The Haunted Inn (Haunted House Ghost Story): The Hauntings of Kingston

by Michelle Dorey

“Seriously man?” Tony’s voice blasted in his ear.

  “Yeah. I am.”

  “Just make sure you keep wearing it. And get one for Carly too. She’s out there a lot isn’t she?” There was a pause and then Tony continued. “Brad, forget this scheme. Sell the place and get out while you can. I can’t say it was a bad idea, but you’ve got the wrong house. There must be other old places that you could set up in. Listen to Sophie, if not me.”

  Brad stood straight and squared his shoulders. “Look Tony, I appreciate your concern but we can handle this. I’ll admit that before I was in this house, I thought that ghosts and haunting were kind of bullshit. But there’s been too many things that’s happened here to say that now. But really, if you think about it, the house is perfect for what we’re planning. We’ll just have to get used to living in a haunted house. You said it yourself...you lived in spooky houses growing up and yet you survived it.”

  “That was different, Brad. Those ghosts were annoying but they didn’t threaten us. Not like what’s going on in your house. Maybe you should get a priest in there to bless the place. Send the bad spirits back to where they belong.”

  Brad’s eyes closed and he gripped the phone tightly in his hand. That was never going to happen. Even if Tim agreed to it, there was no way, he would. They needed the ghost or whatever the hell ‘Baxter’ was. “We’ll think about it, okay? I’d better get going. I just wanted to call and make sure you’re all right. Again, I’m sorry about last night.”

  “Don’t toy with this thing, Brad. You’re making a mistake.”

  Brad clicked the phone off and wandered over to the parlour to plug his phone into the sound system. Immediately, the house was filled with ‘Pretty Reckless’ belting out their hard, stomping beat. Great music to get you moving and get the dining room painted.

  He went back into the dining room and poured the cream coloured paint into the tray. As he rolled the paint he moved in time to the music, lost in the song and the brighter transformation of the wall. Just as he was about to start the side where beams of sunshine poured through the window, the music stopped.

  His head swivelled to look over at the parlour, his lips parted, mid-lyric. Now what? He turned to peer into the kitchen, at the microwave. The green light showing the time was still on so it hadn’t been a power failure. Was the battery in his phone dead?

  Faint musical notes, like a piano would make, drifted in the air. The hair on the back of his neck spiked and he stood rooted to the spot. It was coming from the cellar—the same notes played over and over, the tune an old familiar one. His eyes closed and he took a deep breath, resisting the lyrics he’d learned in both English and French. ‘Frere Jacques/Are you sleeping?’— a song from primary school?

  He jumped when the stereo speakers blasted a crashing beat, dropping the paint roller and spattering his legs with white droplets. “Shit!” He picked the roller up and tossed it on the tray of paint. His teeth grit tight together, striding from the room and out the front door. This was ridiculous!

  The music continued to blare behind him as he marched to the lake. He kicked his sandals off and sat on the edge of the dock, dangling his feet in the water. Would he ever get used to the shit that happened in that house? He leaned over and washed the paint off his calves, huffing a sigh. He was tired. They’d been working like Trojans for over a week and after last night...He didn’t have the patience for that crazy shit, not today.

  He sat back and rested his hands on the dock behind him, gazing up at the sky. Just fifteen minutes was all he needed, some peace and quiet sitting in the sun. Relax, do some deep breathing. He swung his legs from the water and shifted so that he laid on his back, soaking up the hot summer day.

  He jerked upright at the touch on his shoulder. Tim’s face came into focus above him. “Hey! What the hell happened to the dining room?”

  Brad sat up straining his eyes wide to get the sleep out of them. “What time is it?” But even as he asked, he noticed the sun midway on the horizon.

  “A little past two. What’d you do? Take a break and nod off?” Tim stood straight again and sighed. “If I wasn’t so bagged, I’d be pissed at you. C’mon. Help me get the stuff out of the car.”

  He blinked a couple times, and got to his feet, feeling the tautness of his skin, burned from the noonday sun. The slow heavy gait of his friend, walking up the lawn made him feel guilty for a moment. He took a deep breath and stretched his arms over his head before hurrying to catch up with Tim.

  “Hey! Wait up!” He came alongside Tim and looked over at him. “Remember that piano down in the basement?”

  Tim’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah?”

  “Apparently whatever is in the house didn’t like my music. They cut the sound and played a tune on the piano, Frere Jacques.” Even though his tone was light, the memory of the song was eerie, etched in his brain.

  Tim shook his head and his lips were tight. “That doesn’t sound like Baxter. That’s a kid’s song.” He opened the hatch of the SUV and reached in for the curve of white plastic. “Maybe there’s more than one ghost in this place. One of the children, possibly?”

  Brad nodded and took the piece of equipment from Tim. “Could be. I mean, they died violently, didn’t they? Isn’t that supposed to make them linger or something?”

  Tim straightened up. “You’re asking me?” he said, pointing at his own chest. “Who’s the guy dating the Wiccy Wizard girl, man?” He turned his head and looked over at the house silently for a moment. “And the lights flashing on and off. Three short, three long and three short flashes again. S.O.S. Maybe, the wife is sending a signal. She probably tried to save her kids that night, right?”

  “Yeah, but what the hell does ‘Save Our Ship’ have to do with anything?”

  Tim’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  Brad shrugged. “What?”

  Now Tim’s finger jabbed into Brad’s chest. “Don’t you know anything?” He waved his hand at the house. “They were saying ‘Save Our Souls’ dude!” His face grew pale, and he turned his head to the house. “Save Our Souls,” he said in a whisper.

  “You think so, man?”

  Tim nodded. “And the doors...” he turned back to Brad. “They weren’t trying to scare us...”

  Brad nodded, his voice now also quiet. “They were running for their lives!”

  “Or being chased...”

  They both stood shoulder to shoulder now and gazed at the house. Tim’s voice was low. “I think that every night, those murders take place over and over again...

  The chill that went up Brad’s spine told him his buddy was right on the money. “What the hell do we do about that?”

  “We make a fortune from it.” Tim smiled and reached into the car and pulled out two picture frames. “I got the articles that Sophie gave you framed, what do you think?

  Brad nodded. If they were going to make a go of this plan, a nightly for real ghost haunting would be just the thing that would put them on the map. The wheels in his head started turning as he admired the objects in Tim’s hands.

  Looking up at his buddy, he said, “I think they look awesome. We’ll hang them right at the front door.” He smiled.

  Chapter 21

  Brad

  By the time Brad finished painting the dining room, it was close to seven. He cleaned the brushes and roller and put everything away in the corner of the room. Everything was much brighter with the fresh coat of paint and he hadn’t done a bad job, if he did say so himself.

  Every blow of the hammer, Tim beating the chisel into the plaster, pounded behind his eyes. That, and the smell of paint was giving him a terrific headache. He walked over to the kitchen sink and poured a glass of water before rummaging through the cabinets for a bottle of aspirin or ibuprofen. He spied them on top of the fridge and tossed a few tablets back into his throat.

  He climbed the stairs to see how Tim was making out. He’d made fairly good progress. Most of the plaster below the slope of the
top stairs was gone, leaving diagonal strips of lathe. The area to be opened was a square, about twenty-eight inches on all sides— wide enough that when done, a slender woman could fit through easily.

  At the light tap on his shoulder, Tim startled and his head spun around. He looked like an insect alien creature in the goggles and paper mask, his normally dark hair dusted white.

  “I’m going for a swim to cool off and get clean. Are you just about done here for the day?” Brad squatted down next to Tim, gazing at the ancient craftsmanship of the house in the wooden slats and sturdy pine studs.

  “Yeah, I think so. At least the dusty part is done. I’ll need the Sawzall from here on out. We’re lucky, there’re no wires crossing this area.” He set the tools down and sucked in a deep breath, getting to his feet. “I’m so tired, that I don’t mind knocking off early. I’ll join you for a swim.”

  Brad got up and grabbed a couple bath towels from the bathroom. Tim was sweeping hunks of plaster and dust into a dustpan as he passed by. “Okay. See you out there.”

  He went into the kitchen and slipped a couple of beer inside the towel and continued on his way to the dock. Even after the nap earlier that day, his muscles were heavy as lead. He felt fifty-six, not twenty-six and probably looked it as well. He peeled off the T-shirt and set everything on the dock before diving into the smooth surface of the lake.

  The cool water took his breath away at first but after a few moments, it seemed to recharge his energy level. He surfaced and kept swimming until he was about thirty feet out. When he turned Tim was just stepping onto the dock and making a running leap to join him in the water.

  “I brought a couple of beers. I don’t know about you but I intend on drinking enough to let me sleep or pass out. If the banging starts up, I want to sleep right through it.” Brad swam back, watching Tim tread water.

  “I hear ya. There’s still lots of burgers and beer left over from yesterday. We’ll build a bonfire and do a rinse and repeat of last night.” Tim fell into a slow breast stroke beside him.

  The air was still warm and humid on his skin when Brad popped up onto the dock. That beer was gonna go down real smooth. He popped the caps and handed one to Tim when he pulled himself out of the water.

  “To our haunted house.” He held up his bottle and clinked it against Tim’s.

  “To Baxter helping us make money!” Tim laughed and downed half of it in one long swallow. “God, that was good!”

  Brad looped the towel over his neck wandering off the dock on his way to the fire pit. “Let’s get this thing going again. Then I’m going in to change and bring out the rest of that beer.”

  “Get the beer first. I’ll work on the fire.” Tim looked over at the house and yelled. “Hear that Baxter? We’re having a bon fire and you’re not invited, you sick bastard!”

  Brad’s eyes narrowed. “Hmph!” He’d second that emotion. If not for Baxter, they wouldn’t be so tired. And what was with that shit with the music? The ghost or whatever couldn’t leave it alone, even in the daylight? Weren’t spooky things supposed to just happen at night? He finished the rest of the beer in one long swallow.

  “Okay. I’ll be right back. I might as well fill the cooler and bring it out. Maybe, I’ll blast the stereo for good measure.” He strode across the veranda and into the house. Everything was quiet as a mouse.

  In ten minutes he hefted the cooler in his arms, the sound system belting out heavy rock behind him. The orange tongues of flames met his eyes across the lawn where Tim stood poking the fire, sending smoke and sparks high into the night. The sun was completely hidden under the horizon and the faint light, made the fire even more inviting. A draw as primal as man himself.

  He handed Tim another beer and got one for himself. “Baxter is quite upset that we’re out here. He left a ‘sad face’ on the bathroom door.”

  Tim’s head jerked back and his mouth dropped.

  “Just kidding.” He laughed and grabbed a lawn chair to flop down into. “I talked to Tony. I think he’s gonna be okay with us.”

  “That’s good.” Tim grinned. “I never knew that a sentence could contain so many fucks. Noun, verb, adjective, adverb. He’s got a real flair with words. Should have been a writer.”

  “Or a sailor.” Brad looked over at the house and chuckled. “I keep waiting for the music to stop or the lights to start flashing. But I suppose it’s early.”

  Tim took a big swig of beer and looked at his watch. “Yeah. Baxter shows up at twelve twenty-four. That’s why I don’t think the piano was him.” He paused and looked over at Brad silently for a few moments. “I saw his face, you know.”

  “What?” Brad’s face knotted. “Where?”

  “Remember that day I was teasing you about the rubber gloves and I took your picture before you came upstairs?” He looked away for a moment, gazing into the flames.

  “Yeah?” Brad clutched the beer bottle tightly, watching his friend with narrow eyes. He had known that Tim was lying that day.

  Tim sighed and sat back further in the chair. “His face showed up right next to yours, looking over your shoulder.”

  “What! Kind of like a selfie pic of me and Baxter?” He shuddered recalling the coldness in that spot. Now he knew why.

  Tim laughed and slapped his thigh. “Yeah. Exactly. Baxter must be pretty vain, never missing a photo op. I kind of wish I hadn’t erased it now. We could have posted it on our website.”

  “Website? Do we have a website now?” Brad shook his head and finished the rest of the beer off. It tasted like another one. He got up and lifted two more from the cooler.

  “Not yet, but we will. Don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll get another pic of the two of you. But next time, turn your head at the last minute and pucker up. That ought to be a good shot. Wonder how the sick fuck would like that?” He turned and yelled over at the house. “How ‘bout it Baxter? A Bro-mance pic? Would you like that?”

  The music stopped abruptly. The sounds of crickets and a lovesick bullfrog’s croak drifted in the still air.

  Brad turned to Tim with wide eyes. “Guess he doesn’t like the idea.”

  “Seriously, do you think that’s why the music stopped?”

  “Is this some drunken kind of séance thing? Say something else and see what happens.”

  Tim’s eyes sparked and he grinned. “Hey Baxter! Put the music back on. Brad wants to ask you to dance. But make sure you do the strobe lighting thing. He’s into that disco beat.” He laughed and held his beer before his mouth, waiting for something, anything.

  When there was nothing he finished the rest of his beer and started on another. “We should eat soon. I’m starting to feel this beer, man.”

  “I think Baxter’s sulking in there. That trick with the music was supposed to scare us.” The beer was cold and smooth and Brad was tired of being scared. His teeth grit together thinking of how many times he’d been creeped out since coming to the house. “Hey Baxter! Turn the music back on! If you can!”

  Tim laughed softly. “Good one. Let’s see what he does.”

  They watched in silence for a few minutes and Brad was just about to get up to throw another log into the fire, when the whole house lit up. Lights blazed from every window and the music blared louder than before.

  “Whoa! That was pretty good.” Tim sat forward and smiled.

  Brad’s heart had just about jumped from his chest. He stood up and continued stoking the fire. “Now what?”

  “Finish your beer and grab a couple more. I say we go join the party. We’re not through with old Baxter yet, not by a long shot.”

  Chapter 22

  Tim

  Tim led the way across the veranda and into the house. The ear-splitting music thundered in his gut, right down to his toes. He walked into the parlour and turned the volume down, stifling the chuckle that rose in his throat. “Think you’re scaring us, Baxter? I think you’ll have to do better than that—an electrical surge? That’s the best you got?”

 
Brad stood in the entranceway, holding a beer out to Tim. “Don’t forget what a mouser he is. He must have been a cat in a former life.” When Tim took the beer, he continued, “No! He’s not a mouser! Baxter’s a PUSSY!”

  The rocking chair that was sitting in the library began to rock back and forth, picking up speed as it went.

  Tim glanced over at Brad and his eyebrows rose high. “Now you’ve done it, Brad. Baxter didn’t like that crack.” He turned back to peer at the chair, the hoops of wood clacking furiously on the floor. “You’re like a spoiled kid, Baxter—throwing a tantrum because we’re not sufficiently impressed with your tricks.”

  As if it was shot from a catapult, the chair skittered across the floor right at Tim. It would have banged into his shins had he not reached out to stop it. If that had happened yesterday, he might have crapped himself from fright, but today, he snorted, more than ready to call out the bully.

  “Whoa!” Brad laughed. “Good catch, Bro! He sure didn’t like that comment.” He took a long swig of his beer.

  “Yeah, the truth hurts, I guess. Baxter’s trying to show off for us, Brad.” Tim stepped around to the front of the chair and sat down. “Now let’s see what you can do, Baxter? Ready to take me for a spin? Give us your best. Maybe we can charge a buck for a ride in the haunted chair.”

  Brad shook his head. “He can’t move it now. Not with you in it. He’s only good for killing little kids and moving empty chairs. Baxter’s a real light-weight of a ghost.”

  Tim felt the chair start to vibrate, the sensation churning the beer in his gut. One hand gripped the bottle of beer while the other held tight to the arm of the chair. He grinned at Brad. “He’s trying to, man; I can feel the chair vibrating. Can he do it, is the question.”

  Brad’s eyes were narrow with laughter. “He’s a little girly ghost. He can’t do it. You’re boring us Baxter.” He nudged Tim’s arm. “Do you want me to make us a couple sandwiches?” He turned and ambled out of the room towards the kitchen.