When I’d…we’d…first shown interest in the house, the realtor asked if it was going to be a problem. She told us that we could have the bodies moved over to Summit Lawn if we wanted to; there was no existing family to object. Ronnie said she thought it added to the property and that it would be fine right where it was. She was a big believer in ghosts and things of that nature and she liked the “spookiness”, as she called it, that it imparted on the house. So we let it stay; I let it stay.
The house was really too big for one person—too big for me. It took me several months to adjust to its creaking and settling, especially at night. There were many times, in the beginning, when I’d thought I’d heard footsteps coming and going up and down the hall and stairs. But each time proved to be just the house, doing its own kind of breathing. A few times, I’d been certain that I’d heard a door slam downstairs or a window open and then close. I kept telling myself that it was Ronnie who was the ghost believer, not me. But that would change.
2
It was a warm July night, not too many days from the start of August. I don’t remember the date exactly, but I do remember that evening—that night. I had been in my office working on a particularly difficult White Paper for a company in Philadelphia. I must have rewritten it eight times. There was a little round brass clock that sat on my desk that chimed on each hour. Cha-ling, cha-ling, cha-ling, cha-ling. Seven o’clock. Time to give it a rest. I walked over to the window and stood there admiring my willow, hands in my pockets. I’m not sure how long I stood there looking at it. Probably five minutes or so when I noticed a reflection in the glass. I remember that it startled me so much, I actually let out a little gaspy whimper. When I turned around, there was nothing behind me. But when I turned back again to look at the window, there it was.
A tall, dark haired woman appeared to be standing behind me, looking directly at me. She was standing perfectly still and seemed to be looking past me—through me, out the window. I turned to look again, but I was still the only one in the room. A shiver ran up my spine and I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck actually rising.
Not being the ghost aficionado, I wasn’t quite sure what to do. Actually, I was pretty much convinced that I’d just been working too hard and that I probably needed a drink and a good night’s sleep. Thinking it pretty silly, but doing it anyway, I raised my hand and waved. The reflection didn’t move. I thought about saying something to it, but dismissed that idea. No need to punctuate crazy. So I just stood there looking at it through the glass until it faded.
“Ok, Richard,” I said. “Just because it’s your name doesn’t mean you have to be one. There are no such things as ghosts and you know it. You’re a copywriter, not a horror writer.” I kept staring into the glass as I said this, as if the image might reappear just to prove me wrong. It didn’t.
I was almost to the door when I heard the voice. It was a soft whispery sound and it was edged with sadness and despair.
“Richard. Richard, you’ve come,” was all it said. At least, that’s what I heard. I turned around. The room was empty and there were no reflections in any of the windows, save my own. I walked back over to the window. The sun was beginning to dip behind the trees, turning the sky that pinkish-purple color. An intermittent breeze was blowing and the long hanging branches of the willow would sweep to one side and then fall back again. It reminded me of how Ronnie’s hair looked whenever we had the soft top of the jeep down.
I waited, ten; fifteen; twenty minutes. There was no repeat voice or any visions or reflections. Finally convincing myself that I hadn’t seen or heard anything, I went downstairs.
The rest of that night was uneventful. I watched some TV, read a little and then went to bed. There were no strange dreams; no disembodied voices; no unexplained sounds. In fact, I can’t remember ever having had a better night’s sleep.
Feeling pretty good, I made myself a full breakfast (something I rarely ever did). Toast, coffee, two eggs over easy, some Potatoes O’Brian and bacon. I figured it was going to be a good day, if I could just get a handle on that White Paper. It was due in two days, so I didn’t have a lot of time. I stacked all the breakfast ware in the sink and headed up to my office.
Halfway up the steps I felt something bump into me. It was a substantial feeling that pushed me back a step, forcing me to grab the handrail. I could feel my heart beating in my chest. I watched in amazement and fear as a line of frost formed at the top of the steps on the banister and then swept down the handrail. At the bottom it condensed into itself and disappeared. I stood there numb for quite some time, trying to regain what little sanity I thought I had left.
Forcing myself to enter into things I’d rather not and abandon my disbelief in the spirit world, I said, a bit timidly, “Ok, who’s there? What do you want?”
There was no answer. Of course, I really didn’t expect one. Then I heard the tapping. It was distant and coming from upstairs, barely audible. It sounded like plastic being knocked together and I recognized it immediately. It was a sound I heard every day. The sound of my computer keyboard being used.
I raced up the steps, sure I’d find someone in my office, someone who’d gone to a lot of trouble to try and scare me. I stood in the hallway, a few feet from my office door, listening. It was definitely my keyboard. On tip-toe, I crept toward the open door, my back against the wall. When I reached the jam, I leapt into the doorway. The tapping stopped. The room was empty.
Hesitantly, I walked over to my desk. The monitor was showing my rotating screen saver, personal pictures and cartoons that I’d uploaded or downloaded. I placed my finger on the mouse, not really sure if I wanted to move it—if I wanted to bring my screen to life. I gave in and pushed it forward. What came up on the screen made me back up so suddenly that I lost my balance and nearly went crashing out the second story window.
On the screen in front of me, printed in Times Roman were the words: GET THE HELL OUT OF MY HOUSE. NOW!, written over and over again, all the way down the page. All the same, except for the last line, and I think, more than anything, it was the last line that frightened me the most. It read:
GET THE HELL OUT OF M
This scared me most because it was evidence that, whoever, or whatever, had been using my computer had been interrupted in mid sentence by my appearance in the doorway. This I couldn’t deny and now I was stuck believing. And that scared the hell out of me.
I really had no idea what to do. I wanted to sit down, but was afraid to even use my own chair. What I wanted most was a rational explanation for all of it. I couldn’t find one. Hell, I couldn’t even invent one. I was staggered, my sense of reality riddled with holes I couldn’t patch up.
I thought that, under the circumstances, a nice walk outdoors might do me some good. I left my office behind and stepped out onto the front porch. It was already getting warm and it was only 9:05 A. M. I moved down the steps and swung to my right, headed for the back yard. My head cleared a little and my heart had stopped playing the congas in my chest. The sound of the birds singing and the crickets chirping helped restore me.
As I rounded the far side of the house, I noticed that someone or something had trampled the marigolds I had planted there. Probably a deer or rabbit, I thought. A little further on, I began to become concerned. The lilac bush I’d planted in Ronnie’s memory (her favorite) was broken completely in two. No rabbit that I ever saw or would want to see could do that.
Again, that sickening feeling of fear, of the unknown, began to seize me. I stood there like a statue just staring at the broken bush. Then I caught something out of the corner of my eye. There was something underneath the bush, lying up against the foundation. I leaned over and lifted a few of the broken lilac branches. Whatever it was, and I couldn’t tell from where I was standing, it was kind of orange in color and fairly large.
I got down on my hands and knees and crawled in under the bush. It was a dead cat. Leaning as far in as I could get, the branches pushing back against my
face, I felt around until I could get a hold of it. When I finally extricated it from under the bushes, I could clearly see that its neck had been broken. Its head swiveled around like it was on ball bearings.
“Christ,” I muttered, feeling kind of bad for the poor animal. “What happened to you?”
As soon as I finished the sentence, the thing opened its eyes and gave out a loud hiss. Its claws swiped frantically at me, ripping open my arms. I dropped it and stepped back, but it continued its attack. It leapt for my face, but I was able to swat it away. It crouched on the ground in front of me hissing and yowling. I took a few more steps backward. It crawled forward, its head rolling from side to side. Searching for anything I could use as a weapon, while keeping a wary eye on the cat, I continued to back peddle, one step at a time.
The contractors had been thorough. There wasn’t even a twig lying around that I could use. I thought about rushing it, hoping it might just run off, but seemed more foolish than wise. For a few minutes, we just stared at each other. Then, it stood on its hind legs, something I didn’t even think was possible for a cat.
“Get the hell out of here!” it yelled, then fell over dead…again.
Warily, I inched toward it. No movement. Standing directly over it, I gave it a good kick. It rolled across the yard like a limp doll. I had to be sure, so I gave it another good kick, this time, lifting into the air. It thudded to the ground, limp and motionless.
“So much for you,” I said, not even realizing that I was now talking to the dead. “A shovel and a trash pail…and you’re outta here.” The “outta here” part I said as if I were announcing a home run at a ball game.
When I returned with plastic bag and shovel in hand, the cat was gone. I should have been surprised. I should have been awed. I was neither. At this point, the weird was becoming normal. But that didn’t mean I was feeling good about any of it.
“So much for my walk, too.”
I went back into the house and up to my office. Ghosts or no ghosts, I had work to do. The office was empty and I went undisturbed for the rest of the day, except for the occasional draw I felt to stop working and just admire the willow out of my window. There was something very captivating about it.
Sitting there, staring out the window, I wandered back in time. I could feel the tears welling up as I thought of how Ronnie and I used to walk for hours through the woods. We’d take an entire Saturday and just spend it walking along. We talked about everything. The past, the future, even the present, and how we were going to meet the next electric bill.
I remembered the time we pulled in off the path and made love on the leaves during a sudden shower. I could still feel the texture of her wet skin beneath my fingers. Before I could stop it, the tears turned into a full crying jag, my whole body wracked with grief and never again to be fulfilled longing.
At first, I hardly noticed the feeling. But as my sobbing eased to crying, I could distinctly feel a hand stroking the back of my head. I sat bolt upright and swiveled around. There was no one there. I was about to get up, when I had an idea. Slowly, I swiveled my chair around so that I faced the window. As I raised the blinds, hoping the willow would cast enough shadow to cause a reflection in the window, I could see her. She appeared thinner, more drawn out than previously, but that was probably due to the brightness of the afternoon.
Standing about two feet behind me, the woman I’d seen the other night was holding a finger to her lips, a silent gesture for me to be quiet. I ignored it and opened my mouth to speak and could see my breath when I did.
“Who are you?” I asked.
The woman lowered her hand to her side. Her mouth was moving, but I couldn’t hear anything. She moved forward, seeming more to glide than to walk, and pointed. I thought she was pointing at me and didn’t understand what she meant.
“What? What do you want?”
This time, she mouthed the words she was speaking very slowly and I understood. She wanted me to open the window. I rolled my chair forward, afraid that if I stood, she’d disappear. Grabbing the sash hooks with both hands I lifted the window.
“I knew you’d come, Richard,” she said. I could hear her. Her voice was carried on the breeze outside. It was as if the wind were her lungs. “I knew you would never abandon me.” Her long white gown rustled with the breeze and I noticed that its movements matched those of the willow’s branches. When they swayed so did her dress. And when the breeze died out so did her voice.
“How do you know me?” I asked.
She waited. The air was still outside. With the next wisp of wind came the reply.
“How could I not know you, my love.”
Losing myself in this, I absent mindedly turned to face her. She wasn’t there. Or, rather, I couldn’t see her. It seemed that she was only visible as a reflection. But when I turned back, the room behind me was empty. From that moment on, the window in my office was never to be closed.
3
The next day I had occasion to go into town on a few errands. At the hardware store I bumped into Jacob Waters, the plumber who had cajoled all my pipes into cooperating. I recognized him immediately by his overalls, which he kept up by a single shoulder strap.
“Jacob!” I said. “How’s it going?”
“Not bad. Not bad. The question is, how’s it going with you?” His face had a strained look on it and his eyes were full of questions.
“I’m doing ok. Gotta thank you again; great job on the old pipes. Plenty of hot water.”
“E-yeh. They needed some coaxin all right, but I got em right. How you likin it up there in that big ol’ place by yerself?” The question was dry, almost rhetorical.
“I’m getting along.” I wondered whether or not I should tell him about what had been happening. I didn’t know why, but I somehow felt I could trust him. Still, I wasn’t anxious for word to get around that I was a full blown lunatic. I finally settled on keeping things to myself for the present.
“Well, don’t ’spect they will, but if them pipes give ya any more trouble, just give me a holler.” He nodded and then stepped past me. Jacob was not much for shaking hands.
“I’ll be sure to do that,” I said, hoping to sound amicable, but sounding instead like an over eager teenager trying to talk his dad into letting him use the car.
After I’d gotten what I needed at the hardware store, a lock bar for sliding windows and some animal repellant for the garden, I skipped over to the grocery store and picked up a few things. At the last minute, I went back and bought a few rolls of aluminum foil, although, at the time, I had no idea why.
On my way out of the store I ran into Jacob again. He was sitting in his old grey F250, two spaces down from my jeep. We didn’t speak. I nodded as I carried my bags past him and he nodded back. I had the strangest feeling that he was keeping an eye on me. I tried to dismiss it as being overly sensitive because of what had been happening at the house, but couldn’t.
I climbed into my jeep and pulled out of my space. Purposely, I turned right so that I wouldn’t have to drive past him. But in my rearview mirror, I saw him watch me pull out into the street. It gave me the same feeling I’d had when I’d found the undead-dead cat under the bush.
Back at home, I put the groceries away and went upstairs to the office, aluminum foil and stay bar in hand. The window was closed. I stood there looking around. Nothing else seemed to be disturbed. Tucking the boxes of foil underneath my arm, I walked over and pulled the window up. As soon as I let go of it, it slammed shut again, hard enough to crack the glass.
The room’s temperature plummeted. Crystals of ice began to form on the edges of the windowpanes. Without any kind of warning, I felt myself being shoved to the floor. I could actually feel the unseen icy fingers around the back of my neck as I was pushed downward.
When I hit my knees, I whirled around, sweeping my arm out in a wide circle. It contacted something solid, something that felt like legs. Strong legs. I could feel them give a little but remain in place. Th
e next blow I got came to the back of my head and I could literally see swimming points of light dance across the backs of my eyes. I lurched forward and hit my forehead on the oak floor. Everything went grey, then black.
I finally came to, rolling over on my back and slowly opening my eyes. I couldn’t see a thing. The room was totally black. With a great deal of effort and a strong throbbing in my head, I managed to push myself up onto my elbow, then onto my knees and finally up on my feet. I staggered over and sat in my desk chair and turned on the lamp. The little brass clock told me it was ten minutes to ten. I’d been out cold for over seven hours.
As my vision slowly cleared, I looked about me, wondering what had been done while I was out. The room was the same, except for the windows. There were only two in the room and both of them had been nailed shut. It was beginning to become clear to me what was happening. Or, at least, part of what was happening. What ever had attacked me didn’t want me speaking with the woman. Without the window being open…no breeze…no wind…no voice.
At the time, I didn’t stop to wonder how something incorporeal could have nailed a window shut. All that was on my mind was getting it open again. Permanently! The aluminum foil and stay rods were lying on the floor where they’d fallen when I was attacked. I retrieved them and set them on the windowsill while I went in search of a hammer to remove the nails.
I had made it to the door, when the strangest notion took hold. Not understanding why, I turned around and walked back over to the window. I stood there for a few moments, doubting what was running through my head, but unable to resist the temptation of what it was suggesting. I reached out and grabbed one of the nails by its bent head and pulled. It slid out of the wood as easily as if I were pulling a spoon out of a peanut butter jar. The same thing with the other one.
The Vampire Megapack Page 7