The Haunting of Sam Cabot (A Supernatural Thriller)

by Hall, Mark Edward

  Linda went to Sean. He was standing in the tall grass screeching like a banshee. “He’s cut himself,” she said, inspecting his knee. “I don’t think it’s bad, though. Not much blood. Sean, give us a break. It’s just a scratch.”

  “It hurrrrts!”

  “I’ll get the first aid kit out of the car,” I said, and did an about face.

  “I think just a Band-Aid would do the trick,” came Linda’s reply. “There’s a box in the glove compartment. There, there,” she soothed. “It’ll be okay.”

  As I turned back toward the car my eyes passed over the house and I froze in my tracks. A darkness came over me, a feeling of dread so debilitating I thought my heart might actually stop beating. My breath went shallow as a cold sweat engulfed me. Even now I’m not sure if it was in my mind or if it actually happened, but in that moment the facade of the house melted away, and inside I could see ghostlike people from another time moving about, lots of them going about their business, oblivious to the activity outside. Suddenly all the ghost people burst into flame and began writhing like burning moths. Terror hammered my heart. I blinked my eyes and the vision vanished.

  My first thought was panic attack.

  Following my experiences in Afghanistan PTSD had come down on me like a vast weight and panic attacks, coupled with an intense sense of paranoia had been pervasive and sometimes debilitating. I’d imagined all sorts of things that weren’t real during those attacks. Medication coupled with psychiatric counseling through the Veterans Administration had helped to relegate the attacks to a place that wasn’t wholly bothersome. Now, as my heart hammered my ribcage and cold sweat slicked my body, I began to wonder if the stress of moving and searching for a house was getting the better of me. I was also wondering if all of the Afghanistan shit was going to come back on me again. But why would it? My God, I was happy. Linda was happy. Why now? Why here?

  Saaam . . .?

  Where the hell did that voice come from?

  I looked up at the house, at the reflecting sun off the dirty window panes, and for the first time I began to question why fate had led me to this place. I caught myself wondering what secrets waited for me beyond those dark windows.

  Welcome home, Sam, We’ve been waiting for you.

  I stood frozen, hearing the voice but totally unable to determine whether it was real or imagined.

  It’s in your head, you idiot.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “Sam! Who the hell are you talking to?”

  That was Linda’s voice. No doubt about it.

  I realized my trembling hand was over my heart and Linda was staring at me with concern.

  “No one,” I said.

  “Sam, are you okay?”

  “What?”

  “Are you okay? Your hand is over your heart.”

  I looked over at Carlisle and he was staring impassively at me, his cold, impassionate eyes seeming to look directly into my soul. Suddenly my legs began to move. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I lied. “Just admiring the house.”

  “Sam, Sean is hurt. You were on your way to the car, remember? To get a Band-Aid.”

  “Oh yeah,” I said. “Sorry.”

  At the car, I opened the door with a hand that shook and paused, waiting for my heart to settle down. I turned and saw that Sean had wriggled out of his mother’s grasp. His crying ceased abruptly. He’d spied an old rusty red wagon which lay on its side, wheel-less in the tall grass and had begun making a beeline for it. Guess he wasn’t hurt that bad. I saw what he was doing and shouted a warning. That was the spell breaker I needed as I flipped open the glove box and grabbed the Band-Aids.

  “Not on your life,” Linda said, grabbing the boy by the arm and leading him away from the booby-trapped lawn.

  I came back from the car and handed the Band-Aid to Linda who looked at me like I had two heads. She tore the strip out and attempted to stick it on Sean’s knee.

  “Ouch! Ouch! That hurrrrts!” Sean whined, pulling away.

  “Your bottom is going to hurt in a minute,” Linda said, grabbing his leg and forcing the bandage on. “There, that wasn’t so bad, now was it?”

  “I wanta play, Mommy.”

  Linda rolled her eyes. “You stand right there and don’t you move a muscle, or so help me God, you’ll be sitting in the car all by yourself.”

  Sean’s mouth curved down into a severe pout.

  “Active little feller, ain’t he,” commented Carlisle. His cold eyes were fixed on Sean as he spoke.

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Linda replied with a rueful shake of the head. Last year he was diagnosed with ADHD. It stands for—”

  “I know what it stands for,” Carlisle said, cutting Linda off. “Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. Seems like half the kids in the world have it nowadays, or so the ‘experts’ would have us believe. Back in my day if a kid acted up he got a switch on his backside. You straightened your act out pronto. Didn’t really have a choice. Not like today. Back then you made your own choices. Nowadays you’ve got expensive doctors and drug companies making up all sorts of ailments so they can sell you new designer drugs and expensive treatments.”

  “So, you don’t believe ADHT is real?” Linda said.

  “Not sayin that at all. What I am sayin is kids were dealt with differently back in my day. They weren’t coddled and spoiled, made to believe they were special because they were lazy and didn’t want to learn or behave. These days everything passes for an ailment. I think it’s man’s way of justifying his own inadequacies, if you want the truth. Make up an illness and a new drug will soon follow. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Call me skeptical. Call me old fashioned. I don’t care. That’s just the way I see things.”

  Carlisle didn’t know our son. And he didn’t know what we’d been through with him. Just the same, I understood his point of view. Back in his day, the “switch” as he’d called it, was the only help they had. But times had certainly changed. It seemed the world had passed old man Carlisle by.

  “I wanta play in the grass,” Sean said, this time a little more listlessly. The statement was followed by a big yawn and Linda and I both knew it wouldn’t be long before he was napping in the car.

  “It’s okay, son,” I said, tousling the boy’s hair. “If we buy the place we’ll get that lawn cleaned up and you can play on it all you want.”

  “Really, Dad?”

  “Really.”

  Sean’s blue eyes sparkled through his tears.

  Carlisle settled back into his creaking chair. “So,” he said, “what made you folks move down to Florida in the first place? I can tell you’re from around here cause of the way you talk.”

  “Actually, we’re from Massachusetts,” I replied. “But Linda’s parents moved here about a year ago and suggested we buy a house near them.”

  Carlisle glared reproachfully at me. “Massachusetts!” he said with incredulity. “Wouldn’t be braggin about it if I was you. Ain’t nothin but a welfare state for them minorities nowadays. I suppose it used to be a decent place back in the day. Now it’s all suburbs and highways and bad drivers.”

  I stared speechless at Carlisle, convinced now that confrontation was a way of life for him, and determined that I was not going to take the bait.

  Linda and I shot each other unsettled looks. Carlisle sat there looking expectantly at Linda and the lid of his right eye was hitching up and down with what appeared to be a muscle spasm. “Well?” he said inquiringly.

  “Well what?” Linda asked, and I could hear just a hint of apprehension in her voice.

  “I asked why you moved down to Florida.” Carlisle’s inquiring look deepened. I could tell Linda wasn’t sure where he was going with his line of questioning and to tell you the truth neither was I. Was he just making idle conversation, trying to put us at ease, or was he purposely trying to make us uncomfortable? He was doing a very good job with the latter.

  “I landed an interior design job in Palm Beach,” Linda s
aid. “We talked about it and thought Florida would be fun. We had this silly notion about what it would be like . . . you know, year-round sunshine and all; but more than that we thought it would be great to get away from icy roads and snow-shoveling and all of the other hassles that go along with living in the northeast in winter. But Florida didn’t work for us. I guess we’re just dyed-in-the-wool Yankees at heart. We talked about moving back for a full two years before we finally did it.”

  “Good move,” Carlisle said approvingly. “What made you finally decide?”

  Linda said, “Oh there were lots of reasons. My father’s failing health, for one. At this stage of his life he needs to have his family around him. You see, I’m an only child. He has severe health problems and they have no one else they can turn to in their time of need.”

  “Ah yes, I see,” said Carlisle.

  “Besides, my job was going away and there really wasn’t any reason for us to stay. Sam can work anywhere, you see.”

  “Oh? What sort of work do you do, Mr. Cabot?” Carlisle asked turning inquisitive eyes on me.

  “Well, I’m a novelist, of sorts,” I replied.

  Carlisle’s hooded eyes seemed to retreat into his skull. “Written anything I might have read?”

  I blanched with embarrassment at that. “Probably not,” I said. “I recently sold a book of short stories, but haven’t published a novel yet.”

  “Well,” said Carlisle, “perhaps one day you will, and then I can say I know a real novelist.”

  I swear, there was a barely detectable note of sarcasm in Carlisle’s comment. I was used to condescension when it came to my writing, so I ignored it. I was determined not to engage this man.

  “That is our hope,” Linda said coming to the rescue, and then, being a talented diplomat, she deftly changed the subject. “This is an amazing house, Mr. Carlisle. A far cry from those little stucco cracker-boxes they call houses down in Florida.”

  Carlisle chuckled at this and to tell you the truth it was kind of a relief. I was hoping the inquisition had ended.

  “We wanted something with character,” I told him.

  “Character you got,” said Carlisle gesturing at his house. “A whole shit-load of it. But I reckon it’s about all you got. You folks wanna have a look at what you’re gettin yourselves into?”

  Linda beamed. “We sure do!”

  Chapter 2

  I believe Linda and I both knew in our hearts even before Carlisle showed us the interior that this old rundown New England gothic-revival house would eventually be home. We both felt it the moment our minivan had broken out of the woods and we’d seen the house staring back at us from the top of that grassy hillock. We were a little scared at the prospect, I don’t mind telling you. Actually, terrified would be a better description. But the fear was mixed with a huge amount of excitement.

  Money was certainly not in abundance. As I’d told Carlisle, I had recently sold a collection of short stories to a small press publisher, which is extremely difficult for an unknown author. The advance had been pathetic and the royalty rate was almost embarrassing. I had a small periodic income from other short stories and articles which were being published at a semi-regular rate in various publications, and I had a VA disability pension of $1850 a month, but that was it. As Linda had explained to Carlisle, she’d lost the only serious income we had when her interior design job had been cut. We’d decided to move to Maine to be close to Linda’s aging parents, and in Maine interior design jobs weren’t exactly plentiful. I didn’t care anyway. I knew Linda wanted to stay home and raise Sean while I wrote my first novel. I was delighted, although I wasn’t even close to finishing that novel. And if we did indeed buy Carlisle’s house I resigned myself then that it would be several months before I would even be able to get back at it. But it was okay. It would all be worth it, I told myself. Our own home, my family at my side and a chance to see if I could actually finish that first book.

  The future was both exciting and a little daunting.

  The house was large, much larger than a family of three actually needed—five big rooms downstairs and six smaller rooms upstairs, with an attic, a large shed, and a basement.

  Carlisle showed us through. He had been right about one thing. Character was all we had. The place was a real mess. It was going to take an incredible amount of effort to whip it into livable shape. The second floor was the worst. All the walls had been covered with paper of varying patterns and degrees of color at one time or another. Now most of it had yellowed and was peeling off in large sheets. On the plaster beneath, there were large stains caused by water leakage. All of the ceilings were fragmented with multiple networks of tiny cracks, spreading out and crossing each other like the veins of a leaf. Linda went through, taking it all in with her interior designer eye. I could tell that she was aching to get her hands on the place. Just another challenge to her. No big deal.

  It was a bigger deal for me. I suspected almost immediately that the roof needed to be replaced, but I stayed silent about it. I did not want to put any more of a damper on the day than was necessary. We would assess the entire situation rationally before making any decision about buying the place. At least that is what I told myself.

  “It was an inn back in the day,” Carlisle said conversationally. “Long before my father owned it.”

  That’s when it dawned on me. The gate, the sign. It was all starting to make sense.

  “We saw the sign on the gate out front,” Linda said. “Farnham House. I like it.”

  “Named after the original owner who settled here way back in the early eighteenth century,” Carlisle said. “Same as the road, which at the time was just a coach road between Boston and Portland. William Farnham was the man’s name and he built the inn immediately after arriving. Traffic was starting to heat up in these parts. He saw a need and took advantage of it. They say he was a cantankerous old curmudgeon, but a good innkeeper. Lived to be quite old.

  “Of course the place has changed quite a lot since then,” Carlisle continued. “Used to be much bigger. A fire sometime in the mid nineteenth century destroyed part of it and the remains were torn off and never rebuilt. The name stuck, though, even after it was no longer an inn. Farnham House.” Carlisle paused and heaved a deep sigh. “I guess it’ll always be Farnham House.”

  Carlisle’s story sparked the memory of what I thought I’d seen in my moment of panic earlier in the day and I could not stop myself from asking the question. “Did anyone die in the fire?”

  Carlisle stopped, turned and glared at me as if I’d said something obscene. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious,” I replied.

  Linda was glancing back and forth between me and Carlisle and I could tell she too wanted an answer to my question.

  “Can’t rightly say,” Carlisle said dismissively and I wondered if he was lying. “There’s rumors, of course but there are no known records of what sparked the fire or of the consequences of its aftermath. By the time the townsfolk heard about it the fire was long over and the mess had been cleaned up. If anyone died they’ve been long forgotten.” As if this was the final word on the subject, Carlisle turned back around and began walking away from us. A quick unsettled glance passed between Linda and I. Sean was leaning listlessly against her leg and his eyes were unfocused.

  We continued on with our tour and discovered there were two bathrooms. One on each floor. The plumbing fixtures, from the style of the nineteen-thirties, were outdated but ornate and beautiful. Linda loved them. The wiring was old and in poor condition. But the kitchen was a large and brightly lit room with lots of windows and nice old hardwood cabinetry that suited Linda’s needs perfectly.

  “Original kitchen,” Carlisle commented. “Imagine it could tell some stories if it could talk.”

  “So I take it the fire you spoke of wasn’t sparked in the kitchen?” I asked, which drew another irritated look from Carlisle.

  “If it was, then this wouldn’t be the original
kitchen, now would it.”

  “I guess not,” I said, feeling like a fool.

  “The fire was over there on the other side of what is now the living room.” Carlisle pointed. “Probably sparked by a tipped over lamp or something. If you’re interested you can even trace the indents of the original foundation just beneath the grass out there. The flagstones are still in the ground.”

  “Very interesting,” I said. A look from Linda told me to drop the subject, so I did.

  Each room was dominated by a large fireplace, all in precisely cut granite blocks and in marvelous condition with mantles of marble and huge hand-wrought andirons. There was an old wood cook stove in the kitchen. Carlisle assured us that the chimneys were all in fine shape. The interior woodwork was amazingly ornate. Replacement moldings made with modern tools and materials would cost a fortune. Fortunately all of it was in fine condition and not much replacement would be needed. Things were looking better all the time.

  We passed on the attic. Carlisle explained that there was still a lot of old junk and clutter up there that would eventually need to be cleaned out. Linda beamed at this tantalizing bit of information, telling Carlisle that when the time came she would be more than happy to help.

  The basement was the last stop of the tour. We exited the house and went in through the outside door. Carlisle explained that the stairs down from the kitchen needed to be shored up before they could be used. The basement floor was earthen and the place stank of mildew and ancient earth. The open door cast a wedge of dusky light only about ten feet in, and beyond that there was nothing but darkness. I could tell Sean didn’t like the place, for he shrank against his mother’s leg and stared at the dark opening with wide, scared eyes. Linda didn’t like it either. She threw me a small unsettled look. Carlisle fumbled around in the darkness for a moment until he located a wall switch and when he flicked it, a single dirty light-bulb, probably of the sixty watt variety, came on, illuminating the area directly over the heating system. Linda and I both gasped, stopping dead in our tracks. I was speechless. One small word came out of Linda and it was spoken in a soft whisper that was filled with awe: “God . . .”