“The question is, what happened to David?” Winn asked.
“He’s no help in figuring it out, since he doesn’t remember,” Deem answered.
“You two will have to figure it out,” Carma said. “Whatever caused him to show up back here has done something to him.”
“What?” Deem asked. “What has it done?”
“I don’t know,” Carma replied. “I only know something is wrong, and it’s a big problem right now, that’ll become a much bigger problem if we don’t figure it out and do something about it.”
“What do you suggest?” Deem asked.
“You two concentrate on finding out about that house,” Carma answered. “Start with Lyman. I’ve never heard of the place, but then I was never into the whole Spiritualism thing. He might know something of it, or he might have some ideas. I’ll see what I can do about getting David diagnosed.”
Chapter Three
Winn followed Deem as she led him downstairs, to the basement of Carma’s house. Based on the moon that night, they had to meet Lyman at 3 AM. Winn found himself groggily reaching out for the handrails to steady himself, not quite fully awake.
They walked through a large family room, to a closet near the back. Inside, a second door at the back of the closet opened to reveal the entrance to a tunnel. Deem reached out to flick on a switch, and bare-bulb lights strung overhead popped on, illuminating the pathway that led underground, to the caves hidden deep in the hill behind the house. The route was smooth and clear, free from rocks and debris. Deem started down it, and Winn followed. I wonder how many years Carma has used this tunnel, Winn thought. Those light bulbs look very old.
Lyman was standing near the solitary wooden table in the room at the end of the tunnel, and Winn could see Lyman’s expression change as he caught sight of Deem. That’s right, Deem reminds him of Sarah, Winn thought. Sarah, the girl he was going to marry, a hundred and fifty years ago.
Although Lyman appeared remarkably clear outside of the River, Winn sensed Deem entering it in order to have an easier conversation with him, so Winn dropped in as well. He also knew to leave the matter to Deem; Lyman’s interest in her was all they’d need to get the information they desired.
Nice to see you again, Deem, Lyman greeted her.
You as well, she replied.
You taking to the house well, now that you’re living here?
Were you behind that? Deem asked slyly.
Carma’s idea, but I was wholeheartedly in favor of it. The house has been too quiet with just her here.
And it makes it easier for me to visit you! Deem replied.
Yes, there’s that bonus, as well.
We were wondering if you might feel inclined to share some of your knowledge of the past with us, Deem asked.
I’d be happy to impart my invaluable wisdom, Lyman replied, smiling. Winn had to keep reminding himself that although Lyman looked like a sixteen-year-old, as a ghost he was much, much older. He was also particularly ruthless in his fight against local Mormon leaders.
There’s a place in Paragonah, called the Blackham mansion, Deem said. It’s right next to the town cemetery. Know anything about it?
Lyman paused. I’m afraid I don’t. Why are you interested in it?
Winn listened as Deem filled Lyman in on their situation. Lyman seemed to be listening intently. When she had finished, Lyman was looking very intently at Deem.
You need to be very careful right now, he said. What you’re describing to me sounds extremely dangerous.
Have you heard of something like it? Before? she asked.
Not exactly, he replied. But the complexity of it reminds me of a spider web, something designed to trap you in a way that makes it impossible to get out.
We just drop out of the River and we’re back, Deem said. It doesn’t appear to be a trap.
Those are the best traps, Deem — the ones that look innocuous. All the more reason to be cautious. Promise me you’ll think twice before taking any unnecessary risks.
I promise, she replied, but we’ve got to do something about David.
When a bug is trapped in a spider web it twists and turns, trying to get free. It usually just makes things worse.
Deem seemed surprised at Lyman’s reaction. Are you saying we should abandon him? she asked. Because I won’t do that, Lyman.
I’m just saying you need to tread lightly and be extremely careful, or you’ll wind up like David. That’s all. I admire your loyalty to your friend. One of the things I like most about you. He smiled at her.
I give you my word I’ll be careful, she replied.
Good. Lyman began to pace. The best direction I can send you is to Hobble Creek, outside Springville. Thomas Cloward, Professor Emeritus of History from the University of Utah. Grandson of Joseph Cloward, a friend of mine. He’s a repressed gifted; higher education always beats it out of you. But he’s not self-loathing, and he’s opened up to it a little since his retirement. To the real world he always published scholarly pieces and made quite a name for himself. Somehow he managed to stay on the good side of the church, which is tough to do and be an honest historian. His latent gift has been eating at him for years, though, and it drew him to study people and places that were a little different, or odd; the kinds of things most people preferred to forget about history. Go see him and ask him about the Blackham mansion. As long as he thinks what he tells you will go no further than your ears, you may get a lot out of him.
We’ll do that, Deem replied. And thanks, Lyman. I appreciate it. She turned to leave.
Remember your promise, Lyman called after her. Think twice.
I will, she replied.
Winn turned to follow Deem, and glanced over at Lyman. Goodbye, Lyman, he said.
Goodbye, Winn. See you again, soon.
▪ ▪ ▪
Winn pulled his Jeep into the long driveway of the home in the hills above Springville. It was just after noon, and he was still tired from their middle-of-the-night conversation with Lyman, but two stops for coffee along the way had kept the juices flowing. Deem, for her part, was finishing off a Big Gulp she picked up in Cedar City.
The homes were stately and impressive, but not ostentatious. It wasn’t the type of home you’d expect a millionaire to build, but it was definitely upper middle class.
As they walked to the front door, Winn noticed a twelve-year-old boy in the front yard, struggling to push a mower. His face was red; Winn wasn’t sure if it was sunburn or anger. The mower would occasionally falter, and he would push on the handles to raise it up a little and soldier on. He seemed completely focused on his task and didn’t notice them walking by.
Winn rang the doorbell and after a few moments they were greeted by a very tall, thin man who had an impressively full head of hair, nicely coiffed, with only a hint of grey on the temples. He also had a look of irritation, as though he’d been interrupted.
“Professor Cloward?” Deem asked.
“Emeritus,” the man answered. “What do you want?”
“I’m Deem, and this is Winthrop,” she replied. “We drove up from Leeds this morning to talk to you.”
“Yes?”
“We were hoping you might help us out,” she continued. “We need some information on a town in southern Utah, and you come highly recommended.”
“You know,” he said, “normally you’d pay a few thousand dollars and take one of my courses. That’s how it’s usually done. Back when I did it.”
“I’m afraid we can’t take that amount of time to find out what we need to know,” Deem replied. “A friend is in danger. We wanted to ask you about Paragonah. Specifically, about the Blackham mansion.”
The man’s look changed from irritation to intrigue. Then Winn felt the man’s eyes running up and down their bodies, sizing them up. He wonders if we’re gifted, Winn thought.
“We don’t have to take much of your time,” Deem said. “We have a friend who’s been hurt by the place, and we need to find out as mu
ch about it as we can.”
“Hurt?” the professor asked. “What kind of hurt?”
“You’ll think we’re crazy if we tell you the truth,” Winn said.
The man’s eyes widened, and he took a step outside. He looked up and down the street, as though he was concerned neighbors might have seen his visitors.
“You two had better come inside,” Cloward said, opening the door and waving them in. He quickly shut the door behind them.
“Let’s go down to the family room,” he said, leading them through the house. “That’s my grandson out there mowing the lawn, and it’s kind of loud.”
After snaking down hallways and a set of stairs, he invited them to sit on an oversized sectional that surrounded a large-screen television. “Something to drink?” he offered, walking to a mini-fridge at the other end of the room. “I have the normal non-caffeinated selections.”
“Nothing for me,” Deem said.
“A water,” Winn said.
“No water,” the man replied. “I’ve only got pop. Orange, root beer, Sprite. That kind of stuff.”
“I’ll pass, thanks,” Winn replied.
“Don’t do the sugar, huh?” the man asked, popping open a can of root beer and joining them on the sectional.
“I try not to do pop at all,” Winn answered.
“Probably wise.” He took a long swig. “I don’t have them very often myself. Now. What do you want to know? Paragonah, was it?”
“The Blackham mansion,” Deem replied.
“Ah, yes. The Blackham mansion. I remember it well. Built in the 1880s by Henry Blackham, second son of Moroni Blackham from his fifth wife. The house has a difficult and unpleasant past; it wasn’t at all easy to dig up information on it, but I gave it a real go.”
“How did you learn about it?” Deem asked.
“I went down there several times, in my late twenties. The house was abandoned at that point. I did go inside it. Have you both been inside?”
They nodded in the affirmative.
“Then you know how unpleasant it is. I’ll never forget walking around in there; there was such an unholiness to it, like it was something very alien that appeared in the heart of the Mormon west. Very disturbing. I interviewed a number of the older residents of the town, and then sought out some of the Blackham family that remembered Henry. That led me to a number of other people who were connected with the whole Spiritualist movement at that time. Fascinating stuff. I almost wrote about it, but so many of the people involved asked that I not. So I didn’t.”
“Henry was a Spiritualist?” Winn asked. “Like Amasa Lyman?”
“Oh, you do know your history!” the professor said, lighting up a little. “It’s interesting that you bring him up, because Henry had connections to Amasa’s children who shared the interest.”
“What can you tell us about the house?” Deem asked. “We need to find out as much as we can.”
“You know,” the professor replied, “if we were going to talk about any number of other places in this state, I’d ask you to wait while I dug up my files on the subject. I have all my research here, at the house. I’m organizing it before I donate it back to the university. But when it comes to some places, I don’t need my notes; some places I remember the details I learned about them very distinctly. Don’t know why.”
I know why, Winn thought. Because you’re gifted, and you recognized something in those places. You were naturally attracted to them.
“So,” the professor continued, “Henry built the house in the 1880s, as I said. Interestingly, he deliberately chose to build right next to the town’s cemetery. He wanted close proximity, because he intended the house to be used for séances with his Spiritualist friends right from the beginning. Much of the house was constructed with that in mind, including a large room able to accommodate a sizeable group. He added all kinds of occult touches to the place. Some were ornamental, such as the inverted pentagrams and such that you see today on the temple in Salt Lake; people back then weren’t nearly so bothered by folk magic and the like, and it wasn’t seen as anything objectionable. Other touches had a more spiritual side to them — dedications, blessings, other rituals consecrating the place to the pursuit of contacting the dead.
“Many people were wrapped up with Spiritualism during that time; it was a bit of a fad. Remember, there was no television or radio. No movies. Entertainment came from books or newspapers, or from social events, like dances. When Spiritualism came along, and entertainment could be had by just gathering together with some friends and trying to contact the deceased, it appealed to people as an alternative way to spend an interesting evening. Most people didn’t take it seriously, but Henry and his associates did. It became a kind of religion, a belief that we could learn everything we needed to know in this life by contacting the dead — that they had all the answers. For a while it was socially acceptable, and you could engage in it without risking your church membership, although the church wasn’t very fond of it, and said as much.
“Henry’s group met at his house routinely and developed a reputation for a short time as the séance not to be missed. Most were locals, but some traveled from Idaho and Nevada to participate. They liked to try and contact the people buried in the cemetery next door, although some members of the town found that distasteful and expressed objections. People I talked to remembered participating in a few of the séances, and their descriptions of it were quite colorful and exciting, with rappings, ectoplasm, object manifestation — the whole shebang.
“For a while it was an every-night, sometimes all-night affair. Besides the frequent guests who would attend once or twice, there was a loyal group of followers who rarely missed a séance. Amasa Lyman was not one of them; his notoriety within the state kept him traveling. But a couple of his sons were heavily involved and committed to the practice. There were others, too; Mormon names you’d recognize. They met there and by all accounts conducted very intense and lengthy séances.
“There were other places where it was popular, too…plenty of places in Salt Lake, Ogden, Price, Logan. When the national fascination with it faded, it left those towns. But it didn’t really stop in Paragonah. Henry hosted séance after séance, and the core group of participants stuck with it, as those with a passing interest peeled away.
“Then, suddenly, just after the turn of the century, it came to a sudden stop.”
Winn was ready to ask, “What happened?” but he could tell the professor was about to continue and didn’t want to interrupt.
“At first, participants began to disappear. One of the members of the circle wouldn’t be there when it completed. It’s as if they’d gotten up and walked out during it, and no one noticed. At first, people thought that was exactly what had happened — that for one reason or another, someone just got up and left while it was dark, and assumed they were at home. Trouble was, they weren’t at home, or in town, or anywhere to be found. They just disappeared into thin air, never to be seen again.
“As I mentioned, by this point Spiritualism was no longer fashionable and was looked down upon by the tight-knit Mormon communities. The disappearances became a big problem for the group. Family members of the missing people began to point fingers at the group, accusing them of killing and hiding the bodies as part of a ritual. The Spiritualists were mystified by it all, and some of them dropped out, frightened by the disappearances, afraid it might happen to them, too, if they continued. Others just wanted to disassociate themselves with the movement, embarrassed by the growing notoriety surrounding the vanishings.
“But a core group of seven or eight people continued to meet and hold their séances, regardless. They were dedicated, true believers. They wanted to discover what was happening, and felt that contacting the dead would be the easiest way to get the answer. It turned out to be a bad decision.”
“What happened?” Deem asked, nearly on the edge of her seat.
“The whole group were found in the house, all knocked out col
d,” the professor said. “It was as if they’d fallen into a coma, and couldn’t be revived. Family members took their bodies and cared for them until they eventually passed. None of them survived.”
“Henry was one of those people. His wife, who never participated in the séances, was the one who found them. She kept him at home for a while, caring for him, but she moved from the mansion soon after, and the place went vacant. It was unsellable in Paragonah — the entire town considered it a haunted, evil place, and wanted nothing to do with it. When outsiders inquired about purchasing it, they were rebuffed so strongly it never sold, and it stayed within the family to this day. I don’t think the current owners give it much mind.
“Naturally, such a place is going to live on within a town’s folklore, at least for a while following the events that established its reputation. It became the target of many childish dares over the years. For a while the popular teenage challenge was to spend a night in the house. That stopped when people who took the dare were found comatose the next morning, just like Henry and his group. This cemented the reputation of the place as demonic and cursed.
“Over the years, many have considered the idea of a curse irrational, and set off to prove it wrong. There were more incidents of people becoming unresponsive after sleeping in the house. The town considered condemning and leveling the place several times, but the family was never amenable to that idea, and no local contractor was willing to set foot on the property to take the work. So it sat.”
The professor stopped and took a long drink from his root beer can. “The most recent rumors are certainly urban myth, built upon the reputation of the place. Hardly worth mentioning.”
“I’d like to hear them,” Deem said.
“Well, as I say, you must classify what I’m about to tell you as the typical kind of irrational story that grows from an historical place not well documented, such as the Blackham mansion. In more recent times, it’s said that spending a night in the house will cause you to wake up somewhere else, miles away. As though you’re picked up and moved while you sleep!” He scoffed, taking another sip. “People say all kinds of crazy things you have to discount. I’ll never forget one old woman I talked to. She said that when they were kids, they dared each other to go in and try to get away from ‘the Creepsis.’ I asked her what the Creepsis was, and she said it was what they called the thing that walked around in the house.” He chuckled. “I found the name so unusual; it really made an impression on me. I tried looking into the etymology of it, but came up dry. I’ve remembered it all these years. Creepsis!” He chuckled again. To Winn it seemed like feigned amusement.
The Blackham Mansion Haunting (The Downwinders Book 4) Page 3