaty too. Hell yeah I believe him. I believe him because Wally hasn’t been the only one. Every year after those awful murders come Thanksgiving someone always speaks about seeing the ghost. You know what they say."
Beatrice gave him a look. “Of course, I know what they say. They say Darlene Muller was the spitting image of Elizabeth Taylor. That she died heartbroken for her children. And that Darlene is the ghost.”
“Bingo,” Harold said, smiling his usual smile with lips spread.
“I don’t care what people say,” Beatrice responded. “I’m still a skeptic. I’ll believe it when I see the ghost myself, up close and personal. Not that I would ever want to.”
Harold placed another finished pie in the box. At this rate they would finish soon and head over to his folks for the noon meal. “I guess I must be more gullible than you, or impressionable. When I was a youngster, my dad let us stay up late so we could listen to his ghost stories. He was so convincing, scared the bejesus out of us kids.”
You’re silly,” she said. “I can’t picture a rugged man like you ever being afraid of a make-believe—"
Harold would have responded when the phone rang. “I’ll answer it,“ he said.
He went to the living room. A moment later, he trudged into the kitchen looking as if he had seen … a ghost.
“Harold, what’s the matter? You look pale as a sheet.” He remained silent, mouth open, so she said. “Please, say something. You’re scaring me half to death.”
“My dad called. He said he left the grandkids playing in the backyard, and now … they’re missing.”
********