The Fate of Edgar Talon Slowe

July 13 2022; people 113

I, Edgar Talon Slowe, am writing this story from my iron tomb, my final resting place-- not that it is particularly comfortable. But I’m being morbid and getting ahead of myself in my narrative. I will start at the beginning. I was enjoying myself--- No! No! No! I cannot bear the torment of the ghouls of memories that howl within my mind. But it must be written that the future generations may not follow in my avaricious footsteps… I will write in third person… and I will accept the pain that it brings as just retribution for my folly…

It was ten minutes before midnight when Edgar, the building inspector, was waiting for the buying agent. The moon was enshrouded with wisps of clouds. The windows were yawning holes. This house looked condemned. The nearest streetlight was two blocks down. I should go home, he thought. But he waited for five more minutes. Alas, the first mistake of many. Four minutes and seventeen seconds later, the Italian buying agent came up, his heels clicking against the concrete. He had no car.

“This is it.” He had a thick European accent and dark black hair.

“I’ve got to go in there?”

“You’re the inspector, no?” The agent curled his dark mustache around his finger. He was the one who had scheduled this late-night inspection.

“Well, yes, but not at night…” Edgar thought he heard a faint hiss from the nearest window.

“My clients, so very famous, want to move in tomorrow.”

“In here?”

“Yes.” He brought out a key, turned, and unlocked the door. It scraped the porch as he pulled it open.

Edgar peered into the darkness and scratched his brow. He pulled a flashlight from his belt and clicked it on. He glanced at the agent. There was a cold laughter dancing in his eyes and Edgar had the feeling that he was being ushered to his death. But all the man said was:

“Go on. I’ll be right here.” That wasn’t very comforting.

Edgar stepped a few feet into the house. He looked back. The agent was gone. There was nothing but a wisp of a mist where he had stood. Goosebumps rippled up his neck.

“Big help he was,” He laughed with a pseudo-bravado. He continued his inspection, and his hand was only a little unsteady. He was reaching for the doorknob of the last door when there was a hideous laughter behind him. He spun around, flashing his light back and forth. Nothing.

He shook his head and opened the door behind him. He moaned, for the stairs led down.

“Of all the houses to have a basement…” He hated basements, but this was the worst one yet. He treaded down the stairs on his tiptoes, wishing he were going up. Standing at the foot of the stair, he played his light across the cinderblock walls.

“What… what is that?” He asked himself. He drew closer, forgetting his fear. It was a safe, approximately four foot in every direction and had thick walls. On the front was engraved:

The walls on the outside reflect the treasure within,

To open it is four times the number of sin.

(6.6.6.6)

“Treasure?” The image of stacks of money piled up within the vault filled his mind. He spun the tumblers until they were all sixes. The door opened with a click. He swung it open and looked inside. There was nothing within, but a small note. He stooped down and grabbed it.

The greed in your heart is to be your doom,

Climb on in, after all, it is your tomb.

“What! Where is the treasure?” Disgusted, he threw the paper down and turned to leave. But that was when the house began to quake. Dust rained down from above. He rushed up to the door at the top of the stairs, but it was locked and made of solid metal. By now, the house was quivering. It’s going to fall on me; I’ve got to get somewhere safe! He thought in desperation. Then his eyes widened in illumination. The safe! Perfect! He rushed down the staircase and climbed into the strongbox.

Immediately, the house stopped shaking. But before he could get out, the door to the safe slammed shut and locked in place—either by design or unseen hands, I don’t know which.

This is my story and, as far as I know, the house above is still standing, and it was all a trap to trip me in avarice. My flashlight is fading, so I better write the moral of my story quickly; DON’T BE GREEDY! There, I got it out. I’ve been writing on the ticket of inspection. Did you know that staying in an 4x4x4 iron box for 50 hours is really uncomfortable? There isn’t much room to move about. That’s all I’ve got to say, so this is it. And remember, don’t be greedy.

Yours sincerely, truly, and inside an iron box,

Edgar Talon Slowe