Picking up my pace, I turned and went back to the Kirkbride building. There was no possible way for the movie to have depicted the grandness or even the sheer size of it. It took me more than twenty minutes just to skirt the perimeter, all the while snapping my camera in anticipation. The windows were boarded up tightly, like eyes closed against the world. If there was anything inside, it didn't see out.
Thanks to my time on the urban exploring boards, I knew how to get in. I was going to get in! Soon, I found the hidden entrance. Not hesitating, I pushed the board aside and stepped in. With the closed windows, I expected it to be pitch black inside, and it was. Standing still to collect my bearings, I waited. Above me, the sounds of mice scurrying across the floors and larger animals thumping against forgotten doors filled the air. The outside might have been still, but the interior was alive.
Momentarily, my eyes adjusted to the light that seeped in around the boards. It was pale, but I could see the hallway, strewn with papers and garbage. This was not the rubbish of people like myself, but what had been left behind from the hospital's closing.
Using the flashlight on my cell phone, I illuminated my way. Mindful not to be disrespectful and step on anything important, I walked to the first door and peered in. It was an office, a desk pushed haphazardly in the middle of the floor. A chair was turned on its end. I tried taking a picture, but it was too dark.
The stillness was palpitating. I could almost taste it. There had once been activity in this building - everyday sounds that echoed down the halls and filtered through the rooms the same way the shadows did now. Now, the silence was oppressive. It was so soundless, in fact, that there was almost movement within it; deafening movement that caused the blood to rush to my ears.
It was unusually warm inside, especially considering how chilly it was outside. I took my jacket off, feeling beads of sweat on my forehead. Back in the hallway, the air was thicker, closing in. I felt as though I was chest-deep in water, unable to catch my breath properly. Taking small gulps of the stale air, I turned to try the next door when a creak that was so loud it sounded like it was opening the door to another universe stopped me. It could have been three feet away from me or on the other side of the building-the sound in there was deceiving and the acoustics played tricks on my mind. In fact, my own footsteps seemed to be a beat behind, echoing long after I stopped walking, like my shadow was having trouble keeping up.
I was no longer alone.
There were no footsteps, no further creaks, no other noises; but I knew without a doubt that someone or something was aware of my presence and taking note of it.
Turning, I headed back to the entrance in which I had shimmied in through. The feeling of a thousand eyes was on me and invisible fingers clawed at my back, rustling my shirt and pulling at the strands of my hair. Light fingers trailed down the backs of my arms, touched my thighs through my jeans. The darkness was thick, almost tangible. Through it, I moved in slow motion as though in a dream. Nothing about being there felt real. Maybe it wasn’t real, I thought peacefully as I closed in on my exit. Maybe I was still in my car, leaving Salem, sipping on my Pepsi and listening to Allison Moorer on my CD player. Or maybe I’d never left Kentucky at all and was still asleep in my bed, an old episode of “Designing Women” playing in the background.
Once outside, I headed to my car. The air there was only slightly better, fresher but still thick. The pressure on my chest eased up a bit but the cold fingers still danced on my neck, on my arms and legs. The sun was down and gone.
Inside, I locked the car doors and started pulling away. I was promptly stopped by the quick burst of a police siren and the flashing of lights. I’d been caught. The cruiser came rolling up to a stop alongside of me and the officer, heavyset man with a thin moustache, stepped out and walked over to me. As I rolled down my window, he admonished me. "Ma'am, you don't want to be up here," he chided.
"Just taking a few pictures," I smiled, showing him my camera.
"I'm up here every day, and this place stays with you. You know what I mean? I wouldn't be here unless you had to be." He shivered for effect and then offered me a light smile.
Terrified now that I might be arrested, I put on my best face and explained that I’d taken my pictures and wouldn’t be back. He appeared more bored than upset by my appearance however, and simply waved me on back down the hill.
I left him without getting into any real trouble and headed down the potholed driveway. Again, I drove without hurry, the red towers looming behind me. This time, although the windows were still boarded up, it felt as though the eyes were open.
A few miles outside Danvers, the sky broke and the strongest thunderstorm I had seen in years struck. Bolts of lightning slashed through the sky like swords while the rain pounded my car in bullets, forcing me to pull over into a rest area across the New Hampshire line. As I sat there in the darkness, my doors locked, the world seemed to fall apart around me as nature fought against itself and those foolish enough to be out in it. Unable to see more than a few inches from the car, I waited while the wind and rain rocked the vehicle back and forth, the noise earsplitting.
When it finally lifted, it came to an abrupt stop without any warning. One minute it was storming, the next it wasn’t.
I drove the rest of the way home in a fog so thick I was unable to see the end of my car. I might have left Danvers, but I had the distinct feeling that Danvers had not left me.
Week 3
The next week went by in a painful blur. Monday morning and afternoon went by without a hitch but in the middle of the night I had to go to the bathroom and a few steps down from the bottom I slipped and fell down the stairs, hitting the back of my head hard on the wood. I wasn’t sure why I slipped. One second I was walking towards the door at the bottom, the next I was seeing stars. It jarred me then and left me feeling a little woozy, but the pounding headache I developed an hour later lasted for days. It made it difficult to sleep, eat, and focus on what I was doing. It also left me in a foul mood.
“Do you need to go lie down?” Janet asked me with concern after I snapped at Lucy for something inane.
It was Thursday. I hadn’t slept well all week. The headache made it difficult to fall asleep to begin with, but that wasn’t the only problem. Whenever I’d drift off I’d hear noises. They weren’t loud, and I wasn’t even completely sure they weren’t in my head, but they were bothersome enough that they kept me awake.
Sometimes the sounds would be outside my room, just there by the door. They were small, scratching sounds at first and later developed into vocalizations; whispers that filled the dark and pressed in on me but without real clarity. Other times they’d be in the stairwell, just faint rumblings of padded footsteps, as though someone might be trying to quietly fade away without being heard. Still unconvinced they weren’t part of the house or even small animals in the walls, I wasn’t scared, yet, but I found myself listening for them more and more. They started when it got dark, after everyone left.
“I think so,” I said. “I’m sorry but this headache is killing me. I’ve tried taking everything in the world for it but nothing is touching it.”
With everyone else still in the farm house, working, sleep was easier. I didn’t have any trouble falling asleep and staying there. Just knowing that others were below me, going on with their lives, and that their bodies were near was enough to make me feel safe. This sleep was dreamless, effortless. When I woke up, though, it was dark and I was disoriented. I didn’t fall back asleep until well into the middle of the night and by then I could only sleep for a few hours before I had to get up for work again. That sleep was full of obscure dreams, distorted images, and bolts and starts. Images of my childhood friend, David, plagued me. I hadn’t thought of him in a long time. It was restless. Sometimes I’d wake up to the sound of the noises outside my room and think I could almost understand what they were but then they’d diminish and I’d be left alone in silence again, frustrated. Maybe I was starting to go
crazy.
I still wasn’t getting the responsibilities at work I’d hoped to get, either. Although they’d finally decided I could be trusted to answer the phone, few other duties were passed on to me. Earlier, I’d hoped this would be okay, that it would make the job easy and fun and leave my brain open for other things. It wasn’t fun, though. It made the work day long and boring. I couldn’t just sit there in the office and goof off because there were too many people in and out, but neither did I have anything to keep me busy.
If anything, it made me even more depressed. I wasn’t being used for anything. My education and whatever intelligence or talent I had was being completely wasted. Maybe I didn’t have any talents or skills at all, I’d think bitterly to myself. I tried not to delve into self-pity, but it was hard, especially when I didn’t have anything else to do. The mind is a terrible thing to get lost in sometimes.
Without any extra money to go away that weekend I decided to stick around and explore the local area. The rest of Thursday and Friday passed in a blur with my head still hurting made worse by the incessant chill and fog that never wanted to let up. I didn’t feel well enough to get out and drive anywhere. Friday night found me sitting in my room, the CD player on, and Nanci Griffith singing about “The Speed of the Sound of Loneliness.” At least that was the only sound I heard and none of the other, strange noises I’d been hearing all week.
Feeling sorry for myself as I sat there on my bed, trying to read and eating my supper of a sourdough roll and slice of cheese, I gave in to some self-pity and let myself have a good cry. I cried for the friend I’d lost at my old job, for Dolly my cat I’d had to leave behind at home, for the future I wasn’t sure of, for the friends I didn’t seem to have, for this sudden inability to sleep I’d developed, for this awful pain I was having, and for the loneliness I was experiencing. I even cried because the season finale of “Lost” was getting ready to air and I didn’t have a way of watching it. I just cried for it all.
I cried through three songs. By the time the fourth one came on, I was aware of the noises right outside my bedroom door. Maybe the music had been too loud before or maybe, with my tears, I hadn’t been giving them my full attention. But now I could hear them without any trouble. Not quite footsteps, they brushed back and forth, like a woman in a long, heavy gown that was dragging the floor. I slowly reached over and turned the music down and the sounds grew louder. Something definitely seemed to be pacing near my door. As I listened, I noticed an almost rhythm to the noise. It would grow louder, louder, louder and then fade, fade, fade–as though it might be walking away. I realized with a start that it was going back and forth not in front of my door but from my door to the room across the hall.
I don’t want to hear this now, I thought, I just don’t.
Now, feeling scared AND sorry for myself, I turned the CD back to “The Speed of the Sound of Loneliness” and turned the volume up. The sounds outside my door immediately stopped.
Confused, I turned the music down again. The sounds picked back up. When I resumed the volume, it stopped. With the music playing, yet still kind of low, I approached my bedroom door with caution. I couldn’t hear anything on the other side of it. Placing my ear as close to the door as I dared, I held my breath and waited. Nothing. I returned to the CD player and stopped the song. Halfway across the floor to the door, the “swishing” was so loud and fierce the door rattled in the process. “Shit!” I shrieked and jumped straight up into the air.
Skipping back to my nightstand, I turned the music back on, this time as loud as I could stand it. It’s not like anyone else was around to hear.
Interesting, I thought, as I dried my eyes and blew my nose. I have a ghost and they must be lonely too.
The next morning I woke up, ready to take on the day. I popped some Excedrin Migraine and hopped in the car. There were covered bridges to see, White Mountains to explore, and, well, whatever else was in New Hampshire for me to find. I was there to see and do things, right? I couldn’t let a little headache and ghost keep me cooped up in the house all weekend.
I spent all day driving through the White Mountains, exploring towns like North Conway with its outlet stores and Laconia where I got ice cream and sat outside and enjoyed the sunshine.
Just getting out of the house again for an extended period of time, and not just for supper, helped. I was amazed at how different even the air was away from the resort. Once the car climbed out of the tunnel of trees and entered the valley below, the fog lifted and the sky was blue again. It was easier to breathe and even what was left of my headache cleared away.
Being gone gave me plenty of time to think. My old childhood friend, David, had been on my mind since the dream I’d had and I told myself I’d write him when I got back to the resort. The last I’d heard from him was a year ago or more when he’d sent out a mass email and said he was getting married. I’d lost touch with a lot of people in my life and now, trying to figure out my next move, I was anxious to form some connections. If I couldn’t make new ones, maybe I could reestablish old ones.
The way my brain worked, I was afraid I might forget writing him at all, so I used my phone to access my email when I finished my ice cream. It would only let me type a few lines in one message so I sent him a brief one: “You married yet?” and hit “send.” We’d known each other since I was seven. He’d seemed happy the last time I’d talked to him.
It felt good to get out and reconnect with someone from my past, even though by the end of the day I hadn’t heard back from him yet. I drove back to the resort with a lighter heart. Just being in the sunshine made me feel a little better.
Sleep did not come easy that night. The headache returned almost as soon as I entered the house. Maybe it’s mold or dust or something in here, I thought as I made my way up the dark staircase, wishing I’d left a light on. It was an old house, after all, and I’d been there three weeks and had yet to see a real good cleaning. I’d been left to clean my attic room myself upon arrival and had to make do with soap and water and an ancient vacuum that did little but shake the dust around.
Still rationalizing what was going on around me, I tried to put on a brave face and settle in. I needed the money, after all, couldn’t stand the thought of having to go home with my tail between my legs, and was an adult. I had handled worst in the past–surely I could handle some ghosts. After all, I’d never really heard of a ghost hurting anyone. It was really just a problem of mind over matter, right?
Without much else to do, I closed myself in for the night and tried reading. The noises began almost immediately.
They started softly at first, light enough they might have been a tree branch scraping the side of the house (had there been any trees around it) or a bat flapping its wings against a window. A “creak” here, a light “thump” there; they were mostly sounds an old house makes while it’s settling. Those I could ignore. I tuned them out, turned my music on, and focused on “The Mists of Avalon.”
But they only grew louder. Now, the thumps that had emanated from downstairs earlier were outside my door, soft sounds that could have been someone bumping into a wall or catching their foot on the stairs. And the creaks became rhythmic, someone walking back and forth or up and down the stairs. They were purposeful sounds, made with intention and not the result of some old pipe or groaning rafter. A footstep, a handclap, a whistle…these were noises I know and recognized.
I kept reading, trying to immerse myself in the book. If I could just get lost on the aisle of Avalon and find myself with Morgaine and Lancelot I could forget what was going on around me, what sensed me and knew I was there.
Ghosts can’t hurt you, ghosts can’t hurt you…I repeated it over and over again, my body growing colder and heart racing with every new thud against my door, every pounding on the stairs.
Maybe they couldn’t hurt you, but they terrified me.
I tossed and turned that night as the sounds outside my room grew increasingly louder and louder. The footstep
s continued up and down the staircase until the wee hours of the morning in an almost comical fashion, like someone was having trouble remembering what they’d come for. I was too afraid to open my bedroom door and peer outside. At least my room was bright, safe. Nothing had happened in there. Sleeping in the dark was not an option. I soon found that I couldn’t sleep with my back to the center of the room, either. Although I hadn’t seen or heard anything directly in my bedroom, I couldn’t risk making myself that vulnerable and slept with one eye open. As a result, I got very little sleep and woke up on Sunday feeling cranky and exhausted.
I’d planned on another day of exploring, but it was impossible. Instead, I hung around the farm house and tried to write. The room was starting to feel like a prison to me by afternoon. The four walls offered nothing to new to look at and even though my windows offered a beautiful view of the pond and mountains, everything felt so far away from me. Still nervous about opening the door, I hadn’t even left the room it to go to the bathroom. I finally passed out from exhaustion in the middle of the day with the radio on and got several hours of sleep before waking up at sunset, only to face the night sounds again.
Even I appreciated the irony of the fact that I could explore a place like Danvers yet have trouble with a few creepy noises outside my room. But every day the darkness of the woods surrounding the resort seemed to crush in on me a little harder and the gravel road to the farm house seemed a little longer. If I could just hold out until the other staff members arrived, I’d be fine.
I kept repeating that to myself.
I’d be fine.
David
David wrote me back the next week. Having put my foot in my mouth, I’d asked him the one question that was a sore spot with him–if he was married yet. Apparently, both the wedding and relationship were called off and it was fairly recent. I felt bad for asking, but it had been such a long time since we’d talked I didn’t know there was any trouble there.
Three True Tales of Terror: A True Hauntings' Collection Page 8
