by T L Barrett
I ran like I had never run before. Being a spirit, I wasn’t held back by burning lungs and cramping leg muscles. However, I learned that night that terror drags you back and despair burns you down. Anyone who is an avid dreamer knows the experience of having a nightmare and being dragged down by the very terror of your spirit. Such was my experience, only I knew this was no nightmare, and I was never going to wake up.
The hour was late, so I had the road to myself. As I came down off Clarkson, and turned onto Dearborn Street, I did not see anyone living or dead. I could feel the presence of that fat, gruesome specter like a savage stink that permeated the town. I heard his terrible chuckle in the sound of the wind moving a screen door. I ran from these sounds, instinctively feeling that this was his turf, that any spirit who found him or herself here would feed the awful man’s unholy appetites.
Then all of a sudden, like a cool and calm oasis, that presence was gone. I stopped and looked about me. I turned away from Dearborn Street with its hanging tree branches making long shadows in the streetlights, and my eyes fell on the Shatney House. Beyond a hanging willow tree and across an overgrown lot sat a weathered house which stared out at the night through broken windows and from under sagging porches.
For those who grew up in Franklin Mills, the Shatney House on Dearborn Street has a special place in the mythology of youth. The Shatney House was where young kids earned their right to brag by placing one sneakered foot upon the creaking porch. Older kids boasted about taking a girl in there on a dare. There were many stories about what or who might haunt the old place, many stories about children that had ventured into its dusty rooms and never returned. A chill went through me as I gazed upon the place. The oasis I had felt had really been where Larue’s dominion had been unable to cross the age-old quiet of this haunted landmark.
What lurked there? I knew for the first time, that the rumors may be true. I certainly did not want to face whatever resided inside the Shatney House. From down the street, the deep chuckling of the fat man came. I turned and saw Larue walking toward me at the far end of Dearborn Street. He held something in his hand.
It was Jason’s head the madman held. Jason’s face contorted in terror. The head mouthed screams of terror that I could not feel but felt. Larue raised his free hand and pointed at me with that awful clawed finger of his again. Then, without breaking his stride, Larue lifted Jason’s head with its writhing animated face to his own leering face. Larue’s mouth opened up, and as it opened, the head seemed to give way and expand back to make room for the huge maw that rose up around Jason’s head. The last sight I had of my friend was of his terror-filled eyes as he disappeared down into the gullet of the demonic fiend between rows of shark like teeth. Larue’s mouth came together and he smiled again. Wisps of black, like smoke from a foundry, trickled out from between his lips.
I ran for the Shatney House. I pounded up the rickety stairs and crossed the plum dark shadows of the front porch. I passed through the front door and into the dusty depth of the front hall.
I could make out the plaster walls that had been half torn, rotted, or burnt away. Here lay a busted television set. Mold-covered romance novels lay scattered on the floor among rotting linens and doilies. A central stair, still grand and in-tact led up to the second floor. The air was very still.
I felt a heavy weight on my chest. The atmosphere of the place sought to repel me. Although scared witless, I was not going to leave and face Larue. I only hoped that the very force that repelled me would be enough to discourage Larue from entering.
Footsteps sounded from above. Dust fell from the molded crown ceilings. Surely, no one alive was inside this house?
A ghastly moan sounded from high in the house and echoed down all around me.
It was the ghost that had excited so many late night speculations from my friends and me as we pondered the mysteries of the Shatney House. Was it a lonely widower who had lost his family to a drunk driver? Was it a murderer who was still trying to hide the truth about his crimes?
What kind of ghost could hold back Larue’s monstrous presence?
I was about to find out.
It appeared so quickly at the top of the stairs, I wondered if it had been there all along, and I had just not observed it, or it had not wanted me to observe it.
Its features were grotesque, long and wrinkled. Its eyes were yellow with hate. Its teeth shone at the points as it opened its terrible mouth and let out an idiot’s greeting to me. It raised its long pointed nails to the air, and the sound they made together was the sound of tree branch on night-glass. Every story, every figment of a child’s nightmare had accumulated in this thing. It had used it, savored every taste of fear, keeping itself and its place safe from invasion.
I had invaded its place. It moaned its rage, as if my presence was an aching sore. It began to descend slowly toward me, perhaps still convinced that the psychic attack of fear that it exuded would be enough to drive me into mad flight from the Shatney House forever.
I’ll be honest. I did turn to run. That thing was scary. The thing at the top of the stairs expected me to run, except, never before did someone have a good enough reason not to. I couldn’t run. And then while turning back and swallowing back my fear like burning bile, I wondered if any of the stories had been true. I wondered if anyone in town had disappeared inside the Shatney House. Most likely the presence of the thing at the top of the stairs had been enough to chase any intruder away, to keep that thing safe.
I not only turned, but I took a step toward the stairs. The creature at the top paused and seemed to recoil.
“I’m not leaving. You know why? Because, I know that you’re scared, aren’t you?” I asked with a shaking voice. The creature howled in rage at my gall.
“I think it doesn’t really matter how much you scream and carry on, because I know that all that’s an act. You’re really just an old man. Or are you an old lady? You’ve managed to chase people away because you are just a little scared ghost, fed fat on rumors and ghost stories. You probably were afraid to even leave the house when you were alive! Heck, I could take a dump right here in your house and walk out, because you wouldn’t even be able to follow me out, would you?”
The creature lifted off the stair, and began to float toward me, its snarling face writhing with rage. It took all my strength now not to run. I backed up instead, till I was very close to the front door.
“Well, I’m leaving, but I’ll be back, because I know you won’t dare come after me. I’ll bring back more like me next time, and we will… fornicate in your parlor… that’s what we’ll do.” I couldn’t believe my own gall, but I had to bait the thing to follow me. That’s what I had to do if I had any chance of making it out of town without going into the gullet of the demon that waited in the street for me.
“Goodbye, you dirty old ninny ghost,” I said, “for now.” Then I took a step back through the door and onto the porch. Once there, I took a quick couple of steps to the left onto the porch. The creature burst through the door with a terrible howl. It blinked in the streetlights and tried to see what waited beyond.
Its terrible eyes fell on Larue, standing on the sidewalk at the end of the lot. It roared its rage and defiance. It stalked forward. Larue growled back to the thing and came on at a fast clip up the broken front walk.
What does one do when stuck between two equally awful nightmares?
One steps to the side. At least that’s what I did. I ran and leapt over the railing and sailed over half the lawn. I landed and, stooping, looked back. The Shatney creature and Larue met just below the front porch. I saw claws flashing on both sides.
As I ran from the scene, I saw the Shatney creature claw Larue across his enormous gut. Black bile poured from the wound. Larue lurched forward and grasped the creature by the head, pinning the sides of its face with his claws. The form of the Shatney creature flickered, and for a moment I saw a bitter old lady there glowering at Larue with hate-filled eyes. Then, I saw the tooth
-filled maw of Larue opening wide.
I ran, then, until my feet skimmed over the street.
I don’t know how long I ran, or where I ran. Occasionally from under a bridge or from an alley, a spirit snarled a warning, or a dog, somehow aware of my passing, growled.
I stopped on the River Road, very near the town dump. Far above this place, on the high rise of hill on the edge of town was a place very familiar to me. Clem lived not too far from here, and for a moment I wondered at the fact that he might even now be tucked safely in bed, blissfully unaware of what had happened to his friends.
As children we had explored this forested hill. On one side, which overlooked the river, we had found little mounds, which Clem’s Grandfather had told us was an Indian burial site. On the other side, not far from where the interstate crossed the township’s northwestern corner, we had camped in a quarry that had been blasted in the seventies to help build the interstate. A section of the ground was gone and descended three levels into a great stone pit.
This is where I went, loping through the huge trees, thankful to be away from the streetlights and the presence of the madman who had chased me from my body.
At the top I descended onto the first rocky steppe of the quarry and sat down under the swirling lights of the Milky Way. From the other side of the hill, I could hear the spirits of an Abenaki village dancing and making their ritual chants. Later, I went up to watch them bend their proud backs and sweep their arms up to those glowing lights. I wanted to understand that dance and join them, but they turned me away with silent stares. They did not let me come onto their sacred ground, nor was I able to engage them in the simplest of exchanges.
And so, I stayed in the quarry on the high hill overlooking the town. At night I listened to the sounds of the cars and trucks on the interstate; some of them were real, and some were phantoms.
I tried not to stare too long into the depth of those circling lights above me. It is too easy to lose yourself among them, and you begin to forget a lot of what you were all about. Maybe that’s what I was supposed to be doing, so that I could let go of all that pain and disappointment of waking up and seeing myself staring dead up to the ceiling. But, it still felt a little too much like losing something important, even if it was pain.
And there’s plenty of pain. You see, for a while I went back into the town during the day. There I saw my father sitting at the local bar and drinking away an afternoon. There I saw my parents and grandparents weeping over my grave during the little funeral ceremony they had for me. Clem came, and so did Doug. It was painful not being able to talk to them. Jami didn’t come. That hurt the worst. I wondered what I had said, what kind of ways I had stupidly hurt Jami before I died, but nobody was talking. I guess you don’t mention the bad things after somebody dies; that’s the first thing that people give up about those that they had known but are no longer in the world.
But, I was here. I didn’t know why. I wished I hadn’t drunk that beer or smoked that weed. I wished that I could see Jami again, but I was afraid to. To tell you the truth, the idea of seeing her and not knowing why she didn’t come to my funeral was more frightening than any Larue or creature from the Shatney House.
I guess that’s what being a ghost is all about: the regret.
***
As I sat and thought through long days in the quarry, my mind went back to my life and all the long days I wasted playing videogames and the nights drinking and farting around with my friends. I realized that I had never really made a difference to anyone. I supposed my parents had given me life and comfort and food out of love and in hopes that I might make something of myself, but now, that was gone, too.
Now, I was a ghost haunting a quarry, too afraid to leave because some kind of fat Satanist ruled over the town in which I had grown up. My town. The more I thought about this, the more my fear and despair began to change into anger. I had watched the monster eat my friend. I wondered how many unsuspecting people had passed over in my town, only to be hunted down and eaten by that murderer. This wasn’t fair. This wasn’t how the after-life was supposed to be. It was enough that people had to deal with injustice and horrible things happening to them when they were alive.
And then my anger turned into resolve.
I was not going to sit idly by while that demon ate everyone I had ever known. What would happen when my grand folks died? I shivered to think of it. I was not going to let that happen. But what was I to do?
All the while I had been thinking about this, the tribal rhythms of the native dancers had been beating through my head. As my resolve strengthened, and my mind quickened, so did the beat of their feet, the sound of their drums and their wavering voices. Now, suddenly they stopped.
I rose and walked over the hill. The native dancers turned to look at me, and I was showered and inspected by the golden stares of children, braves, squaws and elders. A man came up to me and stood a few feet away. His stare was powerful, and under it, I felt naked. I felt picked up and probed and tested. I wanted to look away; I wanted to run back into the deepest part of the quarry and hide. I didn’t, though.
I suppose that’s why the brave stepped forward and put his hand on my shoulder. At that moment a little cheer went up among the natives. A few voices rose up in a yodeling war cry. I bowed my head, not feeling worthy of this honor.
A few young women, probably daughters of the brave that I had touched me, came forward and painted my face, took off my shirt and painted my chest. Then an old man, probably the chief, came up to me and handed me a bow and a quiver of arrows. I thanked him and he sang a little blessing over me. He burnt sage and waved the pungent smoke all over me.
“Go, my son, and slay the demon that haunts the valley,” the old man told me, and then the tribe of spirits was gone. I looked about me. I did not feel worthy of the gifts I had been given, I felt even less capable of using them to end the awful rule of the monster that had taken over my town, but I had to try.
I slipped down off the hill, ran from street to street, passed in the darkest places, and slipped under the eaves of houses. I leapt onto rooftops and marveled at how easy I sprang to high places and paced there. The glory of it took away some of my fear, but I did not allow myself to get foolish and kept low on the rooftops.
How does one hunt a ghost-eater? I did not know. I supposed that you hunted it like you would hunt any beast: you find the place where it goes to eat. The only problem was that I could not find any ghosts that monster would eat. He had almost stripped the town of its spiritual inhabitants. The few that remained were measly things, too well versed in making themselves small in their fear. Thinking back to my life here before death, I realized the lack of spirits had ironically made my town feel more haunted.
I wondered at the chances of another accident happening. I doubted I had enough resolve to stay out in the open long enough at night to witness one. I did not know how Larue hunted his spirits, but I could only think that he had far more experience than me, and might even have been versed in tracking spirits in his life as an occultist.
My thoughts went back to worrying over those who were dearest to me. I realized that I could not stay with them at all times. It would be too dangerous for me, and too painful all around. Then my thoughts went to my grandparents. I worried most about them because they were old. The old were more apt to die.
The nursing home must be like an all-you-can-eat buffet for a creature like Larue. I slipped then with purpose through the town and found myself at the nursing home in no time. There I climbed into a large tree where I had vantage of the area and settled back against the bark.
“Tree, please allow me to stay safe in your branches,” I whispered to it. I wasn’t sure that the tree could understand me, but I was wearing the war paint of the natives, and it seemed like the right thing to do. I did feel a presence there in the tree, or that was the tree, rather, and I wondered that I had been oblivious to such a presence all of my life, especially since I got old enough to sque
eze pimples. I laughed at myself for feeling like I was all alone in the universe just earlier that evening. There was spirit all around me, and I felt like it had chosen me for this task.
I only hoped that I was up for the challenge.
I spent three days and nights in that tree. By the second day, my skin had grown a thick bark over it. Perhaps I was becoming too comfortable in the tree, because I stared at the spirit of a newly deceased old woman for some time as she dithered outside the nursing home before I came back to why I was in the tree in the first place. I slid forward and watched.
With horror I realized that Larue was poised on the roof of the nursing home, staring down at the oblivious old lady ghost, like a grinning spider. The problem was, I could not get a clear shot at Larue from my position, nor could I climb to one, without alerting him of my presence.
I would have to wait for Larue to spring upon the old lady, and while he was busy consuming her, I would be able to get a couple of shots at him. I looked at the old lady, and thought about the fact that she was somebody’s grandmother, probably. Would I be able to wait if that was my grandmother?