Mouse-trapped: A Macabre Tail

It was a scene right out of Edgar Allen Poe's "The Telltale Heart." I was sitting in a learning circle when there came a knocking at my classroom door. The children and I froze. Sure enough, the knock came again. "Who is it," my voice, wavering with uncertainty, called out. We held our breath, awaiting the answer. It could be administration. It could be the fire inspector (although a glance at my emergency exit window brought me momentary relief). "It is I, Mrs. Bush," cried Mrs. Bush, clawing at the door, "Will you bid me 'enter'?" We rushed to her aid, drawing her out of the dark and dismal corridor from which she'd come, burdened by an awkward object. I gasped, growing faint upon the sight of it...a ghostly specter...pestilence from my past.

Seven years ago, to enliven a tale, I'd murdered a mouse and, today, I would be reunited with my crime. How had I convinced my husband to build a three foot long mousetrap, I wondered as I watched Mrs. Bush wrestle it onto my table. And how on earth did I ever manage to successfully affix that atrocity to a bulletin board as the table creaked alarmingly beneath its weight? "We found this in the back of the closet in your old 6th grade classroom," Mrs. Bush said breathlessly, "and we knew that you would want it back." My blank expression masked my true feelings as my students discovered the "Press Me" sticker on the mouse's little paw. It couldn't possibly still work, I thought to myself but a sick compulsion came over me and I was driven forward like Alice toward the sign inviting her to "Eat me." A paw was pinched and the mouse began to writhe morbidly in his trap, sickly singing, "Ho ho ho...ho, ho ho...We are Santa's elves...ho, ho!" The children cheered with delight. Mrs. Bush offered me a little wave before disappearing back into the catacombs of the institute. Like the mouse, I was trapped...forever tied to a prop with boomerang effects and a seemingly infinite battery life. It will take a licking and keep on ticking...or "ho, ho, ho-ing,"  louder and louder, until I go mad. "Villain-ess,"  I shrieked after the retreating form of Mrs. Bush, but she was unable to hear me over the sick singing of the murdered mouse.