Tales From the Midnight Shift Vol. 1

by Mark Allan Gunnells

  “And this is why you suspect it’s the spirit of a child?”

  “Seems the most logical explanation,” Cole said. “Or at least as logical as an explanation can be that involves ghosts.”

  “Have you had any experiences in the room?”

  “A few, but not many. As it was Shaw’s office, I didn’t go in there much. But there was one day that I was cleaning house and I went in the room to empty the wastepaper basket. The door slammed behind me and I could not get it open. That’s when I started to hear laughter. Small and high-pitched, the laughter of a child. It seemed to be coming from the very air itself. I started pounding on the door and calling out for Shaw.”

  At this point, Shaw took up the narrative. “I was in the kitchen fixing lunch when I heard him yelling. I hurried down the hall and opened the door. Simple as that. The knob turned easily and the door just swung open.”

  “The laughter stopped the second the door was opened,” Cole said. “While I didn’t feel I was in any physical danger from the presence, it was disturbing enough that I’ve never set foot in the room again.”

  Shaw rubbed the back of his partner’s neck. “I moved my things out the same day, while Cole stood in the doorway and made sure the door didn’t close on me. The presence got a bit peeved and threw a few things around, but nothing serious.”

  Hudson nodded, scratching his chin. “And how long ago was this?”

  “Two weeks.”

  “And neither of you have been back in the room since?”

  “No, but we can still hear it in there,” Cole said. “We can hear what sounds like balls bouncing, and sometimes we can hear the laughter. A few times at night we’ve heard the door to the room open and close.”

  “But the presence has never manifested itself anywhere else?”

  “We already told you it hasn’t,” Shaw said, a note of irritation coloring his voice. “It seems to be confined to just this one room of the house.”

  “I’m sorry if you think I’m being redundant,” Hudson said, though his tone was not apologetic. “I just like to be thorough, make sure I have all the facts before I enter into a situation such as this.”

  “We do appreciate any help you can give us,” Cole said, and Hudson guessed that he was the peacemaker of the two.

  “Okay then, I’m ready to go into the room.”

  * * *

  It was smaller than Hudson had expected. Long and rectangular in shape, the room reminded him of a large walk-in closet. There was a window at the far end, but the shade of several trees just outside prevented much light from penetrating the glass. The walls were bare, painted a nondescript white, and the room had a hardwood floor. There was no furniture.

  “My desk was down at the end in front of the window,” Shaw said from the doorway. He and Cole seemed reluctant to cross the threshold. “And I had some bookcases lining the walls.”

  Hudson walked the length of the room and stopped at the window, looking out at the side yard. The view consisted of mostly leafy branches. “How long were you in the house before you started noticing the disturbances?”

  “Less than a week,” Shaw said. “I had set up my little workspace and was spending at least part of every afternoon in here, working on the novel. I sometimes thought I heard laughter, but I just assumed it was some of the neighborhood kids outside. Then the balls started appearing, and the drawings on the walls.”

  “Drawings?”

  “Yeah, crude stick figures and stuff like that. Usually of a family, always a Mom, Dad, and two kids. Sometimes a dog. Square houses with triangle roofs. That kind of thing.”

  “And they faded away like the Tic-Tac-Toe games?”

  “Yes.”

  “At first I didn’t believe him,” Cole said. “I thought he was pulling my leg. He drug me in here a few times to look at some of the drawings, and I actually accused him of doing them himself and got mad at him for ruining the paint job.”

  “What finally convinced you?” Hudson asked.

  “I was walking down the hall one night while Shaw was at the market, and I heard whispering coming from the room. Sort of singsong, like someone was reciting a nursery rhyme or something. I thought maybe Shaw had left the radio playing, but the whispering stopped as soon as I opened the door, and the room was empty. After that, I would often hear laughter or whispering from the room, but I didn’t go seeking out the source anymore.”

  Hudson walked back to center of the room and paused, looking around at the blank walls and the dusty floor. The room certainly didn’t feel any different than the rest of the house, but he had learned after years of investigating this type of phenomenon that haunted places didn’t really look or feel any different than anywhere else.

  “And you’ve spoken to the previous owner?”

  Cole nodded. “Yeah, a guy name Palmer. Lance Palmer. We called him shortly after the disturbances began. Apparently his family built the house, he grew up here and inherited it from his parents when they were killed in an automobile accident a few years ago.”

  “So they didn’t actually die in the house?”

  “No. According to Lance, no one has ever died in this house, certainly not a kid. He was an only child, his mother never miscarried, nothing like that. We got nothing from him that could explain where this spirit comes from.”

  “Unusual,” Hudson said, speaking more to himself than to the couple. “A spirit typically haunts the place of its death. Did Palmer mention what this room had been used for when he lived here?”

  “We asked, but he suddenly said he had to get off the phone,” Shaw said. “Honestly, he seemed kind of upset when we brought up the subject of this room.”

  Shaw and Cole were still standing out in the hallway. Although they had maintained from the beginning that the presence did not seem overtly threatening, it was obvious that they were afraid. “Okay then, I think I want to spend a little time alone in the room.”

  Shaw smiled with something that resembled relief. “That’s fine. You want the door opened or closed?”

  “Closed, please.”

  “We’ll be in the living room if you need anything.”

  Hudson attempted a reassuring smile, but it felt strange on his face. The couple closed the door and he listened to their footsteps retreat down the hall. Hudson sat down on the floor and waited to see what would happen next.

  * * *

  It was after midnight, and Hudson sat alone in his den, dark except for the flickering light of the television that played softly in the background. He was not looking at the screen but instead staring off at nothing in particular. He was thinking.

  Something wasn’t right about the room in Cole and Shaw’s house, the elements just didn’t add up into a cohesive whole. It certainly wasn’t a hoax or a case of jittery homeowners jumping at every creak of a loose floorboard. There was definitely something in that room, of that Hudson was sure. What he wasn’t sure of was exactly what that something was.

  He’d spent an hour in the room. After only five minutes, sitting yoga-style on the floor, a small rubber ball had come bouncing across the room and stopped in front of him. The ball was bright red and about the size of an orange. His head had been turned and he hadn’t seen where the ball had come from, but he was certain it hadn’t been in the room before. Without hesitation, he’d rolled the ball back across the floor toward the door. It had come to a stop several feet away, sat still for only three seconds, then seemed to roll itself back to Hudson. And though it was soft and sighing like the wind, he thought he’d heard a trilling giggle in the room, although he’d been unable to pinpoint a specific location.

  This had continued for fifteen minutes until finally he rolled the ball toward the door and it did not return. As if the presence had tired of the game. Standing on stiff legs, Hudson had turned around and found a grid of hatch-marks on the wall behind him. Tic-Tac-Toe. It was drawn in what appeared to be black magic marker, standing out starkly on the white wall. Hudson had reached into
his shirt pocket and pulled out a ballpoint pen, placing an X in the center square. He’d stared at the grid for several minutes, waiting for something to happen. When nothing did, he’d strolled over to the window, gazed out at the green-tinted sunlight for a bit, then turned back. Just as he’d expected, a perfectly formed O had been placed in the lower left corner of the grid.

  Hudson had played three games of Tic-Tac-Toe and two games of Hangman with the presence before leaving the room. He’d told Cole and Shaw what had happened—apologizing for the writing he’d done on their wall, assuming the marks made with his pen would not fade with the phantom magic marker—and excused himself, promising to be in touch within a few days.

  And now Hudson was replaying everything that had transpired in his mind, examining the evidence and trying to draw some conclusions as to what type of presence he was dealing with. At first he had thought it was a residual haunting, the spirit of a child just repeating the same actions over and over on an eternal loop, but the fact that the spirit had interacted with Hudson with the games suggested an intelligent haunting. And yet it didn’t fit perfectly into either category.

  Most perplexing was the fact that no child had ever died in that house. That no one had ever died in that house. How could there be a ghost without a death? It didn’t make sense. Of course, all they had to go on was the word of this Lance Palmer, whom Shaw had said got very antsy and hurriedly ended the conversation when talk of that room had come up.

  Perhaps it was time Hudson paid Palmer a visit.

  * * *

  Lance Palmer was thirty-three and lived alone in a roomy loft apartment downtown. His hair was graying prematurely, and he had a bald spot like a flesh-colored beanie on the crown of his head. His beefy body was already turning to flab, and he had guarded eyes. Eyes that kept secrets, but not well. All this Hudson observed in the two seconds after Palmer opened the door and barked, “What?”

  “Lance Palmer?”

  “Yeah, who’s asking?”

  “The name’s Hudson.” Hudson held out his hand, but Palmer didn’t shake it. “I was hoping I could have just a moment of your time.”

  “Sorry, fella, but I ain’t buying whatever it is you’re selling.”

  Palmer started to swing the door shut, but Hudson stuck his foot in the gap and the door stopped cold on the steel toe of his boot. “This isn’t about something I’m selling; it’s about something you sold.”

  “What the hell you talking about?”

  “I’m an associate of the couple who bought your childhood home.”

  “The fags?”

  “Correct. I would like to ask you a few questions on their behalf.”

  “Look, if they ain’t happy with the place, that’s their problem. The deal’s been done.”

  “It’s not a matter of them being happy or not. They would simply like some answers. Specifically, they would like to know about the small room in the back of the house.”

  “I ain’t got nothing to say on the matter,” Palmer said, putting more pressure on the door, but the steel toe kept it opened. “You tell your little knob-gobbling buddies to stop harassing me.”

  Hudson had tried being polite, but it wasn’t working. Friendly wasn’t his strong suit, so he decided to go with something that was more his style. “You think you’re being harassed now, just see what happens if you don’t answer my questions. I’ll be on your ass every day, popping up out of your toilet when you go to take a shit. You may think Shaw and Cole are bad, but I’m one relentless motherfucker who doesn’t stop ‘til he gets what he’s after.”

  Palmer said nothing for a moment, just stared at Hudson with those hooded eyes as if taking stock of the man. Finally, “I could always just call the police on your sorry ass.”

  Hudson smirked. “Do I look like the type of man who’s afraid of the police?”

  Palmer made a show of checking his watch and looking indecisive, but it was obvious Hudson had won this round. Opening the door a little wider, but not too much, Palmer said, “Ask me what you’re gonna ask me, but you’re not coming in.”

  “Fine. I just want to know about the room.”

  “Which room is that again?”

  “You know which one, the small rectangular room at the back of the house. Looks kind of like a big closet.”

  Palmer started shifting from one foot to the other, as if he had to urinate, and his eyes became even more guarded, like a shade had been drawn. “What about it?”

  “What was it used for when you grew up in the house?”

  “Just storage,” Palmer said with a shrug that was a tad too calculatedly casual.

  “Storage?”

  “Yeah, old boxes full of junk we didn’t need but the folks couldn’t bring themselves to throw out.”

  “Do you remember anything strange ever happening in that room?”

  “I don’t know, I didn’t go in there much.”

  “Really? Most kids love to rummage through old junk, scavenging for treasure and all that kind of stuff.”

  “Not me,” Palmer said, his eyes darting around like pinballs. He was practically strumming with nervous energy. “Nothing in there but some dusty yearbooks and broken lamps.”

  Hudson nodded as if he believed him. “Do you remember your parents ever mentioning anything about the room?”

  “Like what?”

  “Hearing voices, laughter, drawings appearing on the walls.”

  This last got a reaction, causing Palmer to look up sharply and suck air in through his teeth. He recovered quickly, however, and said, “No, nothing like that.”

  “And your father built the house himself?”

  “With his own blood, sweat, and tears.”

  “And as far as you know, you were the only people who ever lived there, just you and your parents?”

  “That’s it. After I moved out, my parents lived there alone right up ‘til they died in that car crash.”

  “And you didn’t rent the house out after you inherited it?”

  “No, put it up for sale just as soon as it cleared probate. Market being as shitty as it is, took me over a year to find a buyer.”

  “Did you ever—”

  “Enough!” Palmer snapped, steel in his voice. “I think I’ve been more than patient here, but I’m tired of all these pointless questions. There’s nothing to tell you about that damn room. It’s just a room, a too-small room with sickly yellow walls. Now if you’ll excuse me, I got work to do.”

  Hudson waited just a minute then removed his foot, allowing Palmer to slam the door in his face. The man had answered Hudson’s questions all right, but Hudson knew he hadn’t gotten anywhere near the truth.

  Still, he thought he knew where to start looking to find it.

  * * *

  “Tell me again why we’re doing this,” Cole said.

  The three of them—Cole, Shaw, and Hudson—were in the room. The couple hadn’t wanted to come inside, but Hudson could be very persuasive when he needed to be. At their feet were several cans of paint thinner and rags made from ripped up T-shirts.

  “You guys said these walls were painted white when you moved in, right?”

  “Yeah,” Shaw said.

  “Well, they were yellow when Palmer lived here as a kid.”

  “So what?”

  Hudson shrugged. “Maybe nothing. Maybe something significant.”

  Another red rubber ball bounced out of nowhere and landed at Hudson’s feet. He merely kicked it aside; he wasn’t here for games today.

  Cole sighed and said, “I don’t understand what you’re hoping to find. Say we remove the top layer of white paint and find yellow underneath. What does that prove?”

  Hudson bit down on his irritation and stifled the harsh response that came up in his throat like bile. These people were footing his bill, after all. “Look, I’m not going to pretend I have all the answers. A lot of what I do is hunch work, just going on my gut instinct. And my gut is telling me to see what someone wanted to p
aint over.”

  Shaw and Cole exchanged a glance, seeming to engage in some unspoken communication, then both shrugged. They each started at a different place—Cole by the door, Shaw the wall on the left side, and Hudson by the window—to cover the most ground. For the first half-hour, the presence continued to try to entice them into playing. Balls bounced and rolled across the floor, Hangman games appeared on the sections of wall where the paint wasn’t being removed. At one point, Hudson even thought he felt something tugging at his pant leg while faint laughter passed through the room like a breeze. However, eventually the presence withdrew, as if it had grown tired of vying for the men’s attention and gone off to a corner to sulk.

  Going slowly and being careful, not using too much thinner so as not to remove whatever was underneath the top layer of white paint, they began to uncover patches of dingy yellow plaster. Sickly yellow, Palmer had called the walls, and Hudson mused that if there were a crayon this color, that would be a good name for it. The air was becoming thick with the fumes of the paint thinner, even with the window opened, but they continued working into the afternoon.

  Each man working counterclockwise, they moved about the room, uncovering more of the yellow plaster. Shaw and Cole didn’t say much, but Hudson could sense their growing frustration at doing a task that seemed to serve no purpose. Hudson was beginning to doubt the practicality of what they were doing himself. Still, after all these years of working in the field of paranormal activity, he had learned to trust his instincts. They rarely let him down.

  And they didn’t let him down this time, either.

  As Shaw was working midway down the right-side wall, he noticed black lines beginning to bleed through the white paint. He called out to Hudson and Cole, who came to stand on either side of him, staring at what had been partially revealed on the wall.

  “Looks like Tic-Tac-Toe,” Hudson said.

  Cole bent close to the grid, reaching out as if to touch the lines but then pulling back his hand at the last second. “Is it the ghost doing it?”

  The black lines did not get any darker; they remained faint underneath the white paint. “I don’t think these are phantom markings,” Hudson said. “They look old, like they’ve been here for a while.”