It had to work, it had to… but it didn’t.

Oh, how my niece sickened me! I was in the depths of the sickly poor, and she had a huge fortune. I suffered horribly; a single piece of bread for supper, and she had a wonderful feast all her own. If only I could get my hands, dirty and weathered as they were, on the huge supply of money locked up in her guardian’s attic!

When she dies, where will it go? Possibly to her guardian, possibly to me! But, oh no, she would never leave her money to me. I must somehow make her change her ideas about me; I must!

          Last week, it was my pudgy niece’s birthday; a good excuse to go to her mansion. There, I handed her a carefully wrapped package; bought with my last dollars. She opened it, saw the delicate little music box inside, and fingered the little faces of the figures dramatically doing the Tango. It was very cleverly built, for when you touched the left shoulder of the man, a sharp needle would come out, immediately pierce the skin, and inject a special deadly venom, and then disappear, so no one would know what had happened. But before killing the victim, it would cause the victim to become sleepy, and working the same way as hypnosis, they would do and answer anything. This was my plan; poison the child, tell her to leave the money to me, and let her die, leaving me with a large sum of money, and an extremely sad guardian. What could be more satisfying? 

          She started first with her finger over the lady’s dark hair, bold eyes, nose, mouth, now to the gentleman, over his head, face… Yes! Yes! She was almost to the left shoulder… But then, oh, to my dismay! She turned, looked toward the window, and leaving the music box, calmly declared, “There’s a draft,” and closed the window. I could have screamed! I could have shaken her until her brains were jumbled! But something caught my eye, so I kept my composure, and cheerfully (but annoyed inside) suggested that she show Mrs. Maston the music box. She nodded her head, and slightly against my wishes picked it up by the base, instead of the left shoulder as I wanted.  She never, ever touched the left shoulder. Maybe she knew! How could she? Surely she had never heard of a poisoned music box! But how did a hair never even go on its left shoulder?

          As soon as she left the room, I strode over to the window. Examining it carefully, I contemplated several things in my mind, and grinned evilly. Yes, it might work! Even if she never touched the music box again, I had a better plan!

          I said my adieus, kissed the ladies’ hands, bowed low, and set off for home. While walking, I worked it all out in my mind. Quickly I grabbed the necessary tools, files, rope, metal and such, and started back to The Manor. Because now, revenge was mine! Ha-ha!

I walked back to the manor quickly, and I entered again quietly so no one knew I returned. I peeked into the dining room and saw that my niece was still staring at the music box. I crept into the parlor, and quietly closed the door. It was getting dark outside, and a storm was brewing. I tiptoed over to the window, and opened it, wincing every time it squeaked. I took out my file, and it glinted as the first lightning bolt of the night flashed. I worked stealthily, filing, filing, filing... Finally my piece of metal was ready. I nailed it to the bottom of the window pane, and by now the storm had increased in violence so much, it covered up the noises of my evil deed. I took the rope, tied it to a hook on the top of the window, looped it over the strong curtain rod, and hid the cord behind the rich tapestries. My work was almost done! I carefully climbed out of the window, and then went around to the front door and knocked. Mrs. Maston answered in her nightcap, and I told her I wanted to see my niece.

I led my niece to the parlor, and said I wanted to show her the stars. The window was still open, and as I showed her them, I slipped my hand behind the tapestries and took hold of the rope. Her head was outside of the window, I let go of the rope. But instead of her head falling outside from the blade on my guillotine, I screamed loudly in pain. She had seen the window coming, and moved quickly, but I had forgotten my hand on the sill. My arm was bleeding profusely, staining my best clothes blood red.

So, for the rest of my life, I was forced to live as an armless old beggar, often stopping to look over the crimson window sill at the people inside “The Manor”.