Heather Farthing's Blog - Posts Tagged "poltergeist"
Ghost Story
I AM MOVING THIS STORY TO ROYAL ROAD
Ghost Story
by
Heather Farthing, (c) 2017, all rights reserved
News from the Lighthouse
Ravenswood is a grand old lady, nestled in the rural South. Nearly three hundred years old and as elegant and refined as ever, she is known for apple orchards that span from horizon to horizon and beautiful antebellum architecture. Today, she is a romantic getaway for young couples looking to capture that Spanish moss and horse-drawn carriage aesthetic.
The 1840s told a different story, however. If the mounting tensions leading into the Civil War weren’t bad enough, a plague descended upon the town like a thick fog: the White Plague, tuberculosis.
While today, bed and breakfasts greet the morning with the smell of cooking biscuits and baking pies, the merchants and farmers of the past greeted the morning with funeral tolls and the sound of horse-drawn hearses plodding the streets.
The plague struck down the young heirs to the Southern aristocracy with brutal efficiency, claiming lives for over a decade, giving rise to the town’s still-active medical industry and leaving its fingerprints on the Gothic tendencies of the residents.
Do you want to see a recreation of an antebellum funeral? This is the place. Want to purchase a hand-carved coffin cabinet to prop up in your living room? Look no further.
But I, dear readers, am not here for the apple fritters or raven plushies, I’m here for the ghosts. While I plan on partaking of some of the town’s well-rated ghost walks, you know I like to walk my own path.
Signed,
The Lighthouse Keeper
Chapter one
The air inside my filter mask is muggy and smells like my breath, and no amount of mouthwash will ever make recycled breath smell okay. My skin is sweaty inside the rubber gloves, slipping and sliding around inside uncomfortably, making the deluxe camera difficult to hold.
These shots better be worth it.
My senses are on high alert. Everything, from the twittering of birds to the rustle of the wind, sets me on edge. Typically, you’re not supposed to urban explore on you’re own, especially if you’re a girl, but I guess that adds to the thrill.
I’m not stupid, though, I reflect, checking to make sure my pepper spray and stun stick are in easy reach. It’s hours before sundown, my day cut shorter due to the incoming rain. Besides which, the crime rate in Ravenswood is pretty good, and locals swear by the hauntings and give places like this a wide berth.
I make my way past the front desk, taking some good pictures to review later. I’ve never actually captured anything definitively of note, but there is still a kind of beauty to the images. Memento mori, as they say.
There are papers still on the desk, as brittle as snowflake, with faint, handwritten patient intake and another details you might find at the intake desk of a hospital in its final days. I photograph those, too, wondering if I should edit out names for confidentiality reasons, even though this place has been closed for over a decade.
Past the desk, down the hall, are the exam rooms. Tables, some still with roles of formerly-sterile paper are still waiting for patients under lights gone rusty from neglect. A few doors still have clipboards in their boxes, or some tables with exam tools still spread out and waiting for their time to come.
I think back to that time The Fearless Few went into a similar hospital and found bones still in the morgue. I swear I have never seen anything sadder in my life than a body that no one cared to retrieve when the hospital closed.
The thought of finding such a grisly sight sends chills down my spine with an uncomfortable shiver. I’m adventurous, but I don’t think I’m that adventurous.
A coffee cup, the inside stained black from evaporated coffee, sits at the nurse’s station next to an ancient computer, big, boxy, and white. I photograph that, too, composing the shot like I’m taking a candid shot of the nurse, in gray scrubs and comfortable, white tennis shoes, at her desk.
I can almost picture the hustle and bustle, forms in scrubs and labcoats phasing in like a scene from a movie. I imagine doctors in green scrubs, like from a TV show, with stethoscopes around their necks, moving from patient to patient, and faceless figures in the exam rooms, some with grumpy children, tired and under the weather.
I suppose I’m something of an archaeologist. I take pictures, make documentations, form theories, although I never disturb my surroundings. I’m a “take only pictures, leave only footprints” kind of girl.
My footsteps echo down the halls, raising hairs on the back of my neck. It sounds like I’m being followed, which is more than a little disconcerting. A lesser documentarian might mistake it for a ghost, but it’s really just the acoustics.
I move deeper into the hospital, increasingly sure that I’m alone. This place is relatively clean, no dirty bedding, used needles, or food containers, so it does seem to be well and truly abandoned.
Until I realize something odd.
There’s a light humming in the air. It’s a small noise, one you probably wouldn’t notice in a world of idling car engines, ringtones, and televisions, but it’s there—like the noise of a refrigerator you only notice if the cable’s out.
It wouldn’t be the first place I’ve explored that still had power. I’m not really sure how it works, if someone still has the bill on autopay or someone just didn’t see the memo to shut it off, but it does happen from time to time.
I’m in the recovery wards, judging by the sign. These are the places where people would be put after surgery so the nurses could keep an eye on them before being sent to more private locations. The rooms are pretty spacious, with four two six beds neatly placed inside, a little worse for wear due to the long time off.
Except for one.
There’s a light on inside. I can see it from the hall. There isn’t a doorway, probably to facilitate movement of medical professionals beds, so the light spills out freely. It makes for a rather haunting shot, a bit of life still inside a place only inhabited by ghosts.
Curiosity picks at my brain. They say there’s a light bulb in a fire station that’s been burning for a hundred years, so I suppose it’s not too out of reason for someone to have left a light on, maybe from an inspection or police sweep. It could have even been another explorer, playing around with the still-running electricity.
The point is, though, that someone thought this particular recovery ward was interesting enough to go inside and mess with things.
Now, I could be walking into someone’s drug den or weird art project, but it’s just as likely it’s a room full of patient files or specimens, interesting things to photograph. I can’t very well leave before I check it out, now can I?
To my surprise, I’m actually greeted by the sights and sounds of brand-new medical monitoring equipment. A heart monitor beeps softly in one corner under the watchful eye of a camera focused onto a single bed in the center of the room, and the frail body sitting on top of it, breath ragged and restraints jingling with each pained movement.
There are paranormal cases of people walking straight into some kind of time vortex, seeing things they way they would have been in the past, or how the spirits trapped inside perceive things to be. I am quite sure this isn’t it.
An IV drip stands vigil over the comatose figure dozing on the hospital bed. The liquid inside is viscous and a nauseatingly vibrant shade of green, like something I’d see in a witch’s cauldron. The veins where the needle is seem irritated, or even outright burned, sending blackened spiderwebs across the right arm.
I can’t move my legs.
This isn’t a drug den. The IV would take too long to hook up and needs too much of an expert touch. This is…this is something else, something more…clinical.
Whimpering in pain, the figure jostles his restraints. The ankles and wrists, most of the calf and forearms, actually, are covered in the most vivid mottling of red and black bruises I’ve ever seen, like he tried to slip out of them by brute force with little concern about the muscle and bone damage he’s doing.
I take a hesitant step forward, eyes on the camera.
The room smells clean, antiseptic. There’s a tang of rubbing alcohol and fresh paint. The walls are a distinctive blue tone, and slightly gritty, like sand was mixed into the paint. It’s new, like days new, prepped just for him.
As I approach the camera, I feel like I’m outside of my body as I hit the power button. I still feel watched and exposed as I approach the figure, but at least I’m not on that particular feed.
“Alright, Spooky, what the heck is going on here?” I ask the figure.
The figure whimpers, mumbles something indistinct. He’s a sickly sort of pale and thin as a rake, like pictures I’ve seen of people in tuberculosis wards. Even his hair is a ghastly pale color, so white it’s nearly blue. The eyes are shadowed and bruised, burned from tears. There’s needle tracks on both arms.
“Bitte…bitte,” he mumbles. “Bitte nicht mehr. Ich möchte nicht hier sein.”
I don’t speak German, but the sound of pleading is a universal language. I find myself standing next the bed, watching myself from the outside, looking down from the roof. His hand is in mine, cold, trembling, trying to squeeze. His fingernails are black, like when the nail beds are damaged.
“Bring mich nach Hause,” he begs. “Bitte…”
My cell phone burns in my pocket. I could make a call. It would be anonymous. I could make it from my car, from the RV, from three states over. I’d report someone in dire need of help and no one would ever know I was here when the police come to take the body away.
“Bitte…”
The hand in mine has no skin, no flesh. There is only bare, white bone, smooth and glossy against my gloves. It trails up to cracks in the wrists and forearm, and then disappears under the thin hospital gown, reappearing as a clavicle, a spine, a skull.
I drop the hand in surprise, letting out a frightened gasp, hands knitted just in front of my face but not touching my mask.
“Bitte,” the skeleton implores through even, white teeth. Its arm pulls against the restraints, shudders, and sickly white flesh keeps it from slipping from the padded cuffs. Defeated, the arm drops and the young man whimpers again.
I’ve been doing this since I was sixteen. I drive the RV somewhere spooky, I take pictures, I write up reports, I post the stories online. I never, ever see anything I can’t explain.
I mean, I’m sure there are people who believe they saw what they say they did, it just hasn’t happened to me. A lot of paranormal stuff kind of goes the opposite of “seek and ye shall find.” The people who want it don’t get it, the people who are freaked out by it can’t get it to leave them alone.
And I am without a doubt, one hundred percent sure, this wan, pale figure in a hospital bed and cloth gown just barely keeping his dignity, turned into a skeleton.
Whatever this thing is, it’s being tortured, probably experimented on. Whatever that green stuff is doing to it—him—is killing it.
Probably not the smartest thing I’ve done, as a lone single woman who routinely goes into abandoned buildings to take pictures without telling anyone where she’s at or when she’ll be done, I start unstrapping the restraints and pull out the IV.
He squeezes my hand again, his eyes open, wide, staring, and vulnerable. I guess this is what they call a soul connection, because I feel like he’s looking into mine, laid bare against the icy fingers of his gaze. I can’t tell if they’re unfocused for focused too well, but they’re as pale as his hair and, just long enough to take notice, have beaded reptillian slits for pupils and black sclera. He blinks and they’re normal again.
“Bitte,” he pleads. “Bring mich nach Hause.”
“I’m going to get you out of here, don’t you worry,” I reply, hand against his forehead. He’s sweating but looks cold, and I seriously hope I’m not unleashing another super-plague, but it’s not like whoever’s been keeping him here has taken great precautions against disease.
He’s barely able to move, unable to support his own weight. Fortunately he’s not very tall and doesn’t weigh much more than a broom handle, but it’s awkward, dragging him slung over my shoulder, his bare feet scrabbling against the tile floors.
Fortunately, it’s a hospital and wheelchairs are easy to come by.
Chapter two
Ghost Story
by
Heather Farthing, (c) 2017, all rights reserved
News from the Lighthouse
Ravenswood is a grand old lady, nestled in the rural South. Nearly three hundred years old and as elegant and refined as ever, she is known for apple orchards that span from horizon to horizon and beautiful antebellum architecture. Today, she is a romantic getaway for young couples looking to capture that Spanish moss and horse-drawn carriage aesthetic.
The 1840s told a different story, however. If the mounting tensions leading into the Civil War weren’t bad enough, a plague descended upon the town like a thick fog: the White Plague, tuberculosis.
While today, bed and breakfasts greet the morning with the smell of cooking biscuits and baking pies, the merchants and farmers of the past greeted the morning with funeral tolls and the sound of horse-drawn hearses plodding the streets.
The plague struck down the young heirs to the Southern aristocracy with brutal efficiency, claiming lives for over a decade, giving rise to the town’s still-active medical industry and leaving its fingerprints on the Gothic tendencies of the residents.
Do you want to see a recreation of an antebellum funeral? This is the place. Want to purchase a hand-carved coffin cabinet to prop up in your living room? Look no further.
But I, dear readers, am not here for the apple fritters or raven plushies, I’m here for the ghosts. While I plan on partaking of some of the town’s well-rated ghost walks, you know I like to walk my own path.
Signed,
The Lighthouse Keeper
Chapter one
The air inside my filter mask is muggy and smells like my breath, and no amount of mouthwash will ever make recycled breath smell okay. My skin is sweaty inside the rubber gloves, slipping and sliding around inside uncomfortably, making the deluxe camera difficult to hold.
These shots better be worth it.
My senses are on high alert. Everything, from the twittering of birds to the rustle of the wind, sets me on edge. Typically, you’re not supposed to urban explore on you’re own, especially if you’re a girl, but I guess that adds to the thrill.
I’m not stupid, though, I reflect, checking to make sure my pepper spray and stun stick are in easy reach. It’s hours before sundown, my day cut shorter due to the incoming rain. Besides which, the crime rate in Ravenswood is pretty good, and locals swear by the hauntings and give places like this a wide berth.
I make my way past the front desk, taking some good pictures to review later. I’ve never actually captured anything definitively of note, but there is still a kind of beauty to the images. Memento mori, as they say.
There are papers still on the desk, as brittle as snowflake, with faint, handwritten patient intake and another details you might find at the intake desk of a hospital in its final days. I photograph those, too, wondering if I should edit out names for confidentiality reasons, even though this place has been closed for over a decade.
Past the desk, down the hall, are the exam rooms. Tables, some still with roles of formerly-sterile paper are still waiting for patients under lights gone rusty from neglect. A few doors still have clipboards in their boxes, or some tables with exam tools still spread out and waiting for their time to come.
I think back to that time The Fearless Few went into a similar hospital and found bones still in the morgue. I swear I have never seen anything sadder in my life than a body that no one cared to retrieve when the hospital closed.
The thought of finding such a grisly sight sends chills down my spine with an uncomfortable shiver. I’m adventurous, but I don’t think I’m that adventurous.
A coffee cup, the inside stained black from evaporated coffee, sits at the nurse’s station next to an ancient computer, big, boxy, and white. I photograph that, too, composing the shot like I’m taking a candid shot of the nurse, in gray scrubs and comfortable, white tennis shoes, at her desk.
I can almost picture the hustle and bustle, forms in scrubs and labcoats phasing in like a scene from a movie. I imagine doctors in green scrubs, like from a TV show, with stethoscopes around their necks, moving from patient to patient, and faceless figures in the exam rooms, some with grumpy children, tired and under the weather.
I suppose I’m something of an archaeologist. I take pictures, make documentations, form theories, although I never disturb my surroundings. I’m a “take only pictures, leave only footprints” kind of girl.
My footsteps echo down the halls, raising hairs on the back of my neck. It sounds like I’m being followed, which is more than a little disconcerting. A lesser documentarian might mistake it for a ghost, but it’s really just the acoustics.
I move deeper into the hospital, increasingly sure that I’m alone. This place is relatively clean, no dirty bedding, used needles, or food containers, so it does seem to be well and truly abandoned.
Until I realize something odd.
There’s a light humming in the air. It’s a small noise, one you probably wouldn’t notice in a world of idling car engines, ringtones, and televisions, but it’s there—like the noise of a refrigerator you only notice if the cable’s out.
It wouldn’t be the first place I’ve explored that still had power. I’m not really sure how it works, if someone still has the bill on autopay or someone just didn’t see the memo to shut it off, but it does happen from time to time.
I’m in the recovery wards, judging by the sign. These are the places where people would be put after surgery so the nurses could keep an eye on them before being sent to more private locations. The rooms are pretty spacious, with four two six beds neatly placed inside, a little worse for wear due to the long time off.
Except for one.
There’s a light on inside. I can see it from the hall. There isn’t a doorway, probably to facilitate movement of medical professionals beds, so the light spills out freely. It makes for a rather haunting shot, a bit of life still inside a place only inhabited by ghosts.
Curiosity picks at my brain. They say there’s a light bulb in a fire station that’s been burning for a hundred years, so I suppose it’s not too out of reason for someone to have left a light on, maybe from an inspection or police sweep. It could have even been another explorer, playing around with the still-running electricity.
The point is, though, that someone thought this particular recovery ward was interesting enough to go inside and mess with things.
Now, I could be walking into someone’s drug den or weird art project, but it’s just as likely it’s a room full of patient files or specimens, interesting things to photograph. I can’t very well leave before I check it out, now can I?
To my surprise, I’m actually greeted by the sights and sounds of brand-new medical monitoring equipment. A heart monitor beeps softly in one corner under the watchful eye of a camera focused onto a single bed in the center of the room, and the frail body sitting on top of it, breath ragged and restraints jingling with each pained movement.
There are paranormal cases of people walking straight into some kind of time vortex, seeing things they way they would have been in the past, or how the spirits trapped inside perceive things to be. I am quite sure this isn’t it.
An IV drip stands vigil over the comatose figure dozing on the hospital bed. The liquid inside is viscous and a nauseatingly vibrant shade of green, like something I’d see in a witch’s cauldron. The veins where the needle is seem irritated, or even outright burned, sending blackened spiderwebs across the right arm.
I can’t move my legs.
This isn’t a drug den. The IV would take too long to hook up and needs too much of an expert touch. This is…this is something else, something more…clinical.
Whimpering in pain, the figure jostles his restraints. The ankles and wrists, most of the calf and forearms, actually, are covered in the most vivid mottling of red and black bruises I’ve ever seen, like he tried to slip out of them by brute force with little concern about the muscle and bone damage he’s doing.
I take a hesitant step forward, eyes on the camera.
The room smells clean, antiseptic. There’s a tang of rubbing alcohol and fresh paint. The walls are a distinctive blue tone, and slightly gritty, like sand was mixed into the paint. It’s new, like days new, prepped just for him.
As I approach the camera, I feel like I’m outside of my body as I hit the power button. I still feel watched and exposed as I approach the figure, but at least I’m not on that particular feed.
“Alright, Spooky, what the heck is going on here?” I ask the figure.
The figure whimpers, mumbles something indistinct. He’s a sickly sort of pale and thin as a rake, like pictures I’ve seen of people in tuberculosis wards. Even his hair is a ghastly pale color, so white it’s nearly blue. The eyes are shadowed and bruised, burned from tears. There’s needle tracks on both arms.
“Bitte…bitte,” he mumbles. “Bitte nicht mehr. Ich möchte nicht hier sein.”
I don’t speak German, but the sound of pleading is a universal language. I find myself standing next the bed, watching myself from the outside, looking down from the roof. His hand is in mine, cold, trembling, trying to squeeze. His fingernails are black, like when the nail beds are damaged.
“Bring mich nach Hause,” he begs. “Bitte…”
My cell phone burns in my pocket. I could make a call. It would be anonymous. I could make it from my car, from the RV, from three states over. I’d report someone in dire need of help and no one would ever know I was here when the police come to take the body away.
“Bitte…”
The hand in mine has no skin, no flesh. There is only bare, white bone, smooth and glossy against my gloves. It trails up to cracks in the wrists and forearm, and then disappears under the thin hospital gown, reappearing as a clavicle, a spine, a skull.
I drop the hand in surprise, letting out a frightened gasp, hands knitted just in front of my face but not touching my mask.
“Bitte,” the skeleton implores through even, white teeth. Its arm pulls against the restraints, shudders, and sickly white flesh keeps it from slipping from the padded cuffs. Defeated, the arm drops and the young man whimpers again.
I’ve been doing this since I was sixteen. I drive the RV somewhere spooky, I take pictures, I write up reports, I post the stories online. I never, ever see anything I can’t explain.
I mean, I’m sure there are people who believe they saw what they say they did, it just hasn’t happened to me. A lot of paranormal stuff kind of goes the opposite of “seek and ye shall find.” The people who want it don’t get it, the people who are freaked out by it can’t get it to leave them alone.
And I am without a doubt, one hundred percent sure, this wan, pale figure in a hospital bed and cloth gown just barely keeping his dignity, turned into a skeleton.
Whatever this thing is, it’s being tortured, probably experimented on. Whatever that green stuff is doing to it—him—is killing it.
Probably not the smartest thing I’ve done, as a lone single woman who routinely goes into abandoned buildings to take pictures without telling anyone where she’s at or when she’ll be done, I start unstrapping the restraints and pull out the IV.
He squeezes my hand again, his eyes open, wide, staring, and vulnerable. I guess this is what they call a soul connection, because I feel like he’s looking into mine, laid bare against the icy fingers of his gaze. I can’t tell if they’re unfocused for focused too well, but they’re as pale as his hair and, just long enough to take notice, have beaded reptillian slits for pupils and black sclera. He blinks and they’re normal again.
“Bitte,” he pleads. “Bring mich nach Hause.”
“I’m going to get you out of here, don’t you worry,” I reply, hand against his forehead. He’s sweating but looks cold, and I seriously hope I’m not unleashing another super-plague, but it’s not like whoever’s been keeping him here has taken great precautions against disease.
He’s barely able to move, unable to support his own weight. Fortunately he’s not very tall and doesn’t weigh much more than a broom handle, but it’s awkward, dragging him slung over my shoulder, his bare feet scrabbling against the tile floors.
Fortunately, it’s a hospital and wheelchairs are easy to come by.
Chapter two
Ghost Story--Chapter two
Chapter one
News from the Lighthouse
Ravenswood General was originally built in the early-1800s to deal with the advancing White Plague. At the time, it was the most advanced sanitarium in the South, rivaling the famous Waverly Hills of Kentucky nearly a century sooner, with nearly twice the capacity.
As the tragedy of the outbreak gave way to the horrors of war, the hospital found itself to have new and renewed purpose. Several important figures are known to have stayed here, including Robert E. Lee himself, who was injured during his march south of West Virginia.
Naturally, a place with such a storied history of suffering is bound to have more than a few ghost stories.
In the late eighties, as the hospital was beginning to feel its age and make way for newer, more modern hospitals, a training nurse found herself called to a patient room where no patient was known to be assigned. She bid her coworkers farewell, and ran off to attend to her duties, and…apparently walked off the face of the Earth.
The young nurse never returned to her post. Nobody knows for sure what happened to her, but some patients reported, on an otherwise quiet night, hearing the most vile screaming coming from the hospital grounds. Several thought there must have been some sort of calamity, a fire or car accident, and the delirious occupant of an ambulance was being brought inside.
Other rumors suggested that the young nurse had a beau and the page from the empty room was a signal for them to run away together. Still others claim the opposite, a jilted lover luring her away to exact his revenge.
In recent years, the sight of a young nurse in 1980s scrubs making her rounds through the vacant rooms has been a popular sighting.
Another story tells of a groundskeeper who saw a light coming from the now-abandoned hospital. He ventured inside, expecting to see a gaggle of teenagers undergoing youthful tests of bravery and coming-of-age rituals.
Instead, he is said to have found an operating theater in full occupancy, with medical students and spectators watching from the stands while a surgeon in a bloody apron performed an amputation on a screaming Confederate soldier.
The surgeon turned and stared at the groundskeeper, the way one would expect of a busy surgeon in the middle of a delicate surgery having a confused civilian walk in the operating room mid-operation.
The groundskeeper apologized to the specters, turned around, walked away from his post, and never came back to work.
Signed,
The Lighthouse Keeper
My hands are fixed at ten and two, eyes straight ahead, knuckles white. Am I shaking? I think I’m shaking.
The engine idles like I’m at a stoplight. The creature next to me whimpers and begs in German.
“Mein spuk,” he pleads, tears staining his cheeks, absently scratching and the blackened spiderweb of veins at his right elbow beneath my raincoat. “Mein spuk.”
His frail form shivers under my coat, beads of sweat at his temples. There’s a smell in the air, familiar but not comforting, like a melancholy perfume. It’s definitely floral, but I can’t place it, and it isn’t one of mine.
“Look, kid, I’m willing to take quite a lot on faith,” I tell the whimpering form, “but I’m going to need some guarantees. I need to know I saw what I thought I did, that you’re not going to murder me in my sleep, and whoever had you isn’t going to be out for my blood.”
“Mein spuk. Mein spuk.”
I scratch an itch on my scalp under my bandanna, grateful I don’t have to worry about leaving hair at the crime scene, and then sigh heavily into my rearview mirror. I don’t normally let people into the RV. It’s smaller than a traditional home, so the presence of other people weighs heavy on me.
The whole point of living in an RV is, after all, to be able to get away from everything.
I place my head against my steering wheel, taking deep, 3-4-3 breaths. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I must be dissociating, because none of this feels real and I think I’m having an out of body experience.
Still, as they say, I know what I saw. I saw something not human, something made only of bone and yet still moving.
In a hospital thought to be haunted by the patients.
Well, what’s the worst that could happen? Whoever was holding him comes after me, and I find myself in a bed next to him. He turns out to be some sort of deviant who was sedated for the safety of others, and I just brought the fox into the henhouse. I publish a paper definitively proving the supernatural and become the most famous journalist ever.
So what do I do?
He’s gone silent, maybe asleep. He’s breathing, so he isn’t dead. If he dies on my watch, then…
Well, better than whatever was going on in that abandoned hospital.
I put the car in park and turn off the engine. My passenger starts squirming and begging again, like a fussy infant lulled by the sound of the engine.
“You’re safe now,” I tell him in a consoling tone as I unbuckle us both.
I ditched the wheelchair when I loaded him into my car. The walk from the car to the RV is a lot shorter and I didn’t want to get caught with it, seeing as it could tie me to the scene of the crime, and taking souvenirs is considered a social faux pas in my profession.
Once free of my seat, I stand in front of the passenger side, just staring at him. He’s got fine, delicate features like a porcelain doll, large eyes the palest blue I’ve ever seen, and hair I can only describe as “Targaryan blond.” It’s soaked with sweat and plastered to his skull, but even in the fading twilight I can’t deny the spun moonlight color.
His forearms and calves are angry red and purple, reminding me of the skeleton in the hospital bed with cracked wrists. The burned veins stand out like blackened ash against bleach bone, making me picture the shadow in the hospital bed.
I must be losing my mind.
“Sicher?” he asks, barely able to hold his head up. “Ich werde zu Hause in Sicherheit sein.”
It’s awkward holding him up as I fumble with my keys, trying to jam the right one into the lock and dropping the whole ring in the process.
“Bitte,” he pleads. “Bitte, Lass mich gehen. Ich werde es niemandem erzählen.”
“Hush,” I whisper back, trying to hold him up and reaching for my keys at the same time. “We’re almost there.”
Nothing to see here, good people. Just a couple of drunk kids coming home after an afternoon drinking.
After several tries and another almost-drop, I manage to swing the door open. The sudden change in air flow from the AC hits my guest in the face, prompting those deeply, deeply unsettling eyes to snap open.
“Bitte! Bitte! Nicht hier drin! Tu mir das nicht noch einmal an!” he cries. “Ich möchte zu meinem Spuk zurückkehren! Bring mich nach Hause!”
His arms flail out in both directions, his heels dug into the ground, blocking the door, panic dripping from his voice and manner. If he doesn’t stop shouting, we’re going to go viral from someone’s window.
“Sshh,” I whisper, stroking his hair. “You’re going to take a little nap and then you can tell me all about it.”
Despite the thick layer of feverish sweat coating him, he smells like a broken perfume bottle. I smell roses and lilies, and a few other flowers I can’t quite name. As a whole, it smells familiar, but not like a flower shop, exactly, and certainly not a wedding.
“Kein gift mehr!” he begs as I drag him up the two steps and over the threshhold, flailing and kicking his legs, my jacket abandoned in the doorway. “Du wirst mich umbringen! Ich will nicht sterben!”
By this point I’m dragging him across the floor, splayed out in my living room/dining room/kitchen/laundry room. As fast as I can to avoid witnesses, I grab my jacket and slam the door closed, locking it.
“Ich will nicht sterben!” he begs, trying to right himself.
“Hey, hey, calm down,” I tell him, laying my jacket across him for some semblance of dignity. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Gift! Gift in meinen Adern! Es brennt!” he shouts, scratching at the burned veins on his right arm. His fingernails and toenails are an unhealthy black, like the nail beds are damaged. “Mein Spuk! Mein Spuk! Wo ist es? Wo ist mein Spuk?”
He’s lying on his back in the middle of my floor, screaming in German, and I don’t know what to do. I can hear my heart over him, my palms cold and clammy, and I try to remember the right breath counts for keeping a clear head.
“Let’s get you someplace more comfortable,” I tell him gently, wrapping him in my coat to pin his flailing arms down. “You’re going to hurt yourself here.”
“Fassen Sie mich nicht an! Ich werde kein Gift mehr haben! Furchtlose Wenige, ihr Feiglinge!”
He squirms and strains against my coat, but I hold him tight, dragging him limply toward the bedroom. His feet scrabble against the black and white tile, catching on the metal threshold, and then against the tan carpet. He’s light but he’s feisty, and he does not want to be in my bedroom.
I drag him onto the bed and halfway to the pillows before taking off my jacket. He cries and begs and flails at assailants I can’t see, scratching at the angry blackish lines that show where that green stuff burned him.
“Spooky, honey, look at me,” I order, taking him by the chin, watching his eyes momentarily fix on me. “I’m Eileen. You’re in my RV. Can you tell me your name? Do you have someone I can call to get you?”
“Ich will einfach nur nach Hause,” he whimpers. “Mein spuk. Mein Leichenschauhaus.”
“I’m not going to hurt you, but I need you to help me help you,” I continue. “Who was holding you? What were they doing? Is there someone who can help you?”
“Mein spuk. Mein spuk.”
“Do you speak English?”
“Natürlich tue ich das, abscheuliche Hexe,” he raves. “Behalte dein Gift und schick mich nach Hause!”
His eyes are at the ceiling, unfocused. He writhes in my bed like he’s on fire, begging and pleading.
“Calm down before you hurt yourself!” I demand. “Just relax, you’re safe here.”
Pacing the room and not knowing what else to do, I grab the little bundle of sage I keep by my bed. They say it clears out bad spirits, but mostly it sanitizes the air, so six of one, half a dozen of the other. The smell is also pretty soothing, especially since I generally have a ritual of burning it after a long day of work, when I know I’m home and can relax.
I light it up, holding the flameless lighter away from my face, until it catches a spark. The smoke wafts through the air, like a graceful, gray dancer, spinning her skirts through the air.
My guest arches his back, inhaling deeply. I swear the smoke from the sage flows into his nose like water through a straw. As soon as it hits his airways, he sighs, every tense muscle in his taught, toned body relaxing like melted jell-o. His unfocused eyes flutter closed, his breathing deep and even.
I stare at the sage like it did it on purpose before putting it back on the little clay dish to smolder.
“Well…alright then,” I murmur, taking out my cell phone to jot down a note.
Smell sage = sedative?
It could be a coincidence, like he wore himself out, finally, but it certainly seemed like he was inhaling the sage like cats do catnip. It’s worth trying again if he starts getting...argumentative and puts either of us at risk.
But now, onto more practical matters.
I stop in the bathroom to wash my hands three times, staring at my tired, sweaty, oily face in the mirror and think what to do next.
Clothes. He can’t go around practically naked.
He needs a bath if he’s going to wear clean clothes.
I can’t get him into my shower half-crazed and sedated.
Baby wipes. Under the kitchen sink.
I walk through the bedroom, smelling herby sage and floral Spooky, past the couch, and then into the kitchen, and come back with the wipes. The man in my bed looks like a lead statue, solid and unmoving, except for his chest, breathing deeply.
I stand in my doorway, holding the wipes up to my chest, like a child with a doll. He looks so serene, peaceful. Pushing thoughts about privacy aside, I snap a quick picture with my phone, seeing as I am a documentarian, after all.
Once that itch has been scratched, I set to work with the baby wipes, starting at the most needful spots like under the arms and the soles of the feet. He whimpers fretfully and flinches at the cold touch of the wipes, but doesn’t wake.
He’s burning up with fever. I need to do something about that. I got some ibuprofen, but can he have normal medicine?
I make a mental note to do things the old-fashioned way and get an ice pack out of the fridge, just in case.
Once he’s something approaching clean, I wash my hands three times and then start looking for something more presentable. I have a set of jammies I just bought, soft fleece pants with bedsheet ghosts and a shirt that reads “Spookernatural!” seems appropriate enough.
I haven’t even gotten a chance to wear it myself.
I wrangle him into pants and throw the old hospital gown in the trash, then wash my hands three times. With him quiet and dressed, I have a few minutes to think.
So what now?
My stomach growls, as if in answer.
“Oh, yeah,” I murmur. “I’m hungry. How about you?”
“S-spuk,” he murmurs.
Chapter three
News from the Lighthouse
Ravenswood General was originally built in the early-1800s to deal with the advancing White Plague. At the time, it was the most advanced sanitarium in the South, rivaling the famous Waverly Hills of Kentucky nearly a century sooner, with nearly twice the capacity.
As the tragedy of the outbreak gave way to the horrors of war, the hospital found itself to have new and renewed purpose. Several important figures are known to have stayed here, including Robert E. Lee himself, who was injured during his march south of West Virginia.
Naturally, a place with such a storied history of suffering is bound to have more than a few ghost stories.
In the late eighties, as the hospital was beginning to feel its age and make way for newer, more modern hospitals, a training nurse found herself called to a patient room where no patient was known to be assigned. She bid her coworkers farewell, and ran off to attend to her duties, and…apparently walked off the face of the Earth.
The young nurse never returned to her post. Nobody knows for sure what happened to her, but some patients reported, on an otherwise quiet night, hearing the most vile screaming coming from the hospital grounds. Several thought there must have been some sort of calamity, a fire or car accident, and the delirious occupant of an ambulance was being brought inside.
Other rumors suggested that the young nurse had a beau and the page from the empty room was a signal for them to run away together. Still others claim the opposite, a jilted lover luring her away to exact his revenge.
In recent years, the sight of a young nurse in 1980s scrubs making her rounds through the vacant rooms has been a popular sighting.
Another story tells of a groundskeeper who saw a light coming from the now-abandoned hospital. He ventured inside, expecting to see a gaggle of teenagers undergoing youthful tests of bravery and coming-of-age rituals.
Instead, he is said to have found an operating theater in full occupancy, with medical students and spectators watching from the stands while a surgeon in a bloody apron performed an amputation on a screaming Confederate soldier.
The surgeon turned and stared at the groundskeeper, the way one would expect of a busy surgeon in the middle of a delicate surgery having a confused civilian walk in the operating room mid-operation.
The groundskeeper apologized to the specters, turned around, walked away from his post, and never came back to work.
Signed,
The Lighthouse Keeper
My hands are fixed at ten and two, eyes straight ahead, knuckles white. Am I shaking? I think I’m shaking.
The engine idles like I’m at a stoplight. The creature next to me whimpers and begs in German.
“Mein spuk,” he pleads, tears staining his cheeks, absently scratching and the blackened spiderweb of veins at his right elbow beneath my raincoat. “Mein spuk.”
His frail form shivers under my coat, beads of sweat at his temples. There’s a smell in the air, familiar but not comforting, like a melancholy perfume. It’s definitely floral, but I can’t place it, and it isn’t one of mine.
“Look, kid, I’m willing to take quite a lot on faith,” I tell the whimpering form, “but I’m going to need some guarantees. I need to know I saw what I thought I did, that you’re not going to murder me in my sleep, and whoever had you isn’t going to be out for my blood.”
“Mein spuk. Mein spuk.”
I scratch an itch on my scalp under my bandanna, grateful I don’t have to worry about leaving hair at the crime scene, and then sigh heavily into my rearview mirror. I don’t normally let people into the RV. It’s smaller than a traditional home, so the presence of other people weighs heavy on me.
The whole point of living in an RV is, after all, to be able to get away from everything.
I place my head against my steering wheel, taking deep, 3-4-3 breaths. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I must be dissociating, because none of this feels real and I think I’m having an out of body experience.
Still, as they say, I know what I saw. I saw something not human, something made only of bone and yet still moving.
In a hospital thought to be haunted by the patients.
Well, what’s the worst that could happen? Whoever was holding him comes after me, and I find myself in a bed next to him. He turns out to be some sort of deviant who was sedated for the safety of others, and I just brought the fox into the henhouse. I publish a paper definitively proving the supernatural and become the most famous journalist ever.
So what do I do?
He’s gone silent, maybe asleep. He’s breathing, so he isn’t dead. If he dies on my watch, then…
Well, better than whatever was going on in that abandoned hospital.
I put the car in park and turn off the engine. My passenger starts squirming and begging again, like a fussy infant lulled by the sound of the engine.
“You’re safe now,” I tell him in a consoling tone as I unbuckle us both.
I ditched the wheelchair when I loaded him into my car. The walk from the car to the RV is a lot shorter and I didn’t want to get caught with it, seeing as it could tie me to the scene of the crime, and taking souvenirs is considered a social faux pas in my profession.
Once free of my seat, I stand in front of the passenger side, just staring at him. He’s got fine, delicate features like a porcelain doll, large eyes the palest blue I’ve ever seen, and hair I can only describe as “Targaryan blond.” It’s soaked with sweat and plastered to his skull, but even in the fading twilight I can’t deny the spun moonlight color.
His forearms and calves are angry red and purple, reminding me of the skeleton in the hospital bed with cracked wrists. The burned veins stand out like blackened ash against bleach bone, making me picture the shadow in the hospital bed.
I must be losing my mind.
“Sicher?” he asks, barely able to hold his head up. “Ich werde zu Hause in Sicherheit sein.”
It’s awkward holding him up as I fumble with my keys, trying to jam the right one into the lock and dropping the whole ring in the process.
“Bitte,” he pleads. “Bitte, Lass mich gehen. Ich werde es niemandem erzählen.”
“Hush,” I whisper back, trying to hold him up and reaching for my keys at the same time. “We’re almost there.”
Nothing to see here, good people. Just a couple of drunk kids coming home after an afternoon drinking.
After several tries and another almost-drop, I manage to swing the door open. The sudden change in air flow from the AC hits my guest in the face, prompting those deeply, deeply unsettling eyes to snap open.
“Bitte! Bitte! Nicht hier drin! Tu mir das nicht noch einmal an!” he cries. “Ich möchte zu meinem Spuk zurückkehren! Bring mich nach Hause!”
His arms flail out in both directions, his heels dug into the ground, blocking the door, panic dripping from his voice and manner. If he doesn’t stop shouting, we’re going to go viral from someone’s window.
“Sshh,” I whisper, stroking his hair. “You’re going to take a little nap and then you can tell me all about it.”
Despite the thick layer of feverish sweat coating him, he smells like a broken perfume bottle. I smell roses and lilies, and a few other flowers I can’t quite name. As a whole, it smells familiar, but not like a flower shop, exactly, and certainly not a wedding.
“Kein gift mehr!” he begs as I drag him up the two steps and over the threshhold, flailing and kicking his legs, my jacket abandoned in the doorway. “Du wirst mich umbringen! Ich will nicht sterben!”
By this point I’m dragging him across the floor, splayed out in my living room/dining room/kitchen/laundry room. As fast as I can to avoid witnesses, I grab my jacket and slam the door closed, locking it.
“Ich will nicht sterben!” he begs, trying to right himself.
“Hey, hey, calm down,” I tell him, laying my jacket across him for some semblance of dignity. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Gift! Gift in meinen Adern! Es brennt!” he shouts, scratching at the burned veins on his right arm. His fingernails and toenails are an unhealthy black, like the nail beds are damaged. “Mein Spuk! Mein Spuk! Wo ist es? Wo ist mein Spuk?”
He’s lying on his back in the middle of my floor, screaming in German, and I don’t know what to do. I can hear my heart over him, my palms cold and clammy, and I try to remember the right breath counts for keeping a clear head.
“Let’s get you someplace more comfortable,” I tell him gently, wrapping him in my coat to pin his flailing arms down. “You’re going to hurt yourself here.”
“Fassen Sie mich nicht an! Ich werde kein Gift mehr haben! Furchtlose Wenige, ihr Feiglinge!”
He squirms and strains against my coat, but I hold him tight, dragging him limply toward the bedroom. His feet scrabble against the black and white tile, catching on the metal threshold, and then against the tan carpet. He’s light but he’s feisty, and he does not want to be in my bedroom.
I drag him onto the bed and halfway to the pillows before taking off my jacket. He cries and begs and flails at assailants I can’t see, scratching at the angry blackish lines that show where that green stuff burned him.
“Spooky, honey, look at me,” I order, taking him by the chin, watching his eyes momentarily fix on me. “I’m Eileen. You’re in my RV. Can you tell me your name? Do you have someone I can call to get you?”
“Ich will einfach nur nach Hause,” he whimpers. “Mein spuk. Mein Leichenschauhaus.”
“I’m not going to hurt you, but I need you to help me help you,” I continue. “Who was holding you? What were they doing? Is there someone who can help you?”
“Mein spuk. Mein spuk.”
“Do you speak English?”
“Natürlich tue ich das, abscheuliche Hexe,” he raves. “Behalte dein Gift und schick mich nach Hause!”
His eyes are at the ceiling, unfocused. He writhes in my bed like he’s on fire, begging and pleading.
“Calm down before you hurt yourself!” I demand. “Just relax, you’re safe here.”
Pacing the room and not knowing what else to do, I grab the little bundle of sage I keep by my bed. They say it clears out bad spirits, but mostly it sanitizes the air, so six of one, half a dozen of the other. The smell is also pretty soothing, especially since I generally have a ritual of burning it after a long day of work, when I know I’m home and can relax.
I light it up, holding the flameless lighter away from my face, until it catches a spark. The smoke wafts through the air, like a graceful, gray dancer, spinning her skirts through the air.
My guest arches his back, inhaling deeply. I swear the smoke from the sage flows into his nose like water through a straw. As soon as it hits his airways, he sighs, every tense muscle in his taught, toned body relaxing like melted jell-o. His unfocused eyes flutter closed, his breathing deep and even.
I stare at the sage like it did it on purpose before putting it back on the little clay dish to smolder.
“Well…alright then,” I murmur, taking out my cell phone to jot down a note.
Smell sage = sedative?
It could be a coincidence, like he wore himself out, finally, but it certainly seemed like he was inhaling the sage like cats do catnip. It’s worth trying again if he starts getting...argumentative and puts either of us at risk.
But now, onto more practical matters.
I stop in the bathroom to wash my hands three times, staring at my tired, sweaty, oily face in the mirror and think what to do next.
Clothes. He can’t go around practically naked.
He needs a bath if he’s going to wear clean clothes.
I can’t get him into my shower half-crazed and sedated.
Baby wipes. Under the kitchen sink.
I walk through the bedroom, smelling herby sage and floral Spooky, past the couch, and then into the kitchen, and come back with the wipes. The man in my bed looks like a lead statue, solid and unmoving, except for his chest, breathing deeply.
I stand in my doorway, holding the wipes up to my chest, like a child with a doll. He looks so serene, peaceful. Pushing thoughts about privacy aside, I snap a quick picture with my phone, seeing as I am a documentarian, after all.
Once that itch has been scratched, I set to work with the baby wipes, starting at the most needful spots like under the arms and the soles of the feet. He whimpers fretfully and flinches at the cold touch of the wipes, but doesn’t wake.
He’s burning up with fever. I need to do something about that. I got some ibuprofen, but can he have normal medicine?
I make a mental note to do things the old-fashioned way and get an ice pack out of the fridge, just in case.
Once he’s something approaching clean, I wash my hands three times and then start looking for something more presentable. I have a set of jammies I just bought, soft fleece pants with bedsheet ghosts and a shirt that reads “Spookernatural!” seems appropriate enough.
I haven’t even gotten a chance to wear it myself.
I wrangle him into pants and throw the old hospital gown in the trash, then wash my hands three times. With him quiet and dressed, I have a few minutes to think.
So what now?
My stomach growls, as if in answer.
“Oh, yeah,” I murmur. “I’m hungry. How about you?”
“S-spuk,” he murmurs.
Chapter three
Ghost Story--Chapter three
Chapter two
News from the Lighthouse
Like many old towns with many paranormal sightings, Ravenswood has its very own White Lady.
A White Lady is a common type of female ghost or specter that appears as a woman dressed all in white. Often she is seen walking down empty, secluded streets. You are probably familiar with the story of the Hitchhiking Ghost, where a man picks up a woman on the side of a deserted road, is instructed to take her home, her stopping him at the cemetery, and then vanishing from his car, leaving him to find out the woman had been dead for years.
The White Lady of Ravenswood is believed to be that of Agatha Emmerson, Ravenswood’s. She was to be married, a rather quick affair due to the failing health of her intended and her financial need to inherit his wealth. Sadly, Brom Davison, her suitor, would pass away at the hour of the wedding due to complications from tuberculosis. She had stood beside her beloved’s bed in her wedding gown, and he was gone before she could say her vows.
It is said she left his home in shock, and walked toward her own crumbling estate in a daze. She never arrived, with no clear historical record as to why, and it is believed the White Lady is Agatha in her wedding dress, walking the path she took all those years ago.
There is a story of a group of teenagers walking the road at sundown. They’re laughing and telling stories and teasing each other with stories of a woman in white that walks the woods, looking for lone men driving at night.
That was when one snapped a candid picture of another doing something silly. While they saw nothing, the picture on the cell phone shows a white, robed dress standing by itself. The figure is slightly transparent and has no face.
Chapter three
I’m stiff and cold when he wakes, the man in my arms with the white hair who smells like flowers. I feel him stir against me, mumbling in confusion as he looks around. Slowly, he attempts to get to his feet, not bothering to dislodge himself from my arms first.
“That’s not a good—” I start.
He cries out in pain as his feet touch the carpet and drops hard to the ground, apparently having not realized the extent of his injuries, and momentarily trembles on the ground.
“You’ve been in an accident,” I tell him.
His pale blue eyes lock onto mine, and there is fear in them. He looks like a deer in headlights, a rabbit out in the open. It’s the look of someone who didn’t expect to be seen.
“Du. Sie haben dies getan,” he growls as I lower myself to the ground between him and the bed.
“It’s alright,” I whisper, putting my right hand on his back and under his chest, taking his left arm in mine, getting ready to pull him up. “Let’s get you back into bed.”
“Fass mich nicht an, Hexe. Löse deinen Fluch und schick mich nach Hause,” he snarls, jerking away and hurting himself for is trouble.
I blink. He’s awake. He’s aware. His eyes focus properly, and his reaction time is where it should be, all things considered.
I don’t think I was prepared for this, for him awake and conscious. I should have expected that he’d be confused and scared, and that’s my fault. If I’m going to keep him from hurting himself, I need to calm him down. Maybe I can coax some information out of him and find out what’s going on.
I wince. He might not speak English.
Taking a breath, I pull away and sit away from him, like trying to acclimate a wounded animal to me.
“I’m Eileen,” I explain as calmly as I can. “You’ve been in some kind of accident. I took you back to my place to…so you can rest up. I think you’ve got broken bones, and I don’t know what that IV stuff did to you, either.”
“Dummes Mädchen. Du hast deine Hand in ein Wespennest gesteckt.”
“Do you…want back on the bed?” I ask, watching the way he shakes on his hands and knees, smelling the floral sweat beginning to build on his temples.
His head turns toward the side of the bed and he starts to shake violently, dry heaving in the floor. As quick as I can I snatch my trash can from next to the bed and put it beneath him, just in time for him to spill his guts in the bag and not on my carpet. When he’s empty, he’s stricken above the can, trembling, pale, and breaking into sobs.
“I’ll take care of it,” I assure him, trashing the contents of the can and washing my hands three times, and then grabbing a wet wipe from the counter and bring it to him.
He pulls away when I try to wipe his face, but his arm hurts too bad for him to really do anything about it.
“Stop being a baby,” I order. “It’s just soap.”
He glares at me when I’m finished, and then glances down at his hands, wincing as his fingers feel the carpet. Quivering, he raises one hand to his face and looks it over, flexing his fingers.
He’s trying to turn into a skeleton, and it isn’t working.
He places his hand back on the ground, and a long, heartbreaking wail emerges from his chest like a chill wind on an October night. It makes my blood run cold, and think of long nights spent in the dark, watching the spindly shadows on the wall from the trees outside, and imagining hands in the shapes.
Um…stroking his hair during fever dreams is one thing, but…what am I supposed to do now? What did I want back then?
Gently, I reach out put my hand on his, and then wrap my other arm around him, scooting closer and pulling him into my lap, trying to take the pressure off his damaged joints.
“Ich bin der Bestatter, der Butzemann, der Schwarze Mann. Ich bringe Angst in Kinderbetten. Ich bin der Schrecken der Friedhöfe von Ravenswood. Ich weine nicht. Was ist mit mir passiert?”
I rock him like a child for a second time, his moonlight hair under my chin, discretely looking over his wrists to make sure he didn’t crack anything.
His sobs start to quiet, less from him feeling better and more from him having nothing left to give, physically or emotionally. When he’s breathing normally, he tries to pull away again, but I hold him close to keep him from hurting himself.
“I’m Eileen,” I repeat, trying to sound strong despite the sound of his pained wails ringing in my ears. “You have been in some kind of accident. I brought you here so you can get better. Do you have a name? A number I can call for you? Do you speak English?”
He is quiet. Aside from his labored, post-cry breathing, I’d almost think he were asleep again, or dead. He starts trembling again in my arms.
“Was war der Name? Sie bauten Särge, sie mischten die Chemikalien, sie sprachen die Worte. Wo ist es hin?” he whimpers fretfully.
I really should find some kind of translator app.
“Do you want to get back on the bed?” I ask hopefully, my feet starting to go to sleep.
“Ja,” he answers in so small a voice that I almost don’t hear it.
I pull myself out from under him without jostling him too badly, taking him under the arms and pulling him up. Fortunately for me, he doesn’t weigh much more than a feather, but it’s enough to make him gasp when he balances on his heels.
“Easy does it,” I placate, stepping lightly backward. There is fear in his eyes and the way he holds tight to my arms as he walks backwards, the look of someone who doesn’t trust easy. “You’ve got to trust me. See? Easy-peasy.”
He lets go of me sharply when he’s in place, like he’s holding something nasty he’d rather not. His whole demeanor is feral cat backed into a cornor.
“Vertrauen wird verdient und Sie müssen es sich noch verdienen,” he purrs darkly with the upturned nose of an aristocrat.
“Where do you live?” I ask, kneeling in front of him. He rubs his head like he has a headache.
“Mein Spuk. Ich kann nicht…Ich weiß, wie ich dorthin komme, aber warum kann ich es nicht fühlen?” he mumbles, looking askance and sounding distracted.
“Look at me,” I command, gesturing to my eyes. “Do you speak English?”
He’s still captivated by his hands.
“Es funktioniert nicht. Warum funktioniert es nicht?”
Kneeling in front of him, I take his hand, even if it feels unnatural. His skin is cool and dry, his flesh recoiling at my touch. He looks up at me, heavy fear and sadness in his eyes.
“Do you want me to take you to the hospital?” I ask. “Or do you have family I can call?”
“Bring mich nicht ins Krankenhaus. Niemand kann mich so finden,” he replies, looking away.
Sighing, I hang my head. A headache is starting to form behind my eyes.
I reach into my pocket to pull out my cell phone and do a search in the apps for some kind of translator, and pick the highest-rated one in the list. It doesn’t take long to download, and has an auto-detect feature, but the voice is robotic and off-putting.
“You have been hurt. I brought you here to help you. Is there someone I can call for you?” I ask. “Du wurdest verletzt. Ich habe dich hergebracht, um dir zu helfen. Gibt es jemanden, den ich für Sie anrufen kann?”
He looks down at my phone like he’s never seen one before and didn’t expect it to make noise.
“Kleines Wunder,” he breathes. “Little wonder.”
Wincing, he reaches out to grab my phone, which on reflex I pull away from him.
“Ihr Menschen, so schlaue kleine Biester,” he says in wonder. “You humans, such clever little beasts.”
I bite my lower lip and say into the device, “Are you…not human?”
“Bist du…kein Mensch?” the app repeats.
He regards me with something almost like disdain, looking me over like a potential purchase at the store, and then growls like an animal, forcing himself to his feet and making a beeline for the doorway.
“No, no, no,” I shriek, grabbing him by the shoulders.
“Fassen Sie mich nicht an!” he snarls, barreling forward with his momentum. “Don’t touch me!”
He might be slight, but he’s also determined. His momentum carries him forward faster than I can counter, and he takes us both to the floor, crying out in pain. I land on top of him, driving the wind out of him in a labored gasp.
“Wieso den? Was habe ich getan um das zu verdienen?” he whimpers, half-sobbing as I climb off of him. “Why? What did I do to deserve this?”
I lay next to him, hands shaking, out of breath and struggling to think of what to do next.
“You’re going to hurt yourself if you keep this up,” I warn. “Du wirst dir weh tun, wenn du so weitermachst.”
“Wie wichtig ist Ihnen mein Wohlbefinden?” he snarls, struggling to his feet. “How important is my well-being to you?”
I take a sharp breath and close my eyes, trying to find the words.
“I heard your voice in the hospital. I untied you and brought you here. I saw you turn into a skeleton, and your head went through my window,” I explain. “Ich habe deine Stimme im Krankenhaus gehört. Ich habe dich losgebunden und dich hierher gebracht. Ich habe gesehen, wie du dich in ein Skelett verwandelt hast, und dein Kopf ist durch mein Fenster geflogen.”
“Wie lange war das her?” he asks, sounding hopeful.“How long ago was that?”
“Um…about two days. You don’t remember talking to me in your sleep?” I answer. “Ähm … ungefähr zwei Tage. Du erinnerst dich nicht daran, im Schlaf mit mir gesprochen zu haben?”
“Wie kommst du darauf, dass du wichtig genug bist, um mit mir zu reden?” he laughs bitterly. “What makes you think you're important enough to talk to me?”
“I’m the one that hauled your ass back to my car, took you into my home, let you borrow my clothes, and fed you,” I retort. “Ich bin diejenige, die deinen Arsch zurück zu meinem Auto geschleppt, dich zu mir nach Hause gebracht, dir meine Klamotten ausgeliehen und dich gefüttert hat.”
“Du bist nicht bei ihnen? Die mir das angetan haben?” he asks, sounding confused and maybe a bit relieved. “Are you not with them? Who did this to me?”
“No. I’m not going to hurt you. I’d like to study you, in exchange for putting you up while you get stronger, unless you got someone better to be. But no, I wasn’t involved with…whatever happened to you,” I explain. “Nein. Ich werde dir nicht weh tun. Ich würde dich gerne studieren, im Austausch dafür, dass ich dich aufstelle, während du stärker wirst, es sei denn, du hast jemanden, der besser werden kann. Aber nein, ich war nicht beteiligt an…was auch immer mit dir passiert ist.”
“Ich verstehe,” he replies, sounding unconvinced. “I understand.”
“Would you like to get off the floor now?” I ask, trying to sound kind and non-threatening. “Möchten Sie jetzt vom Boden aufstehen?”
“Ja,” he sighs, half-meek, half exasperation, like he’s too good for his (literally) lily-white hands to touch me. “Yes.”
I clamber to my feet, self-consciously check to make sure my hair is still in place, and get into position, arms wrapped around his chest.
“Don’t fight me. Just trust me,” I tell him, bringing him upward and back on the bed. “Kämpfe nicht gegen mich. Vertrau mir einfach.”
“Bringst du mich jetzt nach Hause?” he asks, like an overtired child asking to be tucked in. “Will you take me home now?”
I bite my lip as I help straighten him out again, adjusting the pillows and pulling the blankets over him.
“Do you have a family or friends to help you?” I ask. “Hast du eine Familie oder Freunde, die dir helfen?”
“Nein. Niemand kann mich so finden,” he answers, eyes wide, that deer in the headlights look again, and also a touch of shame. “No. No one can find me like this.”
Pursing my lips, I run my fingers through his hair, feeling the silken texture and smelling the flowers. He growls and dodges my touch.
“You are in no shape to be on your own. It’s either a me or a hospital,” I explain. “Du bist nicht in der Verfassung, alleine zu sein. Entweder ich oder ein Krankenhaus.”
He squeezes my hand when I pull away, wincing with pain. He looks up at me with large, silvery-blue eyes, pleading without a word.
“Ist es so, ein Mensch zu sein? All dieser Schmerz und diese Sorge und Not?” he whimpers. “Is that what it's like to be human? All this pain and worry and distress?”
“You get used to it,” I huff. “Man gewöhnt sich daran.”
News from the Lighthouse
Like many old towns with many paranormal sightings, Ravenswood has its very own White Lady.
A White Lady is a common type of female ghost or specter that appears as a woman dressed all in white. Often she is seen walking down empty, secluded streets. You are probably familiar with the story of the Hitchhiking Ghost, where a man picks up a woman on the side of a deserted road, is instructed to take her home, her stopping him at the cemetery, and then vanishing from his car, leaving him to find out the woman had been dead for years.
The White Lady of Ravenswood is believed to be that of Agatha Emmerson, Ravenswood’s. She was to be married, a rather quick affair due to the failing health of her intended and her financial need to inherit his wealth. Sadly, Brom Davison, her suitor, would pass away at the hour of the wedding due to complications from tuberculosis. She had stood beside her beloved’s bed in her wedding gown, and he was gone before she could say her vows.
It is said she left his home in shock, and walked toward her own crumbling estate in a daze. She never arrived, with no clear historical record as to why, and it is believed the White Lady is Agatha in her wedding dress, walking the path she took all those years ago.
There is a story of a group of teenagers walking the road at sundown. They’re laughing and telling stories and teasing each other with stories of a woman in white that walks the woods, looking for lone men driving at night.
That was when one snapped a candid picture of another doing something silly. While they saw nothing, the picture on the cell phone shows a white, robed dress standing by itself. The figure is slightly transparent and has no face.
Chapter three
I’m stiff and cold when he wakes, the man in my arms with the white hair who smells like flowers. I feel him stir against me, mumbling in confusion as he looks around. Slowly, he attempts to get to his feet, not bothering to dislodge himself from my arms first.
“That’s not a good—” I start.
He cries out in pain as his feet touch the carpet and drops hard to the ground, apparently having not realized the extent of his injuries, and momentarily trembles on the ground.
“You’ve been in an accident,” I tell him.
His pale blue eyes lock onto mine, and there is fear in them. He looks like a deer in headlights, a rabbit out in the open. It’s the look of someone who didn’t expect to be seen.
“Du. Sie haben dies getan,” he growls as I lower myself to the ground between him and the bed.
“It’s alright,” I whisper, putting my right hand on his back and under his chest, taking his left arm in mine, getting ready to pull him up. “Let’s get you back into bed.”
“Fass mich nicht an, Hexe. Löse deinen Fluch und schick mich nach Hause,” he snarls, jerking away and hurting himself for is trouble.
I blink. He’s awake. He’s aware. His eyes focus properly, and his reaction time is where it should be, all things considered.
I don’t think I was prepared for this, for him awake and conscious. I should have expected that he’d be confused and scared, and that’s my fault. If I’m going to keep him from hurting himself, I need to calm him down. Maybe I can coax some information out of him and find out what’s going on.
I wince. He might not speak English.
Taking a breath, I pull away and sit away from him, like trying to acclimate a wounded animal to me.
“I’m Eileen,” I explain as calmly as I can. “You’ve been in some kind of accident. I took you back to my place to…so you can rest up. I think you’ve got broken bones, and I don’t know what that IV stuff did to you, either.”
“Dummes Mädchen. Du hast deine Hand in ein Wespennest gesteckt.”
“Do you…want back on the bed?” I ask, watching the way he shakes on his hands and knees, smelling the floral sweat beginning to build on his temples.
His head turns toward the side of the bed and he starts to shake violently, dry heaving in the floor. As quick as I can I snatch my trash can from next to the bed and put it beneath him, just in time for him to spill his guts in the bag and not on my carpet. When he’s empty, he’s stricken above the can, trembling, pale, and breaking into sobs.
“I’ll take care of it,” I assure him, trashing the contents of the can and washing my hands three times, and then grabbing a wet wipe from the counter and bring it to him.
He pulls away when I try to wipe his face, but his arm hurts too bad for him to really do anything about it.
“Stop being a baby,” I order. “It’s just soap.”
He glares at me when I’m finished, and then glances down at his hands, wincing as his fingers feel the carpet. Quivering, he raises one hand to his face and looks it over, flexing his fingers.
He’s trying to turn into a skeleton, and it isn’t working.
He places his hand back on the ground, and a long, heartbreaking wail emerges from his chest like a chill wind on an October night. It makes my blood run cold, and think of long nights spent in the dark, watching the spindly shadows on the wall from the trees outside, and imagining hands in the shapes.
Um…stroking his hair during fever dreams is one thing, but…what am I supposed to do now? What did I want back then?
Gently, I reach out put my hand on his, and then wrap my other arm around him, scooting closer and pulling him into my lap, trying to take the pressure off his damaged joints.
“Ich bin der Bestatter, der Butzemann, der Schwarze Mann. Ich bringe Angst in Kinderbetten. Ich bin der Schrecken der Friedhöfe von Ravenswood. Ich weine nicht. Was ist mit mir passiert?”
I rock him like a child for a second time, his moonlight hair under my chin, discretely looking over his wrists to make sure he didn’t crack anything.
His sobs start to quiet, less from him feeling better and more from him having nothing left to give, physically or emotionally. When he’s breathing normally, he tries to pull away again, but I hold him close to keep him from hurting himself.
“I’m Eileen,” I repeat, trying to sound strong despite the sound of his pained wails ringing in my ears. “You have been in some kind of accident. I brought you here so you can get better. Do you have a name? A number I can call for you? Do you speak English?”
He is quiet. Aside from his labored, post-cry breathing, I’d almost think he were asleep again, or dead. He starts trembling again in my arms.
“Was war der Name? Sie bauten Särge, sie mischten die Chemikalien, sie sprachen die Worte. Wo ist es hin?” he whimpers fretfully.
I really should find some kind of translator app.
“Do you want to get back on the bed?” I ask hopefully, my feet starting to go to sleep.
“Ja,” he answers in so small a voice that I almost don’t hear it.
I pull myself out from under him without jostling him too badly, taking him under the arms and pulling him up. Fortunately for me, he doesn’t weigh much more than a feather, but it’s enough to make him gasp when he balances on his heels.
“Easy does it,” I placate, stepping lightly backward. There is fear in his eyes and the way he holds tight to my arms as he walks backwards, the look of someone who doesn’t trust easy. “You’ve got to trust me. See? Easy-peasy.”
He lets go of me sharply when he’s in place, like he’s holding something nasty he’d rather not. His whole demeanor is feral cat backed into a cornor.
“Vertrauen wird verdient und Sie müssen es sich noch verdienen,” he purrs darkly with the upturned nose of an aristocrat.
“Where do you live?” I ask, kneeling in front of him. He rubs his head like he has a headache.
“Mein Spuk. Ich kann nicht…Ich weiß, wie ich dorthin komme, aber warum kann ich es nicht fühlen?” he mumbles, looking askance and sounding distracted.
“Look at me,” I command, gesturing to my eyes. “Do you speak English?”
He’s still captivated by his hands.
“Es funktioniert nicht. Warum funktioniert es nicht?”
Kneeling in front of him, I take his hand, even if it feels unnatural. His skin is cool and dry, his flesh recoiling at my touch. He looks up at me, heavy fear and sadness in his eyes.
“Do you want me to take you to the hospital?” I ask. “Or do you have family I can call?”
“Bring mich nicht ins Krankenhaus. Niemand kann mich so finden,” he replies, looking away.
Sighing, I hang my head. A headache is starting to form behind my eyes.
I reach into my pocket to pull out my cell phone and do a search in the apps for some kind of translator, and pick the highest-rated one in the list. It doesn’t take long to download, and has an auto-detect feature, but the voice is robotic and off-putting.
“You have been hurt. I brought you here to help you. Is there someone I can call for you?” I ask. “Du wurdest verletzt. Ich habe dich hergebracht, um dir zu helfen. Gibt es jemanden, den ich für Sie anrufen kann?”
He looks down at my phone like he’s never seen one before and didn’t expect it to make noise.
“Kleines Wunder,” he breathes. “Little wonder.”
Wincing, he reaches out to grab my phone, which on reflex I pull away from him.
“Ihr Menschen, so schlaue kleine Biester,” he says in wonder. “You humans, such clever little beasts.”
I bite my lower lip and say into the device, “Are you…not human?”
“Bist du…kein Mensch?” the app repeats.
He regards me with something almost like disdain, looking me over like a potential purchase at the store, and then growls like an animal, forcing himself to his feet and making a beeline for the doorway.
“No, no, no,” I shriek, grabbing him by the shoulders.
“Fassen Sie mich nicht an!” he snarls, barreling forward with his momentum. “Don’t touch me!”
He might be slight, but he’s also determined. His momentum carries him forward faster than I can counter, and he takes us both to the floor, crying out in pain. I land on top of him, driving the wind out of him in a labored gasp.
“Wieso den? Was habe ich getan um das zu verdienen?” he whimpers, half-sobbing as I climb off of him. “Why? What did I do to deserve this?”
I lay next to him, hands shaking, out of breath and struggling to think of what to do next.
“You’re going to hurt yourself if you keep this up,” I warn. “Du wirst dir weh tun, wenn du so weitermachst.”
“Wie wichtig ist Ihnen mein Wohlbefinden?” he snarls, struggling to his feet. “How important is my well-being to you?”
I take a sharp breath and close my eyes, trying to find the words.
“I heard your voice in the hospital. I untied you and brought you here. I saw you turn into a skeleton, and your head went through my window,” I explain. “Ich habe deine Stimme im Krankenhaus gehört. Ich habe dich losgebunden und dich hierher gebracht. Ich habe gesehen, wie du dich in ein Skelett verwandelt hast, und dein Kopf ist durch mein Fenster geflogen.”
“Wie lange war das her?” he asks, sounding hopeful.“How long ago was that?”
“Um…about two days. You don’t remember talking to me in your sleep?” I answer. “Ähm … ungefähr zwei Tage. Du erinnerst dich nicht daran, im Schlaf mit mir gesprochen zu haben?”
“Wie kommst du darauf, dass du wichtig genug bist, um mit mir zu reden?” he laughs bitterly. “What makes you think you're important enough to talk to me?”
“I’m the one that hauled your ass back to my car, took you into my home, let you borrow my clothes, and fed you,” I retort. “Ich bin diejenige, die deinen Arsch zurück zu meinem Auto geschleppt, dich zu mir nach Hause gebracht, dir meine Klamotten ausgeliehen und dich gefüttert hat.”
“Du bist nicht bei ihnen? Die mir das angetan haben?” he asks, sounding confused and maybe a bit relieved. “Are you not with them? Who did this to me?”
“No. I’m not going to hurt you. I’d like to study you, in exchange for putting you up while you get stronger, unless you got someone better to be. But no, I wasn’t involved with…whatever happened to you,” I explain. “Nein. Ich werde dir nicht weh tun. Ich würde dich gerne studieren, im Austausch dafür, dass ich dich aufstelle, während du stärker wirst, es sei denn, du hast jemanden, der besser werden kann. Aber nein, ich war nicht beteiligt an…was auch immer mit dir passiert ist.”
“Ich verstehe,” he replies, sounding unconvinced. “I understand.”
“Would you like to get off the floor now?” I ask, trying to sound kind and non-threatening. “Möchten Sie jetzt vom Boden aufstehen?”
“Ja,” he sighs, half-meek, half exasperation, like he’s too good for his (literally) lily-white hands to touch me. “Yes.”
I clamber to my feet, self-consciously check to make sure my hair is still in place, and get into position, arms wrapped around his chest.
“Don’t fight me. Just trust me,” I tell him, bringing him upward and back on the bed. “Kämpfe nicht gegen mich. Vertrau mir einfach.”
“Bringst du mich jetzt nach Hause?” he asks, like an overtired child asking to be tucked in. “Will you take me home now?”
I bite my lip as I help straighten him out again, adjusting the pillows and pulling the blankets over him.
“Do you have a family or friends to help you?” I ask. “Hast du eine Familie oder Freunde, die dir helfen?”
“Nein. Niemand kann mich so finden,” he answers, eyes wide, that deer in the headlights look again, and also a touch of shame. “No. No one can find me like this.”
Pursing my lips, I run my fingers through his hair, feeling the silken texture and smelling the flowers. He growls and dodges my touch.
“You are in no shape to be on your own. It’s either a me or a hospital,” I explain. “Du bist nicht in der Verfassung, alleine zu sein. Entweder ich oder ein Krankenhaus.”
He squeezes my hand when I pull away, wincing with pain. He looks up at me with large, silvery-blue eyes, pleading without a word.
“Ist es so, ein Mensch zu sein? All dieser Schmerz und diese Sorge und Not?” he whimpers. “Is that what it's like to be human? All this pain and worry and distress?”
“You get used to it,” I huff. “Man gewöhnt sich daran.”
Too Scary
Too Scary
by
Heather Farthing (c) 2023, all rights reserved
I stumble into the RV, dragging grocery bags along the ground and nearly falling on top of a mound of plastic and cereal boxes.
“Honey, I’m home,” I call out, wiggling my burning wrists out of the bags and dragging the door closed.
There is no answer.
I glance around the living room/dining room/kitchen combo skeptically, looking for something amiss. The air is as still as a tomb, an oppressive silence that makes the voice fall flat and the chest feel heavy. It’s like being in an ancient graveyard, with the feeling that something is watching for you to touch something you shouldn’t.
“Hello?” I ask the air.
Nothing.
I never know what I’m coming home to when Spooky feels sedentary and reclusive. It could be hands reaching out of reflective surfaces, books and small items reorganizing themselves, the groceries and supplies putting themselves away, or, once or twice, the looming shadow of something large, horned, and ominous standing in the bedroom doorway.
He doesn’t normally step out without me, especially during bright, sunny days, fearing the predators that live in the light the way humans fear the things that dwell in the dark. He has spooked the neighbors or answered the door, checked the mail at front desks, usually leaving nervous glances and unsettled feelings in his wake.
It is possible he wandered somewhere, a cold spot following a crowd to a food truck or local point of interest. Not generally during the day when the sky jellies are out, but that’s why he would use the human smell for cover.
As I put the groceries on the table, unease twists my stomach. It’s possible he got swept into an imprint and is currently acting out some forgotten moment in time. Those are always a problem, since he doesn’t quite remember who he is or what he’s supposed to be doing, and I worry if it happens when I’m not around I might not know where to look for him.
Spooky is a strong specter, though. He can generally power through whatever foreign memory he’s walked through.
Sky jellies are another beast altogether. They generally stay away from human habitats and the scent of the human condition, but they are a predator like any other and hunger drives them to aberrant behavior, just like wolves and bears.
I try not to think about it as I knock on the lid of his coffin, currently taking up most of my living room, all glossy black and silver accents. Spooky is classic and classy, a German baron from the 1800s, and wears his upperclass roots on his literal sleeves.
There is no answer.
I suppose he could be asleep. He does sleep, or whatever the equivalent is. They’re nocturnal, naturally, which keeps them away from the sky jellies, and is why activity spikes at night.
Nothing.
Frowning, I knock again.
Nothing.
Normally he sits up after one or two tries, his hair and skeleton luminous, dressed in a black silk dressing-gown that would probably cost as much as the RV if it were real, with sleepy eyes and a stifled yawn.
I frown, tapping my foot and thinking. There isn’t a lot of space in an RV for someone to hide, especially with a full-sized coffin laid end to end in the living room, but Spooky isn’t bound by the physical.
He could be in a mirror. He likes mirrors, it’s an antebellum mortician thing, but I don’t know how to get him out of those.
I’d just be happy if I could hear him snoring, or smell funeral arrangements, or feel an unexplained cold spot. I mean, if he was taken by an imprint or eaten by a sky jelly, how would I know about it, and how long would I stay before I needed to give up and move on?
I take some comfort in knowing that he’s haunting me, specifically. He says he always knows where his haunt is, like a homing pigeon, and would still instinctively come for me, even if lost in an imprint. He’s also got his own defenses against sky jellies, so it’s not like he’s a walking steak.
Still, it is unusual to come home and not feel…haunted.
I step around the coffin and into the bedroom, looking into the mirror at the vanity. I rotate it around to show the television, and then once more, but my reflection doesn’t age or decay, a formless, blue-eyed shadow doesn’t appear behind me, and white hands don’t pound from the other side of the glass.
Strange. He could be in the bathroom mirror, but that would be like a human just…hanging out in the bathroom. It’s possible, but probably not.
I turn around and look at the neatly-folded bed. It’s the bedspread with the tombstone and spiderweb motif, which means he at least did some laundry today, since I had the cute bedsheet ghosts he hates, and he takes any chance to cycle them back through the two or three stowed in the storage space below.
You ever been in a lake or swimming pool under partial shade, and the current changes at the sun-warmed water ebbs away and the cool, shady water wraps around your ankles like the cold hands of death?
Wisps of black smoke coils from beneath the bed, like a fire trying to catch, smelling of funeral flowers.
I step around to the side of the bed, drop to my hands and knees, and lift up the black dust ruffle.
The creature beneath the bed is made of gray smoke and black shadow. It writhes and boils like dye diffused in water, with vague shapes formed in the darkness like clawed hands and pointed ears. Shockingly pale blue eyes, devoid of sclera or pupil, stare out of the shadows.
Behold, the fearsome boogeyman.
“You alright, Spooky?” I ask, settling onto my belly.
“Liebchen!” he breathes sleepily and a bit panicked, like someone waking from a bad nightmare to a comforting presence. “It is good you are home.”
“Do you need some formaldehyde?” I ask kindly, watching the vapors solidify into a white-haired German man in his early twenties, dressed from head to toe in black, with a damask waistcoat and dress shoes. “Or watch some scary movies with me?”
“Nein, liebchen,” he protests, shaking his head. “I was making enough scary movies today.”
“Oh?” I ask, my interest piqued. He thinks Poltergeist is a revenge fantasy and Amityville is a slapstick comedy, so I can’t imagine what he might have watched to drive him under the bed, hiding like a scared child.
“It was vile,” he explains. “A character study on the villains and their terrible crimes. I have never seen such grisly depictions of torture! I thought there was a rating system in place?”
I run a list of title through my head and come up blank. He haunted a family-run mortuary for two hundred years, so I’m not sure the likes of Saw or Hostel would phase him, but then again, embalmed corpses don’t beg for their lives.
“What was it?” I ask, head propped on my hand, elbow along the floor.
“Ghostbusters.”
by
Heather Farthing (c) 2023, all rights reserved
I stumble into the RV, dragging grocery bags along the ground and nearly falling on top of a mound of plastic and cereal boxes.
“Honey, I’m home,” I call out, wiggling my burning wrists out of the bags and dragging the door closed.
There is no answer.
I glance around the living room/dining room/kitchen combo skeptically, looking for something amiss. The air is as still as a tomb, an oppressive silence that makes the voice fall flat and the chest feel heavy. It’s like being in an ancient graveyard, with the feeling that something is watching for you to touch something you shouldn’t.
“Hello?” I ask the air.
Nothing.
I never know what I’m coming home to when Spooky feels sedentary and reclusive. It could be hands reaching out of reflective surfaces, books and small items reorganizing themselves, the groceries and supplies putting themselves away, or, once or twice, the looming shadow of something large, horned, and ominous standing in the bedroom doorway.
He doesn’t normally step out without me, especially during bright, sunny days, fearing the predators that live in the light the way humans fear the things that dwell in the dark. He has spooked the neighbors or answered the door, checked the mail at front desks, usually leaving nervous glances and unsettled feelings in his wake.
It is possible he wandered somewhere, a cold spot following a crowd to a food truck or local point of interest. Not generally during the day when the sky jellies are out, but that’s why he would use the human smell for cover.
As I put the groceries on the table, unease twists my stomach. It’s possible he got swept into an imprint and is currently acting out some forgotten moment in time. Those are always a problem, since he doesn’t quite remember who he is or what he’s supposed to be doing, and I worry if it happens when I’m not around I might not know where to look for him.
Spooky is a strong specter, though. He can generally power through whatever foreign memory he’s walked through.
Sky jellies are another beast altogether. They generally stay away from human habitats and the scent of the human condition, but they are a predator like any other and hunger drives them to aberrant behavior, just like wolves and bears.
I try not to think about it as I knock on the lid of his coffin, currently taking up most of my living room, all glossy black and silver accents. Spooky is classic and classy, a German baron from the 1800s, and wears his upperclass roots on his literal sleeves.
There is no answer.
I suppose he could be asleep. He does sleep, or whatever the equivalent is. They’re nocturnal, naturally, which keeps them away from the sky jellies, and is why activity spikes at night.
Nothing.
Frowning, I knock again.
Nothing.
Normally he sits up after one or two tries, his hair and skeleton luminous, dressed in a black silk dressing-gown that would probably cost as much as the RV if it were real, with sleepy eyes and a stifled yawn.
I frown, tapping my foot and thinking. There isn’t a lot of space in an RV for someone to hide, especially with a full-sized coffin laid end to end in the living room, but Spooky isn’t bound by the physical.
He could be in a mirror. He likes mirrors, it’s an antebellum mortician thing, but I don’t know how to get him out of those.
I’d just be happy if I could hear him snoring, or smell funeral arrangements, or feel an unexplained cold spot. I mean, if he was taken by an imprint or eaten by a sky jelly, how would I know about it, and how long would I stay before I needed to give up and move on?
I take some comfort in knowing that he’s haunting me, specifically. He says he always knows where his haunt is, like a homing pigeon, and would still instinctively come for me, even if lost in an imprint. He’s also got his own defenses against sky jellies, so it’s not like he’s a walking steak.
Still, it is unusual to come home and not feel…haunted.
I step around the coffin and into the bedroom, looking into the mirror at the vanity. I rotate it around to show the television, and then once more, but my reflection doesn’t age or decay, a formless, blue-eyed shadow doesn’t appear behind me, and white hands don’t pound from the other side of the glass.
Strange. He could be in the bathroom mirror, but that would be like a human just…hanging out in the bathroom. It’s possible, but probably not.
I turn around and look at the neatly-folded bed. It’s the bedspread with the tombstone and spiderweb motif, which means he at least did some laundry today, since I had the cute bedsheet ghosts he hates, and he takes any chance to cycle them back through the two or three stowed in the storage space below.
You ever been in a lake or swimming pool under partial shade, and the current changes at the sun-warmed water ebbs away and the cool, shady water wraps around your ankles like the cold hands of death?
Wisps of black smoke coils from beneath the bed, like a fire trying to catch, smelling of funeral flowers.
I step around to the side of the bed, drop to my hands and knees, and lift up the black dust ruffle.
The creature beneath the bed is made of gray smoke and black shadow. It writhes and boils like dye diffused in water, with vague shapes formed in the darkness like clawed hands and pointed ears. Shockingly pale blue eyes, devoid of sclera or pupil, stare out of the shadows.
Behold, the fearsome boogeyman.
“You alright, Spooky?” I ask, settling onto my belly.
“Liebchen!” he breathes sleepily and a bit panicked, like someone waking from a bad nightmare to a comforting presence. “It is good you are home.”
“Do you need some formaldehyde?” I ask kindly, watching the vapors solidify into a white-haired German man in his early twenties, dressed from head to toe in black, with a damask waistcoat and dress shoes. “Or watch some scary movies with me?”
“Nein, liebchen,” he protests, shaking his head. “I was making enough scary movies today.”
“Oh?” I ask, my interest piqued. He thinks Poltergeist is a revenge fantasy and Amityville is a slapstick comedy, so I can’t imagine what he might have watched to drive him under the bed, hiding like a scared child.
“It was vile,” he explains. “A character study on the villains and their terrible crimes. I have never seen such grisly depictions of torture! I thought there was a rating system in place?”
I run a list of title through my head and come up blank. He haunted a family-run mortuary for two hundred years, so I’m not sure the likes of Saw or Hostel would phase him, but then again, embalmed corpses don’t beg for their lives.
“What was it?” I ask, head propped on my hand, elbow along the floor.
“Ghostbusters.”
Delicate Negotiations
Delicate Negotiations
by
Heather Farthing (c) 2023, all rights reserved
It’s so cold I can see my breath, despite the summer heat.
I breathe out through my mouth and watch the fog hang in the air momentarily, frowning as it dissipates.
Something has changed in the small bedroom. There is something dark here, moody and hungry. It seeps behind the vanity, under the bed, and behind the vanity, a formless mist of shadow that leaves the scent of funeral bouquets in its wake.
The vanity rattles and trembles, like an earthquake localized on only that part of the RV, the mirrored shutter that protects the television slamming opening and closed just hard enough to not damage the mirror.
Something moves in the mirror, something old and dark, banging against the inside of the glass hard enough to make me jump and stumble back onto the bed, which envelops me like a hungry maw.
Heavy black blankets and sheets are thrown over me, pinning me at the elbows and knees. A dozen translucent hands with glowing bones inside the graying skin thrust from the bed itself, diving for my ribs and under my arms.
“Alright! Alright!” I shout, gasping for breath through the ticklish laughter. “We’ll have pineapple pizza for dinner!”
by
Heather Farthing (c) 2023, all rights reserved
It’s so cold I can see my breath, despite the summer heat.
I breathe out through my mouth and watch the fog hang in the air momentarily, frowning as it dissipates.
Something has changed in the small bedroom. There is something dark here, moody and hungry. It seeps behind the vanity, under the bed, and behind the vanity, a formless mist of shadow that leaves the scent of funeral bouquets in its wake.
The vanity rattles and trembles, like an earthquake localized on only that part of the RV, the mirrored shutter that protects the television slamming opening and closed just hard enough to not damage the mirror.
Something moves in the mirror, something old and dark, banging against the inside of the glass hard enough to make me jump and stumble back onto the bed, which envelops me like a hungry maw.
Heavy black blankets and sheets are thrown over me, pinning me at the elbows and knees. A dozen translucent hands with glowing bones inside the graying skin thrust from the bed itself, diving for my ribs and under my arms.
“Alright! Alright!” I shout, gasping for breath through the ticklish laughter. “We’ll have pineapple pizza for dinner!”
In Vino Veritas
In Vino Veritas
by
Heather Farthing (c) 2023, all rights reserved
“I warned you!” I laugh as I pull open Spooky’s door, his head lolling awkwardly as he looks up at me with those pale, pale blue eyes.
“I am perfectly fine,” he drawls through a mushy German accent. “Ich bin völlig nüchtern.”
“Oh, really?” I ask, stifling another giggle. “Say the alphabet starting with ‘m.’”
“M…” he mumbles. “M…m…n-nein!” He declares it with an obstinate finality, fumbling at his seatbelt.
“Let me get that,” I insist gently, unbuckling him and taking his hands in mine, leaned across him like a table and hoping he doesn’t throw up.
“Your hair smells…synthetic,” he grumbles as I help him, wavering, to his feet. “Deine Narben sind wunderschön. You should show them more, my dear.”
“Oh, really?” I ask dryly. “I don’t generally let people close enough to my wigs to smell them. Anything else I should know about my appearance?”
“T-they look good on you!” he smiles cheerfully. “Narben erzählen eine Geschichte, a story about der menschliche Zustand, of a life lived!”
He holds out his arms grandly, as if standing before an invisible audience.
“I’m sure it’s a lovely story,” I agree, leaning him against the hood of the car.
“Nein, nein, my love!” he insists urgently. “Truly! Eine Schönheit, die der Poesie würdig ist! You only mus-must to show it!”
He makes a grab at my wig, I dodge him easy and send him tumbling into the dirt, giggling softly even as I make sure he hasn’t hurt himself.
“You’re going to wake the neighbors!” I chortle, helping him back up, watching him sway. “Quiet down and I’ll bring you wig-shopping sometime. You can help me pick out one with real hair.”
“But why?” he asks, again reaching for my wig as I swat him away and lean him back on the hood of the car. “Warum? Warum? W-warum-m? You make no sense!”
“I’m not making sense?” I cackle. “I should record this so you can hear yourself.”
“Nein! Nein, liebchen!” he insists, stamping his feet, wavering, hands on knees for balance, throat working on overtime.
Won’t be long now.
“Menschen! Menschen, liebes Mädchen!” he declares. “Your stories—Deine Geschichten. Such…such clever little words, but you focus on…the wrong…things!”
He leans over and spills a bellyful of beer and cocktails onto the grass beside the car, missing my shoes, looking tired and sick when he stands back up, wiping his face with a napkin pocketed from the restaurant.
“Du bist ein nettes Mädchen, meine Liebe,” he sighs, letting the paper fall to the stinking ground. “But you lack focus when it matters!”
“Alright, great philosopher,” I smile, stepping around the puddle to take him in my arms and lead him to the RV. “Let’s get you in bed.”
“G-great philosopher? J—ja—ja...ngh! The greatest mind of the age, clearly!” Spooky shouts, bile on his breath, an inch from my left ear.
“Oh?” I snicker. “Someone’s feeling high and mighty.”
“Nein, nein, nein, mein liebchen,” he implores, barely making it through the door and into the laundry room. “You…aren’t…paying attention! Zu den richtigen Dingen! Sie bleiben beim Aussehen und Standort stehen und fragen nichts anderes!”
“You can regale me of my moral failings in the morning,” I tell him consolingly as I guide him to the bed.
“Nein, nein, listen, listen!” he pleads, grabbing my hand and holding it close. “I found it! I found something that can help you!”
“I’m sure you did,” I agree gently. “Arms up.”
Obediently, he holds his arms over his head so I can pull the band shirt over his head, ruffling the soft, blond hair as the fabric slides over him.
“The keel—the keel is the key,” he insists. “Listen, listen, liebchen! The keel!”
“It’s a recreational vehicle, not a boat,” I tell him, waving him to lay back so I can get his boots off.
“Nein, nein!” he continues. “Die Bücher! I found it, but Ich habe es dir nicht gesagt. I didn’t tell you—b-because I—I have trust issues.”
“You don’t say?” I reply dryly.
“Yes, but it’s n-not my fault,” he rambles as he holds his right leg for me to undo the laces and pull off the sock, revealing glossy black toenails. “It is…it is me, and it’s just me!”
“I know,” I mutter soothingly, grabbing for his other leg.
“Nein!” he shouts, pounding his fist against the soft, Halloween-themed bedding. “He understands, you see?”
“I see,” I agree, sliding off the other boot.
“Nein! You’re not listening! Liebchen!” he growls. “I found the book. This man is…is brilliant. The most learned. The finest mind in your age. Truly, his brilliance is unmatched!”
“You can read it to me tomorrow,” I tell him again, sliding the sock off his foot as he looks up at me from a reclining position from his elbows, skin raising goosebumps over bluish veins.
“Ja!” he agrees. “Tomorrow. We will read it then. He knows!”
I force him back with a gentle shove as I unbuckle his studded belt and pull it through the loops.
“You are beautiful,” he observes soberly, looking up at me in a way that raises color to my cheeks.
“Bet you won’t remember that in the morning,” I chuckle, unzipping his pants and hoping he’s not reading too much with his beer goggles on.
“I will, because I always do,” he giggles. “You’re beautiful, and you smell good.”
“Good to know.”
I slide his pants down to his knees, revealing the black silk boxers that weren’t cheap, and then the pale knees, slipping one leg off at a time from the ankle until the waistband comes free.
“Alright,” I tell him, gently but firmly. “Onto the pillows with you.”
I take the town-themed throw blanket from the foot of the bed and shake it unfolded, laying it across his thin form.
“Good night, Spooky,” I say in a low voice as not to wake him, the eyes already closed.
“No!” he declares with a sudden start, grabbing my hand like a viper’s strike. “Stay. You’re warm and I like it.”
“You’re drunk and you have no idea what you’re talking about!” I laugh.
“N-no, you’re warm and it’s—con—comfort…I like it,” he mumbles, tightening his grip. “I pretend I don’t, because it isn’t right and I shouldn’t, but I do. It’s nice.”
“You really should get some sleep.”
“I sleep better when you’re nearb—when you’re close,” he begs. “I say I don’t, because humans are social animals, and I’m not.”
“Not social or not an animal?” I ask, humoring him by sliding into bed with him.
He wraps himself around me chastely, one arm across me, face nuzzled into the hollow between my neck and my right shoulder.
“N-neither,” he yawns. “You can ask Johnny. He knows.”
“I will, but you have to get some sleep, first.”
“Alles für dich, mein spuk,” he sighs, breathing going deep and even.
“You are going to be so mad in the morning,” I laugh, replaying some of the nonsense he said in my head and wishing I had been cruel enough to record it so I could play it for him as he nurses a hangover, surly and nauseous, in the morning.
Then something clicks and the mumbled, slurred, almost indecipherable German makes sense.
“Wait, John A. Keel?!” I shriek, sitting up with a start.
“Sshh,” he sighs, putting a painted finger across my lips. “Schlaf jetzt.”
by
Heather Farthing (c) 2023, all rights reserved
“I warned you!” I laugh as I pull open Spooky’s door, his head lolling awkwardly as he looks up at me with those pale, pale blue eyes.
“I am perfectly fine,” he drawls through a mushy German accent. “Ich bin völlig nüchtern.”
“Oh, really?” I ask, stifling another giggle. “Say the alphabet starting with ‘m.’”
“M…” he mumbles. “M…m…n-nein!” He declares it with an obstinate finality, fumbling at his seatbelt.
“Let me get that,” I insist gently, unbuckling him and taking his hands in mine, leaned across him like a table and hoping he doesn’t throw up.
“Your hair smells…synthetic,” he grumbles as I help him, wavering, to his feet. “Deine Narben sind wunderschön. You should show them more, my dear.”
“Oh, really?” I ask dryly. “I don’t generally let people close enough to my wigs to smell them. Anything else I should know about my appearance?”
“T-they look good on you!” he smiles cheerfully. “Narben erzählen eine Geschichte, a story about der menschliche Zustand, of a life lived!”
He holds out his arms grandly, as if standing before an invisible audience.
“I’m sure it’s a lovely story,” I agree, leaning him against the hood of the car.
“Nein, nein, my love!” he insists urgently. “Truly! Eine Schönheit, die der Poesie würdig ist! You only mus-must to show it!”
He makes a grab at my wig, I dodge him easy and send him tumbling into the dirt, giggling softly even as I make sure he hasn’t hurt himself.
“You’re going to wake the neighbors!” I chortle, helping him back up, watching him sway. “Quiet down and I’ll bring you wig-shopping sometime. You can help me pick out one with real hair.”
“But why?” he asks, again reaching for my wig as I swat him away and lean him back on the hood of the car. “Warum? Warum? W-warum-m? You make no sense!”
“I’m not making sense?” I cackle. “I should record this so you can hear yourself.”
“Nein! Nein, liebchen!” he insists, stamping his feet, wavering, hands on knees for balance, throat working on overtime.
Won’t be long now.
“Menschen! Menschen, liebes Mädchen!” he declares. “Your stories—Deine Geschichten. Such…such clever little words, but you focus on…the wrong…things!”
He leans over and spills a bellyful of beer and cocktails onto the grass beside the car, missing my shoes, looking tired and sick when he stands back up, wiping his face with a napkin pocketed from the restaurant.
“Du bist ein nettes Mädchen, meine Liebe,” he sighs, letting the paper fall to the stinking ground. “But you lack focus when it matters!”
“Alright, great philosopher,” I smile, stepping around the puddle to take him in my arms and lead him to the RV. “Let’s get you in bed.”
“G-great philosopher? J—ja—ja...ngh! The greatest mind of the age, clearly!” Spooky shouts, bile on his breath, an inch from my left ear.
“Oh?” I snicker. “Someone’s feeling high and mighty.”
“Nein, nein, nein, mein liebchen,” he implores, barely making it through the door and into the laundry room. “You…aren’t…paying attention! Zu den richtigen Dingen! Sie bleiben beim Aussehen und Standort stehen und fragen nichts anderes!”
“You can regale me of my moral failings in the morning,” I tell him consolingly as I guide him to the bed.
“Nein, nein, listen, listen!” he pleads, grabbing my hand and holding it close. “I found it! I found something that can help you!”
“I’m sure you did,” I agree gently. “Arms up.”
Obediently, he holds his arms over his head so I can pull the band shirt over his head, ruffling the soft, blond hair as the fabric slides over him.
“The keel—the keel is the key,” he insists. “Listen, listen, liebchen! The keel!”
“It’s a recreational vehicle, not a boat,” I tell him, waving him to lay back so I can get his boots off.
“Nein, nein!” he continues. “Die Bücher! I found it, but Ich habe es dir nicht gesagt. I didn’t tell you—b-because I—I have trust issues.”
“You don’t say?” I reply dryly.
“Yes, but it’s n-not my fault,” he rambles as he holds his right leg for me to undo the laces and pull off the sock, revealing glossy black toenails. “It is…it is me, and it’s just me!”
“I know,” I mutter soothingly, grabbing for his other leg.
“Nein!” he shouts, pounding his fist against the soft, Halloween-themed bedding. “He understands, you see?”
“I see,” I agree, sliding off the other boot.
“Nein! You’re not listening! Liebchen!” he growls. “I found the book. This man is…is brilliant. The most learned. The finest mind in your age. Truly, his brilliance is unmatched!”
“You can read it to me tomorrow,” I tell him again, sliding the sock off his foot as he looks up at me from a reclining position from his elbows, skin raising goosebumps over bluish veins.
“Ja!” he agrees. “Tomorrow. We will read it then. He knows!”
I force him back with a gentle shove as I unbuckle his studded belt and pull it through the loops.
“You are beautiful,” he observes soberly, looking up at me in a way that raises color to my cheeks.
“Bet you won’t remember that in the morning,” I chuckle, unzipping his pants and hoping he’s not reading too much with his beer goggles on.
“I will, because I always do,” he giggles. “You’re beautiful, and you smell good.”
“Good to know.”
I slide his pants down to his knees, revealing the black silk boxers that weren’t cheap, and then the pale knees, slipping one leg off at a time from the ankle until the waistband comes free.
“Alright,” I tell him, gently but firmly. “Onto the pillows with you.”
I take the town-themed throw blanket from the foot of the bed and shake it unfolded, laying it across his thin form.
“Good night, Spooky,” I say in a low voice as not to wake him, the eyes already closed.
“No!” he declares with a sudden start, grabbing my hand like a viper’s strike. “Stay. You’re warm and I like it.”
“You’re drunk and you have no idea what you’re talking about!” I laugh.
“N-no, you’re warm and it’s—con—comfort…I like it,” he mumbles, tightening his grip. “I pretend I don’t, because it isn’t right and I shouldn’t, but I do. It’s nice.”
“You really should get some sleep.”
“I sleep better when you’re nearb—when you’re close,” he begs. “I say I don’t, because humans are social animals, and I’m not.”
“Not social or not an animal?” I ask, humoring him by sliding into bed with him.
He wraps himself around me chastely, one arm across me, face nuzzled into the hollow between my neck and my right shoulder.
“N-neither,” he yawns. “You can ask Johnny. He knows.”
“I will, but you have to get some sleep, first.”
“Alles für dich, mein spuk,” he sighs, breathing going deep and even.
“You are going to be so mad in the morning,” I laugh, replaying some of the nonsense he said in my head and wishing I had been cruel enough to record it so I could play it for him as he nurses a hangover, surly and nauseous, in the morning.
Then something clicks and the mumbled, slurred, almost indecipherable German makes sense.
“Wait, John A. Keel?!” I shriek, sitting up with a start.
“Sshh,” he sighs, putting a painted finger across my lips. “Schlaf jetzt.”
