I’m not going to say “I don’t believe in ghosts” because, well, it’s not that I didn’t believe in them, it was just that I’d never experienced them. It’s like… Lichtenstein – I’ve read about Lichtenstein, I’ve known people whose opinions I trust who say they’ve been there and it’s a lovely place. I have no reason to doubt the existence of Lichtenstein and maybe someday I’ll find myself crossing its borders and I’ll say to myself, “Wow, so this is Lichtenstein. Huh.” Until then, though, I’m open to Lichtenstein, but as far as first-hand experience I have simply never been to Lichtenstein.
We weren’t the first owners of our house by a long shot – a few years back I did some rewiring and discovered multiple generations of wiring styles, so I dug into the history of the place as much as I could from official records. Despite the rows of neat cookie-cutter homes around us in the cul-de-sac and down the street, it turns out our humble abode started way before this place became suburbia. The front wall – and even then, only a section hidden by modern drywall – are all that remain of the rough-hewn timbers that made up the diminutive farmhouse that occupied a quarter of our current house’s footprint. I saw a picture of the original place at the local historical society – little shack of a place flanked by newly-planted palm trees. Those palm trees are still there, but they tower above our now-two-story house and should have clued me in to the much older history within the walls. The family that lived here died and/or sold the acreage off and the new owners divvied up the land into parcels which eventually became our little slice of white-washed Americana, complete with “Drive like your kids live here!” sign beneath the ominous eye icon warning of the Neighborhood Watch.
Sure, we’ve had bumps in the night, but I chalked it up to house settling or roof rats. There’s your odd cold spot in the house, of course, but this place had been remodeled and remodeled and remodeled –there was even a fire in there somewhere – since the first owner sold it, so to expect it to be thermally tight… I gave up that battle long ago.
Still, though, there haven’t been any… I don’t know… full bodied apparitions? Demons in the closets? Hands reaching out of the television? I’ve seen all the tropes and our sleepy house on a sleepy street in a sleepy section of a sleepy town could tune in “Ghost Adventures,” but that’s as close as it ever really got to anything paranormal.
Until last night.
The old maple in the back has been dropping leaves from its enormous canopy which is a sure sign fall is here. That means one thing: parent teacher conferences. Ugh. Yeah, there’s also Pumpkin Spice Lattes, the crisp scent of winter coming, first rains, and of course Halloween, but those are all good things. Parent teacher conferences are the bane of my existence.
“Laura, do I have to go?” I whined as we both got into the Subaru.
Laura laughed at me, “Jenny, sweetie, you sound as bad as your daughter when I have to get her ready for school in the morning!”
“But I haaaaaaate Parent teacher conferences,” I kept up the channeling of Surly Teen.
She pulled me close and kissed my forehead. “There, there. It will be fine. I’ll even buy you frozen yogurt afterwards!”
I smiled. “Does that work with Amelia?”
“Well,” she said, “there’s a lot more eye rolling, and heavy sighing involved.”
“I could start again…”
She put her hand on my arm, “Jenny, I’m not afraid to get violent with you if you start again.”
We both laughed and I started the car and backed out of the garage.
I waited for the garage door to close while Laura searched through her purse. “Shit!”
“Problem?”
“There’s that damn packet with Amelia’s class information in it. I swore I put it in my purse…”
“Not there?”
“Must be on the counter.”
“Okay,” I said hitting the seat belt release, “I’ll get it.”
“Thank you, sweetie!” Laura smiled relieved. “It should be right there on the counter by the fridge.” As I stepped out of the car she hurriedly added, “…. If it’s not, then the kitchen table!”
“Got it!” I closed the door and jogged up the porch and neatly unlocked the door in a quick, fluid motion. I opened the door, stepped forward, and fell completely through the floor.
The floor didn’t give way structurally, no, it was as if the floor didn’t exist. I was so shocked as I pitched forward I didn’t have time to even call out. I fell into blackness for a moment before I had the sensation of swinging back up, like the arc of my fall brought me back up to the position I had been in. But I wasn’t in my house anymore – at least not the house I knew. Judging from the gaps in the boards of the walls, I guessed this place might have even predated the building incorporated into our house. I heard horses whinnying and stomping around outside, dust from their feet permeating the house and dimming the already wan lamplight. A black man in overalls rushed past me close enough for me to smell his sweat and fear. He turned the wheel on the oil lamp that sat on the table in the middle of the single room, extinguishing its light such that the only light was streaming chaotically through the windows – torches. He crossed to where a woman crouched, sheltering two young children in the corner next to the cast iron stove.
“I’m going to see what’s going on,” he told her. In his free hand he held an old rifle I could see even in the poor light seemed rusty.
“Oh God, James, don’t!” she pleaded, terror in her voice.
“Daddy, no!” the young boy begged. His sister added, “Daddy?” from under the other protective arm of their mother.
“Can’t be helped,” James said. He levered the bolt on the rifle to chamber a round. “I’m just going to talk. Stay here,” he said in a steady voice. He crossed past me to the door, put his hand on the door knob, and yelled, “I’m coming out! You hear?”
“Come on out Jimmy,” a voice called back from outside.
He opened the door and I could see men on horseback outside brandishing guns and torches. James stepped out onto the porch.
“He’s got a gun!” someone yelled.
James spread his arms wide, the rifle held in one hand perpendicular to the ground. “I’m just taking care of my family,” he said.
“You’re not welcome here,” the first voice said flatly.
“Sheriff,” James started, “I bought this land myself. I own it outright. I’ve as much right as you do to your land.”
I turned back to the woman and kids on the floor, and I crossed to them and knelt down. The boy stared past me, while the woman clenched her eyes closed, her lips moving in silent prayer. The little girl, maybe five, looked directly at me. She saw me. She stared directly into my eyes…
A gunshot shattered the night. Screams. More gunshots. More screams. I couldn’t tear my gaze away from that little girl’s eyes. The house, the gunshots, the screams, all faded out so it was just me and the girl, eyes locked, silence around us now, heavy like a cloak.
“Remember,” she said. I fell through the floor again.
This time the landing wasn’t nearly as graceful, and I hit carpeted floor on all fours with a crash that drove me bodily down. I opened my eyes and the wide room was lit by candles, but I could see from the décor that this wasn’t the old cabin. This wasn’t even the house I’d seen in the picture at the historical society. No, looking around the room, it had the same layout as the house we lived in… the stairway wasn’t there for the upper story, and the shag carpet, plaid couches, and ovoid lamp with an oversized shade suggested this had to be sometime in the late 1960’s. The candlelight came from the dining room table at the back of the room where four teens crowded around a table, the candles providing ambiance.
I stood gingerly, steading myself on the edge of the sofa. As I did, I could see what the kids were doing – all four crowded hands onto the planchette of a Ouija board. “Well, shit,” I said aloud, “this can’t possibly end well.”
The kids couldn’t hear me and they were in the process of spelling out a word anyway. “T…” they said in unison as the planchette slid to the next letter, “A!”
“Santa?” one of the boys asked.
“There wasn’t an ‘N’, dummy,” the other boy snapped.
“Shh! It’s still moving!” one of the girls chided.
“’N’” they said solemnly. The other girl stated the complete word, “Satan.”
“Okay, who was moving it?” the first girl, a short girl with a short page-boy haircut. Everyone issued denials, but the first boy who seemed younger than the other three fell quiet and sat back suddenly in his chair.
“Davey, are you okay?” the second girl, taller and more wiry than the others with long dark hair asked with concern. Davey started jerking involuntarily, seemingly in the throes of a massive seizure.
Davey’s mouth opened and a guttural voice barked, “Get. Out!”
The shorter girl reached for his arm but jerked her hand back, Jenny could hear and smell the sound of skin searing from across the room. She stepped forwards towards the kids just as the other boy bumped the table, knocking one of the candles off the table. The flame touched the gauzy shears over the window which instantly erupted in angry fire. The jerking boy slumped forward and the tall girl grabbed him by the torso and pulled him from the chair. All three struggled past me for the front door as the flames spread with uncanny speed along the walls, licking the ceiling, smoke rapidly filling the space.
Jenny could smell the fire, feel the heat, but the smoke didn’t choke her. She lost sight of the kids as the room darkened with thick, billowing smoke. She heard the crackle of the fire, felt the rush of cold air as one of the kids must have reached the front door. The fresh air caused the fire to surge with piercing intensity and blinding brilliance. Jenny could hear the sound of approaching fire trucks as the smoke closed in again, blotting the flames in a chaotic, strobe-like manner. The fire became a deafening roar filling her senses, the heat unbearable…
Jenny stood panting in the middle of her front room, the only illumination the last light of the evening pouring in through the open front door behind her. She stared around in the dark silence, her eyes taking inventory of their couch, their flat screen tv, the family pictures on the wall… it was their house. Their house…
She took a tentative step forward, then another, and another, and found herself in the kitchen. She immediately saw the folder on the counter next to the stove, and that artifact grounded her, settling her into reality. She caught her breath in the quiet dimness and sagged against the refrigerator for a moment.
Sighing, Jenny turned and started back out through the kitchen for the front door and came to an abrupt stop as a little black girl in a gunny sack dress stood in her path. Jenny stared down into those arresting eyes again. Once again the girl said simply “Remember,” and then Jenny stood alone again in the front room. She stared around, then delicately started forward again, grateful that the floor held. She closed the door behind her and hurried to the car, dropping heavily into the driver’s seat.
“Was it there on the counter?” Laura asked. “Jenny? Are you okay?”
Jenny sat, eyes wide, handed the folder to Laura without turning her head. She mumbled something incomprehensible.
“Jenny? What did you say? What’s wrong?”
Jenny turned to face Laura and repeated slowly, “I’ve been to Lichtenstein.”
