Everyone knew about Bushwick Manor. For decades now, stories about it had been told to little children as a cautionary tale. “Don’t play in the woods!”, parents would say. “Or the tortured souls of Bushwick Manor will get you.”
Edgar and Anne Bushwick bought the house about forty years ago. They were a young couple, in their twenties, and madly in love. It was said that their love was something you could only find in movies, a love that overcame every hardship and difficulty life threw in their way.
The couple settled in well in the small town, as if they had lived there forever. Every day, Edgar would get the morning paper from the small news stand and would chat with the vendor about the daily town gossip and their shared passion for music. Anne would visit the local school and bring the children vegetables she had grown in her own garden and when they begged her to tell them a story, she would tell them about the Pirate Captain Jessamine and her adventures. Ask anyone and they would say that Anne and Edgar Bushwick were two angels sent directly from heaven.
But at some point, slowly, ever so slowly, things began to change. Edgar sometimes came home late and his wife didn’t know where he went, nor had anyone seen him around town. He locked himself in his study for hours with no sound coming from the room. When he left, however, he didn’t seem any different than before. He complimented Anne’s cooking and asked her pleasantly what her plans were for the next day.
But over the course of months, these odd behaviours increased and became more apparent. He also looked like he barely slept, with dark circles under his eyes at all times and a sunken in face. One time, Anne woke up in the middle of the night to find Edgar sitting unnaturally straight and still in their bed, staring straight ahead without blinking. Anne became worried and asked Edgar one night during dinner what was wrong. He smiled at her and told her that nothing was wrong, that he was perfect, but Anne knew him better than anyone else and so she knew that he was lying.
That same night Anne was woken up at around midnight by something digging painfully into her arm. She startled and looked to her left, where her husband was only inches away from her, clutching her shoulder. The slight moonlight that shone in through the window illuminated his face, with entirely too many shadows swirling around. His mouth was contorted into a tight, cruel grin and his eyes were devoid of any emotion.
“You asked me what was wrong with me, darling”, he hissed. “Well, lately I’ve heard a voice talking to me. The voice of a demon, whispering in my ear, ordering me to hurt people.” He paused and a corner of his mouth lifted into a smile. “Ordering me to hurt you. And for the longest time I ignored the voice. But thing is, I don’t want to ignore it anymore.”
And with that, Edgar drove the knife he had hidden straight into his wife’s heart. As she lay dying, he stroked her hair, once, twice, then turned the knife on himself and ended his own life.
© Sarah Wazlawik 2022-08-28