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SEE THIS SIMPLE TRICK TO ELIMINATE LIMES ON THE FEET - Duration: 3:07.
The feet are a very important part of human body, but no one really cares
to ensure they are healthy and smooth.
Calluses are one of the most common problems to toe.
They occur when the layers of our skin thicken due to a stimulation
external source, such as friction or pressure localized.
This thickening is to protect the innermost layer of the region where the chock
graduated.
Calluses are usually not painful, but in some cases can be very uncomfortable.
If left untreated, they can become deep and painful.
In this video, we show some remedies natural to help eliminate the callus
once for all.
bath with
sea salt This recipe is very useful for people who have very painful calluses.
Soak your feet in water with sea salt and your favorite essential oil for 20 minutes,
then use a moisturizer on your feet and wrap them in plastic wrap, leaving it to act for an hour.
Remove the plastic and exfoliate your feet with a pumice stone.
Sodium bicarbonate Make a paste with 2 tablespoons baking
soda and 1 teaspoon of warm water.
Rub on toes and leave it for 20 minutes.
Then rinse, exfoliate with a pumice stone and apply a moisturizer.
Lemon Cut a slice of lemon and place it on toes
and then put a bandage on.
Let stand for 30 minutes, and then use a pumice stone.
Bath with camomile Make an infusion of chamomile and remove your
feet when the solution is already cold.
Now exfoliate gently with a pumice stone and use a good moisturizer.
Onion The onions contain powerful properties
anti-inflammatory which may help treat calluses.
Cut an onion in half and rub it the affected area.
Then put half and let the onion Act.
Do this once every night before go to bed until the callus disappeared.
Garlic Make a paste with 1 clove garlic and 1 tablespoon
oil.
Massage your toes with this folder, then cover your feet.
Let it act overnight and do not rinse in the morning.
Do this every day until the calluses disappear.
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The Package on My Doorstep | Short Horror Story - Duration: 28:20.
[Piano plays in minor key and then fades out].
I awoke to a pounding on my door at a quarter to seven.
I sat up and listened, feeling uncomfortable as my heart went from 60 to 100.
The sound stopped and all was silent, which was almost worse.
Unfortunately, when it comes to fight or flight responses, I'm a freeze kind of animal.
I waited almost ten minutes before I got out of bed and checked the door.
I was hit by a gust of wind rolling off the fields when I opened my front door.
It was working up to be a stormy one.
And there was a smell.
I looked down.
I saw then, for the first time, an object I came to dread in the coming months.
It was a box, but that statement alone says almost nothing about it.
It was really a package, delivered specially for me.
Once upon a time, this was the kind of box that would have held files.
Files it held no longer.
Its brown striped pattern had turned a dull grey in some places, particularly where the
mould and rot had gotten to it.
It was heavily sealed with duct tape, which covered the handles and peeled away in some
places, though also gave the impression of holding the whole unnerving arrangement together.
The top sagged down a little, and in the very middle of the dip, there was a sprinkling
of dirt.
And it was damp, the kind of damp something gets after sitting in a structurally compromised
shed for several years.
Then there was the smell, which hit me before the sight and told me there was something
wrong.
It was a mouldy, dusty, damp, rotting, aging, earthy smell, but you would expect that just
from looking at it.
There was another element to the smell too, something underneath, and that is where the
wrongness lay.
We'd had a rat problem in the house I'd grown up in as a child.
My mother had set traps down in the vents at some point, and later, after things between
her and my father had gotten worse, after she had left, the traps had been forgotten.
Him and I noticed the smell in the kitchen, but neither of us knew what it was or where
it had come from.
We started eating in the living room more, or going out to eat to avoid the room altogether.
You'd walk into that kitchen hungry and turn around a moment later rather nauseous
and completely put off the prospect of food.
Eventually, my dad, reluctant as ever to ask for help, called someone in to have a look.
He found the bodies of four decomposing rats in the vent by the kitchen counter.
He said every time we turned the heat on, they had been like warm little filters for
the air.
Even after they had been removed, we rarely went into the kitchen.
A few years later, I moved away for school and my father left that house.
The memory of that smell never did.
The best approximation I can give you for the other element, the something underneath,
is to say that it reminded me of those warm little rat filters rotting in the vent that
winter.
The smell was a little like that, but also much worse.
If there was one thing I knew for certain about encountering the box for the first time,
it was that I did not want to open it.
God knows what kind of smell I would encounter if I did.
On the lower right hand corner of the top of the box was my address with someone else's
name, scrawled in messy handwriting:
George Westerfield 67 Sherbourne Avenue,
Yorkville, ON M8N 6Q3
There was no return address.
I went back inside and dialed the number for the post office on my cell.
There must have been a mix up.
No way was this thing mine.
They wouldn't come back to pick it up, so I had to take it to them.
This meant I had to touch it.
Not wanting to get too intimate with the texture of decaying cardboard, I put on some gardening
gloves and hauled in into the trunk of my car, where I'd already laid down a blue
tarp.
Even with the seats in the way as a barrier, the smell of the wretched thing drifted to
the front of the car.
I rolled down all of my windows and kept my coat on.
There was an awful lot of confusion at the post office that day.
They had no record of the delivery that had taken place earlier, and the box had no tracking
number or return address.
"Listen, I really don't want this thing.
Think you can just hang onto it, keep it in the back in case this George Westerfield comes
looking?"
I asked the clerk.
"Sorry, that's not our policy for cases like these.
Besides, I've been working here four years and don't know any George Westerfield, and
it ain't a big place".
"Well, what should I do with it?"
"You could post something on Craigslist, or throw it out.
Up to you".
I settled on putting an ad up in the Lost Articles section of Craigslist for a week,
slightly concerned about the kinds of responses I might get.
I stored the box in the back shed, on the ground, away from my gardening tools.
Throughout that week, the ad received a few spam responses: "Get Paid $20 an Hour to
Work From Home Today!" and "Congratulations!
You've Won Free SEO Optimization for Your Website.
Click Here to Provide Your Credit Card".
On the last day, when I logged on to take it down, there was something else in my inbox,
marked "No Subject" and sent from a withheld address.
I went to open it, expecting more of the same.
"Look inside".
My heart dropped into my stomach.
What the hell was this?
No signature, nothing.
I quickly took down the ad and deleted the message.
I loaded the box back into the trunk of my car, drove into town, and dropped it into
the dumpster behind Sallow Jays, the local pub.
I threw the gardening gloves and tarp in with it, wanting to rid myself of the evidence
as though I'd committed a crime.
I'd done the right thing.
I'd tried to return it to its owner, but I mean, what can you do when someone sends
something with no return address?
All I'd gotten online was spam and what must have been a prank message.
Someone saw the ad and clearly thought they'd have a little fun with it.
Whatever.
It was done.
I stopped at a car wash on my way home.
I swept the vacuum through every inch of the inside of my vehicle, bought one of those
air-freshener trees, and took it through the wash on the tracks, letting the brushes and
chemical sprays beat at its exterior.
Again, I was behaving like a criminal attempting to erase all evidence of their crime.
I tried not to think about that.
Driving back, I couldn't help but notice that the smell lingered, subtly, in my car,
like a phantom.
Maybe it was just a memory, like the rat smell - one I would rather forget.
Months passed and life returned to normal, sans phantom smells, dead rat filters, and
mysterious boxes.
I began seeing someone, but it didn't last.
Too bad, I liked her.
I suppose we just didn't fit together very well.
I had a steady, stuffy 9-to-5 and she was adventurous, tree planting in the summer,
taking courses and doing odd jobs throughout the rest of the year.
We decided romance wasn't for us, but remained friends.
Classic.
We kept in touch a little over the summer after she went away, though I'd only hear
from her once every handful of weeks when she'd stumble across a wifi connection.
Then one day in July, her profile popped up on my computer screen.
I clicked on it to open her message.
Did you take care of that smell?
That was it.
She didn't respond to anything I'd said previously, and this comment wasn't related
to anything we'd been talking about.
That smell.
What did she mean?
Then it came back to me.
I'd told her about the box incident, and she was obviously trying to mess with me.
I wrote back:
Ha.
Ha. -_-
I closed my computer and went into the kitchen to make a snack.
That was rude.
Why would she try to mess with me when she and I could only message once every few weeks?
Seemed like a waste.
Maybe she didn't even want to be friends after all.
I pulled on the door of the fridge and the smell came out, hitting me with full force.
I slammed it shut, jumped back, and began to gag.
It wasn't that smell, it couldn't be.
Clearly, something had gone bad in my fridge, and fast, because it'd been fine this morning.
Still, I felt uneasy.
I put a dishtowel over my face for protection and slowly opened the door once again, looking
for the offensive material.
I saw nothing.
I opened up old containers, smelled the milk, flipped open the egg carton to see if one
had been crushed.
Nothing.
I carefully removed the dishtowel.
The smell was gone.
I guess Rosa's bad joke had gotten to me after all…
I went back about my business and tried to put it out of my mind.
I stayed up late watching Stranger Things, letting the show's horror and fantasy distract
me from my own imagination.
I finished the latest season and moved onto a sitcom for something light before bed.
I woke up.
Ross and Rachel were fighting on screen.
They had broken up again.
What the hell?
I hadn't even been watching this…
I must've dozed.
I shut the tv down and got up to go to bed.
Then it hit me like a wave.
The smell.
I doubled over and gagged, shocked by the intensity of it.
I pulled my shirt up over my nose.
It helped, but only barely.
It was definitely coming from the kitchen, again.
I made my way down the hall.
I could see light streaming out from the kitchen doorway.
Had I left one on?
I didn't remember.
I bunched up the fabric around my nose.
It was getting worse.
I got to the doorway and there it was, the box, sitting in the centre of the room on
the kitchenette.
Flies were buzzing around.
Something had leaked out of it and dripped onto the floor.
Something dark and sticky.
Every particle of my body told me to run.
I tried, but all I could do was continue my slow and steady approach towards it, towards
George Westerfield's box...
I woke up.
Ross and Rachel were fighting on the screen.
My heart was racing.
The smell was gone.
Just a dream, it was just a dream.
Boy, was I going to give Rosa a piece of my mind tomorrow.
I went into my bedroom, shut the door, and slept, fitfully, with the light on.
The next day, I opened up the messenger to let Rosa know about the trouble she'd caused
me.
There was a new message from her.
An apology?
I opened it.
Hey!
Things are going really well over here.
Miles had kittens, which has drawn the attention of people from all over camp.
People are insisting on taking shifts babysitting them, which I can't argue with.
Finally starting to get the numbers up, which is a good sign.
Leg is feeling better…
And on it went.
I scrolled up and saw no sign of the message she had sent yesterday, or my response.
Did I make it up?
Had it been an extension of the dream I'd had last night?
If so, what brought all this up again?
I hadn't given much thought to that box in months.
I looked up from the computer screen, straightening my back and feeling all of the hairs on my
neck straighten with it.
It was here.
The smell.
It was subtle, but it was right here under the detergent I used to wash my clothes, under
the eggs I'd fried this morning, under the incense I'd burned last night, under everything.
Under all of the smells that permeated my home and my life was the smell of decay.
I jumped up and began searching my house from top to bottom.
I looked under my bed, in drawers, in closets, in cupboards.
I left the kitchen for last because I dreaded it the most.
Then, like in my dream, I walked down the hallway towards it.
I arrived in the doorway.
This time, the light was not on.
I flicked the switch.
The pantry door on the other side of the room was ajar, the way I usually left it.
I had a feeling though, a horrible feeling, and I went for the pantry.
I looked through the shelves, moving things aside, letting a few cans fall on the floor
in my haste.
Finally, I lowered myself to the bottom shelf and shoved aside some old paint cans.
Their chemical smell cleared and the smell replaced it.
I hesitated and then slowly reached in.
I touched the box.
Upon making contact, I knew it was the box with the smell.
I started back and then ran out of the pantry and towards the kitchen sink.
I coated my hands with green sticky soap, turned on the hot water, and washed them until
they turned bright red.
How the hell had it gotten back inside?
Look inside.
Should I?
Is that what it wanted?
I went into my bedroom for a kerchief to tie around my face.
I grabbed a pair of yellow plastic gloves from under the kitchen sink.
I lay down a tarp on my kitchen island.
I'm recreating the dream, I thought.
I pushed the thought away.
I was going to open it.
I had to.
Every part of me dreaded doing so, but I had to.
I couldn't ignore it anymore.
I set it on the island.
I grabbed a rusty, yellow xacto knife out of a drawer.
I approached the box slowly, shaking, holding out the blade as though I expected to have
to defend myself.
The smell came through the kerchief to my nose.
I hated it.
I hated this.
I was almost there, the xacto less than an inch away from the strip of tape on the front
of the box.
Almost there.
The phone rang.
I jumped back and dropped the knife.
It clattered onto the floor.
Silence.
Then, the ringing sounded again.
It was one of those old-fashioned kitchen phones which hung on the wall and had a long
cord, one of those phones with a loud ringing that resounded throughout the house.
It rang again, echoing, deafening.
I pick it up.
"Hello?"
The response was static.
Then, something came through – garbled, broken, difficult to parse.
"Hello?"
It spoke again, through the static.
"Hey there, Kirstie.
We got a noise complaint from your residence just now.
Just checking if everything's okay down there".
It was Andy, the local sheriff, and he sounded annoyed.
"Uh…"
My voice was shaking.
"Uh - yeah.
Don't know what that could be about.
Been pretty quiet tonight".
I looked at the box.
Quiet, sure.
"Huh.
Well, anyway, whatever you're doing, keep it down".
"Okay, you've done your duty".
I faked a laugh.
Andy and I had gone to highschool together.
He'd been high the whole time, so it had always been a little hard for me to take him
seriously as a cop.
He said a disgruntled goodbye.
I hung up, thinking it was best not to involve him in whatever this was.
He was a good guy, but he was used to dealing with small town stuff, and not having to think
outside the box.
I cringed at the pun.
Okay, time to get this thing the hell out off my house.
Just as I had six months prior, I bundled up the unfortunate package, threw it in the
trunk, and went in search of a place to dispose of it.
This time, however, I wouldn't be leaving it behind Sallow Jays.
I got on the highway.
I planned to get the box with the smell out of my town.
I drove until I reached farmland, then I drove farther.
I drove until I passed houses less and less frequently.
I drove until I hit forest, then I drove farther.
I pulled off the road when I felt ready.
I lugged the box out of the trunk and wrapped it in the tarp, tying it off with rope.
Then I went into the forest, pulling it after me.
After about forty minutes of walking through fallen pine needles and trying not to let
the spiky branches catch me in the eye, I came out into a small clearing.
I let the rope go and began gathering needles, twigs, and fallen branches.
I tried to build the fire the way I remembered from Guides, resting the sticks against each
other in a teepee, laying the leaves and needles in the center, but it was not that effective.
I wasted eight matches, but finally, I had a fire.
I dragged the box up next to the fire, deciding to let it sit near the heat for a few minutes
to dry out.
It would be too damp in its present state to catch.
I gave it ten minutes on each side.
I was patient, almost calm.
I was going to get it done.
Then, when I felt ready, I lit a branch and held it against the box.
Contrary to my expectations, it lit up immediately, as though it were covered in gasoline.
The smell became so much worse.
I took several steps back.
Even in the open night air, it was unbearable.
I covered my nose and face, but I could taste it.
Decay.
I went bolting back into the dark cover of the forest, leaving the box bright and burning.
I sat in a late-night diner by the side of the highway which had a few solitary truckers
in its worn booths and a middle-aged waitress who kept making the rounds with a pot of coffee.
My burger and fries sat in front of me, getting cold.
"Now don't you look like you've seen a ghost," The server said as she topped
up my already mostly full cup.
I looked up at her.
"Running from something?"
"Yeah…"
"Well, hope you've got somewhere to run to.
You don't want to stay up driving all night".
"I'm not too far from home, thanks".
"Oh, well then, at least you're running home.
Lotsa people run away from just that".
I smiled weakly.
"Boy, you have seen a ghost, haven't you?"
I kept my head down this time and tried to give what sounded like a lighthearted chuckle.
I failed, miserably.
"Jeez, hope I don't encounter it on my way home.
Hey, Bobby!"
A voice came from the door behind the counter, "Yuuup!"
"You're driving me home, right?"
"Yuuup!"
"There we go.
You got somebody to go home to?"
"Sure".
"Good, honey.
Then I'm sure, whatever it is, you'll be just fine".
I wasn't fine.
I so was not fine.
I didn't sleep properly for weeks.
I called in sick to work.
I didn't talk to anyone.
I was afraid no one would believe me, that they would think this was some kind of episode.
I was worried that it might be, but what would that mean?
What was there in my past that would crop up like this?
Sure, there were the rat filters in the kitchen, but I had never considered that repressed
trauma.
Was there something else so deeply repressed that I couldn't even remember it, something
that was just now coming up, so many years later, as a… disgusting package that was
stalking me?
Really, subconscious?
What the heck?
No amount of introspecting brought me closer to an answer, so I booked a counseling appointment.
My therapist was stiff, barely taking her eyes off of the computer screen while she
barraged me with questions.
Had I been diagnosed with any mental illnesses?
Was I on any medication?
Did I have a history of trauma?
What was my childhood like?
Had I ever previously experienced visual or auditory hallucinations?
Was there any family history of mental illness?
I came out feeling poked, prodded, generally violated in the brain, and no closer to an
answer.
She'd found my story very disturbing.
She wanted us to go down the medication route.
She wanted me to book appointments twice a week, though I told her that was way beyond
what I could afford.
She wanted to connect with a psychiatrist to come up with a formal diagnosis.
She wanted me to wade through several forms she'd given me, calling them my "homework"
as though I were a child.
It was a lot and I wasn't interested.
I decided not to go back.
I needed to do something else, I realized.
I needed to research.
Make my own "homework".
I began with Google and then hit the library.
I started with a broad scope, focusing on three areas:
Hallucinations; causes, types of, and symptoms Symbolism and the unconscious (a dicey topic,
to be sure); boxes, packages, decay, wrong addresses
News reports for my area spanning back 100 years.
Had anything like this ever happened before?
What could it possibly be connected to?
I waded through the first two topics without much success.
None of the causes of hallucinations seemed pertinent to my case.
The second topic was strange and vague and rife with pseudoscience.
I regretted going down that path almost immediately.
The third topic, however, bared fruit.
Murder.
Or, at least, potential murder.
I came across a cold case from 1964.
Disappearance of a man named George Westerfield who had lived at my address.
According to the articles, there were suspicious circumstances surrounding his disappearance,
though neither a body nor a weapon had been found.
There were only three articles on his case by the local paper, then the trail went cold,
as though people had lost interest.
The story never made it into the national papers - no, it was something that had stayed
wrapped around this town.
I decided it was time to visit the local detective.
I went down to the station.
The person at the front desk told me that Andy was busy, even though I could see him
sitting with his feet up on a table, cup of coffee in hand, through the door left ajar
behind the counter.
"Right, thank you…"
I turned to walk away and the clerk went back to the papers on their desk.
Then I turned back, ran at the half-wall, vaulted it, and burst into Andy's office
before they could start yelling,
"Excuse me, MISS!
Get back here!"
Andy didn't even look surprised, just set his coffee down.
He should have known better than to ignore me by now.
"What's going on, Kirstie?"
He sighed.
I pulled up a chair.
"We need to talk about a dead guy".
"Shit!"
He sat up, knocking into the table and spilling some of the coffee, which he began mopping
up with a napkin while quietly cursing me out.
"1964.
Cold case.
George Westerfield".
"What the hell are you on about?"
I dropped the copies I'd made of the articles about Westerfield.
He looked at them for a moment, then said, "So what?
I wasn't even on the force then.
You got some new information you wanna share or are you just here to waste my time with
some crackpot theories?"
"I just might have some information".
Then I told him about everything that had happened over the last several months.
Andy and I had never been that close, never had the same circle of friends, but we knew
each other, the way you know people you've lived near your whole life.
Andy found me pretty annoying on occasion.
I didn't always think he did his job to the best of his abilities, and he didn't
appreciate the unsolicited feedback.
But he knew I was an honest person, a quiet person, someone who didn't go out of their
way for attention.
And though I could tell he didn't want to by the way he kept asking me the same questions
in slightly different ways, the way he kept trying to fact check my story for any inconsistencies,
he believed me.
I knew he believed me because I could tell he was scared.
For the third time, he asked, "And you didn't know anything about this George Westerfield
fella from 1964 until this box started showing up on your doorstep?"
"Never heard of him, not even through old rumours or small town ghost stories.
Seems like people just collectively forgot".
Andy didn't respond, just sat there mulling over what I'd told him.
Finally, I decided it was time for my question: "So what do we do?"
Andy looked me right in the eye.
I'd never seen him so serious.
"We wait for it to come back.
Then we open it".
My stomach rolled over.
I felt sick at the thought.
The plan was to call Andy the moment it showed up in my house again, but I planned to call
as soon as the smell came back.
Months passed by, though this time, I didn't forget about it.
It didn't slip my mind once.
The smell, the box, its potential contents always remained somewhere in the back of my
brain.
I'd wake up in the middle of the night, sweating and terrified from a dream I couldn't
remember, thinking for a moment that the smell was back, realizing it wasn't, and then
laying awake for hours.
I began wishing that it would appear again just so I didn't have to live with the anticipation.
And then, of course, it did.
The smell drifted down towards me one afternoon as I sat in my living room watching tv.
I immediately dialed Andy's number.
"On my way".
Then I just sat there, unable to move.
Andy came barreling into my living room after I didn't answer his knocks on the door.
"Everything okay?"
I looked at him.
"Can you smell it?"
He sniffed and thought for a moment.
"Don't think so".
"It's here".
We began to search my house, me leading the way.
In the hallway, I looked up.
The smell was stronger here.
The door to the attic was above us.
"There".
Andy pulled on the drawstring and the stairs came down with it.
As the hatch opened, the smell which had been seeping through before was released.
I doubled over, gagging, feeling my eyes water.
Andy just stood there.
"...You okay?"
I covered my nose and slowly rose up.
Andy was fine.
He couldn't smell anything.
I nodded towards the stairs.
"I'll go first," Andy said.
I followed.
There's one small, circular window in the attic at the front of the house.
One small source of light.
It was blocked.
I reached up and felt the string for the single bare lightbulb and pulled.
There it was, blocking the window.
"Can you see it?"
My voice came out muffled through the bunched up fabric I held to my face.
"Huh?"
"Can you see it?"
Andy was looking around the attic, searching for the package.
I pointed straight at it.
"The window?"
Shit.
"It's right there, in front of the window".
It was at that moment that Andy looked at me with the most confused, doubtful expression
yet.
He couldn't see what I saw and he didn't quite believe me anymore.
"Fuck, Andy, just trust me".
He nodded, still looking confused but deciding to follow my lead.
He fished something out of the inside of his jacket, a pocket knife, and handed it to me.
I approached the box and made the first incision along the left side, trying to steady my hands.
Andy stood back quietly, stock still.
I must have looked like a mime to him.
I dragged the knife through the tape along the back of the box.
"Oh, god" He whispered.
"I can hear it".
I looked up.
He'd gone as white as a sheet.
I moved around the box, cutting the tape on each side.
I took a step back, attempting to take a deep breath and feeling it shudder through me.
Andy moved closer, putting a hand on my shoulder.
I stepped towards the box again, hands outstretched, tears streaming down my face from the smell,
feeling like I might lose it at any moment.
I reached the lid, grasped it from either side, and lifted.
I looked inside.
George, in my house, sipping tea and watching something on a rabbit-eared tv.
George, on my porch, bending down to pick up the local paper in his robe and slippers.
George, in my bedroom, turning on the light after being awoken by a noise in the house,
my house.
George, afraid.
Images and their smells went spinning through my mind.
Bacon frying.
Bleach.
Rain.
Ink.
Dust.
Mould.
Fear.
Blood.
Decay.
Then I was falling, falling into the box, falling into George.
And then there was nothing.
It was dark, cold, damp.
There was an autumn smell, rain and fallen leaves, which I could feel on my insides.
I turned over.
Leaves swaying above me.
Between them I saw a full moon, a spattering of stars.
I heard someone grunt beside me.
"Andy?"
"Huh?"
I moved towards the sound of him, hands touching his coat.
"Andy".
"Wu- what's going on?"
"I was hoping you could tell me.
What happened?"
He sat up, instantly more alert.
"You were… you were screaming".
I didn't recall that.
I remembered falling, spinning, George.
"I saw something.
I think I saw him".
I stood up and helped Andy to his feet.
"Where the hell are we?"
I couldn't make out any other lights aside from the moon.
I could hear highway traffic in the distance, to my right.
I looked around at the trees, mostly young maples with a few pine.
"I think we might be in my backyard".
I took a few steps towards the direction I thought my house might be in.
My foot caught under something and I tripped, cursing.
I felt down in the leaves for the offending object.
A shovel.
I turned to show Andy and saw that he was picking one up as well.
"He wants us to dig".
The words came out of my mouth as the thought formed in my mind.
Andy and I began the project of digging a grave-sized hole where we had woken up together.
We worked in silence, our movement and breath synchronized.
Time passed.
The hole got deeper.
And then my shovel hit something metallic, making a startling noise and sending me stumbling.
We dug the metal box out of the ground and lifted it from the hole, setting it down together.
Andy wiped his brow.
"I should call in backup now.
We don't know what's in this thing".
"Yes, we do".
I lifted the metal lid and looked inside.
There it was.
Damp, mouldy, disintegrating in places.
George's box.
Andy was looking at me, wide-eyed.
"Don't - " He started, but didn't move.
I reached down and felt around the lid of the box, where the tape had been cut.
I lifted.
I set the lid down by my side, gently, carefully.
Then I peered in.
George.
According to the coroner's report, George had been killed by a blow to the back of the
head with a shovel.
He had then been cut up into several pieces and buried in filing boxes in two separate
locations.
The RCMP found the second one.
When George had been declared death in absentia, the majority of his estate had gone to his
closest living relative, Jonathan G. Westerfield, who was now deceased.
Jonathan had lived his whole life in a farmhouse not five miles from George's old place,
which was now inhabited by his sole surviving daughter, Darla.
The second box of his remains were found underneath the old barn.
With all fingers pointing to her father, Darla was brought in for questioning.
She was shocked and appalled, even weepy, at the right moments.
At others, she seemed incredibly calm, like a goldfish pond on a fair summer's night.
She didn't know anything.
Her story was incredibly consistent, lacking in any holes.
Her father and George had been friends.
George up and disappearing like that had damn near broke his heart.
She couldn't imagine him laying a hand on George.
She just didn't know what to think.
Was she around the week he had disappeared?
No, she'd been attending an arts school in Toronto.
It was her first semester of her second year.
She's been away for awhile, you see.
But eventually, she had returned to care for her father.
He'd never really been the same after George.
She was starting to understand why.
Cue dawning look of horror in her eyes.
Either she was telling the truth or she'd had over fifty years to perfect her story.
Either way, Andy didn't feel much like trying to go after a woman in her seventies whose
alibi checked out.
We felt that we'd found the killer, who was himself already dead.
We held a small service for George that Darla, Andy, and I attended.
He was put to rest.
I continued on in the house, on with my life.
I would visit Darla sometimes.
She would serve me tea and biscuits.
I would ask about her bridge group.
It was a pleasant routine.
Life, for the most part, went back to normal.
I was in my kitchen preparing vegetables for a stirfry when the old phone rang - the clanging
noise echoing throughout my home.
I absentmindedly said hello, going back to the cutting board.
The connection was poor, crackling.
"Hello?"
[Two voices whisper] "Look inside".
The line clicked, then there was a dial tone.
I dropped the knife.
It hit my bare foot, slicing open my toe.
Blood poured out onto the floor.
[Piano resumes playing in minor key and fades out].
-------------------------------------------
Deafening Silence From Crooked Hillary and Dirty Cop Comey After New DOJ, FBI Investigations Launche - Duration: 2:08.
Deafening Silence From Crooked Hillary and Dirty Cop Comey After New DOJ, FBI Investigations
Launched.
Media was set ablaze this week after it was announced the DOJ reopened the Hillary Clinton
email investigation.
The FBI is also investigating the Clinton Foundation for possible pay-to-play or other
illegal activities while Hillary Clinton was Secretary of State.
It got worse for Comey…
Fired FBI Director James Comey's original Hillary Clinton statement was released to
the public Thursday by Senator Ron Johnson (R-WI).
Senate Judiciary Chairman Chuck Grassley (R-IA) sent a letter to Deputy AG Rod Rosenstein
and the DOJ Wednesday demanding answers on Comey's memos.
Chuck Grassley questioned whether fired FBI Director James Comey violated DOJ policy after
he gave his Trump memos to a friend to leak to the press.
Chuck Grassley and Senator Lindsey Graham also sent a letter to Deputy AG Rod Rosenstein
and FBI Director Christopher Wray Friday demanding they investigate if Christopher Steele lied
to federal authorities.
All of this happened and deafening silence from both dirty cop Comey and Crooked Hillary
Clinton.
Hillary Clinton's spokesmen released statements to the press addressing the DOJ investigations.
Clinton Foundation communications director, Craig Minassian issued a statement about the
FBI investigation into the Foundation, claiming the allegations are "politically motivated".
Hillary Clinton's spox Nick Merrill called the investigation a "sham".
Both Hillary and Comey are curiously silent on Twitter.
Comey is usually arrogantly tweeting philosophical quotes and Bible verses.
Crooked Hillary usually tries to distract by tweeting about something random or giving
an off-the-wall interview to a left-wing outlet.
So far NOTHING from either of them.
Comey hasn't tweeted since very early morning hours of January 3rd and Hillary hasn't
tweeted since January 2nd.
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