Entry The Ninth In The Prattingly Private Journal: Horrific Halloween Hauntings

Oh! You surprised me, o devilish diary, the one in which I record my innermost brilliant thoughts (I have no other kind, naturally). I see that you are open upon my lap, ready to record another of my scary stories which the Halloween Hobgoblin forces me to write.

Sometimes, despite the fact that women are only interested in men for whatever material possessions they can obtain from them, I still foolishly feel as they I should have acquired a wife somewhere along my life's journey. Then I realize that, despite their soft appearances and gentle caresses and heaving bosoms, that they are exactly like the women in this fearsome frightfest:

The Henrietta Husbands

Why do they always make me go to the middle of nowhere to investigate these cases? Who has even heard of Henrietta, anyway? Not me, that's for sure.

The house is supposed to be on Levin Street, but I don't see the number. Oh, no, it's not Street, it's Circle. Still, I can't see it. Wait. There's a fallen tree over there. That's it; the tree blocked the entrance to the Circle.

As I pull up to the house, a little girl runs up to my car. "Are you here again, mister?"

I get out of the car. Again? "No, I've never been here before. Would you happen to know if this is where Mrs. Eberhart lives?"

"Yeah, she lives here, but her husband died. I can't wait 'til he comes back. And if you ain't been here before, why you drivin' the same car that other guy was?"

Oh, the tragic innocence of youth. I didn't bother answering her question but went up to the door of the house. The lawns of every house on this street looked perfect, and all the ordinary looking houses had no need of any repairs. The whole circle looked like an advertisement for rustic American living.

Mrs. June Eberhard, an attractive woman on the wrong side of middle age, opened the door. "Oh, you're here already? I'm surprised you found the house. The husbands cut...I mean, a large tree fell across the entrance to our street."

I assured her that I wasted quite a bit of time looking for her house. I looked around the interior of her exquisitely decorated house. A bit too feminine for my taste, but still stunningly beautiful. "I'm Ward Kramden with Stepford Insurance, as you probably know already. I am so sorry for your loss." June herself, however, seemed not all that concerned with her 'loss'.

"It's been a terrible strain," stated Mrs. Eberhard, as if reading from a script; "I don't know how I will be able to go on."

"This is just a routine investigation. Your husband's policy was for $200,000 with a clause that pays double for accidental death, is that right?"

June issued a dramatic sob. "Goodness me, I don't know such things. Harold took care of all those things. And now he's gone!"

Why is she putting on this act?, I wondered. It's not like I would be shocked if she said she hated her husband, and when can I get the money? I almost expected it by now.

"Once again, I am sorry for your loss. Harold DID die accidentally, from a TV falling into his bath, according to your claim." From the photo I had of Harold, he did not AT ALL look the type of man who would cleanse himself by taking baths. It looked as though he rarely took showers, either.

"Yes, yes, that's right. I was always warning him not to watch TV in the tub. But did he care? No! He cared more about watching re-runs of 'The Dukes of Hazzard' than he cared about his own family! And now he's gone! Gone!"

Something in me snapped. Driving for hours in 100 degree heat in a car with a malfunctioning air conditioner can do that to a man. "Look, lady, you'll get your money. Even if you did kill him, or had someone do it, I don't see any way anybody can prove it. Just stop it with the 'poor little me' bit so I can turn in the paperwork so you can get your money. Okay?"

Mrs. Eberhard gave me a cold, hard look. "That's perfectly fine by me. Will you be leaving now?"

"Not quite yet. We have to fill out some forms first. It shouldn't take too long."

Just then, a feminine figure descended the staircase. "You haven't introduced me to your company yet, Mama," spoke the beautiful young woman from the third step.

"He don't need no introduction. He's just here from the insurance company. But, Harold, this is my daughter Jessica. Jessica, Harold." We waved at each other. Jessica walked over seductively and offered her hand, and we shook hands.

"You're a nice lookin' man, Harold. And you ain't too old, neither. Can I have him, Mama?"

Yes, you can, you sexy vixen! "You can't have nobody, girl! You're too young for a man, and beside, Harold is too old for you. Only nineteen thinkin' you can have a man!"

I'm only thirty-one! And I look younger! For her, I would MAKE myself be younger.

"Mama, all the other girls got a man, and I want one for myself! 'Sides, if you don't let me have him, I'm gonna tell about all those other men."

Other men? Why would I care if June had cheated on her husband? "Girl, you jest hesh up if you know what's good for you."

"I don't care! I'm tellin'!," Jessica shouted. She's even pretty when she shouts.

"Wait! Just wait 'til I make a phone call." June took her cell phone from her shirt pocket. "Shirley? We have a situation here. Can you come in a moment?"

Almost immediately, and to my surprise, the back door opened and a woman in a lab coat and goggles entered. "June, I told you we can't operate on him for another couple of weeks yet."

Then she saw me. Shirley removed her goggles and said, "Oh. The insurance man is here. Stepford? June, you know that we were all supposed to get our policies from different companies."

Suddenly, this case became very interesting, and probably criminal. "I thought Stephanie got hers from Hartford. There's too many 'fords' in the insurance business," responded June.

I decided to ask a question. "What's this all about?"

Shirley walked briskly walked up to me. "You want to know what this is about? I will tell you what this is about!". That's when I saw the small gun pointing at me from inside the lab coat.

Both June and Jessica gasped.

Shirley guided me with her gun over to the sofa and proceeded to tell me the story. "Husbands!," she spat out. "What are they good for? They gamble away all the money, they eat all the food, they don't even do the things they ought to around the house, and then they cheat on us because we don't understand them!" I thought she was generalizing a bit, but kept my mouth shut, because one should be extremely careful what one says when dealing with a woman with a gun. "Ha! We understand them all too well! Do you know who I am, Mr. Insurance Agent?"

"Um, Ward Kramden," I blurted out automatically. "And no I don't."

"Well, Mr. Ward Kramden of Stepford Insurance, I will fill you in. I am Dr. Shirley Roan. I am a scientist. If this were a bad movie, you might even call me a mad scientist. My specialty is life extension. I moved to this little street on purpose, and after much careful research. There are only six houses on this street. As you discovered, this is a very isolated street, quite far from the houses on the main road. I discovered that all five women were unhappy in their marriages. The other house was vacant and for sale, but not for long. First, though, I conducted my little experiment on my husband. It was an incredible success. That was when I moved here. All the other women saw for themselves how a husband should act. They did not need much convincing for me to perform the same operation on their own husbands. True, it is inconvenient that the husband has to die first, but I bring him back to life. Or a kind of life anyway, so it's not really murder, now is it? Naturally, the husbands cannot be seen outside of this little street with them already being dead and buried. We had to buy policies on them in order to afford these operations. With the money left over, we improve the neighborhood and the houses, and maybe some jewelry and dresses besides."

I stared at her, stunned. Was this whole street infected with some kind of psychosis? It had the ring of truth, though, as fantastic that seemed.

"I see you don't quite believe me yet. Allow me to demonstrate." The doctor removed a device from her coat and pushed a button. A middle aged, well-dressed man entered the front door. "There you are, my darling!," he called and rushed to her and hugged and kissed her. Shirley pushed another button. The man's eyes closed and I could hear a soft snoring sound. "That comes in handy when they start acting like their old selves," she said with satisfaction.

I saw it; yet I still couldn't believe it. It took me a while to recover. "Look," Shirley said, "we have worked too hard and too long to make this plan a success. We can't have you ruining everything. You have two choices." Her waving the gun at me made clear what one of the choices was.

"And what's the other choice?," I asked, as calmly as I could.

"I've noticed that you've taken a fancy to little Jessica over there and for some reason she seems to like you too. IF you are as good a husband to her as all our husbands are to us now, THEN you may live as you are living now. Yes, you will be a prisoner here, but you will be alive, and you will have the prettiest wife on the block. Maybe in the state. You may have noticed that Jessica is a pretty young woman. How about it?"

When presented with a Hobson's choice, pick the one that allows for a chance of your survival. And the consolation prize was, all in all, quite a consolation.

Of course, I had to quit my job...after mailing in all the forms. Then I had to tell all my relatives that I had decided to live the remainder of my life on a remote Philippine island.

It's been two years.

I love my wife.

I'm scared to death.

Palpitations! I am suffering from pounding, pulsating palpitations after writing that! The things I must endure just so that my eyes, and my eyes alone, can enjoy the horror that is uniquely mine and cannot ever be shared, lest I kill with my frightening words those who read them. And what is a Hobson's choice? I shall have to have my private computer programmer to Google it for me. Hobson sounds like a disreputable sort, if you ask me.

This has been the Entry the Ninth in the Prebindingly Private journal Of Mr. Lord Dr. Henry Harrison the III, Esq., Duke of Earl of Sandwich.