Murder by Prophecy

Good evening, friends of the Creaking Door. This is your host, fitting you enter the inner sanctuary. Come in, come in. And now for tonight's tortured tentacle. Ever have an ancestor who's dead but won't lie down.

Can't happen, huh? Okay, Bob, hang on, we'll demonstrate. We're in an ancient cemetery hidden in a lost valley, somewhere outside an old New England town. The stone face of a mottoleum reads 1790. Behind its eye on door, the ancient dead can be concealed for.

Beside the dead, trapped in a mottoleum is a man. He haggard glad the eyes, like a man suspended between life and death. The man rallies his dying energies to tear at the door, to break his hand on a final desperate attempt to escape.

I gotta get out of the woods, it's not good. And now I die in the woods. Exactly the way I'd be.

Exactly the way I'd be here. The six weeks ago, came to this jerk-water town of Hillcrest to claim a worthless white elephant. The state called Highgate, it's been in my family since the Battle of Bunker Hill.

I was the missing heir, finally crossed the trustees more money than the estate was worth. was what? That's the picture, Mr. Lion. Biggest state, but the land's been neglected too long and the buildings are about ready to fall down. Now, if you inherit and phrase your hopes any longer... What about cash? Other properties? Stocks, maybe? No, the tax collector sees what

better there was for a rare. There isn't a cash penny in sight for a young fella unless you... Well, unless you chance to run into your grandfather's brutal. Great, great grandfather? after a great-grandfather, Dan and Zanga.