Under The Stairs

by John Stockmyer

  "Oh, no," Paul rumbled, brushing off that idea with an expansive wave. But something was the matter. And John was going to find out what.

  "Out with it."

  Paul smiled ... a little. "It's ... nothing. It's just that ... that ..." And that wasn't like the big man either, tripping over his tongue, having to search for words. Speaking came easily to Paul Hamilton, as it did to most professors. With the college crowd, "The tongue was mightier than the sword."

  Paul pulled within himself. Tried again. "It's just that it's so stupid. That I feel so stupid."

  "Better you than me," John said, grinning. They were going to get the story now. Given Paul's elaborate way of telling any tale, it might take a while, but they were going to hear it. At the same time, it was clear to John that nothing was really wrong.

  Meanwhile, Paul was grinning sheepishly, Paul and Ellen's faces coming into sharper focus as the hearth logs began to catch, the nervous popping of the spent kindling about over, an occasional hot snap of burning hardwood sounding through the general quiet of the room. The tangy smell of oak smoke completed the casual atmosphere it had taken John so much trouble to create.

  "Let me get at this by the long way," Paul began, head back, eyes closed, as if trying to recall a series of stubborn and specific facts.

  "We've got nothing but time," said Ellen, sipping daintily, making her wine last ... one small glass all that was permitted her in her condition.

  "It all started last Tuesday," said Paul, settling back, the sofa squealing its protest, Paul more relaxed now that he'd decided to tell all. "I was talking to Smith in the English department, met him in the hall of the administration building. You know Smith?" John nodded. Not that he knew him well. Could anyone know English instructors well? Mechanical, precise, ruthless about the rules of grammar -- at the same time, appreciative of delicate turns of phrase. No wonder so many English profs were schizoid! "Anyway, I ran into Smith. And you'd told me how to get here tonight. But I still wasn't sure I could find the place, particularly since it would be dark by the time we arrived." Paul gave John a sharp look, apparently afraid John would be offended that Paul had consulted someone else for directions. "So -- knowing that Smith had lived in the Northland all his life -- got his degrees at UMKC -- all that -- I told him where you said your house was located. And though Smith gave me that funny look of his, it seemed he knew the place."

  Satisfied that John was OK with Paul's checking with Smith, Paul bent forward, reached down for the bottle, and poured himself another small glass. Downed it. Twirled the empty glass between the palms of both hands. "You'd mentioned the narrow opening in the bushes to find the road." John nodded, taking a sip of wine himself, setting the glass down carefully on the "Good Will" end table near his chair. His parents' furniture would certainly make a difference, he knew. Why he hadn't gotten it out of storage and moved in by this time, was anybody's guess. He hadn't been able to do much of anything lately.

  "And Smith looked at me ... funny. Said, 'You're talking about the old Van Robin place north of Troost.' And then he gave me pretty much the same description of where the house was located that you did, even threw in some details about how the house looked -- which matched your description. And I said you'd bought it and had it fixed up etc. And that I was coming here for dinner.

  "All that time, he just kept giving me that fish-eye stare of his, peered at me in that peculiar way, you know?"

  "I don't know him well. Just met him once."

  "Yeah. He's a nice guy. A little picky, but that's the English department for you." Paul put his glass down on the table and sagged back, the sofa squeaking every time he moved. "Anyway, he just kept looking at me," Paul continued, leaning forward again, seemingly unable to get comfortable, elbows braced on his knees. "When he'd finished, he clucked his tongue like an old maid school teacher who just caught you chewing gum. And when I asked him what that meant ..." Paul stopped suddenly, stared over at John, observing him closely, curiously, as if trying to see into John's mind. "You're not superstitious, are you, John?"

  "Me? Certainly not ... knock on wood."

  Ellen chuckled. Paul ... didn't -- which, John thought, was definitely unlike Paul. "What is it? Are you about to tell me this place is haunted?" Paul didn't chortle ... again. Instead, got a sheepish grin on his broad, peasant face. "I'll be damned if that wasn't just what Smith said."

  Silence. A silence that deepened rapidly.

  "Some kind of joke...?" John started, stopping abruptly at a serious shake of Paul's massive head. And how did you put the best face on what could only be called a damned strange revelation? "I ... rather like that. Gives the place a touch of class, don't you think?"

  "Romantic," Ellen replied, not quite picking up Paul's serious mood, Ellen snuggling up against her husband's shoulder, clutching fondly to his arm with both hands, toeing off her low healed (pregnancy) shoes to draw her long, nyloned legs up under her on the couch.

  "Right, right," Paul agreed, a little too readily.

  "Well ... go on," John said. While it was strange to learn that someone as dedicated to reason as a college professor like Smith had been spreading ghost stories ... to say nothing of Paul being ... strange about it all ... it was romantic to be the owner of a "haunted" house. Gave the house ... character. A sense of history.

  And all of a sudden, this new "fact" about the house explained some bits and pieces that hadn't "fit" before. It cleared up why the house had been abandoned for so long. Also made sense out of Madge wanting to get out of the house as the light began to fade. (The lady was not so superstitious she couldn't find it in her heart to sell the house to John, of course, but enough so to not want to linger here after dark.) Now that John thought about it, "Madge, honey" wasn't thrilled at being in the house any time of day.

  John settled in his chair, elbow on its arm rest, chin nestled in his palm.

  "There's not that much more to tell," Paul continued, his voice falling to the quiet purr of a jungle cat. "According to Smith, some old codger built this house so long ago that about all that's left of him is his name -- Van Robin. According to legend, this Van Robin, apparently a foreigner, just "appeared" one day. Maybe in the 20's -- Smith wasn't clear on that. Smith had read an article about this place in the "Star" Sunday supplement -- "Ghosts of Kansas City" -- one of those kind of things. And according to the article, Robin had just showed up, speaking gibberish. Learned some English. Built a small, stone house here -- which was way out in the country in those days."

  "At least part of that story fits the house," John said slowly, straightening, tipping his head back to concentrate, still struggling to lock in all the pieces of what was turning out to be a "ghostly" puzzle. He looked over at Paul again. "The core of the house is just a small, square, limestone building, the other rooms and the second story added on later. But about being built in the 20s? I think the house's core is older than that. John thought for a moment. "But how does all this make the house haunted?"

  "I wasn't quite clear on that, either. Or rather, Smith didn't know. There seems also to have been talk about cats in the house."

  "Cats?" Ellen was listening, at the same time managing to look contentedly sleepy, her smoky blue eyes flashing from time to time, picking up occasional gleams of fire light.

  "Something about cats disappearing. No one near here able to keep a cat for long. That was after the house became deserted, I guess.

  "Smith said that, according to the article, people swear their cats run away, get into this house, then ... disappear."

  "Odd. ... Odd." John had never heard a ghost story quite like that. You always had chains rattling, ghosts appearing as floaty, ectoplasmic forms, headless specters, anguished screams in the night, blood spots reappearing on a carpet, places that were unnaturally cold .... But disappearing cats? That was a new one.

  Suddenly, John thought of Cream. Though she wasn't the kind of cat who'd lower herself by begging at the table, she'd been very much in evidence when the H
amiltons had arrived. Curious, like all cats. Curious, but nowhere in sight now, this talk of disappearing cats making John a little nervous about her whereabouts. She was safe, though. That he knew. For the hard fact of the matter was that the only cats that "disappeared" were "outdoor" cats -- disappeared into the jaws of dogs, disappeared under the wheels of cars -- which was the reason John never, for any reason, let - Cream - out. She was an "inside" cat, destined to live a long and pampered life.

  "Cats that vanished," Paul said again, shaking his head, "... and something about noises in the house."

  Ah, thought John, ghostly noises. No self respecting haunted house would be without them.

  "From what Smith said, no one lives in the house for long."

  "He got that right, at least. No one's been here for a long time before I bought it. You won't believe, Paul, how dry this house is. Everything about the house is parched. That's from being unoccupied for so long, would be my guess. When people are around, they water plants, run water in the sink, wash clothes, take hot baths or showers -- there's always water evaporating from the stool, for God's sake. But no water's been used in this place for so long the house is tinder dry. Dryer than that, if possible. While it'd be a great place for your sinuses, it's giving me nose bleeds. I've got to add some moisture to the air, somehow." John paused to take another sip of wine before returning the glass to the stand. Amazingly, he felt good. Like the old days when he and his parents used to sit around the tiny living room in their tract house, reading, talking -- his father doing other people's income tax.

  "Nothing about nose bleeds?"

  "No. Just cats ... and strange sounds."

  "You don't let your cat out, do you?" Ellen asked, sleepily. They'd talked about that before. "You're smart not to let your kitty outside. Somebody might steal her, she's so gorgeous."

  Finished with the tale, Paul had sunk even farther into the protesting sofa.

  That was the story, then -- all there was to the "legend of the old Van Robin place," as John was already beginning to think of the house. Romantic.

  Now that John's thought processes had time to crank forward another notch, what was interesting about the tale was Paul's reaction to it. First, the big man had tried to hide what he knew about the house being haunted. Then, as he told the story ... there was just something about him ....

  "And what do you think about this ghost, business, Paul?"

  "Huh? What?"

  "Let me put it as simply as I can," John said, watching Paul's face carefully. "Do you believe in ... ghosts?"

  "Of course not. Of course not," Paul blustered, waving that idea away with both, meaty hands. An over quick response, was John's judgment, a too emphatic denial.

  "Really?"

  "Well ... not in ghosts, actually."

  "And what does that mean?" asked Ellen, suddenly waking up, interested, her aristocratic head turned toward Paul, blue eyes open wide.

  "It means what it says it means," Paul muttered.

  "And what does that mean?" John asked with a chuckle.

  "Well ... English historians like me ...." His thought trailed off.

  "Go on."

  "It's just that in England ...," Paul was speaking slowly, thoughtfully, measuring every word, "... there are so many stories about ghosts ... so many tales told by respectable eyewitnesses ... that I think the strict truth is that I'm ... agnostic about ghosts." Paul flashed a silly little grin, waved one hand, shrugged. "So there. You may laugh now."

  All of a sudden, John didn't feel like laughing.

  Neither did Ellen. And for good reason. No matter how bizarre of appearance on first acquaintance, Paul was nothing if not solid -- physically, intellectually, and emotionally.

  "Agnostic. That means, maybe yes, maybe no?"

  "I don't think that ghosts are the souls of the dead wandering the earth, dragging chains -- Marley's ghost kind of thing," Paul protested quickly, his big voice rising to fill the room, thick arms gesturing, "but people as widely diverse and respected as ... Oh, I can't remember... John Wesley, for one ... reported having heard and even seen ghosts. It's silly, but there are so many English homes and castles said to be haunted that ... in England, they take that kind of phenomena for granted." Paul rolled his eyes; glanced up at the ceiling for inspiration. "I don't believe in all that standard ghost business. But I think it's possible there is ... something ... unexplained ... that would account for many of the ... contacts."

  "Like UFO phenomena possibly being associated with the electric effects of plate tectonics? Whatever that means. I read something like that in "Newsweek."

  "Yeah. Something that's real but so unusual we haven't figured it out yet."

  "If that's the case, and if this house is one of those places where that sort of 'natural phenomena' takes place,"-- the more John thought about it, the more he became interested in the possibility of this being true -- "then this is our chance to do some investigating."

  "Not me," growled the Papa bear.

  "Where's your scientific curiosity?" teased John. "If there is ... something ... and it's associated with this very house, then we have a chance ..." But Paul continued to shake his head a definite no.

  "Not for me. Too much to do as it is. And anyway, there seems to be universal agreement that supernatural stuff is dangerous."

  "But this is fun, Paul," Ellen put in. "It wouldn't hurt to ...." Paul's serious look stopped her in mid-sentence.

  "I'm probably nuts," Paul admitted, continuing to weigh his words, "but when I think of what scientists are doing today, making things in laboratories that may have, God knows, what effect on us ... when I think about radium, discovered not so long ago, and what it did to the people who 'played' with it, Madam Curie, for one ... I guess I'm just not that curious."

  As Paul gave his reasons for being "not that curious," his voice had gotten louder like it sometimes did when he was making a serious point. "Did you know that the inventors of the A-bomb were taking bets to see just how much of America ... of the world ... the first test might blow up? Hell, they didn't know!" Working himself up to full cry, Paul was thundering, his voice echoing in the sparsely furnished, fire lit room. "But they tried it anyway!"

  Realizing he'd been shouting, Paul smiled apologetically, waving off his attack. Settled back. Took his wife's hand, her hand and wrist disappearing within his gentle grasp. "I guess it's as Bacon said, a man with a wife and children gives hostages to fortune. When you're as happy as I am, son, you don't mess around." His voice had fallen to its low rumble once again.

  "You really don't think, Paul ..." said Ellen, softly.

  "Oh no. It's nothing, hun." Paul turned to beam down on her, his voice as artificially cheerful as his smile. "Nothing for anyone to worry about. Don't get spooked about ghosts, either of you. Too many terrible ... what I mean is, too many real things in the world to worry about. Ghosts? Nothin' to it. Just Halloween talk. Why, hell," he said through a great big grin, turning to John, "you got a terrific place here. Got a fire, a little wine. Good friends. Mainly, I just wanted to tell a ghost story, you see. It's like camp outs in the boy scouts. Someone always wants to hear a ghost story. It's close to Halloween, isn't it? Nothing to it."

  All of which meant there was something about the house that Paul didn't like, something that made Paul uneasy.

  From John's point of view, if anything at all was scary about this haunted house business, it was that it bothered Paul, Paul the most rational man John knew.

  John tapped his lower lip with his fingertips, thinking. It was also a fact, of course, that even the most modern people had their little superstitions: wore "lucky" tennis socks, consulted horoscopes.

  Small talk followed: the demise of the "Chiefs" lamented, hope for the "Blades" expressed, speculation about what it would take for the "Royals" to make next year's playoffs, interesting students analyzed. All in all, a successful evening.

  Until later as John was preparing for bed.

  It was always like
that after a visit with the Hamilton's. Seeing Ellen and Paul together made John feel ... incomplete.

  John had always been something of a loner. And it never used to bother him. Even the sports he'd liked as a child had been solitary ones. Archery, swimming, sailing the little boat in the fishing lake outside of town. The only shattering experiences of his life had been, first his mother's serious illness, then his parents' accidental death. For some reason, his parent's car had been left running in the garage, carbon monoxide seeping through the garage ceiling, his parents suffocated as they slept in their bedroom above. Six months ago.

  At the time, John took his parents' death as well as possible. Everyone died. He was dry eyed at the funeral.

  Now, he felt like an orphan, an adult orphan to be sure, but an orphan none the less. The grief that he couldn't feel at the time of his parents' death had settled in. He felt ... lost. Alone. No friends but Paul. And the cold truth was that he'd only known Paul for a couple of months!

  Would it have made a difference if his parents had lived long enough to see John get his degree ...?

  Whatever the reason for his continued depression, the famous bottom line was that John had worked like a zealot for a Ph.D. -- an accomplishment not a single soul in the overpopulated world gave a damn about. A degree even he didn't give a damn about, for God's sake! A Ph.D. which qualified him to sleep alone in a haunted house.

  John finally got to sleep -- was exhausted and depressed the next morning. Had difficulty sleeping the next night, was worn out by morning .....

  It was late on a Wednesday afternoon, John trying to read a batch of student papers at his desk in his downstairs study, that he heard the sound of rain again.

  Glad to have any excuse to stop grading, John paused to listen. ... Rain. Just beginning. Rain? The sky had been a November-iron-blue when he'd driven home. There'd been a lot of wind, though, enough to rock the stable Mazda. Probably blew up something. Better get out there and roll up the car window.

  Leaving the den, walking quickly to the hall, John opened the front door to be sucked outside by a big gust, the wind cold enough to make him regret he hadn't stopped to put on a jacket. Ignoring the wind's bite, John tacked to the car and bent down to trip the handle, careful not to let the wind take the wide door. It was only then that he noticed sunlight reflecting from the car's yellow paint. He looked up. Not a cloud in the dusty, leaf infested sky.