I hold my hand over my mouth, unable to piece together what is going on in this house. As I stand at the bottom of the stairs, I call up again, “George?! If you’re here, please say something…If you mean to scare me, you can stop now…You’ve done that.”
But no response. I head up the stairs and peek over the rail towards our bedroom door, which is cracked open. Each step I take, my ears fix on the doorknob as I past the bathroom, a broom closet, and the guest room. The wind whistles through the crack in the door as I grip the knob in my hand.
“George?” I say again, though I know I wouldn’t receive a response. I peek through the crack in the door and can see the window. I take a deep breath, launch myself through the door, and a strong wind gusts throughout the room. Hurrying to the two windows that were open, I shelter myself from the wind and slam them shut. Maybe it was just the wind blowing against the blinds. But that wouldn’t explain the mess I found downstairs. The front door opens, and I rush out of the room and down the steps. George is in the doorway.
“Eva.”
“George!” I exclaim as I throw myself into his arms.
“What’s the matter? Why are you hysterical?”
“Oh, George, it’s been horrible,” I say. “Horrible, horrible!”
He makes his way through the house and, when he walks into the kitchen, his face turns white.
“Eva, what is this mess?”
“George, I don’t know I—I was outside, gardening and I thought I saw someone or—something, in our window and when I came inside the kitchen is a wreck. Many things are missing, George. Many things.”
“Missing? What craziness are you talking about?”
I pull him by the hand and bring him into the dining room. “Look!” I say. “Our—“
George walks around the living room and examines the walls, the floor, the table, and the furniture that I was so sure were gone. On the table, plugged in, rests my laptop.
“But—“
“Eva,” George says with a sigh in his voice.
“George, it wasn’t like this,” I say as I step into the centre of the room, looking around. “Th-The portraits and pictures of us were gone. The tables, the chair, my laptop. All of it. It wasn’t here, George. It was all gone.”
George looks around the room and when his eyes meet mine again, he seems discouraged.
“It all seems to be here now,” he says.
“But I’m telling you it wasn’t.”
“If you’re trying to build my spirits by some silly prank I—“
“Prank? Prank?!” I exclaim, holding my hands to my heart. “I’m not pulling any prank on you, George, I’m telling you the truth. I’m telling you what I saw.”
“Maybe you thought you saw something, I mean. You did say you thought you saw someone in the window.”
“I did.”
“Well,” George says as he stretches his arms out and then flaps them back to his sides. “Where is the—intruder?”
“I—Maybe there wasn’t. But there are some strange things happening in this house, I tell you.”
“Like what?”
“I can’t sleep at night and one of those nights I heard a baby crying. I thought it was the neighbour’s, but she said her children are all grown up now.”
“See, Eva. That’s the problem.”
“What’s the problem?”
“You.”
“I’m the problem? I’m the problem?! How am I the problem, George?!”
“With you being unable to conceive I think it’s starting to make you a bit—delusional.”
“Delusional?!”
“Yes, delusional! It’s getting to your head! You’re hearing a baby cry at night, you’re claiming stuff is disappearing in the house, you say you saw somebody here and—“ he shrugs. “You have nothing to show for anything of that besides the ridiculous claims and a dirty kitchen!”
“I am NOT ‘delusional,’ George!”
“Listen, I know it must be hard moving here so soon and having the house to yourself each day, but please. You have to keep it together. I’m stressed out enough at work.”
“Stressed out?! You’re stressed out?! I’m sorry that something that bothers me is such a burden for your busy work schedule, but let me be clear, George! I am your wife! Your WIFE! I come before your work!”
“Oh yeah! And then what?! You pay the bills? The mortgage with your little writing projects you do?! All you have to do is sit in the house, type at a computer, and be sure not to burn the house down in the process!”
“You are ridiculous!”
“And you’re delusional!” He then storms out of the dining room and back towards the front door.
“Where are you going?!”
“Out!”
“Out?!”
“Yes, and let me tell you something else. The person or whatever it is you thought you saw, was a delusion! The furniture missing, delusion! The table and chairs missing and the portraits and your laptop missing, delusion! But let me tell you what is not a delusion, Eva! That damn kitchen! So, while I’m out, why don’t you clean up that mess and the mess that’s in your head!”
He slams the door. I collapse to the floor as tears begin to flow from my eyes. I am not delusional. I know what I saw and I know something is going on in this house. Why can’t he just believe me? Then a thought crosses my mind and I begin to question it. There must have been a reason why, even with George’s advance and all our savings, we could afford a house like this, which should have been within our means financially. So, I wonder why this house was so affordable?
Interpretations of Investigations
The night bloomed cold. George hasn’t said a word to me since he returned. I don’t think he has batted a lash in my direction, still believing I’m ‘delusional.’ I’ve decided that tomorrow will be different. Instead of holing myself in this horrid house, I’ll head to the library in the heart of the city and do some research. I need to know the history of this place. Something doesn’t feel right and, though I’ve never been the one to believe in the supernatural, I am afraid that just may be the explanation to all of this.
A part of me rests on two polar ends of one theory. That is: If I am correct, and this place has some tragic past in which something has awakened, then I will prove to George that I am not delusional. However, if I am to find nothing, then that leaves me without any argument; possibly and unfortunately proving that I just may be what George describes, delusional.
I can’t be wrong.
For hours, I’ve lay in bed beside George watching the moon sit with the stars. For every second that goes by, perhaps every minute or hour, our bedroom seems to only become darker. At some point, I could have sworn I saw the designs on the wallpaper move! But, maybe, just maybe, it was a case of mild hysteria. In college, I remember taking a psychology course and the professor said, “our mind has a way of creating things that aren’t there, like shadows looking like the bogey-man. But our mind also has a way of showing us things that are there. Though, sometimes subtle, sometimes vivid.”
Well, tonight, instead of shadows looking like the bogey-man, I hear a baby crying again. But instead of it sounding distant like nights ago, it sounds as if it’s coming from the guestroom. I quietly climb out of bed and tip-toe beneath the lightning that flickers through our bedroom windows. The floorboards squeak beneath me and, though the house looks new, I’m given the impression it is of a much older, antique nature.
I press my face against the white wall of our bedroom and it’s as cold as an igloo, and each breath I take, I can see before me, a foggy residue. It’s there, though. The crying. It’s there. I could try and wake George, but he’s already upset with me, and I’m surprised the crying alone hasn’t woken him.
As the rain beats against the windows, lightning is the only source of light guiding me to the guestroom door. The crying has grown louder, though the house feels more still than ever. Something
feels arid about this. I remove my hand from the doorknob. I shouldn’t, I tell myself. I shouldn’t go in there. I turn my back to the guestroom door. I’m not going to go in there. But the baby begins to wail and cough and wail and cough again. It’s an innocent child, though. I can’t leave him or her crying. If he or she was my baby, I couldn’t let it wail through the night.
I face the door again and turn the doorknob. As the door opens, it squeaks and reveals a barren bedroom with nothing but a bed and sheets. Thunder crackles through the sky above our house, forcing me to flinch. There’s no baby here. There’s nothing here. But I feel something is here…Oh my God.
As the room fills with light from the lightning, a red spot forms in the middle of the white bed sheets. I take a step forward, cupping my hands over my mouth. The red spot begins to bleed through the white sheets, growing into a much bigger pool of red. Blood. Blood. Blood. It’s blood. Who’s blood? Is it blood? It leaks to the floor and fills between the cracks of the floorboards, making its way towards my bare feet. I can’t move! I shake and shake my legs, but they disobey my plea. Why can’t I move?! The blood creeps towards me through the cracks as if it were some lion about to pounce an eating gazelle. Before I can scream at the top of my lungs, the blood touches the tips of my pale, cold toes, and my mind sends me into a dark oblivion.
~
“Eva? Eva? Wake up, dear! Eva!”
George cradles me in his arms as he looks down at me.
“Eva? What happened?”
“I—I don’t know,” I say. I glance around and see the bed in the guestroom, its sheets, the rain drenched windows, and hear the small rumbles and rips of thunder. “I thought I heard something,” I tell him.”
He shakes his head as he always does when he thinks I’m saying something ‘crazy.’ “Let’s get you back in the bed. It’s very late. You need some rest.”
He picks me up off the floor as I wrap my arms around his neck. He lays me in bed, kisses me goodnight, and before I can close my eyes, he’s back asleep.
“Will you be okay here by yourself today?” George asks me the next day as he eats his plate of eggs.
“Yes,” I nod. He nods his head as well. “Actually, I’m going to the library today.”
He lifts his head from his plate. “Oh?”
“Yes.” If I mention the reasons, he’d probably have a fit. “I think I just need to get out of the house for a while. I’m sure I can get a lot of work done at the library. A new setting is what I need.”
George smiles as he eats his final forkful of eggs. “That sounds like a splendid idea, dear. I’m glad you’re trying to let go of that craziness you were spitting to me yesterday. That’s good news.”
I force myself to smile. “Yes…It is.”
“Well, I should get going,” he says as he gets to his feet. “Would you— “
“Yeah, I’ll clear your plate. Don’t worry about it.”
He kisses me goodbye and, after his car disappears down the road, I shower, get dressed, pack up my things, and hop on the next bus to the library. I hadn’t noticed how great and different the architecture is here in London compared to the States. Back at home, I always felt rushed and hectic, and all the tall buildings were just grey, which is how it made me feel. But in London, everything seems more free-spirited, open, and welcoming. It kind of lifts my mood despite all that is going. Maybe I should get out more.
I head up the stairs of the library to the top floor. After spotting a nice corner area that seems like a small office, with glass windows, maybe a group area, I decide that’s where I’ll work and do my research. What to search? Where do I start? I type in the address of my house and at most, I’m given a bunch of links on how to get there, Google Maps, directions, etcetera. I add the word ‘history’ to the search engine and Google populates a few more interesting links. There’s some pictures of the house, but the photos are rather old; black and white. It’s the same house, though. I click the first link. There are articles about the house being up for sale, the sale price of the house dropping exponentially, the house ‘un-owned since’…Wait, what’s this? ‘Murder Suicide at Luciano House.’ When was this published? 1964. I click the heading of the article and there is a picture of a woman and a man lying on the floor in a bedroom. That’s my house, I say to myself. The windows, that bed, that wallpaper, it’s my house. What the hell happened between these people?
I read the article and learned that the house hasn’t been occupied since then, when a pregnant woman named Frances Luciano and her husband, Hugh Luciano lived there. The article mentions a murder-suicide, and another article about Frances’ death during childbirth, then there is a clickable link. I click the link which leads to another article, and the photo of a man; his eyes are dark and baggy, and lost in some sort of emotionless, bottomless pit. The caption beneath the picture reads, ‘Hugh Luciano of London.’ In this article, I learn that Hugh was later sent to prison after the tragic death of his wife and old friend, Paul Marshall, and that he committed suicide in his cell. Could it have been because of depression?
After searching for hours for more information about the case, the Luciano’s, and Paul Marshall, I seem to run into dead ends and links that have been removed. I’m running in circles, but in coming here, I guess I know what happened in the house, which was a murder and later, a suicide, but I don’t have the why? Should I tell George?
“Eva?” he says. “Eva, what’s the matter?”
“Yes?”
“You haven’t touched your plate?”
I look down at the table at my plate of pasta and meatballs and the clean fork.
“I’m sorry,” I respond. “Guess I was stuck in my thoughts.”
“What plagues you?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Yes.”
“Okay…And how did everything go at the library? Did you get a lot of work done as you expected?” He eats a forkful of his pasta and, as he chews, he awaits an answer. I nod my head.
“Yes. I did.”
The rest of our conversation at the table was bland. He spoke about numbers from work and how he’s growing weary of it, yet feels things will look up soon. For me, I can’t get my mind away from the story about the Luciano’s. Such a sad story. A pregnant wife, her husband, and a close friend of the husband in the mix. What happened between the three of them?
We tried again that night, but each time the pregnancy tests turn out negative, I lose more and more hope of conceiving. Maybe these pills don’t work at all and, with where George and I stand, barely talking unless we’re having an argument, are we ready for a child?
The night grew old and crept up on me. I asked to leave the light on as we slept, but George was adamant not to, saying, “Money doesn’t grow on trees, Eva. If it was yours, I guess we could leave every light on in the house.” What’s made him so grumpy and impatient lately? At least he gets sleep. The only company I have at night are my own demons. I pull the cover over my head and lie there with my eyes closed. I press them tightly together, eyelid to eyelid. Fall asleep tonight, Eva. Just fall asleep and wake up tomorrow.
An orange- golden light presses through the cover and onto my face.
“George?” I call as I open my eyes. I remove the covers from over my head, but notice my bedroom is different and George is gone. The room is lit by a candle which sits at my bedside on a cedarwood nightstand. The blankets and sheets are white, the walls are a tan wallpaper, and the floor looks rather old and showing cracks.
My heart then leaps into my throat. What is this? I lie on my back and see a huge lump where my stomach is pressing against the sheets. I slowly remove the sheets and see my bare stomach and feel movement in my gut. I shelter my bosom with my hands and rub. I’m pregnant.
Footsteps approach the door and, as they grow near, a smile spreads across my lips.
“George,” I say with a gasp, rubbing across my belly. “George, you won�
��t believe this but— “
The door bursts open and I swallow my words.
“Y-You’re not George.”
The man stands muscle over muscle, with a beard, dark eyes, and a huff and puff rising his chest in a heavy leather, rain soaked coat.
“George? You’re sleeping with a man named George too?!”
“Wait!” I yell, holding a hand out to the man. “I’m— “
He pulls me off the bed by my hair and as I grip onto his wrist to fight him off, he stands tall and firm.
“I’ll teach you how to respect a man, woman!”
“Stop this! Please!”
He throws me to the floor and I fall onto my side. As he walks towards me, I crawl across the floorboards and cry for him to listen to me. Before I can get another word out, he punches my face. I turn back to him, and he punches again…Then again. Then dashes my head on the footboard of the bed. As I lay there, counting time in seconds, slow, pain-clenching seconds, he stands over me and I stare into his face. I’ve seen it before. He takes a knee at my sides and presses his face to my ear.
“I know whose baby it is, Frances…I know whose baby it is.”
I try to speak, but before I can get a word out, his hands grip my neck and he squeezes, staring deep into my face as I struggle to breathe. My feet kick and pound beneath him and dash the wooden floor, but his grip only tightens and the air in my lungs begins to seize and grow cold and tight. My head begins to rock in pain, and my eyes feel as though they are going to burst out of their sockets.
He leaves me there on the freezing floor. My stomach hunched and crumpled before him. He reaches behind his belt and holds a silver object in front of me. The moment I realize that it is a gun, is the moment he pulls the trigger, and a bang rattles my existence.
That dream. That daunting dream. It felt more real than anything I’ve experienced before. The pain, the push, the fight…the baby. I remember the man calling me Frances, and so I’ve pieced together he had to be Hugh. What was my dream telling me? Frances died during childbirth, but as the news clippings had said, she was murdered…But so was Paul. “You’re sleeping with a man named George too?” Too…I can only infer that Hugh might have been accusing Frances of adultery…Wait? He said something else…What was it?
Haunted House Tales Page 8