The Return of Sam Hain by Frank Sonderborg

 

  They both said he would come back. The brother said, that on this night of nights, he would slip the bonds of death and return. To reveal who killed him.

I didn't believe them. Nobody could come back from the nether world. Once he'd paid his penny to the ferryman, he could never come back. Or so I'd been told. I'd killed him with an axe. Smashed his head in. Stole his gold-digging partner. Stole his gold. But now, I had my doubts. They said, this one night of the year, when the veil between the world of the living and world of the dead is so thin, the spirit of the dead can cross over and get their revenge. I laid my plans, just in case it was true.

On this All Hallows night, on the last day of October, the dead would walk again. To tell their tale.

Three bowls were set at the table, with salt, water, and earth. His gold-digger squeeze was blindfolded. Using her right hand, she touched each bowl to glean omens about marriage, travel, or death.

She insisted Sam Hain would return and reveal who murdered him, that grisly night.

She never believed it was just a robbery gone wrong. Her brother encouraged her down this road of madness. He said he would take part in this charade. But so far, there was no sign of him.

I justified it to myself. It was clearly self defence. It was him or me. I had an axe. He had nothing but a shite attitude.

She was quick enough to jump into my bed. When she realised, I controlled the company and the money. But she did go on and on about finding out the truth. And the brother was just as bad. They hired a spiritualist and then a palm reader. The Gardaí dropped the case for lack of evidence. His gold watch had turned up in Dublin, along with other bits and bobs from the robbery. Which is how I intended it. The Gardaí said, the murderer must have fled Cork to Dublin, and then on to England. Case closed.

Did she suspect me? Of course she did. The little gold-digger. Now her and that scumbag brother where scheming to take it all away from me. Tonight, Sam Hain was going to come back from the dead and confirm I was the killer. This would trigger my breakdown and a confession, and the Gardaí would take me away. Or so it went in the True crime TV shows they both devoured.

The storm raged outside our cottage. The rain cascaded down the window panes. Flashes of lightning lit up our darkened room. The candles threw spooky moving shadows on the walls. The gold-digger sat still and started reciting some old pagan gibberish. The front door creaked and in he came. Sam Hain. The suit was the same as the one he wore when I axed him. Those shoes. Hand made in Spain. Blood ran down his head. His face… He had a face mask. A Ronald Reagan face mask. Sam Hain adored Reagan. He stood and lifted his right hand. Pointed and said, “It was you.” The blindfold came off, and she started screaming at me, “Murderer! Murderer!

I pumped four silver bullets into Ronnie Reagan. And as the gold-digging Witch would not shut up. I pumped two silver  bullets into her. I pulled the mask off the dead man. It was, of course, the brother. I sat down and pondered my considerable lack of options. Next day I packed, and headed for Ukraine.