We can't find the internet
Attempting to reconnect
The Mystery of Webster’s Curse & The Heroism of Mitzy A few years ago I had my year 7 Mathematics class for a music teacher who was away, sick. They had completed their music work, and like so many playful and bored, begged a story. The Mystery of Webster’s curse was born that period. Later came the resolution of the curse due to Mitzy’s heroism. Many thanks to PFB and AB for inspiration, and RMMB for encouragement. The Mystery of Webster’s Curse The events that surround the horror at that lonely suburban house so long ago are well recounted. They are legend. Every year I am given charge of many groups of students. The younger ones are not privy to the stories. They want to know. The printed stories I will leave to my neighbours of that era. How a family moved into a haunted house, and the oldest boy killed all of his family. Later, when questioned by police, he told of a voice that instructed him to kill. Or of the couple who bought the house on the cheap. They faced such horrors. I knew the house from before. When I was growing up. Old Mrs Webster lived there. There are old people and there are old people. Some people have this thing called dignity, and it has nothing to do with being dignified in company. Mrs Webster had something else. She was old and possibly crippled, but she was athletic and energetic. She would wait by the side of her house each school morning. Any child unfortunate enough to pass within earshot would endure her curses and quips. Wise boys and girls knew to stay away. Naughty ones had to discover for themselves. Once, on the way to school, I strayed too close. She had been calling me fat, which simple justice and an enthusiastic father led me to accept without question or deviation from my route. I trudged through the ankle deep snow. She had noticed my bag was low on my shoulder. I ignored her as I'd been trained. The wind was cold and sharp. I ignored the sharp pain in my shoulder and cheek. The dull thud. The sudden exhale. I stood stunned and still, my mind registering the stone and a little blood. Then I felt my cheek cool rapidly and wetly. Felt the heat in the muscle as it responded to the tear in the flesh. I shouldered my bag high and sprinted on without further abuse. No one at school asked me about the injury, although my teacher didn't bat an eyelid when I asked to go to sickbay. Mrs Webster brooked no visitors. The mailman never strayed closer than an arms length to her box. The house was decayed and breathtaking. Two stories if you don't count the attic. Magnificent arched windows stood high on the second floor. They could have been doors to a balcony if one were there. She would stare balefully through them on cold days. On cold evenings, her form could still be seen through these windows. Watching the street. Two mighty Oaks stood guard either side of the stone path leading to the wooden steps to the front door. A rope dropped from the entry porch ceiling had a leather pouch with a ball that could be used as a knocker, although nobody new if it ever would. The kids at school argued that it was really the skull of a black cat, but no one knew what a cat would be doing there anyway. Even a black one. Even if the house did smell of the carrion attractive to such cats. A gate enclosed the house. Wooden posts lay ranch style with a rusty metal latch and hinge. It didn't matter that Mrs Webster lived there. It was haunted. Time passes and even the inimitable Mrs Webster passed away. The Mailman noticed, one day, that she failed to collect her letters. She stopped appearing at her windows and passers by noticed they weren't being harassed. Police knock on the door, with the wooden ball hanging from the drop string. No answer. Police HQ instruct them to break in, which they do with minimal force. It is said that they found Mrs Webster in a chair, facing the fireplace. School legend has it that she wore her death mask as a child on Halloween, dared to visit her place. Her face a picture of horror, with eyes wide and mouth agape. Some have said that she sometimes can still be seen standing at her window, on a cold winter's eve. Watching the street.
Beautiful selection of unique designs
High resolution graphics
Custom production runs available
