Haunted House Tales

by Riley Amitrani

  Meanwhile, back in the car, Rhiannon had been looking on, her eyes wild with disbelief and fear. She pulled herself into an upright position, not believing her eyes as she watched Kristen and Drew battle with the Edmund-thing. When Kristen had finally been able to pull Drew back from the specter’s grasp, she felt a surge of optimism, sure that Kristen and Drew would escape. However, when she saw Kristen flung backward without any physical touch having been responsible, Rhiannon sensed a wave of hopelessness and despair come over her. She had been amazed and overwhelmed with Drew’s burst of concern for her safety and well-being when he had come to her aid just moments before. But as she saw this new development, much to her chagrin and shame, all Rhiannon could think of at the moment was self-preservation.

  She saw the situation spiraling out of control against them now, and despite what Drew had done for her, Rhiannon just wanted to get away, assuming there was nothing they could possibly do now to save him. She forced the rear door of the car open and called to Kristen.

  “Kristen! It’s too late! He’s gone! We need to get out of here…now!”

  As sore and humiliated as she was from having been sent flying from the force of the apparition, Kristen was appalled at Rhiannon’s response. She turned toward the car, slimy mud and water draining off her face, giving her an appearance of an otherworldly creature herself at the moment. She glared at Rhiannon and spat back at her as she wiped away at some blood that was trickling into her eyes from a long gash on her forehead.

  “Dammit, Rhiannon! He saved your life! I am going in after him! Get your ass out of the back seat and make sure the car is running when I get back!”

  With that, Kristen flung the keys in the direction of the car watching them plop unceremoniously into a growing pool of water just next to the car before she turned away and ran to the mansion.

  Kristen’s Last Stand

  Carmarthen, Wales, United Kingdom

  March 19, 2013, 5 AM

  Unlike before, the front door to Glass Mansion was now unlocked and Kristen lowered her shoulder into it shoving it from the frame without giving Rhiannon another glance. Once she had found Drew and freed him from the ghost…though at that precise moment, she had no idea how that was going to happen…she hoped Rhiannon was following her instructions. Otherwise, she was sure all three of them would not survive. As she burst inside, Kristen looked around wildly as she wiped the bulk of water and mud and blood from her face, pushing her hair back off her forehead. Being protected from the storm was a blessing, but the utter silence of the huge interior of the mansion was just as unnerving.

  “Drew!”

  Kristen shouted from the foyer, but all that came in return was her own voice echoing off the walls. With no real plan in mind, Kristen dashed from room to room and up and down the twin corridors calling Drew’s name. But he was nowhere to be found nor did he call back to her. Just as she was feeling a tidal wave of hopelessness herself and was about to mount the steps to look upstairs, Kristen stopped in her tracks. She cocked her head to the side and listened carefully as the pounding pulse in her ears was drowning out all other ambient sounds. She held her breath for a beat, and sure enough there it was again. There were waves of thumping noises and pathetic, pitiful cries for help coming from the cellar.

  The nonstop cries for help were coming from what Kristen was sure was a large gathering, and as terrified as she was of what might be in the cellar, she moved toward the door in the kitchen that led down there. As she entered the kitchen, Kristen still saw no sign of Drew. The cacophony of voices from below were growing in strength, all mixing together like some demented operatic chorus when it finally hit Kristen as to what it was. She had no idea if she was correct, but based on what she knew of the history of Glass Mansion and the emergence of the murderous Edmund and his oath of blood, she knew all those voices were coming from the souls of his former victims.

  Even covering her ears did no good to attenuate the growing pleas. As time went by, it felt to Kristen as if the whole mansion was now alive, groaning as a unit from its macabre contents. As she was about to go below, despite every cell of her being telling her that was insane, Kristen found her attention drawn back over her shoulder toward the left of the kitchen. There was this odd hissing sound near the stove, and Kristen immediately realized that the gas to the unit had been turned on. The smell of the fumes was now immediately apparent as well and she rushed to the burners to shut off the supply of gas as she covered her mouth with a handful of her shirt.

  She was not sure if she had been so fixated on finding Drew that she had simply overlooked and ignored the gas or if it had just been turned on in the last few moments. Certainly, the distraction of the cries from below had not helped, but Kristen supposed it did not matter. She coughed and gagged as she neared the control valves, twisting them quickly to the off position. No sooner than she had done this then she again froze in her place, hearing the vile and contemptuous cackle of Edmund from behind her. She fought down every message that her body was sending her and slowly turned to face the headless Edmund. As she came about, Kristen felt a wave of ultimate panic and paralyzing fear flood her body as she saw the hand of the deranged horseman holding out a lit match. There was no time to do anything…she could not cover the distance between herself and Edmund in time, nor could she get out of the house in time either.

  Kristen had never in her life been in such a situation. That of desperation and no way out. As frightened and terrified as she was on one level, she was shocked and mystified on another level as a feeling of resignation and calm came over her. Kristen closed her eyes and bowed her head as Edmund dropped the match and the kitchen blew apart in a massive, explosive fireball.

  ……….

  Rhiannon had limped and hobbled around the car and had the car idling per Kristen’s orders as an enormous explosion rocked the car on its suspension. Rhiannon gasped suddenly as she saw the rear of the mansion blow outward sending glass, stone, and shards of wood flying. What in the hell had just happened? Rhiannon hesitated, but finally forced herself to her feet and ignoring the pain that was shooting up her leg like a hot dagger was piercing her muscles, she went to the front door of the mansion and stepped into the foyer. As she peered around, all Rhiannon could see was that the whole interior of the mansion was quickly being engulfed with fire from the explosion. She ventured in as far as she dared, screaming for Kristen and Drew as loudly as she could, but the fire was moving quickly and she could move no further along.

  With no warning, huge beams wrapped in flames began to descend from above, smashing into the floors all around her. Once the beams went, this led to an avalanche of blazing rubble, raining down on Rhiannon in every direction. She cried out in desperation one more time for her friends, but the roar of the fire covered her shouts. With tears in her eyes, partly from the smoke and partly from what must have happened to Kristen and Drew, Rhiannon stumbled and ambled back to the front door, coughing and gasping for air desperately. Just as she was reaching the opening to get out, another massive explosion ripped through the mansion, coming up from the cellar and Rhiannon was thrown through the entrance and onto the soggy mess outside.

  Dragging herself along, her injured leg throbbing relentlessly and her tears of loss and regret pouring from her eyes, Rhiannon finally found herself back at the car, away from the growing conflagration. She pushed herself into a sitting position, her back against the side of Drew’s car as she watched Glass Mansion slowly burn to the ground. Rhiannon was shocked that the enormous fire had not brought any response from Carmarthen, but then again it was a very small place and Glass Mansion was so far on the outskirts that it was likely it could not be seen from the village. Despite her great grief and anguish, Rhiannon took the only bit of solace she could find in the destruction of the mansion: surely this would put an end to Edmund’s reign of terror.

  When the fire had burned itself out, and Glass Mansion was nothing more than a huge mountain of charred and smoking rubble, Rhiannon
used her one good leg to pry herself up and fell, exhausted, into the driver’s seat of Drew’s car. She took one last, long look at what had been Carmarthen’s oldest and largest structure, wishing she had never seen that advertisement from Gladys Glass. In her heart, she knew it would be a very long time, if ever before she would be able to erase the memory of this cursed night and what had happened to her friends due to her insistence they come along. The phrases “what’s the big deal” and “how hard can this be” were echoing through her brain as she turned the key in the ignition and spun the car around to head back to the flat she and Kristen had been sharing.

  She supposed she should be worried about Mrs. Langdon and the overdue rent as well, but in the bigger picture, this seemed trivial. She pictured getting harangued further by her overbearing landlady, and all she could visualize was flipping her off as she abandoned the basement apartment for good. After all, there was no way now that she could ever go back there after what had just happened to Kristen. As Rhiannon got the car down the drive of the former Glass Mansion, she flipped on the headlights as she was nearing the main road below that would lead her back to Carmarthen proper. However, just as she was rounding the last big turn to the right from the drive, Rhiannon slammed on the brakes causing the car to skid on the loose gravel of the drive.

  It could not be. But sure enough, it was. As Rhiannon looked through the windshield, the unmistakable form of Edmund Glass atop his mighty stead, Lorenz, stood blocking her exit from the driveway. Even through her tears, Rhiannon had no trouble seeing the headless specter as he towered over the front of the small sedan. Rhiannon did not know whether to laugh or cry. But as Edmund spoke to her:

  “Leaving so soon, Miss? Why not hang around for the finale? We can complete the threesome with your companions, though I am sure my definition of a threesome is most likely at odds with yours…”

  The last thing that Rhiannon heard then was his resounding laughter of revenge and evil as she screamed loudly into the night…

  The Haunting of Ashley Mansion

  By Riley Amitrani

  Prologue

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  25th September, 1970

  There are few places in the United States that have gained a reputation for potential hauntings and related paranormal phenomenon than New Orleans. Many northerners might argue that New England is on the same plane, but for anyone that has spent any amount of time in the Big Easy or anywhere in the environs of bayou country, the comparison is weak. Perhaps one of the more infamous legends of the darker side of New Orleans surrounds the Lalaurie House in the French Quarter. The house was purchased in 1831 by Delphine Macarty Lalaurie, a well-known member of the white upper class at the time. When the aftermath of a fire in 1834 revealed that Madame Lalaurie had apparently chained seven slaves in an outbuilding, all near death from torture and starvation, a mob stormed the mansion. Indeed, even after the fire, more and more tales of her cruelty arose whereupon she fled to Paris where she lived the rest of her life in denial concerning the Lalaurie House.

  Activity in the home over the years, even after much elaborate renovation and notable famous owners such as the actor, Nicholas Cage, include the relatively benign such as a faucet that comes on of its own accord, doors that open and close at random, bizarre electrical phenomenon, phones ringing with no caller on the other end, and even the indentation of a body in linens after beds have been freshly made up. None of these observations are particularly dangerous, to be sure, but there has hardly been a contractor or maid, service provider, owner or guest who has not been witness to one or more of them. It for this reason that the Lalaurie House remains to this day to be considered one of the most haunted locales in the city.

  In the case of the Ashley Mansion, while not as well-recognized as the Lalaurie House for its peculiarities in the paranormal realm, it is in many opinions just as creepy and even more off-putting. The Ashley Mansion suffers from a short history, having been built by the original owners, Bryan and Ellen Ashley, in the mid-to-late 1960’s. They were both natives of New Orleans and after a brief hiatus away to attend college, they returned to their beloved hometown to begin a family. Ellen had been blessed with an artistic touch since she had been a very young girl and she exited her undergraduate program in Tennessee vaunted as one of the most promising new artists of the day in the southeastern United States. While Bryan completed his law degree in South Carolina, Ellen supported them both, and unlike many of his law school classmates, Bryan never had to concern himself with how to pay for his education.

  However, once he graduated, both he and Ellen agreed that their hearts were still in Louisiana and he joined on with a successful, but moderately-sized firm just off the French Quarter. As Bryan got his feet wet as a newly graduated attorney, Ellen continued to have continued success as an artist, even opening a small studio near Bryan’s firm. Time went by and they soon began to look around for a more permanent place to call home. Many people living in the historic districts of New Orleans would snatch up a distinctive, but rundown old house to renovate. Bryan and Ellen considered this option, but when a vacant lot in the South 7th Ward near the intersection of Pauger Street and Burgundy Street went up for sale, they jumped at the chance to create something new vs. redoing an existing home.

  They erected a two-story brick house on the lot that they made sure fit in well with the surrounding architecture and style of the neighborhood. It was neither modest nor extravagant and when they finally moved into the completed structure, they felt as if they had truly come home. Upon walking around in the neighborhood one evening soon after they had moved in, Bryan, as a joke, suggested they call the house, “Ashley Mansion”.

  “You cannot be serious…” Ellen replied as she linked her arm in his as they strolled along.

  “Sure…why not? All these old places around town have these pretentious and elaborate names.”

  Ellen laughed.

  “So we start our own…that your idea?”

  Bryan shrugged and laughed with her. And with that conversation, The Ashley Mansion was born. Bryan had a simple, but unique brass placard made and mounted on the wall next to the front door. It still made Ellen giggle each time she passed it for a bit, but their friends all thought it was a hoot and it was like it had always been there.

  They soon had their first child, Brandon, and Ellen pared back on her career to take care of their son as Bryan’s law career was booming. She still sold paintings from time to time, but her efforts became more of a casual hobby rather than an all-consuming avocation…though she was still as passionate about what she created as ever. And quite frankly, Ellen was finding as much satisfaction in being a fulltime Mom as she had been as an artist. Brandon was the light of their lives and only added to what they already had built for themselves. With Bryan’s rise in his firm, the natural prominence of social standing came long as well. Soon Bryan and Ellen Ashley were among the most respected and admired young couples in New Orleans.

  However, as Don Henley penned in one of his solo albums, “everything can change in a New York minute”. Such could not have been truer with the Ashleys. Just after Brandon turned eight, Ellen became concerned when Bryan had not come home one evening. It was not unusual for him to work late, but he never failed to call to let her know if he had gotten hung up at the office. As the evening wore on, she finally dropped by his office when her own calls were just met with the voicemail recording on both his business and private phone. In all her wildest imagination, Ellen had never expected to discover what she found when she entered his office: Bryan’s dead body sprawled across his desk.

  Once a thorough investigation was completed it was revealed that a very disgruntled client of Bryan’s had murdered him following what the client had viewed as a very lackluster defense in a recent case. It had been a total and incomprehensible shock to Ellen. Brandon was young, but not so young that he could understand what had happened. However, in an odd turn of roles, Brandon became the one to try and s
upport his mother through the aftermath of the tragedy as she had the look and response of a catatonic mental patient for months after the funeral. Ellen did finally regroup, but everyone around her could see she was not the same woman anymore…even Brandon. In rare moments, Brandon could see glimpses of his mother as she had been, but more often than not he was met with a person he hardly recognized on most days.

  Her new up and down behavior mostly baffled the young Brandon, and he was the only one to see the downside of his mother both from a physical appearance as well as behavioral. He was young, but he had seen enough television and been to the movies enough to suspect his mother was self-medicating to deal with the loss of his father. However, it was only when he surreptitiously spied on her one afternoon that he saw how far she had fallen into the dark world of drug abuse. Having no aunts or uncles or grandparents to turn to, Brandon went looking for help at his school. Unfortunately, he was immediately rebuffed by the counselors there due to Ellen’s standing in the community. It was absurd, they told him. You are seeing things, they told him. All in all, the adults that Brandon looked to for assistance told him he was having trouble dealing with the loss of his father and that he was trying to deflect his grief and sorrow onto his mother.

  Eventually, word of Brandon’s cries for help got back to Ellen, and in her drug-induced addled brain, she turned on her son and began to beat him. Brandon endured as much as he could, knowing this was not his real mother. His real mother would never do such things. It was the drugs. However, he also knew that since his previous attempts to get other adults to listen to him and possibly intervene had been laughed off that getting anyone to believe the well-respected and revered Ellen Ashley would actually beat him were useless. For years Brandon made himself as scarce as possible when at home, never knowing when the specter of the mother-thing would arise. When she did, he huddled into a ball and absorbed the punishment without as much as a whimper, afraid that any response would simply egg her on.