Rigby Waxman
Chapter I
An ashen moon hung in the pale blue twilight, while a cold drizzling rain poured from the sky. Raindrops splattered on the earth and turned the world to watercolor. Everything began to melt. A pair of duct-taped brown boots swung heavily one step at a time as they walked across block after block of cracked grey pavement.
Attached to these duct-taped boots was a sad and somnolent looking man dressed in formless black slacks and a brown weatherworn trench coat. He appeared to be in his early to mid-forties, with sunken-in eyes and graying hair. He had a long thin face with a twisted nose and upturned cheek bones. And on top of it all he wore an old feathered hat with a black band that ran across the middle of it.
His feet stopped when he reached the twisted iron gates of a dilapidated old manor that reached up towards the sky. He rang a buttoned buzzer and waited for a response. No response came.
“God damned lousy buzzer” he grumbled to himself.
He pushed on the buzzer several more times before giving up and beating on it mercilessly with the bottom of his fist. After failing to break, or even skew, the condition of the buzzer he gave up and squeezed between two of the bars of the gate.
After walking across a large and well kept cobblestone walkway the man found his way to the door of the large and lofty manor. He knocked on it three times and then waited patiently. No response. He knocked several more times and again he waited. Still there was no response. “Oh great”, the man muttered to himself as he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his coat pocket. “They call up a man after hours; they ask for his help with a haunting, insisting that it can’t wait until tomorrow, and that he must get over here right away, that it absolutely, positively can not wait at all. And then after making such an unreasonable fuss, what do they do when he shows up at their door? They leave him with a broken buzzer and having to let himself in. Lousy, no-good, haunted assholes.
Oh well”, he thought to himself, “maybe the haunters have already killed them off and that’s why they aren’t answering their door. In which case, I can go home and get a descent nights sleep for the first time in months.” This thought pleased the man immeasurably, and while lighting his cigarette he let his mind drift through various phantasmagoric scenes of the haunted having their hearts wrenched from their chests by ectoplasmic fiends.
However, his violent and beautiful daydreams were cut short when the sound of breaking glass overhead was followed by a deafening scream and then the wet thud of a body landing at the man’s feet. Upon impact the head had made first contact with the ground and consequently the aforementioned well kempt cobblestone walkway was now littered with bits of brain and skull (as was the man’s trench coat).
“Oh Christ”, the man muttered to himself as he picked wet, fleshly little bits of brain off of his coat. “You just had to call me didn’t you, you miserable, haunted pricks?”
Just then, behind the man the manor door burst open and a hysterical old woman in heavy makeup came running out the door. She looked to be somewhere in her late-sixties or early-seventies.
“Oh God-Hugh!” The old woman sobbed unabashedly. And she dashed towards the body.
Standing over the body and looking at the mass of blood and brain that was smeared all over the cobblestone, the old woman turned to the man and asked, “Is he dead?”
With a look that simultaneously displayed disgust and disbelief, the man stepped over to the half-headless body, knelt down and grabbing its wrist, he checked the dead man’s pulse. After a few seconds of utter silence the man said in a dark and sullen tone, “He’s dead.” And then the man put his cigarette out in the dead man’s ear.
The old woman let out another screechy cry and then said, “Are you sure?”
“I checked his pulse didn’t I?”
“Yes-but only his wrist. Can’t you check the neck?”
“Check the neck?!” the man insisted, “But he only has half a head!”
“Oh I know, but can’t you do it to just be sure?” the old woman asked.
“Absolutely not.”
“But why?”
“Because he only has half a head!” The man pointed around the bloodstained walkway, “You see all these bits of blood and brain here?”
“Yes.”
“Well that’s this man’s head!” he shouted, pointing as the dead man.
The old woman removed a little grey case from her pocket and proceeded to put on a pair of antique spectacles. After the glasses were in place she looked around at all the blood and gore. “Oh, so you’re right then. This is definitely Hugh’s blood.”
“Are you sure?” said the man with a deep twinge of sarcasm in his voice.
“Oh yes, I’d know this blood anywhere. Say-who are you?”
The man stood up and fixing his coat he introduced himself: “My name is Rigby Waxman, I’m-“
The woman gave him a relieved sort of smile. “Oh yes, you’re the…uh…the…ghost catcher, right?”
“Um…Paranormal detective actually…”
“Right, right. Well, I’m not going to lie to you Mr. Ghost Catcher-you’re a little late.”
“Yes, so I see.”
The two stood in an awkward sort of silence until finally, smiling and saying rather chirpily to the man, “Would you like to come in?” the old woman grabbed Rigby by the hand and was already leading him inside.
“What about, um…Hugh?” asked Rigby.
“Oh, don’t worry about him. We’ll let the maid see to that.”
And so the old woman led Rigby Waxman into the dark, dusty old manor and closed the doors behind them, while Hugh’s dead body lay on the cobblestone walkway waiting to be swept up by the maid.
An ashen moon hung in the pale blue twilight, while a cold drizzling rain poured from the sky. Raindrops splattered on the earth and turned the world to watercolor. Everything began to melt. A pair of duct-taped brown boots swung heavily one step at a time as they walked across block after block of cracked grey pavement.
Attached to these duct-taped boots was a sad and somnolent looking man dressed in formless black slacks and a brown weatherworn trench coat. He appeared to be in his early to mid-forties, with sunken-in eyes and graying hair. He had a long thin face with a twisted nose and upturned cheek bones. And on top of it all he wore an old feathered hat with a black band that ran across the middle of it.
His feet stopped when he reached the twisted iron gates of a dilapidated old manor that reached up towards the sky. He rang a buttoned buzzer and waited for a response. No response came.
“God damned lousy buzzer” he grumbled to himself.
He pushed on the buzzer several more times before giving up and beating on it mercilessly with the bottom of his fist. After failing to break, or even skew, the condition of the buzzer he gave up and squeezed between two of the bars of the gate.
After walking across a large and well kept cobblestone walkway the man found his way to the door of the large and lofty manor. He knocked on it three times and then waited patiently. No response. He knocked several more times and again he waited. Still there was no response. “Oh great”, the man muttered to himself as he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his coat pocket. “They call up a man after hours; they ask for his help with a haunting, insisting that it can’t wait until tomorrow, and that he must get over here right away, that it absolutely, positively can not wait at all. And then after making such an unreasonable fuss, what do they do when he shows up at their door? They leave him with a broken buzzer and having to let himself in. Lousy, no-good, haunted assholes.
Oh well”, he thought to himself, “maybe the haunters have already killed them off and that’s why they aren’t answering their door. In which case, I can go home and get a descent nights sleep for the first time in months.” This thought pleased the man immeasurably, and while lighting his cigarette he let his mind drift through various phantasmagoric scenes of the haunted having their hearts wrenched from their chests by ectoplasmic fiends.
However, his violent and beautiful daydreams were cut short when the sound of breaking glass overhead was followed by a deafening scream and then the wet thud of a body landing at the man’s feet. Upon impact the head had made first contact with the ground and consequently the aforementioned well kempt cobblestone walkway was now littered with bits of brain and skull (as was the man’s trench coat).
“Oh Christ”, the man muttered to himself as he picked wet, fleshly little bits of brain off of his coat. “You just had to call me didn’t you, you miserable, haunted pricks?”
Just then, behind the man the manor door burst open and a hysterical old woman in heavy makeup came running out the door. She looked to be somewhere in her late-sixties or early-seventies.
“Oh God-Hugh!” The old woman sobbed unabashedly. And she dashed towards the body.
Standing over the body and looking at the mass of blood and brain that was smeared all over the cobblestone, the old woman turned to the man and asked, “Is he dead?”
With a look that simultaneously displayed disgust and disbelief, the man stepped over to the half-headless body, knelt down and grabbing its wrist, he checked the dead man’s pulse. After a few seconds of utter silence the man said in a dark and sullen tone, “He’s dead.” And then the man put his cigarette out in the dead man’s ear.
The old woman let out another screechy cry and then said, “Are you sure?”
“I checked his pulse didn’t I?”
“Yes-but only his wrist. Can’t you check the neck?”
“Check the neck?!” the man insisted, “But he only has half a head!”
“Oh I know, but can’t you do it to just be sure?” the old woman asked.
“Absolutely not.”
“But why?”
“Because he only has half a head!” The man pointed around the bloodstained walkway, “You see all these bits of blood and brain here?”
“Yes.”
“Well that’s this man’s head!” he shouted, pointing as the dead man.
The old woman removed a little grey case from her pocket and proceeded to put on a pair of antique spectacles. After the glasses were in place she looked around at all the blood and gore. “Oh, so you’re right then. This is definitely Hugh’s blood.”
“Are you sure?” said the man with a deep twinge of sarcasm in his voice.
“Oh yes, I’d know this blood anywhere. Say-who are you?”
The man stood up and fixing his coat he introduced himself: “My name is Rigby Waxman, I’m-“
The woman gave him a relieved sort of smile. “Oh yes, you’re the…uh…the…ghost catcher, right?”
“Um…Paranormal detective actually…”
“Right, right. Well, I’m not going to lie to you Mr. Ghost Catcher-you’re a little late.”
“Yes, so I see.”
The two stood in an awkward sort of silence until finally, smiling and saying rather chirpily to the man, “Would you like to come in?” the old woman grabbed Rigby by the hand and was already leading him inside.
“What about, um…Hugh?” asked Rigby.
“Oh, don’t worry about him. We’ll let the maid see to that.”
And so the old woman led Rigby Waxman into the dark, dusty old manor and closed the doors behind them, while Hugh’s dead body lay on the cobblestone walkway waiting to be swept up by the maid.