Haunted Houses

by Robert D. San Souci

  “I’ve heard about the tea house,” Kat said to him one day at recess when they were sitting beside each other. This was shortly after her arrival at Uchida Middle School. “What have you heard?”

  By the time that the bell ending recess rang, he had told her everything he knew “for a fact,” and a lot of things he had worked out on his own.

  “Let’s go look,” she said, getting up from the bench. “I want to see for myself.”

  “Sure,” he said, picking his words carefully. “Someday, yeah.”

  “Today.”

  He knew that they had plenty of time to catch a bus to McClendon Park for a quick view. It would still let him get home before his parents returned from their jobs that evening. But Kat’s eagerness unbalanced him: He found he really didn’t want to go.

  “Uh . . . maybe it’s not a good idea,” he ventured. “I don’t want to be late when my folks get home.”

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “You told me they’re never home before six and don’t even worry until seven.”

  “Yeah, but,” he floundered, “what about your folks?”

  “Aunt Ruth doesn’t close her flower shop until seven. As long as I’ve got something on the stove when she gets home, she couldn’t care less.”

  “Well, I guess—”

  “Done deal. Now, move it or we’ll be late for Spanish.”

  She set off at a run, and he could only try to catch up. All through the rest of their classes that afternoon, Larry had the feeling he’d agreed to something that wasn’t a good choice. Not a good choice at all, some nagging little voice kept repeating at the back of his mind.

  They had to ride partway to the park on the 24 bus, which, two stops past where they got on, was taken over by kids from Frankel High School—shouting, shoving, screaming into cell phones, and generally driving adult riders to the front of the bus. Larry wanted to abandon their seat near the back and find room up front, but Kat said, “I like this seat. I’m not moving.” Larry glanced around, fearful of a confrontation, but Kat held her ground and—short of appearing a supreme wuss—he had no choice but to sit firm, too. A couple of the older kids gave them looks; Kat just stared right back. Larry tried to keep his gaze steady, but he found himself repeatedly turning to look out the window or study the increasingly trash-strewn floor. Kat never wavered, regarding the older kids with a steady, almost adult distaste that deflected all high school challenges.

  At Center Street, most of the older kids got off to catch crosstown buses. Larry and Kat rode the last half-dozen blocks to the park in peace.

  It was nearing the end of a bright spring day—perfect for showing off the tea house in a way that suggested only sadness, but nothing scary. They stood just outside the waist-high bamboo gate that seemed held together by the no trespassing and danger signs nailed to it. The westering sun left pools of light around the shadows of the dried-up koi pond. One of the boys who had dared to explore the grounds after dark reported that you could see the bones of the fish that had been left to die when the tea house had been abandoned last time. He said they glowed in the moonlight.

  Other kids suspected he was lying, but none had the nerve to check it out themselves. This was probably the start of the story that, at night, when there was a full moon, the empty pond would fill with moonglow, and you could see unearthly koi, faintly gold and white and silver, swimming in the thick light. Their scales and skin were so transparent that you could see the shadowy, delicate skeletons inside. Like many such stories, it was layered over in each retelling. Now the ghostly fish were said to have piranha-like jaws—lots of luck to anyone who reached down to touch the undead monstrosities.

  But today there was nothing frightening about what could be seen of the garden and the cherry tree and the tea house behind its deeply shadowed porches. For this, Larry was both grateful and disappointed at the same time.

  “Let’s go inside,” said Kat, rattling the gate, testing its resistance.

  “I don’t—” Larry started to protest.

  “Hey! You kids. Get away from there, now!”

  In tandem, the twosome swung their heads around to confront a brown-clad park patrolman—well, woman, really—in her Smokey-the-Bear ranger hat.

  “We were just looking,” said Kat.

  “Scoot!” said the patrolperson. “You could hurt yourselves.”

  Larry saw that Kat was about to answer back, so he grabbed her hand and yanked her away. “We should go home now,” he hissed.

  Kat gave him the sort of challenging look she’d given the high schoolers earlier, then she sighed exasperatedly and let him lead her away toward Ambrose Avenue. Larry was aware of the patrolperson’s suspicious eyes boring holes into his back, and Kat’s eyes drilling into the side of his head as he hustled her to the bus station.

  Kat didn’t say a word until they were seated on the bus swaying its way back toward home turf. Halfway there she said, in a soft voice that, nevertheless, told him there was no room for his wussy arguments, “We’re going back—at night—to look inside.”

  Any arguments Larry might have made died in his throat, long before they reached his lips. The fierceness in Kat’s eyes and the set line of her lips assured him that she would not pay attention to any argument he might muster.

  Maybe she’ll forget about it, he told himself. Yeah, right.

  It was only a matter of time, he realized, before they would be exploring the tea house by starlight and moonlight and flashlight.

  But, for several days, Kat said nothing more about the place. The hateful Mrs. Harper piled on homework and subjected them to pop quiz after pop quiz—she was apparently panicked by the upcoming new state testing and the rapidly approaching end of the school year.

  Larry had almost convinced himself Kat had forgotten completely when his cell rang on a Wednesday, while he was at the seventh level of Star Ranger X. He was tempted to ignore the call, but something in his head warned, Don’t you dare. He froze the game and picked up the phone, instantly recognizing Kat’s number.

  “Hi,” he said cautiously.

  “We’ll check out the tea house tomorrow night,” she informed him straight out.

  “My folks won’t let me go out after dinner on a school night,” he began.

  “We’re doing it late—after everyone is asleep.”

  “We can’t get there at night—”

  “I’ve checked the schedule. The 33 runs owl service all night long. It’s slow, but it will get us close enough.”

  “I don’t—”

  “That is not an acceptable answer.” Then (he could envision the smirk on her face) she added, “Unless you are the supreme wuss of Uchida Middle School.”

  “I’m not—” But even as he said the words, he knew he would be if he chickened out at her challenge. After a moment, he conceded, “Where? When?”

  “Tomorrow. The bus stop at your corner. One o’clock. Will your folks be asleep by then?”

  “Oh, yeah—they’re in bed by eleven.”

  “And my aunt never makes it all the way through the ten o’clock news. The bus goes by your corner at 1:07. Be there.”

  She hung up. Larry didn’t like the idea—he was, in fact, frightened to death of probing the mystery of the tea house in the middle of the night. But he was even less inclined to appear weak and babyish in Kat’s eyes.

  So he hustled himself to the corner at the precise time she had decreed, his knapsack loaded with his father’s heavy-duty flashlight, extra batteries, snacks, candles, and matches from the family emergency stash. Most important to him was the lucky kaeru charm—a small silver frog that his grandfather had given him. Kaeru was the Japanese word for “frog,” but it also meant “to return.” Travelers were supposed to carry the charm to ensure a safe return from a journey. His grandfather had given it to him when the family went on their first visit to Yosemite National Park in California. Larry took it whenever he went on a trip. Tonight, having a little extra luck with him didn’t seem a hal
f-bad idea.

  Kat was already waiting. She gave a sharp nod and then clutched his hand for a moment. Her grip was so tight, he wondered if she was having second thoughts. But he knew better than to voice his suspicion.

  The driver glanced at the twosome as they showed their passes. For a moment, Larry was hopeful that he might question the two of them boarding so late and force them to abandon this middle-of-the-night adventure. But the man just shrugged and waved them on as they flashed their monthly passes. It was typical of most drivers these days, Larry knew: If passengers didn’t make trouble, the driver wasn’t about to hassle them. Increasingly unhappy, he followed Kat to an empty seat halfway down the aisle.

  They exchanged only a couple of words during the ride out to the park. There were few owl-service passengers: a homeless man, who seemed to be riding just to have a place to escape the chill night air, and two women, chatting wearily, wearing matching uniforms with major hotel logos on the fronts of their dresses.

  None paid the least attention to Kat and Larry.

  At the park occasional hip-high lights provided halfhearted illumination on the path. The moon—nearly full—was far more helpful. Between the two light sources, they were able to follow the twisting path of stepping stones without much problem—pausing often, always on the alert for a late-duty patrol person or someone of more doubtful purpose prowling the darkened park.

  Too soon for Larry’s comfort, they reached the tea house grounds. The building, which was bathed in moonlight, appeared to Larry as both daylight harmless and midnight menacing. His best instincts screamed, Cut and run, but that would only confirm his wuss status to Kat.

  At the rickety gate, with its warning signs, he hesitated. Not Kat. She quickly climbed over. For a moment, Larry was afraid that her weight might collapse the flimsy, creaking barrier, but it held. She stood on the other side, impatiently waving for him to follow. Pushing aside his misgivings, he scaled the gate—though he managed to get his left foot momentarily caught between two of the bamboo uprights. He started to panic. His struggle to free himself nearly succeeded in knocking down a length of fence, until Kat ordered him to stay still while she worked him free. He was sweating in spite of the cool late-night air and breathing so fast he felt lightheaded.

  “Get over it” was all Kat had to say, before she started up the weedy, zigzag path through the tea garden toward the dark hulk of the tea house.

  Angry at himself for letting her talk him into this crazy adventure—and doubly angry at appearing such a cowardly klutz—Larry followed.

  Passing the dry fishpond, a pool of blackness though the moonlight was splashed brightly over the surrounding grass and weeds, the boy was sure he saw pale shapes curling and gliding in the shadows—the ghost koi? he wondered. He didn’t pause to look closer. Kat was already starting up the front stairs of the tea house. The closer he came, the more he was aware of a tuc-tuc-tuc sound far louder and more disturbing than the familiar chirp of crickets and the hum of flying insects. Beetles, he assured himself. Deathwatch beetles gutting the walls and window frames and roof of the abandoned place. Left to themselves, they would bring the place down as effectively as a wrecking ball, he’d been told.

  “They’re locked,” Kat said, keeping her voice low as she gestured toward the big double doors.

  He couldn’t help himself. “What did you expect?” he snapped. His frustration at this whole stupid adventure and the distressingly loud clicking of the beetles—deathwatch beetles—were getting to him. Quickly he pulled his kaeru charm out of his backpack and tucked it into his jeans pocket.

  “No problemo.” Kat pulled a small but efficient-looking crowbar from her pink plastic Hello Kitty backpack. With the assurance of a practiced house breaker, she inserted the chisel end of the tool into the crack where the double door panels joined, gave it a sudden jerk, and cried, “Ta-daa!” when the doors popped apart.

  “Where’d you learn to do that?” asked Larry.

  “TV shows,” she said, replacing the crowbar and shouldering her backpack. “Let’s go check out what’s inside.”

  She left the doors propped open to allow moonlight to spill through. Additional light seeped through the loosely boarded windows. Larry pulled out his flashlight.

  “We’ll use yours for now,” Kat said. “I’ll keep mine for backup.”

  The beam of Larry’s flashlight picked out scattered tatami, bamboo mats, covering the floor of a large area just inside the doors. Beyond was a long hall. Rooms of various sizes, with only shreds of doorway curtains, opened off both sides, letting a faint ghostly moonglow leak through. In some of the rooms low tables were scattered about on tatami. The damp, rotting rice straw smelled of mildew. Each room was really a small alcove—some holding wall scrolls, kakemonos, on which Larry could glimpse faint traces of calligraphy or brush painting. But the artwork was so blackened and rotted for the most part that it was impossible to guess what each had looked like when it was new.

  The place was silent, except for the sound of their shoes on the squishy matting—and the sound of beetles in the woodwork, relentlessly destroying the place from the inside out. Tuc-tuc-tuc.

  At the end of the hall was a large kitchen area. Here the beetles’ clicking was—to Larry’s ears—incredibly loud. Kat, pulling open the oven door of a big, old-fashioned stove, didn’t seem to notice. The raw wood floors were swollen with damp and very uneven. There wasn’t much else to see in the kitchen—just some shelving with a few filthy bowls and a rusty, Western-style teakettle missing its lid. A small door at the back, probably to a closet or cupboard, was swollen shut by the dampness, which seemed much worse on that side of the building.

  The sound of the wood-boring beetles continued to grow in volume. Larry suddenly remembered a movie he’d seen at his friend David’s house, where cockroaches swarmed out of the walls and heater vents and light fixtures to smother a guy in a whirring, chittering, gold-brown tidal wave. The scene had horrified him then; now just the memory made his skin crawl.

  “Seen enough?” he asked Kat.

  She closed the oven door and shrugged. “I guess.”

  “I wonder what really happened to old Mrs. Jirohei? I thought there might be a clue. But she just locked herself inside here and—poof!—no one ever saw her again.”

  “Unless the ghost stories you told me were true,” said Kat. She was far more interested in testing the narrow, closed door in the back wall.

  He shrugged. “People tell them like they’re true. Who knows?” Then he asked, “What are you doing?”

  “This is the only place we haven’t looked,” she replied, digging her fingernails into the crack between the door and the jamb.

  The beetles were suddenly silent. The unexpected quiet startled Larry. Even Kat paused, her eyes raking the walls and ceiling, as if seeking a clue to the silence. Then, unable to spot anything, she returned her attention to the door, giving it a sharp yank.

  “I don’t think we should—”

  “Well, I think we should. Give me a hand.”

  The rusted hinges gave under their joint tugging. They managed to pull the door a little way open. A smell—horrible—rushed out.

  The door resisted a minute more and then popped all the way open, nearly throwing Kat onto her backside. Larry grabbed the girl, steadying her, but kept his eye on the pitch-black space Kat had revealed.

  Something moved—pale, slithering—in the dark. Larry thought of the imagined ghost koi in the shadow-pool outside.

  Kat pushed him away, clearly annoyed to have to rely on him for support. But he barely noticed as he shone his flashlight into the closet.

  He could see the head, shoulders, and arms of a woman who was, impossibly, climbing up out of the solid floor like a swimmer emerging poolside. Her face was framed by black flowing hair; her eyes were red; her mouth twisted into a snarl. She was clad in a white kimono. When she opened her mouth as if to scream, all that came out was the hideous sound of deathwatch beetles amplified a th
ousand times.

  Kat, her back to the closet, was searching for something she had in her backpack and was unaware of the thing that was trying to pull itself up and out of the floor. For the moment, the boards seemed to hold the form back like an insect in glue. Larry’s head churned with ideas as he tried to imagine what elsewhere she was climbing out of—the past, another dimension, some underworld? Possibilities crowded into his mind from all he had learned from books, television, his computer, and talking to people like Mrs. Ozaki about such a nightmare visitation. The only thing Larry was sure of was that he was looking at the ghost of Mrs. Jirohei. And she was one very scary spirit.

  He made a strangulated sound and punched Kat’s shoulder, forcing her to turn around.

  “Hey,” she cried, and then looked where her friend was pointing. “Oh.” She stepped back, clutching Larry’s wrist.

  The ghostly figure had extracted herself up to her midriff. The remains of her white silk kimono clung to the figure like a diseased outer layer of skin.

  Ikikikikikik, chittered the ghost. Its long, curved fingernails—claws, really—dug into the wooden floor, gaining purchase, allowing her to haul herself partway into the room while she struggled to free the lower part of her legs.

  “We need to leave now,” said Larry, who’d finally found his voice. Kat, never releasing his wrist, just nodded, following as the boy backed away from the writhing figure that chattered and grabbed at them, then dug nails into the floor again, and, lurching forward, left only her ankles buried in the flooring.

  Hauling Kat after him, Larry fled down the hall. He had the impression of strange glowing things moving in the tea rooms opening to the right and left off the passage. His only thought was to reach the doors and escape into the night beyond.

  “Whoa!” cried Larry, stopping so suddenly that Kat, who was looking back into the darkened hall, slammed into him.

  The front doors were closed.