This made me nervous. What would I do if there was an accident?
A beautiful little lakeside town called Falcon became my best friend. It wasn’t big but I discovered an excellent inexpensive restaurant there, a tavern or pub really. I had dinner there twice that second week and with the same server both times she got to know me. I took my laptop and worked on my novel while I waited for my food and it was nice chatting with someone who was friendly and talkative. Janet, I discovered, really wasn’t sociable -at least not with me. She talked enough to everyone else.
Plus, I liked dining amongst the other people and having folks around. Evenings at the farm house were lonely and isolating. I mostly spent my off hours huddled in my bed, reading, or working on the computer. There wasn’t a television, although I picked up a small, cheap one at Wal-Mart hoping I could pull in some basic channels. I couldn’t. I thought about going somewhere and buying some craft supplies but I didn’t really have the money to spend. I was looking forward to the rest of the staff coming in so that I’d have other people to talk to.
Fortunately, I had internet access back at the house. I spent hours online in the evenings, the faint glow of the computer screen reflecting on my pale face while the darkness tugged at me outside my window. My mother and I sent long emails to each other and I used my time to research the area and find things to do. But I spent so much time on the computer during the day that by the time evening rolled around I was usually ready for a break.
It was at the end of my second week that things started to get a little troubling. On Thursday, I was downstairs on the computer, researching youth hostels in Boston. It was late, around 10:00 pm, and quiet. The farm house was almost always quiet. The sound of my own breathing was usually the only thing I could hear, especially when I was downstairs. In my own room I kept the radio and CD player on a lot.
Suddenly, a loud thump clamored above me. It was louder than a sound an animal could have made and I was almost sure a large piece of furniture had given way and tumbled over. Worried I might have inadvertently caused something to tip earlier, I jumped up and took off towards the sound of the noise. Scrambling up the stairs, I made it up to the second floor and took a look around. It was dark but the two small office rooms were flooded with light as soon as I flipped the switch. The illumination was a stark contrast to the blackness and I shielded my eyes for a moment, letting them adjust. Nothing was out of place. There were two other rooms on that level, but they were locked. I just had to trust everything was okay in them since I couldn’t look.
Next, up the long, narrow staircase I went to my bedroom. Even from the doorway I could tell my room was untouched, too. My books were all on my nightstand, stacked up neatly, the chest of drawers was pushed up against the wall as it should be, and my clothing rack was still bolted into the wood, all the clothing still in place.
The noise had no source. It had simply been a clatter, probably something on the roof like a large tree branch blowing around, and I was scaring myself because I was there all alone and it was usually so quiet. At least that’s what I told myself.
Trying to laugh it off, I went back downstairs to the bathroom on the second floor. It was probably time to turn in for the night anyway. While I was washing my face and getting ready for bed, however, I heard it again. The sound was thunderous, actually shaking the walls of the small room around me. There was no mistaking it for a wayward tree branch. I placed my washcloth on the sink and stepped outside the bathroom, straining my ears. What was it? My heart started racing as visions of a burglar entered my mind. I was alone, helpless. Nobody would even find me until morning. I made a move to run up the stairs and collect my car keys when another noise sounded– footsteps and they were directly above me.
There were only two rooms on the third floor–mine and a storage room. It just had a bunch of boxes. I tried to keep that door closed because I could see into it from my bed and I didn’t like looking into another dark room, especially since the boxes cast odd shadows. But the door continued to be reopened. I assumed people kept going up there to get things they needed.
The footsteps paced back and forth above me, lightly, hesitantly. I could feel slow, icy dread creeping up my spine and down my arms, chilling my fingers. Someone was up there. And maybe even more disturbingly, they’d been there for a long time. It was hours since everyone left the house. The idea that I’d been in the house, supposedly alone, all evening and someone else had been hiding terrified me. There was no way I could outrun anyone, even with the narrow staircase slowing them down. My best bet was to try to scare them.
Stepping out into the lounge where the copier was I raised my voice, “Hello!” I tried to make myself sound brave, forceful. The noises stopped. I waited for as long as I could, holding my breath to see if I could hear anything else, but it was quiet. “I’m not alone here. There are two maintenance workers downstairs and I have my revolver on me.” My declaration and thin voice sounded funny even to me.
Nothing, not a peep. I stood there for what seemed like forever, just waiting and listening. The floorboards up there were very creaky but if someone was really there they weren’t even shifting their weight. All was still in the house. I began talking myself out of what I’d heard; I was paranoid, delusional, overreacting. It was a mouse, a rat even, or a raccoon that had sneaked through the walls. I was being silly.
With trepidation, but newfound courage, I walked back up the stairs, a three-hole punch from a nearby desk in my hand, and looked in my room. There was nothing there. The small room across the hall from me was dark, the door open. I flipped on the corridor light and peeked into it. It was empty as well.
I got very little sleep that night.
The next morning, I approached Janet with what had happened the night before. I wasn’t one to let anything go. “Janet,” I started lightly. After all, I didn’t want her to think I was nuts. “I heard a really loud noise last night and what sounded like someone walking back and forth in that empty room in the attic. Has anyone else who’s lived here ever heard anything…weird?”
“What do you mean?” she asked with a bright, sunny smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
I briefly explained what I’d heard the night before and how I’d been scared it was someone breaking in on me.
“No,” she replied with a slight shrug. “Nobody else has ever heard anything before. And lots of people have stayed here in this house. Could have been the wind, or an animal. Or maybe you’re just special and sensitive and can hear things others can’t.”
Yay me, I thought to myself as I took a seat at my desk. But, it was Friday and although I hadn’t planned on going away, now I was thinking it might be a good idea.
My money was scarce, but it was payday and I knew how to do things on a tight budget. I’d once backpacked Eastern Europe on $16 a day. Since I’d already done some research I knew where I wanted to go: Concord, Massachusetts. I’d always wanted to see the Louisa May Alcott house and while I was there I could also see the Old Manse, visit Walden Pond, and kind of make a literary trip out of it. I found a hostel in nearby Harvard and booked two nights in it. Ecstatic at the idea of getting away and going someplace I’d always wanted to visit, I felt lighter in step than I had in a long time.
“You look happy,” one of the women said to me as I passed her in the hallway. I couldn’t remember her name.
“It’s Friday!” I exclaimed with a laugh. “And I’m going away for the weekend.”
On my lunch break I packed my suitcase and printed off directions from MapQuest. I also got some CDs ready for the drive which would take a few hours. When Janet came back from lunch she’d already heard about my plans and sounded excited for me. “You’ll love it there,” she gushed, showing genuine enthusiasm. “I’ve been several times and it’s a beautiful town. So much history!”
An upset stomach held me back longer than I’d anticipated. Everyone else was already gone by the time I loaded up the car to leave. I was about ready
to pull out of the driveway when I remembered the CDs. I ran back up to my room to grab them and as I stood in the room, placing them in a bag, I heard the soft sound of footsteps as the climbed up the narrow wooden staircase outside my room.
“Hello!” I called out. I thought everyone had left, but maybe not. Maybe Janet had come back to check on me. “Who’s there?”
Nobody answered. The footsteps stopped as soon as I opened my mouth.
Feeling a little bit of anxiety now, I walked to the staircase and peeped down, but the stairwell was empty. My car was the only one in the parking lot.
It was a good weekend to get away after all, I decided.
Danvers
Getting away for the weekend was a balm for the spirit. The hostel I stayed in was a lovely farm house located on a real working organic farm and I slept like a baby under a handmade quilt. The rest of the hostel was full of school kids on a weekend trip and the sounds of their running back and forth down the halls, laughing, and staying up until the wee hours of the night actually comforted me. It was the best sleep I’d had in two weeks–maybe longer. I played tourist in Concord and after seeing the historical sites, went to the movies and watched a silly Jennifer Lopez film as a treat. Away from the resort the air was clear, the temperature warm, and the skies bright and sunny. As I stood outside on my second evening and gazed up at the night sky it occurred to me that it was the first time in almost two weeks I’d been able to see the stars; the fog at the resort crept in early and didn’t dissipate until late the next morning. I had no idea how much I’d missed the stars, the moon, and even fluffy white clouds until I saw them again.
I never minded traveling alone; indeed, I often found myself going on trips by myself. I didn’t mind my own company and I never really felt alone; being around other travelers and tourists, eating next to people in restaurants, and even sleeping within close proximity to others in hotels and hostels…I enjoyed it and felt a part of something. But being up there in the farm house at the resort, surrounded by fog and cold and people who I couldn’t even tell if they wanted me around or not? That was lonesome. I was beginning to feel locked up inside my own head–not a place I particularly wanted to be.
I was still recovering from what had happened back in Kentucky and had hoped this job would be the fix for that. So far, it was making me feel sadder. That job, at first, had merely been a stopover point for me while I figured out what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. But I had fallen in love with the children I worked with and formed close bonds with my co-workers, especially my supervisor who became almost like a sister to me. We’d eaten lunch together almost every day, celebrated birthdays and holidays together, and even gone on vacation to Ireland where we’d laughed over wine and taken silly pictures of one another at ancient ruins.
And then I’d been sexually harassed by someone there I trusted. More than just frightening me, it had hurt my feelings. My somewhat stable world had slipped out from underneath me and I felt myself floating, drifting. If I could go back and erase it all and pretend it had never happened, I would have. But that was impossible.
I wasn’t making friends, mostly because there weren’t any people around yet, and I was just spending way too much time by myself. When I took the job, I hadn’t realized I’d be alone so much. Over the phone, Janet had told me that “lots” of staff would be living at the resort along with me–hundreds, even. She had left out the part about them not arriving until weeks later.
But getting away was nice.
In Concord I went on a guided tour of the “Little Women” house and bought my mom souvenirs. I sat on a rock at The Old Manse and meditated in the stillness around me. I visited Walden Pond and bought a small booklet of Emerson’s poetry which I read over a bowl of steaming vegetable soup at a tavern. Surrounding by the quaintness of the small town, the laughter of the tourists, and the feeling of being amidst the memories of some of the greatest writers I’d ever known, I somehow felt safe.
I checked out of my hostel feeling a little wistful; the weekend just wasn’t long enough. On the drive back to New Hampshire I took my time, stopping off in Salem to tour the House of the Seven Gables, and I caught myself as I passed a sign for Danvers. As an avid horror movie fan, I loved “Session 9” and had watched it multiple times. I couldn’t contain my excitement. I knew it was filmed on location at the old mental hospital in Danvers and that the hospital was abandoned and empty. The urban explorer in me couldn’t get over my good luck of being so close. I also knew the security was fairly tight and that my chances of getting in were not good.
Still, I couldn’t be that close and not check it out.
It didn't take me long to find the mental hospital. I just stopped at a gas station and asked. Without even looking up at me the attendant had rattled off the directions by heart, probably used to giving them out to eager explorers such as myself–people who had more enthusiasm than sense.
The hospital was still abandoned. I belonged to several urban explorer groups and had done my research on the hospital. As an urban explorer, I always thought people like me were probably a couple of principles short of criminals, with only our intentions setting us apart. I loved finding old buildings (houses, churches, factories, etc.) that had been abandoned. When I could get permission, I got it. In most cases, however, the known owners of such structures were obscure. In those instances, I was known to shimmy through windows, doors, or whatever openings I could find. Intrigued with history and architecture, I went armed with cameras, long pants, and flashlights. Like others, I documented my findings for others to look and speculate over. I didn’t touch anything or bother it. If I got hurt, I didn’t sue. I was just fascinated by neglected beauty and looking for an adventure.
Many an urban explorer had aimed for Danvers–the Holy Grail of horror movie loving, ghost hunting, urbexes. Some had made it and reported back to the others, their digital pictures pored over jealously. I had waited my turn for some time. I knew that it was difficult to get through to, thanks to increased security. I also knew that with the dwindling daylight, I wouldn't have much time to find an opening and make my way in. Many things scared me, but exploring old places for whatever reason didn’t. Still, I was no fool. Even I knew better than to creep around an abandoned mental hospital in the Boston area, alone, after dark. The spirits that might be lurking there didn’t necessarily scare me but those who might be using the place for less altruistic reasons did. There were stories of mental patients who, used to their former sanctuary and unable to deal with the outside world, broke back into the only home they’d ever known. I’d heard tales of satanic groups using such places for their rituals and offerings, although I suspected those were just that–tales. With the light security, there was also the risk of vagrants setting up shop, a dilapidated mental hospital offering more shelter than the streets at night and providing a modicum of comfort with the large rooms and insulation.
I also watched quite a few crime shows so the threat of serial killers in dark corners never fully left my mind. Still, I’d come that far…
The hospital sets on a hill, overlooking what was once probably farmland. It's hidden from the main road below and there were no signs pointing the way as I wound up the broken road. Of course, there were other signs: No Trespassing, Keep Away, Stay Out, etc. We urbexes tended to take these as a challenge.
The light was pale and thin. There wouldn’t be a sunset that evening so the waning daylight was simply fading out instead of declaring its goodbye with a colorful bang. Everything was gray and colorless: the sky, the air, even the trees. I held my breath as I took my time up the hillside, half waiting for a security vehicle to come run me off, half excited as I watched for a sign of the famous Kirkbride Building.
Suddenly, through the trees, I caught the color of red brick peeping through the branches. Then more, and then more.
As I turned the corner, there it was before me, towering in the sky like a majestic, glorious castle. Barely watching where I was
going, I pulled in front of it and came to a dead halt. With its turret-like towers, multitude of windows, and wings that spanned the acreage like a giant bat, it resembled a palace more than a hospital. Indeed, despite its boarded up windows, cracked sidewalks, and the ragged weeds that poked up through the asphalt it was one of the most stunningly gorgeous pieces of architecture I had ever seen.
I turned off the engine and quietly opened my door and got out, camera already booting up. Despite the busy road below me, it was deathly quiet up there on the hill. The sky was beginning to darken and a chill filled the air, the breeze ruffling my hair. I skirted the edge of the building, snapping pictures as I went, and headed first to the abandoned cemetery. The headstones were difficult to see due to the undergrowth, but they were there, some decrepit and pocked and others crumbling and on their sides like dominoes.
I was totally alone. I knew that others found their way up there almost every day and I half expected to meet another explorer, but there was no doubt I had the place to myself. The air was tomblike; still, I think I could have heard the hitch of a breath on the other side of the complex.
Up there in the snowy whiteness of the fog I felt cut off from the world, much like I did back at the farm house. I could no longer see the road below me or hear the whirr of the car engines as they raced by. I couldn’t even see through the grove of trees that peppered the hillside. It was just me and the lonely old buildings, despondent and abandoned.
Three True Tales of Terror: A True Hauntings' Collection Page 7