Haunted Houses

by Robert D. San Souci

  “One night, she escaped. Folks in Westmont knew she’d returned, because they’d hear her heartbroken cries coming off the wooded slopes, calling over and over for her lost son. Search-and-rescue parties went out repeatedly, but they never got any closer than seeing a footprint in muddy ground or hearing her endless cries for her son.” After a dramatic pause, she concluded, “They say that you can still hear her ghostly voice to this day. Al-ex-an-der. Al-ex-an-der.”

  A silence fell over the room, broken only by the crackle of the fireplace logs, as all but the very youngest kids listened for a haunting cry.

  “Booga-booga!” shouted Nate, causing the others to jump.

  “Brat!” Annabeth laughed, slapping at him.

  “That’s enough ghost stories for one night,” said Aunt June. “I think it’s high time young folks were in bed.”

  Amid parental agreement and groans from the “young folks,” the children—except for Annabeth and Nate—were hustled off to their assigned bedrooms on the second floor.

  Val, who was sharing a small room with Annabeth, lay for a long time listening for a ghostly wail. But she heard only the distant hum of crickets or the soft tunk-tank of moths batting against the window screen. Then, as she was finally drifting off to sleep, she was sure she heard a faint call, “Al-ex-an-der,” from high up the mountain. But sleep had too firm a grip on her; Val drifted off not sure if she had really heard a haunting cry or only imagined it.

  The men and Nate left just before sunup, in quest of the perfect antlers. Val, still snuggling deep into the blankets to avoid the morning chill, heard the husbands reminding their wives not to let the kids go up the mountain, but to keep them close to the lodge. This, Val knew, was to avoid any hunting accidents—though the hunting party planned to go quite a ways into the woods in search of their quarry.

  The kids were allowed to sleep in until seven-thirty, and then their mothers rousted them out of bed. Breakfast was a feast: orange juice, pancakes, bacon, hash browns, and a choice of maple, strawberry, or blueberry syrup. Annabeth and the older kids shot hoops in the basketball court they’d discovered behind the lodge; the littler kids found some board games in a living room closet and began a round of Uncle Wiggily under the direction of Aunt June, who kept saying, “This was one of my favorite games when I was a little girl.” To Val, the board looked so old and grimy, she wondered if it had been tucked into the closet since the 1920s. Had Alexander Swendson and his sisters played the selfsame game? she wondered.

  Not invited to join the older kids, not interested in playing with the younger ones, Val wandered off on her own.

  “Stay close,” her mother called through the kitchen window, where she and Aunt Mae were finishing the breakfast cleanup.

  “I will,” Val answered automatically. She had no plan in mind beyond simply wandering around to see what, if anything, the local area had to offer.

  Remembering the rule to stay downslope, Val went past the parked cars—two SUVs and a van—and followed the access road back toward the highway for a little bit. Then a trail suddenly veering off at a right angle to the road caught her attention. Feeling adventurous, she struck off into the trees.

  The path ran straight for quite a while, and then it began to meander here and there and everywhere, as if it had forgotten whatever place it was trying to reach. At several points, it branched and then branched again. Val would turn this way or that, depending on pure whim, only avoiding those forks that unmistakably led upward. She was careful to heed her parents’ warnings.

  The air was heavy and warm. There were a lot of bugs, but the insect repellent her mother had insisted she wear seemed to be working okay. Val had no idea how long she’d been walking, since she had forgotten to wear the watch Uncle Jim and Aunt Mae had given her on her last birthday and her cell was back at the lodge recharging.

  When she came to a clearing, she sat down on a hollow log to rest and to catch her breath. The day continued heating up. Val was sorry she hadn’t brought a bottle of water or, better yet, Gatorade along with her. Her throat was beginning to feel dry and scratchy; her forehead and underarms and stomach felt sweat-sticky. She decided she’d have to head back shortly.

  A rabbit hopped into the edge of the clearing, staring at her with a what-are-you-doing-here? look. Val froze to keep from startling the creature. It continued to study the girl for a moment—then hopped away as suddenly as if it had heard a gunshot.

  It was so peaceful in the mingled sun and shade of the little glade, Val decided to sit and relax a minute more. She closed her eyes. The pine-scented warmth wrapped around her like a blanket; the hum of gnats and crickets was a lullaby inside and outside her head at the same time; she was adrift on a golden green sea, floating, floating. . . .

  Suddenly Val jerked awake. The voice came: Girl. She was sure that the same word had roused her out of her doze. She glanced rapidly all around the clearing. Nothing.

  Girl. It was a whisper in her ear—so close it seemed to tickle her lobe.

  “Who’s there?” she asked.

  I knew once, this was a sigh, followed by a sad little, I have forgotten.

  The voice was so faint, Val wasn’t sure if it belonged to a shy child or a very soft-spoken woman. She remembered Stu’s story from the evening before.

  “Are you a ghost?” Val asked.

  But the only answer was a wail, as if she’d upset whoever it was with her question.

  “Sorry!” Val apologized hastily. “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”

  The cry died away to a soft moan. Then silence.

  Val stood up. She was half thinking that she was merely waking up from a vivid dream. She decided to begin retracing her path back to the lodge.

  But she had barely taken a step when her right wrist was gripped—painfully—by the fingers of a smaller hand. Digits that felt like bones dug into her flesh. She couldn’t see the ghostly fingers, but she could clearly see the indentations where her skin was held in the other’s desperate grip.

  Come with me, the voice without a mouth insisted.

  “I can’t. I’ve got to go home,” Val pleaded, nearly frightened out of her wits, trying to pry loose the invisible, hurting fingers. But the other—whoever, whatever it was—wouldn’t let go.

  Please, the voice begged. Now Val was sure it was a young boy. Come. I will show you what you must see.

  “I don’t want to.” Val felt disgusted at herself for whining like one of her youngest, brattiest cousins. Her plea was ignored. The unseen hand began tugging her across the clearing, then through the pathless underbrush into which the rabbit had bounded a short time ago. “There’s no path. I’ll get lost,” Val protested.

  But her captor only pulled her along more insistently. Slapping aside tangled undergrowth and low-hanging tree branches with her free hand, Val was helplessly drawn deeper into the wilderness.

  She lost track of time. Heat, thirst, and weariness made her feel light-headed. From time to time she stumbled over tree roots or fallen branches or stones, but the hand just kept urging her forward—the circle of unseen fingers remained as tight and sturdy as a handcuff. She suffered one final stumble, but this time she sprawled full length on the leaf and pine needle carpet. At that instant the fingers let go.

  Panting, shaking her head to clear it, Val clambered to her hands and knees. Not far from her was a fallen tree, its exposed roots facing her.

  The light was dim this deep in the woods, but she could see something pale and yellowish white caught in the earth and rotted leaves clumped around the roots. Getting to her feet, she peered closer and saw there was a skeleton—a child’s skeleton—so entwined with the roots they might have all been a part of the toppled tree. Fragments of moldy cloth stuck here and there to the ancient bones. Getting up more nerve, Val drew closer yet. Now she could see, around one wrist bone, a silver ID bracelet—turned black with the tarnish of age—on which she could just make out the initials A.S.

  Alexander Swendson. />
  This was what the ghost wanted to show her. Val guessed that all those years ago, the lost child had huddled at the roots of the tree, trying to keep warm, waiting, praying for rescue that would never arrive. What a sad, lonely thing to die out here so terribly alone, Val thought.

  “Are you still here?” she asked aloud.

  There was no answer.

  It was beginning to get dark. She hoped she could find her way back to the lodge all right, after being hauled through the pathless woods. She had no desire to share Alexander’s fate.

  Then she heard, far above her, the wail of Al-ex-an-der. There was no mistaking the call.

  Bring her, the voice she now recognized as Alexander’s whispered in her ear. It was so soft, she could barely be sure she’d heard it.

  “I can’t,” she said. “I have to get home.”

  There was a heartbreaking sigh, then only silence and emptiness. Val was, she was sure, alone with the bones. The child’s spirit had gone away.

  The forlorn cry came again. Al-ex-an-der. It seemed a bit closer.

  Val hesitated only a moment longer. Then she made up her mind and began pushing her way through the underbrush, up the slope toward the keening cry. It was hard to get a fix on the sound, which seemed to be now here, now there.

  “Mrs. Swendson,” she called, “I’ve found Alexander—ander ander ander. . . .” The name seemed to echo in fragments off the trees—maple, birch, pine, and more oak—that crowded closer together the higher up the slope she climbed. She was going in the direction her father and uncles had forbidden her to go—but she was sure the hunters would be well on their way home by now. They might also be hearing from her worried mother and aunts that she hadn’t returned from her exploring. They might already be looking for her—in the wrong place. No matter. She’d worry about getting back when she’d finished the task that had been set for her.

  It became harder to navigate between the trees. Briars and brambles and thorny vines snared her jeans legs. Still she struggled on, drawn by the sometimes near, sometimes far-off, cries of Al-ex-an-der! Al-ex-an-der!

  It was getting harder to see. But Val was sure the last several cries were louder, nearer. Then she came unexpectedly on a forest pool, startling the young deer that was drinking there. As the creature bounded off, she called after it, “Don’t go uphill. The hunters may still be there. Keep safe.”

  She tried to decide whether to go left or right, since the pool was fed by—and emptied back into—a swift-flowing creek, which looked too dangerous to cross.

  Al-ex-an-der! The sound was so close it startled her, sending goose bumps up her spine.

  On the other side of the pond, half hidden in the shadows of a cluster of birches, their pale trunks seeming to glow in the last light of day, was the luminous, transparent figure of a woman—or, at least, Val thought it was. She moved as close as she could to the water’s edge, watching the shape that flickered unsteadily in the dwindling sunlight and deepening shadows.

  Val edged closer; her eyes seemed to adjust more easily to the shifting patterns of light and dark. It may have been that the ghost—for what else could it be? she reasoned—was growing a bit more solid. Now she could clearly make out the form of a fairly young woman. As the image sharpened, it took on the black-and-white quality of an old photograph.

  Val came so close the water in the pond lapped at her toes. From here she could make out that the other had on a shapeless black dress and some kind of black, beaded shawl. Her shoes looked sturdy and old-fashioned—like everything she wore.

  Then the ghostly woman cupped her hands around her mouth and shrilled, Al-ex-an-der. As close as she now was, Val felt the sound knife through her brain. She clapped her hands to her ears, but the woman’s repeated cry sliced across her whole being just as fiercely.

  “That hurts,” Val protested. “Please stop.” Then she yelled, “I know where your son is.” She had no idea if the ghost woman could hear her, but she waved her arms and shouted, “Alexander is here.”

  The name stopped the ghost in mid-cry. The figure pressed her hand to her mouth. Val clearly heard a startled, Oh! The woman stared across the black pool at her. The girl felt almost chilled by the intensity of the look.

  Suddenly, the ghost was striding toward her across the water; her feet hovered a few inches above the rippling surface. She moved less like a person walking and more like a series of quick cuts on a YouTube video—an unreal, jerking motion. The sudden onrush startled Val. She backed away from the water. Too late to run, she realized, as the ghost stepped onto the shore, and was standing in front of her, frighteningly close.

  Alexander, the ghost said. The name was half a question, half a heartrending cry of pain.

  Momentarily unable to speak, Val nodded.

  The unearthly eyes, burning deep into Val’s own, were filled with doubt and hope. The fierceness was unnerving.

  “I’ll . . . I’ll show you,” she finally managed to spit out.

  When the other gave no sign of understanding, Val impulsively held out her hand to the woman. Elizabeth Swendson gazed down for a moment, then reached out and put her hand into Val’s. The touch was no more substantial than a puff of air, but the cold was so deep, Val felt her fingers burning with it. Resolutely, she refused to let go. “I’ll take you to Alexander,” she gently reassured her companion.

  The ghost followed Val silently as she threaded her way down the slope, trusting her instincts—and the occasional broken branch or crushed flowers or grasses she’d accidentally marked on her way up—to find their way back to Alexander’s resting place. She didn’t like to think what might happen if she couldn’t find that spot again.

  Soon, though, she was guiding the ghost woman along the side of the fallen oak. Now she was worried about how she might react to seeing the bones. Will she suddenly lose it, Val wondered, and take it out on me? Then the girl reassured herself, You’re not dealing with someone who’s going to freak out in the face of death. The thought struck her so funny she almost laughed out loud, though she realized there was probably more emotional upheaval than humor in her reaction.

  The instant Elizabeth saw the bones, she gave a cry and let go of Val’s hand. The ghost sped to the tree roots. Val saw her trembling hand reach out for the yellowed bones, her fingers gently stroking the curve of the skull.

  Alexander, she crooned. Oh, my Alexander.

  She leaned over as if to cradle the bones, but somehow—like a magician’s trick—she lifted out of the muddle of bones, roots, earth, and leaves the sleeping form of a young boy. She was crying as she pressed him to her heart. Val, standing now at a distance, saw the boy’s eyes flutter open. Then his face lit up with joy, and he buried his face on his mother’s shoulder.

  An instant later, the vision was gone. Val was alone; only the bones caught in the roots remained as proof of what she’d witnessed.

  “Be happy,” Val whispered at last. Then, like someone waking from a dream, she looked around. Night had fallen. The branches of the trees pressed so close together, she could glimpse only a sliver or two of starry sky overhead. She had a vague sense of which way to head. But her gut told her she was in for a long, cold ordeal, trying to find her way through the now-ominous night woods.

  And then, in front of her, silently radiating friendship and comfort, were two orbs, one large as a soccer ball and blue, one baseball-sized and yellow, floating in place, undisturbed by the night breezes. In wonder, Val took a step toward them, but they retreated a bit, and then paused. She quickly got the sense that they were waiting for her to follow. Guides.

  As she trailed them through the night, they proved unerring—when they hovered in place, she looked around carefully and spotted a treacherous root, sinkhole, or other hazard. As soon as she’d negotiated the dangerous spot, they led her farther down the mountain.

  Even when she recognized the path, they stayed with her, until she was standing on the gravel drive that led directly to the lodge.

  T
hen they winked out, and she was alone in the night. “Thank you,” she called.

  A moment later, she saw flashlight beams stabbing through the dark. “Here she is!” Nate shouted. “I found Val.” Then he muttered, “You’re in deep doo-doo, Sis, scaring everyone like that.”

  But Val was feeling far too satisfied to do more than shrug as her family clustered around.

  La Casa de las Muertas

  The Garcia family stopped for lunch at a small taqueria just outside the town of Los Feliz. While their parents ate lunch under an umbrella, studying a fold-out map of New Mexico, at a second table Jose and his older sister, Isobel, bickered, which was their favorite thing to do. Jose made fun of Isobel’s lunch of a tostada “without the taco shell, refried beans, guacamole, or sour cream,” which were the best parts, in her brother’s estimation. Isobel, who was rail-thin, seemed nuts to her brother. She accused him of “wearing more of his tacos than he ate.” It was true, there was a dribble of salsa across his T-shirt, but he didn’t care. The food was good, the patio sunny and warm, and the afternoon promised an interesting adventure, if their father, Diego Garcia, could figure out how to get to the remains of the hacienda where his grandmother—the famous painter Martina Garcia—had lived.

  Jose had seen some of his great-grandmother’s paintings in museums or reproduced as prints and postcards sold in cafés and gift shops. The family’s most cherished possession was her painting of Taos Pueblo, the famous New Mexico landmark, that hung above the fireplace at their home in San Francisco’s Mission District.

  When he was little, Jose had not really been aware of his great-grandmother’s fame. But during fifth grade she had been the subject of one of Ms. Coppersmith’s classes. Jose even gave a report on his great-grandmother Martina and her art. Most of his information came from The Art of Martina Garcia, a book proudly displayed on the family coffee table, plus a few facts from Wikipedia. He admitted he didn’t remember meeting her: She had come to his baptism in San Francisco—her only trip to California. Lost in her art, she had secluded herself in her house in the New Mexico desert, to which few were ever invited—and those were mostly artists and critics who formed an inner circle. Apparently, her only real companions were a houseful of cats and two female cousins—as old as their mistress—who were her housekeeper and maid. Increasingly, they became her only links to the outside world as she grew more reclusive—a word that made Jose think of brown recluse spiders, who lived in basements or under porches and whose bite was far more dangerous than a black widow’s. As a youngster, he imagined his relative as a brown, spidery-limbed “recluse” creeping quietly through a hacienda where the sun was never permitted, attended by two “black widows” in human form.