A Book of Hauntings

A Book of Hauntings

  Five Ghost Stories

  by Jon O’Bergh

  Copyright 2012 Jon O’Bergh

  The Attic Man

  Eyes.

  Not just plain human eyes, but demon ones, staring through the hole in the ceiling where the heater goes up to the attic. Kids don’t like to see things like that. Nobody does. But kids see a lot more than just the eyes. They see monsters grabbing them from their beds. They see boogey men and phantoms and devils taking them to graveyards, and the most blackest, deepest holes in the ground where no one will ever see them again.

  But nobody cares about what we see. Sure, the grown-ups were once kids, only now they’ve forgotten their fear: they know such things don’t exist. At least, they think they know. It’s just that these spooks never want to show themselves to grown-ups ‘cause they know older people won’t believe in them, and they need belief to feed on.

  So WE believe in them.

  “Mom, somebody’s in the attic.”

  “Nonsense—there’s just a lot of wires and pipes up there.”

  Shhh! Footsteps, creeping softly as they can, stepping from rafter to rafter as the beams creak under the weight. It’s right overhead, so don’t move! If he hears you, if he knows you’re right under him…

  Maybe he doesn’t know any kids live here. He might be mixing up our house with Ethan’s. We live on the end of a group of townhouses that all have the same attic, and Ethan’s house is right between us and the Jebsons. His bedroom is next to mine, so every time we hear strange noises, we knock on the wall, but we have to be real quiet so the Attic Man can’t hear.

  Ethan knocked lightly, in time to my speeded-up heartbeat. I knocked back, then tiptoed to the door. If I went downstairs, I’d have to pass under the trap door, and he might swoop down and take me away forever—unless I could run past in time.

  A moment later, the trap door was left behind and I passed the furnace door, imagining both flying open just as I raced by. I didn’t dare look back, leaping down the stairs two steps at a time.

  “Heavens, Rodney, you sound like a buffalo stampede coming down those stairs,” Mom scolded.

  I raced out the back door. Ethan was waiting for me on the grass. His eyes looked wide enough to swallow the moon, and I thought if they opened any more I’d fall into a bottomless pit along with all the stars in the sky.

  “I heard him,” he whispered. “He was walking above my room, and I heard him!”

  “So did I. He was going to bounce out from the trap door, but I was too fast.” Someday that trap door is going to open and he’ll reach down to grab me with his pinching claws, and I’ll be gone forever. Why didn’t Dad nail it shut like the Jebsons did? “I’m scared of that trap door. Why do we even have one?”

  “My dad says it’s so repair men can climb up to fix things.” There was a funny look coming across Ethan’s face. He always got it when he had the answer to a problem, like the time he got me to distract our teacher so he could take some money from her purse. He would just stare past you, only he wasn’t looking at anything. (It was the kind of stare you’d remember when you laid in bed and thought about spooks and things.) Ethan was always right.

  After a moment he said, “My sister says she saw him when she opened the furnace door. He was looking down through the big hole where the pipes go up into the attic, and she said it was the scariest thing she ever saw.”

  I’ve never seen him. Only heard him—heard him creeping around above my room, waiting for the day he can get me. “What did she say he looked like? Does he have demon eyes like Billy Jebson?” I hated Billy Jebson. I think it was ‘cause of his little beady eyes that squinted at you whenever he crossed his arms and said “Prove it.” Ethan hated him even more. He’d always say, We need a “Billy Jebson” about as much as we need two Attic Mans in the same attic.

  “She said they’re bright, bright red, and if you look at them too long they’ll burn a hole through you.”

  I shivered. I always pictured how the eyes would look if I saw him. Just like Billy Jebson. Sometimes I imagined the Attic Man’s eyes staring from behind Billy’s balloon face. That’s all I ever thought about, was the eyes—

  And the Hands.

  The Hands would be the baddest of all. He’d use them to grab with, and the fingers would be long, so long, ‘cause there wouldn’t be any arms, and they’d stretch until the tips would turn into claws that would scratch and tear things apart. There would be no way to save yourself from them. That’s why I only liked to think about the eyes, ‘cause they just stared. But now Ethan’s sister said the eyes could get you too.

  “Did she call the police?” I asked.

  “Why should she? They wouldn’t believe her.”

  “I know, but somebody better warn them before the Attic Man gets us.”

  “Who’s that?” asked a voice from behind me. I turned around and saw a fat shadow come out from the darkness of the trees. Beady eyes blinked at me, lonely and curious.

  “Why would you want to know?” Ethan said, his eyes narrowing.

  “My mama told me there’s no such thing as boogey men.”

  “It doesn’t matter what moms tell you, ‘cause they never saw one. But I know there is!” said Ethan.

  “Prove it!”

  Ethan leaned toward Billy. “What do you think you hear when they say it’s the floorboards? What do you think you hear when they say it’s the wind blowing?” His thin hair fell across his face so the eyes stared out like an animal. “What do you think you hear when the furnace door rattles as you walk past, or something scratches above the trap door like it’s trying to open it? Is it the floorboards? Is it the wind? Course not. It’s the Attic Man.”

  Billy didn’t say anything. Ethan was staring right at the beady demon eyes, even though they weren’t looking at him. Billy was staring at his own feet, wiping them in the wet grass.

  “Well… have you ever seen him?” he asked.

  “No, but my sister has. You wouldn’t want to see him, anyway.”

  “Why not?”

  “‘Cause he steals kids. And they’re never seen again!” That weird look was coming across Ethan’s face again, and I wondered what he was thinking. “But you can take a peek.”

  Billy looked over at his house. “I don’t know if I—if I should.”

  “Come on,” Ethan said, touching Billy’s arm. “Rodney and me’ll protect you.”

  “No, I don’t think—“

  Ethan’s eyes fixed right into Billy’s, his voice getting lower and tempting. “It’s okay. If we just look up into the attic for a second, he won’t be able to get you.” No one argued with Ethan, ‘cause Ethan was always right.

  I went with them into Ethan’s house, even though I wanted to stay outside. His mom and dad were gone somewhere, as usual, leaving him with his sister, but she was over at her boyfriend’s. All I heard was the clock ticking slowly in the dark. We went up the stairs in time to the tick… tock… tick… tock, listening real careful for any strange sounds. I could hear Billy’s heavy breathing, in time to the clock, with a short, dead silence between each beat.

  Billy was shaking as Ethan put him in front of the furnace door—that door, where the Attic Man and his burning red eyes were waiting. I made sure I didn’t stand under the trap door, but by the stairs, so I could run if the Hands jumped out at me. Ethan was grabbing the doorknob, keeping his eyes on Billy’s face. Quietly he turned the knob, letting go of Billy’s arm. As the door opened, those nightmare Hands flew out at Billy, ripping and tearing him in quick bursts. Billy let out a surprised “Oh!” and was jerked up into the attic as Ethan slammed the door shut behind him. He leaned against it for a minute, waiting for a noise or something to follow. But there was only
a little rustle in the attic, and then everything was quiet, except the ticking clock, same as before.

  My voice was rough and scared, like the scratching of a claw. “Why, Ethan? Why did you do that?”

  Ethan stood away from the door and stepped into the light from a streetlamp outside the window. There was a smile of relief on his face, and that weird look that made my spine shiver.

  “Now the Attic Man will think he got me, so he’ll never bother me again.”

  I glanced up at the trap door, and staring through a small crack I thought I saw two demon eyes—but I wasn’t sure just whose they were.

  The Unlucky Thirteen Club

  Many years ago, there was a club in New England known as the Unlucky Thirteen Club. The members met thirteen times a year in defiance of superstition by deliberately walking under ladders, breaking mirrors, keeping black cats as pets, and the like. The club had a maximum thirteen members at a time, and each new member had to undergo an initiation by spending the night alone in a haunted house.

  One gentleman had been on the waiting list to become a member for several years. He was a slender, nervous sort of man who combed the few remaining strands of his thinning mouse-brown hair across his scalp. One day, a letter came in the mail announcing that there was an opening to join the club. He was instructed to meet the officers of the club on October 13, and he would be taken to an old house located on a small, private island which could only be reached by boat. The house had sat vacant for several decades, slowly falling into disrepair, the property overgrown with weeds. The last owner had left suddenly without explanation. It was said that strange lights could be seen emanating from the house on moonless nights.

  With great delight, the gentleman wrote back that he would accept the invitation. He met the officers on the appointed day. They drove many miles beyond the city, eventually coming to a small, secluded bay. As dusk fell, they made their way across the water that was deepening to a midnight blue in the failing light. The house grew closer, looming out of the gloom, its windows shuttered like a sleeping beast.

  “You know the rules,” reiterated the club’s president. “We will give you a key and a flashlight. You are to remain here overnight, and we will return at sunup to retrieve you. You must make your way through each room of the house and mark one of the walls with an ‘X’ using a piece of chalk.”

  The gentleman laughed uneasily and said he was ready for his ordeal. The boat docked, and he stepped out onto the island. A stone path led up through the weeds and trees to the front door. Behind him, the boat’s motor revved as the boat sped away into the darkness. He switched on the flashlight and walked up the path. A breeze came, like an exhaled breath, stirring the branches of the trees. He looked up to see some dark shapes darting across the spaces where the sky peeked through the trees. Ectoplasmic wisps of cloud floated high overhead. The house was a late Victorian manor in the Richardson style, with large blocks of rough-hewn stone for its façade, Romanesque arches over the porch and first floor windows, and triangular gables along the uppermost floor. A tower capped with a conical roof rose skyward at one corner.

  He hurried on to the front door, suddenly anxious to get inside. As he fumbled with the key, a twig snapped somewhere in the woods to his left. The key clattered onto the porch, and he quietly cursed, bending to retrieve it. There was another exhale of wind, and branches scraped across the side of the house like cat’s claws.

  He opened the door and stepped quickly inside, shutting it behind him and turning the lock. Shining the flashlight around the vestibule, he could see cobwebs stretched across the recesses of the room and a layer of dust that had settled on the floor, staircase and banister. Dust motes swirled silently across the flashlight’s beam of light. Let’s get this over with, he thought to himself.

  He decided to start with the parlor. The room was barren except for one broken chair cowering in the corner. A great hearth stood against one wall, its mantle cracked and a section of marble missing. There was beautifully carved crown molding along the walls. One could see that this had once been a spectacular home, built with craftsmanship and care. He marked an X on the wall.

  From the parlor he entered the dining room. In one wall was a built-in hutch, its doors ajar like an open mouth, toothy shards of broken glass poking up from the frames where the panes had been. Overhead, he heard the floor creak with the weight of something shifting. Just the sound of an old house settling, he thought, although it was hard to shake the thought that he might not be alone. He hastily marked the wall and proceeded into the kitchen. A large black stove stood against the far wall. In the center was an old table, and beyond that an old-fashioned ice box. A long counter ran along the wall to his right. He walked over to the sink and tried the faucet. No water, of course; I should have brought a thermos. He chalked an X on the wall.

  Beyond the kitchen was a small back room with a door leading outside. He checked to make sure the door was locked, then marked the wall and retreated through the previous rooms to complete his downstairs circumambulation. On the other side of the entryway was a library—at least, he presumed it had been a library. Shelves sat empty and forlorn on either side of a cold fireplace. The wind whistled through the chimney, and again he heard the floorboards above him creak. His hand trembled as he marked the wall above the fireplace.

  Back in the vestibule, he stopped at the foot of the stairs and shined his flashlight up the graceful sweep of steps. He took a deep breath and started his ascent. Something silky brushed his head, startling him. He frantically swept it away, almost losing his footing. Only a cobweb—calm down.

  At the top of the stairs was a hall with closed doors along its length. He opened the first door and quickly shined his light around the empty room. Without even bothering to enter, he reached in and marked an X on the wall beside the door. Methodically he proceeded through the other rooms and did the same. As he approached the last door leading into the tower, there was the sound of a thud downstairs. He froze, his hand on the knob. Silence. Then the sound came again, a distinctive thud, followed by the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor.

  He crept back to the head of the stairs and paused, listening. He could hear the wind outside, the trees scraping against the house. There were some scuttling noises across the floor downstairs. Probably just mice. He descended the stairs, their old bones creaking. He could see his ghostly footprints in the dust ascending the stairs like an invisible interloper. As he reached the bottom step, there it was again, coming from the kitchen.

  He tiptoed through the parlor and dining room, his heart beating fiercely. He shined the flashlight into the kitchen and could make out the counter, cabinets, and the large table in the center. He stopped at the entrance, waiting, but heard nothing. The flashlight dimmed. He walked over to the table and tapped it on the tabletop several times. For a moment it brightened, then suddenly went out completely. With his free hand he began groping along the table to find his way out of the kitchen. Then the sound came again, right behind him now. He started to run, but felt something tug at his jacket, jerking him back.

  * * *

  The darkness dissipated as the sun rose over the mists clinging to the still water of the bay. The din from a motorboat sliced through the morning quiet as the boat disturbed the water with undulating ripples. The club president tied the boat to the dock and walked up the stone path with the other officers. They opened the front door and called out the name of the initiate, but no one answered. They noticed the footprints on the stairs going up and coming down, and a set of prints heading into the parlor twice but emerging only once. “He must be in the kitchen asleep,” said one of the men. They walked through the parlor, through the dining room and into the kitchen, where the president gasped. Lying on the floor was the gentleman, his eyes glazed and wide open, evidently dead from a heart attack, and a piece of his torn jacket hanging from a nail that protruded from the edge of the kitchen table.

  The Corpse’s Wife
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  Back in the day, folks weren’t sophisticated when it came to dying. A coma was as good as dead. The doctor would sign the death certificate faster’n you could say, “Death don’t see no difference ‘tween the big house and the cabin.” Folks were right scared in those years following the end of the Civil War, when God seen fit to send wave after wave of epidemics to torment the nation—scarlet fever, smallpox, cholera, typhoid, yellow fever—as if war hadn’t been torment aplenty. It was bad enough worrying about the vapors that carried those dread diseases, but if you got sick—whew, you better hope not to get buried alive. The papers carried reports of coffins dug up with scratch marks all over the inside lid, the final moments of the living clawing to get out.

  Rich folks took to buying caskets equipped with an ingenious device. A cord was affixed to the hands and went up a tube from the coffin to the gravesite, where it was attached to a little bell that sat protected from the wind inside a small chamber. If the person came to, he could move his hands to ring the bell and alert the night watchman.

  The yellow fever epidemic of 1873 was particularly bad. Whole families were practically wiped out. At Graceland Cemetery, they could hardly dig new graves fast enough. Graceland had opened one year earlier in the northeast section of the city, within sight of the Capitol. That was when folks who visited Graceland’s graves still had faith in the men who made the laws, before what came later.

  Azie Washington lived in a small shack on the grounds of Graceland and served as its caretaker. He would look with pride down Maryland Avenue to the gleaming dome a mile away. Ten years earlier, he had gone to view the bronze Statue of Freedom when it was on display, before they hoisted it to its pedestal atop the dome. But at night, with nothing but farms around, it was dark as all pitch out at the cemetery. Once in awhile a wagon would pass by, lantern jostling as the wheels bounced in the rutted road, a farmer on his way home. Otherwise, Azie’s only companions were the crickets, frogs, and the occasional cry of a solitary screech-owl.