Tales From The Mist: An Anthology of Horror and Paranormal Stories

by Scott Nicholsonan

  “No; I’ve got it.”

  “O’Reilly, now’s not the time to fake the macho. There’s not been a person who hasn’t high–tailed it from here after spending a Halloween night under this roof alone, at least not since old Mrs. Rutherford died.”

  “I can handle it,” I said.

  “Look, I’m feeling guilty, like the bet we made might be making you think of going against your better judgment, pushing yourself to do something you shouldn’t.”

  “More likely, you’re feeling the twinges of an incoming pinch in your wallet from where I’ll be extracting my money.”

  Mack stared at me for a moment, maybe assessing me or trying to think up other arguments to dissuade me from collecting my $200 winnings tomorrow at the office. “Have it your way,” he said. He passed me the key to the house. “Good luck.”

  I locked the front door behind Mack and glanced around the foyer. Mack had turned off the lights in the house, leaving on only the small, dim lamp near the door, probably in an attempt to create a grim atmosphere to greet me. I glanced into unlit rooms to my left and right. In front of me, a long hallway led into the belly of the downstairs, which included a large lounge for museum guests, a kitchen, and a banquet area, as well as other assorted rooms. A staircase leading about 12 feet up to the second story disappeared into blackness. I paused a moment, listening to the silence in the giant house. I thought I heard a distant rattling somewhere upstairs—and then it stopped. With the incoming storm, probably the wind blew an acorn off a tree and onto the roof, creating the noise until the nut finally rolled into the gutter.

  Before I sat down and surfed the internet on my smart phone to burn time, I decided to check the house’s window and exterior door locks. Also, I wanted to turn on some more lights. I flicked on the lamp in the nearest room, which probably once served as a sitting room or office but now displayed Civil War memorabilia. Sabers and antique firearms and ballistics in glass cases joined uniforms and a mannequin wearing a women’s dress from the period. A framed map of a nearby battlefield rested near a tattered Confederate flag that looked like it had been splotched with blood. An antique roll–top desk ran nearly the length of one wall. Around the desk hung displays of medical instruments used during the 1800s.

  A case holding a macabre handsaw and thick, ferocious pliers I’d more readily associate with house repairs than medical treatment joined a huge pick with thread hanging from its needle–sharp end. Gruesome drawings accompanied the instruments, showing how surgeons amputated appendages—fingers, leg bones. I blanched. No wonder patients bled out and bones didn’t set when the Union doctors set up shop here. The house wasn’t cursed; anyone accepting treatment from this medieval instrumentation took a gamble on survival.

  I heard Mack’s old surplus cop sedan start and crunch down the gravel driveway outside as I left the room. I turned off the porch light, hoping to deter any late–night trick–or–treaters, and walked from room to room around the first floor, checking window and door locks and glancing over displays I remembered from my visit as a tourist a couple of years ago.

  As I finished my check in the kitchen with its floor that sloped slightly toward a covered back porch, the doorbell rang. Maybe Mack forgot something from his shift, or maybe a late trick–or–treater hoped the mansion caretaker handed out candy as extravagant as the home itself. I walked to the front door and turned on the porch lights. Out the windows, I saw that no one stood on the porch.

  “Huh,” I said aloud, my voice sounding too loud in the empty house. I had needed half a minute to walk from the back of the house to the front foyer, though, so perhaps the caller gave up.

  Since I’d finished my security check downstairs, I decided to explore the second floor. I didn’t expect anyone to break into the house from the second story, but completing a thorough check just felt right. So I walked up the squeaking hardwood stairs, past a closet–sized chute that ran from the ground floor up to the shuttered belfry windows—old–fashioned air conditioning. At the top landing, I avoided the bathroom with the claw–foot tub and peeked into old bedrooms now containing exhibits on southern belles and plantation slaves. I walked down the narrow hallway, past a dozen cramped rooms once accommodating boarding students from a nearby school, to the room at the end of the hall. I tried the closed door—locked. A sign on the door said Caretaker’s Quarters—Private. The doorbell rang again.

  I sighed. With each footstep launching a series of creaks and groans in the ancient floorboards, I hurried back down the hallway toward the stairway, and just as I neared it, my shoe caught on something. I tripped, falling forward toward the stairs. I grabbed hold of the banister, yanking myself to a stop just before the first stair. My skin tingled. I looked behind me at the floor. The top of my toe had caught on something, I felt sure of it. But I saw only smooth hardwood flooring. Just beyond where I tripped, the hallway light glinted onto a cast iron claw of the tub in the nearby bathroom. I shivered.

  I looked down the steep stairway. If I’d stumbled forward another foot, I’d have skittered down the staircase, at least breaking a bone. At worst—I didn’t want to think about worst. I carefully stood upright and held the railing tight as I walked down. Again, after turning on the light and checking the porch, I saw no one. I heard a gurgling, almost like laughter, in a distant room—downstairs? No, upstairs. Ridiculous, I thought. It had to be a running toilet or a leaky pipe. Or maybe rain trickling down a gutter. My imagination was getting the best of me, I thought, wishing my fingers didn’t feel so jittery.

  I turned off the porch light again. The only place in the house I hadn’t checked was the third story. From the tour of the house I took years ago, I remembered the guide revealing the stairwell to the third–floor storage area behind a swinging bookshelf. I debated returning upstairs and found myself reluctant to make the climb. That area at the top of the stairwell felt weird, maybe even haunted, if I believed in that kind of stuff. And what good would come of me checking the third–story room anyway? But I couldn’t let a clumsy moment and a prankster ringing the doorbell worry me. I couldn’t allow myself to be defeated. I marched upstairs, stomped past the landing, and tugged open the hinged bookshelf. The musty smell of the third floor rushed past me.

  After climbing the stairs, I looked around—boxes, a few old dressers, and a listing coatrack—an anticlimax.

  My phone played my favorite ringtone.

  “Hi, Keith,” I answered.

  “I thought I’d call and check on you,” he said. In the background I heard the booming bass drum and the din from the crowd inside the Shack.

  “Thanks,” I said, deciding to make myself a cup of tea and settle in for the night downstairs.

  “Has the curse of the haunted mansion caught up to you yet?”

  “No,” I said, refusing to look into the bathroom with the claw foot tub as I passed it again on my way to the staircase. “The party sounds like it’s roaring.”

  “I wish you were here.”

  “Me, too. Are there any particularly good costumes?”

  As Keith described a few, I found a mug in the kitchen and filled it with water; popping it in the microwave installed along with upgraded kitchen appliances for the caretakers and guests. Over the sink, a large window offered me back my reflection.

  “How’s your swordsman costume going over with the ladies?” I asked, trying to extract the jealousy from my voice.

  “The costume just blends in,” Keith said. “It’s nothing compared to our pal Dale. He’s dressed like a rock star with fake tattoos of the waitress’s name all over his arms and chest. At least most of them are fake. I’m about certain the one on his forearm is real.”

  The microwave pinged and I dunked a tea bag, watching the flavor–stained water seep out. I raised the mug to my lips. And that’s when I heard a loud bang from upstairs. I jumped, and my full cup of tea sloshed and dribbled down one side of my mug onto the kitchen table. The bang had sounded exactly like one of the upstairs rooms’ heav
y doors slamming.

  I forced a laugh, but it sounded choked.

  “I agree,” Keith said. “Growing a mustache to match a costume is one thing, but getting permanently inked—”

  “I just heard something. A crash.” I stopped talking, listening for any other noises coming from upstairs, but all was quiet. Maybe something fell or banged shut.” I bit my lip. “There’s got to be a logical explanation, maybe a draft of air or something.” Even I didn’t believe myself.

  “If the doors are the originals—old, solid wood—and if the hinges are greased, it would make a solid noise when it hit the doorframe.”

  I heard a couple pops and then rattling—more acorns, had to be.

  “Keith, I’ll call you back. I need to check this out.”

  I hung up and placed my mug on the kitchen table, far enough away from my handbag so that the spill, which gathered at the bottom of the cup, wouldn’t reach and stain my purse. I headed upstairs to investigate.

  I expected to find a door that had shut. Instead, all remained as I’d found and left them—open, with the exception of the one at the end of the hall, which remained shut, also as I’d found and left it. I wandered into the front bedroom with the door that led outside to the upstairs balcony. Maybe the screen door outside had blown open and shut. Or maybe a falling branch hit the side of the house.

  As I approached the door, I felt a sudden chill. Goosebumps rose over my arms and legs. I shuddered. And I got the sensation that I was being watched. The only place someone could see me from was outside. As I stepped closer to the glassed door, in the reflection off the glass, I saw something—a white blur—whip behind me in the hallway. I pivoted around. Had I imagined the white form? It had been headed toward the staircase. I listened, standing still. I heard nothing but silence—silence and the hammering of my heart.

  Maybe my eyes were playing tricks on me. Maybe my imagination was acting up. But I could swear I really had seen a flash of something. I hurried to the doorframe and peeked down the hall. No one was there. Of course no one was there. I had to have imagined it. The upstairs floor creaked too much for anyone to run by that fast without making noise. I looked back at the window on the balcony door and walked toward it again, thinking maybe my motion and the old, wavy glass reflected a flash of distorted light from the overhead fixture. Maybe. Perhaps I could recreate the phenomenon. Suddenly blackness engulfed me.

  I gasped. The lights had gone out. Outside, windows of distant properties still shone. I felt sick. My heart beat so hard I felt my pulse in my forearms.

  But then I remembered the flashlight clipped to my belt. I tugged it off. Palming the heavy weight, running my fingertips against the flashlight’s rough metal grip—I felt better. Grounded. And instead of scampering around or panicking more, I stood still in the darkness and listened again. Again I heard nothing, though outside the wind roared through the tree branches. I was alone, and I was being silly and superstitious. Probably with all the lights I’d left on I’d tripped a breaker. I flipped on my flashlight and headed downstairs. I’d go outside and check the electrical panel like a rational PI. I walked slowly down the creaking stairs in the light of my flashlight, feeling the tunnel vision irritation of a horse in blinders. I reached the foyer and front door and suddenly a loud, breathy, moan resonated through the house.

  I froze. What was that? Where did it come from? It sounded again. I swung my light toward the Civil War display room, then down the hall, and into the other nearby room. I saw nothing out of the ordinary. I waited a minute, listening for the moan again. Nothing. Okay, I thought. Maybe the moan came from a truck passing by outside on the street or—.

  It didn’t matter. I wanted electricity again. I wanted the lights on. I locked the door behind me and rushed through gusting wind, spits of rain, and falling tree litter searching for the electrical panel. Finally I found it, three–fourths of my way around the house. Sure enough, the breaker was tripped. I reset it, saw the lights flicker on inside the house, and ran to the front porch.

  When I reentered the house, I smelled something sweet and tangy—soapy, like the scent of fresh magnolia blossoms. My skin felt instantly sensitive, tingly. I remembered the stories about Mrs. Rutherford, and the stories about the odd floral scent. I gritted my teeth and felt my eyes water. But there had to be a logical explanation.

  I went to the kitchen table to get more tea. Perhaps that would calm my nerves and get me thinking straight again. And that’s when I saw it. My mug had been moved. Pushed. I saw the dark ring from where I’d put down my cup and the spilled tea had pooled around it, and then a lighter smear where the cup had been dragged across the table, maybe five inches, to an entirely different place. I stared at the table, trying to think of a plausible explanation. I picked up the cup and examined it.

  Another loud, unnatural moan reverberated from the belly of the house, interrupting my thoughts. The mug slipped from my fingers and shattered on the kitchen floor. I cursed as my heart pounded. That groan was no truck. The noise sounded almost human. But I didn’t believe in ghosts! I didn’t believe in curses! I was going to get to the bottom of this. I walked to the foyer, waiting to hear where the moan came from. The lights went off again. I clenched my fists. Instead of being scared, I felt angry. Yes, something wasn’t right with this house—yes, it was spooky and creepy and weird—but I would not be afraid. I would not run. And I would not lose my bet to Mack. I stood still in the darkness, waiting, clenching my flashlight but not turning it on. I wasn’t going to reset the breaker, needlessly, again.

  The moan sounded once more. A long, tormented groan. Like a man dying, possibly of a horrible infection. It echoed out of the room to my right, the Civil War room. I decided not to turn on my flashlight, but to step into the room and wait for the sound again. While I waited, I explored the room. By now, my eyes had adjusted, and the lightning flashes outside helped illuminate my path toward the sabers and the blood–spattered flag. I looked for what could be causing the moan—maybe a loose shutter. The soles of my shoes stuck to the floorboards as if I’d stepped in tacky liquid. I refused to be flustered. I refused to run away.

  Again the moan sounded. Definitely not a loose shutter, but I finally knew where it came from—inside the antique roll–top desk. I tugged the handles of the roll–top. Finally, the lid gave way. Inside the desk hung countless nooks and crannies for mail and files, stamps and ink, and inside one slot I saw a red glow. My hand clamped around something metal, rectangular, and palm sized. I pulled it out. The red light shined near an antenna. It was a walkie–talkie, powered on. And on its side, in the electric burst from a nearby lightning strike, I noticed a Property of Grayson Investigations sticker. I mashed the walkie–talkie’s broadcast button.

  “Mack!” I yelled.

  I released the button, waiting for his response. Nothing. I waited some more.

  “Mack!” I repeated. “Your prank is over. Reset the breaker and come to the front porch. Now!”

  Still no response.

  “If you don’t reset that breaker and come to the front porch immediately, I’m going to take this walkie–talkie and keep it. And you’ll have to pay the replacement fee at Grayson Investigations in addition to my bet winnings.”

  The lights blazed. I smiled and rolled shut the desk. On the front porch, I watched Mack limp around the side of the house. He was laughing.

  “You’re not funny,” I said as I stepped off the porch to meet him.

  “You should see your face—pale and white! Wait until I tell the guys at Grayson.”

  “Wait until I collect my winnings,” I said. “Then we’ll see who’s laughing.”

  “I figured I’d help out the old mansion curse some.”

  “So you rang the doorbell.”

  “And then I toyed with the electrical box and did the moaning. I really scared you. Admit it.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Your moaning freaked me out a bit, especially when I first heard it. And the—” I paused, rememberi
ng the white blur rushing down the hallway at my back. And then my moved mug. “How did you get inside?”

  “I arranged my ploy so I didn’t have to come inside.”

  “Come on, Mack. I know you were in there, playing tricks on me. I need to know how you got in so I can make sure the house is locked up tight for the rest of the night.”

  “I was out here all along.”

  “No, you were—”

  “When I left, I left. I parked on the next block over and walked back.” Mack thumbed behind him. “I would have played around with you longer, but the storm is getting stronger, and I didn’t want to stay out here in it.”

  “Right.” I said. And I got that sick feeling again. The hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention.

  Mack, oblivious, kept laughing. “I would have dragged it out, could have made you go to pieces, could have made you so scared you crawled out of the house crying, but I want to get home anyway.”

  A streak of lightening crossed the sky.

  “I’m serious, Mack,” I said. “You’re not funny. Where were you? I checked the entire house, every window and door lock.”

  “I was behind that bush and tree.” He pointed at shrubbery near the edge of the yard. “Then I walked to the electrical box when I saw you near that window up there.” He pointed to where I had stood when I thought I saw—I tasted bile at the back of my throat.

  The white blur in the hallway—what was that? My tea mug—who moved it? The smell of magnolias—where did it come from? Steadier rain began to fall, fat drops splattering on the porch steps.

  “I still got one over on you!” Mack said. “I may not have won the bet by getting you to abandon your shift, but the scared look on your face and the stories I’ll be able to tell at work make my trouble worth it.” He pretended to shoot me with his pointer fingers.

  I closed and locked the door, blocking out Mack’s laughter as he limped off the property. Left alone in the cavernous house—at least I thought I was alone, though I still felt like I was being watched—I decided to go over downstairs window and door locks one last time. By the time I’d completed my check and wiped up the mess from my tea mug, midnight had passed. I’d heard more gurgling and a few rattles from upstairs, but I tried to ignore them.