So I was in L.A. class a couple of weeks ago, and my teacher handed out copies of the short story The Landlady by Roald Dahl. In one word: creepy. Yes, I can honestly say that the story gave my legitimate nightmares. It's cynical, mysterious, and just scary enough to really make you wonder about the story behind the story. (NOTE: Before reading this blog post, I'd strongly recommend reading The Landlady. Just Google it and a ton of links will come up with the full story.) So, as an L.A. assignment (and my own curiosity) I decided to write a quick prologue for The Landlady. It's just something I whipped up, but tell me what you think by leaving a comment or selecting a "reaction" at the bottom of the post! I've also included at the top of this post a picture of the British television series that featured The Landlady, as well as other (equally sinister) short stories by Roald Dahl.
It was late at night, and Mrs. Alice Murden was waiting. Absentmindedly, she stroked the stuffed dachshund beside her and glanced at the grandfather clock ticking away next to the mantle. He would be here soon, that much she was sure of.
Rising to her feet, she groaned softly—her bones weren’t what they had been ten years ago. Mrs. Murden made her way across the living room to the old-fashioned kitchen, stifling more weary exclamations of pain as she went. Wrinkled and ancient on the outside she may be, but her mind was sharper and more cunning than ever. Wandering through the kitchen, she stopped at a photograph hanging above a charming breakfast nook.
The man pictured there was the epitome of command. Harshness and discipline echoed in the lines around his sharp cheekbones and angular jaw. However, there was a mysterious look of gauntness in his dark, sunken eyes, causing a viewer to believe that there was a deeper cause to his apparent misery. Mrs. Murden caressed his frame-encased face, and shook her head sadly.
“My dear Mr. Murden,” she murmured to her late husband, “it’s been ten years since that fateful day.” She laughed suddenly, cruel and cold, “And to think that you never saw it coming!” The elderly women then turned to the heavy oak cabinet hanging besides the painting. Taking a silver key from where it dangled on a chain around her withered neck, she unlocked the heavy padlock keeping the cabinet shut. It swung open with the rusty creak of hinges that haven't seen oil in many years.
“Which one to choose today?” Mrs. Murden muttered to herself as she surveyed the various assortments of containers and bottles in front of her. “What shall I use this time, my sweet?” She addressed the Mr. Murden glaring at her from the wall. “Arsenic? Lead? Or how about Mercury?” The lady now smiled eerily, like a cat waiting to strike her defenseless prey. “I know how well you like that one. You of all people should be aware of how effective it is.” Reaching into the cabinet, she withdrew a small, amber colored bottle. “I think cyanine would be best, don't you?" Still smiling that same sinister smile, she turned her back on the man in the picture. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a guest to wait for.”
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