by Ron Ripley
“I glanced at it,” Brian said. “Why?”
“Check this out,” Jack said. He walked into the small room, stepping off to the right. He was wearing a small headlamp and turned it on, the light powerful and illuminating. “Do you see where the pipes branch off to the left?”
“Yeah,” Brian said. The pipes went through an opening at the top of the rocks that were part of the foundation.
“That’s a false wall,” Jack said excitedly.
“What?” Brian asked.
“Yeah,” Jack said. “It’s totally false. I went to look at the connections, you know, to shine my light in there to make sure there wasn’t any rust or anything on the joints. I figured the pipes were in a little crawlspace, but no. It’s all open behind this wall.”
Brian stepped a little further into the room and then moved in a little further again.
Finally, Brian stepped up to the stone wall and touched it.
The wall was cold, but it surely wasn’t stone. Brian gently ran his hands over the false stones and said, “It’s like they were made out of papier-mache and then painted and shellacked.”
“Right,” Jack said. “This is crazy.”
Brian nodded. He squatted down and found a single iron ring embedded in the false wall near the floor, in the absolute center. Glancing up, he saw a large iron hook hanging from the joist above him. Jack looked up too.
“Holy shit,” Jack said softly. “Do you think the wall pulls up?”
“Let’s find out,” Brian said. Reaching out, he took hold of the iron ring and pulled it gently. The ring came out of the wall, trailing a chain that went taut after about a foot. When Brian stood and pulled the ring up, the wall swung out and up easily, and in a moment Brian hooked the ring to the hook.
There was enough room between the bottom of the false wall and the dirt floor for both Brian and Jack to walk hunched over into a much larger space. Once they were inside the room they stood up. The hidden room was longer than Brian had suspected, perhaps eighteen feet in length and another ten feet wide. Part of it had to run beyond the house.
Maybe an old root cellar that was converted, Brian thought. But for what?
Jack took a step forward, looking around, his headlamp filling the room. There was no window, just stone walls and thick wooden beams, different from the rest of the basement. The heating pipes ran into the room for a few feet before turning up and into a hole in the beams and disappearing into the wall above them.
The floor, like the first part of the room, was dirt, yet there was a difference. Set into the dirt were nine stones, all flat, each of them engraved.
Brian squatted down and looked closely at the first stone, reading the inscription.
Mary McNerney Kenyon, Beloved Wife of Josiah A. Kenyon, b. May 3rd, 1826 d. June 25th, 1876.
“What the hell,” Brian said. He stood up, looking at the familiar pattern of name, inscription, and dates on the other stones. “This is a goddamned graveyard.”
“Geez,” Jack said softly. “I’ve heard about this before.”
“What?” Brian asked, turning to look at the young man.
“Yeah.” Jack nodded. “New Hampshire’s got this weird law, man. You can bury your family on your own property. And back in the old days, they used to bury people in the basements.”
Brian rubbed the back of his head, absently reflecting that he needed to shave it again. “You know; I think somebody could have told me there were a bunch of graves in the house before I bought it.”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “Sorry, man.”
“Not your fault,” Brian said. “You didn’t sell me the place.”
“Yeah.”
After a moment, Jack said, “Hey, would you mind if I snapped some pictures? Nobody is going to believe me without proof.”
Brian laughed, shaking his head. “Knock yourself out, kid. I’ve got to go lay into my real estate agent.”
“Good luck,” Jack said, taking his phone off of his belt.
“Thanks,” Brian said. He made his way to his office, drank his coffee, which had cooled at record speed, and picked up his phone. He sent a text off to Jenny. Hey, Babe, wanted to let you know there’s a graveyard in the basement.
With the text sent, Brian gave his real estate agent a call.
Chapter 7: Trooper Waltner on Old Nashua Road
Tim Waltner was nearly done with his shift. All he needed to do was a drive-by along Old Nashua Road in Mont Vernon. A poacher had been found dead, cause not yet determined, and so the State Police wanted to let any other poachers in the area know they were around. The guys from Fish and Game would roll through during the night as an extra warning. Some of those guys seemed to like playing in the woods at night a little too much.
Nearing number 185 Old Nashua Road, Tim spotted an older model Crown Victoria parked up and off the side near the turn-around at the end of the road. The driver’s side door was open, and there was someone sitting in it. The license plate read, “Merkins.”
Tim rolled his eyes.
Merkins was a pain in the ass. The guy was retired. He needed to stay retired before he got himself or, more than likely, somebody else hurt.
The guy was a train wreck. Probably one step away from diabetic shock.
Slowing his patrol car down, Tim rolled down his window as he approached Merkins. When he pulled up beside the Crown Vic; though, Tim saw instantly that Sal Merkins was not in good shape. In fact, it looked like the man had gone into diabetic shock a while ago.
Tim threw his car into park and got out quickly, hurrying to the obese ex-cop. The man’s eyes were closed, and his body was cold to the touch. Tim checked for a pulse in the man’s wrist and in his neck.
Nothing.
On Sal’s sharply creased blue pants were candy sprinkles and remnants of frosting. There was a Dunkin Donuts bag on the seat next to him. A coffee mug was in a cup holder, and the keys were in the ignition.
Sal was undeniably dead. The stench of feces and urine assaulted Tim’s nose.
He stepped back, sighed, and then went back to his car to call it in.
When he was done, Tim went down to the turnaround, swung around so he was facing back down the road, and pulled the patrol car up behind the Crown Vic.
Tim parked his car, put on his lights, and took his phone out.
He could play a game or two of solitaire before the team got out to process the scene. In five minutes he would be getting paid for overtime.
Chapter 8: Brian and Jenny at Home
“Wow,” Jenny said.
Brian and Jenny stood in the hidden room, Brian holding the flashlight and showing her the headstones.
“This is crazy.” she said, shaking her head.
“I know.”
“Who the hell buries their family in the basement?”
“Evidently the Kenyons did.”
“But what about the smell?” Jenny asked. “I mean, don’t the bodies stink as they rot? Wouldn’t that smell come up through the house?”
“We’ll have to google it.”
“Wow,” she said again. After a moment, she added, “I want to get a pen and paper later, write down everybody’s names and see what I can figure out.”
“Sounds good to me. Why don’t we go upstairs? The meatloaf is going to be done in about ten minutes.”
She looked over at him and smiled. “Okay, Mr. Domestic.”
Brian chuckled.
Together they left the room, and Brian unhooked the ring, lowering the wall back into place. The last thing he wanted to hear in the night was the sound of the wall crashing down because either the ring or the hook let go.
“Did you see the ambulance over by the turnaround?” Jenny asked.
“No,” Brian said. “What were they doing, hanging out?”
“No,” Jenny said, shaking her head. “There was another car and a couple of state police cruisers. They all had their lights on. You didn’t see anything?”
“Nope,” Brian said. �
�I stayed in the office most of the day, and the furnace tech let himself out.”
“You need to be more observant,” she said, winking at him.
Which reminded him of the kitchen.
“Speaking of observant,” Brian said as he led the way back upstairs, “I didn’t tell you what happened last night in the kitchen after you went to bed.”
“No, you didn’t,” she said. “What happened?”
Brian told her, finishing the story as they both walked into the kitchen.
“Are you serious?” she asked, sitting down at their small breakfast table.
“Yup,” Brian said. He opened the stove door and peered in at the meatloaf, enjoying the smell. Smiling to himself, he closed the door. “It freaked me out.”
“Why didn’t you wake me up?” she asked.
“Two reasons,” Brian said, smiling as he sat down across from her. “The first is that I wouldn’t have been able to. Your Ambien is strong, Babe.”
“True. What’s the second reason?”
“I didn’t want to have you either scared or down in the kitchen demanding that whatever it was did it again for you.”
Jenny laughed, nodding her head. “Okay. Fair enough.”
“I did manage to get a hold of our real estate agent when you were on your way home,” Brian said.
“Oh, yeah? What did she have to say about the other tenants of the house?”
“That she didn’t know about them,” Brian said. “I believe her. She’s pissed about it. She said she was going to ask around locally to see if anyone knew about the graves.”
“I hope she finds out something,” Jenny said.
“If she doesn’t, I will,” Brian said.
“Do you think,” Jenny said after a minute, “the basement door opening and closing has something to do with the graves down there?”
“I really, really hope not,” Brian said. “I know you love ghosts and supernatural stuff, and I don’t mind those things, so long as they’re not in the house I live in.”
“Don’t worry, big man,” she said, grinning. “I’ll protect you.”
Brian chuckled and leaned back in his chair. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it suddenly as something cold moved past him.
The grin on Jenny’s face vanished.
“Did you feel that?” she asked.
Brian nodded.
“That’s crazy,” she said, standing up. She walked to the window and looked outside. “It’s not even windy out. Not a single one of the trees is moving out there.”
“I’m not surprised.”
She walked back to the table, sitting down again. “Do you think that it’s one ghost?”
“I have no idea,” Brian said, “but I want there to be no ghosts.”
“You know,” Jenny said, “I should invite Sylvia Purvis over.”
“No,” Brian groaned. “Not Sylvia.”
“She’s not with Dom anymore,” Jenny said, frowning slightly.
“It doesn’t matter if she’s with anyone or not,” Brian said. “I know she’s your friend, Babe, but that woman’s a pain in the ass.”
“Yeah, but she means well.”
“Hitler meant well too.”
“Oh, cut the shit.” Jenny sighed. “I want to invite her over.”
“Okay,” Brian said. “Okay. When?”
“I’ll see what she’s doing tomorrow.”
Brian wanted to say something snarky about Sylvia busy doing Tarot card readings for her cat, but the timer for the meatloaf went off and saved him.
Keeping his comments to himself, and the peace of the house intact, Brian got up and put on his oven mitts.
Chapter 9: Sylvia Pays a Visit
“Babe,” Jenny said. “She’ll be here in ten minutes.”
Brian nodded as the clock on the mantle struck nine. He stood up, stretched, and walked out of the parlor into the kitchen. From the liquor cabinet, he took down a bottle of Jameson’s, and poured half a mug full of the whiskey.
This might be enough to deal with Sylvia.
He capped the whiskey and left it out on the counter in case he needed more.
Jenny frowned at him as he sat down, but she didn’t say anything. She knew he didn’t like Sylvia. Sylvia didn’t know it, but Jenny did.
Sylvia irritated him.
To the point where he occasionally fantasized about physically lifting Sylvia out of the house to make her leave when they had the misfortune of being in the same room together.
Brian put his happy face on for Jenny, though, and he bolstered that fake happiness with a long drink from his mug.
He wouldn’t be drunk when Sylvia was there, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to be sober either.
Twenty-five minutes later, there was a knock on the door, and Jenny put down her crochet. She got up, gave Brian a kiss on the top of his head, and made her way to the front door.
“Jenny!” Sylvia said, her voice as pleasant as a pair of tomcats fighting.
Brian took another healthy drink and realized he might have to top off his drink sooner rather than later.
Jenny walked back into the parlor with Sylvia behind her.
Sylvia was tall and strikingly beautiful. She was also insane as far as Brian was concerned. She stank of incense, wore clothes that may or may not have been washed in the past decade, and had enough bells and charms on her body that she sounded like a wind chime store caught in a hurricane.
“Hello, Brian!” Sylvia exclaimed, looking over the top of her reading glasses at him, her red hair piled high and messy on her head.
“Hello, Sylvia,” Brian said.
“I love your house,” Sylvia said, walking to the loveseat and sitting down, dropping her huge blue purse onto the cushion beside her.
“Thank you,” Brian said. “But the house was all Jenny, not me.”
Jenny smiled at him as she sat in her chair.
“So,” Sylvia said, looking at Brian intensely, “Jenny told me you experienced something supernatural here?”
Oh my God, Brian thought. Continuing to smile, though, he said, “Yes, the other night.”
“That’s amazing,” Sylvia sighed. “You’re so fortunate. There are few people that can be open enough to engage in contact with the ethereal world. Welcome.”
Brian could only nod.
“Jenny,” Sylvia said, “what is it you would like me to do?”
Jenny smiled at her friend. “We want to know what, if anything, is going on in the house.”
“Well, I can tell you this house is alive with energy,” Sylvia said, looking around. “It’s amazing.”
What’s truly amazing is I’m listening to your bullshit, Brian thought. He still smiled, though, wondering if he could slip away and get another drink.
Sylvia took her glasses off, letting them hang on her chest by a delicate chain. She closed her eyes, spread her arms out to either side and extended all of her fingers. For a few moments, she stayed that way, a small half smile playing across her face.
Then the smile faded away, and a moment after that, her face became pinched as she tilted her head to one side. Her eyes darted back and forth under her eyelids, and Brian sat up.
Sylvia’s entire posture changed, her arms dropping down, and her shoulders hunched. She winced and shook her head.
With a gasp, she opened up her eyes and looked around fearfully for a moment.
“Are you alright?” Jenny asked.
Sylvia looked at her, blinked, and then slowly nodded. “Yes.”
“What happened?” Jenny asked.
“I’ll tell you in a minute,” Sylvia said, the exuberance gone from her voice. “Did you know you have graves in this house? That there are people buried here?”
Brian looked to Jenny, his eyes widening as she shook her head in wonder.
They had both agreed not to tell Sylvia, only to speak to her about the kitchen and the liquor. Not even the chills or the opening basement door.
“Yes,”
Jenny said. “We found them yesterday.”
“They’re here,” Sylvia said. “They’ve never left.”
“Why not?” Brian asked.
“They’re bound here,” she said uncomfortably. “Something keeps them here.”
“What?” Jenny asked. “What keeps them here?”
Sylvia shook her head. “They wouldn’t say.”
“You said ‘them,'” Brian said. “How many of them are there?”
“Seven,” Sylvia said.”
“Seven?” Brian asked. “Seven?”
“That are kept here,” Sylvia said, nodding. “There are two others who are not forced to be here, but they still remain.”
“What the —,” Brian said softly.
“So nine,” Jenny said, “nine ghosts are in this house.”
“At least,” Sylvia agreed.
“Wait, what?” Brian said. “At least?”
“There’s the possibility of more,” Sylvia said, clearing her throat slightly. “There were things, people, on the periphery of my sight, but I couldn’t get much from them. Mostly fear, anger, surprise. But again, I don’t know if they’re connected to the—”
Sylvia stopped, her eyes widening.
“Sylvia?” Jenny said.
Sylvia remained perfectly still, her eyes focused on the door.
“Sylvia?” Jenny asked again.
Brian twisted in his seat to look at the doorway. He couldn’t see anything there, but the basement door was open again.
I know I closed that door, he thought. Turning back around, he looked again at Sylvia. The right corner of her mouth twitched, and she shuddered before blinking several times and nodding her head.
She looked at Brian and then at Jenny.
“You need to get salt,” Sylvia said firmly. “Salt and iron.”
“What?” Brian asked.
“Salt,” Sylvia said. “Drive into Milford, go to the supermarket, and buy yourself boxes of kosher sea salt.”
“But why?” Jenny asked.
“You’re going to need to seal the doors and windows into the house with it,” Jenny said. “The thing, the person that keeps the others here, he doesn’t come in often, but when he does, it can be terrible.”