No one else was around, so she assumed the dogs and Violet were awaiting food in the kitchen. Myranda moved slowly down the stairs, feeling as tired as she could remember in a long time. It was like she had just laid down to sleep and her head was fuzzy, like in a fog as she got to the ground floor. Surprisingly, there were no furry bodies awaiting her arrival as was there a normal pattern when they felt their meals were overdue. The sun from the kitchen temporarily blinded her as she moved closer, and Myranda squinted her eyes while she shielded her vision with one hand. Even as she came into the kitchen, there was no one to greet her…at least that was her initial reaction. However, as she moved out of the glaring sunlight, Myranda came to an abrupt and sudden halt. Sitting up on the counter, just next to the sink was the boy from her dream. He was swinging his legs absent-mindedly and looked calm and relaxed as if he had been waiting for her to arrive.
Myranda locked eyes with him, and after giving her a leering grin, the image of the boy just disappeared. She blinked and looked again, but there was just empty space where she had thought she had seen the boy, making her wonder if she had imagined the whole thing. Myranda knew that dreams could have a powerful hold over you, and she thought that maybe the strong impact of her nightmare was playing games with her brain as she was still only about half awake. She furrowed her brow and was about to head for the coffee maker when she was distracted by the nonstop and shrill barking of Scout out on the patio. A barking dog was no big deal for Myranda, but the fact that it was Scout was. Blondie was the normal barker. In fact, if Myranda was to think back, she could not remember the last time Scout had done this. Also, the sheer intensity of his bark gave her concern.
Forgoing the coffee for the moment, Myranda went out through the kitchen door and onto the patio to see what had gotten Scout so riled up. To her utter shock, Myranda found Scout on the patio, still barking as if his life depended on it, while blondie was lying motionless on the bricks at his front paws. Her heart sank as she rushed to the prone body of her beloved Blondie. The dog was not moving at all, and by the time Myranda reached her, she discovered that she was not breathing. In a panic, Myranda jumped into emergency mode, merely a reaction to her medical training, and did her best over the next frantic minutes to revive her. But it was to no avail. Blondie was dead.
Once she arrived in the scene, Scout’s barking died off and morphed into a sad and pathetic whimpering as Myranda looked all over Blondie’s body for some sort of injury that could have caused this. Through her tears, she ran her hands over every inch of the dog’s body looking for scratches or bites or other visible wounds, but Blondie looked unhurt. There was no sign of any type of a struggle around her…no signs of vomiting or blood…nothing…just her limp, lifeless body. Scout came to Myranda as she sat back and cried harder than she had done in many years. Myranda buried her face in Blondie’s fur and collapsed in grief while Scout lay beside her quietly.
……….
After getting over her shock at Blondie’s inexplicable death, Myranda sat with Scout on the patio trying to make some sense out of it all. Blondie had been a relatively young dog…only six years old and showing absolutely no signs of any disease or other health issues. It made no sense. As irrational as it felt in her head, Myranda thought back to her dream and how the boy had lashed out at her with no provocation. Was it possible? Her rational mind told her she was crazy, but a small voice in the back of her head kept chattering away since there was no other explanation. Did she have a malevolent spirit in her house? But why Blondie? She was just an innocent, sweet dog…
With no answers coming to her, Myranda retrieved a shovel from her garden shed and in a deep state of depression and heartache dug a grave for Blondie’s body in the rear of the yard. Scout refused to leave his sister’s body and lay next to her as he continued to whine, which nearly tore Myranda apart emotionally. She returned to where Scout was still located and hefted up Blondie’s body. Scout then arose to follow close behind Myranda as she carried Blondie to the grave and gently laid her on a small tarp that she had lined the grave with. As she kneeled by the open space, Scout threw his head back and made the eeriest and chilling howl that Myranda had ever heard. It brought on a new wave of tears for her and between that and Scout’s obvious show of loss, Myranda was not sure she could stand.
Scout ran off back toward the house as a light rain began to fall as Myranda struggled to her feet to begin filling in Blondie’s grave. Just as she was about to try and get to her feet, Myranda felt a strong grasp of fingers on her left shoulder. It was a bony and firm clench and she cried out in pain as she whirled in place to see who had accosted her. But as she spun around, Myranda saw no one there. Just empty space. Her heart was pounding and her breathing unsteady as she slipped her shirt off her shoulder to see vivid red marks in the shape of a hand. Whatever had just happened, she had definitely not imagined that. The rain picked up from a mild sprinkle to a moderate downpour and Myranda hurried to get Blondie covered with the soil of her grave before placing the simple cross she had fashioned earlier denoting the dog’s name and dates of birth and death.
Myranda then raced into the house as the rain picked up into a major downpour accompanied by thunder and lightning. Rather than her coffee, Myranda grabbed a glass from her cupboard and poured herself a healthy slug of scotch as she sat with Scout and Violet and stared out into the backyard at Blondie’s grave site. She had always prided herself on being to describe even the most bizarre experiences on a logical, scientific explanation, but at this point, Myranda could see no way to use that reasoning and rationale on everything that was going on in this house. Her former skepticism and derision of the supernatural were definitely on thin ice. But was she really ready to accept that to make sense of all of this?
Myranda and the Boy: An Introduction to the Other Side
New Orleans, Louisiana
30th October, 1977
Though the scotch burned her throat and stomach as it went down, Myranda was still feeling chilled and shivered as she sat in her damp clothes from the rainstorm. She slogged back upstairs as the rain and thunder and lightning continued to pound away at her house, with Scout right on her heels. As bad as she felt, it seemed Scout was just as affected and apparently he was not leaving her sight for the time being. Myranda stripped out of her wet clothes and stepped into the shower, setting the water for as hot as she could stand it. She leaned her head back, letting the strong stream of water wet her hair as the steam from the shower began to build up and help soothe her cold skin. Her memories and love for Blondie came flooding back again in a rush and Myranda began to cry hard once more. Her body shook and trembled as she cried, but as she closed her eyes and breathed in deeply from the steam, she got her emotions under control and relaxed.
As Myranda raised her face to the stream to wash away her tears, the bathroom was suddenly plunged into darkness…apparently, the electrical storm had knocked out the power to her house. It was one more punch to her gut that she did not need at the moment, but Myranda decided to just deal with it and shut off the water as she whipped back the shower curtain and reached for her towel next to the sink. The storm outside was adding to the overall gloom of the day and even as she looked into her bedroom, as she wiped her face and hair dry, all Myranda cold see was a vague light losing the battle with the dark. She quickly wiped her body down and slipped on a pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt from her dresser as she eased her way into the hallway and went in search of a flashlight or some candles.
Neither Scout nor Violet were anywhere to be seen upstairs. Myranda assumed the loud claps of thunder and sudden steaks of lightning had spooked them and they were hiding out in places where they felt safe. It had seemed as if Violet hadn’t been impacted by Blondie’s demise, but for sure she knew that Scout was feeling it. She was not surprised if he might be lying low at the moment. The interior of the house had an odd, grayish appearance as Myranda took her time descending the stairs. The overcast skies were really limiting any
ambient light that normally penetrated and lit up the inside of all the rooms. As Myranda made it to the bottom of the staircase and stepped into the entryway, an enormous boom of thunder sounded, shaking the walls of the house and making Myranda gasp as it caught her off-guard.
She caught herself as the menacing echo rumbled away, but she was not all that surprised seeing as how her nerves were edgy and raw from the morning. She walked through most of the side rooms searching drawers for at least a stray candle or two if not an actual flashlight. She had not remembered putting anything away in any of them that might help in this regard, but she figured her memory might be a bit on the fritz due to her agitated emotional state. As she shut the last drawer in what must have been a parlor or sitting room in the past with no luck, Myranda suddenly recalled that she had socked away a flashlight in the long utility drawer in the kitchen for just such an emergency. She padded out of the room and wandered tentatively back into the hallway to head for the kitchen. It seemed impossible, but Myranda could swear that the light had faded even more. And on top of that, this cold draft of air blew over her shoulders and through the corridor and into the kitchen. She stopped for just a second wondering how this was possible considering how warm and humid the weather had been over the last few days.
Despite it being late October, the heat from the summer seemed to have hung onto New Orleans and this cold draft baffled her. Her skin rippled with goosebumps as the cool air blew by her, but there was something else in the air that Myranda was sure was at least partly responsible for her shivers. Everything that had happened since she had been plagued with the nightmares from the previous night was stretching her psyche to the limit. As quickly as the mass of cold air had come, it seemed to simply pass away and the air around her again felt like it had all week. Myranda wondered again if it had been real or if she had somehow just imagined it. She shook her head having no answer and proceeded to the kitchen to grab the flashlight.
However, just as she stepped from the hardwood of the corridor to the tile of the kitchen floor, Myranda felt her right foot slide out from under her from a puddle of water as she slid to her backside. She landed hard on her hip and smacked her head as well once she went down, and she chided herself for not remembering to mop up the floor when she had come back inside from burying Blondie. But as she slid, Myranda recognized the impropriety of falling on her keister was the least of her worries. All the fall had actually bruised was her ego...or so she thought. The pain on her hip and the back of her head was nothing compared to the piercing stab of pain that suddenly shot through her leg, leading from her bare foot.
Myranda cried out aloud and grabbed for her foot and leg as she looked down seeing a trail of blood…her blood…spilling from a deep and long gash on the bottom of her foot. As she looked around in a panic to see what had happened to her, Myranda’s fingers bumped across a small cardboard box near her leg. Despite her fingers being covered with blood and not having much of a grip, she saw immediately, even in the dim of the room, that the box was torn open and the contents—razor blades—were splayed across the floor. It was several of these that had been responsible for cutting her. In her anger and frustration and total confusion, Myranda let fly with a series of expletives that are best left to the imagination. She was mad that she had been cut, but her greater irritation and bewilderment was how these blades had even gotten here. They definitely did not belong to her.
As she whipped a hand towel from the back of one of the kitchen chairs to try and staunch the blood flow, Myranda looked to the opening of the back door that led out to the patio. Standing in the open space was Scout, his fur standing on end and his lips drawn back in a vicious manner as he began growling deeply in his chest. If Myranda did not remember Scout be much of a barker, for sure she had never seen him act like this. Blondie had been the barker and the one to occasionally growl at possible danger, not the sweet, mild-mannered Scout. It was like he had become this dog she had never seen before, though she could see his warning vocalizations were not aimed at her. He was looking just beyond her, over her shoulder and Myranda got the impression of him stepping up to protect her from something.
Before she had another second to react, Myranda’s attention was drawn to the kitchen table where Violet suddenly pounced from some unknown perch elsewhere. Her back was arched dramatically and she was hissing. If Myranda had been in a laughing mood, she would have fallen into gales of laughter at how stereotypical Violet resembled a Halloween cat, despite being gray, not black. In much the same vein as Scout, it appeared as if Violet was on the alert for her as well. Merely in reaction and instinct to their behavior, Myranda turned sensing another presence in the room just behind her. As she turned fully around, Myranda came face to face with the visage of the young boy from her nightmare standing over her, his true form illuminated only by the intermittent flashes of lightning that pierced the cloudy skies outside.
She looked up helplessly as the boy held a hammer high over his head giving her the unmistakable conclusion that he was about to bring the blunt instrument down on her. Feeling trapped and with no time or place to escape to, Myranda closed her eyes and cowered down, awaiting the fatal blow from her nemesis. However, as she awaited the impact from the weapon, Myranda was shocked at what happened next. The blow never came as she heard the loud clatter of the heavy tool skitter across the floor. Wondering what had changed the child’s mind, Myranda looked up from her defensive position to see him crying uncontrollably, bordering on hysteria. He had fallen to his knees beside her and through his trembling and massive outpouring of tears, he pointed distractedly away from where they were located, into the corridor from which Myranda had just come.
She dropped her hands and arms from her head, her eyes following the direction that the boy was indicating. It was a vague and dim view as she followed the line of sight that his shaking finger was indicating, but even so, she could make out this intermittent and fuzzy vision. The images, though not solid-looking were real enough to get her attention. They flickered in and out of substance, like an old movie projection on an unseen screen. But what really made Myranda feel even more scared was that she could see the actual objects of the house behind the projected visions…she could see right through them. If she could have summoned the energy and courage to flee, she would have. But as she was overcome with all that had been happening, Myranda simply sat back and took it all in as she tightened the dish towel on her injured foot.
Myranda and the Boy: The Finale
New Orleans, Louisiana
30th October, 1977
The relatively more solid version of the young boy sat with Myranda as she crossed her legs in front of her and looked on in utter disbelief. Her fear and anxiety had flowed away. Like a weight being lifted off her shoulders, replaced with an overwhelming wonder that perhaps she had lost her mind along the way. Certainly, no sane person would be witnessing these visions, Myranda mused to herself. And if she had gone around the bend, who would take care of Scout and Violet now? Because as she looked toward the flickering images, she saw the boy…the same one now sitting at her side…in the corridor. From out of the frame of the sight, a new person came into view: it was the woman from her initial nightmare. Myranda was now sure she had lost it. The vision-child cowered to the floor, curling into a defensive fetal position as the woman strode near him with a large, nasty-looking leather belt.
With no warning or other provocation, the woman began screaming at the vision-boy at the top of her lungs:
“You stupid, stupid thing! God, I hate you! Why don’t you just die?”
She then raised the thick, wide leather strap and began to rain repetitive blows down on the defenseless child, hitting him with solid-sounding force across his face and shoulders and then his arms as he tried to ward off the attack. The vision-boy cried out pathetically for her to please stop as Myranda saw new welts and bruises appear on his frail, emaciated frame. As the snap and crack of the belt rose in volume accompanied by the plaintiv
e cries from the child, as Myranda was sure she could stand no more, the visions abruptly vanished. It was as if it had been a movie, in which the film had either broken or the bulb of the projector had blown a fuse. The house went silent again, save the rumbling of the departing storm outside. Myranda wiped away fresh tears from her own face in the aftermath, her senses having been pounded relentlessly from the experience.
She looked over to see what she now was referring to as the “real boy”. He was rocking back and forth in an obsessive/compulsive motion, his arms hugging his knees tightly to his chest as his intense crying and wailing were making him choke and cough. Instinctively, Myranda reached over and gathered the child into her arms and pulled him close to her. The boy folded into her, sobbing and shaking, but as time went by, he settled down. Myranda felt herself crying along with the boy as she hugged him tightly. They never spoke of what had gone on just then, but for Myranda, it was pretty obvious. Somehow, someway the boy had been able to show her, in those fleeting visions in the hallway just off the kitchen, how he got all his various injuries and scars.
As they sat there and relaxed together, this mental story and vision came to Myranda, and without questioning it or looking for her normal logical explanation, she came to understand everything. His name was Brandon Ashley and through a telepathic-like communication, he filled in Myranda on what had happened to him when he had been a mortal being. How his life had been filled with love and happiness until his father’s murder. How his mother, the woman in the vision he had shown her, had fallen down the dark, sinister hole of drug addiction and had turned into an evil, abusive creature. How no one in town would believe him as he endured the new hell that had become his life. How he could no longer endure the situation and had killed her to survive but had then not been able to live with the guilt and shame of his actions and had taken his own life.
Haunted House Tales Page 75
