Ghosts, Ghouls, and Haunted Houses

by Carrie King

  When he thought about that moment in later years, Harry wouldn’t be able to point out exactly how he came to put the pieces together. Instead of there being one big moment where he knew he knew, it was more like… he thought of it like finding something you’d lost long ago. It was always there, you just had to find it. It wasn’t like buying something new.

  As he sat there, staring at his grandfather’s notebook, he started to realize the same man that he’d loved so very much was wreaking havoc on his life. Somehow, Granddad’s blood mixed into the paint on the canvas was holding him to this world. The pieces started to fall into place. The blood in the paint was an anchor, holding Granddad to the world of the living even after he was gone—a carrier of the essence of the man, himself. And when he came back, he’d need somewhere to go. He’d need a vessel.

  Harry looked at the rest of the notes. There was some English interspersed with the runes and he tried to put them together. As near as he could tell, if Granddad managed to come back, he would need a body. Granddad had tried to find out how to make it work with strangers, tried to find the right mixing ratio, or the right incantation. But it came down to one thing. The vessel and the blood in the paint had to be linked. Someone of Granddad’s own blood. Like Harry.

  Harry fumbled to pull his phone out of his coat and dialed Gavin’s number. After a few rings, the detective answered.

  “I think I figured it out,” Harry said as soon as Gavin answered. “I think it’s my grandfather. He did something, and I think that painting of his that thing came out of last night is haunted or possessed or something.”

  “Slow down. What’re you talking about?”

  “My granddad. He did something, a ritual with his own blood. He mixed it into the paint in that picture, and now I think he’s back. Now that I think of it, I think that thing we saw last night might have been him. Or what’s left of him.”

  Gavin sighed heavily. “I suppose that’s as reasonable an explanation as anything else,” he replied. “If that’s the case, though, shouldn’t destroying the painting stop what’s been happening? If you burn it, it will destroy the blood and the painting together, right?”

  Harry ran a hand through his hair. “I hope so,” he said. “Because if not, I think he might be coming for me next.”

  “Meet me at the gallery right now,” said Gavin.

  Chapter 79

  Harry and Gavin stood by the entrance to the building. There were more people visiting the art gallery than there had been ever before. Harry was amazed by that. There he was, having the worst day of his life, and his business was having the best day of its existence.

  “There are way too many people here for us to just rip that painting off the wall.” Gavin gazed around at the patrons.

  Harry shrugged. “I own the place. It comes with certain privileges.”

  Gavin tutted. “If that thing threw chairs at us and climbed out of a damned painting, what do you think trying to burn it will do? I can only assume it’ll ramp up hostilities, and a lot of innocent people might get hurt.”

  Harry had to agree, as much as he wanted to run over and rip the picture from the wall right then and there. “What about if we try to get these people out? If we say it’s an early day or something?”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” said Gavin. Harry looked quizzically at him.

  “Look, the gallery is having a great day, and you may want to repeat this kind of performance in the future. So, throwing people out in the middle of the day isn’t the best idea. Besides, who knows if that will set the thing off! Plus, from what I can see, they seem to be trickling in pretty steadily. I say we wait until normal closing. Let that thing expect a routine evening. In the meantime, we can think of a plan of action.” Gavin shrugged his shoulders and for the first time ever seemed a little out of his depth.

  Harry didn’t like it, but he had to agree. Just coming in and ripping the picture off the wall might piss off whatever forces Granddad had made a deal with. If the thing from last night came at them with its pointed fingers and sharp nails, they wouldn’t have a chance with that many people crammed in the tight space.

  And so, the two men sat in the office, biding their time as they waited for the crowds to clear up and darkness to fall. As they talked, a plan started to take shape. Harry almost couldn’t wait for the gallery to close. He looked over at Gavin. It helped that he wasn’t alone. If he was, he would have to sit in the office, dwelling on the fact that his grandfather wanted to use him as some kind of vessel, as well as the fact that the man he thought he’d known so well had such a dark secret.

  On the one hand, Harry kind of understood. Knowing that you had something as insidious as Alzheimer’s disease, to know that you would slowly disappear, was unthinkable. If granddad wanted to grasp the only chance he thought he had at some type of normalcy, that might have been all right with Harry.

  But killing other people, plotting to take over someone else’s body? That was unconscionable. The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. The men who kept going missing. The notes in granddad’s book about using a vessel that wasn’t related to him were starting to make sense, and Harry’s heart broke for them. They were gone because he made the choice of bringing the picture into the gallery, instead of leaving it in a storage shed or something.

  He pushed the thought from his mind and started to think about the plan. He looked at his watch. Closing time. He and Gavin started herding the punters out, and once the last of them was gone, they set to work.

  The key thing in the plan was speed. Gavin ran to the painting. Harry stood by, brandishing a lighter and a can of aerosol spray. It was a rudimentary weapon, but a useful one, nonetheless. The two nodded to each other. It was go time.

  Gavin ripped the painting from the wall, but before he could take another step, some great force slammed into him, throwing him halfway across the room. He dropped the painting as he flew through the air. Gavin hit the opposite wall and flopped to the ground like a ragdoll, out cold. Or, at least, Harry hoped. He could see the blood on Gavin’s forehead even from a distance.

  Harry ran to the picture. There was no way he could get it with the homemade flamethrower from that angle without also taking some of the other paintings with it. He crouched down and flicked the lighter, watching the little blue flame come to life.

  The scratching from the other night was back, making Harry’s ears ring. He gritted his teeth and touched the flame to the edge of the painting, only to be thrown back by the same force that had slammed into Gavin. This time, it just pushed him back a few feet, far enough not to harm the painting. None of the doors and windows were open, but there was a cold wind blowing through the gallery. Harry pulled himself together and grabbed the lighter from beside him.

  He got to his feet, ready to go for the painting again, when he heard a whisper behind him. This time, there was no mistaking what it was. Whatever was making the noise was whispering his name.

  “Harry,” it said. “Harry, look at me.”

  Harry felt his blood run cold. He knew that voice perfectly. He just hadn’t heard it in a year.

  “Granddad?” he whispered.

  “Harry, help me,” said the voice. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I was just trying to get better, son. You know that. I would never hurt you.”

  Harry wiped a tear from his cheek. He’d missed that voice for so long. “Why would you do this?” he asked, looking around, trying to find where the voice came from.

  “I just wanted more time, son,” said Granddad. “After the doctor told me what was going to happen, I put a little insurance policy in place. It’s like being prepared for anything else in life.”

  “Granddad, you wanted to use me as a vessel,” said Harry. His voice sounded so plaintive and annoying, but he couldn’t help it.

  “Ah, but you love your Granddad, don’t you Harry?” The wind started to pick up a little around them, and Harry tightened his hand around the lighter.


  Gavin was still lying completely motionless on the ground.

  “You love your Granddad. You want me to have some more time to paint and write, don’t you? You used to say so when you came me visit me at the home.”

  Harry started inching his way over to the painting. “You can’t do that, Granddad,” he said, trying to keep his voice even. “You can’t just evict someone from their own body for yourself.”

  This set Granddad off. Paintings flew off the walls and hurtled in Harry’s direction. He ducked and dodged them, but the chaos continued.

  “I can do whatever I want!” bellowed Granddad. “I can take whoever I want!”

  Harry threw his arms over his head, trying to protect himself from the onslaught until he could pick his moment to attack. He inched closer and closer to the painting, until finally, he dropped to his knees and let out a spray from the aerosol and lit the lighter. Flame flared at the canvas and set it ablaze.

  Granddad, or the thing that used to be Granddad, screamed. The noise was so loud, so piercing, it cracked the lenses in Harry’s glasses and even with his hands pressed to his ears, his head was pounding with pain.

  The painting burned and burned, the oils in the paints accelerating the flames, until all that was left was darkness and ashes and Harry.

  Chapter 80

  Two weeks was a long time. For someone who hadn’t been there that night, or for the subsequent clean-up, the Madison Gallery looked the same as it always had. Outside of one area being taped off, life had returned to normal in the aftermath of Harry’s night in the gallery. He still had trouble keeping staff, but what business owner didn’t?

  Harry waited by the reception desk, greeting the people coming in to the see the new pieces, handing out pamphlets and laughing at the same old tired jokes about how the customer should have been the painter if they get away with charging these outrageous prices. The mystique from the rumored haunting and the missing guards had increased the aura of mystery around the Madison and people were still coming in droves. A few of them had even bought some art.

  He was zoned out, waiting for the next person to come in, when a loud rap on the desk startled him. Harry looked up to see Gavin Jones standing there with a cast around his wrist and a bandage on his head, but otherwise looking no worse for his ordeal. Damn him. Attacked by a homicidal ghost and still looked cool as a cucumber.

  “Gavin! I see they’ve finally let you back out on the streets!” He extended his hand for a handshake that was enthusiastically returned.

  “Yeah. Apparently, I had a lot of time off saved so my boss didn’t even blink when I said I needed to take it. How are you?” He looked around, taking in the repairs and changes to the exhibits. “Everything looks good.”

  “Yeah, it took a bit of work, but you can hardly tell that the primary male role model in my life tried to kill us both in here.” Harry grimaced the memory was still painful.

  Gavin laughed. “Anyway, I just wanted to stop in and make sure that everything was fine. I’m on my way to work.” He tapped the reception desk. “Call me and we’ll go out for a drink sometime.”

  Harry nodded. “Absolutely.”

  Gavin stopped as he was turning away. “Hey, whatever happened to that girl you told me about?”

  “Laura? We went for a drink last week. It was nice. We’re seeing each other again this week,” Harry said. He forced himself to be cool. In truth, Laura was one of the neatest people that he had ever met, and he was really enjoying being around her. So far, she seemed to feel the same way about him.

  “That’s great,” said Gavin. “And, just so you don’t forget, you might want to get rid of the other paintings. I know they mean a lot to you, but we can’t tell if he did this with any of the other ones, and frankly, I don’t fancy getting thrown across a room by a ghost again.”

  Harry gave him a thumbs up. “I thought of it before you. I got rid of all the ones I had; I just have to burn the ones in the storage shed. I wish I could keep something of his though. But there’s no way I can trust anything he painted, is there?”

  Gavin shrugged sadly, then turned on his heel. “See you soon, Ainsley,” he called as he went.

  Harry nodded, at least he’d made a friend during all this.

  Harry worked the full day at the gallery, meeting and greeting customers. It wasn’t that bad of a job, honestly. He could even see a time when he loved doing this as much as he had in the beginning. Still, as he walked to the shed, he had rented nearby, he couldn’t help but feel slightly guilty about everything that happened. It was completely irrational, but he couldn’t help it.

  Harry unlocked the shed door, finding the neat piles of boxes and papers he had organized after moving everything out of Gran’s house were undisturbed. He pulled out a couple of boxes and emptied their contents into the large oil drum he’d procured for the occasion, along with some rolled up canvases. Here was all that left of his Granddad, and he was about to set it alight. He packed everything into the drum and set it ablaze with his disposable lighter.

  He couldn’t help but shed a tear as he watched. The hot orange flames were almost burning his face. He was standing too close, he knew that, but he didn’t move. Consider this my penance, Granddad, he thought.

  Before him, the paintings and journals burned into ashes.

  Don’t Close Your Eyes – Preview

  Fancy something longer? Read this preview of Don’t Close Your Eyes – 4 full length horror novels to keep you up at night…

  25th April 1582

  The basement of the cage.

  Derbyshire.

  England.

  3:15 am.

  Alden Carter looked down at his shaking hands. The sight of blood curdled his stomach as it dripped onto the floor. For a moment, his resolve failed, he did not recognize the thin, gnarled fingers. Did not recognize the person he had become. How could he do this, how could he treat another human being in this terrible way and yet he knew he must. If he did not, then the consequences for him would be grave. For a second he imagined a young girl with a thin face and a long nose. Her brown hair bounced as she ran in circles and she flashed a smile each time she passed. The memory brought him joy and comfort. Brook was not a pretty girl, but she was his daughter, and he loved her more than he could say. He remembered her joy at the silver cross he gave her. The one that he was given from the Bishop, the one that cost him his soul.

  Rubbing his hands through sparse hair, he almost gagged at the feeling of the crusty blood he found there. How many times had he run those blood-soaked fingers through his lank and greasy hair? Too many to count. It had been a long night, and it was not over yet. This must be done, and it was him who had to do it.

  Suddenly, his throat was dry, and fatigue weighed him down like the black specter of death he had become. A candle flickered and cast a grotesque shadow across the wall. Outside, the trees shook their skeletal fingers against the brick and wood house and he closed his eyes for a moment. Seeing Brook once more he strengthened his resolve. The trees trembled, and the wind seemed to whisper through their leaves, tormenting him, telling him that he was wrong but he would not stop. Could not stop. Taking a breath, he felt stronger now, and with a shaky hand, he picked up an old stein and took a drink of bitter ale. It did not quench his thirst, but it gave him a little courage. He must do this. He must go back down to the cage and finish what he had started, for if he did not Brook would not survive and maybe neither would he?

  The kitchen was sparse and dark and yet he knew he was lucky. The house was made of brick as well as wood. It was three stories’ high and was bigger than he needed. This was a luxury few could afford. As was the plentiful supply of food in the pantry and work every day. The Bishop had been kind to him, and he knew he had much to be grateful for. Yet, what price had he paid? As the wind picked up, the trees got angry and seemed to curse him with their branches. Rattling against the walls and making ghostly shadows through the window. Alden turned from them and up to the wall before
him. The sight of it almost stopped his heart and yet he knows he must go back down to the cage. If the Bishop found him up here with his job not done, then he would be in trouble... Brook would be in trouble. A shiver ran down his spine as he approached the secret door. Reaching out a shaky hand he touched the wall. It was cold, hard and yet it gave before him. With a push, the catch released and the door swung inward. Before him was a dark empty space. A chasm, an evil pit that he must descend into once more.

  Picking up the oil lamp, he approached the stairs and slowly walked down into the dark. The walls were covered in whitewash, and yet they did not seem light. Nothing about this place seemed light. Shadows chased across the ceiling behind him and then raced in front as if eager to reach the hell below. Cobwebs clawed at his face. These did not bother Alden, he did not fear the spider, no, it was the serpent in God’s clothing who terrified him.

  With each step, the temperature dropped. He had never understood why it was so much colder down here. Cellars were always cool, but this one… with each step, he felt as if he was falling into the lake. That he had broken through the ice and was sinking into the water. Panic clenched his stomach as he wondered if he would drown. The air seemed to stagnate in his lungs, and they ached as he tried to pull in a breath. It was just panic, he shook it off, and was back on the stairs. His feet firm on the stone steps he descended deeper and deeper. He shrugged into his thick, coarse jacket. The material would not protect him, of that he was sure, but he pushed such thoughts to the back of his mind and stepped onto the soft soil of the basement floor.

  There was an old wooden table to his right. Quickly, he put the oil lamp on it. Shadows chased across the room. In front of him, his work area was just touched with the light, he knew he must look confident as he approached the woman shackled to the wall. Ursula Kemp was once a beauty. With red hair and deep green eyes. Her smooth ivory skin was traced with freckles, and she had always worn a smile that had the local men bowing to her every need. Seven years ago she had married the blacksmith, and they had a daughter, Rose. Alden felt his eyes pulled to his right… there in the shadows lay a pile of bones. A small pile, the empty eyes of the skull accused him. Though he could not look away from that blackened, burned, mound… the cause of another stain on his soul. Bile rose in his throat, and the air seemed full of smoke. It was just his imagination, he swallowed, choked down a cough and pulled his eyes away. Blinking back tears, he turned and looked up at Ursula. Chained to the wall she should be beaten, broken, and yet there was defiance in her eyes. They were like a cool stream on a hot summer’s day. Something about them defied the position she was in. How could she not be beaten? How could she not confess?