The Ghost of Molly Holt

by Amy Cross

  “Molly Holt is dead,” I say finally, still hoping that the words will somehow make me braver. “She died years ago and that means she can't be here now.”

  I take a deep breath.

  “And there's no such thing as ghosts.”

  Silence.

  “There's no such thing. There can't be.”

  With that, I start limping forward until I reach the other side of the darkened room, and then I slowly open the door. The hinges creak as I take a step out and look along the corridor, and I can just about make out the top of the stairs. I watch the shadows, waiting in case one of them shifts even slightly. So far, there's no sign that anybody else is here, but I still can't shake the feeling that I'm being watched.

  “Are you here?” I whisper finally.

  Silence.

  “Are you here?” I call out, a little more loudly this time. “Molly Holt, are you -”

  I catch myself just in time.

  This is crazy.

  If I keep up like this, I'm going to end up losing my mind just like Becky. It's obvious that she must have killed Freddie, and that it was her own insanity that then caused her to attack me. Deep down, however, I still feel a ripple of fear. No matter how much I might try to deny the truth, there's a part of me that thinks Molly Holt's ghost might be nearby. That she was the cause of what happened here tonight.

  I have to know for sure.

  “If you're here,” I call out, “show yourself to me right now. Let's get this over with. Either you're here or you're not, so I demand that you appear right in front of me.”

  Silence.

  “This is your last chance,” I continue. “I know you're not real. You can't be real, but I'm giving you this one final chance. Either let me see you or...”

  I wait.

  No reply.

  “Or I'm getting out of here,” I add under my breath. “I swear to God, either you're gonna come and get me right now, or I'm walking out of this goddamn house.”

  I wait a moment longer, just in case some kind of crazy ghost appears in front of me, and then I start limping toward the top of the stairs. I have to lean against the wall, barely able to keep myself up, and I can feel warm blood dribbling down my neck and onto my chest. I barely have the energy to keep my eyes open, but somehow I reach the stairs and then I lower myself down so I can start crawling to the hallway.

  I have to stop for a few seconds to take a series of deep, painful breaths, but I know I can get out of here.

  I just have to get to the door, then out into the forest, and then I have to find someone who can help me.

  “There's no such thing as ghosts,” I say out loud, although I'm shocked by how much my voice is trembling. “They're not real. There's nothing here.”

  I start inching my way down the stairs, although the pain in my chest is getting worse and worse. After a moment my right leg buckles and I start to fall, but I manage to grab the railing and hold on.

  “You can do this,” I whisper. “You can get out of here.”

  I lower myself onto the next step and then I take a break, before working my way all the way down to the bottom.

  Collapsing on the hallway floor, I look out toward the porch and see Freddie's body slumped in a patch of moonlight. I open my mouth to call out to him, but at the last second I see his dead eyes and I realize that there's no point. He must have been dead this whole time, almost from the moment he hurried away and promised to be back soon with help. I don't know how Becky, in her madness, managed to keep the body hidden. All I know is that she must have been responsible.

  There was nobody else here.

  “Freddie,” I whisper finally, “I'm so...”

  Suddenly I hear a creaking sound. I watch in horror as the door swings shut, and then the house falls silent once more.

  The wind.

  That was just the wind.

  Somehow a breeze blew past the house, and the wind caused the door to shut.

  “There's no such thing as ghosts,” I say firmly. “There's no -”

  Before I can finish, I hear a single faint bumping sound from somewhere nearby. I turn and look around, but there's no sign of anyone.

  “Houses make noises,” I whisper. “It was the wind again, that's all.”

  I know I'm right.

  I have to be right.

  If there was a ghost here in this house, I'd have seen it by now.

  Still, I watch the various doors that lead into the other rooms, and then I look over at the top of the stairs that lead down to the basement. I pause for a moment, half-expecting to hear somebody coming up, but then I realize that once again I'm letting my imagination get the better of me.

  This is exactly what happened to Becky.

  She allowed these ideas to take root, and she went insane.

  I'm stronger than that.

  And yet, deep down, I know that a part of me is starting to believe. No matter how hard I try to stay calm and rational, some other part of my mind is terrified that maybe – just maybe – there's something else here after all. And that part is getting stronger by the second, until finally I realize that I have to let it try something.

  “Molly Holt,” I say finally, trying to keep my voice from trembling too much, “if you can hear me, then I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry. I'm sorry about what happened to you, and I'm sorry that we watched the video. I didn't want to watch it, it was my friends who insisted, but I should have stopped them somehow.”

  I watch the door to the basement for a moment, and then I look up the stairs.

  Is she here?

  Is Molly Holt listening to me?

  “If you can hear me, I promise I'll tell someone what happened. I'll lead them back here, and I'll make sure your bones are taken away and buried properly, and I'll make sure that people know the truth about your death. I know that doesn't mean everything will be right again, but it's the best I can manage. And that has to count for something, doesn't it?”

  I wait.

  Silence.

  “So if you can hear me,” I continue, “and if you're here, then please, just let me go. Let me leave. I didn't do anything to you and I -”

  I stop myself just in time.

  Again, I tell myself that this is nonsense.

  There's no ghost here.

  If I keep talking like this, I'll eventually imagine her. I'll start seeing things moving in the shadows, and then all the natural bumps and creaks of an old house will take on new meanings. The human mind can be pretty powerful like that, and you can end up imagining all sorts of things that feel completely real.

  Or ignoring things that are real.

  No.

  I have to stay strong.

  Getting to my feet, I limp across the hallway and then I reach out and grab the door handle. I hesitate for a moment, struggling to stay up, and then slowly I turn the handle and pull the door open. The hinges creak, and I'm relieved to feel a cold, gentle breeze against my face.

  I've made it.

  I'm out of the house.

  I limp forward, but the pain is intense and I have to lean against the door-frame. I take a series of slow, deep breaths as I try to summon the strength to keep going. It's going to take me hours to reach the road, and then I might have to wait several more hours before a car passes and somebody helps me, and I'm already feeling weak as blood continues to flow from the wounds on my neck and face.

  But I can do this.

  I have no choice. I refuse to die here.

  I take another step forward.

  And then I feel a hand touch my right shoulder from behind, followed a moment later by another hand on the other side.

  I freeze.

  This isn't real.

  I was scared I'd start imagining things, and that's exactly what's happening.

  This is not happening.

  Telling myself that the hands aren't really there, I try to force them from my mind. Even as they start to grip tighter, and as I feel ice-cold fingers pressing agai
nst the fabric of my shirt, I try to focus on the fact that there can't be anyone behind me. This whole experience is being conjured up by my fevered imagination, and if I concentrate hard enough I should be able to make the hands go away.

  “You're not real,” I whisper, hoping that saying the words out loud will help. “You're dead.”

  I wait for the hands to lift.

  The fingers grip a little tighter.

  The cold is getting through my shirt, and now the hairs are standing up on the back of my neck.

  “You're not real!” I say firmly, before realizing that I have to face my fear.

  I have to turn around and look.

  Her fingers twitch slightly, and now the cold is starting to burn.

  I take a deep breath, trying to summon a little more strength, and then finally I understand that it's now or never. Either I face this imaginary horror, or I let it bloom in my mind until I don't even know what's real and what's not. Either I take a stand, or I become like Becky.

  I just have to look, and then walk away.

  Slowly, I turn around and look over my shoulder.

  My chest tightens and my heart leaps in shock, and I feel ice cold air against my face.

  I have to be strong. I have to ignore what I think I'm seeing, and I have to focus on what I know must be true.

  Molly Holt's rotten, decomposing body is not standing right behind me.

  Her dead hands are not resting on my shoulders.

  And now she's not leaning closer to my face, and she's not tilting her head as she looks at me, and she's not whispering with a cracked and dry voice that I have to pay the price for watching the video.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Bright morning sunlight streams down through gaps in the forest canopy, as two cars rumble closer along the dirt road.

  Rolling onto my side, I open my eyes and see that night has passed in an instant and the sun is high in the bright blue sky. I immediately start to sit up, before stopping and looking around as I realize that I'm out on the porch at the front of the house. My mind is a little foggy, but I quickly look around for Freddie, only to find that there's no sign of him.

  I turn and look back through the open doorway, into the gloomy hallway, but there's no sign of anyone at all.

  Nearby, the cars come to a halt and I hear their doors opening.

  Turning, I see police officers climbing out of the two vehicles. Their radios are crackling, and one of them is speaking to somebody on a cellphone.

  “So she's sure this is where the lights were coming from?” one of the officers is saying as he looks up at the front of the house. “There don't look to be any lights on now.”

  “There isn't even any electricity out here,” another officer mutters.

  “We've got three missing kids to find,” the third officer says, leaving the other two behind and hurrying across the yard.

  “Help,” I stammer, looking over my shoulder again to make sure that there's no sign of Molly Holt, before turning and reaching out toward the officer. “She's here. I saw her. You have to help me!”

  The officer comes over toward me and makes his way up the steps. The other two quickly catch up to him, and I feel a rush of relief as I realize that I've been found.

  “Thank you!” I call out, trying to get to my feet but quickly feeling a sharp pain in my side. “Molly Holt is here! I saw her ghost! She's real!”

  I don't know how I'm going to explain any of this, but I can't help breaking into a series of convulsive sobs as I realize that I survived the night. I can figure everything else out later, but right now I'm just relieved that I made it through to morning. And I'll figure out a way to make them understand what happened, just as soon as I've figured it out myself.

  “Thank you,” I sob as the officers reach me. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Thank you for finding me. I saw her. I saw Molly Holt's ghost. She's really here! She was always here!”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  50 years later

  “Mr. Holland? Tim Holland?”

  Turning away from the bar just as the waitress brings me my coffee, I see that a well-dressed young man is approaching with a rather nervous smile on his face. He's clutching a notebook, and I can't help sighing as I realize that it's now too late to back out of this foolish meeting.

  “I'm so glad you came,” he continues, offering me a hand to shake. “I'll be honest, I kind of expected you to... not.”

  “Me too,” I mutter, shaking his hand.

  “I'm sorry?”

  “Never mind.” I take my coffee from the bar and gesture for him to follow me to the table in the far corner. “We'll have to make this brief. I'm meeting my sons for dinner shortly, so I don't have all evening for your questions.”

  “I'm grateful for any time you can spare.”

  “Who did you say you work for?”

  “I'm freelance, Mr. Holland. I work for whoever wants to buy my articles.”

  “And you think somebody will pay you good money for an article about my years in the advertising business, do you? I'm afraid you might be on a hiding to nothing, but we can give it a go.” Setting my coffee down, I take a seat and wait while this chap arranges himself opposite. “I've never consented to an interview before. I suppose I thought my work did all the talking that was necessary, but perhaps now I'm softening a little in my old age.”

  I wait for him to reply, but he's simply staring at me.

  “Well, get on with it,” I continue, trying to hide my irritation. “Fire away.”

  “I have a confession to make.”

  I raise a skeptical eyebrow.

  “I'm not here to talk to you about your business life,” he continues. “That was just a ruse, a way to get you face-to-face. I'm actually here to talk to you about something far more important.”

  He pauses, before opening his notebook. I can't help noticing that his hands are trembling slightly, as if he's extremely nervous.

  “So what is this all about?” I ask cautiously, even though deep down I think perhaps I can guess.

  “I want to talk to you about something that happened a long time ago,” he replies, barely even able to look me in the eye now as he takes a look at some handwritten notes. Finally, however, he meets my gaze. “I want to talk to you about Molly Holt.”

  As soon as I hear that name, I feel a shudder pass through my chest. Everybody in my life – my wife, my children, my friends and colleagues – knows better than to mention the name Molly Holt to me. I haven't even heard the name uttered out loud in many years, and I suppose deep down I rather hoped I would never have to hear it again.

  “So that's what this is?” I ask. “A deception?”

  “I had to.”

  “No, you didn't.” Getting to my feet, I check my watch and see that it's barely five o'clock. “I'm afraid I must be on my way. I was happy to speak to you about business matters, but this deception is a step too far.”

  “Please, you have to forgive me, but -”

  “No, I do not have to forgive you,” I reply firmly. “You lied to me. You lured me here under false pretenses, and now you expect me to simply shrug and tell you that it's fine? Absolutely not. Good day, and please do not contact me ever again.”

  I turn to walk away.

  “Do you know why she let you live?” he asks.

  I stop, frozen in my tracks for a moment, before slowly turning back to face him.

  “I've read a transcript of the police interview from all those years ago,” he continues. “From the day after you were found bloodied and injured outside that house. In the interview, you kept asking over and over again why she hadn't killed you. She killed your two friends, and she certainly had the chance to kill you, but she let you live. You said in the interview that you didn't understand why.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask, trying not to appear flustered. “What transcript? How did you get hold of such a thing?”

  “I'm investigating the Molly Holt case and -” />
  “That doesn't give you any right to come here and ask these questions!” I hiss, before realizing that I'm in danger of attracting attention. I glance around at the nearest tables, but nobody seems to be looking this way, so after a moment I turn back to the young man and see that he's still staring at me with a hint of fear in his eyes. “This is outrageous,” I continue. “You realize that, I hope. Your actions are abominable and you should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “I am,” he replies. “I just... I had no other way of talking to you.”

  “Perhaps you should have accepted that I don't wish to talk at all.”

  “I need to know what happened to you in the house that night.”

  I shake my head.

  “I really do,” he continues. “I need to know whether you believe you encountered the ghost of Molly Holt.”

  “Oh, don't talk rubbish,” I mutter.

  “So you think it was all in your head?”

  “There's no such thing as ghosts, Mr. Peters,” I reply with a sigh. “You'd do well to remember that.”

  “That's not what you said to the police.”

  “I was just a boy back then,” I point out. “I have since come to realize...”

  My voice trails off as I realize that I have somehow let myself be tricked into having this conversation. Although I'm tempted to turn and walk away, I feel as if I need to set this fool straight. Perhaps if I make him understand the truth, he and his ilk will leave me alone. God knows, I have been bothered many times by supposed truth-hunters over the years.

  “I was just an impressionable boy back then,” I continue finally, as I retake my seat. “With the benefit of a little distance, I can now look back upon that time and see that much of what I said was wrong.”

  “So you don't believe there was a ghost in the house that night?”

  “No. I don't believe there was a ghost.”

  “So how -”

  “Two people died,” I add, interrupting him, “and others had died before that. My friend Becky -”

  I flinch as soon as that name leaves my lips. Although I have thought of Becky many times over the years, I have very carefully avoided saying her name out loud. In truth, I have avoided speaking of that night and the circumstances altogether.