The Warmth of Autmn (standard:horror, 1616 words)
Author: Tom Soukup	Added: Jan 06 2002	Views/Reads: 3253/2147	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A tough economy can drive one to drastic measures but the paybacks can be disastrous. (Please view my older stories. Comments are greatly appreciated.)

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

draining the profit increasingly from the latest addition to his 
business. 

As his financial and mental states deteriorated in harmony, he was
struck with the idea that would be the focus of today's tensions. 

Cremation used a lot of fuel; the human body was much more difficult to
incinerate than the tinderwood that stood gathered next to his hearth.  
He could certainly save a bit ... maybe not enough to totally turn the 
tide, but something ... by only partially cremating the deceased.  
Who'd know, anyway;  ashes are ashes and there were always plenty of 
substitute cremation remains in the tray at the bottom of his wood 
stove. 

So he took to the charade, stoking up his crematorium furnace only
enough to preserve the illusion for the bereaved.  While their tears 
still flowed, he'd collect a handful of ashes saved from last night's 
fire, deposit them in an overpriced urn, and console his customers as 
they left to grieve.  Then in the cover of night, he'd take the 
semi-charred remains of the dead and bury them deep below his cellar 
floor. 

It worked so perfectly.  No one even suspected.  Just the night before
in fact, he pulled it off with such practiced precision that he found 
his own sad expression had nearly become real.  Little old lady 
Hemlick's friends never realized that only a few moments before, he 
actually considered stealing the large gold ring from her cold finger 
to put the final touches on this perfect crime.  Too bad rigor mortis 
and enlarged knuckles prevented that. 

But for now, Sara Binghamton had enough.  The door to the home she had
made for all these years closed forever behind her as she left him to 
his distasteful occupation. 

*       *       * 

That night, a cold wind rose from the northwest as a strong front raced
in from Canada.  The streets of Pine Rock lay empty as tiny whirlwinds 
spun through the fallen leaves and a line of low clouds crept across 
the darkening sky.  Arthur battened down the hatches, checking that 
each window was tightly closed to hold the wicked chill at bay.  He 
always hated to turn up the heat in the house but, with fuel savings 
well under control, he fired up the furnace and settled into an old 
novel with the warmth of his bedroom surrounding him. 

As the night grew deeper, a few beads of perspiration started to form on
his brow and he smiled for a moment at being able to finally afford 
such luxury.  He closed the book on his thumb and crossed the room to 
trim the thermostat back a bit, then climbed back into his bed.  He 
thought for a moment about Sara and her anger.  She'd get over it, he 
figured.  He knew that she loved him and he supposed that it he really 
had to admit it, he loved her too. 

He opened the book and fell back into the depths of the story. 

Soon the room became warmer still and he shifted uneasily in the rising
discomfort.  He kicked off the blankets, cursing silently at the 
inconvenience.  He adjusted the thermostat again, wondering quietly if 
this all meant he'd be facing a stiff repair bill in the morning. 

"Just when you start to get ahead," he mumbled as he shuffled back to
the bed.  "Just when you think you got it licked ..." 

And the temperature rose higher. 

Arthur tapped on the device, struck it soundly with a tightened fist,
but the heat in the room grew ever more oppressive, choking him and 
straining his breath.  He stripped off his robe, then the shirt below, 
but rivers of salty perspiration snaked across his bare chest to 
saturate the waistline of his trousers. 

He staggered to the window, the last bits of strength draining from his
legs.  Need some air, he thought to himself.  "Need some fresh air," he 
croaked. 

He strained against the sash, but the window wouldn't open. 

He shuffled to the bedroom door, feeling the rising heat through the
soles of his slippers.  The moisture in his palms sizzled against the 
hot metal of the doorknob.  He pulled his hand back, pain drawing his 
fingers to a tightened fist.  As panic gripped him, Arthur braced to it 
and tried the knob again.  But it wouldn't turn.  It seemed locked 
though he knew there was none on the door. 

"Help me," he said softly, then shouted "HELP ME" as his fists struck
the hot planks of the door. 

Muffled laughter invaded the sweltering room, bleeding from the walls. 

"Who's there," he managed to whisper, his hot breath so much cooler than
the room. 

"Isn't this much better?" a voice hissed back and as if in echo, a
chorus of voices repeated the question. 

"Who are you?" Arthur demanded with the last strong breath he could draw
in the rising candescence.  He turned in circles, his eyes darting to 
the corners of the room. 

"Now this is the way it should be," the voice answered calmly. 

Arthur fell to his knees and the floor blistered his skin.  He crawled
to the window and looked through the steamy pane. 

At the far side of the courtyard, the cellar doors were thrown open,
splintered from the inside.  A crooked trail of moist clay wound its 
way from that dark opening to the rear door of the house. 

"No ..." he rasped.  His forehead fell against the smoldering sill. 

A twisted and blackened hand clawed at the outside of the glass, the
moonglow reflecting on the bright gold of the heavy ring. 


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