Some of you may have read what happened in the paper… or saw the recap on ’60 Minutes’ last week. But if you didn’t, or even if you did – I’m going to give you the straight scoop right here.

First off – I’ve got to say that I’m thankful to be alive. And of course I owe it all to my wife. For those of you who aren’t sure what I’m talking about, please check out my previous posts under the ‘neighbors’ category on the sidebar to the left. Let’s just say that my suspicions about Bill were dead on. Everything came to a head on April 7th when I snuck back in to his basement. I was sure that I’d find the postman’s body behind the locked door to the coal room. It’s been nearly a month since that ordeal – but that’s how long it’s taken me to get to where I could write down what I’m about to tell you.

After I shimmied in through Bill’s basement window, I used a screwdriver to pop the padlock off the door. I opened the door, but before I even knew what I was looking at, the basement light flicked on behind me and then everything went dark. I’m not sure how long I was out. But when I woke, I was bound, gagged and hanging upside down from that old iron hook in the dark. My cheeks and eyes felt like they were going to explode from the buildup of blood settling in my face. Right then and there that’s when I realized what I saw when I opened the door. It was the postman. He was hanging upside down with his throat slit. The buckets… it wasn’t stain that Bill kept working into the woodwork. Just like the banister from that first day when he cut his hand. It was blood that was rejuvenating the wood. He used his own until the dog and then the cat came along. Then the postman went missing. Now it was my turn.

I tried to kick… tried to free myself, but Bill had me tied around the ankles and the gravity of my own weight was too much to overcome. I couldn’t “jump” the rope over the hook. I’ll be honest. I tried to scream. God I would have screamed like a scared little girl… but the gag took even that from me. I was going to die. I knew it. Bill was going to come down, slit my throat, drain my life into one of those fucking buckets and then start working it into the floor in one of his bedrooms – or on some crown molding – or a door. I was educated, happily married and looking forward to growing old with my wife. But that wasn’t going to happen. Instead, my life was going to be absorbed by the shitty-ass trim in Bill’s damn house. Then I heard the creak of weight bending the old wood of the basement steps. A second later, a half-inch strand of light came in under the coal room door. Helpless with no chance of escape, I started crying as the door yanked open. It was Bill. Or at least the shell of my neighbor. It was him on the outside. All worn down and ghastly pale. But there was something else inside that shell. Something that wasn’t human anymore.

He looked at me under the harsh glow of the lone hanging light and then grunted as he pushed one of the buckets under my head with his foot. My entire view was upside down. It exaggerated the dark shadows around his eyes and the sharp, jagged features of his jaw-line as the light and shadows swung from one side of the room to the other. He stared at me with those pitch black eyes for a second. Then he grabbed what looked like an old, rusty hunting knife off a shelf. But deep down I knew it wasn’t rust on the blade. I whimpered and tried to plead, but he simply chuckled and shoved my head with his foot. I swung toward the rear of the room and then as I swung back – he knelt down and stopped me as he grabbed a fistful of hair. I’ll never forget what he said as he put the knife to my neck. “She said you’d come. And you did.”

I felt the razor-sharp edge of cold steel against my neck. But I didn’t close my eyes. Being on the verge of death does something to you. It was a feeling I can’t explain. It was terrifying in the moment, but exhilarating at the same time. I didn’t see my life pass before me. You see I was looking at something else. Behind Bill I saw a figure – a figure with a board raised back over her head. You see when Bill had that knife to my neck; the only thing I saw was my wife.

She’d been waiting at our living room window – waiting for my return. When I didn’t show, she took matters into her own hands. Thankfully Bill’s wife, Rena, didn’t put up a fight at the front door. She let my wife in – and I must say, just in time. She cut me down and then we tied Bill up. Unconscious or dead – we weren’t taking any chances. About fifteen minutes later the police showed up. But before they got there I took Bill’s shovel and dug up the remains of the postman. He was right where I thought he’d be. Same place where Bill had pulled up the bricks on his dirt floor.

Bill’s trial is scheduled for October 4th – that is as long as the district attorney can show that he’s competent to stand trial. Rena’s doing okay. My wife and I spend a lot of time with her. It’s not good for her to be alone. That being said, she’s already told us that she’s putting the house up for sale. And I don’t blame her. After digging through countless reels of microfiche at the library for a few days, I found an article from November 7th 1917 that stood the hairs on the back of my neck. It was a story about Mrs. Jessica Albright. She and her husband built the house. For no known reason, one night in early November that year, Jessica apparently slit her wrists while Mr. Albright was away on a business trip. When he arrived back home three days later on the seventh, he found her pale, lifeless body, bled dry on the hardwood floor at the foot of the stairs. The police could not account for the lack of a blood stain on their beautiful wood floors.

Until next time, the love of those closest to you can save you even in the darkest of times. J/W