RDP Tuesday: MYSTERY
Photographer Uknown
The Baily Estes funeral home, has been owned and operated by the Estes family for over 100 years.
Around the back of the home is a small private family cemetery and in the corner of the little cemetery is an apple tree with a wasps next as big as your head hanging from one of it’s lower branches.
The Estes family lives upstairson the top floor and every morning Mr. Estes gets dressed, he hashis breakfast with his wife and two daughters, Patience and Victoria and then he walks down stairs to the Funeral Parlor, he unlocks the door that separated the his family’s living quarters he closes it quietly behind himself and this is how his workday begins.
Cars pull up throughout the day, sometimes a hearse is parked out front. The windows glow with soft warm light on during the Winter and Autumn when the sun set early and during the summer the front door is always open and on either side of the doorway are potted plants in marble urns.
On Funeral days people would mill around on the front lawn, the friends and family dressed are dressed in black. They speak softly with each other and when Mr. Estes appears on the top step, people know that it was time to go in and that first person walks up the steps slowly and when they were face to face with Mr. Estes they always look at him with just a touch of uncertainty and then would nodd gently and he reaches out and touches their forarm, briefly and then they walk into the cool darkness of Baily Estes Funeral home down the hall to where the Funeral Parlor is.
There was something odd about the Estes Home though, in all the years it has stood, nobody has ever seen the lights on in the windows upstairs where the family lives. The curtains never twitch, no face ever peers out any of the windows to check on the weather, or with curiosity when there is a loud noise. Nobody knows exactly how old Victoria and Patience his children are because nobody has ever seen them.
In fact, nobody has really ever seen any of the wives or children that have lived in the Estes Home and were married to the Funeral Directors.
The Estes neighbors just know they are up there and that is all they have ever known for a fact.
They know this in the same way that they know that every October 31st, there will be a funeral that starts at 6:00pm sharp.
The same family and their friends will appear on the front lawn of Baily Estes, some will drive up in dark cars with tinted windows.
The women will have their faces covered with veils hanging from sensible black hats and the men will be dressed in black suits with shiny silver buttons and buttonaires with traces of red running along the edges of white petals and broken stems pinned to their lapels.
Unlike other families, nobody waits for Mr Estes to appear on the top step before they go into the Funeral Home, they drift up, the stairs side by side and disapear into the hallway that leads to the Funeral Parlor.
The door closes softly behind them and if in that moment you looked up to the top floor where the Estes family lives, you might- and I mean maybe you would see one of the curtains in the window twitch.
And nobody, if you were to ask can say they have ever seen these mourners leave.