By Darryl Armstrong

Gossip was that murder occurred in this house. The two-story Victorian had been a show place in the late 1800’s. Mrs. Heidenreich played piano at church. The upturned piano, fallen chandeliers, and articles of clothing strewn inside, bode of rapid departure.
I wanted to know more about the old place so I sat with our neighbor, Mr. Pfloog. He was in his seventies, a childless widower and a kind man.
“Ya, dat house is not goot place for be playing, boy.”  Pfloog pointed to the Heidenreiches. “You get hurt n’ ‘cused of doin dat destroyings.”
“But what happened? Who killed who?” My eleven-year old mind conjured ghastly scenes.
“Well, when they was kilt, they been fightin lot.” He settled back in his rocker rubbing his knee. “I’m thinkin she wantin more than he gonna gift her. Her screamin and hollerin heard over town. She a’threatnin him, ‘If’n you don’t gift me money, Ima goin atorney’s shop and d’vorcin!’ He just wave his hand, say ‘Bah!’ to her.”
Old newspapers said that Heidenreich had kept a large amount of cash from the sale of his parent’s farm. Not trusting Ada, his wife, he stashed the money somewhere on the property.  The night Ada attacked him with a fireplace poker he was able to shoot her with his Gewehr 88.  They both fell in a pool of blood in the living room. Neither recovered from their wounds.  Funerals were on the same day at different cemeteries.
“I guesses money hid on dat property, even now,” Pfloog said, “Nobody find. Dat Heidenreich was smart one. I look once. Saw blood marker on dat floor. Not want stay dere, den.”
I had to go to the house. Sitting on the floor of the Heidenreiches I saw glass shards and powder from broken plaster framing footprints from countless invasions. Weathered and broken light fixtures, pieces of destroyed furniture and crumpled sheet music surrounded me.
The summer air changed to cold in the room, still and too quiet. I tensed. A thin strip of light came from a floorboard to the right of the fireplace. An aura surrounded me. I felt pain in my left temple where Heidenreich had been hit. Ada must have been right-handed. The sense of intrigue kept me in place. My heart pounded, my breathing came in quick shallow gulps. I felt the softness of a woman’s hand pushing against my back propelling me into the room. I tried to turn and run but I was enveloped. The force was kind but relentless. I crabbed toward the fireplace.
The floorboard molding had been tampered with. I found a spot where I could slide a finger behind the molding and peeled it back. The section was longer than I was tall. A rough, painted dusty area behind the boards was all I saw at first. One corner, a little rougher than the rest, was beginning to erode. It was masking tape that had been painted over and then trapped in by the floorboards. I pulled at the covering. Under the tape was a long line, ten bills thick with $100 bills, for several feet. I knew there were thousands of dollars there.
Smoke came from the kitchen and upstairs. Grabbing the bills and jamming them down my pants, I ran outside and leapt from the porch. I felt the heat on my back of the home bursting into flames. I turned. The house was ablaze as I heard the piano playing….

Darryl Armstrong is a mortgage banker with Guild Mortgage in Pismo Beach. He enjoys writing for publications across the United States and is a member of SLO NightWriters for writers at all levels in all genres. Find them online at slonightwriters.org.