mansion by the enormous fence surrounding it, decided to see how a witch lived.
The sun sank in the west, spreading a hazy rose beneficat over the hysterical villagers who simmered impatiently in their homes, waiting for Phantom’s impending arrival. Eventually, the last bedroom light was extinguished, and everyone slept…or pretended to.
Around three in the morning, in the peaceful wooded coastline east of NSIC, an arm of flame reached for the moon. Phantom’s house was on fire. By the time a patrolling constable spotted the blaze, and the volunteer fire department assembled themselves, the fire had become all-encompassing.
The electric gate must have jammed when the control box caught fire and had to be forced open. Although the volunteers battered at the iron latches until they broke, it was too late to save anything by the time the trucks rolled up to Phantom’s house. The hot dry weather had primed the newly constructed residence and everything around it to tinder perfection. Nothing was spared.
The commotion pulled the villagers out of their beds and by dawn, the entire population stood appalled at the sodden, smoldering mass. Their hopes, their dreams, their glorious future in providing a secret home for Phantom was no more.
Mark Daniels, everyone agreed afterwards, showed what a selfless, heroic human being he was both during and after the disaster. While the finished product of incredible organization, weeks of work, and probably millions of dollars worth of goods went up in a miserable puff of smoke, his main concern was that no one got hurt. While priceless works of art were being reduced to ash, he had patrolled the property, keeping rubberneckers clear of falling debris and smoke.
Yes, Mark had a heart of gold. Of course, these admiring comments began circulating right after he announced that everything was insured to the hilt, so there would be plenty of money to reimburse everyone for the slightest effort made on Phantom’s behalf. Everyone would be paid in full for everything, regardless of the disaster.
A rush was made to fax Phantom concerning the current status of his home-to-be. He was advised to divert his path from Wyndham, since they were no longer ready to receive him. A reply, received later, was read aloud by Skip to those assembled—crammed—into the Town Hall at four in the afternoon after the fire. When he added that Phantom would be checking into a prominent Los Angeles hospital for his rest, it nearly broke the listeners’ hearts. “We’ll rebuild his house!” shouted someone. “Better than ever! Fireproof!” cried others.
Then Skip tactfully informed the villagers that Phantom would never be coming to Wyndham. The loss of his beloved possessions was too bitter a memory to face. The listeners became teary-eyed and a few in the back of the room sobbed openly. The Village Board Trustees stared at each other in dismay. Years of prosperity, up in smoke.
Just as people were beginning to stir, to console each other with reminders of how many had benefited from Phantom over the last weeks, a reporter from the local paper, Mr. Scott Bade, strode into the crowded Hall.
Instead of joining in the general mood of mourning, Scott snatched a chair from the mayor’s platform and stood on it, waving his arms for attention. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he announced that the name of the heir to Aisa Garrett’s company, North Shore Industries Corporation, had just been made public by the corporation’s lawyer. Just when some listeners loudly questioned ‘why bring that up now?’ the reporter continued: “The heir, folks, the heir ! Instead of Mr. Matthew Drexel—is Ms. Peggy Marcastle, personal secretary and executive assistant of Aisa Garrett. She now owns all of Mr. Garrett’s assets, including controlling shares of stock in NSIC, which pretty much makes her the owner of North Shore Industries Corporation!” Scott surveyed the packed room in satisfaction as every man and
The sun sank in the west, spreading a hazy rose beneficat over the hysterical villagers who simmered impatiently in their homes, waiting for Phantom’s impending arrival. Eventually, the last bedroom light was extinguished, and everyone slept…or pretended to.
Around three in the morning, in the peaceful wooded coastline east of NSIC, an arm of flame reached for the moon. Phantom’s house was on fire. By the time a patrolling constable spotted the blaze, and the volunteer fire department assembled themselves, the fire had become all-encompassing.
The electric gate must have jammed when the control box caught fire and had to be forced open. Although the volunteers battered at the iron latches until they broke, it was too late to save anything by the time the trucks rolled up to Phantom’s house. The hot dry weather had primed the newly constructed residence and everything around it to tinder perfection. Nothing was spared.
The commotion pulled the villagers out of their beds and by dawn, the entire population stood appalled at the sodden, smoldering mass. Their hopes, their dreams, their glorious future in providing a secret home for Phantom was no more.
Mark Daniels, everyone agreed afterwards, showed what a selfless, heroic human being he was both during and after the disaster. While the finished product of incredible organization, weeks of work, and probably millions of dollars worth of goods went up in a miserable puff of smoke, his main concern was that no one got hurt. While priceless works of art were being reduced to ash, he had patrolled the property, keeping rubberneckers clear of falling debris and smoke.
Yes, Mark had a heart of gold. Of course, these admiring comments began circulating right after he announced that everything was insured to the hilt, so there would be plenty of money to reimburse everyone for the slightest effort made on Phantom’s behalf. Everyone would be paid in full for everything, regardless of the disaster.
A rush was made to fax Phantom concerning the current status of his home-to-be. He was advised to divert his path from Wyndham, since they were no longer ready to receive him. A reply, received later, was read aloud by Skip to those assembled—crammed—into the Town Hall at four in the afternoon after the fire. When he added that Phantom would be checking into a prominent Los Angeles hospital for his rest, it nearly broke the listeners’ hearts. “We’ll rebuild his house!” shouted someone. “Better than ever! Fireproof!” cried others.
Then Skip tactfully informed the villagers that Phantom would never be coming to Wyndham. The loss of his beloved possessions was too bitter a memory to face. The listeners became teary-eyed and a few in the back of the room sobbed openly. The Village Board Trustees stared at each other in dismay. Years of prosperity, up in smoke.
Just as people were beginning to stir, to console each other with reminders of how many had benefited from Phantom over the last weeks, a reporter from the local paper, Mr. Scott Bade, strode into the crowded Hall.
Instead of joining in the general mood of mourning, Scott snatched a chair from the mayor’s platform and stood on it, waving his arms for attention. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he announced that the name of the heir to Aisa Garrett’s company, North Shore Industries Corporation, had just been made public by the corporation’s lawyer. Just when some listeners loudly questioned ‘why bring that up now?’ the reporter continued: “The heir, folks, the heir ! Instead of Mr. Matthew Drexel—is Ms. Peggy Marcastle, personal secretary and executive assistant of Aisa Garrett. She now owns all of Mr. Garrett’s assets, including controlling shares of stock in NSIC, which pretty much makes her the owner of North Shore Industries Corporation!” Scott surveyed the packed room in satisfaction as every man and
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