Hanging by a Thread

by Ferris, Monica

  Alice said, “Even I was foolish, panicking like that. Why, you’d think I changed my mind about poltergeists, when of course I haven’t. I was just startled.”

  “Mmmmmmm-hmmmmh,” said Bershada. “Still, something like that is enough to turn all of us into medieval peasants, hanging wolfsbane on the door and wearing garlic around our necks, scared of every bump in the night.”

  “It’s not night,” said Emily, “it’s broad daylight.” She looked out the window at the rain-dark street. “Well, cloudy daylight. Look, someone’s coming.”

  The door to the shop went Bing! and with an effort a woman in a wheelchair pushed herself over the threshold. She was an attractive woman of about thirty with short blond hair—currently plastered against one side of her face by rain—and brown eyes. She wore a red sweater and blue jeans under a yellow rain cape, which she pulled off and dropped on the floor near the door.

  “Hi, Carol,” said Betsy, coming to close the door for her. “Glad you could brave such terrible weather.”

  “Oh, wheeling around in the wind blows the cobwebs out of my head. I miss going to an office where there are live human beings and coffee breaks and football pools. Of course, one pleasure of working at home is that weekends become moveable feasts. I worked yesterday so I’ve declared today a Sunday.” She stopped at the other end of the library table. “What are we talking about?”

  “Ghost stories,” said Alice, disapproval in her deep voice.

  “Of course, what else on Halloween? Have I missed any juicy ones?”

  “Not yet,” said Bershada. “But we did have a little scare a few minutes ago.” She explained about the shawl’s fall onto Alice’s head.

  “Have mercy!” exclaimed Carol. “That must have scared you out of ten years’ growth, Alice.”

  “Not to mention the rest of us,” said Godwin. “But Mrs. Chesterfield is gone, taking her poltergeist with her.”

  “Do you believe in poltergeists, Godwin?” asked Carol.

  “No, of course not,” he said, pretending to spit lightly to the left and right and making fake cabalistic signs with his right hand. “Do you?”

  “No,” she said, laughing, “but I have to believe in ghosts, since we have one living with us.”

  “Does he follow you around like Mrs. Chesterfield’s poltergeist?” asked Bershada, looking past Carol for traces of ectoplasm.

  “No, he stays at home.” Carol made a little ceremony of getting out her project, a half-completed cross-stitch pattern of Santa standing sideways in a froth of fur and beard: Marilyn Leavitt-Imblum’s Spirit of Christmas. These were all delaying tactics that allowed the tension to grow.

  “Oh, all right, I’ll break down and beg: Please, tell us all about it,” said Godwin.

  “She doesn’t have to if she doesn’t want to,” objected Alice, still shaken from the episode of the shawl.

  Emily seconded her. “Anyway, how can we be interested in ghost stories when we’re all working on Christmas projects?”

  Carol said, “Christmas is a very traditional time for ghost stories. Dickens’s A Christmas Carol is a ghost story.”

  “Why, so it is,” said Martha. “I never thought of that. So tell us about your ghost, Carol. ”What does it do? Go bump in the night?”

  “Once in a while, though it’s more usually a sound like a marble rolling across the floor. But he’s mostly a friendly ghost, except to carpenters and plumbers and electricians.”

  Betsy chuckled and asked from across the room, “What has he got against them? Their prices?”

  “No, he doesn’t want any changes made to the house. He’s the original owner, my housemate’s grandfather. His name is Cecil, he was a dentist. He and his wife bought the house back in the early 1920s as a summer vacation home—their other house was in Minneapolis.”

  Godwin jested, “How do you know that’s who it is? Does he come into your bedroom and try to pull your teeth?”

  Carol laughed back, but persisted, “I’m serious. Let me tell you the story. Cecil, his wife, and their four daughters all moved out to that house every summer to get away from the heat of the city.”

  Emily nodded. “My great-grandparents did the same thing, moved out here in the summer. Great-grandpop commuted every day on the streetcar steamboats.”

  Carol said, “This was a bit later, Cecil drove a car into town. But in the summer of 1935, when he was only forty-seven, Cecil had a heart attack. He survived it, but he became very worried about leaving his family without a man to take care of them. He tried to get well, but two years later he had another heart attack and died. The next summer, his widow and her daughters moved out of the city as usual, but started experiencing strange noises in the house. At first they didn’t know what it was, but then they started getting an occasional whiff of pipe smoke. Cecil had loved his pipe.”

  “Ooooooooh,” said Bershada, smiling.

  “Go on, go on,” urged Comfort.

  Carol smiled. “Well, one by one the daughters married and moved away. The youngest daughter inherited the house when their mother died; and she and her husband decided to live there year round. She was Susan’s mother. All this time, there were still these noises and sometimes the smell of pipe smoke. Nothing was ever broken, but she did notice the noises were worse when they’d do spring-cleaning, especially if they hung new drapes or painted. Like I said, he didn’t like changes. Cecil would slam doors and stomp around upstairs until they were finished.

  “Susan says she was aware of a presence in the house from her early childhood, and just accepted it as part of what it was like to live there. A few years ago her mother needed money, so Susan bought the house from her, but her mother still lives with us. She’s an invalid now, the last of the four sisters. Susan says Grandfather Cecil is still watching over his last daughter, and will likely go when she dies.”

  “So this ghost story is only hearsay,” said Alice. “You’ve never seen or heard anything.”

  “Oh, no, I’ve experienced him, too, door closings, footsteps, marble rollings, pipe tobacco, and all. In fact, I am the cause of a really serious outbreak. You see, when Susan invited me to move in with her and her mother, they had to make some changes, real changes, building ramps and widening doorways and installing an elevator to the second floor. When things got under way, Cecil really went to work. Doors wouldn’t stay closed—or open, footsteps went up and down the stairs all day long, and marbles rolled all night. Then the carpenter began complaining he’d misplaced a hammer or screwdriver, and the electrician couldn’t keep track of his wires and switches. This was something new and we just thought they were careless. But then Cecil started to sabotage their cars. The carpenter knocked off work one day, and his car wouldn’t start. He checked under the hood and fooled around with it, and finally he called a tow truck. And once the car arrived at the garage, it worked just fine. The first time this happened, we were thinking he ought to get a tune-up, but after it happened a few times, we knew: It was Cecil. We discussed it and finally agreed to tell the workmen what it was. The way they stared at us, I thought we’d have to find a new construction firm. I’ve never seen five pairs of eyes that big.”

  “Did they quit?”

  “Oddly enough, no. They kind of dared each other, and it turned into one of those macho games. But it worked, they stuck with it, and finally got it done. I think they were even more relieved than we were by the time they finished up.”

  Bershada said, “Funny he doesn’t aim any of that stuff at you. I mean, doesn’t Cecil realize you were the reason for all those big changes to ‘his’ house?”

  “Well, I am grateful he didn’t think I was an intruder and try to run me off,” said Carol. “I wonder if perhaps he understands there’s a bond between Susan and me. For example, just the other night we were finishing supper and I heard music coming from upstairs. ‘What’s that?’ I asked. ‘Do you hear that music?’ Susan’s mother got the funniest look on her face, and Susan went up to see what it was. It was a
big old music box, the kind that plays when you open the lid. She brought it down to show us.” Carol moved her hands to describe a box about fourteen by eight inches. “No one had touched it in years, but she walked into the kitchen with it still playing. You know the song, ‘Two Sleepy People’?”

  “Sleepless in Seattle!” exclaimed Emily. “That was one of the old songs from that movie.”

  “Yes, and that’s what was playing on the music box. Susan’s mother said Cecil loved that song and bought the music box as a present for his wife.”

  “Awwwww,” said Emily. “That’s kind of nice.”

  Martha agreed, “For a ghost story, it wasn’t very scary.”

  “It scared the carpenters and the plumber. But I’m glad Cecil’s only concern is that his remaining daughter is all right. He loved Susan’s mother the best of his girls, and he’s still concerned about her.”

  There was a little silence, then Comfort said, “I saw a ghost once.”

  “Tell us about it!” said Bershada.

  “Well, remember when Paul and Angela Schmitt were murdered?”

  “Oh, not that again!” said Martha. “We talked that to death last week, remember?”

  “Did you?” said Carol. “I’m sorry I missed it. I would have told you how Angela and my sister Gretchen were best friends in high school.”

  “Did you know Angela?” asked Betsy alertly.

  “Not really. But the day she was killed, Gretchen came over and cried for hours in our mother’s kitchen. She was sure Paul had done it; that is, until he was shot two nights later.”

  Comfort said, “It was Paul’s ghost I saw, and on the night he was shot.”

  “Really!?” exclaimed Carol. “What was he doing? Did he know you? Did he tell you who murdered him?”

  “No, it wasn’t like that, not as if he came especially to speak to me. You see, I was walking up Water Street from the Minnehaha ticket office—I volunteer there four days a week when the boat is running,” she explained. “Anyway, it was near the end of the season and I’d stayed late to do some bookkeeping and restock the racks of sweatshirts, so it was after dark. The weather was pretty much like it is right now, wind and all, and there wasn’t another soul on the street. I stopped in front of the bookstore to turn my umbrella right side out, and noticed they had replaced the broken front window. I stood there a minute because my eye was caught by the display of Jim Ogland’s Postcard History of Lake Minnetonka. That book has such a nice cover. And then I saw someone in the store. A man.”

  “Was he all bloody and awful?” asked Bershada hopefully.

  “No. Or at least it was so dark, I couldn’t see much detail. The wind died down suddenly and my umbrella came to its senses, and then I saw someone move. At first I just thought someone was in the store, an employee. But then I realized there was only that dim light burning at the back, the one they turn on as they leave for the night, so then I wondered if I was seeing a burglary in progress.”

  “That would have been enough for me,” declared Emily. “There are lots of things just as scary as ghosts, and burglars are one of them.”

  “You’re right, and I should have run away, but I was so surprised, I just stood there, gaping. Suddenly, the man stooped down, and I thought he’d seen me, but then he straightened up again. I couldn’t imagine was he was doing. It was dark in the store, and I wasn’t even sure I was seeing someone. He was over beside the checkout counter, near the wall and halfway behind that rack where they keep the finger puppets, or used to. He moved, kind of glided, away from there and went behind that couch they have for browsers. He was standing sideways, and I could see his silhouette against the light, and suddenly I recognized Paul Schmitt. He was standing still, head down, like he was praying, or waiting for something. Then he turned away—and all of a sudden he was gone, like he melted into the shelves. I couldn’t think what he was doing in there. I had been thinking, it’s a burglar, I should go call the police, but I couldn’t get my feet to move. Now I recognized Paul Schmitt, that nice man from church, not some unknown burglar. Then I thought about Angela, and I was embarrassed, like you get when you see someone doing something and he thinks no one is looking. I wondered if he wasn’t paying a private visit to the scene of his wife’s death.

  “That made me feel embarrassed to stand there staring, so I got my feet back under control and walked away.”

  “You should have called the police,” said Alice.

  “And told them what? Any story I tried to tell them would sound ridiculous. I went on to the Lucky Wok and had some of their moo shi pork for dinner and then walked home.”

  “Weren’t you scared to go home?” asked Godwin. “I mean, you live alone and all.”

  “No, not at all, because I didn’t know it was a ghost I’d seen. I was tired and went to bed before the news, so it wasn’t till the next morning I heard that he’d been found murdered in his house. And when I thought about it, it seemed to me that I saw him in the store right about the time that someone shot him.”

  “Ooooooooh,” breathed Bershada, and they all looked thrilled down to their toes—except Alice, but she didn’t say anything.

  Emily said, “I suppose he went there to gather up his wife’s spirit and take her with him to the afterlife.”

  “Well, I don’t recall hearing any reports that Angela’s ghost was seen in the bookstore,” said Comfort. “Do you?”

  “Well ... no,” said Emily. “But that doesn’t mean she wasn’t there. Maybe she knew he was going to follow her into the spirit world and kind of hung around waiting for him.”

  “If I were Angela’s ghost, I certainly wouldn’t hang around hoping the ghost of my husband, who I doubt was going to heaven, would come and take me with him,” declared Alice.

  “Why wouldn’t he go to heaven?” asked Godwin.

  “Anyway, she certainly did,” declared Martha. “She was such a sweet and good woman. Maybe he hoped she would put in a good word for him.”

  “That doesn’t explain why she waited for him,” said Bershada. “How did she know he was coming so soon?”

  “We don’t know everything about the afterlife,” said Emily. “Maybe she did know.”

  That brought a little pause while they reflected on the mysteries of love and the afterlife.

  “He did love her very much,” said Godwin softly.

  “I don’t think he did,” said Alice. “I think it was more like an obsession.”

  “I’d like someone to be obsessed with me,” said Bershada. “Someone whose every thought is about my happiness.”

  “No, you don’t,” said Alice firmly. “It’s not about your happiness, and it isn’t nearly as pleasant as true love. And when someone dies, my understanding is that such things as human relationships are abandoned.”

  “Oh, I don’t believe that!” said Godwin. “Surely true love would last through eternity! There are all kinds of stories about a ghost coming to the bedside of a husband or wife.”

  “Yes, Alice, how can you doubt such serious things as love and ghosts and the afterlife?” said Bershada.

  “I’m not doubting the afterlife, which I believe in most firmly,” said Alice. “But ghosts are stuff and nonsense.”

  “But all those stories!” reiterated Godwin. “There are fictional ghost stories, I know that, but there are true ghost stories, too. And Comfort is only telling you what she actually saw!”

  “I think that when it’s late at night and you’re tired or hungry and already nervous because you’re out in a thunderstorm, or you are all alone in an old house and perhaps have been reading spooky stories, naturally you may conclude an unusual noise, or a dance of headlights on the ceiling, or even your own reflection is a ghost.”

  Martha said, “You’re right, of course, Alice. But how to explain what happened to me back when I was about eleven or twelve? It was the dead of winter and the middle of the night. My father used to turn the furnace down at night to save fuel, so it was very cold in the house. I h
ad a thick quilt on the bed and was sound in a cozy sleep—until something bumped into the bed and woke me up. I thought it was the cat jumping up, and I waited for him to come up to the pillow purring like he usually did.” She smiled. “There’s nothing quite as friendly as a cat with cold feet. But it wasn’t the cat, or at least he didn’t come up to ask to be let under the covers. Then I heard a voice say, plain as day, ‘Her eyes are open.’ It was pitch dark in that room, there’s no way anyone could have seen whether my eyes were open or closed.”

  “Cool!” said Carol. “Then what happened?”

  “Nothing, I burrowed under the covers and didn’t come up till morning.”

  There was a reflective pause. “It was probably your mother,” said Alice, “checking to see if you were all right in the cold.”

  “No. It was a woman’s voice, but definitely not my mother’s. Anyway, like I said, no one could have seen if my eyes were open or not.”

  “Were they?” asked Emily.

  “Of course. I told you, I woke up when something bumped my bed.”

  “Who do you think it was?” asked Carol.

  “I have no idea. And I never heard them again.”

  “ ‘Them’?” said Betsy. “How do you know there was more than one?”

  “Well, she wasn’t talking to me, she was talking about me. So that meant at least one other ... person was present.”

  “Ooooooooh,” said Bershada, moving her shoulders to dislodge a delicious shiver.

  Godwin said maliciously, “How do you explain that, Alice?”

  Alice shrugged. “A dream, obviously.”

  “It wasn’t a dream,” said Martha. “I was wide awake, I’d been wakened by the bump. But there also weren’t any weird lights or footsteps or a chill breeze, or any of the usual stuff of ghost stories. And it wasn’t my father, either,” she said with a little sniff, forestalling Godwin’s next sly suggestion.

  So instead Godwin said, “How about you, Bershada? Do you have a ghost story?”

  “Well, actually, I do. Only mine’s different from Martha’s, I didn’t know it was a ghost. I thought it was an usher.”