I'm sure you've heard of Progressive Dinners, where guests go from house to house to partake of various food courses. Today, we're using the same concept here at Make Mine Mystery. We're calling it a Progressive Mystery. When it's finished, maybe we can find a better title for it. Or maybe not, if it's that bad.
So I'll start it off. Then you, the readers, please comment below to move the mystery along. It can be a sentence, a phrase or a paragraph or two. Have fun, but please keep it PG rated.
OKAY, HERE GOES:
Part of Marilyn's nightly ritual before going upstairs to bed was to check and make sure all the doors were locked. She turned the knob on the back door and nodded with approval as she felt the familiar pressure of the dead bolt holding everything in place.
Next was the front door. She reached for the knob, then frowned, as it easily turned. Hadn't she locked it when she went out to get the mail that morning? Anyone could have gotten in during the day.
YOUR TURN - WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?
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She jerked her hand back and gasped as the knob began to turn on its own.
Heart racing, she grabbed for the heavy silver candle stick that sat on the small table beside the door. It fell to the floor with a thunk. She backed away as the door creaked and slowly swung open.
In fascinated horror, she stood there.
A hairy hand with long fingers curled around the jamb.
"Oh, it's you," she said.
"You sound disappointed, Greta. You were hoping for someone else, weren't you?"
Heart still pounding wildly, she could barely answer. "N...no, I..." the look on his face struck new terror in her.
He was supposed to have been far away by now, yet here he was.
Had he found out?
Hers was indeed a guilty secret. Not only did she hate hairy hands, she added hair remover to the liquid soap each time a hairy-handed man came to call.
So why were his hands still hairy? Obvious — either he had forgotten to wash his hands in the bathroom or he had bad habits. Either answer horrified her — to think he had touched her body and…
run his filthy fingers over the most private parts of her.
Not to mention he kept calling her Greta. "Marilyn," she'd tell him. "For God's sake, my name is Marilyn. What is this Greta business?" But he never listened, instead . . .
...he kept bringing her papers to apply for a name change. "I love the name Greta," he said. "Greta Garbo."
"I want to be left alone!" Marilyn insisted.
Marian Allen
He reached to pull her close. "You know you want me here, Greta. I can see it in your eyes."
"What you see in my eyes are cataracts. Lucky for you they hide my disdain." She shrugged free of his embrace. "Now keep you hairy hands off of me."
"You don't mean that, Greta."
"For the last time, stop calling me Greta. Greta died two years ago."
"But your twin sister looked so much like you. And I loved her so much--you must forgive me," he said, backing away and wiping a tear from his check."
"I shall call you what I like." Cadwell brushed his calloused fingertips on her neck. Greta had indeed died, and the jury had failed to convict him. "And you shall like what I call you."
Brandon, you've got to stop living in the past. When your brother caused the accident that killed Greta, I told you it was over. It was your brother Tad that I loved, God rest his soul, not you.
‘Tad? That hairless creature? He had the body of a nine-year old! I'll give you a taste of a real man!’
‘Wash your hands first, you filthy swine.’
‘That's my girl,’ he said, gripping her arms and flattening her on the floor. ‘I love it when you talk dirty!’
Oh, his soul will not rest. Not when he sees what I will do to you. And neither will yours, my dear, neither will yours.
She gripped the sharp knife she hid inside her pocket, for just such an occassion....
Greta touched his brows, his cheeksm and as he did,his hair grew longer, culier, thicker. Eyes puzzled, he stuttered, looking at his now very hairy arms. "What's heppening?"
Greta began to braiding his growing locks, wrapping them around his neck. Tight and strong. "
"Darling, even now, after all that's happened, here I am reincarnated. And, yet, well, you can't teach an old dog--or hairdresser--new tricks."
"Dear me. My beloved sister, the writer, hideously murdered, wouldn't like what I've done . . . and said."
Slipping his rough fingers around her slender neck. Tightening. She pushed against his grimy shirt.
Just then, Col. Mustard barged into the room and...
Nancy
N. R. Williams, fantasy author
Whoa ! Col. Mustard what is that? Pointing to the yellow smudge on his vest. Distracted the two men looked toward Col. Mustards vest Greta/ Marilyn, broke away from the hairy hands, that had her pinned to the floor rolling free she scampered through the arched door to the parlor. To freedom.
drew his sword. "Freak! Murderer! Remove your hands from that woman this instant, or I'll cut you down where you stand!"
Marilyn's thoughts raced, as she tried to get away. All she could think of was "I hope Brandon doesn't Ketchup with me."
Reaching the back door she fumbled with the door knob. "Damn it, locked" she protested. Reaching into her pocket for the skeleton key a blood curdling scream reverberated through the old house. Frantically she tried to insert the key when from behind her a voice spoke out. "Going somewhere?"
Turning back to the door she noticed the full moon starting to rise in the east. "No" she screamed.
"Please stop, I only want to be with you" he said in a very sarcastic tone. "Col Mustard though had to go" he snickered tossing what was left of his head to the floor. "The old fool didn't see it coming."
As the moon began to rise hair continued to grow and his face began to contort and morph. She turned away in disgust.
"Puberty. Ick," she muttered.
Just then, Marilyn caught a glimpse of something moving from the corner of her eye. It caused the hairs on the back of her neck to raise. She focused all her efforts on trying to extricate herself from the delicate situation, but she felt an unknown dread growing within her as she turned to see...
Sarah Palin. She bustled past, intent on finding a table big enough to use for gutting supernatuiral beings as well as for book signings.
"Damn," she said."Working these small towns is a load."
Marilyn grabbed the chance that Sarah's sudden appearance gave her. She bolted from the back door as Palin's retinue filed in, pushing Brandon to the side. Outside was a...
standard black sedan, Marilyn looked enough like Tina Fay, she dove into the back seat as they sped off Sarah running after them "wait I don’t have my books" The car slowed…
The moment of indecision was a mistake. Brandon had stolen a BMW, which was gaining on them.
Just then, Miss Scarlet stepped off the corner, lifted her brilliant red dress above her knee and smiled. Brandon hit the breaks, slid across the wet pavement and trashed his car. When he looked back at Miss Scarlet, she ...
Nancy
N. R. Williams, fantasy author
had vanished in a pink cloud. In her place Mustard, minus head, stood pointing a bloody finger at him.
It was at that point that Marilyn sat up in bed, gasping in fear and panic. Had it only been a bad dream, she wondered, or was her life truly in danger? At that moment, she heard a creak on the stairs. Who could it be, here, in the middle of the night?
Another sound. Marilyn froze, not daring to breathe. Someone or something was definitely out there. She was alone and without a weapon. Her heart pounded in her chest. She had 0only seconds before she was discovered. Close to hysteria she reached out and grabbed...
... a slice of pizza.
'Thank God I listened to Grannie,' she thought. '"Always keep comfort food handy", she used to say.'
Then, as if it was in her head, not an external phenomenon, she heard the whisper.
'You should have ordered pepperoni, cupcake. Always pepperoni. Like in Rome, you remember?'
No. It couldn't be. He'd been eviscerated by that tram in Vienna. How could he be so - real?
Her whole mind became a scream as the door opened and ...
Humphrey crept into the room.
It couldn't be him. She saw him fall under the tram. Had she? Her eyes closed now as they had then.
"Hello cupcake, good to see you waited for me to come along again."
Opening the door, she yelled, "Oh no! I thought you were dead."
"It takes more than that to get rid of a vampire."
She shoved the pizza, reeking with garlic sauce at him.
"Ha-ha!" he chortled. "Your garlic sauce is no match for my magical sparkles. Did you not always say I was deLIGHTful?"
"No," Marilyn mused. "That must have been someone else. You lousy two-timer!"
She grabbed the sharpened Louisville Slugger she always kept for just such an occurrence and...
Marian Allen
Humphrey's back had been crushed by a tram wheel and viscera apparently had been stuffed back into his body, but otherwise he looked none the worse for wear.
Humphrey regarded her with a leer. "At least we'll always have Paris," he mumbled through bourbon soaked lips.
"No, that was my sister, Greta, who was in Paris, not me."
"I know a good wax job will do the trick," Marilyn said. "I never did like hairy men and to add a vampires lust to it is a yuck, yuck moment." With that she took out a business card and...
Nancy
N. R. Williams, fantasy author
set it aflame with her Bic lighter. She pulled a large cigar from her jacket, touched the flaming card to the tip, and began to puff.
"That's disgusting!" Humphrey shouted and began a horrible vampire cough.
"You think that's disgusting," Marilyn said, "wait till you see..."
"my athlete's foot."
With that she ran from the room.
He ran after her but suddenly stopped, she was indeed an athlete and too quick for him. Moreover, from what he saw of her bare feet that disgusting mould looked beyond nauseating, it was repulsive beyond belief. What's more, the stench of it was leaving a trail of green vapour as though beckoning him to follow. Against all inclination, try as he may, he could not refuse. Somehow she had grasped his will...
She reached for the silver candlestick that had fallen on the floor. As he pressed himself to her she lifted the candlestick and struck him as hard as she could on the side of his head. The blood began to trickle out from the deep wound she created. Pushing him off her, she scrambled out the door and into the street screaming for help.
Humphrey waited a few minutes to be sure the coast was clear then laughed. Their plan had worked perfectly.
"You can come on out now, Greta; she's gone, but not for long. Let's get a move on!"
Greta helped Humphrey up and while he cleaned himself off, she selected two of Marilyn's favorite ensembles with matching shoes and accessories. Humphrey was helping her zip them into Marilyn's luggage just as they heard the sirens blare in the distance. As planned, they were able to walk out the back entrance, with the luggage, long before the police arrived.
They would then have to move on to step number two in their Grand Scheme. But before Humphrey left, he decided he wanted some much-deserved revenge, so tucked under her bed he left a...
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Cynde
Cynde's Got The Write Stuff
bedbug. He sprinkled some more onto the mattress where she wouldn't see them until it was too late.
She would be bitten and have an allergic reaction which would...........
bring on an asthma attack. Worse — make her as mad as hell! Bed bugs? She hadn't suffered with those since she was a kid living in a broken-down cottage sharing a bed with her four younger sisters and a nest of cats.
They didn't have much money then. That was before Dad sold his software program to a company starting with G and they became instantly rich.
Being rich is nice, but has its price. Everyone's after you.
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