The Man in the Turquoise Sweater

His eyes didn’t twitch as he walked down the stairs of a creaky old building. It was a red house that, in the winter, was never heated and in the summer never cool. But it was all according to the man’s plan. For years, he would post on craigslist an add that read:

LOW RENT!
SHARED KITCHEN. SHARED BATHROOM.
350 SQUARE FT EACH ROOM.
PERFECT FOR YOUNG PROFESSIONALS OR COLLEGE STUDENTS!

He would then add a picture of one of the five empty rooms in the house, as well as the price tag for each. Many a time, a student or young professional would visit the home. Some would be appalled by how he kept the first floor. It was littered with papers, and trash cans. As well as three deep freezers. He would simply tell them that it was a glorified storage room, a basement of sorts, after all the five empty rooms were between the second and third floors. Some applied, but few were chosen.

In his interview process, the man would always wear a turquoise sweater, brown slacks, with matching socks and shoes. He was in his mid-fifties. Dignified and held a conversation well. But, he would vet each candidate for the house based on their application. Those who had large extended families, he never accepted. Foreign exchange students and young professionals who had very little of their own or family were his ideal targets. He would offer them the room practically on the spot. “Welcome,” he would say, “to the safest house in Boston. This little red house.”

Once the tenants were all in place and a room rented, he would send them a note saying to join him for wine in the kitchen. It was his welcome home party for them, a house-warming gift. As they sipped the wine, he would smile for he knew what was truly in their glass. A combination of sleeping pills along with allergy medicine. When his new tenant was asleep at the table, he would smile. “Welcome,” he would say with glee, “welcome to your permanent home!”

Taking off his sweater, the man walked towards the basement and down the stairs which often creaked in the house that was never warm. “Time to welcome my guests,” he would breathe as he turned on the basement lights.

“Oh, my darlings,” he said with a smile at his assortment of knives and shears, “we have another piece of meat for one of our deep freezers.”

The man would always laugh, for he was never caught. It has been told that after he passed away a few years ago, selling the house to a woman named Margaret beforehand, that the ghosts of all his victims awaken in the basement each night; trying to get out. Trying in vain to haunt the man in the turquoise sweater.