The Haunting of Pitmon House

by Michael Richan

  “Will someone please tell me what the deal is with this house?” Eliza said.

  “You didn’t tell her?” Granger asked Rachel.

  “I thought I’d leave that for the master,” Rachel replied. “Nobody knows haunted houses around here better than you.”

  “Yeah, but I haven’t looked into Pitmon in years. Not since Nick.”

  “I thought so,” Rachel replied.

  “My brother’s life is at stake,” Eliza said. “I would really appreciate it if someone would explain to me what the big deal is.”

  Granger turned to her. “An old associate of mine, Nick Fesco, was investigating in that house years ago. He was working on a case for someone; I don’t even remember the details of it now, but I do remember what he told me about the place. He wound up dying in that house. Ever since then, I’ve had nothing to do with it. I keep away, as do most people with sense.”

  “Do the TV people want to go there?” Rachel asked.

  “They’ve never heard of it, and I’ll never send them there,” Granger replied. “Far too dangerous. They can make any dark house look scary; they don’t need to place their lives at risk to shoot footage of thumps. No, I never talk about that place with anyone, and I don’t send people there. Not since Nick.”

  “Why is it so dangerous?” Eliza asked. “Compared to other places?”

  “That’s a good question,” Granger answered. “I’m not sure anyone knows the reason. Nick might have uncovered some of that, but he was focused on solving a specific problem for someone. I’ve never really concentrated on the place to be honest with you. There’s plenty of haunted buildings to work with that aren’t so hazardous. Pitmon House is one we just steer clear of.”

  “Well, I can’t steer clear,” Eliza said. “The thing that attacked my brother has something to do with that house. We’ve got no other leads to go on.”

  She watched as Rachel and Granger exchanged glances.

  “I thought you were out,” Granger said to Rachel.

  “I was,” Rachel replied.

  “This is a pretty nasty one to come back with,” Granger said. “Not really easing back into things.”

  “I didn’t realize it would involve Pitmon House,” Rachel replied. “That’s when I got cold feet. Up until now I thought we were making good progress. Eliza’s a little new at the game, and I was showing her the ropes.”

  “That true?” Granger asked, turning to Eliza.

  Eliza felt a little defensive. “I suppose it’s true, but I can take care of myself.”

  “The Pitmon House is no place for a newbie,” Granger said. “No offense.”

  “None taken,” Eliza replied, sticking out her chin a little.

  “I think what we were hoping,” Rachel said, “was that you could tell us everything you know about the place, and we’d figure out what our next step might be.”

  “Your next step?” Granger asked, looking again at Rachel. “You really intend to pursue this? I know seasoned gifteds who wouldn’t touch Pitmon with a ten foot pole.”

  “It didn’t look that scary,” Eliza said, trying to stick up for herself.

  “You went there?” Granger asked, his eyebrows rising.

  “Yes, last night,” Eliza replied. “I looked around the place.”

  “You mean you looked at it through the gate,” Granger said.

  “Yeah,” Eliza replied. “And a little in the River.”

  “By yourself?” Granger asked.

  Eliza turned to look at Rachel. “Yeah.”

  Granger turned to Rachel. “And you let her?”

  “No, I didn’t let her,” Rachel replied. “She went on her own.”

  “And I survived,” Eliza interjected. “I’m still here, standing.”

  Granger snorted. “You should not be proud of that. Being proud of something stupid makes you a fool. Did you go inside?”

  “No,” Eliza answered, feeling the wind go out of her sails a little. It was one thing to stand up for yourself; it was another to have someone call you a fool. She wondered if perhaps her trip to the house the previous night had, indeed, been foolish. She remembered the movement she’d seen behind the stained glass, and how it had startled her. And I wasn’t even inside yet, she thought. Maybe he’s right.

  “She won’t do that again,” Rachel said. “I’ll keep an eye on her. I feel responsible.”

  “No,” Eliza said, regaining her confidence. “Rachel isn’t responsible. This is all on me. If I did something stupid, then fine, I did. What I would really appreciate is if you can help me out so my brother can be free of this thing. It’s all fine and well to call me stupid, but I’m just trying to save my brother’s life.”

  She could feel Granger’s eyes scanning her face, reading her. “Alright,” he said. “I can appreciate that.”

  “Anything you can do?” Rachel asked. “We’re not asking you to march in there.”

  “There might be something,” Granger replied. “Nick was a note taker; I know he kept a family book. There might be something in there to go on.”

  “A family book?” Eliza asked.

  “Many gifteds keep a journal of the things they encounter,” Rachel replied, “and it gets passed down from generation to generation. Not that my loser father kept one.”

  “Nick didn’t have any kids,” Granger said. “If his notes are still around, most likely his wife Donette has them. She might have thrown them out, though; she was pretty bitter after his death. I haven’t talked to her in a decade at least.”

  “Any chance she’d share them?” Rachel asked. “That is, if she still has them?”

  “A decade’s a long time,” Granger replied. “Time might have softened her a little.” He turned his eyes from Rachel. “It’s not healthy to hold onto the past for too long.”

  “I know that comment was aimed at me,” Rachel said. “I’ll talk to her, if you want.”

  “No, I’ll do it,” Granger said. “I’ve gone too long without checking in on her. I’ll try to reach her today. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  As he finished, another man entered from the back of the garage. He wasn’t as tall as Granger, but he had the same broad chest. His hair was short and dark.

  “Robert!” Rachel said, turning to greet him.

  “Rachel,” Robert replied, and they hugged.

  As they separated, Granger said, “Eliza, meet my son, Robert. We work together on things.”

  Robert stepped toward her, his arms outstretched for the hug, but she saw him hesitate, and she wondered if he’d seen something on her, like spit on her lip. As his arms went around her and she gave him a hug in return, her arms couldn’t help but feel the muscles on his back through his thin shirt, and his chest pressed lightly into hers. She felt something ignite in her; as he pulled away, she was concerned it might show on her face.

  “It’s nice…to meet you…” he said haltingly, as though looking at her face caused his speech to screw up.

  She felt a bit overwhelmed by her reaction to the hug, and realized she was taking too long to reply. “Nice to meet you too,” she finally said. “Your father has been helping us.”

  “We’ll see how much help it winds up being,” Granger replied. “There’s no guarantee Donette still has them.”

  “Donette Fesco?” Robert said, turning to his father. Eliza couldn’t help but admire his strong jawline as his profile appeared.

  “I’ve told them I’d approach her about Nick’s journals,” Granger replied.

  “You sure?” Robert asked.

  “Eliza’s brother is in the hospital,” Rachel said to Robert. “All signs point to Pitmon House. We’re hoping to learn a bit more about the place before we proceed.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Robert said, turning back to Eliza. She was taken with how genuine his reaction appeared to be. Not only was he handsome, he seemed real and empathetic; something she hadn’t experienced in her casual dating before returning home from college. She found i
t attractive.

  “Thank you,” Eliza replied. “We need anything that can help us figure things out.”

  “I’ll fill you in on everything I know,” Granger said. “For now, let me give you this.” He turned and walked to a series of bookcases that lined one of the walls in the garage. He hunted through the titles, finally selecting one, and handed it to Eliza.

  “There’s a chapter in there on Pitmon House,” Granger said. “Just history. It’ll give you the basics. Won’t explain much in terms of the haunting, or why it’s a deathtrap, but it’s a place to start until I can make contact with Donette.”

  “Thank you,” Eliza said. “I’ll read it tonight.”

  “I guess we should be going,” Rachel said. “It was nice to see you both again.”

  “Likewise,” Granger said, his arms extending for a goodbye hug. Eliza found herself looking forward to the hug from Robert, which was even better than the first. When it was over, Robert held her shoulders at arm’s length. “We’ll help your brother, somehow.”

  She smiled weakly at him, knowing he meant every word. “Thank you again. I appreciate it.”

  Arnie waved goodbye to them as they left the garage, and he pulled the rolling door down behind them.

  “Oh boy,” Rachel said as they got into the car.

  “What?” Eliza asked.

  “When I knew Granger before, his son was still in high school. He sure has grown up.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “He likes you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just know. And I think you like him back.”

  “He was very nice,” Eliza replied defensively.

  “Yeah, very nice,” Rachel repeated.

  “I don’t think he’s interested,” Eliza said. “He gave me a funny look when he first saw me.”

  “He was intimidated by you.”

  Eliza scoffed. “Intimidated! Give me a break.”

  “No, I mean it. You’ve got a very strong presence and guys react to that.”

  Eliza didn’t reply; it was something she’d heard before, and she didn’t really understand it. She was who she was; if men were intimated by her, she couldn’t help that.

  “He seemed to recover pretty quickly,” Rachel said. “But you could see it, for a second there. Intimidated. He must like that.”

  “Please,” she replied, starting up the car.

  ●

  Her eyelids wanted to close, but she fought to keep them open. Under the covers she was nice and warm, and her body was ready to sleep. Her arms, extended above the covers, felt chilly. She was holding the book, propped up on her chest. It was just getting good.

  It chronicled the rise of several Wisconsin men in the early twentieth century who had made massive fortunes over the course of their lives. Each chapter recounted another bootstrap to riches story, providing a primer on the American dream while detailing some of the more salacious and unsavory things the men had done in order to achieve their success. She marveled at the lack of scruples and the willingness to screw people over for a buck. It had worked out for most of them; in the end, each left an enterprise so large, it had to be managed by their children.

  In the case of Keith Pitmon, creator of a giant aluminum conglomerate, he’d invested a tremendous amount of his money into a cause that he became obsessed with as his old age approached — the way in which seniors were treated. It was 1934, and across the country people in their later years were left penniless and homeless by a cruel economy and their own inability to save. As she read the story of how Pitmon grieved at the treatment of society’s less fortunate, she felt a kinship develop. He must have had the same fear as me, she thought. Fear of being destitute.

  Pitmon felt the country should invest in elderly homes, providing shelter and a place to live out their final days, especially for those who didn’t have children capable of taking care of them. He set about building such a home as a demonstration; because he had been involved in politics, he was hopeful he could persuade his acquaintances in Congress to sign on to his plan once he completed an example of how it could work, demonstrating the empathy and concern that he felt society owed to its older citizens.

  The house he constructed was stately and magnificent. Every politician he brought through the house commented on how beautiful it was, and what a fine function it was performing, housing a clientele of older residents. When it came time to vote and allocate funds, however, none of them would side with Pitmon. Apparently the house’s elegance had made its political visitors wary of its expense, and when FDR brought forward Social Security, Pitmon’s proposal fell by the wayside in favor of a system that allowed seniors control of their housing decisions, rather than having housing provided.

  As Eliza turned the pages, she studied the pictures of the house. The grounds were immaculate, just as she’d noticed when she was there. There were pictures of several outer buildings that she hadn’t seen while staring through the iron gates. Interior pictures showed tasteful chandeliers, ornate molding, and fine tapestries. It looked like an elegant hotel, although smaller and more intimate. There were rooms for more than a dozen people. She instantly saw why it had never flown politically; it was far too ostentatious. Pitmon got wrapped up in trying to make it luxurious; that killed it.

  The final paragraphs detailed how Pitmon moved on, designating the house as a retirement home for members of his extended family. An endowment was established to keep the place running, and the entire enterprise spun off from his holdings just before his financial collapse in the fifties. Keith Pitmon wound up taking a room in the house himself, relying on the generosity of his own foresight to see himself through the final years of his life.

  She finished the chapter and closed the book, setting it on her nightstand. The clock read 11:36.

  But how did it become empty? she wondered. What happened to the endowment? What has to happen to a house for it to become haunted?

  She felt her eyes closing and she knew she’d have to save those questions for the next day.

  Chapter Eight

  They left immediately after the gift shop closed and their shifts ended; Granger had news, and invited them both to his house for dinner.

  On the drive, Eliza shared with Rachel the things she’d learned from the book Granger had loaned them.

  “How did he make his money again?” Rachel asked. “Aluminum? How do you get rich off aluminum?”

  “Aluminum and acquisitions,” Eliza offered. “He ran for Congress, too.”

  “So it was basically an old folks home,” Rachel said, “for all his rich relatives.”

  “In the end, yes. He at least had the vision to set it up in a way to survive his bankruptcies.”

  “One of those relatives must be Yessler,” Rachel offered. “We’ll have to find out which one.”

  Rachel directed her turn by turn, and Eliza was surprised to find that Granger’s house was simply the other side of the industrial building they’d visited the day before. As she parked the car and got out, Eliza was wondering exactly what kind of home Granger lived in; from the exterior, it looked like they might be approaching a paint or welding shop. There was no sign on the building advertising services, only the numbers of the address, almost obscured by a green shrub. A red metal door had a window that was covered over by bars. Rachel reached for a doorbell button that was discreetly hidden behind the shrub, and within moments Eliza heard several locks being thrown. The door opened.

  “Come in!” Robert said, smiling at both of them and swinging the door wide. Eliza and Rachel stepped in; it was a small office with a desk and a couple of chairs. “Come on through,” Robert offered, closing the door behind them. “Rachel, you remember the way.”

  “I think I do,” Rachel said, walking to a door on the far side of the office that was tucked between two large filing cabinets. She opened it, revealing a short hallway, and Eliza followed, with Robert behind.

  The hallway lasted no more than ten feet and tur
ned to the right, opening into a large space. A sofa and chairs were positioned in one corner of the room, grouped around a television, with an open kitchen in the other corner. Granger had a chef’s apron on, and was standing behind an island of pots, steam rising in front of him. He glanced around the steam.

  “Come on in!” he said loudly. “I’d come over but I gotta keep an eye on this!”

  “We’ll come to you!” Rachel replied, and they walked across the open room to Granger, where they sat on tall bar stools next to the island.

  “Some wine?” Robert offered, picking up a bottle from the counter behind Granger.

  “Ooo, I’d love some!” Rachel replied.

  “Eliza?” Robert asked. “It’s red, and it’s very good.”

  “Sure,” Eliza answered. “A little, thanks.”

  As Robert poured the glasses, Eliza turned on her bar stool to look around the place. The ceilings were high, as you’d expect in an industrial space. There were no windows, but it didn’t seem claustrophobic thanks to its size. She noticed a hallway leading out of the room from one of the other corners; she assumed it must lead to the bathroom and bedrooms. There was no artwork on the walls, which left a lot of white space that made the room seem even bigger. Eliza noticed very high-end appliances in the kitchen.

  “This’ll be ready in two shakes,” Granger said. “Just enough time to get a glass of wine down ’ya.”

  “What’re we having?” Rachel asked, rising up from the bar stool to look into the pots.

  “Just pasta,” Granger said. “But the tomatoes are from Italy, and the cheese…goddamn, I’m so excited for you to try this parmigiano…took me six months to get the monks to ship it.”

  “Ooo!” Rachel replied. “My mouth is watering already!”

  “I read the chapter on Pitmon,” Eliza said, as she took the wine glass from Robert.

  “It’s interesting, isn’t it?” Robert replied.

  “Not much help with our current situation,” Granger replied, pouring a pot of boiling pasta through a colander. “But that might be remedied soon enough. I’ve invited…”