by Ron Ripley
“What the hell is it going to take to get you to believe it?” she demanded.
“I need to know Eloise and Thaddeus were real,” his father said defensively. “Prove to me they were real, and we can start to discuss the possibility of there being ghosts here.”
Shane’s mother said something Shane didn’t quite catch, but he knew it wasn’t pleasant. His dad didn’t respond. He never responded when she said something really mean.
Evidence, Shane said to himself, closing his eyes. I need to go to the library. I’ll be able to get evidence there, I bet. The librarians know everything.
Chapter 12: Shane, November 7th, 1985
It took Shane twenty-five minutes to walk from St. Christopher’s School to the library, which was on Court Street, tucked behind the newspaper office and the canal. The air was cold, and he thought he might use the payphone to call his mom for a ride home when he was done.
It all depended on whether she was in a good mood or not.
She hadn’t been angry with him before he left for school in the morning. She had even given him permission to go to the library. But she was definitely still mad about the argument with his dad, even though she didn’t realize Shane had overheard most of it.
Maybe she still won’t be mad at dad, he thought. He hurried to the library doors, pushed them open and walked in. Inside, it was wonderfully quiet.
He had been to the library several times with his mother and once with his father, but this was his first visit alone.
A pretty, older woman with black and white hair stood behind the long circulation desk. She punched date cards in a machine. The clunk of each stamp seemed entirely appropriate for the library.
After a moment, the librarian looked up, saw Shane and smiled.
“Good afternoon,” she said. “May I help you?”
“I’m trying to look up the history of a house,” Shane said. “Could you help me?”
“Well,” the librarian said, putting the date cards down. “I can’t, but we have a special librarian who knows how to find everything there is in the library. I’ll bring you to her, okay?”
“Okay.” Shane said, nodding.
“Good,” the librarian said, “Follow me.”
She walked down the length of the desk, and Shane kept pace with her as she headed towards a desk in the center of a larger room. An overhead sign said “Reference Desk” written on it in large red letters.
A woman much younger than the librarian, and possibly even younger than his mom, sat at the desk. A large, black bound book was open in front of her. She looked up over her glasses as Shane and the librarian approached.
“Tina,” the woman smiled, inserting a slip of paper between the pages before closing it.
“Hello, Helen. This young man needs help finding out information on a particular house,” Tina turned to Shane and said, “Good luck!”
“Thank you,” Shane said, smiling.
“So you need help?” Helen asked.
“Yes, ma’am. I do,” Shane answered.
“Excellent. You are in the right place, young man,” she said with a grin. “Now, what house do you want to know about?”
“My house,” Shane said. “I live at one twenty-five Berkley Street.”
The smile on Helen’s face dropped away. She cleared her throat uncomfortably and asked, “Did you say one twenty-five Berkley Street?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Shane said.
Helen’s skin grew pale. She licked her lips nervously. “How long have you lived there?”
“A couple of years,” Shane said.
“Oh,” she said. “I grew up on Chester Street.”
“Hey,” Shane said with a smile, “Chester Street is right next to Berkley.”
Helen nodded. She managed a small smile and then asked him, “So, what would you like to know about your house?”
Shane grew serious. “I’d like to know if anyone ever died at my house.”
For a long moment, Helen didn’t answer and Shane was worried he had asked an inappropriate question.
Finally, she took a deep breath and asked, “Why do you want to know if someone died in the house? What’s happened?”
Shane looked at her and whispered, “You know, don’t you.”
Helen opened her mouth to reply, closed it, and then she nodded. “Yes. Yes, I do know.”
“How?” he asked her.
She glanced around before she leaned forward and said, “I went in, once, when I was a little girl.”
“What did you see?” Shane asked.
“When my parents were talking with Mrs. Anderson I was allowed to play in her parlor. The room was dark, and out of the shadows, I heard another little girl.”
“Eloise,” Shane whispered.
Helen nodded her head. “Yes. Eloise. We talked for a while. She wouldn’t come out of the shadows. She didn’t want to scare me. I thought she had something wrong with her. After a little while, she went away, and I went into the kitchen. I told my parents and asked how long Mrs. Anderson’s granddaughter was visiting.”
“Eloise lives there,” Shane said. “She never leaves.”
“No,” Helen said. “She never leaves.”
“Did she die there?” Shane asked.
“Yes,” Helen said, nodding. “Yes, she did. I’m not sure how. No one is. There is a small book, in the Stearns Room, about your house. Are you old enough to read it?”
Shane nodded.
Helen looked at him closely for a minute and then she stood up. “Yes. I think you are, too. Come with me. I’m sorry, I didn’t even ask you your name.”
“I’m Shane Ryan,” Shane said, extending his hand the way his father had taught him.
Helen smiled and shook it. “Helen McGill. Follow me, Shane.”
She led him to the back of the library, along the rear wall to a room guarded by a pair of large, wooden doors. She took a key ring out of her pocket, unlocked the door and pushed it open. A tall room was revealed. Bookshelves were protected by glass fronts and narrow windows looked out over the canal’s small waterfall. A long table, occupied by half a dozen leather chairs, stood in the room’s center.
Helen turned on the light, walked over to a bookcase and slid the glass protector out of the way. She bent down, reached in and withdrew a slim book. Helen looked at it briefly before she stood up and walked to the table.
“Sit down, Shane,” she said, pulling out a chair for herself. Shane sat down at the table beside her.
She put the book down and opened it.
Shane leaned forward and saw a black and white picture of his house beside a faded picture of a different, smaller house.
“This house,” Helen said, tapping the picture of the strange home, “was at one twenty-five Berkley Street before yours. The Andersons purchased the property in nineteen thirty, and then they added on and changed it into the one you live in now.”
“When was the first one built?” Shane asked.
Helen turned the page to ‘Chapter I.’
“According to whoever wrote this,” she said, “the original house was built in eighteen-fourteen. It was sold several times and each time the house was changed just a little bit. Things were added on.”
She turned the page to a curious illustration.
“Do you see this?” she asked, tracing a thick line with her finger.
“Yes,” Shane said.
“Each wide line is a secret corridor,” Helen said. “As the house was built, and wealthier people bought it, they made sure their servants couldn’t be seen. The servants were able to walk to any room in the house without bothering the owners. And that was the way they wanted it. By the time the Andersons bought and finished the house to the way it is now, they made sure the doors the servants used couldn’t even be noticed when they were closed.”
Shane nodded. “I know. It’s terrible. My father thinks he sealed all of the doors, but we keep finding them.”
Helen looked at him, swallowed ne
rvously and said, “I’m going to tell you a secret, Shane, okay?”
“Yes,” he answered.
“The house makes more doors,” she said in a low voice. “Eloise told me all those years ago.”
“Helen,” Shane said nervously, “do you know who Thaddeus is?”
Helen’s hands shook, and she turned several pages to another picture.
Shane looked at an old photograph of a boy about his own age. The boy wore an old-fashioned suit, worn boots and he smiled at the camera. He held a small rifle in his hands and behind him was the pond at Shane’s house.
Shane knew it was the pond because he could see the dead girl in it. The girl with no name who stayed right below the surface and watched him in the yard.
“Do you see her?” Helen whispered.
Shane nodded.
“Not everyone does,” Helen said, closing the book on the disturbing photograph. “Thaddeus swallowed some water while swimming in the pond and later, when he fell asleep, he died. They call it dry drowning. A little water in the lungs is enough to kill.”
“She killed him,” Shane said. It wasn’t a question, and Helen didn’t take it as one.
“She did,” Helen agreed. “I can remember looking at the pond as a little girl. Mrs. Anderson made sure I never was allowed near it. Sometimes, from my window, I could see the fish swimming in the water, or the watermen near the edges. Once in a great while ducks would land on the water, but they’d fly away soon after, and there’d always be a dead duck floating.”
“She doesn’t like ducks,” Shane said, nodding. “I’ve seen a couple of dead ducks before my dad fishes them out. He says they died naturally, but I know she killed them. I don’t know why, though.”
Shane looked at her. “Could you do me a favor, Helen?”
“What is it?” she asked.
“Could you write down the names of Eloise and Thaddeus for me, and when they died?” he said.
“Sure,” she said, slightly confused. “Why?”
“My dad doesn’t believe there are ghosts in the house,” Shane answered. “He thinks I’m the one who keeps moving things around.”
Helen frowned. “Does your mom believe you?”
Shane nodded. “He said he might believe in ghosts if my mother could prove people had died in the house.”
“A lot of people have died at one twenty-five Berkley Street, Shane,” Helen said in a grim voice. “Eloise and Thaddeus are only two of them.”
Shane sighed and said, “I was afraid so.”
Chapter 13: Whispers in the Walls
Something was wrong.
Shane could feel it.
With the morning sun on his back and his few possessions in the truck he had rented, Shane stood in the open doorway.
The house felt wrong. It smelled wrong.
Blood, Shane thought. I can smell blood.
His hands itched to hold a glass of whiskey as he stepped into the house and walked forward. The sun shined down into the rooms off the hallway, and some of the light spilled out onto the beautiful hardwood floor.
And Shane saw the stain. Not a large stain, just a few drops a dozen steps in. He walked slowly to the spot and crouched down.
Blood, Shane thought. He reached out and touched it. It was dry. He straightened up and looked around.
Whispers came from behind the massive grandfather clock and as Shane took a step towards it, the pendulum started to swing. The hands moved backward, playfully.
“Eloise,” Shane said.
A giggle sounded, and the whispers stopped.
The clock’s hands changed directions.
“Eloise,” Shane said again.
“Hello Shane,” Eloise said, her voice slightly muffled. “You’ve been gone a very long time.”
“I know,” Shane said. Fear crawled up his legs and settled in his stomach.
“Why?” Eloise asked, tapping on the wall on either side of the clock.
The noise brought back memories of his childhood and Shane shivered.
“I wasn’t allowed.” Shane said. He cleared his throat. “Did anyone come in here yesterday?”
“Yes,” Eloise answered.
“Did they leave?” Shane asked.
“No,” she said.
“Well,” Shane said, anger slowly replacing his fear, “where are they, Eloise?”
“Here,” she said. “In the walls, and in the basement. In the attic and in the pond.”
“How many people came in?” he asked.
“Two,” Eloise said.
Shane closed his eyes and took a deep breath. A moment later he opened them and asked, “What happened to them?”
“Carl happened to them,” Eloise said cheerfully.
Shane’s breath caught in his throat. “Carl.”
“Carl,” she repeated. “We’ve all missed you so much, Shane. Where will you be sleeping tonight? In your room?”
“Yes,” Shane said softly, turning to look back at the stain on the floor. “Yes. Where else would I sleep?”
For the briefest of moments, he wondered who had died at the hands of Carl, and then he pushed the thought away.
I’ll find out soon enough, he sighed. He turned around and headed for the door. He needed to bring his things in.
Chapter 14: Shane, December 12th, 1985
Shane’s father finally believed in ghosts.
It wasn’t because Shane had gotten the information from Helen, the librarian. It wasn’t because his mother had double checked the information with Helen, the librarian. It wasn’t even his father going down himself to the library.
No. It wasn’t any of those.
It was what had happened in the morning. Down at the pond.
The weather had been a little warmer, and the sun and wind had cleared the snow from the surface of the pond. The ice, revealed, shined brightly, and his father had wondered if he could see the fish under the ice.
Shane had stood a safe distance away from the pond. He didn’t trust it. Especially after Helen had told him about Thaddeus.
So Shane stood in snow that covered up to the tops of his moon boots. He moved his toes around and listened as the Wonderbread bags on his feet crinkled. The bags were an extra layer of warmth and protection, insisted upon by his mom.
Shane pretended to smoke and exhaled great clouds of his breath into the air as he watched his dad, who crept carefully out onto the ice.
Shane’s mother had left the house earlier, shortly after he got home from school, to get the groceries. His father had been home since a furnace technician had come out and double checked the furnace and the oil line. If his mother hadn’t gone to get food, then Shane’s father never would have gone out on the ice.
She wouldn’t have let him.
Shane’s father knew it as well, and he had sworn Shane to secrecy.
Shane had agreed, but he also knew if his father did something foolish he’d have to tell his mom.
Shane didn’t want to disappoint his mother, and a lie would upset her.
“Oh damn!” his father yelled, and Shane watched as his father suddenly sank to his knees in the pond, the ice cracking loudly beneath him.
“Dad!” Shane cried out.
“I’m okay,” his father said, twisting around to face Shane. He forced a smile. “I’m just freezing and wet. I’ll be fine.”
The smile vanished though, and he stumbled back. A look of pure terror filled his face as struggled towards the shore. He jerked back again, and he looked down, let out a terrified scream and practically ran out of the pond.
Shane stepped towards him, and he pointed back to the house.
“Inside!” his father yelled. “Inside now!”
Something sickly and white reached up out of the water from behind him.
Shane turned and sprinted for the basement door. Behind him, he heard heavy footsteps crash through the snow. Just as Shane made it inside, his father rushed in behind him and slammed the door shut.
The ma
n breathed raggedly and shook from head to toe. Water dripped from his jeans and leaked out of his boots. Shane watched him take cautious steps to the washer and dryer, strip down and then dig a pair of sweats and fresh socks out of a wicker laundry basket. Within a minute, he was dressed, and he left his wet clothes where they lay.
“Come on, Shane,” his father said hoarsely. “Let’s go upstairs.”
Shane kicked off his snow gear, pulled the bread bags off of his feet, and dutifully went up into the kitchen. His dad opened a cabinet, took out some alcohol and poured himself a large drink. Shane rarely saw him with alcohol, and he had never seen him upend a glass and empty it in one gulp.
His father’s hands shook as he put the glass on the counter.
For a long, silent minute he gripped the edge of the counter and looked down at the sink.
“I’m sorry,” he said after a minute. “I’m sorry, Shane.”
“Why?” Shane asked.
His father turned and faced him, his lips pressed tightly together and nearly white. “For not believing you about ghosts. About the ghosts here.”
“What did you see?” Shane asked in a low voice.
“A girl,” he answered quickly. “I saw a girl in the pond. She grabbed my leg. She tried to pull me in.”
The man turned back to the glass and the bottle and poured himself another drink.
“I’m sorry,” his father whispered, and Shane nodded as the glass was emptied again.
Chapter 15: Why He Returned
Shane was afraid.
He sat in his old bed, a book beside him. His cigarettes and lighter stood beside his bottle of whiskey and a tumbler. Shane had made sure to move the bureau away from the servants' door. He had removed the nails from every door he could find.
Soon Shane would have to speak with them. Almost all of them.
And he didn’t want them in a bad mood.
They’re grumpy enough as it is, he thought with a sigh.
He looked down at his book, The Moon is Down, by John Steinbeck, and he wondered idly if he could concentrate enough to read. He doubted it, and he doubted they would give him the opportunity.