Halloween Suspense Stories- Cigar Boxes

Post date: October 29, 2025

By Mia Mastroianni

I was never really close to my grandfather; he was always a side character in my mind. I suppose I was more interested in playing with blocks or my Barbie Dreamhouse than in talking to the stoic, clean-cut man who was Salvatore Bonetti. Slicked back hair, Cazals sitting on the tip of his nose, gold, chunky rings that were so intricately designed, I asked my mom about them every time we left the house. One or two chains hung high around his neck. The scotch painted the sides of the glass as it swished around, a cigarette sitting in between his fingers.I pressed my face against the window pane, examining the man sitting on the porch before me. What does he think about? How could a person possibly be this serious all the time?

Salvatore “II Serpente” Bonetti died suffering. The cancer tore apart his lungs from the inside out, and it caught up to him fast. I only visited him once, right before he passed away. The beautiful, gleaming rings that I memorized every detail of still sat against his now mottled, discolored fingers. Rosaries were scattered on the side table, on top of his wife's obituary card. I don't even think he could see me, recognize me. The little girl he knew had just graduated high school, and only one of us had the rest of our lives ahead of us. 

I checked off the tiny, black box on my calendar in pink marker. It was mid-November. The tips of the grass were starting to freeze a bit more in the morning, and I had to get my big puffer jacket out of the closet to walk to class. My roommate left early this morning for her lectures; her bed was still unmade. I haphazardly stuffed clothes into my bag, throwing in whatever fit. I was going home. Rochester looked gloomy, as always. The train ride was about an hour this time, but it still felt like forever. My mother called me, slightly panicked, the week before. She asked me to come back down to Pittsford to help clean the rest of the storage out of my grandparents’ house. I reluctantly said yes, the feeling of being in that house creeping up my spine. The air always felt heavy and miserable. As a kid, I would cry until my parents would just take me home. But, she said I could sell anything I found that was possibly worth something. So, at least I could get some money out of the deal. I worked two jobs already, but as a college student, you could never have enough money. I dropped off my bags at my parents' house, sitting down to have a quick lunch with them before I left. I was going there first, they were gonna meet me later. Just taking this route, watching the familiar houses fly past the window, I feel like I’m ten years old again and it's Sunday. Dread fills up my chest; it physically hurts to come back here again.

The door practically hesitates as I open it; as much pressure as I put on it, the wood doesn’t pry until I put almost all of my weight on it. This house didn’t want me in it; I could feel it. I peek my head in first, and the same portraits from 20 years ago are still sitting on the mantel over the fireplace. As my foot takes a shaky step in, the planks creak under my feet. I beeline upstairs, slamming the front door behind me. I had to get this done quickly. 

I was told to go through the closet first, to look through any clothing or jewelry that I could easily sell on Ebay. His bedroom was the opposite of frozen in time. The bed was perfectly made, the paintings on the wall precisely centered, vacuum marks still on the carpet, and a perfectly organized wardrobe. He had so many clothes! I only ever saw him wear the same thing. A black polo with dress pants. All of these bathrobes, Aloha shirts, and satin pajamas tell a completely different story. I finally reached the back of the closet, after accumulating a pretty big pile of scarcely worn garments. A wooden shelf sat above the rack, holding shoe boxes and photo albums all stacked on top of each other. I rummaged around, looking for any old watch packages or expensive cologne, when a heavily decorated, varnished cigar box caught my eye. It was relatively small, with designs carved into the grain. It had a simple latch lock on it. I’ve never seen him smoke cigars, though. It was only ever cigarettes and pipes. Hiding inside was a broken necklace, the chain completely snapped, a gold cross attached to it. The loops at the top were bent and disfigured, like it was ripped off of someone. This looked expensive. Underneath was a newspaper clipping, worn and ripped at the edges, like it was torn from the original paper. The page stained with age. The final item was an obituary, like something you get from a funeral. The small, laminated card documented a face I didn’t recognize, with a prayer written in cursive underneath. I slowly padded out of the closet, my eyebrows furrowed as I found the nearest surface to put these items on. I picked up the torn, discolored piece of paper sitting underneath the necklace, squinting my eyes to read the writing. The date read Feburary 14th, 1964.

 “A quiet neighborhood was shaken late Tuesday evening when the body of a local man was discovered in his home under mysterious circumstances. The victim was found by his wife lying on the kitchen floor, dead from what authorities described as a single gunshot wound to the face. Police investigators report there were few signs of forced entry, suggesting the killer may have been known to the victim or entered the home by other means. ‘The scene was generally tidy, though not perfect,’ an officer at the scene told reporters. ‘It didn’t look like a struggle.’ The only potential clue recovered was a single toothpick found near the victim’s body.”

What did he keep this for?  Did it happen in his neighborhood? Was he friends with this person? My brain felt like static. Grandpa always chewed on toothpicks, he used it as a vice that wasn’t a box of Camels. I’m thinking too far ahead. But, this was an incredibly eerie keepsake. I shoved the small chest into my bag, running down the stairs. I wasn’t waiting for my parents, this all could wait. 

As soon as I got home, I told them I went through half, but felt too creeped out to continue. I knew they would both understand, we all hated that house. I typed the title of the news article into my Google search, clicking the first link that popped up. It was a 30 year anniversary column that was written to honor him. His name was Clarence Porter, a wealthy corporate attorney. His wife, Florence Porter was mentioned as well. She was interviewed shortly after her husband's murder.

“Mrs. Clarence Porter, widow of the slain man, was described by friends as ‘heartbroken and in shock’ following the discovery of her husband’s body Friday night. Neighbors say she had only been gone a short while before returning home to find the tragic scene in their kitchen.

Through tears, Mrs. Porter told officers that her husband always wore a large gold cross on a chain around his neck — a gift she had given him on their tenth wedding anniversary. The necklace, she said, was missing when police arrived. He is survived by his wife and his child, Stanley.”

The cross necklace. I blinked, my fingers freezing on the keyboard. I peeked back inside the box, picking up the obituary card and necklace. Clarence was wearing a gold chain with a cross around his neck in this photo. They were the same. My breathing stopped, my hands shaking with fervor. This was real. Salvatore Bonetti shot Clarence Porter.

I didn’t dare tell my parents until I confirmed my theory, this was even bigger than me. I wrote down the name of the son, Stanley Porter. This could be something. Soon, I had to go back up to college with this new knowledge I had obtained. But with more research resources at my disposal. I looked up Stanley online. His name and face immediately popped up with a social network link under it. He is a cold case journalist. Everything is connected. I battled with the idea of reaching out to him. What if he didn’t want to talk to me? My grandfather killed his own father, after all. A couple days later, I built up the courage to send my lengthy email. Mentioning wanting to speak to him, whether that be in person or over the phone. His reply came not even 10 minutes later. I sent him what I found, all that was inside the cigar box, the obituary and the necklace. His second email confirmed it was his father’s, and gave me an address to meet him.

The cold air bit the skin on my nose as I walked along the street, my hands shoved in the pockets of my jacket. This was really happening. Every bone in my body was telling me to go back to my dorm, and abandon this entire thing. I can’t give up now, though,  I’m too far in.         I recognized his face from across the cafe as I walked in, the bell on the door above my head dinging at my sudden presence. He sat there, with his laptop and a coffee in front of him, his head immediately peeking up. 

“I have been trying to find an answer to all of this for years, It has become my life's work. Nobody knows what happened to him and it drives me insane. I get a lot of emails, but when I got yours. I just knew it was something.” Stanley rambled; He was clearly eager to have this conversation. “I-I am not a professional investigator or anything like that, but I just want answers. For my family's sake. I want you to tell me everything you know.” I stuttered on my words, pushing the box across the table. We looked through everything, again. From the necklace, to every single word on the newspaper clipping. While he fidgeted with it, he turned it over, his eyebrows raised. “What is it?” I questioned, my heart beating out of my chest. He didn’t reply, just pulling the small tab on the bottom of the box. Stanley pulled a piece of paper from the mysterious new compartment. It felt like my eyes were frozen open. “Did you notice this part?” He almost sounded angry. “N-no, I guess I never turned it over.” I squeezed the sides of the table. He swiftly opened the folded paper, his eyes scanning over the sideways cursive written in fountain pen. We read it together.

February 11th, 1964

Dearest Sal, make sure you dispose of this as soon as you’re done reading. My son will be at my mother’s house for the night, I will be at my sister's house the next street over. The money will be in the safe, you know where it is. If you don’t remember the passcode, I will write it again. 986524. Remember to leave the safe open. I am trusting you, do not mess this up. I need to rid of this accursed man as soon as possible. 

Make it quick.  Xx, Florence.

We both immediately lock eyes, speechless. “That’s your mother, right? Florence?” I ask shakily, under my breath. He turns white.