The Ghost of Molly Holt

by Amy Cross

  “My friend Rebecca,” I continue cautiously, “was a troubled young woman, and I'm afraid she lost her mind. She killed a good friend of mine, and she very nearly killed me. Ultimately she took her own life.”

  “In the original interview,” he replies, “you claimed that she had been possessed by the spirit of Molly Holt.”

  “I was wrong.”

  “And you claimed that Molly Holt had also killed your friend Freddie.”

  “Again, I was wrong.”

  “And you claimed that you'd seen her and that -”

  “I was wrong, Mr. Peters,” I say firmly. “Is it so difficult for you to understand that point?”

  “Not at all. It's just that over the years, other people have been to that house.”

  “Oh, I know,” I tell him. “Why it wasn't knocked down, I'll never understand. From what I've heard, the house has become a rather macabre attraction for thrill-seekers.”

  “People go and watch the Molly Holt video in the house,” he continues. “They think that they might encourage the ghost to appear and try to take revenge.”

  “And have any of them seen anything?”

  “There have been claims, but nobody has ever produced any proof.”

  “Of course they haven't,” I say with a sigh. “How could they? There's nothing there.”

  “I've been to the house,” he replies. “I stayed a whole night there, all alone. I even watched the video, right there in the basement, to see if it'd make her appear. I didn't see or hear anything. Not a peep. Not even so much as a stray creak or an errant bump. By the time morning came, I felt kind of stupid.”

  “So you should. You were wasting your time, just as you're wasting mine right now. At least you finally proved to yourself that there's no ghost there.”

  “I'm not sure I did,” he replies.

  At this, I can't help sighing.

  “Why did she let you live, Mr. Holland?” he continues. “That's the question you kept asking in the transcript, over and over again. Assume, just for a moment, that you really did see the ghost of Molly Holt, and that she really did kill your two friends because they watched the video. Assuming all of that, why has she not killed anyone since? And why did she let you live?”

  I open my mouth to tell him that he's a fool, but the words catch in my throat. Instead, for the first time in half a century, I remember what happened that night.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  50 years earlier

  “Please,” I stammer, staring into Molly Holt's rotten face, “don't...”

  Her hand is resting on my neck, and I can feel her twisted, ice-cold fingers pressing against my skin. She looks exactly how she looked at the moment of her death, with one eye swollen shut and one eye bloodied and bruised, and with cuts and wounds all over her bare body.

  “I'll do anything you want,” I continue, “but please, don't kill me. I don't want to die. I didn't mean to watch the video and I'm sorry, but I don't want to die.”

  As tears stream down my face, I feel her crooked hand moving up onto my cheek. She's staring at me, almost as if she's waiting for me to do or say something.

  “What do you want?” I ask finally. “Just tell me and I'll do it. Anything at all. Tell me what you want and I'll do anything, but please, don't kill me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  50 years later

  “I know there's something you're not telling me,” Mr. Peters says as we sit at the table in the corner of the pub. “I think there's something you haven't told anyone since that night. Something you've been holding back.”

  “And why would I do that?” I ask, feeling the first hint of tears in my eyes.

  “That's what I'm trying to figure out.”

  I hesitate, thinking back to the sight of that dead, rotten face all those years ago. I know she wasn't real. She can't have been real. And yet, at the same time, I remember the cold touch of her hand, and I remember a sense of profound and deep sorrow as she stared at me, and I remember waiting with dread for her do to me what she'd already done to my friends. I remember the sound of her voice as she leaned closer and whispered something in my ear.

  And I remember what she whispered.

  “I'm sorry,” I say finally, getting to my feet, “but I have no intention of talking about this matter any further. I doubt very much that I can get you to stop pursuing this topic, but I certainly do not have to help you in any way.”

  “Mr. Holland -”

  “And if you contact me again,” I add, no longer able to keep my anger contained, “I shall consider it to be an act of harassment, and I shall inform the police. And please, do not labor under the misapprehension that this is an idle threat.”

  “Mr. Holland, I only -”

  “I do not like liars!”

  With that, I turn and walk away. He calls after me, as if he still hopes to change my mind, but I march straight out of the pub and then I hurry around the corner before stopping for a moment to catch my breath. Leaning back against the wall, I realize my heart is pounding, but all I can think about is the sound of the voice that whispered in my ear fifty years ago. It's as if, having forced these memories from my mind for so long, now I can hold them back no longer.

  “You weren't real,” I say out loud, hoping to calm my nerves. “That's why I didn't ever go back and do what you wanted. You weren't real, and...”

  My voice trails off, and for a moment I'm lost in memories.

  Finally, taking my cellphone from my pocket, I bring up the number for my son David and wait for him to answer. Instead, however, I'm put through to his voicemail.

  “You shall have to manage without me at dinner this evening,” I tell him. “I'll explain later, but there's somewhere else I must be.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  By the time I reach the old house, night has fallen.

  Standing in the clearing, I stare at the front door. Apart from a tattered sign warning intruders to keep out, nothing seems to have changed over the years. The place is still rundown, and the house is still shrouded in darkness. I do not know who owns the house, but it's quite clear to me that it has been left to rot.

  “I came back,” I whisper finally, after several minutes. I'm watching the windows, in case there's any sign of anybody inside. “It took me a while, but here I am.”

  I wait, but all I hear is the rustle of nearby trees.

  “I came back,” I say again, before realizing how utterly foolish I must seem.

  Sighing, I step toward the house and make my way up the same front steps that I walked up as a young boy, and then I open the front door and step into the same hallway. I swore for so long that I would never come back to this place, that I would never even think of it again, yet now I feel as if somehow I was always going to return eventually. How could I not? The events that took place in this house have haunted my entire life, and the ghost of Molly Holt has been with me all along, even if I never truly saw her.

  I step across the hallway, toward the basement door. Looking down the rickety old stairs, I see that no attempt has ever been made to repair the damage caused by Becky's accident. I remember sitting with her, trying to make her feel less scared. It's hard to believe that fifty years have passed since that night.

  Looking down at my right hand, I see the can of gasoline that I picked up on my drive here.

  I hesitate for a moment, before unscrewing the cap and then starting to make my way down into the basement. The steps still bend a little beneath my feet, just as they did all those years ago. Reaching into my pocket, I take out my flashlight and switch it on, shining the beam straight ahead so that I can see my way. Nothing has changed down here, of course, and when I reach the bottom I head along the concrete corridor until finally I come to the dark, bare room where fifty years ago I stood with Freddie and Becky and watched that awful video.

  “I came back,” I whisper again, for my own benefit rather than for any ghosts that might be listening. “I came to do something
that somebody else should have done a long time ago.”

  With that, I start pouring the gasoline out onto the concrete floor. I watch as the liquid spreads toward the far wall, and I wait until finally the can is empty. Once I've set the can aside, I take a packet of matches from my pocket.

  “I promised I'd do this,” I say after a moment. “For a long time, I told myself I didn't need to keep that promise, since you weren't real. But now I realize that it's the right thing to do regardless. At least this way, no more ghouls will come and search for ghosts in this wretched house.”

  I hesitate for a few more seconds, before finally lighting one of the matches and letting it fall to the floor.

  A roar of flames flashes across the basement, and I take several steps back until I bump against the wall. The heat is already intense, so I quickly turn and start hurrying back along the corridor. Clambering up the wooden steps, I head to the hallway and then out into the yard at the front of the house, before stopping for a moment and looking over my shoulder. Already, I can see the light of the flames flickering inside the house, and I can hear the wood starting to split, and I can smell the old painter timbers beginning their journey to ash.

  A few minutes later, smoke starts billowing from the front door.

  And then, quite suddenly, I hear frantic voices shouting upstairs.

  “Molly Holt?” I whisper, instinctively taking a step forward before stopping again.

  There are two voices up there, and a moment later I hear the sound of wood bumping against wood. Looking up at one of the windows, I'm just about able to make out a shape trying frantically to get out of the house.

  In my haste to destroy this cursed place, I never stopped to make sure that the upstairs rooms were empty.

  “Get out of there!” I yell, hurrying back up the stairs and into the hallway, where I'm immediately shocked by the heat of the flames that are roaring up from the basement.

  Keeping as close to the far wall as possible, I edge my way over to the main staircase and then I stumble up, while covering my mouth with my right arm. There's thick smoke filling the house and I know I shan't survive in here for long, but I can hear increasingly panicked voices coming from one of the upstairs rooms.

  Finally I get to the top of the stairs, just in time to see two figures crawling out from one of the bedrooms at the far end.

  “Over here!” I shout, waving at them. “Run!”

  The figures stumble to their feet and hurry over to me, and then I grab the first figure by the arm and start leading her down the stairs. She trips and almost falls, but I just about manage to keep her upright as we battle our way through the thick black smoke.

  By the time we get down to the hallway, flames are rushing from the basement and filling the air around us. I shout at the girls to run, while holding their arms and forcing them toward the front door. Finally we spill out onto the steps and then down into the yard, where I stop and bend double, coughing violently in an attempt to get the smoke from my lungs.

  After a few seconds, I stand up straight again and see two flustered, coughing teenaged girls stepping back from me. I shine my flashlight toward them, picking out their horrified faces.

  “Who are you?” I shout. “What are you doing here?”

  “We just came to look for ghosts!” one of the girls stammers, clearly terrified. “Please, we didn't mean to cause any trouble!”

  “Get out of here!” I yell, rushing toward them and pushing them further back across the clearing, away from the burning house. “This place isn't a tourist attraction, you bloody idiots!”

  “I'm sorry!” the other girl says. “We were just having fun!”

  “Is there anybody else in there?” I ask, before looking over my shoulder and seeing that the entire house is now consumed by flames. Turning back to the girls, I see a gormless expression on their faces. “Tell me!” I shout, stepping toward them and grabbing one of the girls by her arm. “Is there anybody else inside that house?”

  “No!” she spits back at me, pulling free of my grip. “What the hell's wrong with you, old man?”

  “Yeah!” the other girl adds. “You can't just go around setting fire to houses! You could've killed us!”

  “We were only trying to see the ghost of Molly Holt,” the first girl explains. “There's nothing wrong with that! We were just going to watch the video and see if she came for us. Everyone does it!”

  “You should be very grateful that I'm not calling the police!” I tell them both. “Now move! Get out of here!”

  “You wanna call the police?” the second girl asks. “Are you insane? You're the one who set fire to the place!”

  “You're crazy,” the first girl adds. “I don't know what's wrong with you, but you're out of your mind! You could've fucking killed us, you mad old freak!”

  “You don't know what you're talking about,” I reply, feeling a tightening pain in my chest. “You're fools, both of you.”

  “Shut up!” one of the girls replies. “You're not -”

  “You should never have gone in there!” I shout, stumbling toward her and pushing her hard, sending her back a pace. “What the hell was wrong with you? You should never have gone into that house! If you hadn't gone in there, none of this would have happened! Why did you have to be so bloody stupid!”

  “Don't shove me!” the girl replies, pushing me back with such force that I stumble and fall, landing hard in the mud.

  “Fucking psycho!” the second girl spits. “You're insane, do you know that? We're gonna tell the cops what you did!”

  They turn and run, and I watch as they race out into the forest. Once I'm sure they're gone, I slowly get to my feet and then I turn to look back. Already, flames from the basement have begun to spread into the hallway, and a moment later I hear an ominous creaking sound. I imagine the house will collapse before too long, and then soon after the entire place will be nothing more than a smoldering pile of ash. Feeling heat against my face, I take a couple of steps back, and then I realize I'm standing in the exact same spot where – fifty years ago – I thought I saw the ghost of Molly Holt and felt her hand on my face.

  It's also where she told me what she wanted.

  “Destroy this place,” she whispered into my ear. “Burn it to the ground.”

  And that's what I did.

  It might have taken me a long time, but I finally kept my promise.

  I watch the inferno for a while longer, and eventually I step back as I realize the creaking sounds are getting louder. To be honest, there's still a part of me that wonders whether I might see a ghostly figure in the flames, but of course no such figure appears. The house simply burns as the flames consume the entire structure, and a few minutes later I watch as one entire side of the building suddenly collapses and smashes to the ground.

  In the distance, sirens are getting closer.

  Epilogue

  “And a coffee,” I tell the waitress in the road-side cafe as she rings up my order. “Black, no sugar. Please.”

  “Anything else?”

  I shake my head.

  “And you want that to go, right?”

  “Please.”

  As she heads over to the other counter, I look up at the TV screen in the corner. The sound is muted, but a local news station is showing images of the burned house. I guess at some point the police will want to ask me where I was last night, and I have neither the patience nor the inclination to lie to them. I shall have to hold my hands up and admit that I'm the one who burned the place down, and then justice will simply take its course.

  Whatever happens, I have no regrets, except perhaps that I wish I had done it sooner.

  That house was a monument to the horrors that were inflicted upon Molly Holt, and it's obscene that people were going there to watch the video and goad her memory. So many people died in that house, and it should never have been left to become a kind of macabre tourist attraction. There might not have been any ghosts there, but the house was still hau
nted by memories of what happened.

  And there were no ghosts.

  I know that now.

  Fifty years ago, three impressionable children fell victim to their own fears. Becky's mind must have snapped, and she not only killed Freddie and herself but she also tried to kill me. Her madness, in turn, caused me to start imagining things, and I've lived almost my entire life with the memory of seeing Molly Holt's ghost. Now that the house is gone and I'm able to take a sensible, rational approach to what happened, I can see how a few bumps and creaks added up to a lot more in our young minds.

  “Sandwich, a bagel and your coffee,” the waitress says, setting a bag on the counter in front of me. “Have a nice day.”

  “Thank you,” I mutter, casting one final glance at the TV screen before heading out of the cafe and making my way over to the car.

  Bright morning sunlight is streaming down, and I feel as if a great burden has been lifted from my shoulders.

  “Sir?”

  Hearing the waitress call out, I turn and see that she's hurrying after me from the cafe.

  “Sorry,” she says a little breathlessly as she reaches me, and then she holds out her right hand. “A girl just came in and said she saw you drop this. She asked if I could come bring it to you.”

  I'm about to tell her she must be mistaken, but then I realize that in the palm of her hand she's holding a silver ring. Not just any silver ring, either: it's the ring my father used to wear, and the ring I carried with me everywhere until the night I gave it to Becky Wallace while we were exploring the house. Or rather, the night she took it from around my neck without asking. Convinced that there has to have been a mistake, I take the ring and hold it up, but sure enough my father's name is engraved on the inner line.