the horror of willow manor

Do not be alarmed. I must tell this story to someone. I am from the dead. Perhaps, yes, I am familiar to you. I have that kind of face. It was the lightning strike through the open north window here. Not that a closed window would've helped. Or maybe being flung head first into the wall as you can see by the damage. That really set her off even though smoke was still pouring from my ears. In a flash it was all over for me, and now I stand before you amongst the horror.

She wanted this vestibule to the Manor ballroom painted in time for the soiree. Soirée. A word I never used before taking one to the temple. She was firm. Make the paint dry fast, she said. I'd like to paint your clock, I says under my breath. You think, Lady, that with a scorched soul I can perform miracles? Returning from the Dead is no miracle. It's a curse.

I'll show her. I'll haunt this place once I vaporize for good. Slam doors while she's painting her toenails and she'll have streaks to her knees. Piling furniture into a corner. That's straight from the manual. Oh yes, there's a manual. It was inside that portal of the Manor frame. There must be other Dead on the property. I'll keep it in my back pocket. 1001 Tricks For The After Hours. I better go now. My left hand tends to fall off. Makes holding the roller quite difficult. The horror of this place is coming. That brisk heavy traipse. I highly doubt if she'll offer a plate of diagonally sliced egg salad sandwiches and a tall frosty lemonade.

painting: The Revenant (1949)
~Andrew Wyeth