The Hidden Back Room

by Jason A. Wyckoff

  But she did not. She never quite saw him again. She thought of him often—too often, Jemimah chided her. Some days, when she was idle and relaxed, or when her chores were especially monotonous, days when she had few troubles to occupy her thoughts, Hannah might let her mind drift a little farther. On several occasions she was shocked out of her reverie when she thought she saw Hosea out of the corner of her eye. Of course, when she looked, he was not there. But what mystified her on these occasions was that the Hosea she saw was not the one she’d known. This one was taller, tanned near to bronze, with his hair worn differently. Hannah had no idea why she would see him this way—and invariably, inexplicably, this was the guise in which he appeared, and always at a distance. When it happened, she would grab the necklace he left her that she wore always.

  Naturally, she thought less and less of him as her children grew and occupied more of her time. But she still wondered occasionally where he’d gone to, if he’d found adventure or if the world had swallowed him up. What she’d seen of it, she didn’t especially care for. Hannah’s husband was in charge of the town’s gold trade. She accompanied him on several trips outside the valley. The wilderness was just as beautiful as her valley home, and seeing it at high speed from the windows of the truck was exhilarating, but Denton was bleak and muddy, and Fairbanks was overwhelming. People outside the valley looked at her strangely and other women often tittered behind their hands when Hannah was nearby, and she did not care for that.

  Once, at Denton, in the middle of a summer afternoon, Hannah began to feel drowsy while waiting in the truck for her husband to conclude business. She grinned knowingly to herself; she was outside the valley, and there was no provision against napping in the daylight. She eased into the seat and let her head fall limp against the headrest. She wondered if it would be any different than sleeping at night or under the dome. Perhaps because the experience was slightly alien, and therefore tinged with subtle excitement, or perhaps only because the bench seat was not comfortable enough, she couldn’t quite manage to drift off.

  THE HOUSE ON NORTH CONGRESS STREET

  If you are afforded the discretion of choosing when to spend a terrifying night in a haunted house, I strongly recommend opting for it during your college years. I doubt I could tolerate the experience these twenty years later; certainly I could not behave as resiliently as I did at the time. My psyche was undoubtedly more pliable then, so much so that my experience, though never forgotten, was quickly attenuated by more pressing matters (here I wish I was speaking of academia, but as with many other young men, my primary concern was the oft-agonising pursuit of the fairer sex). It may be that my estimation of life appraised such occurrences as more common than I have since learned them to be. Possibly, I was more self-centred and expected the exceptional to be routine for me. I feel there must have been something special about me; I say this because I saw the ghost, whereas my companions, one resident and one frequent guest, did not, that night or any other. I believe I might have been what is referred to as a ‘sensitive’—whether or not I remain so to this day I cannot ascertain. I have recognised no other encounters with the supernatural.

  It happened one year that I, a student at the Ohio State University in Columbus, and my good friend Hayes, a student at Ohio University in Athens, were both romantically involved with co-eds attending Ivy League universities. As each school’s respective week-long ‘spring break’ coincided, we elected to take a road-trip to visit our paramours. We would be accompanied by a friend of Hayes’s, Steve, who had nothing better to do and who was the only one among the three of us to own a car. As a spiteful aside, I might point out that the ‘spring break’ occurred in the middle of March, and the equinox marked its conclusion rather than its commencement. Regardless: I was retrieved from Columbus and taken back to Steve’s house on North Congress Street (I’ll leave off the exact number), where we three would spend the night before embarking on the next day’s long drive. We prepared for departure with the customary discipline of three young men confident of their invulnerability. So let that be the first arrow in the sceptic’s quiver: Yes, we imbibed enthusiastically. It will probably not serve my defence to mention that in this at least we were well studied. I remember how, impecunious as we were, we thought we would be thrifty by chipping in to buy a carton of cigarettes together, with the expectation it would last through the trip. I am not certain it lasted through to Providence.

  Athens is a college town in south-eastern Ohio, tucked amongst forested, swelling hills. Busy by day on campus and downtown in a saddle traced by the Hocking River, out from its centre the town reaches residential wings of increasing languorousness. When school is not in session, the town is strikingly quiet. One imagines it disappearing if the students forget to return. Sometime following my experience there, I heard that Athens is the thirteenth ‘most haunted’ town in the United States. I suppose if you can’t be first in that category, then you might as well be thirteenth—I doubt Athens is the only town to have that claim made for her. The house on North Congress was unremarkable, a quaint American two-storey house with peaked roof, pale siding and dark trim (I remember it as white and blue). Approached from the street, it looked as likely owned by a grandmother as rented to a handful of students.

  From a shallow porch the front door opened into the living room. The door was situated in the middle of the house, but because of a dividing wall to the left as one entered, the space opened to the right. A long, wide hallway ran the length of the house to the back door. Some modification had been made to accommodate the expected inhabitants; an opening to the left led to two bedrooms on the first floor that likely had been intended as a dining room and study. The base of a stairway sat along the right wall of the living room, catty-corner to the front door. A landing at the top of the stair opened onto two more bedrooms; turning right and taking a few steps back along the length of the stair led you to a large bathroom. Returning to the first floor: the hallway (passing a small alcove under the stairs) led to an open kitchen on the right and a small utility room on the left. This room had been converted to a recording studio. It was not large enough to accommodate much more than lo-fi sonic experimentation and solo recording. The room was bleak, poorly lit, and crowded over with an ivy of black patch cords and speaker wire immobilising two folding chairs and connecting a Frankensteinian collage of electrical equipment stacked atop tables, crates, and amplifiers. This room they called the Dungeon, variously because it was bitterly cold in winter and clammy in summer, because the walls and floor were bare and suffered from neglect, or arising from the claustrophobic conditions consequent of its purpose. But beyond those concerns, I was told the room was considered ‘oppressive’ or ‘heavy’—and this impression was attributed to something more than the physical attributes of the space.

  And so I was initiated into the deeper mysteries of the house. Both Steve and Hayes claimed that the house was haunted, based both on their experiences as well as those of the other inhabitants. (Perhaps here I should point out that we three were alone in the house that evening, the other housemates having already departed. Alone, I should say, except for Steve’s golden retriever, Rollo, who will feature prominently in the narrative.) As is the habit of young men, the matter was addressed with as much affected indifference as earnestness. While both claimed the appellation ‘haunted’ was the consensus opinion of all familiar with the property, likewise did they refrain from expressing any sense of wonder about its unusual status. That blasé repression impressed me initially as an attempt not to laugh—as though they were curious how far they could carry the ruse and were afraid if they oversold the concept, they wouldn’t be able to constrain their mirth. So I listened dubiously, aware that I was the perfect target for such a joke, believer that I wanted to be. In addition to the ‘heavy’ atmosphere/presence often felt in the Dungeon, they testified that electrical devices in that room would switch on and off extemporaneously, and that objects of all sorts would be found throughout the house ot
her than where they were left. These claims are easily refutable as claustrophobia, excessive cross-wiring, and living in a house populated by college students. I was surprised they offered no more grandiose claims, reporting neither inexplicable sounds or disembodied voices, nor sightings of apparitions or moving shadows. Any of those phenomena would fall within the realm of expectation for a truly ‘active’ haunted house. I did not pry beyond what was offered, but I believe I presented a willing audience if either cared to say more. Their reticence added validity to the claim; though guilt for pranking a friend would not hold them back (even if, as I said, the artfulness of the ploy might benefit from it), embarrassment might. The overriding attitude of that age might be summed up as ‘laboured cool’. Such studied nonchalance easily accommodates all manner of outlandish behaviour, but struggles to find the right reaction to the ‘mundanely odd’. Of course, the subject of the supernatural is easily distrusted at any age. One is as wary of discomforting a friend or inviting ridicule from an unbeliever as one is of engaging someone whose enthusiasm for the subject greatly exceeds his own (and thereby eliciting worry that he might appear similarly overzealous to others).

  I’ve noticed that, perhaps contrary to expectation, the more uncommon a conversational topic, the more devotion it requires from the participants to hold focus. Failing to engender the requisite enthusiasm, the subject of the haunting was dropped. No invitation to revisit it was offered, and I could not hope to make any mention of it that would be anything but awkward. Instead, we drank and smoked and talked of women measuredly and of music wantonly. We may have attempted some impromptu noise-making ourselves; I don’t remember it, but it would have been par for the course. I remember Hayes was excited about the new Six Finger Satellite record, and we played it repeatedly. All other particulars are lost to time.

  Eventually we called it a night. I must have shown at least some restraint that evening or I would have no story to tell. It is possible Hayes and Steve took a more direct route to unconsciousness. We all slept downstairs. Steve’s room was at the front of the house; Hayes appropriated the vacant bedroom towards the back of the house. I laid down on a couch in the living room against the dividing wall. My head was towards the front door, my feet pointed down the hallway to the kitchen and the Dungeon. The couch was low and narrow; with my head on a pillow, I could see over the edge to the floor. The doors to the two bedrooms were left open. I know this because I checked, curious to see if Rollo had been shut out of Steve’s bedroom. Judging by the indulgent affection Steve demonstrated for his dog, I imagined it likely that Rollo slept most nights on his master’s bed. So I had thought it odd he lay down in front of the couch instead. Rollo did not attempt to share the couch with me. Neither did he sprawl on his side where I might reach out to scratch his head. Instead, he squatted Sphinx-like, facing towards the back of the house. After a time, he lowered his head on his paws but did not otherwise change position. He looked every bit the sentinel.

  Just as I began to drift off, I heard the agitated murmur of a canine growl. Rollo’s head remained flat, but his ears were perked forward. I looked down the hall toward the lighted kitchen but saw nothing. Rollo was silent for another minute. I closed my eyes. Rollo growled again, slightly louder. I looked and again saw nothing, but even as I stared in the same direction, still oblivious to the offence, Rollo growled again, louder.

  I’m not too ashamed to say that I was becoming anxious. Perhaps just to hear my own voice, to hear any human voice. I mumbled, ‘S’allright, Rollo. There, there.’

  Silence again prevailed for another minute. Then Rollo growled again, a full-throated rumble; still I saw nothing. Rollo raised his head. He huffed twice, whistling through his teeth. I had no doubt he saw something I could not. Cold air met sweat on my temple. With the instinct of childhood I pulled my blanket over my ears and drew my feet up from the end of the couch. And in this position I watched Rollo, growling his warning, as he slowly, deliberately turned his head, watching some invisible presence as it crossed from the hall to the stairs. The interpretation of the action was unmistakable. I was as amazed as I was afraid. Rollo ticked his head sideways—one imagines the presence continued up to the second floor. The growling diminished, and then ceased. Rollo again lowered his head to his paws.

  Rollo’s agitation may have ebbed, but mine did not. Rationally, I knew very little had happened. An unhappy dog had moved its head; nothing else had I witnessed. Yet a palpable feeling of intrusion had passed through the room as the event occurred. Some might point out I was reacting to a suggestion imparted earlier in the day. The criticism is reasonable. I can argue only that this was one situation where removed impartiality fails—I am unfamiliar with any commonly accepted graduated measure of ‘eerie’.

  How long I lay there curled, tucked, and psychically shaken, I can’t say, but the astute reader will have already anticipated my impending crisis. Did I not mention we were drinking copiously? I needed to relieve myself. And, as I have mentioned, the single bathroom in the house was upstairs. I considered urinating outside, but thought it likely that the opening of the front door (and the screen door beyond) would wake someone. There was less likelihood of that if I went out the back of the house, but it would require walking past the Dungeon, which I had been led to believe was the source of the disturbance, even if my own experience supposed the offender to have moved from the area. If I had been discovered utilising either exit, I would have been embarrassed. It would have been hardly unusual for a drunken young man to avail himself of nature, but it clearly made no sense to do so in that situation, as it required more effort than the expected course. Neither would I be able to explain myself: even if I was believed, fear is not easily empathised. I myself thought my disinclination to go upstairs was unnecessarily cautious. There was nothing for it but to use the proper facilities.

  I let my blanket fall away and shivered as the March evening air met my damp neck and scalp. When I rose from the couch, Rollo stood up. He looked at me expectantly—and possibly disappointedly, too, sensing that I failed to see what he saw, just as his master did. As I started towards the stairs, he crossed in front of me much as a seeing-eye dog might check his master when he approached an intersection. I bent and patted Rollo. He moved aside. I was encouraged by his lack of effort, thinking that though he may not much like the supposed spectral presence, neither was he overly concerned about it.

  The wooden stairs creaked, of course. I was somewhat surprised to see one of the upstairs bedroom doors ajar. I would have expected anyone inhabiting a shared house to shut his door before leaving his room for a week. I took care not to stare too hard into the dark.

  Jarringly bright fluorescent light sputtered to life from a naked tube mounted on one wall of the bathroom. I shut the door firmly. The commode was situated in the far corner next to a full-size tub (with opaque shower curtain drawn completely closed, of course, to conceal anything that might want to lie in wait). I can only blame the disagreeable light for making it seem terribly far away somehow. I had to cross in front of a mirror over the sink on the way. The drawn, red-eyed face I saw in it looked unnaturally wan, but it was at least familiar. As might be expected, my subsequent relief was profound. The affair completed, I washed up, opened the door, and turned off the light.

  I noticed some slight movement. I did not see what moved, but I felt sure that the open bedroom door was now more open. Again, an explanation was readily available: the opening of one door occasioned a change in the air pressure that caused the other to swing. But it seemed as though I saw less dark than when I stepped into the hall—as though a shadow blocking part of the white door had disappeared into the room.

  I hurried downstairs and thought no more of it. The End.

  No, of course not. As disinclined as I had been to go upstairs in the first place, to the point of weighing unreasonable alternatives, I now felt driven to close the mystery. Perhaps my body, greedy for sleep, spurred my curiosity so that I might assuage my fear and ther
eby enable peaceful shutdown.

  I considered and rejected two possibilities: one, that I had been misinformed about the departure of all the other housemates—this seemed preposterous, that Steve would either be wrong in his tally or that he would lie about it, and that someone had remained upstairs and unannounced; and two, that he or Hayes had changed bedrooms in the middle of the night—also unlikely, as I should have heard someone ascend the squeaky stairs, and likewise I doubted either of my inebriated companions could rush into an unfamiliar and darkened room stealthily.

  I pushed the door open wide and felt along the wall for the switch. The light revealed the room vacant as reported. But I saw a section of blanket drooping from the empty single bed flutter near the floor. The furnace had kicked on with a hearty ‘harrumph’ when I was in the bathroom, but I did not think air escaping from a vent near the baseboard on the far side of the room could cause the movement. Here was another opportunity to defer, but I did instead what anyone denying his instincts would and pressed my stomach to the floor. I had seen the blanket move towards the top of the bed; I approached from the foot. I remember that I did not hesitate. I cannot say why I did not. I lifted the blanket and looked under the bed.

  Because the blanket fell near to the floor, little light ventured underneath, and the clutter of clothes, magazines, and unidentified paraphernalia was fuzzy with shadow. I was about to leave, very nearly disappointed for some ungodly reason, when I saw quite clearly towards the top of the bed the coiled figure of a boy. He stared at me from beneath a tangle of dark hair. I believe I read fear in his expression. I can only imagine what he saw in mine. My every nerve buzzed. I was more than simply afraid, though I was that (intensely); there was feeling outside of me that pervaded the room, the feeling of unworldly wrong. This feeling seemed not self-generated, but absorbed, as though I was being told to flee by voices of my ancestors, and they used my very blood as the receptor for the message. But before I could collect myself and take action, a strange thing happened: I saw that I was mistaken. I had somehow assembled the figure of the boy and the face from various objects: a bong, a sweatshirt, a pillowcase sliding between the bed and wall—part of the ‘face’ was defined by the leather strap and metal clamps of an adjustable roller skate! In the gloom, my mind had assembled a picture more quickly than my depth perception had adjusted. I chuckled with self-reproach. I looked away and blinked my eyes, and then looked back again, curious to see if I could reconstruct the scene now that I had ‘unseen’ it.