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THE COUNT ( a work in progress)

by Graeme Fielden

  Generally speaking, I am a skeptical person. Not the type to dabble with the tarot, horoscopes or with the tealeaves. Nor ever would I permit my palm to be read. Not even in jest! The sight of a black cat blocking my path will not so much trigger superstition as civic concern that a reckless owner could allow such a creature to desecrate my street. I admit with certain pride that I am an entirely sensible and respected gentleman, admired and even praised for my work in the community. I sit upon the Parish Council and on the Board of Governors of my local Comprehensive. I am a senior Rotarian, a respected solicitor and a Justice of the Peace. I am a teetotaler; a God fearing Conservative who would sooner profess himself a Shetland pony than admit belief in anything even slightly supernatural. Moreover, I am not the type to be bamboozled by the flimflam, hocus-pocus of any charlatan, which pays further credence to the fact that I am the least likely person in the world to believe in vampires, which makes this so strange! And before you look at me in that manner, please allow me to explain! Please!

If you’d only seen the things I’ve seen, heard the screams. If you’d felt fears spindly fingers slowly grasping at your neck as cold, hungry eyes caress your throat, with longing stares and he taps out your heart beat - a rap tap-tap, a rap tap-tap - with paten leather shoes. Yes, only then would you understand!

You see we were a happy neighbourhood. Content and quiet with neat trimmed hedges and nameplates on our houses: Rover’s, Austin’s, and the occasional Volvo 240 parked in cobbled driveways. We were a happy family: a community with happy citizens – blue-peaked postmen and tradesmen who whistled while they worked. We were interrupted by the occasional teenage party: particularly about the mid-term, but it was never out of control: altogether normal and nice, nice and controlled, which I like. Yes, I like control. I did not like when Mrs. Perkins passed away. Such an inconvenience! Oh Mrs. Perkins, such a saint! Although many thought her cabbage smell offensive, I considered it rather homely - it reminded me of my own dear mother. Yes, she shouted all manner of profanity from time to time - a sign of her age; one of the crosses the dear lady had to bear. Indeed it seemed a veiled blessing when she passed quickly, and it seemed something of a blessing that suffrage was not prolonged…

I did some research, some digging. One of the benefits of being a probate specialist is access to certain records… The late Dorothy Perkins (nee Bastlebury) had three sons named as heirs to the estate. There was a fourth claimant known only as “The Count”. I remember thinking this peculiar, however I didn’t give it further consideration until…

It was late October and already the evenings had begun to shorten, so by 4pm it was dark and windy. Pedestrians huddled under umbrellas and awnings on footpaths, which squelched loudly in the sludge. I closed the curtain to bask within the amber-lit warmth of my studio as I opened the Perkins file…

KERBANG!

The striking of the thunder caused me to jump, followed by a strike of lightening, which set the street outside alight with a blinding light. As my eyes recovered from its intensity, the glow within my eyes settled and I realized that the rooms were set to darkness. Lighting a match, I set the candle as I fished further through the file…

08/10/2007

Posted on 08/10/2007
Copyright © 2024 Graeme Fielden

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Quentin S Clingerman on 08/10/07 at 06:38 PM

Another intense mystery under way. Awaiting further developments.

Posted by Michelle Angelini on 08/10/07 at 08:05 PM

This sounds quite Victorian or other type of story. Great beginning. I'll follow it with interest.
~Chelle~

Posted by Katerina T Nix on 08/10/07 at 11:43 PM

oooooo, the intrigue!!!! I am impressed, Graeme! (as I always am with your work) Great read! By the way, where are you these days? Still in Australia?

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